Welcome to our fifth discussion of Leviathan Wakes. Hold onto your cool detective hats or your environment suits, because we finally get some answers to our mystery! This week, we will discuss Chapters 34-40. The Marginalia post is here. You can find the Schedule here.
The discussion questions are below. One note - this is a very popular book series and TV show, but please keep in mind that not everyone has read or watched already, so be mindful not to include anything that could be a hint or a spoiler! Please mark spoilers not related to this section of the book using the format > ! Spoiler text here !< (without any spaces between the characters themselves or between the characters and the first and last words).
Now brace yourselves: here comes the juice!
Chapter Summaries:
Chapter 34 - Miller: Detective Miller and the crew of the Roci board the hidden ship (the one that captured the crew of the Scopuli before destroying it), wearing environment suits because the ship has no atmosphere - someone left the doors open. They stick together at first as they move through the ship, discovering signs of a struggle, zombie vomit, and twelve torpedo tubes big enough to destroy capital ships like the Donnager or the Canterbury. Miller uses his detective skills to determine that everyone but Julie retreated to engineering. Once there, they discover a truly grisly sight: layers of human flesh and bones are sort of fused around the reactor, which has been shut down. Naomi and Holden gasp in shock and disgust, Miller turns on his cop brain to suppress emotion and view it as a crime scene, and Amos seems… calm and able to ignore the gore. The team splits up to look for more clues.
Amos stays in engineering to start up the computers and get the reactor back online. Naomi works on the ops deck to run diagnostics. Miller and Holden head to the bridge, which wasn’t affected by the fighting onboard. Miller reviews the internal feeds and finds footage showing the captured Scopuli crew being led onto the ship, stripped, and put in restraints. Julie fights back viciously but is knocked unconscious and stuffed in a locker with a jumpsuit (which is where we met her in the prologue). The crew is left in the galley for 132 hours before they decide to make a stand, but it is quickly suppressed. One of the crew is thrown out an airlock and the others are heavily restrained as they scream and cry. Just as Miller gets to the first appearance of a vomit zombie (at hour 160 of footage), Amos yells that he’s been exposed to some radiation because the human flesh blob had damaged the reactor shielding. He decides to keep working while Alex monitors his health status from the Roci.
Then Holden calls Miller over to view one of the last feeds Julie accessed. It’s a corporate presentation video created for a man named Dresden and the board of Protogen. It features a man Miller dubs “the sociopath” because of his cold, practiced smile…and because of the content. The sociopath tells the board (and us) the history of scientific discovery on Phoebe, which was thought to just be a moon and a source of water, but became a research station when a survey found complex silicon structures in the ice. Protogen was tasked with investigating and discovered that Phoebe is not a moon but evidence of a galactic biosphere: it is an alien weapon sent towards Earth 2 ⅓ billion years ago, which never made it because of orbital mechanics. Protogen has discovered that this weapon is not alive per se; rather, it is something they’ve termed the “protomolecule” which has the ability to maintain structure while replicating other systems and manipulating them at scalable rates. Of course, they alerted the proper authorities and made sure… just kidding, they’ve secretly been doing tests. The sociopath believes that whoever controls the protomolecule will gain control of all political and economic power going forward. Chillingly, the sociopath urges them to pursue large-scale testing to understand the protomolecule and its human applications. That large-scale testing is Eros.
TL;DR - Julie found evidence that Protogen has discovered an alien weapon, branded it the “protomolecule”, and secretly tested it on the people of Eros (and probably other smaller tests). The entire war has just been a distraction.
Chapter 35 - Holden: Naomi explains that most of the messages on the comm logs have been coded, but the last one is in plain text: the captain informed Thoth Station that the ship was contaminated, everyone was about to die, and the “materials” had been secured. He also planned to send vector data so they could find the ship. The Roci crew put two and alien-symbol-for-two together: they figure out that the captain has locked protomolecule samples in his safe. They also decide that the tightbeam messages were being sent to a secret research station Protogen was using to monitor the Eros experiment. Even though the fact “Naomi is the best” is a proven concept on par with “space is cold”, she is NOT able to open the captain’s safe, so they decide to cut it out of the wall and bring it with them on the Roci. They also scuttle the ship so no one can a) recover the stealth technology and alien weapons, or b) get exposed to the protomolecule-human soup inside. (Amos would have preferred to hack the frozen dead body goo off the reactor with a chainsaw and salvage such an impressive and expensive ship, which is… another way to go.)
It’s clear that someone else with stealth tech is searching actively for this ship, but the Roci won’t see them coming so they decide to get the hell out of Dodge. Naomi jokes that their options include turning the safe over to the OPA (they’d be heroes), selling out to Mars (they’d be rich), or starting their own biotech firm (just kidding, that’s evil). When Miller checks in with Holden about a decision on where to go next, he drops a figurative bomb on him regarding actual bombs in the news. Since Holden did his best Edward Snowden impersonation and leaked the data that the mystery ships are from Earth, Mars asked a few too many questions and in response, Earth has blown up a whole bunch of Martian ships and destroyed the Deimos deep radar station. Miller ruefully gives Holden credit for sticking to his guns about his belief in “free information”. He also points out that Holden’s principles make him responsible for all those deaths and the destruction of the Earth-Mars Coalition… and possibly the universe as they know it.
Chapter 36 - Miller: The war between Mars and the Belt seems like no big deal now that Earth and Mars are fighting. Miller watches the news feeds as the conflict turns into a blockade, and he realizes he is steeling himself for an announcement of a planetary attack on Earth or Mars, but it never comes. He and Amos deal with the stress by having beer for breakfast.
Miller meets up with Holden in the med bay for their routine blood flushes and cancer treatments, and they reopen their debate about what to do with the data files and who is to blame for the war(s).

• Holden’s position: Broadcast everything to everyone! (I know, I know, so out of character, right?) People will understand that they’ve been set up and will turn their wrath on Protogen instead of each other. Also, these are ancient conflicts. The Belt has always hated Mars and the inner planets in general. Mars and Earth have always had animosities secretly brewing and they do military training for the inevitable showdown. Or as Miller puts it, “Not my powder keg; I just brought the match.”
• Miller’s position: Stop and consider what people will do if they hear an Earth company did this. Every other data leak has been used as an excuse to shoot at someone the other side doesn’t like. Also, people suck. They aren’t going to hold hands and sing Kumbaya just because Protogen is the bad guy. They’ll move on to shooting each other so they can be the ones to control the protomolecule. Or as Holden puts it, “Maybe Protogen is a little right. People are too dumb to be trusted with big information so we should keep hard, scary stuff a big secret. That’ll totally work out.”

Holden’s idealism starts to fade as he takes in Miller’s hard truths about humanity. To be fair, Miller loses a little idealism over his perceptions of the inner planets’ relationship which, to the Belt, seemed stable and friendly enough (and united against them). Miller encourages Holden to use Naomi’s judgment as a measuring stick for whether something is right (similar to how he uses illusion-Julie as his conscience and sounding board) and then he goes back to the news feeds to watch Ceres slowly collapse into chaos. Holden decides the only person and place he trusts - or at least doesn’t completely distrust - is Fred Johnson on Tycho Station, so they head there. Holden also wonders why they don’t just destroy the safe and make sure everyone stays away from Eros and Phoebe; Miller admits it’s because the protomolecule might just be the holy grail.
Chapter 37 - Holden: The crew of the Roci is taking a break from doom scrolling to cook fake space lasagna for dinner and bond over the food and conversation. As Holden watches the crew laugh at Amos’s belches and Miller’s wild story about cheese smuggling, he reflects that they represent all three prongs of the conflict: Naomi and Miller are Belters, Amos and he are from Earth, and Alex is from Mars. Yet they’re friends, and Holden knows this is what they have to fight for. The cheese smuggling makes no sense to Amos (why cheese and not drugs?), and Naomi points out that this illustrates how little people from the inner planets understand Belters. Earthers have free air and easy access to resources, while Belters know everything that sustains life is rare and their access to it is fragile. And this is why Protogen didn’t blink an eye before killing 1.5 million Belters on Eros: they’re “other”. Then Alex points out that this doesn’t make sense; it's a risky and unnecessarily complicated way to kill people just to satisfy prejudices. It becomes clear that Eros isn’t a hate crime, it’s a vacuum-sealed test tube to let the protomolecule learn how to do its job better by giving it access to a huge amount of biomass. The early transformations looked incomplete, as if it didn’t know how to work with human flesh yet, so Protogen was giving it a chance to train. Holden wants to know where they would even find enough people who would support an evil operation like this, and Miller promises to ask Dresden (the Protogen board member mentioned in the video) when they meet him. Something tells me that conversation won’t go well.
As the Roci approaches Tycho station, Holden and Miller take in the view of the Nauvoo, the partially constructed Mormon generation ship. When Miller says the Mormans may be in for a long and lonely death if they don’t find a habitable planet, Holden notes that this is the good kind of galactic exploration humans can accomplish (the protomolecule being the bad kind). Miller then asks Holden why he trusts Fred, and Holden explains that in addition to being the only person who hasn’t tried to jail them or blow them up since all this began, Fred is “real OPA”: he’s a politician and not part of the war-mongering factions who think they can survive indefinitely without the inner planets. When Miller points out that there isn’t a political solution to Protogen, Holden insists Fred has other skills, too. Later, Fred reads through all the information on the protomolecule and is incredulous that anyone could think to do this. Miller assures him that genocide is an old-school crime and it’s important that they stop it. Holden offers up the location of the observation station in exchange for enough OPA fighters to take down Protogen, and the right to retain custody of the safe and its contents. Fred agrees only after Holden points out that no one else can be trusted to do the right thing with a secret this big. Plus, he says Fred already knows what Holden will do with it.
Chapter 38 - Miller: It feels strange to Miller to explore the wide open spaces of Tycho Station, the fanciest place he has ever set foot on. He notices Naomi working on her hand terminal and letting her food get cold; she is too preoccupied with trying to figure out the location of the station to enjoy the amenities. As they talk, Miller is reminded of Havelock’s advice to just let go when he got pulled off a case, which jogs his memory that Havelock actually works for Protogen! (I’m surprised he didn’t get there faster; maybe everyone had a point that he was sort of a washed up detective.) He rushes off to make contact with his old buddy - probably his last real partner ever - in an encrypted drop site of a Ganymede server cluster. As he waits for a response, Miller is amused to realize he has started thinking like Holden: he feels like someone should warn the Mormans that they could potentially run into the alien creators of the protomolecule who may want to kill them. Havelock comes through, passing along the coordinates to a “very scary deep research and development lab” and asking Miller to be discreet never contact him again so he doesn’t get killed for betraying his employer. Miller sends him an encrypted warning to quit his job ASAP and not take postings at any black ops sites, before saying goodbye for the last time to the only person that still respected him as a cop. (I may or may not be sniffling a bit at this.)
Miller rounds up Naomi and Holden so they can bring Fred the coordinates. In Fred’s office, Miller starts lecturing him about the serious nature of the mission and the need to have a solid plan with adequate firepower, not the usual OPA shenanigans. Everyone’s a little confused until they realize that Miller doesn’t know that Fred is “the butcher of Anderson Station” and a former Colonel in the Earth Navy. Fred assures Miller he’s no amateur and will plan ahead. Miller then insists that he get to come along for the assault on Thoth Station. Eight days later, the plan is set in motion and Miller begins packing his meager belongings into a very small bag, figuring he’ll never see the Roci again. Even if he makes it off Thoth alive, he’ll have to figure out a way to make money and improvise a life plan of some sort. He tries to thank Holden and say goodbye, but the Roci’s captain interrupts Miller to ask where they’ll all meet up after the mission is complete. Miller is confused at first, then overcome with emotion when he realizes Holden considers Miller part of the crew! I’m not crying, you’re crying. Actually, it’s Miller who is weeping. But he pulls himself together so he can head to the assault ship.
Chapter 39 - Holden: The Rocinante needs to sneak up on Thoth Station, so they are pretending to be a loose cargo container that broke off the Guy Molinari (the Belter ship carrying the assault team, which is pretending to be a cargo ship). They fly with everything shut down so that it’s more convincing, hoping they can get close enough to the station to do some damage before Thoth starts firing back. As they approach and are able to reboot everything needed for battle, a stealth ship is spied hanging out near Thoth Station. Then, suddenly it becomes clear that there are two small stealth ships, which will be much harder to fight off. Everyone does their jobs efficiently on the Roci, but in the ensuing battle with the stealth ships, they start to take some damage. First, the Roci is hit by a gauss cannon that goes straight through the machine shop and galley. Holden mourns his coffee maker. Amos notices a leak in the maneuvering thrusters and heads to fix it between the inner and outer hulls, which isn’t an ideal place to be floating around during a battle. This stresses Naomi out, but Holden orders everyone to stay focused. They are able to take out one of the stealth ships, but the other gets close enough to do some impressive damage to the Roci. There is major hull damage as well as loss of four maneuvering thrusters, a PDC, their O2 storage, and the crew airlock. Alex is about to destroy the second stealth ship when the Roci’s point defense cannons (PDCs) detonate an enemy warhead up close. It knocks everyone out, punches holes throughout the Roci (narrowly missing Naomi), dislodges equipment, and fills the ship with debris. Holden marvels that they are alive at all, and Alex points out that is only because the ship’s anti-spalling webbing eliminates shrapnel. They make contact with Fred, who says he’ll find them a place to land, and the Guy Molinari prepares for the assault on Thoth Station. It’s Miller’s turn to shine!
Chapter 40 - Miller: On the Guy Molinari, Miller is talking to a Belter kid named Diogo as they wait for the assault to start. Miller realizes that while he has fancy Martian armor from the Roci and experience with gunfights in station corridors, he is surrounded by inexperienced young Belters with borrowed gear, and he will likely have to watch dozens of them die during the battle. But Diogo isn’t worried; he is confident and eager to get started. Fred announces that they are ready to start boarding since the Roci gave them the “all clear”, and Miller is happy to hear his friends have survived. The assault on the station starts off rough, with Protogen soldiers fighting them in the corridors and automatic defense lasers taking out some of the Belters in the first wave. But Fred knows how to command his OPA “troops” and keep them in line, and things start to go more smoothly as they slow down and maneuver carefully. Miller and Diogo are part of a group taking shelter at Fred’s direction and fending off Protogen counterattacks, and they start to talk during a lull. When two Protogen soldiers sneak up on them from behind, Diogo is hit and Miller chastises himself for chatting during a battle and not staying alert. He thinks Diogo is dead, but he pops up laughing and streaked with white goo from crowd suppression rounds, which Miller finds an odd choice of weapon. It’s the first sign that Thoth Station may not totally understand what’s happening. The OPA soldiers cut their way through the blast doors to get to the operations center, where they find Dresden (the dude mentioned in the sociopath’s Protogen video). Fred arrives to take command of the station, and Dresden offers to negotiate, clearly misunderstanding the reason for the assault. He offers to give the OPA whatever resources they need to go back to fighting their war (money, medical supplies, weapons, ordnance) if they’ll just leave and let the station get back to their very important work. Fred points out that they know about Eros, but Dresden insists no one knows what they did there, and there won’t be a better bargaining position for Fred when Earth sends its battleships. Fred basically calls Dresden Satan, but Dresden doesn’t understand the reference.

