Hey, I'm being tracked and need to dump some equipment. These goons shouldn't harm you as long as you don't push them too hard. That being said? If you stall them I'll give you two. Nothing major. Just lie. Tell them I was going somewhere cold and dark. Just throw them off my trail. Stretch the story. Tell them I've dyed my hair purple. Keep them talking a bit longer. Something small could help.
Either way. Just take one. At a minimum, it will split the trail. I don't have time to tell you what they do.
Take One unless you are willing to lie for the stranger. In which case take Two. Or just lie to him and take two anyway.

1. Cyber glasses: When you put these on, they immediately drill into your temples giving you a split-second extreme nerve shock before it ends. You now have perfect vision, can see slightly above and below in the normal light spectrum, and can tint to a chosen color at will. These also can serve as a monitor for any machine/console/computer within 50 feet. You'll need to know the passwords still. But you'll be able to interface with them without using your hands and can control the transparency. This is full brain interface. Don't get yourself killed playing Fortnite in traffic.
2. Vape pen: The button on this vape appears to toggle between 3 different flavors. Each has 5 puffs per day. Brown = Coffee: Each puff of this is like getting a 30-minute nap. This can replace real sleep with no issues. There is no downside to this. No drop-off. Your body just basically slept a bit in the single puff. Red = Cherry Punch: This seems to give you a 25% boost in your physical stats for 30 minutes per puff. You keep all gains from this. This includes things like endurance. They do stack. Green = Sour Watermelon: Each hit heals you as if you had top-of-the-line modern treatments for 48 hours. However, it is also able to very slightly treat issues outside of current capabilities at a much-reduced rate. This includes very slowly healing most disorders even genetic and even slowly repairing spinal damage. If no immediate damage needs repairing it will start to halt your aging. It isn't perfect, but if you are fully healed 3 puffs a day will completely stop aging that day. Each additional puff would essentially de-age you an hour or two.
3. Magician's Wand: On taking this item, you gain a magical assistant of your chosen gender in any magician's assistant garb that will appear. It doesn't have to be revealing, but it does have to look like a magician's assistant clothing. They'll be your magician assistant without hesitation and they are great. This individual will be a near-perfect match for you in personality to be a bff at minimum. They live inside of a pocket realm in the wand. It has plenty of space. With their consent, you can come and go from the Wand which has internet and most gaming systems. It is a full house. If you are nice they'll let you move in. It is a 4 bedroom 2 bath. You can also invite others if your assistant allows it. At will, you can know anything you've put inside of the wand, and are able to manifest it before you in a puff of smoke or flash of light.
4. Pair of Dice: These dice passively increase your luck. This attribute is hard to define in this reality, but this is the equivalent of being 2x more lucky in all situations than average. As long as the dice are on you. The first time you roll the dice each day determines the following. If the pair adds up to more than 6, $500 USD adjusted for inflation will show up on your person in the next few hours. If you roll under 6 half a pint of blood will vanish from you.
5. Old watch: This old watch always tells the exact time in your current location. An extra button on the side allows you to stop time for all but you and the things you touch. Press it again for time to resume. This builds up a charge at the rate of 5 minutes per hour. This caps at 24 hours. You don't seem to age during this time.
6. PI Trench coat: This coat keeps you at the exact right temperature in any temps between -50f - +150f. It will try its best at anything above or below those temps, but it will be overwhelmed. Rain seems to ignore you while you wear this coat. Inside of the left pocket, a packet with 3 cigarettes appears daily. These don't harm you or cause you to cough. Instead smoking these increases your attention to detail and focus for a short duration. Often giving you a quick insight into problems. The coat slowly self repairs

Consequences: If you feed the goons bull information that isn't too insane they'll leave you. You'll never see them again. Interfere or feed them too much bull and they will kill you. Don't disrespect them and you'll be fine.
If you tell them everything you know, they'll thank you with 10,000 USD in your currency. The man who offered you the items may or may not be coming for you.

I 16(m) am in a relationship with my boyfriend 16(ftm) and we have been in a relationship for neigh on 6months but recently our first genuine argument arose. We've had arguments before but never about genuine issues and never had it ot coming back up over the week. Baisically it all started when I became really worried and if I'm honest slightly ashamed of the sheer amount of cigarettes and energy drinks he was consuming. Like i didnt mind him having the occasional cig and energy drink (in fact i was addicted to energydrinks and have only withdrew from smoking recently). I had been trying to tell him to cut down but he kept getting progressively worse (were talking 8 energy drinks a day and a pack of cigs some of which he picked up off of the floor). It was starting to get on my nerves and I started to feel like I was a manipulative and controlling person for trying to make him change (also i did brung up that i missed his old outfits with the intention of maybe getting him to start wearing them again or to tell me why he stopped) So yes I am conteolling but at the time i didnt realise that and I was in a horrible place mentally. Anyhow it kept escalating and eventually i brought it up to him that its sad to watch him leave our date early because he was nauseous from smoking and if he stayed outside he would smoke more and he told me hell throw them away. Ik he wouldnt, so the next morning when i went to school and saw him smoking i was overcome with rage, that he lied to me, that he wouldnt even try to get better so on and so forth. I didnt want to confront him yet so i baisically just said hello and made an excuse to leave. He knew smth was up but when he asked me i just told him i needed some time. I talked to some of our mutual friends (ones closer to me than to him to avoid any pain) and asked them what j should do they told me to either guve him an ultimatum or break up. So i told him that I cant watch him do this to himself anymore because it hurts too much and although i didnt state it directly it was implied that i would go on a break or smth if things didnt get better. He talked about how its nkt fair that he didnt get to indulge and others did, prolly shouldve been a massive red flag that I'm being manipulative and controlling but at the time it seemed like he was in denial. I replied explaining how he doesnt know were to draw the line so although most of our friends drink energy drinks none of them drink more than 4 on the regular and so. Anyway he told me he wants to get better and hes sorry i comfortably him and told him itll be ok and I'm gonna be there for him throughout it. ALSO I told him I talked to our friends abt it after it blew over and explained exactly what i said. A few dates later he got mad at me for ditching him when he was having a really bad day (i didnt know he was having a really bad day but still shitty of me) and for being a "hypocrite" for telling him it hurts too much to see h do this to himself when he doesnt tell me the same and instead comforts me and lets me indulge. I appologised and told him I'm sorry for being controlling (i had told him i have controlling tendencies in the begging of our relationship and he was ok with it and for the most part i kept it underwraps).
Since then hes gotten mad at me after i relapsed not because i relapsed but because i was a hypocrite. I dont blame him for getting mad abt yesterday, I had relapsed into 4things in 4 hours because I wanted help really badly but he was going theough a tough time and I couldnt get myself to ask him for help. And I was worried he was hung up iver his manipulative ex because he said "I want him to kick me again" and I had always felt inferior to him. I'm not gonna defend me effectively relapsing for attention but what took me off guard is that he got mad at me for, 1. Talking to our friends about our problems when he didnt mention it to anyone when we did have problems. Btw he did tell me that he didnt because he didnt want to but it was ok that i had 2. That I was a hypocrite for stopping him from being an addict but being so myself and that he was more mad at the fact that I would judge him when he does stuff but do the same myself. And this is a relatively fait point but I had known abt this and apologised, I had called him a junkie once and immediately apologised and explained that I was just worried and that I didnt mean it like that. He insisted it was ok st the time.
So yes I'm judgemental, controlling and manipulative to some degree but AITA for the points he brought up?
For the record I am in therapy and am trying to better myself and hes understanding of this and so is he, I would just like to get an outside perspective of rhis because I have 0 experience with healthy relationships and was raised in an emotionally abusive home.

Hello, I have a lower back injury (currently some herniated discs and a pinched nerve), and I need recommendations for a muscle relaxer medication that does not contain milk, as I am Allergic to Casein (a milk protein). My doctors have been unable to find any with no milk in it, so I need recommendations to discuss on my next visit. My info: 34 year old, Male, 5'11", 160 lbs, no cigarettes. Thanks!

The last few weeks have been a little rough mentally for me. Anyway I was kind of blown away that no matter how stressed I got I wasn’t thinking of breaking down and having a cigarette. I’d have a rough few days and then it would occur to me how I haven’t even thought of smoking. Then I’m waiting outside of my child’s school and pickup and see several parents just casually vaping. You’d never see a parent today outside with a cigarette. It’s not allowed. Then I saw my friend picked up a vaping habit. My husband also smokes weed at night to calm his nerves. Anyway I got pissed. “Why does everyone have a vice but me!!” I’m stressed out. I don’t like the hangovers from drinking. I’d never vape because I’d become addicted. The idea of nicotine with no smell or cosmetic side effects is too tempting. Anyway I bought a pack. Actually I bought two. One day I smoked 10 and threw the rest out. Two days later I bought another and smoked 15 and threw the rest out. Today is day 1… Again.. Anyone else feel the same way though? Also $18 a pack by me.. WTF

Hi, I went on a date with this guy from hinge after not having been on a date in a year and a half. It was really nerve wracking but we really hit it off.
We went to a cocktail bar and immediately I felt super comfortable around him. He definitely lied about his height on hinge (said he was 5’9, definitely was like 5’6) but I didn’t care! He’s really cute, he made me laugh and we got to know each other really well. It got pretty flirty and we were sharing so much of our lives together. I got pretty drunk by the end of it and we ended up being the last people in the bar, sitting and talking for like 4 hours.
He told me we should head out because we were the last people and asked if I wanted to smoke a cigarette on his roof at his apartment. We walked out of the bar and made out and he’s a great kisser too. We were being really cute and were holding hands, and just laughing a lot. I knew from the start though that I didn’t want to have sex with him that night. I normally don’t really care about sleeping with someone on the first date, but I just wasn’t in the mood that night and knew we would another time on another date.
As we walked over to his apartment, he was constantly interrupting me to kiss me, which was flattering but felt pretty intense and smothering after a certain amount of times. I moved past it though because we were both pretty drunk and I did want to kiss him. When we got to his building, he brought me straight to his room instead of his roof and I just knew that he obviously wanted to have sex. We ended up sitting on his fire escape and talking and smoking a cigarette and I told him very clearly that I don’t want to have sex tonight. He told me he wasn’t even going to try and that I don’t have to worry about that. We went in his room after and made out a bit more and I was ready to head out as it was 3am. I told him i’m going to head out and started putting on my jacket. He kept asking me to stay ten more minutes and I told him no and that we have so many other dates to have sex lol. As I started telling him that, he interrupted me and kept making out with me. I pulled away and put my jacket on and he was trying to take it off. I started getting annoyed and I told him he’s being really aggressive and rude and not listening to me and he kept saying “What! I’m not going to try to have sex with you come on”
I was so annoyed and walked out and he called me and apologized and said he wants to walk me down so he comes out and walks me out. He kisses me again and apologizes again and then I left. He then texted me three nights in a row asking me to come over to hang out late at night which is just obvious what he wants to do. Idk it just really turned me off considering our date was so intimate and nice and special and made me feel like all he wanted to do was have sex.
Then RANDOMLY, i get a text that he doesn’t think he can hang out again because of his busy work schedule and that he doesn’t want to lead me on. He also wrote on hinge that he was looking for long term relationship. Men are so confusing……… Clearly he didn’t get any and is butthurt about it.
(Let’s also keep in mind that he’s a bartender so i’m not sure what he means by doing so much work these next few days)
This makes me not want to go on dates lol

I passed James another beer from the cooler between my feet and cracked open another one for myself.
“How’d you figure it out?” I asked him.
“She told me,” James replied in a flat emotionless tone as he twisted the gold ring on his finger, “Told me the baby wasn’t mine and to start packing my stuff.”
I didn’t say anything back to him. What could I say to someone who’d just lost his wife like that? I let the silence linger and continued sipping my beer while I watched the sunset behind the trees.
James had us parked in a different spot from where we’d usually drink, which was Ashburn Park. That night James had us parked near the entrance to a trailer park about 30 minutes outside of town. I thought it was odd at the time, but I’m not one to give the man any grief about where we’d sit and drink our beers, he’d had enough on his plate.
I finished two more beers before I tried to break the silence, “So where do you think you’re going to stay?” I quickly added, “You can stay at my place as long as you like, I was just wondering if you’d had other plans in mind.”
James didn’t answer me right away, I could see the wheels turning in his mind, like he was formulating a plan right there on the spot.
“I’ll probably head out of town,” He finally answered, “It’s about time I get out of this shithole anyway.”
Everyone from our town always said the exact same thing: “I’ll get out of this shitty little town someday; I’ll make it big. I’ve got plans that are bigger than this place.” Hardly anyone ever leaves. Eventually they realize they don’t have the money to relocate or they don’t have the education to get a decent job in a place where the rent is higher. Usually, they get their girlfriend pregnant and then they are stuck. I have a theory that half the women in this town are only here for the purpose of keeping us stuck. My girl is the only reason I’m still here.
It made me sad to see my old buddy James making the decision to leave, but at the same time I was proud of him. Maybe I’d get to visit someday. “Good for you, man” I said, clapping him on the shoulder, “Any idea where you might go?”
I regretted the question as soon as I said it, I knew he didn’t have a plan and I didn’t want to press him, but James didn’t answer. Instead, he pulled the gear shift on his car and started driving.
I took another few sips of my beer before I asked him, “Where we going?”
“Just feel like driving,” James replied.
I sucked down the last foamy dregs of my beer, tossed the can with the rest of the empties at floorboards under my feet and pulled out a fresh one from the cooler. If things were going to be awkward all night, then I was going to get good and drunk.
We didn’t drive far. A few miles down the road from the trailer park we pulled into a gas station. As soon as the car rolled to a stop I got out of the car and told James I was going to run in and grab another case of beer and some cigarettes. I asked if he wanted anything.
His reply: “If you’re not back in this car in 90 seconds I’m leaving without you.”
I hurried inside the convenience store, trying not to let James’ comment hurt me. I understood, the man was in pain, but that’s no reason to take it out on me.
I emerged from the gas station 2 minutes later - 12-pack in hand - to see James screaming at me through his car’s open window, “Get the hell in!” he was shouting.
I jogged over to the car and hopped in. The second my butt hit the seat, he was peeling out of the gas station, leaving a trail of black exhaust clouds behind us as his beat-up old Pontiac was pushed to extremes it hadn’t seen in years.
“What’s the deal?” I asked him, pouring the newly bought beers into the cooler of ice, “Got someplace to be?”
“Hand me another beer,” James barked, avoiding yet another question.
I cracked two beers and handed him one. James took it from my hand without looking at it and took two huge gulps.
“It’s getting dark,” I said to him, “You should turn on your headlights.”
James didn’t turn on his headlights. He didn’t even seem to hear me; it was almost like he was in a trance. Instead, he pressed his foot down on the accelerator. Steadily, the speedometer climbed. The old junker started to rattle and shake after 50mph, but still it reluctantly climbed.
“James!” I yelled over the roaring engine, “You’re too drunk to drive this fast! Slow down!”
Trees, and road signs and driveways whipped past us in a blur. We blew past a stop sign and hit a small bump in the road sending us airborne for a brief and terrifying moment. When we came back to the surface of the Earth, I could hear the low hanging muffler on the car drag against the asphalt. I was sure if I looked back, I’d see a trail of sparks flying off behind us. Empty beer cans rattled and rolled at my feet and for the first time in my life I’d said an honest prayer asking God to not kill me in that piece of shit Pontiac.
We took a sharp curve around a wooded bend in the road and suddenly taillights were visible ahead of us. James saw this and mercifully pressed the brakes until we were back at cruising speed.
I shifted uncomfortably in the passenger seat and glanced over at James. The usual banter and lighthearted conversations of our late-night drives were a distant memory, the car was filled with a heavy, unnerving silence. The dim glow of the dashboard lights cast eerie shadows on James’ face. There was an intense focus in his eyes I’d never seen before.
“Beer,” James said, breaking the silence. He rolled down his window and tossed out his empty before snatching the fresh beer from my hand. He seemed to relax slightly, resting his wrist on the top of the steering wheel and tapping a beat on the car’s dashboard with his gold wedding ring.
We were closing in on the taillights in front of us, they belonged to an old black Jeep. I recognized it. We were sitting outside of that trailer park when that Jeep pulled out then we followed it to the gas station where I’d bought beer and smokes.
James was following this car for some reason.
“Hey James,” I began, trying to keep my tone casual, “You’ve been following that Jeep in front of us, haven’t you?”
James didn’t answer. The moment of relaxation melted away. His knuckles were white as he gripped the steering wheel, his jaw tensed. The silence was suffocating.
We followed the Jeep and watched from across the street as it pulled into a McDonald’s drive-thru. “Beer,” James demanded, never taking his eyes off the Jeep.
“James,” I pleaded, “What’s going on with that car? Are you okay?”
“Beer,” He replied.
I handed him a beer then asked the question I’d been too afraid to let fly, “Is that him? Is that the guy?”
James chugged the entirety of his beer, then held his hand out for another one. When I didn’t immediately hand it over to him, he finally looked over to me, his eyes were dark and hollow, “I’m going to kill him,” he said, his voice barely a whisper.
A cold shiver ran down my spine. I tried to search James’ face for any hint of a joke. Some sign that this was just a twisted prank. As if he could sense what I was thinking James reached into his pocket and pulled out a snub-nosed revolver.
Upon seeing the gun my mouth went completely dry. He was serious. I felt dizzy, my tongue felt like it was swollen. I wanted to puke. Then all of a sudden, we were moving again.
My mind raced trying to process the shocking revelation. I felt trapped, the car suddenly felt like a cage.
“James, listen to yourself,” I finally managed to find my voice again, “You’re throwing your life away. Think this through.”
James' grip on the steering wheel tightened even more, “Beer,” he said, holding out his free hand.
For the first time that night I took a really good look at James. He was emaciated, his hair unwashed, his bloodshot eyes were ringed in deep dark circles, the smell of his unwashed clothes was only topped by his horrendously bad breath.
Warning signs.
If I’d been a better friend, I’d have mentioned all these things to him weeks ago. I’d have asked him if he was okay. If he needed help. I’d have paid a hooker to take him out on a date. There were a million things I could have done to help my friend, but instead, like most guys, I’d ignored the warning signs and bought him a drink instead. We’re like rubber bands, if you stretch us too thin then we snap.
I just happened to be riding shotgun when James snapped.
“Beer,” James said again.
I lunged forward and grabbed hold of the steering wheel and pulled towards my side of the road. The car swerved violently; tires screeched on the pavement.
Then nothing.
James had pistol-whipped me.
When I came back to consciousness, we were back in the trailer park where we started the night. I raised a hand to my forehead to find a trickle of blood running down the side of my face. I pulled a beer from the cooler and held it to my wound.
In the darkness the trailer park looked even worse than it did in the daylight. We were deep in the maze of trailers, several of which appeared to be abandoned with broken windows and open doors that swung in the chilly night breeze.
I looked to James and saw he was laser-focused on something in the distance. I followed his gaze and saw the jeep parked about 50 yards ahead of us in front of a dilapidated old airstream trailer.
“James, please,” I urged weakly, each word sending stabs of pain ricocheting inside my head, “Let’s just leave, this place feels…wrong. We shouldn’t be here.”
James ignored me, his eyes fixed on the Jeep, “There he is,” he said, under his breath.
I turned to see the driver emerge from the black SUV. He was nothing more than a silhouette in the darkness, but I could tell he was tall, thin and moved with almost unnatural grace. The figure seemed to glide across the unpaved driveway and into the trailer. He left the door to the trailer slightly ajar as if inviting us in. Something inside of me screamed at me to move in the opposite direction. I could feel goosebumps ripple over my entire body.
James fidgeted with his wedding ring, turning it on his finger, then he turned off the car and moved to exit the vehicle.
I made one last desperate plea, “James! Don’t –“ and was cut off by the closing of the driver’s side door.
I sat in the car, the engine ticked softly as it cooled. I watched through the windshield as James approached the derelict trailer, his silhouette was barely visible as he moved through the shadows. The trailer park was unnervingly silent; the only sound was the whine of a door to an abandoned trailer swinging in the wind.
James turned to me one last time as he reached his target trailer. Even from a distance I could see the grim determination on his face. Then silently, he disappeared into the trailer’s ajar door.
My heart pounded; the seconds stretched into an eternity as I waited for any sign of what was happening inside.
The silence was deafening. I strained my ears, listening for a gunshot, shouting, any indication of a struggle inside of that trailer but there was nothing, just the creaking of a rusty hinge of a door swinging in the wind.
The minutes dragged by, each one amplifying my anxiety. I glanced at the clock on the dashboard – how long had I been here? My head swam. I could feel sweat trickling down my temple. Or was that blood?
“C’mon” I muttered between shallow, uneasy breaths, “What’s taking so long?”
Suddenly, I was overcome with the chilling sensation of being watched. My eyes darted around as I surveyed my surroundings. All those dark windows and large chasms of darkness between the trailers would be perfect places to hide. I felt like I was a fish in a bowl, exposed, vulnerable and trapped.
Unable to bear it any longer, I made the decision to leave the car. I opened the car door – the creak of the dented door in its frame sounded unnaturally loud in the stillness. I winced.
My heart pounded in my chest as I crept towards the trailer. “James?” I called softly, my voice barely loud enough to reach my own ears.
I arrived at the trailer door and peered into the dim interior. The inside of the trailer was a chaotic mess. Newspaper clippings and papers with strange symbols on them covered the walls. James’ snub-nosed revolver sat on the floor of the trailer, just inside the door, as if it was daring me to come in and pick it up.
“James?” I called again, louder this time, as I stepped inside. My eyes scanned the small room and every nerve in my body screamed at me to turn back. I reached down and picked up the revolver and released the cylinder only to find it empty. Someone had removed the bullets. I pocketed it and moved deeper into the trailer.
I reached the backroom where I expected to find James and the man he’d been following all night. My stomach churned as I reached out and gently pushed the door open. It was a small bedroom, nothing more than a bed, a closet and a nightstand. There was no sign of a struggle, no blood, no bodies. Just an oppressive, heavy silence that seemed to swallow all sounds.
It was as if James had vanished into thin air. My hands started to shake. I could feel a primal fear bubbling up deep inside of me along with the inexplicable feeling that I was trespassing in a place not meant for human presence.
I backed out of the trailer not wanting to turn my back on a single shadow within that place. Once I was clear of the door, I turned and sprinted back to the car. I jumped into the driver’s seat, locked the doors and reached to turn the key in the ignition when I noticed a sticky note attached to the glove compartment it, it read: “Open”
With my shaking hand I reached out and pulled the handle of the glove box. As I opened it 6 bullets and James’ golden wedding ring spilled out and onto the floorboards below. Inside, I found a second sticky note, it read: “You can’t kill what you don’t understand.”
Within seconds I was speeding my way out of the trailer park, my eyes flicking between the road ahead and the rearview window, half expecting to see something chasing me.
I didn’t want to go home, I had the inescapable feeling something was waiting for me there, so I drove until the sun came up. Around 10am I drove James’ car into a lake and walked home.
I spent the entirety of that three-hour walk fidgeting with James’ wedding ring while trying to unravel what had happened that night and the only answer I could come up with was that James was meddling with forces far greater than himself, and in doing so had crossed a line from which there was no return. The true nature of what had happened in that trailer would remain a mystery I would never unravel. The only certainty was that that night had changed me. It left a scar in my mind that would haunt me forever.