On the night when it all happened a young man called Smallmouth found himself in quite a pickle. He shivered and paced clumsily all over the second story porch of a cabin that used to be very nice, which overlooked a snowy down-sloping field that used to be kept up properly and carefully. He was already six packs deep into a carton of cigarettes he had bought only two days ago from a Casey’s General Store on his way up. He could recall the look on the young woman’s face at the register when he asked for a carton of Parliament Menthols, her eyes showing one blink of humorous surprise and another couple blinks of obvious concern, which faded to professional indifference as she rang in the sweet, icy killers. Smallmouth stopped his nervous dallying when he caught himself in the kitchen window; a large, shadowy figure sulking between the inside lights and the cold, almost glowing world downhill. His eyes still on his murky reflection, he patted his coat pockets for his seventh pack, pulling it out and smacking it against his left palm before cracking open and lighting it at his mouth. In a slow, warm flash, he could briefly see his own face in the window.
“Oh man, it’s bad” , he thought to himself.
He hadn’t shaved in weeks and his beard grew coarse and thick. A face that his mother had once called handsome had become a clean plate covered in steel wool. Well, maybe not so clean. Under and around his eyes were the obvious bruising of sleeplessness and his skin had lost its lively color and clarity of yesteryear.
“Ughhh” he groaned, turning away from the window to look over the porch and into the freezing, beckoning night.
The pickle that Jeremy “Smallmouth” Bassett found himself in involved his uncle, and his uncle’s evening logistics, to be precise. Smallmouth had been kicked out of his parents home on December 27th due to a slight misunderstanding at 2am when he believed the living room Christmas tree to be the downstairs bathroom. He had passed out on the couch after drinking a fire pit full of crushed Hamm’s cans and his brain tried desperately to get him up and to the nearby toilet. His little sister Stacy was tucked in fast asleep on a loveseat by the tree when she was brutally torn from her sugarplum dreams to hear the terrible hiss of Smallmouth’s folly. She screamed, the parents woke up, and, well, there you go. After well over three strikes, Smallmouth’s temporary residence had come to an end, and he was thrown to his mother’s brother’s cabin to dry up and straighten out before he could ever even be considered to return.
“You two deserve to live together. He can’t say no either because he owes me a lot more than this!” Smallmouth’s mother had screeched over him as he sat at the kitchen table the following morning with a cold bag of peas against his throbbing right temple. “You go there and you GET RIGHT!! I don’t care how long it takes just clean up your act and MAKE something of yourself! And for goodness sake tell Chuck to do the same, while he still has time!”
Yes, Uncle Chuck had his own shelf full of good time problems, and that’s what put Smallmouth in a bind tonight as he pondered over the white yonder that led to a black nothing, a black nothing that in the daylight pretended to be a forest. At night, it showed its true nature, an endless world of dark secrets and aching regret. At least that’s how Smallmouth saw it in this moment.
Chuck had gone down to the ranch he worked on for a New Years party with his work buddies. They liked to gather at the big barn where all of the vehicles and equipment were kept, sitting around a card table passing out stories about women and other trophy game that were either outright lied about or illegally poached. Oh, and they also liked to pass the bottle around. Therein lied the conundrum for Smallmouth.
Uncle Chuck was many things, but one thing he wasn’t was a drunk driver. Chuck’s wife Rebecca had been struck and killed by a drunk driver almost ten years ago when she was out jogging the back roads early one morning. Everyone assumed that’s what led him to his openly hard drinking and sneakily pill popping ways in the first place. For Chuck, most nights were kept at home, parked in front of a TV watching old westerns and cleaning out a full bottle of Wild Turkey 101 before snoring in his recliner. On the few nights he would go out, he would always call a ride if things got out of hand. As you can imagine, he tends to need a ride home.
“I should be home bout 11:30. Service ain’t so good up there near the barn so if it gets bout 11:15-11:20 and I ain’t home, go head and do me a favor and come grab me son.” Chuck had told Smallmouth before he left, closing the warped screen door behind him.
Smallmouth had spent the evening trying his best to stay entertained without the help of any chemical enhancement. His family’s anger and resentment really struck him and this time he was determined to truly get right and get his life back on the rails. He was 29 years old. He had gone through college clean as a whistle, bright and driven, receiving his MBA with plans to work his way up in a promising career in business. That worked for a couple years. Then he found a calling in ministry, deciding to quit the corporate world to fill an opening of a tiny country church in the area. They needed a deacon who could take care of things around the building and assist in the worship service. He wasn’t much for public speaking, haven been given the nickname Smallmouth at a young age due to his soft spoken nature, but he could pass plates and give a hushed prayer every now and then. He liked to mow and paint and help old ladies up the stairs. The quiet country life was really nice for him, for a while. Strange, radical ideas eventually spread through the church though, and half of its members left overnight to form their own congregation. Its funding cut in half, the church had to close its doors and the other members absorbed into other churches. Smallmouth rarely ever saw the people that had departed from the church, but rumors creeped that they met at an old abandoned building deep in the woods, performing all sorts of different acts and rituals that would purify themselves and destroy all evils. Nevertheless, Smallmouth was out of work and picked up shifts bartending at a small town dive. His soft fortitude was no match for the booze and drugs and women that would pass through there and soon he was out the door. That landed him mooching off of his parents, draining their sanity and eventually draining himself on their Christmas tree. The last strike.
So there he was all night, waiting up for uncle Chuck. He was two days clean of everything except caffeine and nicotine, a major improvement. He felt a boost of hope and confidence the first morning after a sober nights sleep. He found the mornings to be the best parts of the day. At least he had coffee and cigarettes to get him out of bed. That would wear off quickly and the rest of the day was filled with trying to find distractions until the sun set about 5pm. Then he would watch a movie or two with Chuck. Last night he had been able to call it early and go to sleep at 7pm shortly after Chuck started sawing logs in front of True Grit (the original John Wayne version of course). Tonight he saw 7pm struggle and churn into 8…….8:13……..8:48……9:05……9:29………..9:31………9:52……..9:58……….10:11…….10:12 (oh cmon)……10:27…….10:56…….and finally 11:08. It was like the clock was a 35 year old four cylinder engine oiled with crunchy peanut butter. Now, crunch time sat in the cold air as Smallmouth finished his cigarette and stewed over his decision. He really didn’t feel like going down to the barn and getting Chuck, even though it was only a couple miles. In the infancy of his sobriety he found the smallest of choices and activities to seem dire and at the very least upsettingly out of his way. Surely Chuck can get himself home on his own, right?
“No. Who knows if someone’s Aunt Rebecca or grandmother or son is out there on the road tonight” he thought.
As much as he had tried to screw up his life, Smallmouth usually knew what the right decision would be, even if he so often refused to listen. It was there ever so clearly on this New Year’s Eve, wailing in the back row of his mind like a misbehaved child during a church sermon. Smallmouth left the porch and went inside to grab his keys.
He walked out to his truck, got in, cranked it, let it sit down to one rpm, and started down the gravel driveway, which led to the gravel county road that Chuck and his few and far between neighbors lived on. He got to the mailbox and suddenly shot his attention up the road, where headlights revealed themselves out of the deep dark. It was rare to see any cars this far down Chuck’s road. In fact, there were no other houses to the right of Chuck’s cabin, spare for a couple of empty ones that were condemned but were attached to a lot of forest property.
Smallmouth squinted his eyes as a large black Dodge Ram 3500 came barreling by with a livestock trailer. Even inside his own truck he could hear a terrible noise coming from that trailer. He recognized it instantly as a pig squeal.
“The hell?” He whispered as the truck and trailer tore down the road, going around a nearby corner and out of sight. He couldn’t guess what on earth that could be about at this hour, and especially since nobody lived down there anyway. He shrugged it off though, and turned left out of the driveway, headed for drunk Uncle Chuck down at the ranch.
Ten minutes and a couple of snowy country miles later Smallmouth found himself through the metal gate of the ranch and up to the main barn, where a couple of smiling ranch hands had Chuck held up between them just outside one of two closed garage doors. A lamppost nearby cast a glow of debauchery on all of their faces, especially Chuck’s. Smallmouth got out and walked up to them smiling and shaking his head.
“Well well well…” he said with a slight laugh.
“Your Uncle put on one hell of a clinic tonight ‘Mouth” one of the hands said.
“I…..I….I don’t know what they’re tawlkin bout son” Chuck slang out before a high pitched giggle.
“I got another couple rounds in me I thinks!”
Smallmouth laughed.
“Yeah I ain’t so sure about that uncle! Let’s get on home now and let these fellas get on too.”
“Y’alright alright” Chuck said as Smallmouth took him from his buddies arms into one of his own and led him to the passenger seat of his truck.
“Happy New Years boys!!! Let’s do it all again okay?” He hollered to his waving buddies as they drove back away from the barn and through the metal gate toward home.
“You have a good time Uncle?”
“Oh…ohhh…I reckon I showed those boys how to do it” Another childish giggle.
A light snow shower seasoned the cold air as the truck rolled down the gravel country road. In the yellow headlights it made a pleasant white noise for the eyes. Chuck put his hands up staggered and vertically, fingers together and outstretched, pointing out in front of the truck down the road like he was aiming up for a rifle shot. He closed one eye.
“Straight as an arrow ole son. You’re good at this.”
“I ain’t drunk pops” Smallmouth chuckled.
“Sure ya are. Everybody’s drunk son. Even people that ain’t drink. Ticket is to get drunk on good stuff” Chuck’s face calmed from a goofy grin as he kept his eyes out front into the slow swirling tube of visible night.
“You sound like you’re drunk on some pretty damn good stuff” Smallmouth retorted as they shared a look and a good laugh.
“Suppose’n you ain’t wrong. Gotta work on that just like you are. Proud o’ you for a couple days clean man. We’ll get right. We’ll get right. All I meant was that man is born to get drunk on somethin’ or other. What I mean is God. Man is born to get drunk on his God.” Chuck said as Smallmouth shot him a raised eyebrow look of confusion.
“Once God gets ya drunk then you’re home free ol’ son. That distillery is never ending eternal forever. That land flows with whiskey and honey.” They both shared another laugh.
“Okay okay I think I somewhat understand now Uncle.”
They rode in a few seconds of comfortable silence before Chuck put his hands up in an aim position down the road again.
“You know…man….man….man has a GOVERNOR…..you know that right?”
“A what? A governor?”
“That’s right a GOVERNOR…that’s right…a little bitty device in his brain that keeps him on the road…keeps him from turning right off into the dark. You ever hear that little voice that tells you you can turn off into the ditch…into oncomin’ traffic? Tells you you can shoot your buddy instead of the deer? That you can jump off the top of the building and onto the pavement when you’re up there enjoying the view?”
“I…uh…I don’t know…I mean maybe? Pretty sure those are intrusive thoughts and they’re normal.”
“Well whatever they are that’s what the governor is for. Keeps ya straight. Keeps ya from harmin nothin.”
“Alright man, alright.”
They pulled back into Chuck’s driveway and parked. Smallmouth helped his uncle out of the truck and up into the cabin, snow starting to color the roof and pile against the side of the house near the door. Arms locked Smallmouth propped open the screen door, opened the inner door, and led Chuck through the kitchen and to his bedroom. Chuck layed down on his camo comforter with a deep, long exhale.
“Ahhhh yes……yes” he whispered with a smile.
“I love ya son…I’m glad you’re heeeeere. Let’s get better….your mom needs it…..stay in the Lord’s light son…don’t let them devils get ya….let’s get better….lets….” He was off into the distant deep ether almost immediately, and his mouth hung open.
“Goodnight uncle…love ya too.” Smallmouth patted the bed twice before walking over and closing the bedroom door behind him.
He went and sat at the kitchen table. He regretted his behavior earlier in the night. How it pained him to have to stay up a little later to go help out his uncle.
“Cmon…” he whispered.
He agreed with Chuck. He was here to get better. To do better. Maybe Chuck was right. If he couldn’t get drunk off booze, it was time to pick something else to drink. Better things. Maybe even God? Smallmouth hadn’t paid much mind to God since his church job fell through. God surely hadn’t been there for him these last few years when he was at his lowest. Or was He there the whole time? Had Smallmouth just ignored Him? These things floated heavily in his mind and soon he realized he had been staring at the front door for several minutes. Had he even blinked? Then something else came to mind.
“Wait hold up”
That truck and trailer from earlier. What WAS that? He meant to bring it up to the ranch hands. They would’ve seen it come barreling down the road right by their front gate. Oh he wished he had brought that up to them. Oh well. It’s probably nothing. Smallmouth looked at the clock. 12:12.
“Happy New Year old boy.” He said to himself.
He sat for a moment in the warm kitchen light, his eyes not leaving the front door. Well, he’s up this late already, why not go run down and check on the abandoned properties?
No…no…it can wait. It’s probably nothing. Right?
Wrong. There’s that wailing kid in the back pew of his mind again. Come on kid can’t you just be quiet and listen to the sermon? No, no it can’t. It must be heard. Always. He knew he had to go check it out.
“Ughhhh FINE!” Smallmouth got up and grabbed his truck keys, patted to make sure his cigarettes were still there, and was out the door again.
The snow shower had ended. As he pulled up to the edge of the drive, he stalled for a moment and peaked out as far to the right as he could down the dark road. Nothing. It wasn’t very far to the end of that road, where two out of service mailboxes should’ve stood in a small cul-de-sac if it weren’t for teenagers beating them to splinters. Can’t really blame them either. Smallmouth considered his plan. Whether or not that truck belonged to the landowner down there, he shouldn’t feel like he needs to sneak around. He is merely a concerned neighbor after all. He began down the road and around that same corner the stranger disappeared earlier.
After a couple of slow, curious minutes Smallmouth could see the evidence of a great big fire in the near distance, beyond where the road ended. Through the bare trees and against the snow it cast orange and red that could surely be seen a mile in every direction, that is, if there were anyone there to see it.
Slightly intimidated, Smallmouth decided to turn off his headlights and let the fire guide him as he slowed up to 5mph and gently crackled his last few yards of gravel up to the remnants of the nearest mailbox post. It seemed the fire was on the land of the farther property, whose mailbox posthole was about 30 feet from where he came to a stop and parked his truck. Smallmouth turned it off and quietly got out into the cold. He crouched down as he walked over to the farther driveway, getting down on one knee to give it a stealthy closer look.
The abandoned property boasted a busted up trailer that sat pitifully about 500 feet from the mailbox memorial. Beyond that was a good ten acres of field that ended at the forest edge, which marked the beginning of thousands of acres of wildlife refuge. As Smallmouth peered on, it was obvious that the fire was way out in that field, blocked by the old trailer, which wore the hot light and columns of smoke on it like a devilish crown. Given the cover, Smallmouth crept over to the trailer and started easing around the right side.
Rounding the corner he noticed a propane tank that would be perfect for hiding behind and getting the best look he could at the mysterious activity. He got down on his belly and crawled his way over to the tank, before sitting up and peeking slowly over the top and out into the field.
Way down there, a couple acres away from the tree line, was a huge fire, made up of about fifty wooden pallets. It raged and lit up the whole field like it was just the beginning of sunset. Somewhat near the fire was the black Dodge Ram 3500 and trailer. Smallmouth could see a group of people dressed in all red, as if covered in bloody bedsheets from head to toe, circled around a crude cage, seemingly fastened together by pieces of metal fencing. They stood still as the pines, and twice as silent. Smallmouth, in a rare moment of curious courage, decided he had to get closer. He got back on his stomach and began to crawl through the cold, knee high grass.
Using the fire light as his North Star he crawled and crawled, feeling his hands, clothes, and beard get wet with snow. He didn’t care. Something was up that wasn’t normal, wasn’t right. He could feel it in his cold gut. When he thought he was close enough without giving himself away he planted his palms and ever so slowly raised his torso up into a weak push up to try and see out. He was glad he didn’t go any further. He may have been too close already.
He was close enough to read the name of the truck and count the holes in the livestock trailer. There were seven strangers in red sheets all around the makeshift cage, all holding long spears. One of the figures had a crown of black thorns on his head. They all had two eyeholes and one hole for the mouth. They didn’t move a muscle for the longest time, before the Crowned One forcibly touched the end of his spear to the ground.
“Now is the time, Brother and Farmer Abraham…there is no more for us in waiting.”
Smallmouth had just noticed the passenger window to the black Dodge was down, and he could hear the driver door open and soon saw a normal looking older man in a ball cap at the back of the trailer. He was holding a leash of some sort. He opened up the trailer and whistled into the dark of it. After a couple of loud, heavy thuds a gigantic, and I mean GIGANTIC Yorkshire pig came slowly shrugging out of the trailer. It was light pink in color but filthy, and gave wet sounding oinks as it came to the man’s hands expecting food. The thing must’ve weighed 1500 pounds, and at least ten feet long. It actually had to lower its head to reach the man’s hands, its ears coming up to the man’s chest. Smallmouth couldn’t believe his eyes. The man reached in his pocket and revealed a handful of some type of feed, which he tossed on the ground at the pig. It started right in as the man fixed a collar on the pigs girthy neck, then attaching a leash. The pig gave a slight squeal.
“Good girl, good girl…cmon now” the man called Farmer Abraham sweetly coaxed the animal. He gave his end of the leash a tug and the monstrous swine reluctantly left its food and followed the man over close to the Crowned One. The fire raged and raged nearby, throwing crazy shadows all over the place.
“What have you brought us, Brother and Farmer Abraham?”
“Yeah, uh, this is Old Azazel, she’s been in my family for years, man.”
The Crowned One dropped his spear and knelt down to the jowls of the hog, the dark holes of his eyes meeting those of the animal. The other red cloaked figures remained statuesque around the cage.
“Ah, yes, Old Azazel, hello. You are to be of great importance in the history of the Earth tonight, old friend.”
The Crowned One got back up to address Brother and Father Abraham, who seemed obviously put off, yet submissive.
“And is this Old Azazel a natural specimen? Is it fed only of the earth and the filths therein?”
“Yessir, I’d reckon so.”
“This is necessary for a proper sacrifice, Brother and Farmer Abraham. You may only bring your best, your cleanest, your most dear to the alter of the Almighty.”
“I understand.”
“May I take her now?”
The farmer gave his end of the leash to the black gloved left hand of the Crowned One. The Crowned one stood with it for almost a full minute in total stillness and silence. The only noise Smallmouth could hear was the sloppy smacks and oinks from Old Azazel. The farmer anxiously waited, wringing his hands expecting the next move from the Crowned One.
“Turn away, Brother and Farmer Abraham. Turn away from us and toward the fire now.” The Crowned One finally spoke.
“Phew, alright. We’re still good on our deal? Do you still promise to make my little girl better? Like you said?” The farmer asked, with some hopeful desperation.
“Turn now.”
“Well okay” the farmer turned his back to the Crowned One and toward the fire.
“I can assure you with all of the knowledge in my mind and in my heart, you will never see your daughter sick again in this lifetime, Brother and Father Abraham. You may find peace and solace in this truth.”
The farmer nodded in relief as he looked upon the fire. Smallmouth, taking it all in with great confusion, could see a smile on the farmers fire lit face, and turned back to the Crowned One just in time to see him reach under his red garment and pull out a pistol and shoot a round into the back of the farmers head, blowing his cap off, which frisbeed down near his shaking, crumpled body. Old Azazel threw a fit immediately, screaming and trying her best to flee. The Crowned One held the immense beast with one hand, and with seemingly little effort. The other red clothed figures finally made noise, laughing deep and heartily around the cage. The Crowned One, keeping Old Azazel close, walked over to the doubled over farmer, putting two more bullets into his head, essentially hollowing it out into a carnal mess. The farmers shaking mercifully stopped.
Smallmouth had to slam his forearm up to his mouth to muffle the scream that would’ve come out and blown his cover. His eyes were flown wide open and his arms were shivering.
The Crowned One put the pistol back under his red cloak and led the great pig, still squealing as high pitched and piercing as the human ear can withstand, over to the mouth of the cage, which was opened by the nearest red clothed stranger. Old Azazel flew in to the cage, having been unleashed by The Crowned One. It struggled around the cage, which was no bigger than 15x15 feet, giving it no room to get comfortable. It circled the inner perimeter, showing impressive speed for such a large animal. It squealed and squealed. The sound stung Smallmouths ears, and he covered them with his hands. He was still out of sight in the tall grass. The Red People around the cage laughed at the hogs entrapment. The Crowned One raised a hand to signal silence. The Red People were still and quiet again.
“Now, my brothers, the sacrificial gift is in our possession. Tonight…is a HOLY NIGHT.” The Crowned One raised his voice as if getting to the climax of a fire and brimstone sermon.
“TONIGHT…WE WILL DESTROY WHAT WAS ONCE CAST OUT BUT NEVER VANQUISHED!! WE WILL RID THE EARTH OF A GREAT ARMY!! AN ARMY OF HELL THAT HAS FAR TOO LONG ROAMED AND SICKENED OUR LANDS AND KILLED OUR LOVES!! TONIGHT…WE WILL DESTROY THE DESTROYERS…THE LEGION OF SATANS SOLDIERS BORN JUST AFTER THE GARDEN OF EDEN FELL…”
The Crowned One fell to his knees, his arms up and stretched toward the frozen sky. A mighty wind began blowing at Smallmouths back. He had to lower his head as it roared over him. After a moment it calmed and he was able to lift up again to see. Winds from all corners of the field met at the cage, swirling over it in a great snowy funnel that led up to the clouds. Old Azazel screamed and screamed from the cage.
“I SEE YOU VILLIANS!! I HEAR YOU HOSTS OF HELL!! I KNOW YOU LIVE IN THESE TREES!! I KNOW YOU COWER WITHIN THE SOUND OF MY VOICE!! SHOW YOURSELF!! TAKE THE BODY OF THIS ANIMAL THAT I HAVE SET BEFORE YOU!! TAKE IT NOW!! TAKE IT NOW AND FACE ME!! TAKE IT NOW!! TAKE IT NOW!! TAKE I-“
The Crowned One’s vocal cord shredding performance was cut short by a single burst of black lightning that shot down from the middle of the snowy funnel cloud that surrounded the cage. The Crowned One and all the Red People were thrown several feet back from the blast. Thunder immediately exploded across the field. Smallmouth buried his face as the force and sound raced over him. Ears ringing, he kept his face down for a few seconds. He squinted back up to the strike zone.
The strange black lightning had blown the cage completely apart. Two of The Red People had been hit with the metal fencing. One laid motionless. The other gargled in pain as he put a hand to the pole that was sticking out of his sternum, having penetrated all the way through. His legs buckled and he fell forward, the end of the pole hitting the ground first and propping him up for a moment, before his body slowly slid down to the ground around the metal. He went silent. The other four Red People, yelling in surprise, gathered themselves, looking to the charred hole in the ground where Old Azazel should be, right in the center where the cage used to stand. The Crowned One got to his feet and picked up his spear.
“My brothers, gather your arms…” the Crowned One whispered, breathing heavily under his red cloak.
“The work is not over…”
The four remaining Red People grabbed their spears and slowly walked over to the burnt, smoking hole, holding an attack pose over it until further instructions were given.
“Are you with us, you age old tormentors?” This was the first time Smallmouth could hear fear in the tired voice of the Crowned One.
“Are you with us now? Are you ready to die, you infernal bastards? Are you ready to-“
The Crowned One was interrupted by a booming noise from the hole that tore Smallmouths wits to shreds. It was similar to the cry of Old Azazel, but much deeper and ten times louder and angrier. It was as if a freight train was blaring its horn and slamming its brakes at the same time.
“NOW MY BROTHERS!! STRIKE THE BEAST OF HELL WITH YOUR SPEARS! NOW!!!”
The Red People all threw their weapons down into the smoking hole. The hellish noise from within stopped in an instant. The Red People crowded closer to the edge of the hole, waiting for the smoke to clear. The Crowned One walked over to them, putting his black gloved hand on the shoulder of the nearest man.
“Oh, Brothers. Oh my dear, dear Brothers. Your acts tonight have rid the earth of a Great and Powerful Evil…”
Before he could continue, a fully enraged and re-inspired bellow thrust itself up and out of the hole like a serrated blade. Much, much louder and angrier than before. The Red People were taken aback in terror. Suddenly, from within the hole, a large head emerged and gaped a huge, disgusting maw up at the crowd. The head was burned black and its eyes were half boiled white and without pupils. It shrieked out that most terrible noise as if it didn’t need oxygen.
“There’s no way” Smallmouth heard himself say under his breath.
All in one motion, the beast leaped out of the hole, and turned to face its attackers. It was Old Azazel, except swollen with burnt mass. It appeared to have grown a half a size at least. Three spears stuck out of its sizzling, charcoal colored back. It snapped its gigantic jaws at the Red People, who shuddered in horror. The Crowned One spoke:
“DO NOT RELENT BROTHERS!! ATTACK!! ATTACK THE BRUTE!!”
He pulled his pistol back out of his cloak and fired the remaining three rounds on the new and horrible black burnt Old Azazel. The beast’s cloudy boiled egg eyes shot open along with its unnaturally stretched jaws. It took the three bullets as if they were tennis balls. At the speed of a charging grizzly and with multiple times the power Old Azazel raged over to The Crowned One and dove onto him mouth first, putting both front hooves on his chest as he was knocked down. The Crowned One cried out in a shockingly high pitched wail, like a man being electrocuted. The Beast bit right into the soft of his belly, and began to shake him around like an Orca trying to separate a seal from its pelt.
“OH GOD!!!! AHHHHHH GOD OHHHHH!!! HELP ME!!!! NOOOO!!!! OH GOD HELP ME!!!! MAMA!!!! OHHHH!!! MAMA!!!!!”
The beast ate and ate and shook and shook and tore and broke and destroyed while the Crowned One lost more and more of his body, all while crying out to the sky at the top of his punctured lungs. The other Red People sprinted to the black Dodge Ram, opened its doors and piled inside. Smallmouth heard it crank up and it began to speedily turn around and race away from the fire and back toward the road. The beast unhooked from the Crowned One and let out another ghastly roar of victory before biting into his neck, ending his screaming forever. The beast then left his half devoured body and began a tremendous and terrible charge after the truck, which was greatly slowed down by the trailer. Smallmouth put his face down as the beast passed him by only about 10 feet on its way to the truck, which had just made it back to the road and was using every RPM possible to get away from the demon charged killing machine on its heels. Smallmouth turned around to watch both parties disappear down the road, the echoes of that great and evil blasting noise stabbing his ears again. He remained on his stomach in the tall, snowy grass for another two minutes as he normalized his breath and tried to make any sense of what he just witnessed.
Eventually he slowly rose up and looked to make sure that terrible thing was indeed out of the area. No signs of life or death from up at the road. The danger was at least a couple miles away by now. Smallmouth then turned back toward the fire and to the dominated body of the Crowned One. He carefully walked up closer and closer. To his amazement he heard wheezy noises coming from the emptied out torso of the man, a scattering of insides and flesh and blood strewn all around him. Troubled, rattling breaths escaped from under the red clothed head, whose crown of thorns had flown off in the attack. Most of the red cloak had been ripped to shreds, and all that remained covered were his shoulders and above. The cloth slowly ebbed and flowed with breath. Smallmouth could not believe this man was still alive. His entire digestive system was eviscerated and his ribs were exposed. Smallmouth knelt down beside him and lifted his cloak over his head to let him at least breathe his last in the open air.
Smallmouth let out a gasp. This man had a face that Smallmouth knew very well. He recognized him immediately from the old church he worked at. The clean shaven face. The short, silver hair. The sharp nose. This was a man that had joined his church two weeks before the schism. He never spoke in church but it was rumored he would meet at the homes of different members and try to sway them to his strange ideas. He was the one rumored to have led the radical faction somewhere in the middle of the woods. To Smallmouth, it was all starting to make more sense.
“I know you,” Smallmouth said softly, “I know who you are. You tore a church in half didn’t you? You’re the crazy guy that split up my ole church! What the hell have you done?”
The man struggled to breathe and tried his best to spit up a couple of words. His neck had deep lacerations that flowed with escaping life.
“I…I…I…uhh…I only…I only…I only did what I believed…” he whispered before a wet, stifled breath.
“What did you do?!!!” Smallmouth grew angry, and his voice followed suit. This man had ruined his job and now he had unleashed something horrifying on his neighborhood. He had tampered with things that man has no business tampering with.
“I…I…I have…have…I have failed, Smallmouth Bassett” the man croaked. Smallmouth couldn’t believe he had bothered to remember his name.
“I have failed. I have failed. God help you all…” with that the man’s face fell and he let out one last slow exhale before all was still.
Smallmouth got back on his feet and looked away from the dead man and toward the fire, which towered and raged in the reflection of his eyes.
“Oh no…oh no…oh no” he said in between terrified breaths.
Then another though hit him like a wrecking ball.
“Uncle Chuck…”