So this happened almost 10 years ago but it still plagues me, so hoping getting it out stops the thoughts going round.
From the age of 13 up to 19, I have been a target of sevral advances from a lot older men, I did often sleep with these people and enjoyed the attention, mostly. However as I got older, being close to the age of the men that I had interactions with (20-30) I realised how fucking sick it was. I also started to process some of the darker incounters that I had, manipulation, pressure, getting me intoxicated.
When I turned 20, I had been hanging out with a friend casually for a few weeks. We ended up having sex, I started to cry part way through, this has happened before and since. I apologised profusely, asked to stop, explained it wasn't them but my past.
I was pretty shook, I told them how I felt pressured to do it and I hadn't really wanted to. I apologised again, new it was my own fault for going through with it even though I didn't want to. They got dressed and were about to leave when I asked if I could have a cigarette for once they left so I could calm my nerves, they seemed happy enough to ablige.
I messaged them a few days later asking how they were, they blew up at me, saying that I'd said that they'd r*ped me, but I couldn't have been to upset as "you asked me for a fucking cigarette". I was shocked and just blocked them cause I couldn't deal with more drama. Ever since I wish I had defendes myself and said "I never once used that word, implied that, I was just uncomfortable with what happened"
I am also now petrified that if I do want to report someone for some of the things that have happened to me in the past that this person will come out of the woodwork and say that I have lied about them r*ping me so I'm probably lying again.
Was I an Arsehole to say what I did to them? To block them without explanation?

Me: Wouldn't it be fun to wait to post this in the summer so you can say happy Christmas in July for once? Also me: that's a terrible joke. Just publish the thing.
Apologies for publishing in 2 parts. I'm not trying to drag it out I'm just aware this is the length of 2 episodes, reddit will only allow me 20 pics per post, and there's just too much going on for our beloved idiot in this one, so. I'm pacing myself.
It's not Christmas in July, it's Christmas 1919 at Downton and I spent an embarrassing amount of time wondering if Mr Fellowes really wants me to believe that the Crawleys decorated the Goliath of Christmas trees themselves (they didn't, but I like that Mary was sipping her tea and offering her view on things. Queen👑 ).
Plus, the setup for this episode intro had an actual checklist:
Tree? Check
Family arriving? Check
Violet judging this year's Christmas cards and looking for the contenders for worst cards of the year (they judge them on both content, and actual card)? Check
https://preview.redd.it/ul3aegl7cv0d1.jpg?width=710&format=pjpg&auto=webp&s=1c86f2409e193f7f68461f9ca06c72c7c424af66
Anna gets a gold heart brooch from Mary and Mrs Hughes is as excited about it as she is. Also, I can see the inspo for the entire Anna/Mary tag on AO3 right here. And Mrs Hughes ships it.
Just kidding, Bates is in prison, and we're all very sad.
https://preview.redd.it/wxhn89x9cv0d1.jpg?width=710&format=pjpg&auto=webp&s=04d813b9202a58a7c31f35d6b398bb6d53ced28b
Carlisle is wondering why the Crawleys are being kind to their servants by letting them have some time off at lunchtime on Christmas Day, and I'm wondering if anyone (namely, us, the viewers) is supposed to be surprised by his behaviour.
I mean, blackmailing Lavinia just because? Blackmailing Mary into an engagement with him? Trying to manipulate Anna and Carson? Being physically abusive to Mary, and trying to control her life and behaviour? Bringing Lavinia back to "sacrifice" her to a lifetime as Matthew's nurse, so Mary won't spend that much time with Matthew (not because there was something off about that, just that Carlisle didn't want her to)?
He is an asshole. He was an asshole. He will always be an asshole. Glad we're finally all on the same page.
https://preview.redd.it/9liw4xiffv0d1.jpg?width=599&format=pjpg&auto=webp&s=6c42f7ad05949a4b2d705057fa92af48030b7c46
Matthew and Mary are exchanging presents behind Robert's head in one scene and I'm very upset by it. Please, if anyone has any ideas, submit what you think they got each other for Christmas.
If you need any inspiration, here's what people would buy each other as presents in the 1920s according to the British Newspaper Archives:
Lots of cigarette paraphernalia Cocktails Banjos PENCILS Dance Frocks Shaving Kits Vacuum Cleaners
Keep that list in mind if you're disappointed with your presents next year.
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Matthew got a telephone call telling him that Mr Swire is very ill, and he will got to London to visit him. Mary gives him some condolences and he says "I'm sorry if I'm casting a gloom". I have a feeling the poor man had been pretty depressed for quite long, probably perked up a bit for Christmas and thought he was bringing the mood down again, but Mary responds with compassion. Oh Matthew.
Carlisle saw Mary go after Matthew in the hall, to ask about Mr Swire, and literally took his newspaper with him and followed her out there because that's completely normal behaviour. Just picture the ridiculousness of it: Mary and Matthew talking about Mr Swire and Bates' trial, romantic themes that they are, and Carlisle is so annoyed by it he's standing there in the background. Reading a newspaper, just to make sure they know he's still around (who could forget, mate).
Also, Mary saying she'll attend Bates' trial to support Anna, and Matthew immediately going "Would you like me to go with you?". Because of course he wants to support Mary in all things.
And this is Matthew's first villainous act for the episode: He asks Carlisle "or will YOU do that?" as in, since you're here, will you be supporting Mary in this endeavour.
Of course he isn't. Carlisle could never understand the concept of being there as emotional support for a Servant. He can't even understand why one would give a servant a few hours off on Christmas Day.
And just like that, Matthew scores one point in showcasing that Carlisle is a waste of space.
Matthew's Villainy points so far: 1
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Btw, Matthew has a few sets of looks reserved for Carlisle: Derision, derision, and more derision.
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They're playing charades (aka The Game), Mary is mimicking falling down, Matthew has a front row seat to it, and they're not playing on the same team so she can't rely on him to guess. Which means he can sit back and have the time of his life.
Carlisle complains about not liking the game and I'm left to wonder why he wanted that life so much since he could find nothing to enjoy in it.
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Mary IS still trying with him, however. He complains again on New Years Eve about the servants having some time off, and she reasons that it only happens twice a year, and he complains again that she doesn't understand because she didn't have to work for what she has.
Fellowes finally does the work on these two. I was having a conversation with another user recently, who was wondering why Mary picked Carlisle when she could have picked someone like Evelyn Napier.
Let's forget the Pamuk Scandal for a moment. Mary clearly wanted something more other than a traditional marriage. When we meet her, she's 21. She already has a husband in her pocket, if all she wanted was a position in society and a title, she'd have already been married to Patrick in 1912. But clearly, she wanted more out of life than to be someone's wife.
She wanted love, and she wanted to have something to do, whatever that was. She would have found both in Matthew, if things hadn't gone to complete shit, so why not consider Carlisle (back when he seemed normal)?
He was a working, self-made man, so he was interesting to her. He wasn't the run-of-the-mill rich boy she'd been exposed to her entire life, and if she married him she'd have a job in establishing him in London society and helping him build his empire. She'd Work, in short. She'd be allowed to use her brain.
But they don't match. At all. He offered her a marriage of convenience, and then was upset that she loved someone else, when Carlisle never offered her love in the first place. She wanted to be able to go about her life, he wanted her under his thumb to do his bidding. She was raised to have a certain respect for other people (e.g. the servants in the house), he thought that because he had money he could do whatever the fuck he wanted.
In short, they don't work together. Not even taking into account he was blackmailing her with a scandal, and Matthew was off stage left being Villainous (according to Carlisle. Villain, Perseus, it's all a matter of perspective.)
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I love how they contrast Carlisle's ruthlessness with Matthew's compassion (and look how she looks up to him). Because Matthew is also a working man, but he's kind. And even though he didn't have any connection to mr Swire anymore, he stood by him in his hour of need, to the bitter end.
Speaking of contrasting Carlisle's assholery to Matthew:
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Rosamund's WhatsHisFace of a suitor points out there's only three women following the shoot, and they should divide their time between the men taking part in said shoot (God forbid women are not around to entertain these assholes gents). Carlisle immediately rebuffs him before Mary can get a word in, saying "Lady Mary will stand by ME". Mary is about to, very politely, put him in his place, when Matthew comes in for his second act of Villainy so far, saying "I thought you said you'd stand by me for the first shoot, isn't that what you said?"
He doesn't push her to go with him, he's just giving her an exit plan. So that Mary doesn't have to bring herself in an awkward position in front of all those people, to defend her right to an opinion. And Mary takes it. Of course she does. She can show Carlisle he doesn't get to dictate what she does, and do so in a way that doesn't create gossip.
Matthew's Villainy points so far: 2
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Look how he looks at her. He's so happy she took him up on it. Whatever else happened beyond this, they were friends. He cared for her, and she cared for him. And he has her back here, and she accepted it, so easily. And that made him happy (and so, so smug. A true Villain).
https://preview.redd.it/1fzkc8n5dv0d1.jpg?width=560&format=pjpg&auto=webp&s=96c18b3b6203ddaebccedf3173fa4d0bb7c87619
She loves how un-selfconscious he is. She's always loved it, all those years ago at the flower show when he'd mock himself for her benefit, to make her laugh. He does it here still but now she's not surprised by it, just endlessly fond. Dozens of men spent years showing off their (probably mediocre) skills, to win her favour, and of course she'd fall for the guy who was just being honest. Mary likes honesty, she never got much of it. Her world is a show of mirrors where nothing is what it seems, and it must have been so refreshing to be with someone who was exactly what he showed the world. It's only sad that it took her so long to realise that just as she loved him for who he was, he'd do the same. But I'm getting ahead of myself.
"He does rather beg to be teased" - this asshole has been deliberately messing with Carlisle for ages, hasn't he. I've only counted 2 Villainy points, but I bet he earned himself dozens before. Whenever he'd get pissed off at something Carlisle said he'd just whisk Mary away, just to show him that he could. Even if Carlisle was the fiance, Matthew was still an important person in her life, and he'd always be, and he made sure Carlisle knew that (and took great, great enjoyment in it).
Mary: The awful truth is, he’s starting to get on my nerves. Still, you’re not the person to burden with that.
Matthew: You’re still going to marry him, though.
Mary: Of course. Why wouldn’t I.
Matthew is not happy about this. He appears to not understand it, and I wish I could give him a a nice shake. Regardless of the information he doesn't have, Matthew, mate, it's not like she hasn't met other men. Like it or not, most of your lot back in the day belonged in the bin.
And Mary, as a high-society woman, didn't have a lot of options. She had to get married. And at least Carlisle wanted to buy Haxby, she'd be near her family, spend time in London. Before she'd have hoped to actually get some work done, within the capacity her marriage would allow her, but with things being as they are with Carlisle I think she's now hoping he'd be busy with his work and she could get on with her days and maybe not see much of him, as most couples of their class did. And that's not taking into account the actual reason why Mary thinks she absolutely Must marry Carlisle.
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Also, Matthew, let's not pretend you'd like any man she brought home. So either take a deep breath and confess some things, or get on with it.
Carlisle asks Mary why she and Matthew were laughing together. He asks "Am I never to be free of him?" and her answer is, of course not. Because, of course not.
First of all, sorry to say Richard, but, they're a package deal. I can't see either one of them giving up the other willingly, not after all this. But of course, the main thing is the aristocracy thing. He's the head of the family, you'll see A Lot of Matthew, if you and Mary get married. And Matthew has spent almost every minute of the episode so far making sure Richard knows this. One would say, he's trying to push him out (like a villain), through his sheer presence in Mary's life.
"I might understand if you let me think for a solitary minute that you preferred my company to his."
Here's another problem: He should know, this wasn't part of their terms. Of course, he's not an aristocrat, so he's not aware of how loveless marriages of convenience work, but since it WAS a loveless marriage of convenience he was offering, I wonder why THE FUCK, he demands her attention now.
Mary would perform her duty to him. She'd be the best hostess London ever saw. She'd be the pretty wife on his arm, and she'd charm his contacts, and she'd be the stepping stone for him to be accepted in aristocratic circles, and she'd give him children and hold his house. And yes, she'd love spending time with her family, and that included Matthew.
Richard is just being a petty, controlling, fuck. Because he wants more than she's willing to offer, and he wants more than what he'd originally asked. So he, can shove it.
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Richard: I’ve done everything I can to please you.
Mary: Do you mean you bought a large and rather vulgar house?
Richard: You cannot talk to me like that! What have I done to deserve it? What?!
Would you like a list of your crimes, Richard? I've posted it a bit further above.
Also, Mary. She was hoping he'd offer her an interesting life (before he turned out to be an asshole). But all he's offered so far is the same old bullshit she's been offered all her life: A big empty (emotionless) house. A demanding husband. A life full of constraints and limitations, set to her by a husband who expects to dictate everything she does.
It's at this point that Matthew, clearly the villain of the story, shows up because he hears Richard yelling at Mary and that just won't do.
My beloved idiot covers for Richard here. And she does it because of something she said to Matthew before "He's starting to get on my nerves, but you're not the person to burden with that."
She doesn't want Matthew to feel like he has to come to her rescue. She heard him, when he told her they can't be together (many times) in the previous episodes. And she loves him, so she's let him be. She knows he's got his own troubles, that he's been through a lot, and that shows with how she watches him walk away with a fair bit of worry in her eyes. Plus, she doesn't want him to do anything for her out of obligation. She just wants them to be friends, and friends don't solve your marital (or, in this case, pre-marital) problems. They can provide comedic relief, and support, but that's about it.
And as we said, Matthew is clearly the villain of this story.
Speaking of which, Matthew interrupted Richard's yelling at Mary so, I guess that means - Matthew's Villainy points so far: 3
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Speaking of friends: Matthew will be there, for Mary (and Anna) at Bates' trial, and Mary asks to be there when he brings back Mr Swire's ashes, since the man wanted to be buried next to his daughter (who had to be buried at Downton, and not near her home in London, for maximum guilt-trip points I guess).
I love how those two care, and support each other in difficult times. It IS what friends do. Of course, Carlisle is not happy about that either. And listen, if he was in love with Mary, I'd be very understanding. I'd be telling him to cut his losses and run. I'd be empathising. But I'm like, you've been an absolute tool for years now mate, how am I supposed to see your POV, when you're basically worrying that if those two, at some point, get their heads out of their asses and realise they make a great couple, you'll lose your trophy wife you've trapped in a marriage, through sheer luck (on your end).
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Carlisle, after that entire day of watching Mary and Matthew having a nice time out with the family, pressures Mary to set a wedding date. Mary wants to wait, I guess she hopes for some godly intervention because she definitely doesn't see any other way out of her current situation, and he goes so far as to literally grab her, and in front of her family too.
I'm finally not the only one who wants to shoot him dead. Of course, Robert won't do anything about it because when has Robert ever done anything for Mary (so far), but Matthew looks tempted.
(I had to cut out poor Carson because there's too many people on this frame as it is, but shout out to him for also worriedly watching in the background).
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Matthew: Mary. Can I help?
Mary: After today, I won’t insult you by asking what you mean.
Matthew: You don’t have to marry him, you know. You don’t have to marry anyone. You’ll always have a home here as long as I’m alive.
First of all, I LOVE, that his reaction was to ignore Carlisle, run after Mary, and ask her if he can help. He's not offering to be a saviour. Mary doesn't need one of those (she does need to find that steel in her spine though). But he's offering to support her, and he says it in a way that implies he'd do pretty much anything she asked (Do you want to poison him? I'll help carry him to the pigs pen).
Second of all, Matthew, you absolute Idiot.
Mary supporting you in your grief, you supporting her with Bates' trial, that's normal friend behaviour.
You telling her she can LIVE with you forever, and so she doesn't have to Marry Any Man, is so, so dumb.
What is she going to live with you as, Matthew? Your cousin again? Where is the cousinl-y behaviour line drawn? Private dinners? Maybe with some candles and soft music? Holidays in Europe together?
Also, where is that imaginary limit you've put to your happiness with her for the sake of Lavinia's (very real, according to canon) ghost, mate?
You clearly seem happy enough to spend time with Mary, support her, laugh with her. Is it just the romance that's killing your mood?
Is it that that's the harshest punishment Matthew could imagine, spending his life next to Mary without actually spending his life WITH her, or is it that in spite of how much he wanted to suffer for his mistake, he just couldn't bring himself to cut ties entirely? Or is it that her happiness was more important than his self-imposed martyrdom, so he couldn't keep himself away and let her throw away her life for God knows what (her own mistake, is the answer, because they both like making themselves suffer for past sins. They've got A LOT in common).
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Mary: Didn’t the war teach you never to make promises? And anyway, you’re wrong. I do have to marry him.
Matthew: But why? Not to prove you’ve broken with me, surely? We know where we stand. We’ve no need for...gestures.
Mary: If I told you the reason, you’d despise me, and that I really couldn’t bear.
She makes me so sad. She's so certain she'll be ruined and kicked out of her house if the scandal ever came out.
And I get it. It was how she'd been raised. And all she's heard so far is how she's "a slut" and "damaged goods" and Mary's self-image is in tatters. She doesn't view herself as anyone worth fighting for, she doesn't want anyone else to fight for her, and she won't even fight for herself, and to me that's the saddest part of all.
She's entirely defeated, has been for a long time. This entire season. She's taken every blow and hasn't dodged them at all. Welcoming Lavinia, accepting Matthew as a friend and nothing more. Being by his side when he got injured, taking care of him and accepting his rejection without a peep. Listening to him announce his wedding and helping Lavinia plan it. Baring herself to Carlisle, giving him "the tools to destroy her", willingly, to salvage the family name, and to help Bates. And later letting Matthew call her, and himself "cursed", and walking away from it, somehow. Probably because she believes it.
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She told Carson, after Pamuk died, that "she knows what it means to be happy, but she knows she herself will never be happy" and she has proved to have embraced that sentiment, fully. Her despair back then is reflected here. Mary is not looking for happiness. She's just looking for cover. Some place where she can be sure she won't be hurt anymore.
She didn't believe that would be in a marriage with Matthew, and Matthew's strict morals so far, and his own self-hatred, have only further proven to her that she had been correct. She thinks that if Matthew can't excuse himself a kiss with a woman he loved, he won't ever excuse her having sex with a man she didn't love. And for all the unhappiness, all the cold comfort she sees in her future, she at least has his friendship. And how could she ever risk losing that? What would she be left with? Who else is there in the world, that supports her like he has? Her mother, who brought back Lavinia to push her away from Matthew? Her father? Who values the family above all else? Nothing. And no one. Just Matthew.
So she can bear Carlisle's cruelty, his moods and his demands. And she can bear the thought of living life on his arm to be paraded around London society for his benefit. But she can't bear the thought of Matthew thinking ill of her. Can't bear having him look at her the way her mother, or her sister did. And she's so honest here in her pain. She hasn't shown any of it, of the backloads of it, to anyone other than Anna, all season. But she can't keep it in now, after all that, in front of Matthew.
My poor broken child 💔
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She hears Cora yell her name and there's despair in her eyes. Even now she has family obligations to fulfil, so whatever emotional breakthrough she could have made, gets interrupted because heaven forbid she's not there for the Crawleys to play card games with.
Before I forget, Matthew goes after Mary, hoping to help her in her hour of need therefore, Matthew's Villainy points so far: 4
Matthew directs that accusatory look to Cora and I'm so proud of him for that. Cora's involvement in Mary's life has been nothing short of catastrophic. With her only saving grace being the fact that she wasn't actually willing to throw her daughter out of her house. I don't know how she gets to be so worried about the situation now, considering it's, largely, of her own making.
This whole season has been about pain and loss, in its various forms. And Mary's has been largely contained, because that's who she is, she keeps everything close to her heart, especially the things that hurt her. But it's all spilling out in this episode. There's so many things she can't contain, like Carlisle's jealousy, her own grief, at this point, after so many years. And for all those who look, it's the most obvious thing in the world, that Mary is suffering.
Well. Almost all.
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Robert calls Carlisle grabbing Mary in front of her family "an awkward moment", and calls Mary "tired" of Carlisle.
Yes, Robert. Of all the things Mary is feeling at the moment, tiredness is one of them. Not sure if it's the most obvious one, but with you I've learned to bring a small basket.
He also, unlike Matthew, doesn't respect Mary enough to go up to her and ask her if she needs anything from, idk, her father. Some help, some advice. He asks his wife to tell him if he's overlooked anything, and how is the answer to that not "Pretty much everything that's ever happened in this house".
And at this point, I will leave you, because we're half way through and I've already hit both my word, and my image limit. The first one is self-imposed, for the second one, send your grievances @ reddit.