On the night when it all happened a young man called Smallmouth found himself in quite a pickle. He shivered and paced clumsily all over the second story porch of a cabin that used to be very nice, which overlooked a snowy down-sloping field that used to be kept up properly and carefully. He was already six packs deep into a carton of cigarettes he had bought only two days ago from a Casey’s General Store on his way up. He could recall the look on the young woman’s face at the register when he asked for a carton of Parliament Menthols, her eyes showing one blink of humorous surprise and another couple blinks of obvious concern, which faded to professional indifference as she rang in the sweet, icy killers. Smallmouth stopped his nervous dallying when he caught himself in the kitchen window; a large, shadowy figure sulking between the inside lights and the cold, almost glowing world downhill. His eyes still on his murky reflection, he patted his coat pockets for his seventh pack, pulling it out and smacking it against his left palm before cracking open and lighting it at his mouth. In a slow, warm flash, he could briefly see his own face in the window.
“Oh man, it’s bad” , he thought to himself.
He hadn’t shaved in weeks and his beard grew coarse and thick. A face that his mother had once called handsome had become a clean plate covered in steel wool. Well, maybe not so clean. Under and around his eyes were the obvious bruising of sleeplessness and his skin had lost its lively color and clarity of yesteryear.
“Ughhh” he groaned, turning away from the window to look over the porch and into the freezing, beckoning night.
The pickle that Jeremy “Smallmouth” Bassett found himself in involved his uncle, and his uncle’s evening logistics, to be precise. Smallmouth had been kicked out of his parents home on December 27th due to a slight misunderstanding at 2am when he believed the living room Christmas tree to be the downstairs bathroom. He had passed out on the couch after drinking a fire pit full of crushed Hamm’s cans and his brain tried desperately to get him up and to the nearby toilet. His little sister Stacy was tucked in fast asleep on a loveseat by the tree when she was brutally torn from her sugarplum dreams to hear the terrible hiss of Smallmouth’s folly. She screamed, the parents woke up, and, well, there you go. After well over three strikes, Smallmouth’s temporary residence had come to an end, and he was thrown to his mother’s brother’s cabin to dry up and straighten out before he could ever even be considered to return.
“You two deserve to live together. He can’t say no either because he owes me a lot more than this!” Smallmouth’s mother had screeched over him as he sat at the kitchen table the following morning with a cold bag of peas against his throbbing right temple. “You go there and you GET RIGHT!! I don’t care how long it takes just clean up your act and MAKE something of yourself! And for goodness sake tell Chuck to do the same, while he still has time!”
Yes, Uncle Chuck had his own shelf full of good time problems, and that’s what put Smallmouth in a bind tonight as he pondered over the white yonder that led to a black nothing, a black nothing that in the daylight pretended to be a forest. At night, it showed its true nature, an endless world of dark secrets and aching regret. At least that’s how Smallmouth saw it in this moment.
Chuck had gone down to the ranch he worked on for a New Years party with his work buddies. They liked to gather at the big barn where all of the vehicles and equipment were kept, sitting around a card table passing out stories about women and other trophy game that were either outright lied about or illegally poached. Oh, and they also liked to pass the bottle around. Therein lied the conundrum for Smallmouth.
Uncle Chuck was many things, but one thing he wasn’t was a drunk driver. Chuck’s wife Rebecca had been struck and killed by a drunk driver almost ten years ago when she was out jogging the back roads early one morning. Everyone assumed that’s what led him to his openly hard drinking and sneakily pill popping ways in the first place. For Chuck, most nights were kept at home, parked in front of a TV watching old westerns and cleaning out a full bottle of Wild Turkey 101 before snoring in his recliner. On the few nights he would go out, he would always call a ride if things got out of hand. As you can imagine, he tends to need a ride home.
“I should be home bout 11:30. Service ain’t so good up there near the barn so if it gets bout 11:15-11:20 and I ain’t home, go head and do me a favor and come grab me son.” Chuck had told Smallmouth before he left, closing the warped screen door behind him.
Smallmouth had spent the evening trying his best to stay entertained without the help of any chemical enhancement. His family’s anger and resentment really struck him and this time he was determined to truly get right and get his life back on the rails. He was 29 years old. He had gone through college clean as a whistle, bright and driven, receiving his MBA with plans to work his way up in a promising career in business. That worked for a couple years. Then he found a calling in ministry, deciding to quit the corporate world to fill an opening of a tiny country church in the area. They needed a deacon who could take care of things around the building and assist in the worship service. He wasn’t much for public speaking, haven been given the nickname Smallmouth at a young age due to his soft spoken nature, but he could pass plates and give a hushed prayer every now and then. He liked to mow and paint and help old ladies up the stairs. The quiet country life was really nice for him, for a while. Strange, radical ideas eventually spread through the church though, and half of its members left overnight to form their own congregation. Its funding cut in half, the church had to close its doors and the other members absorbed into other churches. Smallmouth rarely ever saw the people that had departed from the church, but rumors creeped that they met at an old abandoned building deep in the woods, performing all sorts of different acts and rituals that would purify themselves and destroy all evils. Nevertheless, Smallmouth was out of work and picked up shifts bartending at a small town dive. His soft fortitude was no match for the booze and drugs and women that would pass through there and soon he was out the door. That landed him mooching off of his parents, draining their sanity and eventually draining himself on their Christmas tree. The last strike.
So there he was all night, waiting up for uncle Chuck. He was two days clean of everything except caffeine and nicotine, a major improvement. He felt a boost of hope and confidence the first morning after a sober nights sleep. He found the mornings to be the best parts of the day. At least he had coffee and cigarettes to get him out of bed. That would wear off quickly and the rest of the day was filled with trying to find distractions until the sun set about 5pm. Then he would watch a movie or two with Chuck. Last night he had been able to call it early and go to sleep at 7pm shortly after Chuck started sawing logs in front of True Grit (the original John Wayne version of course). Tonight he saw 7pm struggle and churn into 8…….8:13……..8:48……9:05……9:29………..9:31………9:52……..9:58……….10:11…….10:12 (oh cmon)……10:27…….10:56…….and finally 11:08. It was like the clock was a 35 year old four cylinder engine oiled with crunchy peanut butter. Now, crunch time sat in the cold air as Smallmouth finished his cigarette and stewed over his decision. He really didn’t feel like going down to the barn and getting Chuck, even though it was only a couple miles. In the infancy of his sobriety he found the smallest of choices and activities to seem dire and at the very least upsettingly out of his way. Surely Chuck can get himself home on his own, right?
“No. Who knows if someone’s Aunt Rebecca or grandmother or son is out there on the road tonight” he thought.
As much as he had tried to screw up his life, Smallmouth usually knew what the right decision would be, even if he so often refused to listen. It was there ever so clearly on this New Year’s Eve, wailing in the back row of his mind like a misbehaved child during a church sermon. Smallmouth left the porch and went inside to grab his keys.
He walked out to his truck, got in, cranked it, let it sit down to one rpm, and started down the gravel driveway, which led to the gravel county road that Chuck and his few and far between neighbors lived on. He got to the mailbox and suddenly shot his attention up the road, where headlights revealed themselves out of the deep dark. It was rare to see any cars this far down Chuck’s road. In fact, there were no other houses to the right of Chuck’s cabin, spare for a couple of empty ones that were condemned but were attached to a lot of forest property.
Smallmouth squinted his eyes as a large black Dodge Ram 3500 came barreling by with a livestock trailer. Even inside his own truck he could hear a terrible noise coming from that trailer. He recognized it instantly as a pig squeal.
“The hell?” He whispered as the truck and trailer tore down the road, going around a nearby corner and out of sight. He couldn’t guess what on earth that could be about at this hour, and especially since nobody lived down there anyway. He shrugged it off though, and turned left out of the driveway, headed for drunk Uncle Chuck down at the ranch.
Ten minutes and a couple of snowy country miles later Smallmouth found himself through the metal gate of the ranch and up to the main barn, where a couple of smiling ranch hands had Chuck held up between them just outside one of two closed garage doors. A lamppost nearby cast a glow of debauchery on all of their faces, especially Chuck’s. Smallmouth got out and walked up to them smiling and shaking his head.
“Well well well…” he said with a slight laugh.
“Your Uncle put on one hell of a clinic tonight ‘Mouth” one of the hands said.
“I…..I….I don’t know what they’re tawlkin bout son” Chuck slang out before a high pitched giggle.
“I got another couple rounds in me I thinks!”
Smallmouth laughed.
“Yeah I ain’t so sure about that uncle! Let’s get on home now and let these fellas get on too.”
“Y’alright alright” Chuck said as Smallmouth took him from his buddies arms into one of his own and led him to the passenger seat of his truck.
“Happy New Years boys!!! Let’s do it all again okay?” He hollered to his waving buddies as they drove back away from the barn and through the metal gate toward home.
“You have a good time Uncle?”
“Oh…ohhh…I reckon I showed those boys how to do it” Another childish giggle.
A light snow shower seasoned the cold air as the truck rolled down the gravel country road. In the yellow headlights it made a pleasant white noise for the eyes. Chuck put his hands up staggered and vertically, fingers together and outstretched, pointing out in front of the truck down the road like he was aiming up for a rifle shot. He closed one eye.
“Straight as an arrow ole son. You’re good at this.”
“I ain’t drunk pops” Smallmouth chuckled.
“Sure ya are. Everybody’s drunk son. Even people that ain’t drink. Ticket is to get drunk on good stuff” Chuck’s face calmed from a goofy grin as he kept his eyes out front into the slow swirling tube of visible night.
“You sound like you’re drunk on some pretty damn good stuff” Smallmouth retorted as they shared a look and a good laugh.
“Suppose’n you ain’t wrong. Gotta work on that just like you are. Proud o’ you for a couple days clean man. We’ll get right. We’ll get right. All I meant was that man is born to get drunk on somethin’ or other. What I mean is God. Man is born to get drunk on his God.” Chuck said as Smallmouth shot him a raised eyebrow look of confusion.
“Once God gets ya drunk then you’re home free ol’ son. That distillery is never ending eternal forever. That land flows with whiskey and honey.” They both shared another laugh.
“Okay okay I think I somewhat understand now Uncle.”
They rode in a few seconds of comfortable silence before Chuck put his hands up in an aim position down the road again.
“You know…man….man….man has a GOVERNOR…..you know that right?”
“A what? A governor?”
“That’s right a GOVERNOR…that’s right…a little bitty device in his brain that keeps him on the road…keeps him from turning right off into the dark. You ever hear that little voice that tells you you can turn off into the ditch…into oncomin’ traffic? Tells you you can shoot your buddy instead of the deer? That you can jump off the top of the building and onto the pavement when you’re up there enjoying the view?”
“I…uh…I don’t know…I mean maybe? Pretty sure those are intrusive thoughts and they’re normal.”
“Well whatever they are that’s what the governor is for. Keeps ya straight. Keeps ya from harmin nothin.”
“Alright man, alright.”
They pulled back into Chuck’s driveway and parked. Smallmouth helped his uncle out of the truck and up into the cabin, snow starting to color the roof and pile against the side of the house near the door. Arms locked Smallmouth propped open the screen door, opened the inner door, and led Chuck through the kitchen and to his bedroom. Chuck layed down on his camo comforter with a deep, long exhale.
“Ahhhh yes……yes” he whispered with a smile.
“I love ya son…I’m glad you’re heeeeere. Let’s get better….your mom needs it…..stay in the Lord’s light son…don’t let them devils get ya….let’s get better….lets….” He was off into the distant deep ether almost immediately, and his mouth hung open.
“Goodnight uncle…love ya too.” Smallmouth patted the bed twice before walking over and closing the bedroom door behind him.
He went and sat at the kitchen table. He regretted his behavior earlier in the night. How it pained him to have to stay up a little later to go help out his uncle.
“Cmon…” he whispered.
He agreed with Chuck. He was here to get better. To do better. Maybe Chuck was right. If he couldn’t get drunk off booze, it was time to pick something else to drink. Better things. Maybe even God? Smallmouth hadn’t paid much mind to God since his church job fell through. God surely hadn’t been there for him these last few years when he was at his lowest. Or was He there the whole time? Had Smallmouth just ignored Him? These things floated heavily in his mind and soon he realized he had been staring at the front door for several minutes. Had he even blinked? Then something else came to mind.
“Wait hold up”
That truck and trailer from earlier. What WAS that? He meant to bring it up to the ranch hands. They would’ve seen it come barreling down the road right by their front gate. Oh he wished he had brought that up to them. Oh well. It’s probably nothing. Smallmouth looked at the clock. 12:12.
“Happy New Year old boy.” He said to himself.
He sat for a moment in the warm kitchen light, his eyes not leaving the front door. Well, he’s up this late already, why not go run down and check on the abandoned properties?
No…no…it can wait. It’s probably nothing. Right?
Wrong. There’s that wailing kid in the back pew of his mind again. Come on kid can’t you just be quiet and listen to the sermon? No, no it can’t. It must be heard. Always. He knew he had to go check it out.
“Ughhhh FINE!” Smallmouth got up and grabbed his truck keys, patted to make sure his cigarettes were still there, and was out the door again.
The snow shower had ended. As he pulled up to the edge of the drive, he stalled for a moment and peaked out as far to the right as he could down the dark road. Nothing. It wasn’t very far to the end of that road, where two out of service mailboxes should’ve stood in a small cul-de-sac if it weren’t for teenagers beating them to splinters. Can’t really blame them either. Smallmouth considered his plan. Whether or not that truck belonged to the landowner down there, he shouldn’t feel like he needs to sneak around. He is merely a concerned neighbor after all. He began down the road and around that same corner the stranger disappeared earlier.
After a couple of slow, curious minutes Smallmouth could see the evidence of a great big fire in the near distance, beyond where the road ended. Through the bare trees and against the snow it cast orange and red that could surely be seen a mile in every direction, that is, if there were anyone there to see it.
Slightly intimidated, Smallmouth decided to turn off his headlights and let the fire guide him as he slowed up to 5mph and gently crackled his last few yards of gravel up to the remnants of the nearest mailbox post. It seemed the fire was on the land of the farther property, whose mailbox posthole was about 30 feet from where he came to a stop and parked his truck. Smallmouth turned it off and quietly got out into the cold. He crouched down as he walked over to the farther driveway, getting down on one knee to give it a stealthy closer look.
The abandoned property boasted a busted up trailer that sat pitifully about 500 feet from the mailbox memorial. Beyond that was a good ten acres of field that ended at the forest edge, which marked the beginning of thousands of acres of wildlife refuge. As Smallmouth peered on, it was obvious that the fire was way out in that field, blocked by the old trailer, which wore the hot light and columns of smoke on it like a devilish crown. Given the cover, Smallmouth crept over to the trailer and started easing around the right side.
Rounding the corner he noticed a propane tank that would be perfect for hiding behind and getting the best look he could at the mysterious activity. He got down on his belly and crawled his way over to the tank, before sitting up and peeking slowly over the top and out into the field.
Way down there, a couple acres away from the tree line, was a huge fire, made up of about fifty wooden pallets. It raged and lit up the whole field like it was just the beginning of sunset. Somewhat near the fire was the black Dodge Ram 3500 and trailer. Smallmouth could see a group of people dressed in all red, as if covered in bloody bedsheets from head to toe, circled around a crude cage, seemingly fastened together by pieces of metal fencing. They stood still as the pines, and twice as silent. Smallmouth, in a rare moment of curious courage, decided he had to get closer. He got back on his stomach and began to crawl through the cold, knee high grass.
Using the fire light as his North Star he crawled and crawled, feeling his hands, clothes, and beard get wet with snow. He didn’t care. Something was up that wasn’t normal, wasn’t right. He could feel it in his cold gut. When he thought he was close enough without giving himself away he planted his palms and ever so slowly raised his torso up into a weak push up to try and see out. He was glad he didn’t go any further. He may have been too close already.
He was close enough to read the name of the truck and count the holes in the livestock trailer. There were seven strangers in red sheets all around the makeshift cage, all holding long spears. One of the figures had a crown of black thorns on his head. They all had two eyeholes and one hole for the mouth. They didn’t move a muscle for the longest time, before the Crowned One forcibly touched the end of his spear to the ground.
“Now is the time, Brother and Farmer Abraham…there is no more for us in waiting.”
Smallmouth had just noticed the passenger window to the black Dodge was down, and he could hear the driver door open and soon saw a normal looking older man in a ball cap at the back of the trailer. He was holding a leash of some sort. He opened up the trailer and whistled into the dark of it. After a couple of loud, heavy thuds a gigantic, and I mean GIGANTIC Yorkshire pig came slowly shrugging out of the trailer. It was light pink in color but filthy, and gave wet sounding oinks as it came to the man’s hands expecting food. The thing must’ve weighed 1500 pounds, and at least ten feet long. It actually had to lower its head to reach the man’s hands, its ears coming up to the man’s chest. Smallmouth couldn’t believe his eyes. The man reached in his pocket and revealed a handful of some type of feed, which he tossed on the ground at the pig. It started right in as the man fixed a collar on the pigs girthy neck, then attaching a leash. The pig gave a slight squeal.
“Good girl, good girl…cmon now” the man called Farmer Abraham sweetly coaxed the animal. He gave his end of the leash a tug and the monstrous swine reluctantly left its food and followed the man over close to the Crowned One. The fire raged and raged nearby, throwing crazy shadows all over the place.
“What have you brought us, Brother and Farmer Abraham?”
“Yeah, uh, this is Old Azazel, she’s been in my family for years, man.”
The Crowned One dropped his spear and knelt down to the jowls of the hog, the dark holes of his eyes meeting those of the animal. The other red cloaked figures remained statuesque around the cage.
“Ah, yes, Old Azazel, hello. You are to be of great importance in the history of the Earth tonight, old friend.”
The Crowned One got back up to address Brother and Father Abraham, who seemed obviously put off, yet submissive.
“And is this Old Azazel a natural specimen? Is it fed only of the earth and the filths therein?”
“Yessir, I’d reckon so.”
“This is necessary for a proper sacrifice, Brother and Farmer Abraham. You may only bring your best, your cleanest, your most dear to the alter of the Almighty.”
“I understand.”
“May I take her now?”
The farmer gave his end of the leash to the black gloved left hand of the Crowned One. The Crowned one stood with it for almost a full minute in total stillness and silence. The only noise Smallmouth could hear was the sloppy smacks and oinks from Old Azazel. The farmer anxiously waited, wringing his hands expecting the next move from the Crowned One.
“Turn away, Brother and Farmer Abraham. Turn away from us and toward the fire now.” The Crowned One finally spoke.
“Phew, alright. We’re still good on our deal? Do you still promise to make my little girl better? Like you said?” The farmer asked, with some hopeful desperation.
“Turn now.”
“Well okay” the farmer turned his back to the Crowned One and toward the fire.
“I can assure you with all of the knowledge in my mind and in my heart, you will never see your daughter sick again in this lifetime, Brother and Father Abraham. You may find peace and solace in this truth.”
The farmer nodded in relief as he looked upon the fire. Smallmouth, taking it all in with great confusion, could see a smile on the farmers fire lit face, and turned back to the Crowned One just in time to see him reach under his red garment and pull out a pistol and shoot a round into the back of the farmers head, blowing his cap off, which frisbeed down near his shaking, crumpled body. Old Azazel threw a fit immediately, screaming and trying her best to flee. The Crowned One held the immense beast with one hand, and with seemingly little effort. The other red clothed figures finally made noise, laughing deep and heartily around the cage. The Crowned One, keeping Old Azazel close, walked over to the doubled over farmer, putting two more bullets into his head, essentially hollowing it out into a carnal mess. The farmers shaking mercifully stopped.
Smallmouth had to slam his forearm up to his mouth to muffle the scream that would’ve come out and blown his cover. His eyes were flown wide open and his arms were shivering.
The Crowned One put the pistol back under his red cloak and led the great pig, still squealing as high pitched and piercing as the human ear can withstand, over to the mouth of the cage, which was opened by the nearest red clothed stranger. Old Azazel flew in to the cage, having been unleashed by The Crowned One. It struggled around the cage, which was no bigger than 15x15 feet, giving it no room to get comfortable. It circled the inner perimeter, showing impressive speed for such a large animal. It squealed and squealed. The sound stung Smallmouths ears, and he covered them with his hands. He was still out of sight in the tall grass. The Red People around the cage laughed at the hogs entrapment. The Crowned One raised a hand to signal silence. The Red People were still and quiet again.
“Now, my brothers, the sacrificial gift is in our possession. Tonight…is a HOLY NIGHT.” The Crowned One raised his voice as if getting to the climax of a fire and brimstone sermon.
“TONIGHT…WE WILL DESTROY WHAT WAS ONCE CAST OUT BUT NEVER VANQUISHED!! WE WILL RID THE EARTH OF A GREAT ARMY!! AN ARMY OF HELL THAT HAS FAR TOO LONG ROAMED AND SICKENED OUR LANDS AND KILLED OUR LOVES!! TONIGHT…WE WILL DESTROY THE DESTROYERS…THE LEGION OF SATANS SOLDIERS BORN JUST AFTER THE GARDEN OF EDEN FELL…”
The Crowned One fell to his knees, his arms up and stretched toward the frozen sky. A mighty wind began blowing at Smallmouths back. He had to lower his head as it roared over him. After a moment it calmed and he was able to lift up again to see. Winds from all corners of the field met at the cage, swirling over it in a great snowy funnel that led up to the clouds. Old Azazel screamed and screamed from the cage.
“I SEE YOU VILLIANS!! I HEAR YOU HOSTS OF HELL!! I KNOW YOU LIVE IN THESE TREES!! I KNOW YOU COWER WITHIN THE SOUND OF MY VOICE!! SHOW YOURSELF!! TAKE THE BODY OF THIS ANIMAL THAT I HAVE SET BEFORE YOU!! TAKE IT NOW!! TAKE IT NOW AND FACE ME!! TAKE IT NOW!! TAKE IT NOW!! TAKE I-“
The Crowned One’s vocal cord shredding performance was cut short by a single burst of black lightning that shot down from the middle of the snowy funnel cloud that surrounded the cage. The Crowned One and all the Red People were thrown several feet back from the blast. Thunder immediately exploded across the field. Smallmouth buried his face as the force and sound raced over him. Ears ringing, he kept his face down for a few seconds. He squinted back up to the strike zone.
The strange black lightning had blown the cage completely apart. Two of The Red People had been hit with the metal fencing. One laid motionless. The other gargled in pain as he put a hand to the pole that was sticking out of his sternum, having penetrated all the way through. His legs buckled and he fell forward, the end of the pole hitting the ground first and propping him up for a moment, before his body slowly slid down to the ground around the metal. He went silent. The other four Red People, yelling in surprise, gathered themselves, looking to the charred hole in the ground where Old Azazel should be, right in the center where the cage used to stand. The Crowned One got to his feet and picked up his spear.
“My brothers, gather your arms…” the Crowned One whispered, breathing heavily under his red cloak.
“The work is not over…”
The four remaining Red People grabbed their spears and slowly walked over to the burnt, smoking hole, holding an attack pose over it until further instructions were given.
“Are you with us, you age old tormentors?” This was the first time Smallmouth could hear fear in the tired voice of the Crowned One.
“Are you with us now? Are you ready to die, you infernal bastards? Are you ready to-“
The Crowned One was interrupted by a booming noise from the hole that tore Smallmouths wits to shreds. It was similar to the cry of Old Azazel, but much deeper and ten times louder and angrier. It was as if a freight train was blaring its horn and slamming its brakes at the same time.
“NOW MY BROTHERS!! STRIKE THE BEAST OF HELL WITH YOUR SPEARS! NOW!!!”
The Red People all threw their weapons down into the smoking hole. The hellish noise from within stopped in an instant. The Red People crowded closer to the edge of the hole, waiting for the smoke to clear. The Crowned One walked over to them, putting his black gloved hand on the shoulder of the nearest man.
“Oh, Brothers. Oh my dear, dear Brothers. Your acts tonight have rid the earth of a Great and Powerful Evil…”
Before he could continue, a fully enraged and re-inspired bellow thrust itself up and out of the hole like a serrated blade. Much, much louder and angrier than before. The Red People were taken aback in terror. Suddenly, from within the hole, a large head emerged and gaped a huge, disgusting maw up at the crowd. The head was burned black and its eyes were half boiled white and without pupils. It shrieked out that most terrible noise as if it didn’t need oxygen.
“There’s no way” Smallmouth heard himself say under his breath.
All in one motion, the beast leaped out of the hole, and turned to face its attackers. It was Old Azazel, except swollen with burnt mass. It appeared to have grown a half a size at least. Three spears stuck out of its sizzling, charcoal colored back. It snapped its gigantic jaws at the Red People, who shuddered in horror. The Crowned One spoke:
“DO NOT RELENT BROTHERS!! ATTACK!! ATTACK THE BRUTE!!”
He pulled his pistol back out of his cloak and fired the remaining three rounds on the new and horrible black burnt Old Azazel. The beast’s cloudy boiled egg eyes shot open along with its unnaturally stretched jaws. It took the three bullets as if they were tennis balls. At the speed of a charging grizzly and with multiple times the power Old Azazel raged over to The Crowned One and dove onto him mouth first, putting both front hooves on his chest as he was knocked down. The Crowned One cried out in a shockingly high pitched wail, like a man being electrocuted. The Beast bit right into the soft of his belly, and began to shake him around like an Orca trying to separate a seal from its pelt.
“OH GOD!!!! AHHHHHH GOD OHHHHH!!! HELP ME!!!! NOOOO!!!! OH GOD HELP ME!!!! MAMA!!!! OHHHH!!! MAMA!!!!!”
The beast ate and ate and shook and shook and tore and broke and destroyed while the Crowned One lost more and more of his body, all while crying out to the sky at the top of his punctured lungs. The other Red People sprinted to the black Dodge Ram, opened its doors and piled inside. Smallmouth heard it crank up and it began to speedily turn around and race away from the fire and back toward the road. The beast unhooked from the Crowned One and let out another ghastly roar of victory before biting into his neck, ending his screaming forever. The beast then left his half devoured body and began a tremendous and terrible charge after the truck, which was greatly slowed down by the trailer. Smallmouth put his face down as the beast passed him by only about 10 feet on its way to the truck, which had just made it back to the road and was using every RPM possible to get away from the demon charged killing machine on its heels. Smallmouth turned around to watch both parties disappear down the road, the echoes of that great and evil blasting noise stabbing his ears again. He remained on his stomach in the tall, snowy grass for another two minutes as he normalized his breath and tried to make any sense of what he just witnessed.
Eventually he slowly rose up and looked to make sure that terrible thing was indeed out of the area. No signs of life or death from up at the road. The danger was at least a couple miles away by now. Smallmouth then turned back toward the fire and to the dominated body of the Crowned One. He carefully walked up closer and closer. To his amazement he heard wheezy noises coming from the emptied out torso of the man, a scattering of insides and flesh and blood strewn all around him. Troubled, rattling breaths escaped from under the red clothed head, whose crown of thorns had flown off in the attack. Most of the red cloak had been ripped to shreds, and all that remained covered were his shoulders and above. The cloth slowly ebbed and flowed with breath. Smallmouth could not believe this man was still alive. His entire digestive system was eviscerated and his ribs were exposed. Smallmouth knelt down beside him and lifted his cloak over his head to let him at least breathe his last in the open air.
Smallmouth let out a gasp. This man had a face that Smallmouth knew very well. He recognized him immediately from the old church he worked at. The clean shaven face. The short, silver hair. The sharp nose. This was a man that had joined his church two weeks before the schism. He never spoke in church but it was rumored he would meet at the homes of different members and try to sway them to his strange ideas. He was the one rumored to have led the radical faction somewhere in the middle of the woods. To Smallmouth, it was all starting to make more sense.
“I know you,” Smallmouth said softly, “I know who you are. You tore a church in half didn’t you? You’re the crazy guy that split up my ole church! What the hell have you done?”
The man struggled to breathe and tried his best to spit up a couple of words. His neck had deep lacerations that flowed with escaping life.
“I…I…I…uhh…I only…I only…I only did what I believed…” he whispered before a wet, stifled breath.
“What did you do?!!!” Smallmouth grew angry, and his voice followed suit. This man had ruined his job and now he had unleashed something horrifying on his neighborhood. He had tampered with things that man has no business tampering with.
“I…I…I have…have…I have failed, Smallmouth Bassett” the man croaked. Smallmouth couldn’t believe he had bothered to remember his name.
“I have failed. I have failed. God help you all…” with that the man’s face fell and he let out one last slow exhale before all was still.
Smallmouth got back on his feet and looked away from the dead man and toward the fire, which towered and raged in the reflection of his eyes.
“Oh no…oh no…oh no” he said in between terrified breaths.
Then another though hit him like a wrecking ball.
“Uncle Chuck…”