His breath had fragrant notes of tea that had been steeping for at least 5 years, mixed with the essence of a half-eaten cigarette. Small particles of salvia hit the edges of my ear as he spoke. His voice was rough and husky, being nearly too thick, almost struggling to escape his esophagus just to reach MY ears. His words weren’t smooth, but they soothed my longing aura. His words felt like I was being bathed in lavender and sung to sleep by the voice of an angel. I’d always close my eyes when he spoke, hoping for a more sensual experience, begging to have his fingers graze the edge of my hand or thigh, as though he were reaching for something. Wishing time and time again that something was my heart.
Though my pleads were rarely heard, I still remain hopeful. Releasing the last bit of breath I had stuck in my diaphragm, opening my eyes, finally able to see clearly. He’s standing right in front of me. Nerves still getting the best of me, my heart skipped a beat as my uncle yelled out “Buck up cherry blossom, we got more moving to do!” That’s when I knew I was in love.

Omnivoracious Listeners New Music Newsletter (Week of May 19th):
New LPs:
🇺🇸 Ahem - 'Avoider' (Genre: Indie Rock, Pop Punk)
🇺🇸 Almanac Man - 'Terrain' (Genre: Noise Rock)
🇺🇸 Altar of Gore - 'Litanies of the Unceasing Agonies' (Genre: Black Death)
🇻🇪 Ancient Settlers - 'Oblivion's Legacy' (Genre: Melodic Death Metal, Metalcore)
🇺🇸 Animal, Surrender! - 'Animal, Surrender!' (Genre: Post-Rock)
🇺🇸 Ape Vermin - 'Andromedas Colossus' (Genre: Prog Sludge Metal)
🇺🇸 August Winter - 'Redemption' (Genre: Post Rock)
🇳🇱 Baardvader - 'When the Stars Arrive' (Genre: Stoner Doom)
🇺🇸 Babylon A.D. - 'Rome Wasn't Built in a Day' (Genre: Hard Rock)
🇬🇧 Bad Breeding - 'Contempt' (Genre: Hardcore Punk, Anarcho Punk)
🇺🇸 Baphorator - 'I.B.L.I.S.' (Genre: Black Death)
🇺🇸 Bat - 'Under the Crooked Claw' (Genre: Speed Metal)
🇺🇸 Bermuda Squares - 'Outsider' (Genre: Garage Punk)
🇺🇸 Billie Eilish - 'Hit Me Hard and Soft' (Genre: Pop)
🇺🇸 Blitzen Trapper - '100's of 1000's, Millions of Billions' (Genre: Alt Country, Folk Rock)
🇮🇹 Boleskine House - 'Miserabilist Blues' (Genre: Atmo Black Metal)
🇨🇦 Bootlicker - '1000 Yd. Bars' (Genre: D-Beat, Hardcore Punk)
🇺🇸 Botanist - 'Paleobotany' (Genre: Experimental Post-Black Metal)
🇺🇸 Burnt Sherpa - 'Last of Later' (Genre: Stoner Rock)
🇺🇸 Cage the Elephant - 'Neon Pill' (Genre: Alt Rock, Indie Rock)
🇺🇸 Candy Apple - 'Comatose' (Genre: Hardcore Punk)
🇺🇸 Cardiac Arrest - 'The Stench of Eternity' (Genre: Death Metal)
🇳🇱 Celestial Season - 'Mysterium III' (Genre: Death Doom)
🇺🇸 Childish Gambino - 'Atavista' (Genre: R&B, Rap)
🇧🇷 Chococorn and the Sugarcanes - 'Siamês' (Genre: Midwest Emo, Power Pop)
🇺🇸 Cognitive - 'Abhorrence' (Genre: Tech Death Metal, Deathcore)
🇷🇺 Cold Blooded Murder - 'From Russia With Hate' (Genre: Brutal Death Metal)
🇺🇸 Collective Soul - 'Here to Eternity' (Genre: Alt Rock, Post-Grunge)
🇳🇴 Combichrist - 'CMBCRST' (Genre: Industrial Metal)
🇺🇸 Crumb - 'Amama' (Genre: Psych Rock)
🇦🇺 Danielle Whalebone - 'Whispers of Shadows' (Genre: Noise Rock)
🇺🇸 Dawnbreaker - 'Banisher of Unlight' (Genre: Blackened Death Metal)
🇫🇷 Dead Horse One - 'Seas of Static' (Genre: Shoegaze, Psych Rock)
🇬🇧 Demon - 'Invincible' (Genre: Heavy Metal, Hard Rock)
🇮🇸 Demored - 'Well of Liquid Souls' (Genre: Hardcore Punk)
🇺🇸 Devitalized - 'State of Aggression' (Genre: Deathcore)
🇺🇸 Dog Party - 'Dangerous' (Genre: Punk Rock)
🇺🇸 Don McLean - 'American Boys' (Genre: Folk Rock)
🇮🇹 Duft - 'Altar of Instant Gratification' (Genre: Metalcore)
🇺🇸 Dystopica - 'Infinite Reflection' (Genre: Prog Metal)
🇺🇸 Early Internet - 'Ruminator' (Genre: Indie Pop)
🇨🇦 Earth Ball - 'It's Yours' (Genre: Experimental Rock)
🇺🇸 Egg Drop Soup - 'One Hit Woman' (Genre: Garage Punk, Surf Punk)
🇸🇪 Eigenstate Zero - 'The Malthusian' (Genre: Prog Death Metal)
🇮🇪 El Morta - 'The Man Who Laughs' (Genre: Doom Metal)
🇩🇪 Elvellon - 'Ascending Synergy' (Genre: Symphonic Metal)
🇧🇷 Eminent Shadow - 'Dawn of the Dark Age - Inferno Diaboli' (Genre: Death Metal)
🇪🇸 Esclavitud - 'Stronger Than a God' (Genre: Heavy Metal)
🇫🇷 Etwas - 'Rites of the Damned - Chvpter. II' (Genre: Symphonic Metal)
🇺🇸 Excuse Me, Who Are You? - 'Double Blind' (Genre: Midwest Emo, Post-Hardcore)
🇺🇸 Extinguish - 'One Less Enemy' (Genre: Hardcore Punk)
🇺🇸 Extortionist - 'Devoid of Love & Light' (Genre: Deathcore)
🇮🇹 Forever Falling - 'The Determinism of Essence in Matter' (Genre: Death Doom)
🇸🇪 Freedom - 'Stay Free!' (Genre: Hard Rock)
🇺🇸 From Indian Lakes - 'Head Void' (Genre: Indie Pop)
🇺🇸 Gatecreeper - 'Dark Superstition' (Genre: Death Metal)
🇬🇧 Ghost Keeper - 'The Dread Legion' (Genre: Thrash Metal)
🇩🇪 Goblyns - 'Hunki Bobo' (Genre: Psych Rock)
🇺🇸 Göden - 'Vale of the Fallen' (Genre: Death Doom)
🇬🇧 Gumshoes - 'Cacophony' (Genre: Indie Pop, Indie Folk)
🇺🇸 Guppy - 'Something Is Happening' (Genre: Garage Rock)
🇺🇸 Guster - 'Ooh La La' (Genre: Art Rock, Pop Rock)
🇬🇧 Halloweens - 'Opera Singing at the Salsa Bar' (Genre: Pop Rock)
🇺🇸 Hardy - 'Psycho' (Genre: Country Rock, Post-Grunge)
🇺🇸 Heavy Feather & the Magic Word - 'Two-Way Mirror' (Genre: Psych Rock)
🇺🇦 Hell:On - 'Shaman' (Genre: Death Thrash)
🇺🇸 Hemotoxin - 'When Time Becomes Loss' (Genre: Prog Death Metal)
🇸🇪 Henry Kane - 'Circle of Pain' (Genre: Crust Punk, Grindcore)
🇺🇸 High Noon Kahuna - 'This Place Is Haunted' (Genre: Noise Rock)
🇺🇸 Home Invasion - 'Enemy' (Genre: Hardcore Punk)
🇧🇪 Hudič - 'Into the Abyss' (Genre: Heavy Metal)
🇺🇸 If Not for Me - 'Everything You Wanted' (Genre: Metalcore)
🇮🇹 I Hate My Village - 'Nevermind the Tempo' (Genre: Psych Rock)
🇫🇷 Inner Landscape - '3H33' (Genre: Post Metal)
🇨🇦 Intervals - 'Memory Palace' (Genre: Prog Metal)
🇺🇸 Jack Name - 'Fabulous Soundtracks' (Genre: Hypnagogic Pop, Neo Psychedelia)
🇺🇸 Jasta - '...And Jasta for All' (Genre: Thrash Metal)
🇺🇸 Jeff Kollman - '2023 AD' (Genre: Hard Rock, Heavy Metal)
🇬🇧 Jeff Slate - 'The Last Day of Summer' (Genre: Hard Rock)
🇺🇸 John Larson and the SIlver Fields - 'Constellation Prize' (Genre: Power Pop)
🇺🇸 John Oates - 'Reunion' (Genre: Blue Eyed Soul, Pop Rock)
🇺🇸 Joywave - 'Permanent Pleasure' (Genre: Indie Rock)
🇺🇸 Kate Hudson - 'Glorious' (Genre: Pop, Soft Rock)
🇺🇸 Kerry King - 'From Hell I Rise' (Genre: Thrash Metal)
🇺🇸 Kev and Cam - 'Kevin's Gate' (Genre: Prog Metal)
🇳🇱 Krezip - 'Music for Maximum' (Genre: Alt Pop Rock)
🇬🇧 Kulk - 'It Gets Worse' (Genre: Sludge Metal, Noise Rock)
🇺🇸 Lightheaded - 'Combustible Gems' (Genre: Jangle Pop)
🇺🇸 Littered With Arrows - 'No Doves Fly Above' (Genre: Sludge Metal, Noise Rock)
🇺🇸 Little Feat - 'Sam's Phone' (Genre: Southern Rock)
🇧🇪 Lovelorn Dolls - 'Deadtime Stories' (Genre: Alt Rock, Synthpop)
🇳🇱 Lucassen & Soeterboek's Plan Nine - 'The Long-Lost Songs' (Genre: Hard Rock)
🇫🇮 Lucidity - 'Escherian' (Genre: Melodic Death Metal)
🇧🇷 Madame Frankenstein - 'The Eyes of the Mountain Are Mine' (Genre: Stoner Doom)
🇺🇸 Magic Fig - 'Magic Fig' (Genre: Psych Rock, Psych Pop)
🇩🇰 Mansfield - 'For All the Right Reasons' (Genre: Indie Rock)
🇮🇹 Marea - 'The Silene of Rust' (Genre: Black Doom, Post Metal)
🇺🇸 Marty Friedman - 'Drama' (Genre: Prog Rock, Prog Metal)
🇩🇪 Meanwhile Project LTD - 'Sir Mandrill' (Genre: Prog Rock, Post-Rock)
🇺🇸 Mia Day - 'Hellier, Forever' (Genre: Indie Rock)
🇺🇸 Mineshaft - 'We've Taken This Too Far' (Genre: Screamo)
🇲🇽 Moonlight - 'Skogstronen' (Genre: Black Metal)
🇩🇰 Morbid Grave - 'The Slime Crawlers' (Genre: Death Metal)
🇺🇸 Mortal Reminder - 'Mortal Reminder' (Genre: Metalcore, Djent)
🇬🇧 Mutes - '...Buried Where You Stand' (Genre: Post-Punk, Noise Rock)
🇷🇸 Nadsvest - 'Slovo Meseca I Krvi' (Genre: Black Metal)
🇨🇦 Naomi King - 'Black Water' (Genre: Alt Rock)
🇨🇦 Necht - 'The Prophect of Karnifor' (Genre: Black Metal)
🇷🇸 Neven - 'U Svakom Srcu Gore Svetla' (Genre: Hardcore Punk)
🇺🇸 New Kids on the Block - 'Still Kids' (Genre: Boy Band)
🇺🇸 Nobody - 'Despair Is Where My Thoughts Swim' (Genre: Post-Black Metal)
🇺🇸 Nocturnus AD - 'Unicursal' (Genre: Tech Death Metal)
🇭🇺 Norms - '100% Hazaárulás' (Genre: Hardcore Punk)
🇦🇺 Northeast Party House - 'Enhancer' (Genre: Dance Punk)
🇺🇸 Of Montreal - 'Lady on the Cusp' (Genre: Indie Pop)
🇨🇦 Olim - 'Because' (Genre: Post-Black Metal)
🇺🇸 One Step Closer - 'All You Embrace' (Genre: Straight Edge Hardcore)
🇪🇸 Orion Child - 'Aesthesis' (Genre: Power Metal)
🇸🇪 Pain - 'I Am' (Genre: Industrial Rock, Electronic Rock)
🇺🇸 Pallbearer - 'Mind Burns Alive' (Genre: Doom Metal)
🇨🇦 Passage - 'Crystal' (Genre: Doom Metal)
🇺🇸 Pathology - 'Unholy Descent' (Genre: Brutal Death Metal)
🇦🇺 Peter Freebairn - 'Silhouettes & Cigarettes' (Genre: Pop Rock, Singer-Songwriter)
🇬🇧 Pig - 'Red Room' (Genre: Industrial Rock,, Industrial Metal)
🇪🇸 Pòstum-0 - 'Nueva Humanidad' (Genre: Hard Rock, Heavy Metal)
🇸🇪 PreHistoric Animals - 'Finding Love in Strange Places' (Genre: Prog Rock)
🇺🇸 Radar - 'Radar' (Genre: Pop Punk, Supergroup)
🇫🇮 Rats Will Feast - 'Hellhole' (Genre: Hardcore Punk)
🇳🇿 Rendered Helpless - 'From Nothing Comes All' (Genre: Slam Death Metal)
🇮🇩 Reveals - 'Attachment, Destruction and Extinction' (Genre: Atmo Black Metal)
🇩🇪 Rope Sect - 'Estrangement' (Genre: Gothic Rock)
🇨🇱 Rotten Tomb - 'The Relief of Death' (Genre: Death Metal)
🇺🇸 Salt on Sunday - 'A Docket of Votive Offerings' (Genre: Experimental Metal)
🇺🇸 Secrecies - 'Perfect Bite' (Genre: Dreampop)
🇺🇸 Sekengard - 'Creation's Veil' (Genre: Folk Metal)
🇬🇷 Serement - 'Abhorrent Invocations' (Genre: Blackened Death Metal)
🇲🇽 Servus - 'Cyclical Existence' (Genre: Black Metal)
🇺🇸 Shellac - 'To All Trains' (Genre: Noise Rock)
🇷🇺 Shokran - 'Duat' (Genre: Prog Metalcore)
🇬🇧 Shoshy - '誰​に​も (Darenimo)' (Genre: Dreampop)
🇳🇴 Sibiir - 'Undergang' (Genre: Hardcore Punk)
🇺🇸 Sludgeworth - 'Together Not Together' (Genre: Punk Rock)
🇺🇸 So Much Hope, Buried - 'I'd Be Lying to Say I'm Not Weak' (Genre: Post-Hardcore)
🇨🇭 SoulLine - 'Reflections' (Genre: Melodic Death Metal)
🇺🇸 SQÜRL - 'Music for Man Ray' (Genre: Psych Rock, Post-Rock)
🇧🇪 Stacks - 'Want' (Genre: Synthpop)
🇩🇰 Strychnos - 'Armageddon Patronage' (Genre: Black Death)
🇬🇷 Subfire - 'Blood Omen' (Genre: Symphonic Power Metal)
🇺🇸 Suck Brick Kid - 'The End Is What I Want' (Genre: Pop Punk)
🇺🇸 Sweat FM - 'You and I, We Were Born to Cry' (Genre: Punk Rock)
🇺🇸 System Exclusive - 'Click' (Genre: Synthpop)
🇺🇸 Telltale - 'Telltale' (Genre: Pop Punk)
🇮🇹 Tezza F. - 'Key to Your Kingdom' (Genre: Prog Power Metal)
🇨🇦 The Anti-Queens - 'Disenchanted' (Genre: Punk Rock)
🇺🇸 The Co Founder - 'Never Miss a Good Opportunity to Shut the Fuck Up' (Genre: Indie Rock)
🇬🇧 The Dave Foster Band - 'Maybe They'll Come Back for Us' (Genre: Prog Rock)
🇬🇧 The Howlers - 'What You've Got to Lose to Win It All' (Genre: Indie Rock)
🇺🇸 The Last of Lucy - 'Godform' (Genre: Tech Death)
🇬🇧 The Lovely Eggs - 'Eggistentialism' (Genre: Egg Punk, Psych Punk)
🇺🇸 The Macks - 'The Macks Are a Knife' (Genre: Indie Rock, Indie Punk)
🇺🇸 The Mountain Movers - 'Walking After Dark' (Genre: Psych Rock, Neo Psychedelia)
🇺🇸 Tim Easton - 'Find Your Way' (Genre: Country Blues, Roots Rock)
🇺🇸 Tolls - 'Plummet Through Agony' (Genre: Hardcore Punk)
🇺🇸 Torturer's Lobby - 'Deadened Nerves' (Genre: Death Thrash)
🇯🇵 角松敏生 (Toshiki Kadomatsu) - 'MAGIC HOUR ~Lovers at Dusk~' (Genre: City Pop, Jazz Fusion)
🇦🇺 Tropical Strength - 'Tropical Strength & the Silverbeats' (Genre: Indie Pop)
🇬🇧 Troy Redfern - 'Invocation' (Genre: Blues Rock)
🇺🇸 Twenty One Pilots - 'Clancy' (Genre: Indie Pop, Alt Rock)
🇺🇸 Tzompantli - 'Beating the Drums of Ancestral Force' (Genre: Death Doom)
🇮🇹 Ufomammut - 'Hidden' (Genre: Psych Doom)
🇸🇪 Universe III - 'Universe III' (Genre: Hard Rock)
🇩🇪 Unwesen - 'Irrsinnfonie' (Genre: Black Metal)
🇺🇸 (Un)worthy - 'This Present Darkness' (Genre: Death Metal, Deathcore)
🇯🇵 Valhalla - 'Memories of Yggdrasil' (Genre: Power Metal)
🇺🇸 Vitskär Süden - 'Vessel' (Genre: Heavy Psych)
🇺🇸 Ward White - 'Here Come the Dowsers!' (Genre: Art Rock)
🇺🇸 Warren Dunes - 'Aquamarine' (Genre: Indie Pop)
🇨🇦 William Shatner - 'Where Will the Animals Sleep? Songs for Kids and Other Living Things' (Genre: Indie Rock, Spoken Word)
🇺🇸 Winter Aid - 'Pull the Sky Inside' (Genre: Indie Folk)
🇺🇸 Your Ghost in Glass - 'Drowning to Escape the Fire' (Genre: Post-Hardcore)
🇬🇧 Zayn - 'Room Under the Stairs' (Genre: Pop, Singer-Songwriter)
🇺🇸 Zero Point Energy - 'Tilted Planet' (Genre: Shoegaze, Indie Rock)
🇺🇸 Zig Zags - 'Strange Masters' (Genre: Crossover Thrash, Garage Punk)
🇺🇸 Zombeast - 'Heart of Darkness' (Genre: Punk Rock)
New EPs:
🇺🇸 Ameonna - 'Goddes Reign' (Genre: Deathcore, Prog Metalcore)
🇸🇪 Aspernamentum - 'Primal Judgement Manifesto' (Genre: Black Metal)
🇺🇦 Azimut - 'Nun' (Genre: Atmo Sludge Metal)
🇮🇹 Barbarian - 'A Kiss of a Whisper' (Genre: Speed Thrash)
🇫🇷 Black Velvet - 'Identity?' (Genre: Heavy Metal)
🇺🇸 Black Water Sunset - 'When Man and Machine Collide - A Tribute to Control Denied' (Genre: Prog Death Metal)
🇵🇪 Culmen - 'De Un Soplo La Creacion' (Genre: Black Metal)
🇬🇧 Darko - 'Greyscale' (Genre: Melodic Hardcore)
🇬🇧 De'Lour - 'The Ghost You Left Behind' (Genre: Post-Hardcore)
🇦🇺 Divine Grave - 'Traumapieces' (Genre: Prog Metalcore)
🇺🇸 Draag - 'Actually, the Quiet Is Nice' (Genre: Dreampop, Shoegaze)
🇨🇦 Erythrite Throne - 'Thy Bastard Offspring Birthed of the Gallows Tree' (Genre: Black Doom)
🇩🇪 Evoked - 'Immoral Arts' (Genre: Death Metal)
🇧🇪 Fatal Move - 'Fugazi' (Genre: Hardcore Punk)
🇺🇸 Female Gaze - 'Tender Futures' (Genre: Hard Rock)
🇩🇰 Gradience - 'Ironsight' (Genre: Deathcore)
🇬🇧 I Häxa - 'Part 2' (Genre: Folk Metal)
🇲🇽 Imperator - 'Diable' (Genre: Black Metal)
🇦🇹 Insanity Alert - 'Moshemian Thrashody' (Genre: Crossover Thrash)
🇬🇧 Irked - 'Irked' (Genre: Punk Rock)
🇧🇷 Katástrofe - 'Terra Sombria' (Genre: Thrash Metal)
🇯🇵 Loyal to the Grave - 'Rectitude' (Genre: Hardcore Punk)
🇺🇸 Mechanistic Butchery - 'Post-Human Putridity' (Genre: Grindcore, Cybergrind)
🇨🇦 MLRiffage - 'Bleak II' (Genre: Death Thrash)
🇺🇸 Night Sins - 'A Silver Blade in the Shadow' (Genre: Gothic Rock, Darkwave)
🇯🇵 Nothing's Carved in Stone - 'Brightness' (Genre: J-Rock, Alt Rock)
🇩🇰 Omsorg - 'Echoes' (Genre: Post-Hardcore)
🇩🇰 Pretext - 'Force the Hand of Fate' (Genre: Hard Rock, Heavy Metal)
🇺🇸 Psithurism - 'A Dead Sun' (Genre: Metalcore, Deathcore)
🇯🇵 Purple Hell - 'Asthenia Soul 灵​魂​病​症' (Genre: Melodic Death Metal, Metalcore)
🇬🇧 Queen Laya - 'Queen Laya' (Genre: Alt Rock)
🇨🇭 ReDraw - 'The Party' (Genre: Thrash Metal)
🇺🇸 Soften the Glare - 'EP III' (Genre: Prog Rock)
🇪🇸 Sons of Cult - 'Desolation' (Genre: Heavy Metal, Hard Rock)
🇺🇸 Stylogaster - 'Keepsake' (Genre: Slowcore)
🇺🇸 Vanquishment - 'Dogfights' (Genre: Melodic Black Metal)
🇺🇸 Virologist - 'Ameliorating Vicissitudes' (Genre: Brutal Death Metal)
🇺🇦 Wallflower - 'The Place Where I Feel Free' (Genre: Hardcore Punk)
🇺🇸 We're All Wrong - 'Leerer' (Genre: Prog Metalcore)
New Cover Albums:
🇨🇦 Arkells - 'Disco Loadout' (Genre: Alt Rock)
🇺🇸 Slash - 'Orgy of the Damned' (Genre: Hard Rock, Blues Rock)
Off to Detroit tomorrow for some live music! Cage The Elephant dropping this week, and thanks to concert week I got tickets for that also! Anyone you're seeing on the list this week?
https://discord.gg/atDujWqf9P
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Happy Listening!

Blachowicz here.
Kept yah’ waiting, huh? Heh, sorry about that one, but I can explain. As we all know… we lost a few good men the last few months.
That’s the brutal part of a hybrid war like ours: We’re fighting a foe unconventional, with half our arsenal tied down because those who grant us authorization are either in disbelief of the true facts, or scared… or already assimilated. That being said our momentum recently was a change not seen in years, and because of that… despite the losses we have garnered, we were close through a breakthrough. One last night Krol pulls myself and other two must trusted squad leads into the back of our COP. There is one of our equipment cages, surrounded by m-bitter radios, tripods, and several hundred thousand dollars of equipment he brought us around a simple worn table. Before us he laid a map of eastern poland… red markings indicating cells that seemed to dot the countryside like a pestilence, or used to… as deep gashes of advance from raids had trisected their lines, even if ones did pop up in the interior.
It was a back and forth; an outside virus infecting Polska at it’s heart, and we were the antibodies sent to drive them out. To which… Major Krol points to one of the largest symbol on the map: a dark red diamond, the NATO symbol for an enemy unit, deep inside of an untouched wooded area, adjacent to a mountain ridge. Several jagged lines indicated entrenchment, with red horizontal lines indicating possible enemy control… or our contested control, for over 20kms surrounding it. Letting us all look, the Major lit himself a cigarette.
“Sir, you sure it’s wise to smoke in here with the dive tanks just behind us” 1st Squad’s lead quipped. “Fuck off” Krol dryly said.
“Alright… this is it… this is the one we’ve been searching for for years, this is the nucleus my predecessor commander died trying to find” he says, pointing to it. Not far from Zamosc, it was almost touching the border with Belarus, the contested area indicating the Strigoi did operate over it… indicating one of the largest spill through points. “-It’s an old soviet bunker, made during their 1960s initiative it was designed to hold the munitions and manpower of several units in the event of a NATO first strike” Krol explained. “It’s gotta be massive then…” I said gazing at the map; “Didn’t the army demolish all of the old soviet hulks near Belarus to prevent any infiltrations?” 3rd Squad’s lead asked. “National Police took the effort over… and by extension, the Strigoi. It was halfway demo’ed before they burrowed into it and have been using it as a bridgehead ever since. This is it…” Krol said. He looked around at all of us, a sense of certainty I had never seen before as he blew smoke from his nostrils; “We’ve been fucking around in the dark for so long, it’s hard to believe we’ve made any progress, but this is it. With this gone, this will set them back over a decade and the momentum will finally shift into our favor… into Poland’s… -Europe’s”.
I swear there was almost a flash of joy, of pride in his eyes and a phantom of a smirk before reality set back in “That being said… we can’t leave this to chance, especially not something as important as this. We’re going to have to go there ourselves… clear through every inch of that place, and tear it all down, piece by piece. I will be straight with you all… when we go, there will be some of us that aren’t coming back. -but we are going… a whole generation is counting on us, and unborn billions rely on us to succeed”. We all nodded, a silent agreement washing over us as we took this upon ourselves. Echo-1 spoke up: “So… They’re authorizing a raid? How big?”. “We’re rolling in as a hard target, armor, explosives, and air support” Krol answered, taking a drag off his cigarette. “Aviation? How the hell did we get that approved, we’ve gotten attempts shot down four times due to those leeches” I said in disbelief. “There’s too much evidence here pointing to the human trafficking tied to their actions… We’ve finally got too much weight pinning them down, to keep the hammer from slamming into their necks” Krol chuckled. He looked around “Any questions?”. “When?” Echo-3 asked. “Three hours. We’re hitting them in the dead of night, only time we could get the birds authorized. Get your boys ready. We’re rolling out” Krol said, dying the cigarette bud out on the table. I can’t begin to tell you the euphoria we felt leaving that cage, as our men started arriving, they did so a lot quicker, and with their heads a lot higher than they had in weeks. As Second Squad’s lead we were going to be one of the main arms of attack into the bunker, thus I made sure we had a breacher loaded with enough thermite, charges, and tools to cut through anything. Our shield bearer we ready to go, as was our assaulters, grenadiers, and machine gunner. I double checked each and everyone of their weapons; ensuring the feeder paws of our squad’s belt fed were intact, making sure every breach charge we had was properly set and packed. There was going to be no mistakes, no slip ups. The margin of error needed to be the smallest it had ever been for us tonight if we were going to make the gore spilt worth it.
Finally… there on the outside of the building, the bright LED lights kept the darkness of the ensuing night at bay as the roar of our MRAPs could be heard. It was said once that war is 99% peace, and 1% chaos, they were right. The slow periods where the blood slowed and the doubt creeped in was the worst… yet we all kept it at bay. We needed to, there was going to be no backing down tonight. All three squads were up, all of us ready to go… we circled up… short stares and shaky nods telling us one things: We were in this together, till the end… the finish line so many before us had been searching for, we were being granted tonight.
A single set of footsteps could be heard as we turned, Major Krol stepping into the center. He took the last drag of a cigarette, throwing it down to the ground and stamping it out onto the damp concrete. He looked around… his chin strap blowing in the weak air as he met everyone of our gazes… then mine… then looked around. “I want you to remember every detail of tonight, as you have every other night… when you are situationally aware, scanning for the enemy, liberating the subjugated, I want you to remember the sting of anxiety, the shake of adrenaline, the chill of the bunker, the heat of your weapon as it cuts them down… because tonight we are going to write every fine detail of our victory, their defeat, in history…” Krol’s words echoed deep into our souls. He paused for a moment, staring around he looked down… a small pause before he said “When you are ruthless in combat, remember to be patient, and reserved in victory. This conflict is for our existence… a lot of innocents have bled due to the mistakes of those who failed to listen, a lot of our brothers are now laid under because we had to bridge the gap of uncertainty with their lives. We remember them now… but in an hour? We forget them… when we raise our barrels, when we cut into those foes, and we liberate Polska!! This does not end tonight, but history puts everything in it’s place, and patience is the companion of the victor… All of our hard work will be cemented, no matter the obstacles we face in that darkness… no matter the demons, the blood, no matter what incomprehensible horrors, we will make them comprehend that to invade our land, to bleed our people, the justice will be paid in full… Load up. It’s time*”*.
The purpose in our steps was heavy as we climbed the back ramps of the MRAPS; Four of the heavily armored vehicles, one for each squad with an additional for attached personnel including our JTAC, the term means Joint Terminal Attack Controllers. With air support requisitioned to us for this operations, there needs to be a definite liaison on the ground who can directly communicate to the birds, and coordinate their fire and progress. I’d worked with many of them in the past, resourceful guys, quick thinking though I guess that comes with the position they hold of needing to quickly figure out what bombs to drop, on which target, at what precise points, whilst taking contact. He loaded in the lead vehicle with Major Krol… and soon, our convoy kicked off.
The drive was several hours as myself and my squad sat in the back of that forty ton goliath, the rumbling of the engine keeping us awake as the crap heater fought to keep the cold from the outside frost from setting in. I looked around to each of them, some were catching some sleep because even with the circumstances… better to get all the energy you can, than to stay awake for nothing. Others were checking their weapons… My gunner locked eyes with me, the same one from the village extraction… many of these men I had trained with for a while now, fought with for months.
We may have met on unconventional circumstances but those in JW Grom thrive on austere chance and create opportunity from scratch. I was pulled from my thought by the sound of a transmission, my peltors were set up for dual comms so I could both receive information from the Major and other leads, whilst communicating with my team.
Krol himself sent out: [“Approximately 10 minutes from enemy AO…”]. As the rest of the squads acknowledged, I quickly sent out [“Echo-2 Copies”], before kicking the boots of any of them sleeping: “Look alive, we’re here”. Through the exterior net armor of the MRAPS, and the bars protecting the small reinforced windows, we could barely see jack shit. I reached up, turning off the overhead light as we all looked through our nods to scan the outside. A dark wall of dense trees was shown before us, making it difficult to see… in addition to night vision capabilities we had also requisitioned ourselves some thermals… when mounted onto rifles they were bulky, made it a pain to aim down quickly, but considering the supernatural capabilities of spotting our foes we needed every advantage necessary.
I flipped out one of my tubes… scanning the outside with my scope. I looked over to one of my assaulters who had been assigned to man the turret of the MRAP, seated near the view screen as he controlled the 50. Cal. Each of the vehicle turrets had been assigned a direction to cover… we took the 9 o’clock, the left flank. “See anything?” I asked. He shook his head; “Negative… wait… I’ve got two cold signatures, front left heading to our rear”.
I quickly scanned the far tree line, at approximately 60 meters off our left were two cold signatures… followed by a third heading to our front… then another. They were surrounding us, moving at speeds so fast I could barely keep my reticle on them. Is this what the National Police saw? What they faced at that lodge without the benefit of a foot of heavy armor protecting them on all sides. Then… suddenly. Something slammed into the side of our MRAP so hard, it caused it to shake. From over the leader comms, Echo-3 quickly shouted [“Contact right!! 4 hostiles!!”].
One of the Strigoi… so bold, had charged and slammed into the side of our MRAP. I quickly looked to see the figure, a dark blue mass of cold energy through my thermal, back away without so much as a stagger… as they tried to flee into the woods, the white hot justice of Echo-3’s gun fired at them, cutting them down. “Blachowicz I’ve got a few breaking for our vic” my man on the turret called out, I spun around, spotting out the window.
Just then, Major Krol announced [“weapons free, watch and shoot for targets of opportunity…”]. I turned to him… “take those fuckers out-”. Without hesitation my vic’s turret began to quickly target them, and through the darkness I saw a stream of outgoing fire bisect one of them, the ISR of the black blood freaking out the optic so badly it didn’t know what temperature to register it as… but it did register it. As another was cut down, one broke through the tree line and latched onto the side of our MRAP. The thing tore at one of the outer net armor panels, usually made to stop RPGs. It grabbed at the bars near the windows, tearing one off… I lowered my rifle as we locked eyes through the reinforced window.
The thing… the Strigoi looked at me, skin cracked as putrefied muscle fibers seemed to leak through dead flesh. It’s teeth were corroded and worn down to sharp fragments, alongside newly mutated fangs that messily protrude from the jaws. Even through the thick walls of the MRAP I could hear it’s roar, as it then tried to punch it’s way through… it cracked the outer coating of the vehicle… but it wasn’t getting anywhere near. My machine gunner, seated next to me, seemed to chuckle at the sight, quippily saying “Yeah… fuck you too”. It’s then our vehicle lurched upwards, as we began to climb the small incline of the bunker. I knew the layout, mapped it in our head, the main entrance was built into the rocky side of an old cliff meaning we could easily set up a defensive perimeter around it, a horseshoe. Krol’s vehicle was first, taking to the right as Echo-3’s MRAP followed. My vehicle, third, left the incline and took a left and… that’s where things got complicated.
We’re still trying to work out what happened but… from what Joakim says his drone captured. Right when the MRAP turned, several of the monsters quickly slammed into the side of the vehicle, as another more bulkier one, pushed at it’s undercarriage. The result.. Was the 40 ton armored vehicle tipped over. It wasn’t uncommon, hell in some cases a well placed IED, a good shot with a recoilless rifle, have been known to tip over Oshkoshs and Maxpros all the time. But this beast? Needless to say we barely had a second to comprehend it as it leaned to the left; “Grab on to something-” is all I had time to shout. A mess of gear and men spilled onto one side of the vehicle as it slammed into the old gravel and dirt.
Several of my assaulters, my grenadier planted right ontop of myself and the others as we came to a stop. Someone’s knee slammed directly into the side of my skull, causing me to dazily bob in and out of consciousness as my face was smushed against the glass of one of the windows.
Through my peltors, the other squads were erratic;
[“Echo-2’s vehicle is down!!”].
[“Echo-3 to Echo-2… Echo-3 to Echo-2…”].
Krol’s voice came through the comms;
[“Echo-Lead to Echo-2… Fuc-... Echo-1 secure Echo 2’s flank, Echo-3”].
[“Echo-3 to other units, they’re spilling through, I’ve got several enemy combatants converging on Echo-2’s vehicle”].
I pushed the legs of my grenadier off my head as I fought to my hands and knees, unfucking my nods as I looked around… “Fuck it… we’re going lights on, shield your eyes” I muttered as I reached for the overhead lights and flipped them on. The bright LEDs bathed the inside of the vehicle as we all gained our bearings, a mess of multicam, gear, and weapons as we quickly pushed each other off. My gunner caught as he fought to realign his promask, from what I gathered one of the assaulters had landed directly into his gun, pushing it directly into his jugular, as pulled back at the rubber and coughed, freeing up his esophagus. We didn’t have time to think however… the sound of bending metal caught our attention… as the back ramp door of the MRAP was ripped clean off. I could barely believe it but as the white light of the MRAP’s interior poured to the outside, a hulking mass leaned in, the dead flesh on it’s face nearly fallen off as the hideous Strigoi leaned inside.
Without hesitation I aimed took aim, yelling “Keep to the deck!!” to any of those inbetween myself and the invader as I opened fire. A burst of full auto fire tore through it’s collar and neck, my men quickly clung to either sides of the fallen MRAP as a few more fired out. As the thing backed up, a blast of .50 cal fire quickly tore it to shreds, along with several others as I realized they were fuckin swarming over the outside of our vehicle. Echo-3’s vehicle continued to carefully fire on the Strigoi on the outside, the sounds of .50 cal ricocheting off the outside of our armor was enough to make the pucker factor set in.
[“Echo-3 to Echo-2”].
[“This is Echo-2, we’re green on ammo, equipment, men”].
[“Roger, we’re shifting fire, exit the vehicle”].
“Hurry up let’s go!!” I barked to my men, leading the way as I staggered out. I turned on my peq, taking aim at silhouettes in the brush as I began to fire. The sounds of machine guns lighting up the brush, as a sea of growls, howls, and incomprehensible roars fired back at us was the ambient noise of the night. My men quickly exited, my gunner being the last as he and I pulled back to the rest of the defensive perimeter. I set in my men to take up the frontal security, as 3rd squad took the right flank, 1st squad to the left. Major Krol and the JTAC were bickering with each other; “How far out are the birds”. “They’re entering airspace now…” Joakim said, already scanning his smart book.
I asked “What’ve we got?”. He then flipped through… to the NATO combined arms segment, quippily saying; “Apaches…”. This caused me to pause as Echo-3 turned their head whilst directing their squad’s fire “The hell… where did we get apaches from?”. “The Americans… they volunteered” Krol said dismissively as he took aim at the darkness, firing off a controlled trio. “Volunteered? They’re aware of what’s going on?” I asked.
Krol seemed to stop, glancing back at me before returning his focus “There’s a lot more going on than you realize, Blachowicz… Prep the breach, you and 1st are going on”.
I quickly pulled my breacher off the line, securing some thermite as the reinforced bunker door wasn’t going to go as easily as a conventional door breach would. 1st Squad pulled back, stacking up and preparing themselves to be the first in. All the while… Joakim gave his firing solution; “Alpha Hotel Two Five Nine, This is Bravo-4…… Type 2….”.
I snapped to my right, watching as a Strigoi managed to dark across the clear gravel field, only to be cut down by my gunner, the peq’s laser marking the burst as it tore through the beasts’ hips, as it hit the ground and still continued to claw, another GROM operator took aim and fired into it’s skull. Joakim popped up to his feet…. “Marking laser, high power…”. He then pulled out a target marking laser… if you’ve watched night operations, you’ve probably seen them.
The green laser than as it says on the label, marks targets. The pattern of which can vary… if it’s a point target, it’ll usually lasso an area, or remain on target until the target is removed with extreme prejudice. If its close air support, then it’ll be a line of the general area… and Joakim damn near marked the entire perimeter around us. He quickly pocketed the tool, turning back to Krol; “Don’t go past 20 meters unless you want to be liquidated”.
With that… 2nd and 1st stacked up at the door as 3rd squad took up the perimeter security. As Major Krol went over to Echo-1… I saw them. A single blinking IR strobe from the beasts as they moved on the far off horizon, converging from several angles… and fired. The sound of the Apache’s main gun, the M230, truly sounds like the hammer of god… the 30mm cannon shot through the dark sky, lighting it up as we saw three incoming streams tear up the woods. Only then as the sound broke did we start to hear their rotors as they broke and began to circle, firing again… then… Joakim dipped his head and looked to Krol; [“Foxtrot Mike, hang onto your teeth…”]. One of the Apaches fired off a AGM-114… a Hellfire. I barely saw it out of the corner of my eye as the Apache from our right flank fired off at a target approximately 200 meters off. A fireball lit up the forest as the horrendous roar echoed throughout… then went silent.
Echo-3 scanned the horizon carefully;
[“Echo-3 to Echo-Lead, enemy contact is starting to die down”].
[“Maintain perimeter, Close Air is to maintain fire mission until we are boots up, Break…”].
[“Echo-Lead to Echo-1, condition white has been met. Proceeds”]. I saw Echo-1 and his men quickly stack up close to the wall and gesture to me; Breaching. I quickly pulled my stack back against the wall as his and mine breacher quickly hit their actuators. Now under normal circumstances, it doesn’t take much for thermite to melt the locks off of a metal surface, in fact it’s a more precise took as alternative means get real medieval like saws, pry bars… we weren’t in the mood for precision, we need to breach their little lair, and drag them out. The sound of several pounds of hellfire burning through the metal could be heard around the corner as a sea of white and red sparks flew out… after several seconds, two of our men tossed a fragmentation grenade and a nine-bang through the opening… a series of concussive blasts and a large explosion rang out.
Echo-1 and his men maneuvered. 1st Squad quickly converged as we followed them in.
Stepping through the black wall of smoke, the dark abyss of the interior was illuminated in a white light as entered barrels raised. Shots rang out as several of the beasts near the entrance were cut down, though not immediately, rounds disconnected the shoulder of one of them, leading to their arm hanging limply by a single tendon as they roared… another series of rounds putting them down. What greeted us was a messy concrete hell of rust and debris, fecal matter, trash, and all kinds of obstacles laid in our way, our boots sticking to the floor. I thank every god we had promasks that night. I called my shield bearer up, 2nd squad leapfrogging ahead to take the next corridor as 1st squad checked their weapons.
One of my men mule kicked the metal door ahead, twice, finally the latch gave away as we tossed in a grenade. A horrifying roar was cut off as an M67 shook the walls of the ancient soviet mausoleum, frag and spall kicked off the walls as I moved in right behind my shield man. The cramped russian design meant there was barely enough space for three people, and that’s three normal people, not in 50kgs of kit, moving slowly and maneuvering against creatures of the dark. Still… we moved forward, my shield bearer and I pushing the pace as two stacked of either squad formed on either wall.
As we passed doorways they flowed in… “Door Left!!”, “Door Right!!”. “Move!!”.
Two men entered each side, no gunshots, we moved up, a roar came.
“Door left!!-”. A series of gunshots came out as we continued to push forward.
“Two down!!”. “Confirm them” Krol commanded, as a series of gunshots run out in response. From one of the doorways, a Strigoi emerged… a female… clumps of hair had been ripped from her decaying skull, as her blooded eyes locked on myself and my shieldman. The skin on her hands had been tore down to the point where barely her bones and tendons remain… looking like huge talons as she roared and lunged at us. He fired off his pistol, though the rounds did little to stop her as she pushed against our stack.
“Fuck!!” he muttered, somehow her strength caused him to stagnate, holding up the advance… fuck that. I shoved the muzzle of my MK18 into her ribcage, flipping the weapon to auto as I fired of round after round. The 5.56 salvo disconnecting her spinal column, causing her to fall as I continued to fire, along with a man to our right and left as the stacks reformed as we pushed to the end of the hall. I fell back, dropping the magazine and loading a fresh one, like clockwork a GROM Operator from 1st squad took my place. Krol was beside me as we approached the end of the hall.
[“-Prep an entry”] I radioed to my breacher, a comrade handed him one of the charges from his back panel as he took to the door, quickly securing it. We all moved as far back as we could, look away, exhale. The blast knocked metal and wood in all directions, scrapping against our uniforms and kit as we made our way in and what laid before us was… it used to be the center atrium of one of these bunkers. Soviet’s loved their grandiose designs, the complex was supposed to be a circular room around a central planning table… instead. It had been turned into some sort of church. Runes and old eastern Romuva pagan symbols written in black ink and blood across the walls, old rotten filing cabinets, long receipt terminals. In the center… several of the Strigoi were kneeling before the table where someone had been tied down, flayed, and… shared amongst the group. They rose to their feet, we aimed our barrels…
The ladder amongst turned to us… his skin wasn’t cracked, or flayed, it was smooth… it still looked dead as the body on the table but it seemed more… accustomed to it. I don’t know… evolved? Under the surface however I could see it’s darkened veins pumping whatever cursed blood ran through them as it locked two blood red eyes onto each of us. It’s nose had long since been turn off, exposing boney nostrils to the open air as it seemed to smirk. All across it’s body were the same symbols on the walls, in every cell… markings of death, of rebirth, of assimilation… From behind this seemingly Alpha emerges another figure I had never seemed before… dressed in a white cloak with a deer head.
"So they've followed the trail... they're too late" the Deer headed individual spoke, definitely not from here, a dialect similar to an Americans but... aristocratic? Each word was drawn out, assurance as if they had everything mapped down to our actions. They didn’t sound like they were from Poland or the east.
“Doesn’t matter…” the Alpha growled… and then, it lunged at us. Quickly breaking from their ground it slammed into my shield man knocking both him and myself at the ground as it displayed an intense feat of strength. Around us I could see several of the Strigoi leap at our comrades… though to no fruitful endeavor as I could see one GROM operator cut two down, as another got into a hand to hand confrontation… my breacher, crafty as they were, reached back and slammed one of the prybars of his kit into the skull of the beast.
The Alpha however was not content as it threw away the 90lb shield, sending it flying across the room as it grabbed my comrade by the skull. I quickly kicked up at it, firing my MK18 into it’s body as the rounds pierced it’s gray and rune covered flesh. The thing simply seemed to chuckle… that was until Major Krol blasted away at the side of it’s head, the alpha turned… and it’s smirk turned to a scowl when face to face with the major. A knowing pause almost like they had done this dance before…
The creature lunged, locking up with Major Krol as it swung and slammed railing. Krol didn’t back down however as he pushed against the creature, hiptossing it to the ground even as it tore at his armor and gear. But the beast pulled, both of them rolled and the Major was on his back as the thing reached for his neck. I fought to a kneel, firing into the creature messily with my MK18, trying not to hit my commander… then…
Click. A sound sends a chill up the spine of every warfighter during a firefight.
My gun ran dry. I dropped the magazine, looking to load another, but the thing came up and with one of it’s claws, sliced deep into my cheek, through the pro mask. I could feel my own blood go flying through the air as I landed hard on my back plate, spitting out red iron as I quickly tried to adjust my mask. Through my fogged up, blood covered lense… I saw my shield man raise his pistol, firing into the skull of the thing staggering it with a roar. Krol came from behind, drawing his knife he sunk it deep into the neck of it…. I reached for my rifle, forcing a new magazine in and damn near punching the bold release. ““Sir, down!!” I shouted, Krol rolled away, back to his own rifle as I fired. So did my comrade as he continued to fire his pistol… so did the Major as he fired his rifle. All of us chewing through that apex predator of darkness, that beast… the leader that had been preying on our people for so long. Layer by layer, muscle group by bone… eventually… the alpha landed on whatever was left of his back.
The silence of the fight died down as all of us checked our surroundings, GROM Operators putting controlled pairs in the heads and nerve stems of any Strigoi laying around… I flicked my weapon onto safe, letting it hang as I pulled off my mask. I dared not touch the wound on my face… the pain nearly crippling me if it wasn’t sheer will pushing me through, and adrenaline doing all it could to subdue it. The sound of the apaches continuing to lay hate drew us from our moment of contemplation as the Major went back to work; [“Confiscate any info, burn the rest…”]. He turned back to me as I shoved my damaged M50 mask back into it’s bag, chuckling as he looked at the sight; “You need a medevac, Blachowicz?” he quipped.
I shook my head, barely able to speak as I muttered; “Negative sir…”. The two of us scanned the room as my shield bearer went to collect his defense implement turned 90lb projectile, we scanned the center of the room, checking and confirming bodies, until we got to the last one alive. His white gown was soaked in red crimson and black ooze, as his dear head was mangled from bullet fire and impact from falling on it. I swear… the way his blood poured out of it though made me wonder if it was a mask. I gave it no second thoughts as he looked to Krol; “You… you can’t stop this, they’ve already-”.
The Major was in no mood for communication as his rifle snapped up and fired off three rounds to the body, four the head. The violent yet quick salvo ending the cultists life, I looked down at it, then to him as he remarked; “Have your squad drag him out to the front, burn the rest”. I stood alongside him, looking down as the sight of it’s deer head was both captivating and horrifying… the curiosity in me wanting to look closer at it fighting the primal instinct I had to burn the thing to ash. “-Haven’t seen one of those before…” I muttered, thinking the Major had an answer.
He didn’t. Krol saying “Neither have I…” shortly before he walked away, was what truly shook my soul about that entire night. Victory stood firm in our hearts that night as we stood outside of the bunker. The night sky burning with fire and white phosphorus as we watched the ruin burn from the inside from the other side of the lot. In the distance, the Apaches continued to scan and circle the forests, no longer firing…. Which meant they had driven any or turned to glass any enemy combatants within a four miles, probably both, more than likely the latter. Echo-1 patted me on the shoulder as we stood there, soaking it all in, though Krol looked none to pleased. “In the time it took us to take this one down, they’ll be trying to set up three more cells… that being established…” he said, looking to either of us, then to Echo-3. “-Hell of a thing we did tonight, been waiting for this one for a decade, cleanly, maybe more… but no time to rest on our laurels… we’ll have another task for us as soon as we’re boots down back home” he said, to which his eyes followed mine, the body of whatever cultist that was zipped up in a black body bag beside the wheel of one of the MRAPs. The fire from the bunker casting an orange hue over it’s shiny jet black outside, something didn’t sit right with me… “That wasn’t a Strigoi…” I said to Krol.
“That’s very clear…” the Major said, shoving his mask under his arm and lighting a cigarette. “So… someone’s helping them?” I asked. The meer notion of it shook me to my core, sickened me. This parasite was already badly infecting Europa, Polska… if it was spread like this throughout the world. Krol settled my nerves: “We’ll be ready… It’s not just us anymore”. As he said that, I realized what he meant… my eyes looking to the Apaches as they started to form up, leaving the areas as their thunderous propellers melted into the night’s calm, unnerving ambience.
It’s been a couple of weeks since then, Echo Detachment has been busy. We’ve gained good ground against the enemy and honestly I think in a few years, we might see a much larger change. For now… we must keep going, that being said the Strigoi aren’t the only ones we’ve been combating. Recently we’ve made contact with of some sort of extermination coalition, they’ve known about the Strigoi, and others plaguing the world, the level of corruption and corrosion on society goes deep. Regardless a lot of the units we’ve been working with are apart of NATO, such as this “4th Special Forces Group” of the American Military. I don’t know where the road from here leads, but we’ve gotten momentum on our side, finally. Just remember… these things are out there, in every town, every city, every nation… preying and waiting for you to be alone, vulnerable, so they can take you and replace you.
Watch your back, and stay safe.
For now, Blachowicz signing out. Until next time