On the night when it all happened a young man called Smallmouth found himself in quite a pickle. He shivered and paced clumsily all over the second story porch of a cabin that used to be very nice, which overlooked a snowy down-sloping field that used to be kept up properly and carefully. He was already six packs deep into a carton of cigarettes he had bought only two days ago from a Casey’s General Store on his way up. He could recall the look on the young woman’s face at the register when he asked for a carton of Parliament Menthols, her eyes showing one blink of humorous surprise and another couple blinks of obvious concern, which faded to professional indifference as she rang in the sweet, icy killers. Smallmouth stopped his nervous dallying when he caught himself in the kitchen window; a large, shadowy figure sulking between the inside lights and the cold, almost glowing world downhill. His eyes still on his murky reflection, he patted his coat pockets for his seventh pack, pulling it out and smacking it against his left palm before cracking open and lighting it at his mouth. In a slow, warm flash, he could briefly see his own face in the window.
“Oh man, it’s bad” , he thought to himself.
He hadn’t shaved in weeks and his beard grew coarse and thick. A face that his mother had once called handsome had become a clean plate covered in steel wool. Well, maybe not so clean. Under and around his eyes were the obvious bruising of sleeplessness and his skin had lost its lively color and clarity of yesteryear.
“Ughhh” he groaned, turning away from the window to look over the porch and into the freezing, beckoning night.
The pickle that Jeremy “Smallmouth” Bassett found himself in involved his uncle, and his uncle’s evening logistics, to be precise. Smallmouth had been kicked out of his parents home on December 27th due to a slight misunderstanding at 2am when he believed the living room Christmas tree to be the downstairs bathroom. He had passed out on the couch after drinking a fire pit full of crushed Hamm’s cans and his brain tried desperately to get him up and to the nearby toilet. His little sister Stacy was tucked in fast asleep on a loveseat by the tree when she was brutally torn from her sugarplum dreams to hear the terrible hiss of Smallmouth’s folly. She screamed, the parents woke up, and, well, there you go. After well over three strikes, Smallmouth’s temporary residence had come to an end, and he was thrown to his mother’s brother’s cabin to dry up and straighten out before he could ever even be considered to return.
“You two deserve to live together. He can’t say no either because he owes me a lot more than this!” Smallmouth’s mother had screeched over him as he sat at the kitchen table the following morning with a cold bag of peas against his throbbing right temple. “You go there and you GET RIGHT!! I don’t care how long it takes just clean up your act and MAKE something of yourself! And for goodness sake tell Chuck to do the same, while he still has time!”
Yes, Uncle Chuck had his own shelf full of good time problems, and that’s what put Smallmouth in a bind tonight as he pondered over the white yonder that led to a black nothing, a black nothing that in the daylight pretended to be a forest. At night, it showed its true nature, an endless world of dark secrets and aching regret. At least that’s how Smallmouth saw it in this moment.
Chuck had gone down to the ranch he worked on for a New Years party with his work buddies. They liked to gather at the big barn where all of the vehicles and equipment were kept, sitting around a card table passing out stories about women and other trophy game that were either outright lied about or illegally poached. Oh, and they also liked to pass the bottle around. Therein lied the conundrum for Smallmouth.
Uncle Chuck was many things, but one thing he wasn’t was a drunk driver. Chuck’s wife Rebecca had been struck and killed by a drunk driver almost ten years ago when she was out jogging the back roads early one morning. Everyone assumed that’s what led him to his openly hard drinking and sneakily pill popping ways in the first place. For Chuck, most nights were kept at home, parked in front of a TV watching old westerns and cleaning out a full bottle of Wild Turkey 101 before snoring in his recliner. On the few nights he would go out, he would always call a ride if things got out of hand. As you can imagine, he tends to need a ride home.
“I should be home bout 11:30. Service ain’t so good up there near the barn so if it gets bout 11:15-11:20 and I ain’t home, go head and do me a favor and come grab me son.” Chuck had told Smallmouth before he left, closing the warped screen door behind him.
Smallmouth had spent the evening trying his best to stay entertained without the help of any chemical enhancement. His family’s anger and resentment really struck him and this time he was determined to truly get right and get his life back on the rails. He was 29 years old. He had gone through college clean as a whistle, bright and driven, receiving his MBA with plans to work his way up in a promising career in business. That worked for a couple years. Then he found a calling in ministry, deciding to quit the corporate world to fill an opening of a tiny country church in the area. They needed a deacon who could take care of things around the building and assist in the worship service. He wasn’t much for public speaking, haven been given the nickname Smallmouth at a young age due to his soft spoken nature, but he could pass plates and give a hushed prayer every now and then. He liked to mow and paint and help old ladies up the stairs. The quiet country life was really nice for him, for a while. Strange, radical ideas eventually spread through the church though, and half of its members left overnight to form their own congregation. Its funding cut in half, the church had to close its doors and the other members absorbed into other churches. Smallmouth rarely ever saw the people that had departed from the church, but rumors creeped that they met at an old abandoned building deep in the woods, performing all sorts of different acts and rituals that would purify themselves and destroy all evils. Nevertheless, Smallmouth was out of work and picked up shifts bartending at a small town dive. His soft fortitude was no match for the booze and drugs and women that would pass through there and soon he was out the door. That landed him mooching off of his parents, draining their sanity and eventually draining himself on their Christmas tree. The last strike.
So there he was all night, waiting up for uncle Chuck. He was two days clean of everything except caffeine and nicotine, a major improvement. He felt a boost of hope and confidence the first morning after a sober nights sleep. He found the mornings to be the best parts of the day. At least he had coffee and cigarettes to get him out of bed. That would wear off quickly and the rest of the day was filled with trying to find distractions until the sun set about 5pm. Then he would watch a movie or two with Chuck. Last night he had been able to call it early and go to sleep at 7pm shortly after Chuck started sawing logs in front of True Grit (the original John Wayne version of course). Tonight he saw 7pm struggle and churn into 8…….8:13……..8:48……9:05……9:29………..9:31………9:52……..9:58……….10:11…….10:12 (oh cmon)……10:27…….10:56…….and finally 11:08. It was like the clock was a 35 year old four cylinder engine oiled with crunchy peanut butter. Now, crunch time sat in the cold air as Smallmouth finished his cigarette and stewed over his decision. He really didn’t feel like going down to the barn and getting Chuck, even though it was only a couple miles. In the infancy of his sobriety he found the smallest of choices and activities to seem dire and at the very least upsettingly out of his way. Surely Chuck can get himself home on his own, right?
“No. Who knows if someone’s Aunt Rebecca or grandmother or son is out there on the road tonight” he thought.
As much as he had tried to screw up his life, Smallmouth usually knew what the right decision would be, even if he so often refused to listen. It was there ever so clearly on this New Year’s Eve, wailing in the back row of his mind like a misbehaved child during a church sermon. Smallmouth left the porch and went inside to grab his keys.
He walked out to his truck, got in, cranked it, let it sit down to one rpm, and started down the gravel driveway, which led to the gravel county road that Chuck and his few and far between neighbors lived on. He got to the mailbox and suddenly shot his attention up the road, where headlights revealed themselves out of the deep dark. It was rare to see any cars this far down Chuck’s road. In fact, there were no other houses to the right of Chuck’s cabin, spare for a couple of empty ones that were condemned but were attached to a lot of forest property.
Smallmouth squinted his eyes as a large black Dodge Ram 3500 came barreling by with a livestock trailer. Even inside his own truck he could hear a terrible noise coming from that trailer. He recognized it instantly as a pig squeal.
“The hell?” He whispered as the truck and trailer tore down the road, going around a nearby corner and out of sight. He couldn’t guess what on earth that could be about at this hour, and especially since nobody lived down there anyway. He shrugged it off though, and turned left out of the driveway, headed for drunk Uncle Chuck down at the ranch.
Ten minutes and a couple of snowy country miles later Smallmouth found himself through the metal gate of the ranch and up to the main barn, where a couple of smiling ranch hands had Chuck held up between them just outside one of two closed garage doors. A lamppost nearby cast a glow of debauchery on all of their faces, especially Chuck’s. Smallmouth got out and walked up to them smiling and shaking his head.
“Well well well…” he said with a slight laugh.
“Your Uncle put on one hell of a clinic tonight ‘Mouth” one of the hands said.
“I…..I….I don’t know what they’re tawlkin bout son” Chuck slang out before a high pitched giggle.
“I got another couple rounds in me I thinks!”
Smallmouth laughed.
“Yeah I ain’t so sure about that uncle! Let’s get on home now and let these fellas get on too.”
“Y’alright alright” Chuck said as Smallmouth took him from his buddies arms into one of his own and led him to the passenger seat of his truck.
“Happy New Years boys!!! Let’s do it all again okay?” He hollered to his waving buddies as they drove back away from the barn and through the metal gate toward home.
“You have a good time Uncle?”
“Oh…ohhh…I reckon I showed those boys how to do it” Another childish giggle.
A light snow shower seasoned the cold air as the truck rolled down the gravel country road. In the yellow headlights it made a pleasant white noise for the eyes. Chuck put his hands up staggered and vertically, fingers together and outstretched, pointing out in front of the truck down the road like he was aiming up for a rifle shot. He closed one eye.
“Straight as an arrow ole son. You’re good at this.”
“I ain’t drunk pops” Smallmouth chuckled.
“Sure ya are. Everybody’s drunk son. Even people that ain’t drink. Ticket is to get drunk on good stuff” Chuck’s face calmed from a goofy grin as he kept his eyes out front into the slow swirling tube of visible night.
“You sound like you’re drunk on some pretty damn good stuff” Smallmouth retorted as they shared a look and a good laugh.
“Suppose’n you ain’t wrong. Gotta work on that just like you are. Proud o’ you for a couple days clean man. We’ll get right. We’ll get right. All I meant was that man is born to get drunk on somethin’ or other. What I mean is God. Man is born to get drunk on his God.” Chuck said as Smallmouth shot him a raised eyebrow look of confusion.
“Once God gets ya drunk then you’re home free ol’ son. That distillery is never ending eternal forever. That land flows with whiskey and honey.” They both shared another laugh.
“Okay okay I think I somewhat understand now Uncle.”
They rode in a few seconds of comfortable silence before Chuck put his hands up in an aim position down the road again.
“You know…man….man….man has a GOVERNOR…..you know that right?”
“A what? A governor?”
“That’s right a GOVERNOR…that’s right…a little bitty device in his brain that keeps him on the road…keeps him from turning right off into the dark. You ever hear that little voice that tells you you can turn off into the ditch…into oncomin’ traffic? Tells you you can shoot your buddy instead of the deer? That you can jump off the top of the building and onto the pavement when you’re up there enjoying the view?”
“I…uh…I don’t know…I mean maybe? Pretty sure those are intrusive thoughts and they’re normal.”
“Well whatever they are that’s what the governor is for. Keeps ya straight. Keeps ya from harmin nothin.”
“Alright man, alright.”
They pulled back into Chuck’s driveway and parked. Smallmouth helped his uncle out of the truck and up into the cabin, snow starting to color the roof and pile against the side of the house near the door. Arms locked Smallmouth propped open the screen door, opened the inner door, and led Chuck through the kitchen and to his bedroom. Chuck layed down on his camo comforter with a deep, long exhale.
“Ahhhh yes……yes” he whispered with a smile.
“I love ya son…I’m glad you’re heeeeere. Let’s get better….your mom needs it…..stay in the Lord’s light son…don’t let them devils get ya….let’s get better….lets….” He was off into the distant deep ether almost immediately, and his mouth hung open.
“Goodnight uncle…love ya too.” Smallmouth patted the bed twice before walking over and closing the bedroom door behind him.
He went and sat at the kitchen table. He regretted his behavior earlier in the night. How it pained him to have to stay up a little later to go help out his uncle.
“Cmon…” he whispered.
He agreed with Chuck. He was here to get better. To do better. Maybe Chuck was right. If he couldn’t get drunk off booze, it was time to pick something else to drink. Better things. Maybe even God? Smallmouth hadn’t paid much mind to God since his church job fell through. God surely hadn’t been there for him these last few years when he was at his lowest. Or was He there the whole time? Had Smallmouth just ignored Him? These things floated heavily in his mind and soon he realized he had been staring at the front door for several minutes. Had he even blinked? Then something else came to mind.
“Wait hold up”
That truck and trailer from earlier. What WAS that? He meant to bring it up to the ranch hands. They would’ve seen it come barreling down the road right by their front gate. Oh he wished he had brought that up to them. Oh well. It’s probably nothing. Smallmouth looked at the clock. 12:12.
“Happy New Year old boy.” He said to himself.
He sat for a moment in the warm kitchen light, his eyes not leaving the front door. Well, he’s up this late already, why not go run down and check on the abandoned properties?
No…no…it can wait. It’s probably nothing. Right?
Wrong. There’s that wailing kid in the back pew of his mind again. Come on kid can’t you just be quiet and listen to the sermon? No, no it can’t. It must be heard. Always. He knew he had to go check it out.
“Ughhhh FINE!” Smallmouth got up and grabbed his truck keys, patted to make sure his cigarettes were still there, and was out the door again.
The snow shower had ended. As he pulled up to the edge of the drive, he stalled for a moment and peaked out as far to the right as he could down the dark road. Nothing. It wasn’t very far to the end of that road, where two out of service mailboxes should’ve stood in a small cul-de-sac if it weren’t for teenagers beating them to splinters. Can’t really blame them either. Smallmouth considered his plan. Whether or not that truck belonged to the landowner down there, he shouldn’t feel like he needs to sneak around. He is merely a concerned neighbor after all. He began down the road and around that same corner the stranger disappeared earlier.
After a couple of slow, curious minutes Smallmouth could see the evidence of a great big fire in the near distance, beyond where the road ended. Through the bare trees and against the snow it cast orange and red that could surely be seen a mile in every direction, that is, if there were anyone there to see it.
Slightly intimidated, Smallmouth decided to turn off his headlights and let the fire guide him as he slowed up to 5mph and gently crackled his last few yards of gravel up to the remnants of the nearest mailbox post. It seemed the fire was on the land of the farther property, whose mailbox posthole was about 30 feet from where he came to a stop and parked his truck. Smallmouth turned it off and quietly got out into the cold. He crouched down as he walked over to the farther driveway, getting down on one knee to give it a stealthy closer look.
The abandoned property boasted a busted up trailer that sat pitifully about 500 feet from the mailbox memorial. Beyond that was a good ten acres of field that ended at the forest edge, which marked the beginning of thousands of acres of wildlife refuge. As Smallmouth peered on, it was obvious that the fire was way out in that field, blocked by the old trailer, which wore the hot light and columns of smoke on it like a devilish crown. Given the cover, Smallmouth crept over to the trailer and started easing around the right side.
Rounding the corner he noticed a propane tank that would be perfect for hiding behind and getting the best look he could at the mysterious activity. He got down on his belly and crawled his way over to the tank, before sitting up and peeking slowly over the top and out into the field.
Way down there, a couple acres away from the tree line, was a huge fire, made up of about fifty wooden pallets. It raged and lit up the whole field like it was just the beginning of sunset. Somewhat near the fire was the black Dodge Ram 3500 and trailer. Smallmouth could see a group of people dressed in all red, as if covered in bloody bedsheets from head to toe, circled around a crude cage, seemingly fastened together by pieces of metal fencing. They stood still as the pines, and twice as silent. Smallmouth, in a rare moment of curious courage, decided he had to get closer. He got back on his stomach and began to crawl through the cold, knee high grass.
Using the fire light as his North Star he crawled and crawled, feeling his hands, clothes, and beard get wet with snow. He didn’t care. Something was up that wasn’t normal, wasn’t right. He could feel it in his cold gut. When he thought he was close enough without giving himself away he planted his palms and ever so slowly raised his torso up into a weak push up to try and see out. He was glad he didn’t go any further. He may have been too close already.
He was close enough to read the name of the truck and count the holes in the livestock trailer. There were seven strangers in red sheets all around the makeshift cage, all holding long spears. One of the figures had a crown of black thorns on his head. They all had two eyeholes and one hole for the mouth. They didn’t move a muscle for the longest time, before the Crowned One forcibly touched the end of his spear to the ground.
“Now is the time, Brother and Farmer Abraham…there is no more for us in waiting.”
Smallmouth had just noticed the passenger window to the black Dodge was down, and he could hear the driver door open and soon saw a normal looking older man in a ball cap at the back of the trailer. He was holding a leash of some sort. He opened up the trailer and whistled into the dark of it. After a couple of loud, heavy thuds a gigantic, and I mean GIGANTIC Yorkshire pig came slowly shrugging out of the trailer. It was light pink in color but filthy, and gave wet sounding oinks as it came to the man’s hands expecting food. The thing must’ve weighed 1500 pounds, and at least ten feet long. It actually had to lower its head to reach the man’s hands, its ears coming up to the man’s chest. Smallmouth couldn’t believe his eyes. The man reached in his pocket and revealed a handful of some type of feed, which he tossed on the ground at the pig. It started right in as the man fixed a collar on the pigs girthy neck, then attaching a leash. The pig gave a slight squeal.
“Good girl, good girl…cmon now” the man called Farmer Abraham sweetly coaxed the animal. He gave his end of the leash a tug and the monstrous swine reluctantly left its food and followed the man over close to the Crowned One. The fire raged and raged nearby, throwing crazy shadows all over the place.
“What have you brought us, Brother and Farmer Abraham?”
“Yeah, uh, this is Old Azazel, she’s been in my family for years, man.”
The Crowned One dropped his spear and knelt down to the jowls of the hog, the dark holes of his eyes meeting those of the animal. The other red cloaked figures remained statuesque around the cage.
“Ah, yes, Old Azazel, hello. You are to be of great importance in the history of the Earth tonight, old friend.”
The Crowned One got back up to address Brother and Father Abraham, who seemed obviously put off, yet submissive.
“And is this Old Azazel a natural specimen? Is it fed only of the earth and the filths therein?”
“Yessir, I’d reckon so.”
“This is necessary for a proper sacrifice, Brother and Farmer Abraham. You may only bring your best, your cleanest, your most dear to the alter of the Almighty.”
“I understand.”
“May I take her now?”
The farmer gave his end of the leash to the black gloved left hand of the Crowned One. The Crowned one stood with it for almost a full minute in total stillness and silence. The only noise Smallmouth could hear was the sloppy smacks and oinks from Old Azazel. The farmer anxiously waited, wringing his hands expecting the next move from the Crowned One.
“Turn away, Brother and Farmer Abraham. Turn away from us and toward the fire now.” The Crowned One finally spoke.
“Phew, alright. We’re still good on our deal? Do you still promise to make my little girl better? Like you said?” The farmer asked, with some hopeful desperation.
“Turn now.”
“Well okay” the farmer turned his back to the Crowned One and toward the fire.
“I can assure you with all of the knowledge in my mind and in my heart, you will never see your daughter sick again in this lifetime, Brother and Father Abraham. You may find peace and solace in this truth.”
The farmer nodded in relief as he looked upon the fire. Smallmouth, taking it all in with great confusion, could see a smile on the farmers fire lit face, and turned back to the Crowned One just in time to see him reach under his red garment and pull out a pistol and shoot a round into the back of the farmers head, blowing his cap off, which frisbeed down near his shaking, crumpled body. Old Azazel threw a fit immediately, screaming and trying her best to flee. The Crowned One held the immense beast with one hand, and with seemingly little effort. The other red clothed figures finally made noise, laughing deep and heartily around the cage. The Crowned One, keeping Old Azazel close, walked over to the doubled over farmer, putting two more bullets into his head, essentially hollowing it out into a carnal mess. The farmers shaking mercifully stopped.
Smallmouth had to slam his forearm up to his mouth to muffle the scream that would’ve come out and blown his cover. His eyes were flown wide open and his arms were shivering.
The Crowned One put the pistol back under his red cloak and led the great pig, still squealing as high pitched and piercing as the human ear can withstand, over to the mouth of the cage, which was opened by the nearest red clothed stranger. Old Azazel flew in to the cage, having been unleashed by The Crowned One. It struggled around the cage, which was no bigger than 15x15 feet, giving it no room to get comfortable. It circled the inner perimeter, showing impressive speed for such a large animal. It squealed and squealed. The sound stung Smallmouths ears, and he covered them with his hands. He was still out of sight in the tall grass. The Red People around the cage laughed at the hogs entrapment. The Crowned One raised a hand to signal silence. The Red People were still and quiet again.
“Now, my brothers, the sacrificial gift is in our possession. Tonight…is a HOLY NIGHT.” The Crowned One raised his voice as if getting to the climax of a fire and brimstone sermon.
“TONIGHT…WE WILL DESTROY WHAT WAS ONCE CAST OUT BUT NEVER VANQUISHED!! WE WILL RID THE EARTH OF A GREAT ARMY!! AN ARMY OF HELL THAT HAS FAR TOO LONG ROAMED AND SICKENED OUR LANDS AND KILLED OUR LOVES!! TONIGHT…WE WILL DESTROY THE DESTROYERS…THE LEGION OF SATANS SOLDIERS BORN JUST AFTER THE GARDEN OF EDEN FELL…”
The Crowned One fell to his knees, his arms up and stretched toward the frozen sky. A mighty wind began blowing at Smallmouths back. He had to lower his head as it roared over him. After a moment it calmed and he was able to lift up again to see. Winds from all corners of the field met at the cage, swirling over it in a great snowy funnel that led up to the clouds. Old Azazel screamed and screamed from the cage.
“I SEE YOU VILLIANS!! I HEAR YOU HOSTS OF HELL!! I KNOW YOU LIVE IN THESE TREES!! I KNOW YOU COWER WITHIN THE SOUND OF MY VOICE!! SHOW YOURSELF!! TAKE THE BODY OF THIS ANIMAL THAT I HAVE SET BEFORE YOU!! TAKE IT NOW!! TAKE IT NOW AND FACE ME!! TAKE IT NOW!! TAKE IT NOW!! TAKE I-“
The Crowned One’s vocal cord shredding performance was cut short by a single burst of black lightning that shot down from the middle of the snowy funnel cloud that surrounded the cage. The Crowned One and all the Red People were thrown several feet back from the blast. Thunder immediately exploded across the field. Smallmouth buried his face as the force and sound raced over him. Ears ringing, he kept his face down for a few seconds. He squinted back up to the strike zone.
The strange black lightning had blown the cage completely apart. Two of The Red People had been hit with the metal fencing. One laid motionless. The other gargled in pain as he put a hand to the pole that was sticking out of his sternum, having penetrated all the way through. His legs buckled and he fell forward, the end of the pole hitting the ground first and propping him up for a moment, before his body slowly slid down to the ground around the metal. He went silent. The other four Red People, yelling in surprise, gathered themselves, looking to the charred hole in the ground where Old Azazel should be, right in the center where the cage used to stand. The Crowned One got to his feet and picked up his spear.
“My brothers, gather your arms…” the Crowned One whispered, breathing heavily under his red cloak.
“The work is not over…”
The four remaining Red People grabbed their spears and slowly walked over to the burnt, smoking hole, holding an attack pose over it until further instructions were given.
“Are you with us, you age old tormentors?” This was the first time Smallmouth could hear fear in the tired voice of the Crowned One.
“Are you with us now? Are you ready to die, you infernal bastards? Are you ready to-“
The Crowned One was interrupted by a booming noise from the hole that tore Smallmouths wits to shreds. It was similar to the cry of Old Azazel, but much deeper and ten times louder and angrier. It was as if a freight train was blaring its horn and slamming its brakes at the same time.
“NOW MY BROTHERS!! STRIKE THE BEAST OF HELL WITH YOUR SPEARS! NOW!!!”
The Red People all threw their weapons down into the smoking hole. The hellish noise from within stopped in an instant. The Red People crowded closer to the edge of the hole, waiting for the smoke to clear. The Crowned One walked over to them, putting his black gloved hand on the shoulder of the nearest man.
“Oh, Brothers. Oh my dear, dear Brothers. Your acts tonight have rid the earth of a Great and Powerful Evil…”
Before he could continue, a fully enraged and re-inspired bellow thrust itself up and out of the hole like a serrated blade. Much, much louder and angrier than before. The Red People were taken aback in terror. Suddenly, from within the hole, a large head emerged and gaped a huge, disgusting maw up at the crowd. The head was burned black and its eyes were half boiled white and without pupils. It shrieked out that most terrible noise as if it didn’t need oxygen.
“There’s no way” Smallmouth heard himself say under his breath.
All in one motion, the beast leaped out of the hole, and turned to face its attackers. It was Old Azazel, except swollen with burnt mass. It appeared to have grown a half a size at least. Three spears stuck out of its sizzling, charcoal colored back. It snapped its gigantic jaws at the Red People, who shuddered in horror. The Crowned One spoke:
“DO NOT RELENT BROTHERS!! ATTACK!! ATTACK THE BRUTE!!”
He pulled his pistol back out of his cloak and fired the remaining three rounds on the new and horrible black burnt Old Azazel. The beast’s cloudy boiled egg eyes shot open along with its unnaturally stretched jaws. It took the three bullets as if they were tennis balls. At the speed of a charging grizzly and with multiple times the power Old Azazel raged over to The Crowned One and dove onto him mouth first, putting both front hooves on his chest as he was knocked down. The Crowned One cried out in a shockingly high pitched wail, like a man being electrocuted. The Beast bit right into the soft of his belly, and began to shake him around like an Orca trying to separate a seal from its pelt.
“OH GOD!!!! AHHHHHH GOD OHHHHH!!! HELP ME!!!! NOOOO!!!! OH GOD HELP ME!!!! MAMA!!!! OHHHH!!! MAMA!!!!!”
The beast ate and ate and shook and shook and tore and broke and destroyed while the Crowned One lost more and more of his body, all while crying out to the sky at the top of his punctured lungs. The other Red People sprinted to the black Dodge Ram, opened its doors and piled inside. Smallmouth heard it crank up and it began to speedily turn around and race away from the fire and back toward the road. The beast unhooked from the Crowned One and let out another ghastly roar of victory before biting into his neck, ending his screaming forever. The beast then left his half devoured body and began a tremendous and terrible charge after the truck, which was greatly slowed down by the trailer. Smallmouth put his face down as the beast passed him by only about 10 feet on its way to the truck, which had just made it back to the road and was using every RPM possible to get away from the demon charged killing machine on its heels. Smallmouth turned around to watch both parties disappear down the road, the echoes of that great and evil blasting noise stabbing his ears again. He remained on his stomach in the tall, snowy grass for another two minutes as he normalized his breath and tried to make any sense of what he just witnessed.
Eventually he slowly rose up and looked to make sure that terrible thing was indeed out of the area. No signs of life or death from up at the road. The danger was at least a couple miles away by now. Smallmouth then turned back toward the fire and to the dominated body of the Crowned One. He carefully walked up closer and closer. To his amazement he heard wheezy noises coming from the emptied out torso of the man, a scattering of insides and flesh and blood strewn all around him. Troubled, rattling breaths escaped from under the red clothed head, whose crown of thorns had flown off in the attack. Most of the red cloak had been ripped to shreds, and all that remained covered were his shoulders and above. The cloth slowly ebbed and flowed with breath. Smallmouth could not believe this man was still alive. His entire digestive system was eviscerated and his ribs were exposed. Smallmouth knelt down beside him and lifted his cloak over his head to let him at least breathe his last in the open air.
Smallmouth let out a gasp. This man had a face that Smallmouth knew very well. He recognized him immediately from the old church he worked at. The clean shaven face. The short, silver hair. The sharp nose. This was a man that had joined his church two weeks before the schism. He never spoke in church but it was rumored he would meet at the homes of different members and try to sway them to his strange ideas. He was the one rumored to have led the radical faction somewhere in the middle of the woods. To Smallmouth, it was all starting to make more sense.
“I know you,” Smallmouth said softly, “I know who you are. You tore a church in half didn’t you? You’re the crazy guy that split up my ole church! What the hell have you done?”
The man struggled to breathe and tried his best to spit up a couple of words. His neck had deep lacerations that flowed with escaping life.
“I…I…I…uhh…I only…I only…I only did what I believed…” he whispered before a wet, stifled breath.
“What did you do?!!!” Smallmouth grew angry, and his voice followed suit. This man had ruined his job and now he had unleashed something horrifying on his neighborhood. He had tampered with things that man has no business tampering with.
“I…I…I have…have…I have failed, Smallmouth Bassett” the man croaked. Smallmouth couldn’t believe he had bothered to remember his name.
“I have failed. I have failed. God help you all…” with that the man’s face fell and he let out one last slow exhale before all was still.
Smallmouth got back on his feet and looked away from the dead man and toward the fire, which towered and raged in the reflection of his eyes.
“Oh no…oh no…oh no” he said in between terrified breaths.
Then another though hit him like a wrecking ball.
“Uncle Chuck…”