I'll try to keep this simple. I have lupus, pseudo tumor cerebri, lupus nephritis, Hypothyroidism, chronic pain, nerve damage, POTS and some other minor issues but the list is already to long.
I have started to have a very strong smell of something that's not there. It smells like stale cigarettes. I don't smoke and neither does husband. Also some times if I'll smell like I was at a bon fire. The smell will get so intense it make me nauseated.
I made an appointment to see my PCP for next week. The soonest I could get in.
So is this something I should take action now or I'm okay to wait for my appointment. I'm asking because my husband is really worried.
Female Age: 37 Weight 260lbs Hight 5'2"
Current meds: Atenolol 25 mg Levothyroxine 100mg Amitriptyline 75mg Gabapentin 400mg Pre-natal vitamins ***** Zubsolv 0.7 mg
Let me know if you have any questions. This started a could months ago and has gotten extremely worse.

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The garage door shut with a groan behind us, closing us in the gloom of the single bulb hanging over the car.
Mother took a drag off her cigarette and sighed as she exhaled, the smoke filled the cabin of the Ford and stung my eyes.
“You really disappointed me today, Julianne," she tapped her cigarette in the ashtray below the dash, "you embarrassed me in front of the other mothers at the Ice Cream Social, shoveling down seconds and thirds like a pig. I thought I raised you better than that.”
She took another drag, daintily holding the cigarette between her perfectly manicured fingers.
“I'm going to have to tell your brother about this," she continued, “he'll have to come up with a punishment fit for a pig."
I felt my stomach drop. My kid brother, Thomas, was only six, but could be exceptionally cruel. Mother seemed to encourage him and was deferring to him more and more frequently for how the house was run, especially concerning my upbringing.
"Mother, please, I'm sorry, I didn't mean to embarrass you. I'm sorry I was a pig and ate so much ice cream. I promise I won't do it again, I'll never eat any ice cream again," I was pleading with stone, unyielding.
“Hush your mouth. Go to your room and wait for Thomas," she put out the cigarette and got out of the car, I had no choice but to follow.
It felt like walking to the gallows as I stepped inside the house and headed towards the stairs to go to my room. Thomas had grown fond recently of physical punishment, he obviously delighted in Mother whipping me with a belt or, recently, Mother had allowed him to start beating me with a wooden spoon. He would squeal and giggle like a normal child watching bubbles in the wind while I screamed. I was dreading whatever was going to happen tonight, I chastised myself for eating that ice cream, I should have known she would show up. My sins were always laid bare.
Down the hall, I could hear Thomas watching television in the den. I only got to watch TV for half an hour on Saturday morning and new episodes of Happy Days with Mother and Thomas. Thomas got to watch all the TV he wanted. He could listen to the radio and turntable as much as he wanted, as loud as he wanted. Thomas had an entire room just for his toys.
I entered my bedroom, it was a space I occupied, but it didn't feel like mine. Mother kept it spartan, white walls and white bedspread. A crucifix over the bed and a painting of Jesus over the door. I had my desk and chair and a dresser with some of the porcelain dolls Daddy gave me before he died that Mother let me keep. That was it.
I placed my book bag down and sat on my bed, waiting for Thomas. It was a while, sitting there with nothing but my own thoughts and staring at the open door. I felt humiliated, I was almost thirteen and my entire life was dictated by my brother. Mother kept the house in constant lockdown to keep Thomas a secret. No outsiders were allowed in. I couldn't have friends because she was afraid I would mention him or sneak a friend in to gawk at my brother and tease him for being different.
I would never make fun of him, I was terrified of him. Terrified of what he was and what he was becoming.
Eventually I heard his heavy footsteps coming up the stairs and I felt my heart start beating faster and my palms began to sweat. I kneaded my skirt in my hands, trying to calm myself and dry my palms. His slow arrhythmic footsteps came down the hall and I watched him as he entered the room.
I couldn't help but internally recoil at his appearance, even though I'd known him since he was born, I could never adjust to how unnatural he appeared. Thomas had been born at home and had never seen a doctor, but he was obviously unwell.
He was six years old and was barely over two feet tall, but very squat and wide. His skin was thick and gray, the whites of his beady eyes were yellow and his hair was wispy and white like an old man's, spreading out like a halo around his gargoyle face. A slight odor of decomposition hung about him, it reminded me faintly of garbage cans on a hot summer day. I hated when Mother made me help him with a bath, his skin felt like old brittle leather that flaked onto my clothes in gray flecks. His body was dense like concrete, I could barely lift him into the tub. Picking him up forced his hair into my face where that smell of rot would fill my nose, causing me to gag, silently, so as not to offend him and draw any ire from him or Mother.
Today, Thomas was wearing bib overalls with a red and green striped sweater underneath, reminding me of a grotesque doll.
“Mama says you acted like a piggy today at the ice cream social,” he spoke up to me in his unsettlingly high pitched, yet raspy voice, like a child that smoked as much as Mother, "you need to come down for dinner right now for your punishment for embarrassing Mama."
He turned and walked back down the stairs and I had no choice but to follow his toddling form downstairs to the dining table. We entered the kitchen and the table was placed with two settings. Mother was already seated and Thomas clambered up into his booster seat at his normal spot next to Mother. She took a drag off her cigarette and motioned vaguely to the floor without even looking at me.
Neatly situated on the linoleum was my dinner, not on a plate, but directly on the floor. A pork chop, scoop of mashed potatoes, and a small pile of peas. No utensils, either.
Thomas giggled with glee upon seeing my face.
“You have Mama's permission now to eat like a piggy, now. No hands! Piggies just use their face!” He stood up in his chair and reached out for Mother’s ash tray and flung it out over my meal, peppering my dinner with cigarette ash and butts.
"Oops! Piggies don't mind trash though, do they, Mama?” he giggled and the sound filled me with rage.
"No, they don't,” Mother replied coolly while maneuvering her ashtray back in place and carefully putting out her cigarette before saying prayer.
As angry as I was, I got down on my hands and knees and did my best at eating what I could without using my hands. I knew if I refused, it would be far worse. The whole meal, Thomas made pig noises and would reach down and poke me with his fork, making comments about what a fat piggy I was and how he wished he could roast and eat me. I doubted Mother would even object if he actually did kill me and eat me.
Gagging my way through another bite of ashy pork chop, I felt a warm splat over my head and heard Thomas giggling. I reached up and felt he had dumped mashed potatoes into my hair.
Choking down tears, I asked Mother if I could clean the floor and bathe. She rolled her eyes and excused me to clear the table for them as well while she changed Thomas into his pajamas. Picking him up, she walked out of the room and Thomas stuck his putrid little purple tongue out at me before they made it out the kitchen door.
I silently cried while I cleared the table and washed the dinner dishes. Tears splashed down as I mopped up the mess from my food on the floor. I hated how awful Thomas was. I hated how they treated me. Ever since Daddy died and Thomas showed up, I was their punching bag. I missed Daddy so much.
Mother was kinder then, too. She was still severe, but Dad kept her tempered. After he died, there was a change that came over her. I was only six, so I didn't remember her too much from before, but I did remember her gushing on and on when she was pregnant with Thomas. How the baby was a gift from Our Heavenly Father, that it was going to complete our broken family.
My sixth birthday happened right after Daddy died and I remember sitting on the patio crying while the house was full of people after the funeral, normally he would have gotten me a new doll and a chocolate bar, instead I was forgotten. No doll. No chocolate. Just funeral potatoes and a house full of cigarette smoke from the adults.
Nobody remembered. The closest thing I got was my dad's sister, Aunt Judy, sitting next to me on the patio step for a few minutes of comfortable silence before giving my shoulder a reassuring squeeze. I don't think she knew her brother was memorialized on my birthday. Next year, Thomas was born the day before my birthday, so it was completely eclipsed as Mother had just birthed her new love into the world…
I stopped mid mop as a lightbulb finally went off. I had never put much thought into the dates before.
Thomas was born a full year after Daddy died. He couldn't be his dad. Who was Thomas’ actual father?
Washing mashed potatoes out of my hair that evening, I ran over and over the timeline. No matter how I parsed it out, Thomas was only my half brother. Going to bed that night, I kept myself awake, going over and over again to make sure. I couldn't remember any men being around at that time, but that didn't mean much. Adults can easily hide things from children. Tension began throbbing through my head and I felt queasy. Mother had always known all of my secrets, able to sniff them out like a bloodhound out or using Thomas to spy. Now I had one of Mother's secrets and I didn't know what to do with it.
First I wanted to confirm it, but it would mean snooping, which was difficult in a house that was rarely left empty. I would have to try finding Mother's calendar book or journal to see if she mentioned any dates or men.
But when could I attempt such a daring maneuver? Thomas hardly left the house. As proud as Mother was of him, she was very cognizant and protective of his differences and didn't want to draw attention to herself or Thomas like that. Mother herself had few social engagements throughout the week and mostly stayed home to watch her golden child.
I finally decided I would take the risk and fake sick on Tuesday, grocery day, so I could stay home from school while she went shopping. All Thomas did all day was watch TV downstairs, so that should give me about an hour to look through her room for clues. I decided to tuck my head down, try to behave as best as I could to avoid their wrath, and wait for Tuesday.
That weekend limped along agonizingly slow. Thomas was in a fine mood and was constantly seeking out a reason to poke me, punch me, slap me… he'd laugh while calling me a piggy with his off-putting wide mouth. I tried to mostly stay in my room and it seemed like neither of them cared.
School on Monday was a relief, but my anxiety ramped up. The consequences would be dire if Mother caught on that I was faking sick to stay home. I didn't even want to imagine how off the leash she'd let my half-brother become in his punishment for that level of insubordination.
I stayed up all night, my stomach was in knots, but I was committed to my plan. Throughout the night, I screamed as hard as I could into my pillow. Screamed until my throat was raw and I could barely talk. It felt cathartic in a way. When it was close to school time, I put on my heaviest flannel pajamas and began doing jumping jacks until my face was flushed and my scalp was soaked with sweat.
Looking in the bathroom mirror before heading down to talk to Mother, I thought I looked pretty convincing, my skin was flushed and sweaty, my eyes had circles under them from lack of sleep, and my voice croaked like a frog.
Heading downstairs, Mother was already feeding Thomas breakfast. I hesitantly stepped into the kitchen and stood there awkwardly for a second, pawing with my pajamas to keep my nerves steady until she noticed my presence and looked up.
“Why aren't you dressed, Julianne?"
"I don't feel well. My throat hurts and my tummy hurts.” My voice graveled out more than I was expecting, I really had hurt my throat.
She strode over to me and placed a cool hand on my sweaty brow.
"You do feel warm. Take an aspirin from the medicine cabinet and go lay back down. I'll check on you later," with that she turned back and walked over to Thomas, who was frozen in place, glaring at me over a forkful of scrambled eggs. The sharp glint of malice in his beady eyes made me shiver before I shuffled out of the kitchen.
I laid in bed, trying my best to look miserable until I eventually heard the faint sound of the television playing in the den as Thomas settled in for his normal daytime routine and the garage door opened as Mother headed to the grocery store. I bounded out of bed and watched the car back out of our driveway and head up the street.
My heart began to pound as I tiptoed down the hall to Mother's bedroom, a place I rarely even caught a glimpse of, let alone entered. I very slowly opened the door, taking great care to not make any noise to alert Thomas downstairs that I was out of bed.
Creeping into the butter yellow room, I could feel my heartbeat pounding in my skull, this was the naughtiest thing I had ever done by far. I stepped onto the rug to help disguise my footsteps and slowly made my way past the brass bed and towards her desk. My hands shook as I opened the top drawer, I pawed through rapidly and found nothing. I checked the next drawer down and again found nothing of interest, just stationary and envelopes.
Finally, the bottom drawer was what I was looking for, a stack of journals from the past decade. I flipped through, trying to find entries relevant to when Daddy died and who Mother slept with afterwards.
I've never fully recovered from what I read.
July 6, 1968
Edgar died today. Car accident. I cannot believe this is real. My light, my life, my anchor... Dr. Benson gave me a sedative at the hospital and I feel so tired. So very, very tired. Why has my Lord forsaken me so?
July 9, 1968
I feel like I am in a very bad dream, I feel numb and disconnected. All the consolation and pity from everyone makes me feel sick. After the memorial, it took everything in me to not break dishes and to scream at everyone to get out of my house. Julianne was moping about crying and I wanted to throw her out, too.
If I hadn't seen my dear Edgar's body in the hospital and held his urn in my own hands, I wouldn't believe he was really gone. I still don't entirely believe it.
I have prayed to God every night asking him to show me why he took my husband from me and I have gotten no answer.
I skimmed over the next few months, as it was more or less similar sentiments repeated night after night. I finally got to an entry that caught my eye.
September 17, 1968
My battle with my faith has been fraught the past few months, but Hallelujah! I feel I can see the Lord again in all his glory and might, for he has given me a way to reconnect to my Edgar!
I was thinking about the night Julianne was born, right in this very home, it was a difficult birth and she struggled to breathe at first. Ingrid, my midwife, made a comment to me that if the baby had failed to wake up on her own, that Ingrid had ways to make sure she would have made it.
I remember asking if it was a medical methodology and she made it clear to me that in certain circumstances, it was a mystical property she used to bring the air of life into a struggling baby's lungs. She gently alluded to being a practicing member of the dark arts. At the time, I felt quite scandalized to have someone like that in my God fearing home. Now I see her as the answer to my prayers! My angel!
On a whim, I called her and asked if she still practiced such techniques. She hesitantly confirmed that she did. I asked, if she could turn breath into the lungs of a child without, could she turn breath into a child that did not exist? Could she magick into existence another child of my beloved Edgar? She told me she had to do some research and she'd be back in touch.
Ingrid just called back after a few hours and said there was a spell she found, but it was dangerous and might have unpleasant results. I said, yes, of course! I trust my Lord and I believe he sent this woman of blessed magick to me for this purpose.
She says we will have to do it soon, in a few days during the new moon. She has a potion to brew, but it is happening! Praise God!
September 23, 1968
The ceremony was last night, and Ingrid believes it was a success, but we will have to wait. It did not take long, only an hour or two. Ingrid lit my bedroom with many beeswax candles and she had me drink a thick and bitter tea that caused me to become quite relaxed and foggy.
From my inner thigh, she cut me and collected my blood in a chalice, with which she mixed quite a lot of Edgar's ashes and other ingredients which I could not glean from my supine position and groggy wits. Ingrid began to chant, calling upon a higher power, as I pleaded with my Lord to let this work. To give me any piece of my Edgar back. She came to the bed and worked the paste between my legs into my womanly chamber, which was very uncomfortable, but manageable with the numbing effects of the tea.
She continued to sit with me and chant, her hand placed over my womb, until she decided at which time it was complete. She left and I fell into a deep sleep. When I woke up this morning, I felt quite uncomfortable, my body ached and when I used the restroom, a yellow fluid like pus poured out of me, but no sign of any ashes or blood, which gives me hope it was absorbed into my womb.
November 3, 1968
Praise be to our Lord, Ingrid just confirmed for me that I am with child, I had been hoping so, I had not gotten my cycle in October, but I wasn't sure if that was because of the discharge like pus that was still coming. She told me that was common with this spell and a side effect that would stop after the baby came.
I feel like I am floating on air, for the first time since Edgar left, I feel-
I suddenly became very aware of the feeling of eyes on the back of my head. I had become too engrossed in what was written before me and I had lost track of my surroundings. Very slowly, I turned around and my heart began pounding again as I saw Thomas standing in the doorway holding his wooden spoon in one hand. How had I not heard him?
He pointed at me with his empty hand and screamed, just a pure guttural screech from somewhere deep inside his disgusting little body. He charged at me from across the room, his horrible feet thumping solidly along the rug. He began beating my legs ruthlessly with the spoon, causing my legs to buckle. I crashed down to my knees in front of him, and he began lashing at my face, pulling my hair with one hand while wailing away at my head with the spoon.
I had dropped the journal I was holding and was desperately trying to get a hand on the spoon or push him away. All I could hear was him screaming. My arms flailed and I reached around on Mother's desk and grabbed onto the first thing I found and sank it into Thomas’ neck.
The end of Mother's gold letter opener protruded under his jaw. He went silent and he looked at me with utter shock. He dropped the spoon and collapsed on the ground, clutching at his neck as his thick black blood oozed out from his wound, letting out a stupendous odor of rot that filled the room. He didn't really say anything or make any noise. He just twitched for a moment and I saw his eyes glaze over.
In shock, I stood over his little body for a moment and I watched as he seemed to mummify in just a few minutes, like an ash person from Pompeii dressed in jeans and a flannel shirt. Even his blood that looked like shiny oil a second ago became like potting soil on Mother's rug. Reaching out to touch his hand, it crumbled away like sand.
Panic ran through me like a rabbit caught in a snare. Not knowing what to do, I ran. I ran down the hall, changed my clothes, put an extra change of clothes in my backpack and the last doll Daddy had ever given me and I ran. Mother would absolutely never forgive me and I was genuinely afraid she would kill me in retaliation for taking her beloved Thomas away from her. Her precious gift from God. My feet flew over the pavement and took me away from that house.
I called my Aunt Judy from a payphone outside the five & dime, and told her Mother had kicked me out and asked if I could stay with her. She had always had a strained relationship with my mother and it didn't take much convincing that she had kicked out her “only” child. Only Mother, Ingrid, and I ever knew about Thomas.
She gave me a home and took care of me. She never beat me or humiliated me. Even with her love, I was far from okay. For years I would close my eyes and hear Thomas scream, then the sudden silence. I'd see him fumbling at his neck and turning to ash. But I would also remember all the ways he would hurt me and how bad he was becoming. I could never talk to anyone about it, especially not the silent relief I felt I refused to admit to myself. Over time, however, Thomas' screams became a whisper and his silence faded into dust in my mind.
I moved on with my life. I went to college and became a photojournalist, getting to travel the world and watch history unfold. By choice, I never married, but was quite blessed with many beautiful friendships for companionship over the decades. I found balance in my life and a sense of happiness, if not peace. I never could quite stomach mashed potatoes again, though, they always taste ashy to me.
Mother never made any attempts to reach out to me or find me, at least that I'm aware of. Ten years ago, I was contacted by a hospital and they said my mother had been admitted earlier after falling and was about to pass, so she must have kept some tabs on me to know my phone number for her emergency contacts. Apparently she had collapsed in the driveway and a neighbor called an ambulance. I got there and her only words to me were, “take care of him," as she placed a locket in my hand. I opened the locket, Jesus was on one side, Thomas on the other. I didn't say anything to her, just held her frail old hand with nicotine stained nails until she passed in the night. My mother was gone and I felt nothing except a vague sense of relief.
When I got to her house, it was like a time capsule. Other than a newer television, it was just like it was when I'd fled so many years ago. The smell of tobacco smoke hung like incense in the air. It felt oppressive, like a tomb.
I wandered the house in a bit of a daze. The one place I didn't want to go was upstairs. I didn't want to see my old room, or Thomas' room, or Mother's. Putting it off, I went to fix myself some supper, realizing I hadn't eaten in almost a day. I took a pause when I opened the fridge and saw a baby bottle on a shelf. Silently praying she had been babysitting for a neighbor, I fixed myself some toast with sardines and sat eating in the den watching TV. It had been almost forty years and it still felt rebellious not eating at the table and watching TV without permission.
My eyes grew heavy and I finally mustered up the gumption to head upstairs to go to bed. The stairs creaked in a familiar way under my feet and I was taken back to the feeling of dread hearing either Mother or Thomas climbing up. My old room was at the top of the stairs, I saw the door was nailed shut and had rambling quotes about Judas copied from the Bible in my mother's handwriting taped to the door. I sighed gently and turned from the door to head down the hallway, deciding Mother's room was probably the best place to sleep.
I passed by Thomas’ toy room and I heard a murmur from the room. I stopped, curiosity got the best of me and I entered. In Thomas' old toy room was a crib with joyful clown sheets. Dread swelled up inside me as I heard more murmurs and saw the sheets move. Approaching slowly, I peaked under the sheet and gasped.
Tucked inside was what looked like a baby gargoyle, gray and papery looking. Pus leaked out of its milky, bulbous eyes. I pulled back the blanket and saw it had no legs and its arms bent back, like wings on a bird. It was wearing just a cloth diaper, overflowing with tarry looking stool that took my breath away with its pungency, it smelled like Thomas’ blood, but somehow worse. My heart broke for this poor creature, Lord only knows how many years it has been in this crib suffering from its unholy existence.
So this is who Mother had wanted me to take care of…
Not knowing what else to do, I gently scooped him up. Like Thomas, he was shockingly heavy for how small his body was. Placing him on the changing table, I cleaned him and rewrapped his bottom in a clean diaper cloth. It was difficult, he fussed tremendously, crying and flopping around as much as his flipper-like arms would allow. I tried wiping off his oozing eyes and he snapped his mouth, which I saw was full of disturbingly square yellow teeth, trying to bite me. I carried him to the kitchen and rocked him while I heated up his bottle and he became furious with me, almost barking like a dog when my hand would get near his face.
He settled a bit as he fed, but he would still sometimes suddenly spit out the bottle and attempt to bite me. I laid him back in his crib, this abomination in a clown sheet, and I walked down the hall to Mother's room letting out a long sigh.
Combing through my mother's journals in the early hours of the morning, it looked like she tried the ceremony again shortly after Thomas died, but she either lacked Ingrid’s help or didn't have enough of my father's ashes left. Something went terribly wrong. She was vaguer than she had been about Thomas’ conception, but I suspect she had used some of Thomas' remains. The resulting birth she named Isaac.
Mother's journals told a sad tale of her and Isaac's suffering. She never mentioned me, but lamented the loss of Thomas and Dad relentlessly. She was hyper protective of Isaac, as that was all she had left. If her world had been small before, it became microscopic after he entered her life, requiring nearly constant care. According to Mother, he was blind and colicky, sometimes going years at a time without sleeping through the night. She had breast fed him for years, but she had to stop after he grew teeth and began biting her intentionally and feeding on her blood.
I spent a lot of time over the next few days pondering what to do. I had to get her estate in order, she had left me the house, in an obvious attempt to get me to continue caretaking for Isaac, but I didn't want it. I had my own cozy home an hour away from here, filled with happy memories and my possessions acquired traveling the world. Mother's home had a heavy energy I couldn't shake. Her and Thomas were both gone, but the memories of the scoldings and beatings hung in every corner, like cobwebs that would never sweep away.
So, I fed Isaac and kept him clean and tried to keep him company, although he seemed to hate me passionately. I took care of him, all the while thinking about what I was going to do. After a week, I felt resolute in what had to be done.
Gathering up all of Mother's journals in a tote, I made my way to Isaac and picked him up and carried everything to the living room.
The ancient logs in the fireplace meant for display ignited instantly. One by one, I fed the journals into the fire, burning away years of my mother's consuming sorrow. Isaac fussed and moaned next to me the entire time. When the last pages shimmered away into lacy ash, I took a throw pillow off the couch and gently cradled Isaac in my other arm. It didn't take long before he stopped struggling and I felt his little body relax after decades of suffering.
I gently wrapped up a bundle in a clown sheet and placed it in the fire. It burned furiously, like the paper in my mother's journals, and was soon gone. Nothing but ashes and embers.
“Don't worry, Mother,” I said purely for my own sake, "I took care of Isaac for you."
And finally, I felt at peace.

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

made this for my narrative essay in american literature, but one of my friends said i should share the story
“But I Still Need You” Throughout my life, I had always fallen easy for girls. The elementary mindset of, “she’s cute, so I have a crush on her,” prevented me from developing a legitimate relationship with any girl I tried to talk to. The few times that my feelings were reciprocated, I had no idea because I was already on to the next girl, and this continued until I was left with a multitude of friend-zone situations and a list of “crushes.” My charisma already lacking, it seemed each year that passed, previous to 3rd grade, I grew in weight and therefore awkwardness. The struggle to interact with women lessened as I grew up, while the fat remained. So, by the 8th grade I was the ideal guy friend; easy to talk to, kinda funny, understanding, and unintimidating. My approachable “funny fat friend” nature had its ups and downs. While guys, for reasons I still don’t fully understand, suspected me to be gay, girls found it intriguing and it made them want to be friends with me more. Back then I didn’t know, but now I know that by being forced to be friends first, after finding out I was in fact not gay, the right woman for me would want to be with me for my personality. In the winter of 2021, I fell hard for a girl named Madeline. Maddie was no different than many of the other girls in that she had a bland personality and I thought she was cute. She had brunette hair with bangs, big glasses, way too much makeup on, and a unique fashion sense. Her sense of fashion was one of the few interesting things about her, yet it was disregarded by the public. Not too many guys found her appealing, but I did, for whatever reason. I was dead set on getting to know her better in hope of becoming more than friends. Unfortunately, she hardly paid attention to me, but I didn’t give up. I merely slowed down because of my interest in her friend, Isabella. Isabella is the Spanish and Italian variation of Elizabeth (derived from the Hebrew name Elisheba). The meaning of Elishiba can be translated to, “God is my oath.” In Arabic, the beginning of Isabella, “Isa,” is the classical Arabic name for Jesus, while in the French language, the shortened version of Isabella, “Belle,” translates to “beautiful.” I had met Isabella in the sixth grade, and grew a tiny crush on her, in the elementary sense, before we all went into hibernation (COVID). I barely knew her though, and she had no idea who I was, so when we interacted in my last two classes, if we did at all, it was like two strangers who kept running into each other. I sat by her in my sixth period, and one seat up and to the right from her in seventh. We only ever made small talk and the occasional joke, but when I spoke with her I felt content. Still barely knowing her, all I could admire was the little things in the way she laughed and spoke. I longed to know more about Isabella, she was mature, intelligent, and very opinionated, but still light-hearted and made time pass at the speed of light. It wasn’t until she was in my group in sixth period one day that she began to open up a little by sharing the details of her current long-distance relationship. The shards of my heart stabbed and crushed my stomach; hope, the oxygen to my mind, depleted faster than the air of a broken space shuttle; palpitation, nausea, asphyxia, and neurosis bombarded me like Persian arrows on the Greeks. Then, all at once, the excruciating tidal wave evaporated, but instead of calm waters, I was left with a drought. Every emotion muted or gone, my body went numb while everything I cared for vanished from my mind. I didn’t speak throughout the rest of that day, and went directly from the bus to decaying in my bed. I was devastated, so I retreated to my pointless crush on Maddie. Unrelated to the rather sad lovelife, my anxiety and depression worsened throughout 8th grade, and while I was going to therapy, most of my issues wouldn’t and still haven’t been worked through. Throughout the school year I had developed a toxic system of self pity, in which I would spend hours a day cycling through the feelings of hope, anger, and despair- never that of joy. I knew what I was doing, gathering enough hope to face the school day just before I reflected on the doubts and grievances going on throughout my life. I’d bring myself up just for a greater fall because honestly, overtime I became numb to the natural pain. If I were going to fall into the pit that is depression, the higher I peaked in terms of optimism the more excruciating the freefall of nausea and the heavy flow of salt water. At that point in my life, I saw no point in getting out of bed to do anything, school or even my own mother’s birthday. By the end of eighth grade I had spent almost a total of six weeks absent, two of which were from me being quarantined. Typically over the span of one or two days, others up to four, I would be in my bed “sick.” During these mini-vacations I would sleep all morning, if my mom let me, and stay up all night, oftentimes listening to Radiohead or Cigarettes After Sex while staring at my ceiling. I wanted to stay up, I wanted to feel the bags grabbing and pulling towards my cheekbone, I wanted to feel empty, emotionally and physically. During the day, my anxiety attacks became panic attacks and I would get sent home for vomiting. I'd throw up to give Mom a reason to let me stay home. I’d throw up to feel something, anything. I’d throw up to keep my stomach empty. I’d throw up because I had to, because the nerves and overthinking forced me to. Every morning, I’d drag my black air force ones across cement, carpet, tiles, and marble, each step leading towards Mrs. Clements’ homeroom. For every step, a different worry or insecurity flashed through my brain. But then, out of the blue, I’m “Lincoln” again. I walk into homeroom with an ear-to-ear grin and dap up “the boys”. I’d spend the morning building up hopes of making Isabella laugh today, or maybe calling her once I got home, but I knew that nine times out of ten my hopes were delusional. To “Lincoln,” this was no problem, he would make a gay joke, join the boys with teasing a cute girl in my class, and laugh until just for a moment, the despair was gone. Finally, the sixth period would come and I’d get to see Isabella. In here I got the least work done out of all my classes as I would find myself strategically planning my next interaction with her, just for said plans to go out the window when I was brought face to face with her. Typically seventh period followed the same pattern except Ms. Shirley Davis could never allow small talk in her classroom. When the last bell rang, I went straight to the buses. I’d sleep on the way home, dreaming of a call that would hardly happen. On the off chance my phone didn’t reach its feared 11th cry, we’d talk for hours at a time. On a weekday or not, it seemed that, when we did call, it was guaranteed to go into the early morning. It’s hard to put my finger on a specific topic, or even general. In our conversations, we discussed anything and everything. Everything, except her own love interest. I admired this, as my inability to keep who I’m thinking about at the time a secret is a major flaw of mine. The more that me and her spoke, the more I grew to love her. Our talks were so honest, so raw, that the secret I held began to eat away at me. My core collapsing like a dying star, each day it felt like the pain got worse. To cope with the feelings I had buried deep inside me, I’d turn to my friends. At first, they said to come forward with my feelings, but I knew that’s what any friend would’ve said. The relief I got from venting the conflicting hurricane within me was brief. Overtime, their words of encouragement turned to annoyance, and understandably so. When people grew sick of the same old sadistic untold love, I turned to Isabella. I wrote a text so full that, to read it, one needed to tap on an arrow at the bottom right corner of my message. The essay was compiled with the confliction I had, developing feelings for a friend, and the sorrow that filled me each day that passed without her. I described the perfect imperfections that I admired about her, how life was complete when I spoke to her, the beauty that paralyzed me every time I saw her in person, and the character that I felt God had curated specifically for me. Sitting there unsure if I should press send, a fear grew within my chest that Isabella would see right through me. I could hear the music that so often triggered tears; the vocals of Thom Yorke or the beats of Kanye West, they faded in and out. What if she didn’t even respond? What if she thought I was a creep? What if- then she responded. Suddenly, the ominous 808s & Heartbreak pounding vanished, my respiratory chaos became paralyzed, and time stood still. I couldn’t breathe until I finished reading, and once I did, my sigh was all but relieving. Isabella explained to me how unhealthy my habits were; even in comparison to the anguish that would follow, I’d suffer far more and far longer should I suppress my emotions. She told me how that level of affection, in the context of the warped concept of romance most men had, was something she had only dreamt of. Isabella said that holding these feelings would eat away at me, exponentially increasing in severity, until I broke. Not only would I be hurting myself, but I would be depriving the person I care about most from the appreciation they deserve. I became bloated with fear of the friendzone, those insecurities, all based upon inference, became a reality with Isabella’s last piece of advice. She said, “If she doesn’t reciprocate those emotions, then don’t worry. I’m sure there’s a girl out there who can appreciate your compassion.” The blame had no other place to go than my shoulders, after all, I got what I asked for, advice on another girl. Isabella, even if she saw the crush I had on her, is far too kind to address it. She cared for everyone, and to her, she was merely boosting up a friend who’s down. For the rest of the night her text echoed through my mind; pain, regret, and admiration caused my mind to sporadically leap from conclusion to conclusion. Two years later, those words still haunt me, reiterations of that phrase torturing me when I least expect them. The school year progressed, but my aspirations with Isabella didn’t. Over time, the frequency of my writings grew to be weekly, at times reaching two a week, and the weight of my confessions depleted. I opened my audience to a mutual friend of Isabella’s, Miley, with the intention of acquiring useful advice. Eventually, my choice to try concealing what I felt for Isabella became too heavy of a burden, weighing down on me in forces I had not endured before. Soon, the love I had for Isabella turned to hatred for myself. I was relentlessly criticizing every aspect of myself and my mind. I hated how fat I was, my smile, my voice, my laugh, and most of all my personality. What I had thought was my greatest strength, was revealed as my worst trait. The gullibility I exhibited when thinking for a second Isabella could possibly like me; the lack of confidence that caused me to chicken out of confessing my feelings to her; my insufferable need to make people laugh; the hyperfixation I would develop for those that I love. Everything about me was wrong. I stopped eating, stopped sleeping, stopped caring, and eventually I stopped living. The “Lincoln” my friends had grown to recognize, the only remnant of the joy I felt when I was younger, died, and I was left with only my love for Isabella and resentment for myself. I began testing the limits of what was left of me, praying for relief. At first in the middle of the night, an anaconda would find its way to my throat, wrapping around my neck. Its cold black scales gracefully gliding across my skin before silencing my cries with the swift tug of its metallic USB head. The snake would maintain pressure until I let go of it, the entire time whispering into my ear, begging me to hold on. Some nights it came with what must have been a full stomach for it was drastically wider, it was brown these nights, with leather skin, and a slight warmth, but it behaved the same. Most visits from the snake ended with my vision blurry, my breath short, or my head dizzy. The only consistency of our transactions was Asia’s Death Lake that streamed down my face from start to finish. Eventually, the snake seemed closer and closer to silencing me forever, but I also became used to its visits. I began writing letters to everyone I loved so that, should the snake come out victorious, they’d have a final goodbye. Once I had sorted out my notes, I called the snake to my room. This time it came striped with shades of blue, its skin a soft fabric. For once, I controlled the snake, because our intentions finally aligned. I locked the door, sent out my texts, placed the written notes on my dresser, and joined the snake at my closet door. Holding onto the doorknob, the snake wrapped itself around my neck just as it had done in nights of the past. It whispered to me, “let go,” for I had been on my knees in hesitation. I followed the snake’s order by making a sort of plank with my body, the bottom half resting on a stack of dirty laundry and pillows while the top was supported by my elbows. Pressure swiftly fell down on my neck and didn’t stop. “This is it,” I thought to myself. My eyes seemed to pop out of my skull, and my tears, falling down like summer rain, became blurry dots as my vision went dark. Next thing I know, I’m waking up, snot, saliva, and tears strung between my face and the carpet floor. My head pounding and my eyes burning, I looked up at the “snake” that was the tie my mom had gotten me for Sunday service. Although my mind was more clear, it was not out of revelation, but from a muted sense of the world around me. Other than Isabella, nothing mattered anymore, and the little emotion I felt was squashed by my immortal love. The following day I get called to the counselors office on charges of suicidal thoughts and self harm. I said what I had to in order to escape her grasp, but left infuriated. Not only had my own friends betrayed me, but the lady who was supposed to guide me essentially scolded me for being sad. Throughout the day my anger faded out and my focus became making an excuse as to why my parents got a weird call from my counselor, then I’d find the traitor who sold me out. That afternoon, I lost two friends, and for the first time ever got mad at Isabella. Apparently, Miley, Maddie, and Isabella all reported me to the counselor that morning. They said I had been traumatizing them with what was going on in my life, being normal and messing around at school, then detailing my thoughts and actions to them outside of school. I felt like I had been tricked. I thought they were my friends. I thought they understood me. They asked me if I was okay, they said they wanted, cared, needed to know, but now I had scared them? I addressed what had happened with Miley first. She immediately lashed out at me, saying I should be thanking them, not be mad. While I didn’t want to accept it, I understood the core of her choices. On the other hand, Maddie’s response to my confrontation was disgustingly cruel. She said I had been unfair and just seeking attention, that no thirteen to fourteen year old should hear about what I was going through because it was unnatural. Before she continued, I apologized, that’s all I could think to do, because deep down I believed her. She told me it wasn’t all my fault because my brain was messed up, and that opening up to the girls would only make them not want to be friends with me. The one word that rang through my head then, and still does today, was “creep,” she claimed that what I felt wasn’t love, but I was just mentally unstable and creepy. Any remnants of the sweet kid from elementary school who just wanted a friend and loved everyone were obliterated. Maddie was right, all I had done was hurt and scare them, it didn’t matter what I thought. I told her all I could, that I didn’t know what to say other than I was sorry for the damage I had done, and I would try and get better. Her response, like a branding iron on my mind, was, “It’s not damage, it’s baggage. Imagine if the roles were reversed.” It was only then that I stopped texting back. I wish I could say it was out of frustration or self respect, but the reality of my manipulative traits is what silenced me. Shockingly, the response that hurt the most was from Isabella, yet it somehow meant the most to me too. Isabella told me that she needed me in the world. She told me that if I ever got those thoughts again, to think about her as well; to think about the pain I’d be causing her; to think about the trauma she’d live with for the rest of her life. After repeating the phrase, “I need you in my life,” she acknowledged how selfish it was, but still didn’t care. Isabella continued elaborating, she didn’t care because no label of selfishness outweighed the value of my life. What she said that night has been vivid in my mind since, but my only wish is that she had needed me as I needed her. Tears began to hide my freckled cheeks as I texted her about how much her words meant to me, how much she meant to me, and I apologized to her. I said sorry for the baggage I caused, the “creepy” behavior, and any other ways I had wronged her. I said sorry for loving her, and told her I’d