Part 6
Kathy Evenson, Profe-Oh Shit!
Somewhere in the ruins of an ancient city in the Seventh World
"Run!" Kells shouted as the massive creature rose to its full height. Kathy turned and followed, operating mostly by dint of her instinctive reaction to the authority in his barked command. Kells didn't hesitate, taking off in the opposite direction from the thing, only glancing over his shoulder to ensure that Kathy was on his heels as he sheathed his weapons.
That didn't last long. With the magically-wrought enhancements to her body, she quickly overtook him and then slowed to keep pace. As they ran, she kept thinking 'you don't have to outrun the bear, you only have to outrun the other guy.'
The thoughts made her mad. Mostly at herself, for having them. She had been trained to be mercenary by The Company, but she had never abandoned her morals entirely. She had seen with her own eyes, countless times, that Jerry was able to stick to his morals, and still be one of the most powerful forces in the world. She was bound and determined to follow that example. It was the very reason she admired him in the first place.
The creature behind them made strange, high-pitched groans as it shook off rubble and gave chase to the prey that had disturbed its slumber. Something about the sounds triggered some recognition, but she was too busy escaping to spend much effort recalling where she'd heard them before.
They ran down a small street, then at her urging, turned between two dilapidated, multistory, wood-framed house whose wooden fence had long since collapsed and rotted away, following it into an alley that ran perpendicular to the road.
"Why?" Kells panted as they turned onto the alley.
"I doubt we can outrun it!" Kathy shouted back. "Better to try and lose it!" She kept an eye open for another chance to change their vector, and found it in the form of a three-story brick building that was still mostly intact. She turned right again, and then left at the next street.
Thunderous footsteps sounded behind them, causing Kells to put on a burst of speed. Kathy easily kept up, her mind racing, searching for options. She had just about decided to try and get some distance, and then try Jerry's Magic Bullet spell on the thing. It would mean a world of pain for her, but she figured that if it could kills a primordial, it could kill a giant, zombie spider.
Her thoughts were interrupted by a massive foot slamming into the ground just a few dozen feet behind them. The thunk of impact shook the ground, almost enough to make them both stumble. Acting, again on instinct, she eyed a point several hundred yards up the road and reached out, snatching Kells' arm and then teleporting them there.
"What in creation were that?!" Kells exclaimed as the whole world shifted abruptly around him. She hadn't gotten the elevation quite right, and they appeared a few inches off the ground, breaking their momentum. Both of them stumbled and scrambled to regain their balance.
"I teleported us further away!" Kathy shouted back.
"Teleported?!" Kells balked as they finally got their feet moving again.
"Yeah, you know!" Kathy explained. "One second we're here, the next, there!"
"Well teleport us back t'town, then!"
Kathy laughed. "Where's the fun in that!"
"Kath, I swear by all th'gods, I'll strip nekked and let ye ride me aroun' th'town like a pony, iffen ye jest bring us back there!"
Kathy laughed again. "You're a dirty old man, Kells!"
"Dirty, aye, but I'm still young!" he protested. "But I'd like to be old one day! So bring us back!"
Kathy slowed and turned, instead.
She could see the walker clearly now. And she understood why she'd recognized those noises. She'd only ever heard them in movies, but it seems the movies had been right.
Instead of the giant, zombified spider that Kells had described, she was looking at an enormous, steampunk, robot spider, draped in junk that resembled torn skin and severed sinews and veins. Tarps and tents were draped over its rusting, metal frame. Tubes that had once carried hydraulic fluids now flopped around, severed, dripping red liquids. Oils and dirt had stained it, resembling sores.
As she watched, the thing spotted them, a pair of obvious camera lenses turning towards them on its massive head and spinning to bring them into focus. Where its mouth should have been was a dense forest of protuberences, tubes, antennae and other equipment. Some of that equipment began to move, and Kathy recognized the pre-spin of miniguns.
"Cover!" she shouted, shoving Kells towards the closest tumble of fallen structure, a large and uneven mass of bricks. They had barely gotten behind it when the guns opened up, a ripping roar that thundered through the air and tore up the street where they'd been standing.
"Stars an' stones!" Kells swore.
"I wonder how much ammo it has left," Kathy mumbled to herself. But it was kind of a moot question. It clearly had some ammo left, and her only real plan to deal with it didn't involve fighting a war of attrition.
"I need you to distract it," she told Kells.
"Ye need t'get yer head checked!" he shot back. "We're both dead, Kath! I've ne'er even heard o' one who faced a walker an' lived t'tell the tale!"
"Then what difference does it make whether you distract it or not?!" Kathy demanded. Kells opened his mouth to argue, then paused, tilted his head thoughtfully to one side and closed his mouth. After a second, he shrugged at the same moment that the guns stopped firing.
"What d'ye need me to do?"
"Just run for it. I'll find you after I kill this thing."
Kells nodded, then stopped, his eyes widening yet again. "Kill it? Are ye daft?"
Kathy winked at him. "Yes, but that's beside the point. I hope you have a kink for strong women, otherwise you're about to feel real self conscious."
Kells stared, shaking his head sadly. "Well," he said philosophically after a moment. "Iffen I'm t'die today, at least y'seem like to entertain me." He started to straighten up, then paused.
"Yer sure ye dinnae want t'jest teleport us home?" he asked.
"If this doesn't work, that's plan B," Kathy assured him. Kells shook his head again, then stood.
"Hoy, ye attercop!" Kells shouted, jumping up and down, waving his arms. "Ye lazy lob! Blasted crazy cob! Come an' get me, ye old tomnoddy!"
Kathy peeked over the pile of bricks to see the beast turn its cameras towards Kells. "Oh shite," he muttered, turning and running as fast as he could down the road, away from the walker. Massive, spider-like legs began to stomp, the thing rushing forward with incredible speed.
Kathy drew in the magics she would need, her mind recalling the instructions Jerry had given her. Magical capacitors came first, and then she set up streamers of energy to charge them. More magic flowed into her, forming crawling, multicolored arcs of energy across her skin. Her skin began to glow with an intense, golden light.
She pushed and pushed, hoping Kells would survive long enough. It took her longer than it would have taken Jerry, because she had fewer wells. But she had great control over those wells, having studied at the elbow of the greatest wizard in the world, so she knew it could be done.
She formed the magic into a dense, impenetrable shell around her. Denser than lead, it pulled her body out with its mass, and caused the rubble to shift and roll towards her, purely from the gravity of it.
When she felt she was close, she rose into the air, letting the relatively minuscule expenditure of energy it took to do it come from the magic she was drawing in. She rose like a shining star, casting a golden and multicolored glow across the ruined landscape around her. She could see Kells, a hundred yards away, as he stopped, turned and stared in awe.
"All right," she said. "Time for the cosmic money shot."
She angled herself at the beast and released the capacitors, which had been charging the whole time. She braced herself against the inner walls of her magic as she shot off at incredible speed. The impact was almost unnoticeable at first, but she felt the pain as her own body tore through the giant robotics, breaking steel and wood and leather, ripping rubber hoses and sending debris rocketing away from her with the force.
She cried out as the beast exploded, the agony reaching throughout her own body. She lost control, tumbling and falling, striking the ground in a powerful impact as broken pieces rained down around her. She tumbled, skin tearing against the rough ground, bones snapping as she struck rock after rock.
Finally, she came to a halt. She lay there, on her back, staring up at the sky. She simply breathed, great gasping breaths as her body began the laborious process of stitching itself back together.
----
Kells, A Man of Good Mores and a Solid Caravaner
Somewhere in the ruins of an ancient city in the Seventh World
Kells ran for his life as the walker began to stomp after him. Behind him, where he had left Kath, he heard a strange crackling sound, but he did not dare to take his eyes off the ground in front of him. It was only as the crackling sound got louder and louder that he realized it didn't matter. He was dead, no matter what. He might as well satisfy his curiosity about how Kath thought she could hurt the beast.
He turned, and the first thing he noticed was the light. It trended towards a golden light, but it changed colors a lot. It was coming from the little alley where he and Kath had hidden from the fire the walker had spat at them, and it played out over the nearby ruins.
Kells slowed and stopped, his attention grabbed by this curious phenomenon. As he watched, the light rose, and then Kath appeared, floating up above the ruins. She was the source of the light. Her skin and clothes glowed with a brilliant golden light as rainbow-colored lightning crackled all around her. Kells felt his jaw drop.
He'd never seen anything like this before. He'd seen a few wizards conjure fire, or vanish into mid-air before. But he'd seen fire and empty space. This glow and the lightning... He began to wonder how much power it took to be so showy with magic.
She spoke after a few seconds. "All right. Time for the cosmic money shot," she said, words that echoed through the ruins in a reverberation of power. Kells barely had time to wonder what they meant when she rocketed off towards the walker at a speed that boggled his mind.
The creature simply exploded. Kells watched in slack-jawed amazement as the golden glow lanced through the beast, causing its torso to balloon and the disintegrate. Chunks of the beast, bleeding black and red blood, flew everywhere.
As they began to rain down, Kells realized that it wasn't bloody flesh, but metal and wood and that strange, dark material that had survived so well from the time of the ancestors. He picked up a piece, still hot from the explosion as the walker's body fell in three pieces, crashing to the ground.
It was some sort of device. He couldn't make heads or tails of it, but it was not flesh and blood, that much was certain. He wondered if that was what gave the walkers their strength. They were made out of sterner stuff.
After a few moments of examining the piece, he dropped it. He had seen the glow rocket through the walker, and then arc down to the ground, so he began moving to that point. He'd made quite a good clip, running in terror. Now, guided by awe and disbelief, he took his time, walking. It took a few minutes, but he found the point.
It was a crater, smashed into the ground. In the distance, he saw another crater, then a third, all in a straight line. Wondering if Kath had survived left a sinking feeling in his stomach, but if she had, he would not be the one to abandon her here. He followed the line of craters.
They grew closer and closer together, until finally, they turned into a groove, blasted into the ground. It ran for almost four hundred feet before it finally stopped at a building with thick walls.
She was there. Laying flat on her back, her chest heaving. Her clothes were torn and shredded, her flesh covered in thin trails of blood, as if she'd been injured, though he saw no signs of any wounds.
"K-Kath?" he asked tentatively. A pained groan greeted him. After a second, she raised her head and met his eyes.
"That sucked so much," she said. Kells couldn't help himself. He began to laugh. She joined him, wincing as she chuckled.
----
Sookie, Still Sad-ish
TacFab Showroom, Denver, CO "Take PRIDE in Your Tactical Gear!"
"It's a little tight," Sookie said, eyeing the plastic buckles on her shoulders and at either side of the front.
"That's a good thing," Linda replied, though she adjusted the velcro at Sookie's back to loosen it some. "You don't want it to be shifting around when you're moving. Turn around, let me see."
Sookie raised her arms and did a slow pirouette. Linda nodded thoughtfully, the elbow of one arm propped in her other hand, one finger tapping at her chin.
"That's good. Now, we gotta find plates."
"Aren't they all the same?" Sookie asked.
"No way, girl. There's a whole rainbow of choices." Linda took her hand and led her to a glass counter with a series of various home-plate-shaped things in it.
"Okay, so we've got soft armor, which is a mix of ballistic cloth, silk, PVC and other stuff. Then you've got steel, ceramic, arkanite alloy and spiritbone. They're graded on a scale that's kinda confusing. Three-A is the soft armor. It can usually stop any handgun round, except for the armor-penetrating ones. Then there's level three, which is better, and can stop some rifle rounds, up to about a full-size rifle round, like a three-oh-eight. There's level three-plus, which isn't an official term, but it means it can stop most full-size rifle rounds, except for AP stuff. Then there's the level four stuff, which will stop almost anything except for the biggest AP rounds. Finally, there's the M stamp, which means it's resistant to magic. The M comes with a number from one to ten, with a one meaning that anyone trying to cast a spell on the armor itself will fail. A ten means that it'll defeat most any magic cast on you, while you're wearing it."
"Uhh," Sookie said. That was a lot to take in. Linda smiled.
"I got you, girl. What you're gonna want is what I call a triple-stack. Get an arkanite-alloy level four-M-nine plate, then layer level three-A-M-two soft armor over top. Together, it's about a half-inch thick. Then you add a trauma pad behind it and you're about as protected as you can get."
"Okay," Sookie said. She still didn't know what it all meant, but the process of shopping for armor was getting to her. She was thinking about armor ratings and fits and kevlar and arkanite alloys, instead of thinking about him.
"Right here," Linda said, pointing to one that looked like an elongated baseball home plate. "That's a swimmer's cut, which you'll want to maintain as much movement as possible. I know you have that mace and stuff you sometimes use. This'll keep the armor from getting in your way."
A clerk approached. "Good morning, ladies. Something I can help you with?"
Linda pointed to the plate again. "That's a four-M-nine, right?" The clerk glanced down.
"Yes, it is. That's the Steel Series five-oh-two, it's actually on sale right now... One second." He walked over to one of the registers behind the counter and tapped the screen a few times before beaming a broad salesman's smile at them. "It's thirty-five percent off."
"We'll take two," Linda said. "One multicurved swimmer's cut, one single-curved flat cut. Plus matching three-A-M-two soft plates and trauma plates."
"Of course!" the clerk said, scurrying to gather it all up. "Will you be needing side plates? That Spartan series carrier you're wearing accepts them."
"Yup," Linda confirmed. "Same mix for those, too."
The clerk happily complied, no doubt imagining the commission he would make off the purchase of a full set of body armor. Once he had everything, Linda had Sookie take off the vest, and then began stuffing the plates inside the pockets. When she was done, she handed the whole affair back.
Sookie took it, immediately feeling the weight as it dragged her arms down. "Wow, that's heavy," she said. "Isn't this going to tire me out really quickly?"
"It's extra weight, so it will tire you out some more, but it's a lot easier to carry once you get it on. Let me help you..."
Linda showed her how to use the quick-release buckles on the sides and shoulders to quickly get in. Once the weight settled in on her shoulders, Sookie found it to be a lot more manageable than when she was holding it up with her arms.
"What do you think now?" Linda asked. Sookie windmilled her arms, twisted her hips, and stretched out in a few different ways.
"It's actually pretty comfortable," she said. "You loosened it earlier to make room for the plates, right?"
"That's right," Linda said, eyeing her. "It's sitting very nicely."
"So is that it?" Sookie asked, actually feeling a little disappointed that the shopping trip would be over so soon.
Linda laughed. "Not even close. We need to get you an IFAK, an assault pack, an admin pouch and the most important thing of all: morale patches."
"Morale patches?" Sookie asked. Linda grinned. "Yeah, you're gonna love that part."
----
Emily Windham, Wizard, Artificer... And War-Wizard
The Divine Crisis Management Group Regional Headquarters, Denver, CO
Emily looked at the forms on her tablet for a long moment. Specifically, the bottom line.
"...the opinion of the test-giver that Miss Windham has all of the necessary qualities to be an excellent war-wizard. My recommendation is to quickly deploy her, so as to allow her to get some experience in the role."
Her first ready shift had started twenty minutes ago. She glanced around the room. All of the security troops in the QRF were kitted out the same as she was. Armor, camo uniforms, rank insignia on her sleeve and chest, a rifle danging from a sling between her seated legs. Kneepads, thick boots.
It was deliberate, she had learned. The troopers and the war wizards dressed alike, to keep the wizards from being easily identified by the enemy. Just as in Dungeons & Dragons, killing the wizard was often a priority in a fight.
She recalled the training Greg had subjected her to. Learning to cast with a minimum of movement and words. Learning to cast under pressure, when scared or stressed or both. Learning to cast in adverse conditions, such as while being bombarded by a massive sandstorm, or while being dragged underwater by weights attached to her ankles.
She had felt like she barely scraped by, but Greg and the other instructors had praised her. Called her a natural. Assured her that she would go far. Emily wasn't so sure, but she had long ago learned to simply accept the compliments and keep doing her best. That was the way to not disappoint people.
She was still getting used to the idea. The unfamiliar room, the unfamiliar men and women around her, the unfamiliar uniform and gear... She didn't know that she was, actually, ready. But everyone else seemed to think so.
When the alarm sounded, it startled her. She dropped the tablet, then bent down to pick it up with fumbling hands. She stood, stuffing it into one of the pockets on the side of her pants as the troopers rushed around her, doing their final preparations to deploy. Emily looked around, unsure of what to do, until one of the troopers stopped and put a hand on her shoulder.
"First deployment, right?" he asked, his voice gentle. Emily nodded.
"Are you all set? You have all the components you'll need? Your armor's squared away, your mag pouches all loaded, your gun has a round in the chamber?"
Emily checked her gun. The 'press check', they'd called it, where she pulled the charging handle back just a little, until she saw brass inside the chamber. She released it, then patted her pouches with her hands, assuring herself that they are all loaded.
"Yes," she said. She already knew she had all the magical components she'd need. She didn't need a lot, and most were 'just in case' grabs.
"Then go read the deployment orders," the trooper said, pointing to the large TV on the wall, currently showing a black page with white text on it. A few photos were at the bottom.
Emily nodded and turned to go, but then he tightened his hand on her shoulder, so she turned back. He smiled, and she glanced down to see 'Carmichael' on his nametape. She recognized the name, if not the face, from her tasking against the trolls, a few weeks ago. It had been hard to keep track of their faces, with the helmets they all wore.
"You got this," he said, his voice calm and assured. Emily flashed him an uncertain smile, and he gave her a big, confident smile right back. "You got this," he said again and let her go.
Emily walked over to the screen and began to read.

Would you be willing to share how you first became aware of 30 Rock?
Watched from the beginnings - NBC preview probably?
Promo for show premiere on nbc
I’m old! Watched that shit when it premiered
I was first aware when the news hit that Tina Fey was developing a show with Loren Michaels that would star her and Rachel Dratch.
My brother, who has the best taste in all things, recommended it to me.
On tv
watched w parents when it was first airing
my brother recommended it
On my Newark to Atlantic City Flight
I randomly chose it as something to watch on Netflix while I was running on the treadmill...after a couple episodes I was like WTF is this??!
Trailers on NBC
Don’t remember
Butt stuff
Watched the show during its original run on NBC. Now touch the peacock!
When it premiered on NBC
I saw the episode where Tracy makes the Jefferson trailer when I was like 12 or so and my friend told me it was funnier than family guy
Back in high school! The episode where Tracey says don't make me show you the back of my hand and there's a sticky note that says 'please be nice to me'
Buying episodes on iTunes back in 2009
during season two my friends were making jokes from the show
Thursday night line-up on NBC when it first aired
Friend showed me
It was on tv
Original run
I first watched it when it aired on NBC back in the day
When it aired
The television commercials while it was on air
Tina Fey
It was just playing on the TV in 2007
Found the season one dvd set at Walmart back in like 2008, got hooked immediately
Heard it mentioned on US tv
Honestly don’t remember!
Would follow Tina Fey into a poorly set trap
I kept seeing great reviews for its first season and picked it up sometime during season 2 while it was airing.
Commercials for it while it was on
Series premiere
I got a free episode on iTunes. I’m pretty sure it was the MILF Island episode. I went back to the beginning and was hooked immediately.
By being alive when the show premiered
I happened to click on it on Netflix and was excited by the lack of laugh track
Stumbled across it on NBC. F-ed up scheduling meant I missed episodes. Thank God for streaming. I've been through it at least 7 times
By watching television..?
I literally can't recall, but I've done dozens and dozens, if not hundreds, of complete rewatches.
Older brother introduced me to it
Tv
Was an acting major and was low key in love with Tina Fey.
I’m a boomer (30) so I watched the show when it originally aired because I loved Tina Fey. My middle school crushes were Tina Fey, Gopher, and Kermit the Frog
NBC Thursday nights, we peacock comedy
I was super broke in my early 20s with no access to broadcast TV, but just got a Roku and Netflix - and there was the glory that is 30 Rock. It was my comfort show while dealing with my now ex-husband being deployed while my kids were very young. It was my comfort show during my divorce (and for my older kids, too). It will always be my favorite show of all time.
When it was on Tv I watched it.
A friend recommended it to me after season 2 and have been hooked ever since.
My momma
When vacationing in Zvenborgia
Caught it on broadcast TV. Have since watched it several times on streaming
I think I actually saw it on tv a few times but once it was streaming, constantly.
Decided to watch it when it was on Netflix
Mickey Rourke
Thought it was 3rd rock from the sun and mistakenly watched it
When Season 6 began I was in college and decided to binge the series since I liked the other Thurs nigh NBC shows!
Advertised in the blah-bar, while I was Consuming Lunch And Simple Socializing
When it was on network television
Netflix binging in middle school- was one of the first shows I was ever obsessed with
Sure, if I remembered
I'm old and watched it when it was on NBC!
Friend
Forced to watch it while visiting my gay bff in San Francisco
it was filming around the corner from where i worked as a new college grad
The TV
I think I saw an episode on an airplane against my will
No
Worked in it as an extra 1st season
It was on the television
It was working at the Dyker Heights Arthur Treacher and I was residing there
I love every sitcom pretty much, esp from that era of nbc
Watched it on NBC when it aired!
When my students kept saying “blerg” and “I want to go to there”
By being over 10 years old and seeing it when it was on TV? Do your parents know you're polling nerds?
Live tv
My bestie, the living embodiment of Liz Lemon (but fully lesbian, not just with the bi-curious shoes) was a yuge fan, and I fell into it by osmosis.
I don’t remember
On a PLANE if you believe it
Through a friend of mine, she told me about how good and underrated it was when it first came out.
Watched on Netflix in grad school, quickly became my comfort show
Cougars episode was free on iTunes
Watched it as it aired live
Friends
Friend recommendation
High school friends group
Nixon came to me in a dream
Got lucky
Netflix
I’d heard good things about it. I didn’t start watching until it was way after it ended, though.
Following Tina Fey from SNL
Watched it live
iTunes free episode of Blind Date
My now partner!
Watched when it originally aired
Hulu?
A friend of said “Meat is the new bread!” And I cracked up and then asked for an explanation.
My college roommate got me hooked when it was airing, s1. We both were (are?) in love with Jack donaghy
College roommate watched it, so I watched it as well.
OG viewer!
My sister was watching it on TV and I came in and decided I had to watch.
My brother watched it back when I was in high school
Netflix
A friend said I'd love it. She was correct.
I love Tina Fey. Tina Fey in 30 Rock. I watch 30 Rock.
Thursday night line up on nbc
BFF told me to watch it
Watched it since iTunes offered “Blind Date” as a free download in 2006
I think it was on tv after something
Television
Thursday nights on NBC
My mom use to watch it when it first came out
My mom watched it and I would be in the room while it was on
Watching the television
Blur my face. Blur it more.
I watched it while it was airing
I think it was on Hulu? I don’t recall watching it on air. Idk 2010 was a long time ago.
On tv at the time
My partner showed it to me
Commercials back when it premiered!
Yes
I watched it when it first aired on tv.
Television
I don’t remember
Boyfriend introduced it to me
During the season 2 writers strike I saw something about it and immediately downloaded all of it.
I watched it with my family as it aired
The Show: not many options back then. The Reddit Group: showed in my home news list.
Watched it in high school with my parents. We were watching tv and turned to something with Alec Baldwin and we were like “oh what’s this?” It was Jack-tor and his filming of his video got us all laughing. We were hooked.
Tv
My wife
Friendly recommendation
Best friend showed it to me, and then I read Bossypants
Randomly saw it on Comedy Central when I was in college and enjoyed it
Watched as it aired
It was on TV
NBC
The Pirate Bay
I was/am a fan of Tina Fey and Jane Krakowski (I used to belt along to her Tony-winning “A Call from the Vatican” from Nine to warm up when I was in drama club in high school) and binge-watched the series on DVD several years ago. I recently rewatched it from the beginning on Peacock (and hunted for the missing/retracted episodes elsewhere)
Through a college friend
Was on after the office
When it aired originally in the 2000s, i.e., on NBC
I've been a fan of Tina Fey and Tracy Morgan for years, so when I heard they were making a show, I was there for it on day one.
T.V. Commercial (pre-streaming)
Gave it a go YEARS ago due to love of Tina Fey
Been too long, don’t recall
Www.jennasside.com
On TV when it first aired
A guy I dated 10 years ago showed me 30 Rock
Am a fan of SNL, Tina Fey, and Tracy Morgan and watched every episode the nights they premiered.
I would be willing to, yes.
It came on after The Office, and then became my favorite show.
Sure :)
It was on tv
No
It was on NBC Thursday night, their comedy night. I always watched.
When I was a kid, my parents watched the office when it was on right before 30 Rock. They didn’t watch 30 Rock, but they’d leave the TV on for background noise. 30 rock came on after bedtime for me, but I was a curious and devious 9-year-old, so I would sneak out of bed and watch the living room tv from the upstairs landing until I got caught. The furthest I ever got into an episode was about 10 minutes and I always wanted to watch more of the show. As an adult, I finally got the chance to watch full episodes, and I’ve watched the series through multiple times since.
The show started when I was in high school and my friends loved it. That's how I knew about it, but I didn't actually watch it until a couple years after college when I saw it on Netflix.
Friends in college
Da pilot
Someone I am no longer friends with introduced me to it in college
Notification on my Gadzorp
Friend introduced me
It was on at a friends house and I saw Jenna’s wet mouth that she never fully closes say she was voting for Osama, then Liz fainted and I was hooked.
From a friend
Saw it live
Season 1
My High School English teacher always referenced it while it was on live in the mid 00s.
I don’t remember
D’fwan is my pet stylist
Okay. Uh, open on the covent garden flower market.

The year... 1892!
[ Cockney accent ] Flowers, flowers for sale!
legit can’t remember
Watched the original run of the show years ago.
Started watching on NBC as a teenager!
Watched it when it was on air
Friends poster in college
it was what was being aired on nbc, i didn’t have a lot of options
Used to watch it on Thursday night prime time
Tina Fey is from my hometown- I watch everything she’s in.
Watched the premiere when it aired
I just finished community and someone said this show was similar
When it first aired
My then-bf (now husband) introduced me
Watched on tv
My dad showed me when I was a kid
television ads
What am I? A farmer??
I classify myself as a Lemonhead and love everything that Tina Fey makes.
Started watching when it aired
On tv
Word of mouth
I'm old enough to have seen every episode live or the next day on TiVo. Hey whatever happened to TiVo? Beep boop bop bop bop
Watched when it aired!
Saw it as it aired on cable back in the day
My girlfriend now wife.
Watching the last few minutes of it before The Office
Probably just surfed to it on tv
I honestly don’t remember. I know I watched it all through college, but I think I just watched it because it was on NBC Thursdays.
Watched it on NBC when it premiered cause I loved Tina fey on SNL!
My brother first season
Netflix algorithm suggested it and never went back
Bathroom ad at Teterboro airport
It was on TV
Watched it when it aired live because I’m quite old
Saw it on Hulu in 2008
I liked Tina Fey on SNL and began watching her new show. 30 Rock. Thursdays on NBC.
Tracy Jordan referenced Basquiat in an early episode and a friend of mine who’d seen the episode told me about it because I have Basquiat’s artwork tattooed on me.
Tv show
It took 3 attempts after the show was off air and on streaming but I eventually got past episode 4 or so and it finally clicked and I’ve been obsessed ever since.
Watching with my best friend in high school
NBC
I watch all the nbc sitcoms - but this became my fav
Tv
On tv back when it went on the air in 2006
Watched first episode live on tv
Watched first episode live on tv
My parents
Yes
Husband introduced me
When it aired on nbc
My wife started watching it and convinced me to try it.
I was doing a study abroad program in the South of France and was frantically torrenting any American show I could because of the homesickness. I watched the first episode of season 1 and was booked before she had finished giving away all the hot dogs. Binged through all of the first season (I'm originally from the Cleveland area, so all of the Cleveland positivity toward the end had me giddy!) and then season 2 began and I faithfully got the episode every week... Then the writers strike happened :(
I watched the first season AT LEAST 25 times through before I came back to the USA. And several dozen more times (plus all the other seasons) since!
Mom recommended it
I've tried to figure this out before and I literally don't know.
When it was announced Tina Fey had a show
Plain old tv advertising…in 2004
My BFF watched season 1 and 2 when they aired and told me to watch it. We were juniors in college.
Ex
My boyfriend
Watched it when it first came out when NBC was not tanking it
A friend told me about I
Watched new eps on primetime NBC back in the day lol
Netflix suggestion
Ad during a MILF Island commercial break
A YouTube clip of that background joke where Yo-Yo Ma was called to the stage for the Muffin Top song.
Gifted 1st season DVD
It was on Netflix when Netflix first started offering streaming
Yes, I don’t remember
Tina Fey
It was on TV
My best friend showed me the clip of Moonvest saying “show me your fingernails” and I was like “no THANK you! This is NOT the show for me” then she made me watch a few episodes then I was like “yeahh”
I was looking for something with a decent amount of seasons to binge.
Watched while it was first airing
By watching it when it was on real life regular network tv
No
On tv, dummy
Unknown
I watched it as it aired.
On cable television
Yes. Later seasons on their original air dates.
I watched it when it first came on.
My brother bullied me into watching it and I’m glad he did!
My ma
Thursday night tv
NBC Thursday
I don't remember how I first became aware of it, but I do remember after going through a breakup, watching it on my laptop on Netflix every night and falling asleep feeling better.
TV
Saw a glimpse of an episode air on tv and got hooked. Immediately binged first 4 seasons to catch up and continued from then on.
My friend introduced me to it in 2011 and I have been watching it every night since to fall asleep
I don't even remember, I just know that it's one of the greatest shows of all time.
Syndication on my television
I was introduced by my nutritionist and his elderly son.
Love Tina Fey from SNL, watched the original airings
No clue
Came on after the office
Friend
My parents watched it. I was 7 years old when the show started, and watching it actively by the time it ended when I was 14.
promos on NBC
Television
Kimiko taught me that
I was a fan of Tina from SNL. Heard she had a new show. Watched it. Love it.
My dad was watching it in the living room
One of my best friends showed it to me in College
was recommended to me because I like SNL
I was wee TWINK when it was on TV
yes.
Friend's shirt in high school that said 30 Rock
Original run
When it was on network prime time. The good old days.
It was on Hulu
It was on prime time baby! The golden age of tv!!
Saw a clip of Tina Fey dancing with a mustache on tv, looked it up
“got caught with 30 rocks the cop look like alec baldwin” -kanye west
Stumbled upon it on Netflix in ‘15
Watched live when it was on cable
TV
I have two eyes and a heart don't I?
It was on after Parks and Rec on the TV so I decided to record that too cause I'd heard good things about it. Have loved it ever since
On a plane
Ex boyfriend
Watched the early seasons as they aired while I was in college—you never get over the media of those years!
I discover 30 Rock when I purchased my first television set in order to watch SMASH. Turned out there were other worthwhile “programs” available to enjoy on network television including 30 Rock.
Popular gifs I've seen in 2013-2016. Such as the "fellow kids" one or the "What am I, a farmer?" one.
Was a fan of Tina on SNL and was excited when 30 Rock was announced. Watched it live on NBC from the pilot through the whole run
Like 15 years ago in high school
I was aware of it in college when all my Sorkin loving friends said it wasn't as good as Studio 60, but I didn't watch it properly until years later
Les Moonvest
¯\_(ツ)_/¯
I don’t remember! But I think it was right before the last season came out
I needed a break from German sitcoms
Tv
Watched it live
On Reddit
No
It was on the TV and I couldn't look away because there was a waterbug on my channel changer
High school friend
Boyfriend
I cannot remember but it was during season 2
Decided to watch it after enjoying other more recent Tina fey work
In high school, a friend suggested i check out Parks and Rec. But 30 Rock came on after and changed my life.
TV, back when it was on.
From Ace of Cakes
My wife showed me the Leap Day episode
My friend watched it while it was on tv. I think I jumped on board late. Maybe around when s6 started airing.
just scrolling mindlessly on netflix during winter break of 2013 and the rest is history.
A friend recommended it.
Friend in college suggested it - that was around 2009
nbc
I first watched it when it was airing—I read articles about this upcoming Tina Fey show.
Yes
Pretty sure it was on after Donny and Marie.
I don't remember, I think I just have it a shot on Netflix
OG tv watching
Shove it up your goonhole
I heard of it in some preview of new shows for the fall when it first came out.
I don’t remember
Thursday night NBC ads
Family member told me about it
Friends
It was on TV. I turned the TV on and it was there on NBC, on Thursdays, right after Bitch Hunter. But for real, watched it when it originally aired in tv because it’s whatcha ya do.
Through a sibling, due to my love of Tina Fey
No
It used to be on the same night as the Office and Parks and Rec, it was NBC’s comedy night. I came to lust after Steve Carrell and I stayed to lust after Jack McBrayer.
My mother and I started watching it together while it aired (I was in high school)
Randomly got a recommended post from the subreddit, opened an untold world of opportunity
An online review during the first run of season 3.
Friends in 2015
Watched when it originally aired
binged the whole first season on nbc.com in 2007
7th grade math teacher
Yes.
I can’t remember. Some combo of it being on Hulu and living in nyc while having friends of friends that were on the show.
I honestly don't remember, I started watching it during covid because I needed something new and heard it was funny
Watched it when it originally aired
I started watching it when it came out on TV. And then obsessively re-watching it once it started streaming.
I saw it on the television and thought it had a very similar name to 3rd Rock from the Sun
It was on tv. Watched it from the get-go!
Can’t remember!
It came on after some show and I caught the episode with Argo the peacock. Idk why, but I found it charming and funny. I searched for the show afterwards and haven't looked back.
My current boyfriend got me into it
my mom
When I bought the season 1 DVD after it being recommended to me
...tina fey, nerd. im a millennial.
Watched it by mistake
My mother watched it as it aired in NBC
My fiancé said her parents loved it.
the creation of netflix streaming. also my parents maybe

Lots and lots and lots of coverage for this media roundup. We’ve got goals, we’ve got boos, we’ve got hot mics, we’ve got the Unipiper and so much more.
PORTLAND:
Tyson Alger / Oregonian: After rocky start, Portland Timbers rally back against San Jose to snap 9-game winless streak
“Yes, the Portland Timbers heard the boos.
How could they not?
They started flying early in the first half against San Jose on Wednesday night and only continued to gain steam when a pair of Earthquake goals sent Portland into the locker room down 2-0 at the break — all the momentum needed to achieve a club-record 10th game without a win.
And the Timbers Army responded accordingly, hailing down a thunderous shower of jeers as manager Phil Neville led the Timbers off the pitch. …”

Columnist Bill Oram: Oregonian: Timbers coach Phil Neville silences his critics — for one night, at least
“The pressure was mounting on Phil Neville and, you would imagine, inside of him, too.
The Portland Timbers manager had overseen a string of nine consecutive matches without a victory, dating back to March 9. Even the Trail Blazers have won twice since then.
Neville’s tinkering had not led to results. His adjustments weren’t working. Not well enough, at least.
And while the Timbers are a team with new faces and still integrating a new superstar, this is Neville’s show. He was the splashy coaching hire made last fall. As lackluster results stacked up, so too did Neville’s frustration. …
On the hot mic situation: “As Neville headed to the locker room on Friday, a broadcaster on the team’s radio feed was caught on a hot mic asking his producer if he wanted to coach the team because it “can’t be any worse.”
I’ve been in the press box for hundreds, if not thousands of sporting events, and trust me, as gallows humor goes, that made-for-X/formerly-Twitter moment is pretty mild. The announcer, Adam Susman, has apologized and hopefully that’s that.
We were all thinking some version of it. Or worse…”
(Worth reading this one in full imo)

Alex Barnes / Stumptown Footy: Portland Timbers vs San Jose Earthquakes - Instant Reaction
“The Portland Timbers lost 2-0 at home to the San Jose Earthquakes after another stale attacking performance and two more defensive mistakes… Is what I was prepared to write before an 74th minute Earthquakes red card flipped the game on its head. But for the first time since March 9, the Portland Timbers won a game of football in their typical drunken fashion — a much-needed four goal explosion in the final 15+ minutes of the match.
…
Were the Timbers fortunate to win? Unequivocally yes. Before the penalty San Jose was cruising. But at this point in the season, at their position in the table, it does not matter one bit. The team needs points, and points they earned. Whether that continues into their next match is a major question, but tonight felt like the pressure release valve was turned for the time being. Sometimes one moment is all it takes for the tides of a grueling MLS season to turn.”

Jeremy Peterman / Cascadia FC: Winning A Game Is Fun
“The Timbers’ winless streak is over, and the San Jose Earthquakes are still winless at Providence Park. Will this team ever play a normal game?
…
…This win is incredibly fluky in so many ways. But, at the end of the day, 3 points is 3 points. Now they have to turn this confidence into momentum. Some returning players can help with that. As long as the players believe they can win, they will put in match-winning performances. Inconsistency has been the calling card of the 2024 Timbers. Can they erase the individual mistakes while building a solid defensive shape that can attack directly? That’s what they have to solve. The 3-4-3 from tonight was an excellent start, and it will get better. The pieces to win games now are on this team. But they have to perform like it. But tonight is a good night to be a Timber. For the first time in 49 years of the club’s history, the Timbers have won a game by multiple goals after trailing by multiple goals. Winning a game is really fun. This team should do it more often.”

BONUS: Unipiper content
Tyson Alger / The I-5 Corridor: Timbers win plays second act to The Unipiper's song of redemption
“Redemption on Wednesday was scheduled for 7:35 p.m. In the minutes leading up, Kidd quietly waited in the Southwest corner of Providence Park, occasionally humming a few notes through his trumpet and making sure his sandals, embroidered with “Keep Weird” on their backs, were tight. At 7:34 p.m. he pulled on a Darth Vader mask. A minute later, he climbed onto the unicycle, found his balance, lifted the trumpet to his mouth and slowly started pedaling north. When the first notes hit smooth, Kidd came alive — playing a well-paced 80-second anthem that ended with Kidd using his one free arm to orchestrate the crowd into a frenzy.”

• John Ross Ferrara / KOIN: Unipiper hits high note in Timbers national anthem redo

BONUS: Hot Mic

• Oregonian: Timbers radio announcer’s hot mic picked up by Apple TV broadcast: ‘Can’t be any worse’
• Awful Announcing: Hot mic catches announcer mocking MLS team and coach during Apple TV broadcast
• David Moore / The 18: ‘You want to come coach this team?’ Timbers announcer apologizes for hot mic moment

NATIONAL:
Sam Jones / MLS: Daily Kickoff
PORTLAND TIMBERS - 4 SAN JOSE EARTHQUAKES - 2
Evander (74'), J. Rodríguez (80, 90+10'), F. Mora (90') A. Pellegrino (31'), H. López (34')
San Jose were on the wrong end of an MLS After Dark special in Portland. The Timbers got back in the game with a 71st-minute red card/penalty combo and then got back in the game some more with a brace from Jonathan Rodriguez and a Felipe Mora goal.
The Timbers badly needed this one. It’s their first win in nine games. It doesn’t matter how it comes at that point – they just needed it to happen.
The Quakes did not need this. Just when it seemed like they were sorting some things out defensively, they fell apart in this one. Once again, it’s worth repeating that no one is concerned about the Quakes’ attack. Everything else though…

AI bot / The AP: Timbers Rally To Beat San Jose 4-2 And Snap Winless Streak
“Jonathan Rodriguez scored a pair of goals and the Portland Timbers snapped a nine-game winless streak with a 4-2 victory over the San Jose Earthquakes on Wednesday night. …”

Graham Ruthven / Fotmob (published before the match): The Phil Neville-era is in trouble at Portland Timbers
“Derby defeats are difficult enough to digest without the additional consequences that came with the Portland Timbers’ painful home loss to the Seattle Sounders on Sunday. The result dropped Phil Neville’s team to the bottom of the Western Conference with the Timbers on a winless run of nine matches. Portland have problems.”

SAN JOSE:
The Mercury News: Hernán López scores in second straight game for Earthquakes, but San Jose win streak snapped in Portland
“Hernán López scored in his second straight match, but the San Jose Earthquakes allowed three goals in the final 16 minutes of regulation and another in extra time in a 4-2 loss at Portland, Oregon, on Wednesday night.
The Quakes (3-9-1) had won three in a row to move out of last place in the 14-team Western Conference, but fell back to the bottom of the standings with the loss. …”

INTERNATIONAL:
RCN News: Santiago Moreno gave an assist in a 'crazy' play in the MLS (Spanish)
“Santiago Moreno, who reached 101 games with the Portland Timbers, was in charge of finishing the game against the San Jose Earthquakes…”

Written 5/8/2024- updates attached below

I tried posting this on kendrick almost a week ago and it got no response, I messaged the mods to ask about Karma restrictions or account age requirements and they never replied. I made a new account and it was the same issue, but I found out last night I wasn’t fully banned, so I figured I’d throw it up and see if anyone finds it valuable. It’s written for people who have no prior knowledge of the rap game/music business. I don’t have to go as hard on obscuring names this time. One of the influencers I mentioned in my last post is known for doxxing and threatening violence against people who mention the many contradictions in their stories. (Sorry for any typos/mistakes I want to go to bed.)
Origins
I believe the current Drake and Kendrick Lamar beef is either completely or partially fabricated by certain industry leaders or the parties involved in an effort to distract from something bigger going down behind the scenes. If you were an influential label owner facing major accusations, and you needed to deflect media attention from yourself, recreating one of the most defining moments in rap history during the social media era would be a way to do it. It also wouldn’t hurt that two of the biggest rappers in the world were already sending shots at each other in their music for years prior. The public consensus is they are simply two famous rappers who hate each other and fighting over the spot for the top like in the 90’s. Only people who were directly involved could paint a more cohesive picture of the whole story. Even when all the cards drop, there is a good chance the average person won’t be able to find direct sources on their own and will continue to support their favorite artists and dismiss any evidence of their crimes like the drizzy subreddit or Ak fans.

As I said the beef between Kendrick and Drake has been brewing in the background for years, with both rappers sending shots and sneak dissing each other over the course of at least 8 years. The most agreed upon origin story is the first diss was the 2016 Big Sean and Kendrick collaboration, “Control,” and Drake responded with, “The Language”. Things stayed relatively lighthearted for a while and both were intentionally vague for many years. Before I go deep into the Kendrick and Drake stuff, it’s really important to examine some of Drake’s prior beefs because they add a ton of context to my theory. In my opinion Kendrick and Co. started scheming all of this some time around Mid 2020-Mid 2022, well after the whole Pusha T beef had transitioned into the Kanye beef.

What exactly started the beef is debatable, but at the time many attributed it to rumors of Drake pursuing Ye’s ex Amber Rose. Unfortunately the timeline isn’t 100 percent clear, and if I included every detail this would be at least 200+ pages so I’ll stick with the important stuff. The ultimate outcome of the Pusha T battle in 2018 was the revelation of Drake’s son Adidon that he had previously been hiding from the world along with getting Ye directly involved in the beef.

Here are some more examples of Drake antagonizing Ye and of him trying to use women as pawns to get material for his diss tracks. The Drake line, “Yeah, I probably go link to Yeezy, I need me some Jesus, but as soon as I start confessin' my sins, he wouldn't believe us," could be a reference to sleeping with Kim Kardashian, trying to double down on his threats to harm him or his family, or it could be a double entendre. Another example is using the name Kiki in another song, which was apparently one of Kim’s nicknames. Some other possible examples include the theories he may have tried the same thing with Kendrick’s wife Whitney around 2020-2021 in an attempt to use as ammo against Kendrick, which I’ll go into later. I don’t listen to much of either artist's music, but there are probably many of other examples in Drake’s catalogue that I’m leaving out. There is also his song Omerta released in 2019, which I'll go into below.

“Your baby mother call me when she lonely My tailor see me twice a week, he like my homie Forever grateful, forever thankful Diamond necklace, but she wears it on her ankle”

(Probably referring to Kim Kardashian since she had a few pictures with her wearing diamond ankle bracelets and was trying to make it into a trend.

“I plan to buy your most personal belongings when they up for auction”

(There were various rumors floating around for a while that Drake was blackmailing Ye with something and he was fighting to keep it from the public. I thought about it and this line might be referencing a sex tape with Kim or her little sister who me was very touch before she turned 18. In 2022 there was a whole storyline on Kim’s show where Ye flies to LA to prevent her second sex tape from being released.)

West Hollywood, know my presence is menacing
Cosa Nostra, shady dealings
Racketeering, the syndicate got they hand in plenty things The things that we've done to protect the name are unsettling But no regrets, though, the name'll echo Years later, none greater
Death to a coward and a traitor, that's just in my nature, yeah
(Drake and Ye both frequented the Delilah Nightclub located in West Hollywood and lived closeby on the same street for a while.)
"I don't carry cash 'cause the money is digital
It's the American Expresser, the debt collector"

(Sounds a lot more like it could be crypto to launder or send large amounts of ill gotten gains. It started becoming mainstream around them)

"Last year, niggas really feel like they rode on me
Last year, niggas got hot 'cause they told on me
I'm 'bout to call the bluff of anybody the fold on me"

These lines stood out because they could be referring to Ye telling the public about Drake's alleged threats a couple months before the songs release. This happened not long after the release of Sicko mode which was towards the end of 2018 as well. Ye was discussing the incident on Twitter and reached out to Drake and Travis to talk to him in private. In the next set of tweets Kanye publicly accused Drake of threatening him and his family in a major way. Surprisingly Ye seemed genuinely scared and amongst his, “crazy rants,” some of the stuff he said makes a ton of sense in hindsight. This also the beginning of his second serious public struggles with Bipolar disorder after being committed in 2016 shortly after an on stage rant where he calls out Jay Z for selling out and says he's afraid he might kill him.. As someone who shares the same diagnosis, I have a pretty good understanding of mania and psychosis and firmly believe that it's important not to write people off right away due to their mental illness. Some of my most thoughtful, creative, and productive periods were inspired by mania. Industry bigwigs have also been using mental illness to discredit influential black celebrities and visionaries going back decades, but it really picked up in the 80’s.

Dave Chappelle has gone into this a lot in the past and claims he experienced something similar before he quit show business and dipped to Africa. Their stories have a lot of interesting parallels if you’re familiar or curious. I remember he actually visited Ye at his house in Wyoming after he was reported to have had a, "mental breakdown," during his presidential run in 2020 thus marking his third breakown in six years.. The reason I put it in quotes is because it happened right after he publicly accused Kim of cheating and delivered his legendary speech on abortion. Dave went as far as going on live tv and telling the public he wasn’t crazy, he was just really struggling because he was the only one at the time fighting against the narrative, which can often be a suicide mission or a ticket to obscurity. These are three examples of someone speaking up and being deemed crazy, two years later came the nazi stuff and I'm sure we'll have plenty in store for 2024.

This is just the tip of the iceberg when it comes to the very common pattern of artists dying or having their careers destroyed either after they try to leave their label or threaten to reveal industry secrets. A few more interesting industry connections I made in my research include the connections between:

T.U.G. records and J Cole's independent label Dreamville are both managed by Interscope Records, whose parent company is Universal Music Group.

Universal Music Group also hac Drake's label OvO label as well as Ye and Kendrick's old labels on their roster before they left to form their own independent labels in 2022 (around the same time the disses between Kendrick and Drake started escalating). Finally Bad Boy Records, which is owned by Diddy, and Motown Records who own Diddy's other R&B label Love Records, are also both owned by Universal. This means every label I mention is currently or was previously owned by Universal Music Group.

Ye tried for years to get out of his contract with Defjam, which happens to be ran by Jay Z who is known to be a close associate of Diddy. Jay would always used his money and power to fight against it. Ye even spoke out publicly on a few occasions, including when he said Jay Z was trying to kill him during one of his concerts. My theory is after years of getting nowhere and having his reputation skewered, in 2022 Ye finally said, "Fuck it," and dropped all the anti- Semetic stuff intentionally in a successful attempt to force his label to into using their morality clause, which requires labels to drop an artist if they're accused of any major controversy that could hurt the label’s profits. For the fourth time in four years the media reported he was having a breakdown. Even though they tried to punish him by cutting off all of his sources of income and freezing his accounts he still managed to bounce back pretty quickly. It was often reported how much he was losing, but it rarely discussed how he still was filthy rich in spite of the retrictions. His label wanted to discourage other artists from trying the same thing. My theory is he might have bought Kim or Kylie's alleged sex tape and used it for his own leverage. For Kendrick, his transition to his independent label ApLang went a lot smoother, but he had to split ownership of his new label with the previous manager owner Dave Free. Sadly it's still difficult for new or more niche artists to establish themselves without the some help.

He may be a lot of things but Ye isn’t dumb just because he has a mood disorder and the guys at the top know this, which is why I think he has really played up his diagnosis when it benefitted him. He’s still one of the most talented musicians in the game and I really think he sees his bipolar like a superpower as he says. It’s like his own invisibility cloak. He can go off his meds for a little, make an album after staying up for 72 hours, go on a “psychotic” twitter rant dropping facts throughout, then start up again once he makes enough news headlines. I think it’s worth noting the first divorce rumors in 2020 coincided with Ye’s abortion speech during his presidential run and the cheating accusations. that led to him dropping out and moving to Wyoming, and a couple months ago in February 2024 he was committed again.

The point I’m making is bipolar is complex, but pretty manageable especially if you have a ton of money to find meds that work for you and a good doctor and can keep substance abuse and stress at a manageable level. I think Ye is smart enough to know this, but it’s just safer for him to really play up the mental issues in the media. He’s proven he can literally say whatever he wants after getting cancelled and the average person is just going to write it off as psycho babble. While bias in health care is a sad fact of society, if you can use it to your advantage I say go for it. It might’ve just kept the microscope off of him long enough to plan his attack.

Ye v. Drake: Quotes of 2018
(Start of the beef, drake threats, and suspicion towards Kardashian family. )

“ It’s not about rap. It’s about family. We have to be close as a family and never let these people infiltrate just for radio spins”

“We need to show the world that people can talk without people ending up dead or in jail.”

”This is a man speaking to a man that has been placed in the program to fuck with Kanye West head and set me up“

”See when you care about your family you don’t let no man push you to do nothing that could risk your freedom“

These first four tweets by Ye were all in reference to perceived threats made by Drake after their beef escalated circa 2018. He began speaking on the industry and talking more about his psych hospital commitment two years prior and how he thought they were going to kill him. It's pretty obvious how the whole thing was planned by the sketchy doctor who called it in and his physical trainer who has a ton of connections to weird shit involving his celebrity clients.

I found interesting that Ye might not have been the first major league rapper whose life Drake threatened. During a similar period of mental illness the up and coming rapper XXXtentacion accused Drake of stealing his flow and dissed him a few times. Not long after he made a post online saying if he dies, it was Drake who did it. There are tons of conspiracies online, but none of the evidence is strong enough to draw a definitive connection. Also while it maybe be coincidental, Kendrick’s latest album Mr Morale also painted the picture that Kendrick was dealing with some serious personal issues. Some lines throughout the album may have been used to bait Drake into escalating, but it wasn’t until The Weekend, Future, and Metro Booming dropped, “We Don’t Trust You,” then Drake and J. Cole dropped, “First Person Shooter,” which was followed a couple days later with, “Like That,” where Kendrick started the chain of events that has led us to today.

Kanye vs. Drake: Quotes of 2020

Summary: Ye runs for president and gets suppressed for saying what very well could be the truth and was immediately deemed insane by the media. Kim did a couple interviews and everything he said was immediatly false. There is almost guarenteed to be some sketchy shit going down revolving her and her family. Ye was absolutely terrified of her keeping the kids away from him and it seems like there are still efforts being made to this day to paint a certain image of him for ulterior motives.

Below are six more quotes from a fan taking a deep dive into his 2020 tweets courtesy of u/ thehatstore42069 on Yeezy
”NORTHY I AM GOING TO WAR AND PUTTING MY LIFE ON THE LINE AND IF I AM MURDERED DON’T EVER LET WHITE MEDIA TELL YOU I WASNT A GOOD MAN,” West, 43, wrote in the tweet, adding, “WHEN PEOPLE THREATEN TO TAKE YOU OUT OF MY LIFE JUST KNOW I LOVE YOU”

"I need a public apology from J Cole and Drake to start with immediately... I'm Nat Turner... I'm fighting for us."

"the utmost respect for all brothers" and said "we need to link and respect each other... no more dissing each other on labels we don't own"

"Ye is constantly trying to tell people that his family does not have his or his kids best interests at heart. He goes on to list others, linking them together with the thinking emoji. These people include rap artist Drake and Larsa Pippen, wife of Scottie Pippe. Kim K is goddaughter to Pippen's daughter, showing how close the families actually are. All of these families that associate with Ye through Kardashian connections, as well as Drake, have been accused of the same thing Kris has. EVERY SINGLE ONE of these people have mixed race children that are groomed from a young age to fuck around with celebrities so the parents can remain famous. Drake on numerous occasions has been accused of grooming girls and then getting handsy on their 18th birthday.”

“These labels want their artists to make them money and they dont care about anything else. When Kanye says things like this in an attempt to expose him, the first thing they wanna do is drug him up and put him back in the studio.”
“Righteous indignation is typically a reactive emotion of anger over mistreatment, insult, or malice of another. It is akin to what is called the sense of injustice. This is how they keep the black man down. Keep people outraged about trivial things and distract them from the real issues in the world. The real problems in the industry. If you tell people enough times that they are unequal or discriminated against they start to believe it. Drug them when they step out of line and toss them aside when the checks run out. Ye is realizing he is pawn in a bigger game, and now that he has all these roots in the game such as Yeezy or the Gap or his music, too many people cant risk (Afford) a Ye who speaks his mind.”
(End of quotes)

Amongst the twitter rant, Ye warned about the predatory nature of record deals and discussed trying to get out of his own deal, and said again how his life may be in danger if it wasn’t already and was doing anything he could to protect his kids. The most fascinating part to me though is the public call to arms he made to Drake, J Cole, and Kendrick on twitter. After inviting them to all link up, he said, “It’s time to get free, we will not argue amongst each other while some guy we don’t know in Europe is getting paid and putting that money in a hedge fund.” I believe if Ye was able to pull off this meeting, there is an ever so slight chance that all four artists might be working together to take down a greater enemy. Weirdly there have been times throughout the last couple years where these supposed enemies were photographed together being friendly or praise each other in interviews, then out of no where the disses would start flying again.

To wrap things up I want to share my a few of my theories about the Drake/Kanye beef

A. Everything is exactly as it seems and the beef is over. Ye let his mental illness ruin his life and career so Drake simply picked another target after Ye stopped putting out disses. All of these connections are just a coincidence and all of this was choreographed to boost Drake and Kendrick’s music sales and possibly distract people from the Diddy trial and possibly the complicated geopolitical issues currently facing the U.S.

C. There is also the possibility that all four rappers are in cahoots and Drake’s dirt isn’t as extreme as people are theorizing, at least in comparison to the rest of the business. This could explain why everything has played out like a movie and how they were able to predict each other’s moves so well. This could either mean they’re all just trying to boost their sales or they’re all trying to take down the “slave masters,” as Ye calls them, and change the dynamic of the music industry in favor of the artist.

D. They may be trying to help their friends in the industry who are being abused or in shitty contracts. I know a lot of famous rappers have done a lot of collaborations with Jhene Aiko and Anderson Paak, who were both signed to T.U.G. records which I mentioned above in the connections to Universal Music Group. Considering they are both frequent collaborators with all of the artists involved on both sides, it’s not unlikely they may have played some part in influencing the takedown.

T.U.G was started by Chris Stokes with his partner Ketrina Askew. Back in the early to mid 90’s were gaining popularity attracting lots of young up and coming talent. They often collaborated with Diddy and his associates. In the 2000’s Raz B from the boy band B2K claimed he was molested by Stokes and his friend Marques Houston, then quickly retracted his claims. Years later he came forward again and said we was bribed into silence and that the rest of the victims were bribed with hush money and had another singer corroborate his story and they came forward together to level the accusations. After some of his former B2K members made fun of him for his claims and accused it of being a shakedown, Raz B revealed Stokes and Houston had preyed a lot of the children associated with the label including at least one of the former bandmates and paid them off.

I thought it was worth noting that the second whistleblower named Quindon Tarver died young in a car crash after mentioning his abuse again a few years prior. He seems to have left the industry not long after the incidents occurred and has few credits to his name. To this day Raz B is still trying to get his justice, while Stokes and his partner Askew, who was also involved in the abuse are still running the label to this day. Askew also has a ton of lawsuits, accusing her of using shady tactics to try to foreclose on houses. (Don’t quote me if a lawyer wants to take a look just google her full name), and has been tied to a ton of LLCs, similar to Drake. This is a good example of a shitty record deal, but I'm sure they have countless other friends in the industry who have even worse. While they were never convicted even Chris Stokes' wife confirmed it to be true.

E. The theory I personally think fits the narrative best and is the most realistic conspiracy is that Kendrick and possibly J. Cole went to the meeting, but not Drake due to his close relationship with Lucian Grange, the president of Drake’s label. Silence often speaks louder than words and this could explain why Kendrick was so ruthless and put so much effort into finding dirt on Drake. Ye, Cole, and Kendrick co-writing would be like the rap allstar team and if J. Cole wasn’t involved, it would also answer the question of whether or not he baited Drake into the battle by asking him to feature. I don’t think Drake is really their primary target though, which would explain letting him off easy. Compared to his bosses and their bosses he’s a small fish. If you take the big guys down you stand a better chance of landing a bigger blow on their operation.

Another really interesting connection is Kendrick and Ye were both signed under Universal Music Group and they both got out of their deals around couple months apart in 2022. As we speak U.M.G’s CEO Lucian Grange, who is often acccused of giving Drake special treatment, is facing charges related to sex trafficking by no other than P Diddy. This could very well explain the timing of it all. The craziest timeline would be Diddy masterminding all of this and using his connections to get it done and all the allegations are bullshit. The guy does seem pretty confident all things considered and constantly posts himself in his Batman costume which could mean he’s a vigilante.

It seems like there's a slight religious angle as well. (Ye and Diddy are both very vocal advocates of Christianity and Drake and Lucian Grange are both Jewish.) Obviously this is a reach, but they’ve been saying rap music was specifically promoted by mostly white label owners in the 80’s to help in the ongoing effort to expedite the systematic oppression of those living in black neighborhoods and the destruction of their family systems. Apparently it was an intentional decision to heavily promote rappers that promoted the very things that were destroying their neighborhoods. (So people know I'm and atheist and have zero agenda, I just thought it was interesting, please stay away from anything antisemitic. War is wrong on both sides.)

*** If my favorite theory is true, there is a possibility the Kendrick and Ye are going after Drake due to their mutual disdain for him and because he’s got a ton of power to dominate the charts and hog the radio airtime like Meek Mill and OG Maco claimed years ago. Even him dropping a record the same day as you could really fuck your album sales up. I’m also sure some of the many rumors throughout the years have had a least some truth and he will most likely snitch to avoid cell block one. I think that Drake could have been instructed to instigate this whole mess in order to draw attention away from the UMG charges brought about by Diddy. Or on the other hand it could be that Kendrick, Ye, and possibly Cole, may have had intel that Drake was going to be involved in the Diddy trial and are just gonna let the receipts show themselves. It might not have been the original plan, but they’ve already accomplished their mission of humiliating him, assuring he couldn’t use his influence to slide through the cracks, and taking over the throne.

Please take everything I say with a grain of salt I have no connection to this world or lifestyle. Regardless I believe all of the knowledge above does a pretty solid job at painting a picture of what may have let up to this and what may have been the source.
——————————-
More details found the last couple days…

Drake and Diddy Connections+Coincidences

Drake- In the P Diddy wig video from 2016 he talks about going to party with Drake, Cash, and The Weeknd in Toronto. Drake is also one of Birdman’s protégées who is known for being a predator and is rumored to have used label artists to lure young women.

Travis Scott- Interview where he comes out and says Diddy tried to lure him. Still has a long history of associating with him, video of him running from Diddy, his connection to Ruby Rose while underage.

Tim Westwood- Diddy had connections with sex offender Tim Westwood who also inspired the Drake song, “Westwood”. They also both were victims of drive by shootings along with The Weekend and they were all facing some type of allegations.

T.I.- Also has been associate with Diddy through the years, in 2021 his kid died and 11 women can forward at the same time to accuse him and his wife of drugging and assaulting them. Clearly someone wanted to fuck his life up. Possibly due to him getting arrested so many times for wild shit and people wondering how he continued to get away with it shining a light on how powerful industry lawyers are. He also had recently talked about having a gynecologist check to see if his daughter is still a Virgin, which sounds like it could have been an industrty secret. Could have been because he worried about someone trying to take advantage of her to get to him? Regardless that shit is fucking insane.

50 Cent- Has been saying pretty much the same thing as Travis Scott and has trolled Diddy for most of his career. It came out that his wife was a sex worker who was possibly recruited Diddy to help ruin his career. It sort of worked, which raises the question if 50 Cent is the only victim.

Ray J- Him and his sister worked with T.U.G. records when they were very young. Chris Stokes in the nineties who had connections with Diddy. He has been involved in a lot of sex scandals and allegedly may have played a part in Whitney Houston's death. (Which is also allegedly connected to Michael Jackson's death and both were deemed suspicious and happened during their final tours when their masters (song rights), became more valuable than their lives. Sony Records and Tommy Motolla, who also abused Mariah Carey when she was trying to start her career. These are just a few of the alleged examples of labels taking out musicians when they were worth more dead, another is the signing of high risk artists and requiring them to get life insurance so they can profit beyond releasing all their posthumous records. Also the ever so common story of the rising star artist that die at 21 after their first album or two.

He also partied with Diddy in Vegas with along Floyd Mayweather and a bunch of other famous industry people and athletes.

Tory Lanez- Tons of blackmail, also was signed by Interscope under UMG. got sent to prison for ten years after trying to leave his label. Also history of SA and and other allegations of violence towards women.