do better. She disregarded my apologies, telling me that I could always talk to her because no matter the baggage she could carry, it’d be worth taking the smallest bit off of me. Her words meant so much to me, yet hurt me just the same. I hated myself for it. I couldn’t see a life without an affection for her, it was pathetic. If I truly loved her, I’d let my feelings go, right? What kind of person did that make me? Summer came and went. Hoping that time would kill the crush I had on Isabella, I prohibited myself from contacting her. Instead I spent time with my family and a few friends, but Isabella never left my head. Even when accompanying my dad to Berry College for the Governor’s Honors Program, she’s what filled my head. At first I felt frustrated because before I had come forward to her, she had known about the feelings I had. I came to the conclusion that she had been dragging me along, but even then I knew how easily that thought would be abandoned. First day of High school, I got in touch with her. For maybe two weeks, I maintained a platonic relationship before free falling into the ominous pit once again. This time felt different though, it felt like what I had thought about everyday, for what seemed eternity, could be more than a daydream. We texted each other throughout the school day and facetimed after her cheer practice and my band practice. Eventually, Isabella was falling asleep on call. Before, we’d talk long into the night, and it began to drain the energy out of the both of us. Now, we were listening to music, playing Roblox, watching Netflix, or just sitting in silence. I had never felt comfortable with silence, but she made it seem better than having a conversation with anyone else. It’s a beautiful thing when words aren’t required to appreciate someone. The moment I had the courage to do so, I asked her out to Steak n’ Shake. It’s just my luck that the restaurant was hardly a shell of what I remembered as a kid. At first the conversation was awkward because we hardly spoke in person, but as time progressed so did we. I still remember the tightness of my cheeks as I failed to suppress my ear-to-ear grin. The euphoric nausea and beating heart that disappeared throughout our conversation. I remember the booth we sat in, the fact that she wanted me to swap seats with her because of her creaky seat, the way she giggled, how I fought tooth and nail to pay for such a small bill, the way she smiled when she said, “next time you’ve gotta let me pay,” and the shared excitement for our next hangout. Even though Isabella and I were still friends, even though the restaurant was a disaster, even though the fries were stale and the milkshakes chunky, that moment is one of the best in my life. With how well things were going, I thought that it was my best chance at making something more out of this friendship. So, I shot my shot. I told her that despite my efforts the summer before, she still held a special place in my heart. Isabella responded with her own struggles with recovering from a past relationship, detailing the trust issues and pain she still felt almost a year later. I was yet again, devastated. Then she added that despite her own feelings, she had to be careful and the risk of losing our friendship scared her. I understood her reasoning, but it made me sick to think of how close I was. In response, I expressed how I could relate to those feelings, and the conflict I had with them. It felt ridiculous having opened myself up once again, to just be friendzoned. Her response struck me with both hope and devastation, “I f*cking love you a ton Lincoln, but I’m struggling to differentiate my admiration as a friend and as something more. I’m terrified of losing you.” Previously I would have seen this as a sign to keep trying, but at that moment, I couldn’t see past the blatant friendzoning. After pursuing her for so long, it felt cruel of her to continue dragging me along like this, even though she was being honest. My reaction to the straw that broke the camel’s back is one of, if not, the biggest regrets in life. Homecoming was a little over a week away and she was going (as friends) with my buddy, Davis, so in a storm of hatred for myself and the situation I was in, I gave up on her. Our conversations grew to be minimal and far apart. Soon, I started to resent her. Each day since then, I have somehow felt more remorse than the last for not asking her to Homecoming. Homecoming night is when I began flirting with Claire, a sweet redhead from gym class. We connected on not going with the person we had hoped for. All it took was me joking that I should’ve spent more time around her, instead of leaving the dance early, for Claire to lose her mind. Over the next month or so, I was becoming closer and closer with Claire, despite her irritable “quirks”. I only spoke to Isabella if she reached out to me first with the only exception being when I would ask her for “advice” about Claire, which was a shameful habit I started as petty revenge on Isabella. Eventually, Isabella blocked me on Snapchat, but it didn’t matter. Things with me and Claire were going great, she made me feel like I didn’t need to starve myself to be good enough for her. She made me feel like I was enough. For the next two and a half months, life was great. After the first couple months of ignorant bliss, I was sick of her. Sure, there were a variety of reasons to find her annoying, most people I knew could list more than they have fingers and toes, but she didn’t do anything wrong. I shouldn’t have gotten into the relationship in the first place not only because of Isabella, but also the speed at which me and Claire started dating. She was still growing out of the elementary relationship phase, so while it was nice to connect with someone so quickly, it was rushed. Another issue being that I was her first real boyfriend, the baggage that followed me was detrimental to her and I couldn’t give her the attention she needed. As me and Claire began our month long drift apart, I was unblocked by Isabella. She and I caught up, and we quickly began to talk trash about Claire while on call. It was unbelievably toxic, and I’m embarrassed of how I handled things to this day. Eventually, with the support of Isabella, I decided it was time to break up. The only issue was the guilt I had in such a terrible choice, I could never do it. So I began to get more distant by the day, ignored texts and calls, and stopped walking her to classes because “I had to pee.” Eventually she caught wind of my plans and called me after school one day. Sobbing, she told me what she had heard and how she knew it wasn’t true, but it still worried her. I began to get ready to break the news, but she was already crying so what's the worst that could happen? I wish I had never asked myself that, because next she told me she’d been cutting herself. My heart sank in remorse for what I knew I would do. If I led her on longer, the aftermath of my cold actions would lead to even more catastrophe. I was scared, but knew the lesser of the two evils I had to pick from. I calmed her down, quickly notified her friends to be keeping an eye on her, and then dumped her. To this day, I am disgusted by my actions. Throughout the past three months, Claire expressed how she had loved and trusted me, yet I threw that all away. There are so many ways I could’ve handled the situation differently, but two stood out the most. Showing respect by speaking to Claire the moment I realized my feelings had fleeted was the bare minimum that I disregarded, but the second was far simpler. I had known from the start that I was still in love with Isabella and that love never faded, but was only suppressed. The entire relationship we developed, while we both enjoyed parts of it (her more than me), was a lie, and essentially a cruel joke played on Claire. There’s no excuse for my actions, and even worse, I could’ve cared less back then. It was only when time had passed that I began to understand the damage I had done. Without Claire holding me back, my newfound freedom led to a closer friendship with Isabella. I dove headfirst into the familiar pit all over again. A friendship was not enough, I appreciated every interaction I had with Isabella, but my life depended on a future with her. It’s likely she felt this as she slowly began to drift away from me. Before I had stayed up speaking to Isabella, but now I couldn’t sleep out of the tormenting absence of her voice. The only path to good health was time; distance was best for the both of us, and I knew it. For the rest of that school year, everything around me was going, but I stood still. It was like my life was just a sitcom, and I was no longer the main character. The summer that followed was just the same, I was living but dead, moving but still, speaking but silent. I was dissociating from my friends and family, but the absence of that violent snake made my depression insignificant. Living a life without her was more punishment than death itself, and I didn’t deserve relief. Even now, I think of that summer and remember almost nothing, for my life isn’t worth remembering without Isabella in it. Sophomore year began, and so did my conversations with Isabella. This go around, I was subtle with my feelings for her. The excitement I had for speaking with her was under control, but it was because the spark inside me had faded, even when it came to Isabella.The years of self pity and depression had left a toll on me that could never be reversed, and it didn’t help that Isabella began to build a relationship with another guy. When we spoke, if we did, Isabella’s concern for my mental state outweighed the friendship we were struggling to preserve. I had come to the conclusion that pursuing Isabella would only make things worse, and I needed to just be her friend. Since I couldn’t lose the feelings I had for her, I just sat in them. While I sat in the pit, Isabella and I had one particular Facetime call in which I brought up how much I regretted dating Claire. To that, Isabella added, “Yeah, she’s so annoying. I can’t remember if you told me why you got together in the first place, what led you to her?” I paused with the thousand-yard stare of an American private fresh out of West Point. “I guess I was just so disappointed with myself for not being able to go to homecoming with you and being stuck on you for so long that I impulsively got with another girl to forget about my shortcomings,” I said with reluctance and stuttering every few words. She told me that she would’ve said yes to homecoming without a second thought, but I knew she meant as friends. Then, to my dismay, Isabella revealed that whenever I got with Claire, she still had feelings for me. It was me talking to Isabella about how great things were with me and Claire that led her to block me and cut contact with me. The piano melody from “No Surprises” by Radiohead began looping through my mind as tears ran down my face. I forget how I ended the call, but once I did, I broke. I lost my breath, my head got light, my eyes became blurry, my stomach was nauseous, and my insides sank as far as they could. Everything I wanted, dreamed of, needed had been so close, and I blew it. Everything was my fault. Later I would ask her why she lost them, and her answer proved how much better she was than me. Isabella answered, “I had been hurt, so I moved on. Just got over it.” We hardly spoke anymore, but one text message has found a permanent home in my mind. After asking me how I was, Isabella wasn’t satisfied with, “it’s complicated.” She asked that I explain it to her so that she could try to understand. I told her about all the issues going on in my life, except the torch I still held for her. She wrote, “I know you’re not religious, so it may not mean anything, but I pray for you every night, Lincoln. Even though it sounds bad, I think that I've known you weren’t in the greatest mental place for a while. I want you to know I'm not judging you, I want you to feel comfortable enough to share that with someone. You have to be able to recognize how you’re feeling in order to even fix it.” These words broke me despite their simplistic appearance. Reading that she prayed for me hit me hard as she had always tried to get me to believe in God again. I’m agnostic, and nothing has come closer to bringing me back to faith as Isabella did. The idea that if God were real and I could see her in heaven was appealing, but should Christianity be the wrong choice, I wanted to be wrong with Isabella. In the following days, Isabella told me about Alex, a guy she had been talking to a lot, and how they were at most a month away from being together. I hated everything about Alex, which is a stupid name in the first place. I hated his choice of friends, I hated how white-washed he was, I hated how he dressed like a conservative cowboy, I hated the underbite that made him look like a pug, I hated his short curly hair, I hated the fact that he was a diehard Trump supporter while people of his race were being oppressed, I hated how he pretended to be someone else when he was around Isabella, I hated how he hid unhealthy habits from her, I hated that a guy like him garnered Isabella’s affection when I couldn’t. I barely knew the guy and I was wasting my energy with hatred for him, when in reality, he was just a mind-numbingly basic douche among the hundreds just like him at our school. Isabella regularly complained about Alex, but hardly did anything. Instead she stopped bringing it up, saying that talking about her issues with others only makes it worse and that she was just wining. The monotone delivery of her reasoning hurt my soul, it was like she was reciting a text from Alex. Each day that passed, I felt the urgency of expressing my feelings one more time rising. Soon Isabella and Alex would be official, and I would lose my chance to try and express how I felt one more time. I reached out to Isabella and asked if she was free to hangout that friday. On November 10, 2023, Isabella picked me up around 5:30 in the evening. She kept the inside of her SUV looking brand new in contrast to the familiarity of her smile. My nerves left me winded after every sentence and shivering in her passenger seat. Quickly our conversation became more natural as I cracked jokes to ease my anxiety, but my shaky breathing never stopped. We went to Publix to grab some snacks and drinks and headed right back to my neighborhood park. At the Grove Point Park, we found a swinging chair to sit in. Due to the time of the year, the sun had already set, but Isabella’s beauty was indifferent under the moonlight. I haven’t the slightest clue how long we sat there together. When I’m with Isabella, even Father Time gives me grace, for he knows that he is as powerless as I am to the frequency of these moments. After a while, I mentioned that it was getting late and she agreed. On the ride back to my place, I mustered the bare minimum of strength it took to confront my feelings. As she drove over the speed bump before entering the roundabout, I began to open up. I briefly told her that I still felt the same way I did two years ago, that I had tried to forget about the feelings I had with no success, and that I was sorry to once again ruin our unstable friendship. She told me it was fine and my feelings were natural, nothing to regret or be ashamed of. Her words meant nothing to me this time because I had already heard them. Defeated, I paused for a moment, then said, “Isabella, you reciprocated my feelings in the past, so after Alex, do you think that maybe we’d have a chance?” She looked at me with pain in her eyes, not for herself, but for me. She quietly said, “I- Lincoln, you know I can’t answer that. I’m with Alex now, it wouldn’t be fair.” All I could get out was, “Oh- I- I’m sorry. Uh yeah no, you’re uh- you’re right.” Everything in me pulled and begged at my lips to say what I wanted to, but I couldn’t. I still look back on that night and wish I had said the few words I never got to tell her. What if saying them could’ve changed something? Realistically, it wouldn’t have, but the regret remains. I doubt Isabella would have even remembered where my word choice stemmed from. Regardless, the words rang in my head then, and never stopped. All I wanted to say at that moment was, “but I still need you.” Today, 1,725 days since I first saw Isabella, 822 days since I first facetimed Isabella, and 178 days since that heartbreakingly beautiful night, I still love her the same. Looking back on my experience with her, I regret many things (oversharing, Claire, the snake, etc.), but the one thing I have never regretted was meeting and loving her. It was only recently that I realized that loving her has been one of the biggest mistakes in my life. For three years, day in and day out, I’ve thought about her. Three years where I could have met other people, worked on myself, enjoyed my friends and family, but instead I’ve loved her and nothing, nobody else. The one lesson that was essential for me to take away from my experience was impossible. In eighth grade I was 5’7 and 215 lbs, today I’m 5’10 and 165 lbs. In eighth grade I spent time with my parents, today I hide in my room. In eighth grade, I told people how I felt, now I’m too scared. In eighth grade, I talked about my depression, now I am left alone to deal with it. In eighth grade, I had many friends, now I rarely speak to them. In eighth grade, I needed Isabella, but the one lesson I should’ve learned never took effect. I still need her.