French Montana- On Diddy's label, close with Rick and Khaled, tons of drug and sexual assault allegations, also dated a Kardashian. Generally grimy.

DJ Khaled- Diddy said he could get anything in Miami, either referring to drugs or women, could explain his connections and lack of any notable talent. (New update, he was one of the first to promote Chris Alvarez’s instagram not long after he turned 18).

Rick Ross- Diddy said some weird shit about him and licked his lips and kissed him at a show. Ross is also signed to Bad Boy under Diddy. He ended up getting involved in the current feud and spamming social media nonstop dissing and threatening Drake.

A lot of the back and forth was both of them threatening to release dirt on each other. One strange coincidence I found was Drake recently trolled Ross about the 20 million dollar renovation to his home on Star island, where Diddy is currently residing. It’s rumored back in the day that P Diddy was caught in a room full of rich guys on ecstasy possibly at the beginning stages of a gay orgy. Drake also mentioned in the same tweets about Rick Ross that Birdman owned a house on the island and asked Rick Ross why he didn’t help him out.

Considering Ross is so sketchy and Drake claims the house isn’t that big, that’s a ridiculous amount of money. He may be covering up evidence, or creating tunnels in his house to escape if shit pops off and Drake might know what’s good. Interestingly enough Ross is very close with French Montana and also signed to Bad. He said his beef was related to something involving French, and Drake’s tweet popped up the same day the info came out concerning the Chris Alvarez stuff.

The famous line from U.O.E.N.O.

Meek Mill- “OG Maco called himself defending his friend Quentin Miller by substantiating the ghostwriting claims and agreeing with Meek. He hit up Twitter saying, "Some of us been knew. Meek just put it in the air. Sucks to have to compete with 6 n****s and get compared to”

Meek mill also had a short beef with Drake, some disses included lines referring to TI’s homie pissing on Drake at the movie theater, which is also interesting considering the current case against him. He also dropped a line saying Diddy almost got a domestic charge when he smacked Drake, which could either be saying that Drake is like a woman, or saying he was Drake’s boyfriend/sugar daddy.
( If you made it to the end comment with the number 8)
I thought it was interesting how the beef just kind of disappeared and even Meek said it didn’t seem genuine. Considering the allegations against Meek in the Diddy trial, and his rumored affair with Kim contributing to ending Kanye’s marriage, Meek Mill definitely did some dirt on him.

“Niggas frauds I told the truth, don't ask me shit
All this industry fake enemy and rap shit”

“Money make a sucker that told look trill again”

One of the many chapters in Drake's history in which he is seen paying his way out of trouble and starting beefs randomly.
“Now when that shit went down with Chris, you wrote a check”
This line is referring to Chris brown beef, another beef that was lost to time. All I can remember off the top was someone throwing a champagne bottle at the other’s entourage.

Ty Dolla $ign- Huge feature artist, close with Ye. Grew up in the industry and talks about growing up on the road and being in the studio with his dad and Rick James who was should have already been in prison for life for dragging, torturing, and S assaulting multiple women and children throughout his career and was himself a victim of the industry. May be part of Ye's motivation, considering their recent close working relationship.
The end.
Courtesy of,
The Randomest Moniker

When I was three years old I was in a really bad car accident. I didn't know it at the time, but that singular event would come to define everything about my life moving forward. What I remember about the accident is mostly a collage of backdated comments I was able to reel out of my father in the following years. He was driving me and my mom in his old '91 Chevy Tahoe through the twisting backroads of Southern Illinois, weaving his way through the gnarled branches of oak trees which interlocked into a braided ceiling overhead. A fog had rolled in, giving the impression that we were driving through a cloudy tube. Everything was simultaneously bright and opaque. I didn't mind though, as I was in the back seat working on a coloring book. My mom was in the front, talking with my dad or turning around to entertain my completed pictures.
Although I was of the age where my memory was just beginning to mature, I still recall two things very clearly from the accident. First was the sensation of breaking. I remember feeling the way a plate must feel to be dropped: weightless at first, then suddenly meeting a much larger, more solid object—the air popped like a firecracker, and the entirety of my body shattered into hundreds of fractals. And then I remember a hand. It was my dad's hand pulling me from the wreck.
I ended up hospitalized for weeks after the crash. My mom was less lucky. The impact had killed her instantly.
As I've alluded to, I was young, and at the time I didn't fully understand the implications of what had happened. I knew something was missing, but it was like a word on the tip of my tongue, or the forgotten vanilla in a cherished cake recipe—coloring my experience, but not the whole of it. Not like my dad. For him, it was the whole fucking cake. He had somehow made it out with only a few scratches. I'm sure he had a really bad case of survivor's guilt, and frankly, looking back, I wouldn't have blamed him if he slumped into despair and spent his days drinking away his sorrow. But he wasn't that type of man. He got help. It took him years before he was able to recall anything that happened that morning, and most of it is still repressed, but he shared with me what he could. Or at least that's what I had thought.
My dad was a Middle School teacher since before I was born, and he kept his job until very recently. As a result, we didn't have much by way of resources. I grew up on Disney Channel and TV dinners for the most part, but I didn't mind. When I became of school age, his job actually made caring for me pretty convenient. Since our Elementary and Middle schools were connected, he was able to drive me there and back each day.
It was around third or fourth grade that I realized I was different. I didn't understand the other children or even the adults most of the time. They would say things then immediately change their mind, or they would talk about something and in the next breath forget its existence entirely. I remember one day at lunch, I had just gotten my tray of hot food and sat down with some friends. One of the kids, Alex, was talking about a stuffed bird he had won for getting first place in Mr. Curtis's pop-up math competition. We were all admiring its blue wings and white belly and sharp black beak and beady eyes. I left mid-conversation to get a chocolate milk. When I came back, I asked to see the bird again, and Alex said "what bird?" I was perplexed. "The bird—the bluejay you were just showing us." I remember all of the other kids looking at me like I was crazy. I figured they were all playing a trick on me, so I got up and went over to Alex's seat and crouched down, looking under the table, then I sprung up and tried to open his lunchbox. "What are you doing!?" he yelled. I felt so confused and embarrassed that I ran to the bathroom to cry.
And then there was another time a group of kids were laughing about a joke one of the girls, Taylor, had made about our homeroom teacher's face looking like a seal. I knew it was mean, but at the time I just wanted to fit in so I played along, but when I made a comment about her resemblance to the semi-aquatic animal, they all looked at me confused. "What are you talking about? We never said that…"
These misattributions kept happening, and it led to me being ostracized from most of the little childish cliques that popped up. I developed a quasi-standoffish temperament which I used as a shield against a chaotic world that I didn't understand. My dad eventually had me tested for ASD (Autism Spectrum Disorder), but I passed the test. He asked if I wanted to move to a different town with different schoolmates, thinking that perhaps I was getting bullied, but I told him it was fine. Somewhere deep down I felt like no matter where I went, this problem would follow me.
You may think that I was simply coping with the absence of my mom, and while I'm sure that her absence has left certain holes in my life, kindly, no, that wasn't what was happening. You see, at first I didn't notice the instances of what I'll call "blinking". I simply thought that I was misremembering things: objects, words, events. They were all little things anyway. A bird, a joke, my pencil box. It wasn't until sixth grade that I realized the magnitude of the phenomenon.
I was in my dad's 6th grade Social Studies class and we had just been assigned our "Ancient Civilizations" project which involved creating a diorama of our chosen civilization and presenting its features to the class. My friend at the time, Claire, had taken my first choice of Ancient Rome (which we had a heated argument about at lunch), so I was left with Ancient Egypt. At the time, all I pictured for Egypt was a plate of sand. However, my dad and I went through some illustrated history books and pictures on the internet and he really built up the project for me.
Over the course of a couple months, he helped me shape three pyramids out of small wooden planks and a bunch of tan clay. We placed them in the center of a giant square shoebox lid which served as the container for the diorama. Then he bought some small wooden mannequin puppets and we dressed them up in cloth clothes (mostly kilts and tunics) and colored their eyes, mouths, and hair. We added a few obelisks and some small box-huts which were collected into a little village around the Nile. Finally, we added a light glaze of glue where we felt would be necessary and then covered the whole project with golden glitter.
As we worked on each part of the diorama, my dad helped me understand what we were adding and why it was important to Ancient Egypt. I loved the way he talked about history. He spun everything into a miraculous story. To this day, I don't think I've ever had a teacher who came close to his level of charisma and creativity. As a result, I became really proud of my diorama. I memorized all the little details and rehearsed my speech in front of the mirror for hours leading up to the last couple weeks of class. And then, two days before I was supposed to give my presentation, everything fell apart.
First, I need to apologize for deceiving you about an aspect of my story. I thought it might help you to understand what I was going through at the time. What I'm about to tell you is going to sound insane. I get that. But please hear me out. The truth is that I was never assigned to present on Ancient Egypt; everything else about Clair taking my first pick and dad helping me with the whole project and my excitement leading up to the presentation was all true, but it wasn't a project on Ancient Egypt, it was a project on Ancient Sidovan, which was a civilization located on the eighth continent called "Catalan" (the same name as the spoken language, but unrelated) which was due West of Australia in the Indian Ocean.
I know this sounds incredible, and if you want to believe it's all in my head, I get that, but I remember clearly all sorts of facts about it: the Malagasy, the same people who populated Madagascar, were the first peoples to discover Catalan and settle it. However, about five hundred years later, Indian ships would arrive and create the civilization known as Sidovan. A pidgin language formed between the indigenous population and new arriving Indians called "Hiesa" (pronounced: Hai-E-suh or Hai-ʔ-suh). Catalan had a warm climate with plenty of natural resources, but Sidovan had a dense enough population to require agricultural production. They grew rice, grain, sugarcane, vegetables, and even tobacco.
I remembered all of these facts and more. My diorama reflected the main features of the Sidovan civilization. And then two days before my presentation, I woke up and my diorama was entirely different. The hilly grasslands were traded out for sandy dunes. The Hindu statues and stone palaces became clay pyramids and large spear-like pillars. And everything was covered with the ickiest yellow glitter I had ever seen. Tears stung my eyes as I trampled over to my dad's room and banged on his door. "Dad! What did you do!?" I yelled.
"Honey?" He responded, rushing over to the base of the stairs. "What's wrong?"
"The diorama. It's ruined!"
"It's what?" he asked and ran up the stairs, leading me to my room. He looked over it for a few seconds, checking to see if everything was intact, then said, "I don't see it, honey. Where is it ruined?"
I was completely dumb-struck. What did he mean he didn't see it? "All of it!" I shouted. "The whole thing is wrong. Where's the grass and the stone buildings and the lady with the four arms and the elephants? Where is my project!?"
My dad looked at me in silence. "Lauren, baby, what civilization do you think you were working on?"
"Ancient Sidovan, of course! We've been working on this for months now! Dad, please tell me you remember."
He knelt down and put his hands on my shoulders. "Honey, your project was on Ancient Egypt. There is no Ancient Sidovan."
"Y-you're lying." I protested. "Books, you have books. On your bookshelf."
He took me into his study and showed me all of his books. None of them were on Ancient Sidovan. He even turned on his computer and typed in the name of the civilization, but all that came up was a near match "Sidon". I remember feeling the sudden urge to puke. My entire body felt like it was pumping battery acid instead of blood. "I—I don't," I started but suddenly my head felt very light, and I fainted.
When I woke up, I was in the hospital. I had lost consciousness for over half an hour, enough time for my dad to call 9-1-1 and have the ambulance transport me to the nearest ER. They ran all sorts of tests on me, but they all came back fine. After a couple hours of IV fluids and monitoring, they released me with my dad.
I ended up skipping the rest of school that week. My dad didn't make me present my diorama. In fact, he never brought the subject up again. Part of me was glad. I just wanted to forget the whole thing ever happened. But another part of me couldn't move past what was clearly the most absurd thing to ever happen to me. About a week after the incident, I tried to broach the subject, but when I asked my dad about it, he didn't seem to remember our conversation at all. He said I had fallen ill and that's why I needed to go to the ER and miss class. I felt like I was going crazy. If I was older, I probably would have voluntarily checked myself into a psychiatric ward. But I was young and helpless and alone, and I decided that if I just ignored the changes well enough, I could still get along. This proved difficult though, as the blinking would only exacerbate in the coming months.
Up until the time of the project, I hadn't been able to directly observe the phenomenon. It was always in retrospect that things disappeared. It was during the summer after sixth grade that this changed. I still remember the first time it happened. I had just gotten out of the shower and was drying my hair in front of the mirror. After it was dried, I threw on my clothes then went to tie my hair up in a ponytail, but as I went to set the elastic tie, I felt its weight dissipate in my hand. I gasped and held my hand out. The circular black band was gone.
Fast forward to seventh grade and the blinking had spiraled out of control. Reflecting back on it, most people would probably have assumed I was drinking psilocybin-infused water, as the delusions were somewhat consistent with psychedelic phenomena: except these distortions were real (at least they felt that way to me).
I'd wake up and grab the box of Special K but end up eating Cheerios. The McDonalds logo would look yellow and red one day, but purple and black the next. I'd be watching a show, and then a different show, and then a different one. It was as if the entire universe was a Christmas tree with millions of lights, and the lights kept shifting hues randomly, faster and faster, and I was the only one who could see their changing colors. I remember one night my dad made spaghetti for dinner and we went out onto the porch to eat it. While we were sitting, I saw our neighbor's house, a two story townhome, blink and become a single story bungalow. I gasped, and my dad asked what was wrong, but when I tried to explain he just gave me a strange look. For him, no matter what changed, the world was "always that way". While for me, it didn't have "a way".
The situation peaked when Clair, that friend I mentioned before, disappeared. I texted her (my dad had bought me a BlackBerry at the beginning of summer break) but didn't get a response. When I asked her other friends if they knew where she was, I got the usual "what are you talking about?" look. I knew right away what had happened, even though I didn't want to believe it. I went to the teacher and asked if there was a Clair in our class. She said "no". I broke down in front of everyone. I couldn't take it anymore. I ran out of school. The lady at the front desk tried to stop me, but I just barrelled past her. I kept running until I got to a big park across the street and bawled my eyes out until the police arrived and escorted me home. When they tried asking me what was wrong, I didn't say anything. There was literally nothing I could say that they would understand.
That night I prayed to God for the first time. My dad wasn't a religious man. He went to Catholic church with my mom when she was alive, but after she died he never went back. Still, I knew how to pray, even if I never did it. I copied some of the people I saw praying in movies and interlocked my fingers and knelt down on my bed, stuffing my head into a pillow. "Dear God," I said, "Please, please, please help me." I told Him about my struggles and asked Him to make them stop. I spent an hour saying the same things over and over again. And when I was finished, my little body was so tired, I fell right to sleep.
I knew something was different the second I opened my eyelids. I didn't only feel relieved, but I felt… embraced. I felt like someone was watching over me. I felt like I wasn't alone. I moved through my day with cautious apprehension. I didn't want to get my hopes up only to be let down. But to my surprise, the blinking had stopped. At least I couldn't remember any of the inconsistencies, and to me, that was a win. I began to pray regularly, and the more I did, the more I could feel the sense that someone was looking out for me. It was like I was getting a big hug from some cosmic force that loved me and wanted me to be happy.
I made it a habit to pray regularly. I asked my dad if he could take me to a church, and he agreed to take me to St. Mark's, the same church that he and my mom used to attend. Over time, I realized that the actual church services weren't as important to me as the praying. For whatever reason, there was something about praying that was like a glue for my brain, holding the entire universe together. As I got older, I considered that maybe it wasn't that the changes were no longer happening, but that I simply didn't see them anymore. In other words, maybe I was just becoming like everyone else. Either way, I didn't mind.
In my teenage years, I got into mindfulness meditation. I thought that I'd want to go into religious studies and become a theologian, so I started to learn about Eastern traditions in addition to Christianity. I joined a bunch of different school clubs to meet kids of different faiths: Judaism, Hinduism, Buddhism, Islam. I tried to find a common thread which linked them all and would explain what happened to me as a child. The metaphors of Heaven and Hell, Good and Evil, the Taoist Yin and Yang—duality. Every religion seemed to speak about a way of being that would lead to a better place. In some cases that better place was a physical future existence, and in others it was merely being in contact with the perfection of nature or the present. Metaphorically, the teachings could explain what I had gone through in a kind of loose way, but there were no explicit statements about my condition.
***
I want to fast forward to why I've decided to write about this now. To give you an idea of where I'm at, I'm now 25 and working on finishing my MA in Computational Linguistics. I know that's a bit of a switch from what I was thinking when I was a teenager, but I really only interested in religion because of the value praying afforded me as a child. I didn't actually have much interest in the subject, itself. After my first year of college, I changed to an English major, which ultimately led to me taking a linguistics class and enjoying it so much that I switched tracks in my Junior year. Considering the state of the world, I thought minoring in Computer Science might help me financially in the future, so I ended up charting a path which I figured might lead to something like developing translation software.
Anyway, everything was going fine until a few weeks ago. I was out at an all-night diner with a few of my friends from the program. There was Jeremy, Martin, Bella, Jordan, and Macy. We had been working on a group project together involving modeling construction grammars by generating primitive 3D structures using C# and running the code through a game engine (it's a bit weird, but essentially we were trying to create a multidimensional model for language using a similar but more advanced concept than other LLMs), and just had a breakthrough. It was 2AM though and not a brain cell existed between the six of us, so instead we focused on a different problem: Macy's ongoing breakup with her semi-long distance trucker boyfriend. We tried to explain why Mike wasn't going to work out as we ordered a round of milkshakes and waited for the lone overnight kitchen worker to scoop out three balls of ice cream from the Deans carton for each of us, blend it, then have the server deliver the vintage diner glasses on a plastic tray.
I dug into my thick strawberry shake with a spoon. It was delicious. I kept eating but focused back on the conversation. I remember feeling something odd about one of the scoops, but I was so entrenched in Macy's story that I didn't notice the metal shard in my ice cream until I felt it against my lip. "P-tuh" I spat out the shard and ice cream all in one motion, then covered my mouth which I was sure was bleeding. The silver blade was probably as large as my thumb, and it had two jagged edges, as if it was fastened for the purpose of causing damage. "What the fuck!" I yelled.
Everyone at the table turned to see what was the matter. "Hey, Lauren, you okay?"
I spoke through a covered mouth, using my free hand to point at the table. "That was in my—"
But it was gone.
"In your… shake? Was something in your shake?" asked Jeremy.
I froze. In that moment, the stories of my childhood that I had only remembered as faint nightmares came back in a wave of crushing terror. How could I have been so stupid to think they would simply vanish forever? No, this isn't the same thing, I thought. But deep down, I knew it was. I drew my hand away from my lips and saw that it was dry—no blood. When I looked back up, all of the blood in my veins went cold. My friends were… smiling at me. Their lips were elastic like taffy, stretching to reveal their teeth. I could feel them radiating malevolence, as if the only thing holding them back from picking up their utensils and stabbing me to death was some thinly veiled force field. The moment lasted for what felt like half a minute, then Jordan said two words which made the hair on the back of my neck stand up.
"Found you"
The words ricocheted in my now adrenaline powered skull. But just as he spoke them, the world blinked and my friends were back. Bella reached out and grabbed my hand. I pulled away, but when I saw her concerned expression, I relented.
"Sorry, guys, I think I'm going to have to call it." I said.
"You sure, L?" asked Jordan. "You look like you just saw a ghost."
"Yeah, thanks, but I just…" I stumbled for a lie, but when one wouldn't come, Martin stood up and said he'd walk me out to my car.
"Thanks," I said as I got into my little 2015 Jetta. "It's just been a long day."
"No problem, Lauren. You know, if there's ever anything—"
"I know," I said but didn't mean. Some things just couldn't be shared.
I drove for about five minutes before stopping at a gas station. I pulled in and parked near the back. Then I interlocked my fingers and prayed for half an hour. I apologized for not taking my praying seriously and asked to once again be granted peace. Unlike my younger years, I also drifted into other avenues of thought. I imagined my mom. I pictured the whole arc of my life, all of the little decisions that led me to where I was. I cried for a long time. I felt like that little girl again reaching out for help. I still felt so lost, so out of control; there were so many things missing, and I was so confused.
I decided then to take a trip back home and visit my dad who was now working as a private tutor. He made enough prepping affluent students for the ACT and SAT that he could spend his free time pursuing his real passions: reading and writing. When I arrived at his doorstep that weekend, he greeted me with open arms. "How are you, kiddo? It's been, what? A year or so?"
It was actually more like two years, but I didn't tell him. I just smiled and nodded.
"Well, come in."
The house was almost exactly how I remembered it. Linoleum floors, beige walls, a few scattered pictures, the scent of camomile. Everything minimalist. There was a quaintness, a prettiness to the way everything seemed to be well kept and in a perfect place. From the cherry wood chairs we'd sit in to eat, to the cream-colored loveseat. I felt at home.
I spent the drive thinking of what I would talk to my dad about, but ultimately I wasn't sure what I'd say. I loved my dad, but I think growing up it was easy to see him as naive. After all, arguably the most important episodes of my childhood were completely unknown to him. In that way, I kind of loved him from a distance. Maybe losing my mom also played into that. Maybe I just had trust issues. And after what happened at the diner… Luckily there hadn't been any blinks since.
I stayed for a couple days and he showed me around some of the different coffee shops where he'd tutor kids or write some of his stories. I met some of his friends, mostly other retired or part-time teachers who were in a similar place in life. I was happy for him. Then, on Sunday, he made me my favorite meal growing up: homemade carbonara pasta with chicken and broccoli. The sauce had a few different cheeses, butter, olive oil, and a raw egg yolk. It was the perfect blend of creamy, savory, and sweet. After we ate, he cracked open a scrapbook of some old photos and other clippings he had put together.
We reminisced about the past and laughed whenever I'd cover up one of my awkward pictures. He brought up some stories from school that I had forgotten, naming some teachers that I hadn't thought about in years. Apparently I had started at the end, because as I moved to the other end of the book, I kept getting younger and younger. I flipped to the last pages and noticed a couple pictures of my mom that made my heart sink.
"She was beautiful, wasn't she?" said my dad.
"Mmm," I agreed.
I flipped to the last page and saw a collage of newspaper clippings. One of them was related to the accident. It was headlined: "Two Survive Head-On Collision". After a cursory glance at the text, I noticed something odd. It said, "Both the husband and child, a three year old girl, sustained life-threatening wounds. The husband was found unconscious on the scene. The girl was found twenty meters away from the vehicle, crying." I swallowed, trying to remember back to what happened that day. The feeling of crashing, of the world slowing down, then breaking, returned. And then there was a hand. My dad's hand. Or was it? If he was unconscious, who pulled me out of that wreck?
I looked up at my dad. He was smiling.
I shot up and started backing up slowly toward the door. "No, not you, too. What is this? What's happening? Who are you?"
My dad, or whatever was controlling him, laughed."Oh, Lauren, Lauren, Lauren. You know who we are." he purred as he stood up. He lifted his hands and the lights began to flicker then bend in a way which shouldn't have been possible. Dark figures began to propagate from the shadows along the walls. The pictures nailed there began to blink out of existence. I turned to run toward the door but the handle was gone. Glass shards materialized all around me and swarmed like locusts. Certain I was going to die, I dropped down on my knees and once again turned to prayer, this time asking God to directly intervene and save me.
Everything went quiet.
"Honey? Are you okay?"
I didn't trust his voice. I knew if I opened my eyes, I'd see that awful smile. He was just toying with me. "It's not you," I said in between muttered prayers. "I know it's not you."
"Honey," my dad said, closer. I felt his arms wrap around me. This was it, I was going to be suffocated. I waited for the inevitable crushing weight of my chest collapsing. I waited to break all over again.
"I would never hurt you, Lauren. I love you more than anything in the whole world."
I burst out in tears. "No, it's not you, I know it's not you. You don't exist!"
My dad's weight dissipated. I opened my eyes and saw that he was no longer there. "Dad?" I called aloud. "Dad? Where did you go?"
I checked all over the house, but there was no trace of him. There were still pictures of him all over the house, so I knew he hadn't blinked out of existence like everything else, but somehow he was missing.
***
I left the house and got a room at a hotel, where I am now. I'm sure at this point that whatever is happening to me is no longer random. Something out there is actively trying to hunt me. Maybe it has been my whole life, but only now it can see me—however weird that sounds. If that's right, then God has been on my side trying to protect me from this demon or monster or devil or whatever it is. Regardless, the methods I was using when I was younger are not going to cut it anymore. I already posted my story in several other small circles and have gotten one reply. A man who goes by the name "Trent" (apparently it's an alias). He said that he has some insight into my "condition" and can offer help if I want it. I'm planning on meeting with him tomorrow. I'm not sure if it's a good idea, but at this point I need answers. I can keep you updated with my progress if that interests you, and to anyone who knows anything about what's happening to me, please… I could really use your help.
***
I was just about to post this when Trent sent another message. This is what it says:
Trent: We can do the \*** at **** O'clock. Also, if what you're telling me is true, your mother may still be alive.*