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

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INDEX

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

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

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

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

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

Okay, I will start by saying this is gonna be sort of lengthy. TDLR ad bottom if you don't wish to read my rambling.
I got laid off from my previous employer, but they still expected me to work under the table and bank my hours. It was excruciating working for nothing. There were also rumors of employees having a hard time getting paid from this same exact situation last year. So I stuck it out for a while and found another job the first chance I could.
Fast forward to this new job. It's on an indigenous reservation. Apparently, they don't have labor laws or tax laws. So I get paid cash weekly, not taxed, which is nice. But they work me like a dog. Sometimes 12 hour shifts with only 5 minute breaks every 2 hours. I don't have 2 days off in a row, I'm constantly getting called in on the days off I do have.
'The Family' is what my bosses are called because, well, they are family owned. They own 3 cigarette stores and 3 marijuana stores. So, The Family constantly watches the cameras in the stores, which there are at least 20 cameras in each store. No one is allowed to sit or stop moving even. If you do, the store phone will get texts and calls saying things like 'don't tell me you have nothing to do' or 'you're never done working'. It's exhausting.
I'm at my wits end. No one can call in sick, there's constant threats of being fired, not allowed to make mistakes without reprimand. They make you feel horrible if you decline to come in on a day off. If you want time off or have to be sick, you must get your shift covered and okay'ed by the oldest brother of The Family. The youngest brothers girlfriend works at the store where I am mainly scheduled, and she's allowed to sit down, be late, have a lunch etc etc. There is no equality.
There's never going to be moving up within this business. When I interviewed for the job I was desperate, so I looked past all the very personal questions they asked such as 'am I married (because they don't hire single people, too much drama)'. It doesn't matter anyway because I never get to see my partner and children working this job...
I didn't go in today. I told them my car broke down. They decided that having the youngest brothers girlfriend call me and then the oldest brother text me nonstop for hours now would be the best course of action. I explained my car is broken down, so they started sending me all my coworkers' phone numbers (which I already have) for me to find someone to cover for me today. I found them someone, but I'm just done.
Now I'm feeling guilty and they have the nerve to text me this - 'Ok looks like todays covered please be advised For tomorrow and the next day be there or have a co worker there to work for you and okay it with me We will look past today 🙂'
Ugh, I guess the point of this post is to have someone else tell me I'm not crazy for wanting out. Advice, support? Anything. I love most of my coworkers they are great people and hard workers. I don't want to leave them hanging. I just have a hard time being taken advantage of and for granted. I'm tired of making excuses for them in my head and looking past it.
TDLR: I work on an indigenous reservation, and there are no labor laws. They treat me, and almost everyone who works there, like sub humans. I want out, I need advice or support for someone.

They found suspected aneurysm on MRA scan. I was checking my old brain arachnoid cysts and before four days, doctor told me that there is suspected aneurysm on that part of the brain (ACA ,A2 part) I live healthy, go to the gym, run all my life. No alcohol, no cigarettes. I'm 38 years old. If anybody have same experience.
Somebody told me that operation in some cases can't be done.
What supplements we can drink and is there a problem maybe with blood vessels in my body generally? Also, I have tinitus for 5 months on my left ear and pain above left eye ( pain like nerve).
Thank you all for any help ❤

I remember the early days when I first gave up cigarettes, I found this sub and would occasionally post progress. I thought about it today and realized I have not posted here in forever. I was a 21 year smoker friends, also a 15 year daily drinker. I quit smoking the day before I gave up drink and honestly...it has been LIFE CHANGING!
I feel better, I smell better, I eat better, I sleep better, and I'm in the best shape of my life. I joined a gym and I'm in there consistently 5-6 days a week. When I first started this journey, I was 2 months into a separation from a 14 year toxic relationship... I was lost & in terrible shape mentally. I am now divorced and still sober from smoking and alcohol living the best years I have in over a decade.
I just want to say... If you want to quit go for it, it is totally achievable and after a certain point you won't even think of smoking anymore. It used to be the first thing I thought of when my nerves were torn up, these days its a fleeting thought of a time that seems really far away. To date I have saved over $5,000 in no longer smoking. Coming up on 2 years, I just wanted to stop in and say I believe in each and every one of you. If I could do this - ANYONE could do this!!

Part 1 // Part 2 // Part 3
I woke up to something tickling my nose. Something small and damp flicked across my nose. I reached out to wave it away but it would return within seconds.
I opened my eyes to see myself eye-to-eye with a snake. I instinctively jerked backwards and nearly tumbled off the toilet I’d fallen asleep on. After the initial shock of waking up face-to-face with a decently-sized snake wore off, I was able to redirect my focus from the snake to the man who was actually holding it. It was Psycho Jimmy.
After a rough night with very little sleep followed by a few hours of aimless wandering around Walmart, I had become dead-tired and locked myself in the bathroom stall to try and find a private place to take a nap.
Obviously, it wasn’t private enough as Psycho Jimmy had crawled under the stall door, somehow procured a snake and woke me up by holding it up to my face to let its tongue flick out across my nose.
Seeing I was awake, Psycho Jimmy thrust the snake further in my direction as if offering it to me. I waved a hand in a sign of refusal and he pulled the snake back and placed it in a pocket inside his jacket.
Having never been in a situation like this – locked in a bathroom stall with a man nicknamed ‘Psycho’ – I had no idea how to react, so I thanked him for waking me up as I had a big day ahead of me.
Psycho Jimmy nodded his head in acknowledgement, winked at me then left the way he came – by crawling out under the stall door. I waited until I heard him leave, then I waited another 10 minutes before I left the bathroom.
I had 3 missed calls and 2 unread text messages. The first of the text messages read, “Bro, I’m too High right now” the second message read, “Sorry Boss, that wasn’t for you.”
The text messages were obviously from Pedro. The calls were from Destiny.
I called Destiny back. She was understandably annoyed.
“You do realize what time it is, right?” I glanced at the clock for the first time that day, it was noon, “We have an appointment for 3pm and it's an hour drive if we don’t hit traffic. Are we doing this or not?”
I was embarrassed, “Ah shit, I’m sorry. I had a, uh, weird night. Look if yo-“
Destiny cut me off, “Oh, yeah, I get that. I figured that would happen when I saw that ghost in your bedroom yesterday. It didn’t seem, well, nice.”
“Look,” I continued, “I hate to be a burden, but do you think you could pick me up from Walmart?”
15 minutes later Destiny pulled into the Walmart parking lot driving a convertible Volkswagen beetle. “Boxers and a T-shirt at Walmart? You definitely had a rough night. Hop in.”
We stood on my doorstep and Destiny begged me to let her inside.
“Please let me go in with you, we need all the evidence we can find on this thing if we are going to figure out what it is and how to stop it.” She made a good point.
“That’s true,” I started my rebuttal, “but it might be dangerous.”
“If it’s dangerous then two is better than one” Damn. She had me beat.
“Alright, but I have no idea what we might see in there.” I turned the knob and pushed the door open.
Immediately the stench of cigarettes washed over us and I sprang into action running into the kitchen to grab a knife. I was so focused on getting a weapon in my hands that I didn’t even notice the source of the smell.
“Uh, so, what the hell is that?” Destiny asked, a finger pointing into the living room where Cynthia sat in an armchair. She was naked, cross-legged and held a smoldering cigarette in between two of her fingers. Her head was now screwed on correctly.
“That is…” I almost said ‘Cynthia’ and that would have made me look like a total perv, “something I’ve never seen before.” I walked over to Cynthia and took the cigarette out of her hand, extinguished it, then plunged the kitchen knife deep into her chest which accomplished exactly nothing.
“I’m going to brush my teeth and grab some clothes and we’ll get out of here, ok?”
“Ok,” Destiny replied, “Anything else? We’ll be gone most of the day.”
“Yeah,” I said back to her, “I’m going to call my intern.”
15 minutes later I was sitting shotgun in Destiny’s car as we drove to Pedro’s house to pick up my new employee. Cynthia was buckled up in the backseat. I had to beg Destiny to help me take it out of the house. She definitely didn’t believe me when I said I’d never seen her before. Which is fine, I didn’t believe her when she said her ghost dog, Hercules, was sitting in the backseat with Cynthia, although the car did smell like there was a dog in there with us. Maybe there really was a vengeful ghost dog with us.
We pulled up to Pedro’s house and again I had to convince Destiny to help me lug her out of the car and into the trash can.
“Will he be okay with this?” She asked.
“I’m his boss, he has to be.”
We tossed her in the can, but because of her weird robot-esque joints she didn’t fit too well and a leg poked out of the half-closed lid.
I sent Pedro a text and he came bounding out of his house like golden retriever but stopped dead in his tracks as soon as he saw the leg sticking out of his trash can, “Oh Shit!” he shouted, “You guys smoke somebody?” He looked nervous.
“Just a demon, Pedro. That’s just a demon. Hop in.”
“Oh, that’s dope dude,” Pedro hopped in, “Where are we going?”
“We’re going to the local college,” Destiny chirped.
“Ah shit. We don’t have to go to class, do we?” Pedro moaned.
We arrived 30 minutes before our meeting with Destiny’s old professor, Harold Potter. I shit you not, his name was Harry Potter, but apparently, he would get pretty upset if you called him anything other than Professor Potter.
The three of us sat across from Professor Potter in his shabby basement office surrounded on all sides by dusty books of various sizes and ages.
I pulled the leg we came to question him about out of my backpack and slid it across the table to him.
“Oh! It has a nipple! How exciting!” he exclaimed as he poked and prodded at the fake limb with a gloved finger.
“That’s a nipple?!” Pedro could hardly contain his excitement, “I thought that was a chocolate stain or something! Does this mean the leg is a girl?”
There was a beat of silence as we took a second to question if that really was the first thing Pedro sought to ask.
Destiny broke the silence, “Professor, we wanted to ask you what you could tell us about this leg. It is clearly bound in human skin, so you were the only person I could think of to consult. Any leads would be very helpful.”
“Let me start with a question of my own,” The professor was gently turning the leg over to examine it, “Where did you find it?”
Destiny and I both braced ourselves for whatever might come out of Pedro’s mouth, “My roommate Archie and I were at an illegal street race in Kansas City, Kansas and one of the cars crashed and blew up into a giant fireball”
Everyone in the room leaned in waiting for whatever insane nonsense followed, “And then?” Destiny nudged him.
“Then the police showed up and the law says that if the police use rubber bullets, then it’s okay to start looting.”
Harry Potter’s eyes were wide as saucers. I patted Pedro on the shoulder, “Keep going buddy.”
“I met a guy named Snake and we decided to loot a food truck that was parked nearby but none of the food inside was cooked, so we got a whole crew together and we flipped that bitch!”
“PEDRO. FOCUS.” Destiny was mortified about her favorite old professor associating her with a person as insanely stupid as Pedro, “Where did the leg come from?”
“Oh, I don’t know,” Pedro continued, “Archie had it at the end of the night when I met back up with him at the motel. He had a bunch of wine and a whole mess of these crackers with him too. They weren’t very good though”
“So, your friend robbed a church?” Destiny asked, red in the face.
“Oh, I don’t know,” Pedro said, smiling, just happy to be there.
“Well boys and girls,” Harry Potter said, “All I can tell you is that this leg certainly appears to be bound in human flesh. I cannot confirm for certain without rigorous testing, but the nipple on the reverse side certainly points toward human.”
“How common is the practice of binding books in human skin,” I asked, curious.
“Well certainly not as common as it once was,” Professor Potter said with a laugh, “In ancient times anthropodermic bibliopegy was much more common. Still quite rare, mind you, but common in comparison to today.” He rubbed his chin then continued, “The question of why people did it however remains a mystery. We have evidence it was sometimes done to honor the work, to show respect to the actual writing itself. There are times when the skin of criminals was used as sort of a novelty, to create a collector’s item so to say. There are also examples of anthropodermic bibliopegy which is when an author uses their own skin to bind their own book. I wish I could give you more information, but maybe you could ask some of the other professors? Try Professor McGonagall in Anthropology”
We ascended the stairs out of the basement office, “Professor McGonagall?” I asked, “What is this fucking Hogwarts?”
Professor McGonagall sent us to the Foreign Languages department, which sent us to the Religious Studies Department who then re-routed us back to the History department who referred us back to Professor Harry Potter.
“I can’t believe no one here can tell us anything about this leg,” Destiny lamented, “I thought for sure Professor Potter would be a bigger help”
Destiny and I sat in silence on a bench near the student union and watched as Pedro tried asking nearly every single girl who walked past him for their phone number. He approached a tall redhead who instead of entertaining the idea of a conversation with Pedro took off in a full sprint the other direction.
“It's okay, Pedro!” I shouted to him, “Maybe she thought you were so handsome she just had to go tell her friends about you!”
“You shouldn’t encourage him,” Destiny said to me in a low tone so Pedro wouldn’t hear.
“You’re probably right,” I replied, “Hey, did you see that Heart-shaped mark on the leg? If that’s human skin, then it’s a tattoo, right?”
“Yeah, so what”
“Well, where do the kids with lots of tattoos hangout? Maybe we can ask them if they’d seen it before or if they recognize the artist” It was the only idea I could think of to salvage the situation.
“Definitely the Art department”
“Let’s go there.”
We walked into the unsymmetrically lit room where a ring of art students surrounded a naked man on a pedestal. Some were sketching him with pencils, some with charcoal, and a few were painting. There were a lot of tattooed people in this crowd. Lots of eyeliner and spiked collars too.
Pedro was mortified at the naked man, “Dude, does no one else see the naked guy? This is disgusting, let’s get out of here.”
“Pedro. Just close your eyes.” Pedro was getting on Destiny’s last nerve, “As a matter of fact, go stand in the corner and don’t speak for the next 72 hours”
We waited on the periphery of the circle until the class ended, then we approached the teacher, a middle-aged man in skinny jeans, fedora, eyeliner and a spiked collar. His name was Indigo and he thought he looked far cooler than he actually did.
We presented the leg to Indigo and he instantly stood up from his desk, walked over to the door and locked it, “Where did you get that?” he asked.
“Hey, I still need to get out of here man.” said the model who was now putting on his clothes in the corner of the room. Everyone ignored him.
“You know what this leg is?” Destiny and I said in unison.
“I know what it is, what I’m asking is why do you have it and why did you bring it into my classroom?”
A voice called from the corner of the room opposite the model putting on his clothes. It was Pedro, “I was at an illegal street race in Kansas City and –“
“Shut up!” Destiny and I said in unison.
“We don’t know where it came from,” Destiny continued, pointing over to Pedro who was standing motionless and staring at a blank canvas, “That’s Pedro. The leg belonged to his roommate. We’re aren’t exactly sure of its origins”
Indigo furrowed his brow, clearly not happy with the origin story, “And why did you bring it to me?”
“Because we’ve gone to nearly every other department at this school and no one has any clue what it is. The Art Department was kind of a Hail Mary.” I explained, “Can you help us?”
“I can tell you what you need to know, but that is it” Indigo couldn’t tear his eyes away from the fake limb, “I don’t want any part of this. I don’t want that thing anywhere near me.”
“What is it?” I asked.
“It’s my mother-in-law” Indigo continued to stare at the flesh bound limb.
“You’re married…” I tried to put it together, “To this leg’s daughter?.... Son?”
Indigo finally peeled his eyes away from the leg and looked at me, “My mother-law created the leg with my late wife’s skin.” “How do we know you’re telling the truth?” I asked.
Indigo pointed to the ‘Mommy’s Home” tattoo on the cursed legs thigh, “You see that tattoo?” he asked. Before we could answer Indigo grabbed hold of his shirt collar with both hands and ripped his shirt clean off his body like he was a professional wrestler. Emblazoned across his chest was a massive tattoo of a heart, written across it were the words “Daddy’s Home”.
“Hell yeah! Hulkamania!” Shouted Pedro from across the room.
“I still need to get out of here. Can you please unlock the door?” Asked the model who was now standing next to the locked door.
Destiny and I looked at each other in disbelief, “What the hell was going on in your family?” was the only thing I could think to ask.
Indigo continued, “My wife died unexpectedly in a car accident while I was hiking the Appalachian trail, something I’d always wanted to do and something my wife encouraged me to conquer before I got too old. My mother-in-law, who was always deeply into the occult kept my wife’s death a secret. She told no one, not even her other children. Instead, she tried to resurrect her.”
Indigo walked around his desk that was cluttered with charcoal sketches and stacks of watercolor still life paintings. He sunk into his chair and ran his fingers through his sweaty hair before swiveling in his chair to regard a large portrait that hung above his desk. The painting was of a middle-aged woman in a gray sweatsuit. Brown, shoulder-length hair and dark circles under her eyes. She looked bored.
Indigo let loose a heavy sigh and without turning from the portrait picked up his story where he left off, “My wife wanted to be cremated. Instead, her body putrefied in a damp basement as her own mother performed ritual after ritual to call her back from the other side. Calling on Angels, Demons and the Old Gods alike, none answered her pleas. She tried to heat the blood and pump it fresh back into the body. She tried electric shocks to the heart and brain and she prayed day and night. None of it worked. She turned to other disciplines – Voodoo, Santeria, Palo Mayombe, Youtube tutorials; still none of it worked.”
I turned to look at Destiny who was enthralled. I glanced then at Pedro who was staring deeply into a blank canvas like it was the most interesting painting he’d ever seen.
“Then she did…this,” Indigo continued, pointing at the leg, “I don’t know what it is or how she did it. I assume she was trying to build her a new body. The only facts I know for sure are when I found my wife’s body it had large pieces of flesh removed and all that I could find of my mother-in-law was the notes she kept. I’m not sure if she died. Or was transported to another plane or if she’s contained within the leg itself. But I’m done with it.”
“I still need someon-,” the model started before I cut him off.
“Why are you giving up on this? Don’t you want to know what happened? Wouldn’t your wife want you to keep pushing?” I asked.
Indigo sat in silence for a moment, his chest heaving giving the impression that the heart tattoo across it was beating, “We tried to figure out what happened. We tried to destroy the leg. We tried to get rid of it for months and it just kept coming back. Eventually we gave it to a priest in Kansas City, Kansas for safe keeping and that seemed to work. I thought it was finally out of my life and now you idiots brought it right back to me. I want nothing to do with it. I'm done.”
“You’re saying ‘we’, who else tried to help you with this?” Destiny asked.
Indigo pointed up to the painting that hung above his office desk, “She did. That is my sister. She was helping get to the bottom of all of this. After a day's research she was spending the night at my house. I had fixed up an air mattress for her in my studio. When I came in to check on her the next morning, this painting was all I could find.”
“So, you’re saying she got turned into a painting? How do you know it’s her and not just, like, a painting of her?” Destiny questioned.
“It blinks sometimes,” Indigo answered.
His answer made my skin crawl. Not the fact that the painting could blink. I’d seen much worse stuff in the last 96 hours. What really twisted my stomach was thinking about his sister’s fate. If she could blink, she was still alive. She just couldn’t move, breathe, or communicate. A complete and total paralysis. Imagine locked-in syndrome on a much bigger scale. I’d rather be dead.
I took another glance at Pedro who was still engrossed in the blank white canvas he’d been staring at the entire time. He leaned in and licked it, smacked his lips and continued to stare at it like it was the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen.
“Someone please let me out, I have a class to get to,” the model pleaded.
“Shut up!” Destiny, Indigo and I all shouted at once - In hindsight we weren’t very nice to that guy. Defeated, the model walked over to look at some of the other canvases near Pedro.
Destiny asked another good question, “You said you guys were doing research on the leg, right? Did you find any way to destroy it?”
“Kind of,” Indigo cleared his throat before carrying on, “We spoke to a tattoo artist in Olathe named T-Bone. He was really into the occult and all that. He said, the only way to destroy something like this leg is to expose it to an act of true beauty or true love. We asked if he could be more specific or give an example of something like that, but he just told us he was late to do battle with a Warlock in Jefferson City. I assume he lost the battle, because I never saw him again.”
The three of us sat in quiet reflection trying to think of an example of “True” love or beauty. All I could think of were sappy rom-coms and, for some reason, a particular Melissa Ethridge song.
A loud THUD shook us from our brainstorm and Indigo, Destiny and I all turned towards the sound of the clatter. That side of the room was empty save for a few canvases and the gym bag the model had been carrying.
“Where’d Pedro go?” I asked.
Destiny pointed her finger towards a canvas, “There”
“God Damn it! Not Again!” Shouted Indigo.
I walked over and looked at the canvas, it was a painting of Pedro. Him standing solitary in a gray void, his hands in his pockets and his expression blank.
A few feet away another canvas contained the image of the model.
A pit grew in my stomach. The clock was officially ticking. We needed to snuff out this prosthetic leg before anyone else was killed, maimed or sucked into a painting.
Destiny tucked the painting of Pedro under her arm as we headed out of the classroom.
“Take the other one too!” Indigo shouted as we left, but we ignored him.
We walked to the car in silence, each of us thinking of the enormity of the situation we’d found ourselves in. All either of us did was answer an ad on the internet and, all of a sudden, we’d found ourselves locked in a battle with an entity from the other side of the veil. An entity we couldn’t touch or see, but now we’d realized it could see us, touch us and if it wants – kill us. Fuck the internet.
As our car pulled out of the university parking lot, we drove past a disheveled looking man on a park bench who seemed to be watching us. My heart skipped a few beats when I recognized him as Psycho Jimmy. Was he following me? It simply couldn’t be a coincidence. The man was showing up everywhere I went. Something told me he had a part to play in all of this.
I didn’t tell Destiny about Psycho Jimmy. We had enough on our minds already – chiefly what the fuck is a “True” act of beauty or love?