When I was three years old I was in a really bad car accident. I didn't know it at the time, but that singular event would come to define everything about my life moving forward. What I remember about the accident is mostly a collage of backdated comments I was able to reel out of my father in the following years. He was driving me and my mom in his old '91 Chevy Tahoe through the twisting backroads of Southern Illinois, weaving his way through the gnarled branches of oak trees which interlocked into a braided ceiling overhead. A fog had rolled in, giving the impression that we were driving through a cloudy tube. Everything was simultaneously bright and opaque. I didn't mind though, as I was in the back seat working on a coloring book. My mom was in the front, talking with my dad or turning around to entertain my completed pictures.
Although I was of the age where my memory was just beginning to mature, I still recall two things very clearly from the accident. First was the sensation of breaking. I remember feeling the way a plate must feel to be dropped: weightless at first, then suddenly meeting a much larger, more solid object—the air popped like a firecracker, and the entirety of my body shattered into hundreds of fractals. And then I remember a hand. It was my dad's hand pulling me from the wreck.
I ended up hospitalized for weeks after the crash. My mom was less lucky. The impact had killed her instantly.
As I've alluded to, I was young, and at the time I didn't fully understand the implications of what had happened. I knew something was missing, but it was like a word on the tip of my tongue, or the forgotten vanilla in a cherished cake recipe—coloring my experience, but not the whole of it. Not like my dad. For him, it was the whole fucking cake. He had somehow made it out with only a few scratches. I'm sure he had a really bad case of survivor's guilt, and frankly, looking back, I wouldn't have blamed him if he slumped into despair and spent his days drinking away his sorrow. But he wasn't that type of man. He got help. It took him years before he was able to recall anything that happened that morning, and most of it is still repressed, but he shared with me what he could. Or at least that's what I had thought.
My dad was a Middle School teacher since before I was born, and he kept his job until very recently. As a result, we didn't have much by way of resources. I grew up on Disney Channel and TV dinners for the most part, but I didn't mind. When I became of school age, his job actually made caring for me pretty convenient. Since our Elementary and Middle schools were connected, he was able to drive me there and back each day.
It was around third or fourth grade that I realized I was different. I didn't understand the other children or even the adults most of the time. They would say things then immediately change their mind, or they would talk about something and in the next breath forget its existence entirely. I remember one day at lunch, I had just gotten my tray of hot food and sat down with some friends. One of the kids, Alex, was talking about a stuffed bird he had won for getting first place in Mr. Curtis's pop-up math competition. We were all admiring its blue wings and white belly and sharp black beak and beady eyes. I left mid-conversation to get a chocolate milk. When I came back, I asked to see the bird again, and Alex said "what bird?" I was perplexed. "The bird—the bluejay you were just showing us." I remember all of the other kids looking at me like I was crazy. I figured they were all playing a trick on me, so I got up and went over to Alex's seat and crouched down, looking under the table, then I sprung up and tried to open his lunchbox. "What are you doing!?" he yelled. I felt so confused and embarrassed that I ran to the bathroom to cry.
And then there was another time a group of kids were laughing about a joke one of the girls, Taylor, had made about our homeroom teacher's face looking like a seal. I knew it was mean, but at the time I just wanted to fit in so I played along, but when I made a comment about her resemblance to the semi-aquatic animal, they all looked at me confused. "What are you talking about? We never said that…"
These misattributions kept happening, and it led to me being ostracized from most of the little childish cliques that popped up. I developed a quasi-standoffish temperament which I used as a shield against a chaotic world that I didn't understand. My dad eventually had me tested for ASD (Autism Spectrum Disorder), but I passed the test. He asked if I wanted to move to a different town with different schoolmates, thinking that perhaps I was getting bullied, but I told him it was fine. Somewhere deep down I felt like no matter where I went, this problem would follow me.
You may think that I was simply coping with the absence of my mom, and while I'm sure that her absence has left certain holes in my life, kindly, no, that wasn't what was happening. You see, at first I didn't notice the instances of what I'll call "blinking". I simply thought that I was misremembering things: objects, words, events. They were all little things anyway. A bird, a joke, my pencil box. It wasn't until sixth grade that I realized the magnitude of the phenomenon.
I was in my dad's 6th grade Social Studies class and we had just been assigned our "Ancient Civilizations" project which involved creating a diorama of our chosen civilization and presenting its features to the class. My friend at the time, Claire, had taken my first choice of Ancient Rome (which we had a heated argument about at lunch), so I was left with Ancient Egypt. At the time, all I pictured for Egypt was a plate of sand. However, my dad and I went through some illustrated history books and pictures on the internet and he really built up the project for me.
Over the course of a couple months, he helped me shape three pyramids out of small wooden planks and a bunch of tan clay. We placed them in the center of a giant square shoebox lid which served as the container for the diorama. Then he bought some small wooden mannequin puppets and we dressed them up in cloth clothes (mostly kilts and tunics) and colored their eyes, mouths, and hair. We added a few obelisks and some small box-huts which were collected into a little village around the Nile. Finally, we added a light glaze of glue where we felt would be necessary and then covered the whole project with golden glitter.
As we worked on each part of the diorama, my dad helped me understand what we were adding and why it was important to Ancient Egypt. I loved the way he talked about history. He spun everything into a miraculous story. To this day, I don't think I've ever had a teacher who came close to his level of charisma and creativity. As a result, I became really proud of my diorama. I memorized all the little details and rehearsed my speech in front of the mirror for hours leading up to the last couple weeks of class. And then, two days before I was supposed to give my presentation, everything fell apart.
First, I need to apologize for deceiving you about an aspect of my story. I thought it might help you to understand what I was going through at the time. What I'm about to tell you is going to sound insane. I get that. But please hear me out. The truth is that I was never assigned to present on Ancient Egypt; everything else about Clair taking my first pick and dad helping me with the whole project and my excitement leading up to the presentation was all true, but it wasn't a project on Ancient Egypt, it was a project on Ancient Sidovan, which was a civilization located on the eighth continent called "Catalan" (the same name as the spoken language, but unrelated) which was due West of Australia in the Indian Ocean.
I know this sounds incredible, and if you want to believe it's all in my head, I get that, but I remember clearly all sorts of facts about it: the Malagasy, the same people who populated Madagascar, were the first peoples to discover Catalan and settle it. However, about five hundred years later, Indian ships would arrive and create the civilization known as Sidovan. A pidgin language formed between the indigenous population and new arriving Indians called "Hiesa" (pronounced: Hai-E-suh or Hai-ʔ-suh). Catalan had a warm climate with plenty of natural resources, but Sidovan had a dense enough population to require agricultural production. They grew rice, grain, sugarcane, vegetables, and even tobacco.
I remembered all of these facts and more. My diorama reflected the main features of the Sidovan civilization. And then two days before my presentation, I woke up and my diorama was entirely different. The hilly grasslands were traded out for sandy dunes. The Hindu statues and stone palaces became clay pyramids and large spear-like pillars. And everything was covered with the ickiest yellow glitter I had ever seen. Tears stung my eyes as I trampled over to my dad's room and banged on his door. "Dad! What did you do!?" I yelled.
"Honey?" He responded, rushing over to the base of the stairs. "What's wrong?"
"The diorama. It's ruined!"
"It's what?" he asked and ran up the stairs, leading me to my room. He looked over it for a few seconds, checking to see if everything was intact, then said, "I don't see it, honey. Where is it ruined?"
I was completely dumb-struck. What did he mean he didn't see it? "All of it!" I shouted. "The whole thing is wrong. Where's the grass and the stone buildings and the lady with the four arms and the elephants? Where is my project!?"
My dad looked at me in silence. "Lauren, baby, what civilization do you think you were working on?"
"Ancient Sidovan, of course! We've been working on this for months now! Dad, please tell me you remember."
He knelt down and put his hands on my shoulders. "Honey, your project was on Ancient Egypt. There is no Ancient Sidovan."
"Y-you're lying." I protested. "Books, you have books. On your bookshelf."
He took me into his study and showed me all of his books. None of them were on Ancient Sidovan. He even turned on his computer and typed in the name of the civilization, but all that came up was a near match "Sidon". I remember feeling the sudden urge to puke. My entire body felt like it was pumping battery acid instead of blood. "I—I don't," I started but suddenly my head felt very light, and I fainted.
When I woke up, I was in the hospital. I had lost consciousness for over half an hour, enough time for my dad to call 9-1-1 and have the ambulance transport me to the nearest ER. They ran all sorts of tests on me, but they all came back fine. After a couple hours of IV fluids and monitoring, they released me with my dad.
I ended up skipping the rest of school that week. My dad didn't make me present my diorama. In fact, he never brought the subject up again. Part of me was glad. I just wanted to forget the whole thing ever happened. But another part of me couldn't move past what was clearly the most absurd thing to ever happen to me. About a week after the incident, I tried to broach the subject, but when I asked my dad about it, he didn't seem to remember our conversation at all. He said I had fallen ill and that's why I needed to go to the ER and miss class. I felt like I was going crazy. If I was older, I probably would have voluntarily checked myself into a psychiatric ward. But I was young and helpless and alone, and I decided that if I just ignored the changes well enough, I could still get along. This proved difficult though, as the blinking would only exacerbate in the coming months.
Up until the time of the project, I hadn't been able to directly observe the phenomenon. It was always in retrospect that things disappeared. It was during the summer after sixth grade that this changed. I still remember the first time it happened. I had just gotten out of the shower and was drying my hair in front of the mirror. After it was dried, I threw on my clothes then went to tie my hair up in a ponytail, but as I went to set the elastic tie, I felt its weight dissipate in my hand. I gasped and held my hand out. The circular black band was gone.
Fast forward to seventh grade and the blinking had spiraled out of control. Reflecting back on it, most people would probably have assumed I was drinking psilocybin-infused water, as the delusions were somewhat consistent with psychedelic phenomena: except these distortions were real (at least they felt that way to me).
I'd wake up and grab the box of Special K but end up eating Cheerios. The McDonalds logo would look yellow and red one day, but purple and black the next. I'd be watching a show, and then a different show, and then a different one. It was as if the entire universe was a Christmas tree with millions of lights, and the lights kept shifting hues randomly, faster and faster, and I was the only one who could see their changing colors. I remember one night my dad made spaghetti for dinner and we went out onto the porch to eat it. While we were sitting, I saw our neighbor's house, a two story townhome, blink and become a single story bungalow. I gasped, and my dad asked what was wrong, but when I tried to explain he just gave me a strange look. For him, no matter what changed, the world was "always that way". While for me, it didn't have "a way".
The situation peaked when Clair, that friend I mentioned before, disappeared. I texted her (my dad had bought me a BlackBerry at the beginning of summer break) but didn't get a response. When I asked her other friends if they knew where she was, I got the usual "what are you talking about?" look. I knew right away what had happened, even though I didn't want to believe it. I went to the teacher and asked if there was a Clair in our class. She said "no". I broke down in front of everyone. I couldn't take it anymore. I ran out of school. The lady at the front desk tried to stop me, but I just barrelled past her. I kept running until I got to a big park across the street and bawled my eyes out until the police arrived and escorted me home. When they tried asking me what was wrong, I didn't say anything. There was literally nothing I could say that they would understand.
That night I prayed to God for the first time. My dad wasn't a religious man. He went to Catholic church with my mom when she was alive, but after she died he never went back. Still, I knew how to pray, even if I never did it. I copied some of the people I saw praying in movies and interlocked my fingers and knelt down on my bed, stuffing my head into a pillow. "Dear God," I said, "Please, please, please help me." I told Him about my struggles and asked Him to make them stop. I spent an hour saying the same things over and over again. And when I was finished, my little body was so tired, I fell right to sleep.
I knew something was different the second I opened my eyelids. I didn't only feel relieved, but I felt… embraced. I felt like someone was watching over me. I felt like I wasn't alone. I moved through my day with cautious apprehension. I didn't want to get my hopes up only to be let down. But to my surprise, the blinking had stopped. At least I couldn't remember any of the inconsistencies, and to me, that was a win. I began to pray regularly, and the more I did, the more I could feel the sense that someone was looking out for me. It was like I was getting a big hug from some cosmic force that loved me and wanted me to be happy.
I made it a habit to pray regularly. I asked my dad if he could take me to a church, and he agreed to take me to St. Mark's, the same church that he and my mom used to attend. Over time, I realized that the actual church services weren't as important to me as the praying. For whatever reason, there was something about praying that was like a glue for my brain, holding the entire universe together. As I got older, I considered that maybe it wasn't that the changes were no longer happening, but that I simply didn't see them anymore. In other words, maybe I was just becoming like everyone else. Either way, I didn't mind.
In my teenage years, I got into mindfulness meditation. I thought that I'd want to go into religious studies and become a theologian, so I started to learn about Eastern traditions in addition to Christianity. I joined a bunch of different school clubs to meet kids of different faiths: Judaism, Hinduism, Buddhism, Islam. I tried to find a common thread which linked them all and would explain what happened to me as a child. The metaphors of Heaven and Hell, Good and Evil, the Taoist Yin and Yang—duality. Every religion seemed to speak about a way of being that would lead to a better place. In some cases that better place was a physical future existence, and in others it was merely being in contact with the perfection of nature or the present. Metaphorically, the teachings could explain what I had gone through in a kind of loose way, but there were no explicit statements about my condition.
***
I want to fast forward to why I've decided to write about this now. To give you an idea of where I'm at, I'm now 25 and working on finishing my MA in Computational Linguistics. I know that's a bit of a switch from what I was thinking when I was a teenager, but I really only interested in religion because of the value praying afforded me as a child. I didn't actually have much interest in the subject, itself. After my first year of college, I changed to an English major, which ultimately led to me taking a linguistics class and enjoying it so much that I switched tracks in my Junior year. Considering the state of the world, I thought minoring in Computer Science might help me financially in the future, so I ended up charting a path which I figured might lead to something like developing translation software.
Anyway, everything was going fine until a few weeks ago. I was out at an all-night diner with a few of my friends from the program. There was Jeremy, Martin, Bella, Jordan, and Macy. We had been working on a group project together involving modeling construction grammars by generating primitive 3D structures using C# and running the code through a game engine (it's a bit weird, but essentially we were trying to create a multidimensional model for language using a similar but more advanced concept than other LLMs), and just had a breakthrough. It was 2AM though and not a brain cell existed between the six of us, so instead we focused on a different problem: Macy's ongoing breakup with her semi-long distance trucker boyfriend. We tried to explain why Mike wasn't going to work out as we ordered a round of milkshakes and waited for the lone overnight kitchen worker to scoop out three balls of ice cream from the Deans carton for each of us, blend it, then have the server deliver the vintage diner glasses on a plastic tray.
I dug into my thick strawberry shake with a spoon. It was delicious. I kept eating but focused back on the conversation. I remember feeling something odd about one of the scoops, but I was so entrenched in Macy's story that I didn't notice the metal shard in my ice cream until I felt it against my lip. "P-tuh" I spat out the shard and ice cream all in one motion, then covered my mouth which I was sure was bleeding. The silver blade was probably as large as my thumb, and it had two jagged edges, as if it was fastened for the purpose of causing damage. "What the fuck!" I yelled.
Everyone at the table turned to see what was the matter. "Hey, Lauren, you okay?"
I spoke through a covered mouth, using my free hand to point at the table. "That was in my—"
But it was gone.
"In your… shake? Was something in your shake?" asked Jeremy.
I froze. In that moment, the stories of my childhood that I had only remembered as faint nightmares came back in a wave of crushing terror. How could I have been so stupid to think they would simply vanish forever? No, this isn't the same thing, I thought. But deep down, I knew it was. I drew my hand away from my lips and saw that it was dry—no blood. When I looked back up, all of the blood in my veins went cold. My friends were… smiling at me. Their lips were elastic like taffy, stretching to reveal their teeth. I could feel them radiating malevolence, as if the only thing holding them back from picking up their utensils and stabbing me to death was some thinly veiled force field. The moment lasted for what felt like half a minute, then Jordan said two words which made the hair on the back of my neck stand up.
"Found you"
The words ricocheted in my now adrenaline powered skull. But just as he spoke them, the world blinked and my friends were back. Bella reached out and grabbed my hand. I pulled away, but when I saw her concerned expression, I relented.
"Sorry, guys, I think I'm going to have to call it." I said.
"You sure, L?" asked Jordan. "You look like you just saw a ghost."
"Yeah, thanks, but I just…" I stumbled for a lie, but when one wouldn't come, Martin stood up and said he'd walk me out to my car.
"Thanks," I said as I got into my little 2015 Jetta. "It's just been a long day."
"No problem, Lauren. You know, if there's ever anything—"
"I know," I said but didn't mean. Some things just couldn't be shared.
I drove for about five minutes before stopping at a gas station. I pulled in and parked near the back. Then I interlocked my fingers and prayed for half an hour. I apologized for not taking my praying seriously and asked to once again be granted peace. Unlike my younger years, I also drifted into other avenues of thought. I imagined my mom. I pictured the whole arc of my life, all of the little decisions that led me to where I was. I cried for a long time. I felt like that little girl again reaching out for help. I still felt so lost, so out of control; there were so many things missing, and I was so confused.
I decided then to take a trip back home and visit my dad who was now working as a private tutor. He made enough prepping affluent students for the ACT and SAT that he could spend his free time pursuing his real passions: reading and writing. When I arrived at his doorstep that weekend, he greeted me with open arms. "How are you, kiddo? It's been, what? A year or so?"
It was actually more like two years, but I didn't tell him. I just smiled and nodded.
"Well, come in."
The house was almost exactly how I remembered it. Linoleum floors, beige walls, a few scattered pictures, the scent of camomile. Everything minimalist. There was a quaintness, a prettiness to the way everything seemed to be well kept and in a perfect place. From the cherry wood chairs we'd sit in to eat, to the cream-colored loveseat. I felt at home.
I spent the drive thinking of what I would talk to my dad about, but ultimately I wasn't sure what I'd say. I loved my dad, but I think growing up it was easy to see him as naive. After all, arguably the most important episodes of my childhood were completely unknown to him. In that way, I kind of loved him from a distance. Maybe losing my mom also played into that. Maybe I just had trust issues. And after what happened at the diner… Luckily there hadn't been any blinks since.
I stayed for a couple days and he showed me around some of the different coffee shops where he'd tutor kids or write some of his stories. I met some of his friends, mostly other retired or part-time teachers who were in a similar place in life. I was happy for him. Then, on Sunday, he made me my favorite meal growing up: homemade carbonara pasta with chicken and broccoli. The sauce had a few different cheeses, butter, olive oil, and a raw egg yolk. It was the perfect blend of creamy, savory, and sweet. After we ate, he cracked open a scrapbook of some old photos and other clippings he had put together.
We reminisced about the past and laughed whenever I'd cover up one of my awkward pictures. He brought up some stories from school that I had forgotten, naming some teachers that I hadn't thought about in years. Apparently I had started at the end, because as I moved to the other end of the book, I kept getting younger and younger. I flipped to the last pages and noticed a couple pictures of my mom that made my heart sink.
"She was beautiful, wasn't she?" said my dad.
"Mmm," I agreed.
I flipped to the last page and saw a collage of newspaper clippings. One of them was related to the accident. It was headlined: "Two Survive Head-On Collision". After a cursory glance at the text, I noticed something odd. It said, "Both the husband and child, a three year old girl, sustained life-threatening wounds. The husband was found unconscious on the scene. The girl was found twenty meters away from the vehicle, crying." I swallowed, trying to remember back to what happened that day. The feeling of crashing, of the world slowing down, then breaking, returned. And then there was a hand. My dad's hand. Or was it? If he was unconscious, who pulled me out of that wreck?
I looked up at my dad. He was smiling.
I shot up and started backing up slowly toward the door. "No, not you, too. What is this? What's happening? Who are you?"
My dad, or whatever was controlling him, laughed."Oh, Lauren, Lauren, Lauren. You know who we are." he purred as he stood up. He lifted his hands and the lights began to flicker then bend in a way which shouldn't have been possible. Dark figures began to propagate from the shadows along the walls. The pictures nailed there began to blink out of existence. I turned to run toward the door but the handle was gone. Glass shards materialized all around me and swarmed like locusts. Certain I was going to die, I dropped down on my knees and once again turned to prayer, this time asking God to directly intervene and save me.
Everything went quiet.
"Honey? Are you okay?"
I didn't trust his voice. I knew if I opened my eyes, I'd see that awful smile. He was just toying with me. "It's not you," I said in between muttered prayers. "I know it's not you."
"Honey," my dad said, closer. I felt his arms wrap around me. This was it, I was going to be suffocated. I waited for the inevitable crushing weight of my chest collapsing. I waited to break all over again.
"I would never hurt you, Lauren. I love you more than anything in the whole world."
I burst out in tears. "No, it's not you, I know it's not you. You don't exist!"
My dad's weight dissipated. I opened my eyes and saw that he was no longer there. "Dad?" I called aloud. "Dad? Where did you go?"
I checked all over the house, but there was no trace of him. There were still pictures of him all over the house, so I knew he hadn't blinked out of existence like everything else, but somehow he was missing.
***
I left the house and got a room at a hotel, where I am now. I'm sure at this point that whatever is happening to me is no longer random. Something out there is actively trying to hunt me. Maybe it has been my whole life, but only now it can see me—however weird that sounds. If that's right, then God has been on my side trying to protect me from this demon or monster or devil or whatever it is. Regardless, the methods I was using when I was younger are not going to cut it anymore. I already posted my story in several other small circles and have gotten one reply. A man who goes by the name "Trent" (apparently it's an alias). He said that he has some insight into my "condition" and can offer help if I want it. I'm planning on meeting with him tomorrow. I'm not sure if it's a good idea, but at this point I need answers. I can keep you updated with my progress if that interests you, and to anyone who knows anything about what's happening to me, please… I could really use your help.
***
I was just about to post this when Trent sent another message. This is what it says:
Trent: We can do the \*** at **** O'clock. Also, if what you're telling me is true, your mother may still be alive.*

The Undraftables: Week 6 Update (Going into/during Week 7)
This challenge was initially undertook with the NBA and it was fun, so decided to extend it to MLB as well. The rules are simple: Cannot select any player who has an Average Draft Position (ADP), regardless of how high or low it may be. Even if a player's ADP is 250+, they are off-limits if they have any average draft position. The draft took place on Sunday, April 7th. Admittedly, this was after the start of the season, but my focus had been primarily on the NBA season, leaving me with limited time to prepare for baseball. Nevertheless, managed to squeeze in most of my MLB prep work within a few days/week. This is a standard 12 team head to head category league on yahoo with 6 adds per week. The buy-in was lower than my usual, but not free (inactivity and too easy).
Here was the draft results:

1. (6) Lance McCullers Jr. (HOU - SP)
2. (19) Drew Rasmussen (TB - SP)
3. (30) Dustin May (LAD - SP)
4. (43) Ronel Blanco (HOU - SP,RP)
5. (54) Brady Singer (KC - SP)
6. (67) Paul Blackburn (OAK - SP)
7. (78) Cody Bradford (TEX - SP,RP)
8. (91) Chad Green (TOR - RP)
9. (102) Steven Matz (STL - SP,RP)
10. (115) Tanner Houck (BOS - SP)
11. (126) Tyler Anderson (LAA - SP)
12. (139) Spencer Turnbull (PHI - SP)
13. (150) Connor Joe (PIT - 1B,OF)
14. (163) José Caballero (TB - 2B,SS)
15. (174) Gio Urshela (DET - 1B,3B,SS)
16. (187) Will Brennan (CLE - OF)
17. (198) Jake McCarthy (AZ - OF)
18. (211) Jorge Mateo (BAL - SS)
19. (222) Dairon Blanco (KC - OF)
20. (235) Jacob Young (WSH - OF)
21. (246) Bubba Thompson (CIN - OF)
22. (259) Trevor Williams (WSH - SP)
23. (270) Reese McGuire (BOS - C)

Recent Additions from Last Week and This Week (since last update):

• Taijuan Walker (wins streamer)
• Bryse Wilson (wins streamer)
• Gavin Stone (wins streamer)
• Josh Lowe (1 FAAB)
• Dairon Blanco

Recent Drops This Week and Last Week:

• Sal Frelick (might re add)
• Esteury Ruiz (he just isn't playing or doing anything)
• Taijuan Walker
• Bryse Wilson
• Jameson Taillon (because he missed the start I was worried)

Trades that I performed since my last update:

• No trades for this week.

Current Roster and why I choose to own them:

• C: Luis Campusano (for AVG, sorta Runs?)
• 1B: Yandy Diaz (Runs, AVG)
• 2B: Ahmed Rosario (SB, AVG)
• 3B: Maikel Garcia (SB, Runs, maybe AVG, somehow RBI?)
• SS: Jose Caballero (SB, maybe AVG)
• OF: Jacob Young (AVG, SB, maybe R cuz leadoff?)
• OF: Jose Lowe (AVG, SB, possibly R)
• OF: Jackson Merrill (AVG mostly, mid SB, mid R)
• UTL: Jake McCarthy (AVG, SB)
• UTL: Dairon Blanco (AVG, SB)
• SP: George Kirby (Ace)
• SP: Kevin Gauseman (Ace)
• RP: James McArthur (closer)
• RP: Kirby Yates (closer)
• P: Hector Neris (closer)
• P: Cole Ragans (Ace)
• P: Chris Sale (Ace)
• P: Bobby Miller (Ace, but is hurt)
• Bench: Chris Bassit
• Bench: Erick Fedde (Numbers look elite like in the KBO)
• Bench: Jon Gray (2.36era 1.20whip, sell high operation)
• Bench: Garret Crochet (.99whip, high k rate, may sell high)
• Bench: Gavin Stone (streamer, sell high operation)
• IL: Jacob Degrom (ELITE when healthy)
• IL: Max Scherzer (ELITE when healthy)
• IL: Drew Rasmussen (almost elite when healthy, bit underrated)
• IL: Kodai Senga (almost elite when healthy)

Continue the grind! I made it through yet another week! I would like to talk about last week's matchup: It was a humbling defeat where I lost 3-6. The few categories I won were SB, Saves, K. We tied in wins with 7 for each of us. (Incredibly high amount of wins) My ERA and WHIP were massive because of my "Aces" not performing like it. Kirby, Gauseman and Ragans all did bad. People made a big fuss about me "winning those trades" a few weeks ago, but actually if I had Lugo and some of those other names I would have won this week.... Still long term I should be just fine. Oh McArthur also inflated my ratios. Walker was useful to help me with those wins. RP Neris somehow got 2 of them? Fedde continues to shine just like his KBO numbers and I'm much higher on him than most others are. On offense I barely got enough SB actually. Then really did NOT hit for high average. The two standouts were Yandy Diaz and Campusano! Ruiz was a terrible add and recently cut him. He hasn't played in 5 games. Time to shake this loss off and focus on the future.
No trades to report on this week. I was slightly less active trading and sending offers out this past week than I usually am. I still intend on selling high on Jon Gray and possibly Crochet (cuz innings limits concerns), and my streamer who just had an awesome start TUES Gavin Stone. Three for 1 package deal of course. I will be going after those buy low SP. I have no issues holding onto Jon Gray or Crochet either.
My matchup for this current week features an opponent who has only 22sb on the season compared to my 39. They only have hit for .243 average compared to my .251 so I feel pretty confident I can win at least those 2 offensive categories. Since we are two days in I'm actually ahead in runs at this moment too, however I doubt that will last since they are 4th in overall runs on the season. For pitching I'm absolutely dominant in the season stats. I am the LEADER in every single category. Pretty awesome considering the way I started at the draft! (It helps that players I took were absolutely incredible to start the year and I have streamed in many strong names). A deeper look on the pitching though they have 7 starts remaining vs my 5. I'm severely ahead thus far though with 4 wins, 26k, 0.94era, 0.70whip. So I absolutely have no real need to stream more SP. This is the manager that I traded some of my former SP like Tanner Houck, Seth Lugo, Jordan Hicks and Spencer Turnbull. They only have 2 closers compared to my 3 so I like my odds there too. I do predict a likely 7-3 victory for me this week.
In terms of the moves I have made already this week and my future moves this week: I secured a real nice speed and contact hitter in Josh Lowe! Feels like he will fit it on my squad perfectly! And it gets rid of my weakest hitter Ruiz. When I added in Dairon Blanco it's purely a speed play really. He may still be replaceable if this weekly matchup is close in runs and I need them later in week. Sal Frelick is an option to re add as well as other leadoff hitters across the majors. (Frelick hasn't been batting leadoff) I'm glad I held the line on Fedde and Crochet. I almost was going to drop them to stream in more starting pitchers. Late in the week I knew it was close in wins and I had no chance to win the ratios so I streamed in a few extra SP and cut Taillon. I certainly could have tried harder to "sell high" on him. Gavin Stone is fine on my roster, but I may actually add a pitcher with higher upside to both dangle in trades and/or just keep on team. I been in talks to obtain Jarren Duran or Brice Turang (both owned by the same manager) so that might be something that happens for the next update!
Bit of strategy talk here regarding my team build. The goal of a punt power build is to win 2 offensive categories (Ideally 3 eventually, R, AVG, SB) and win 4-5 pitching categories. (If you are able to obtain closers you have upside to win 5 pitching cats, if you punt saves then your upside is 4 and you would be more consistently likely to win WINS and K categories) I technically currently have the upside to win all 5 pitching and 2 hitting categories. (If I gain runs value I would even have maximum upside of 8 categories! 5+3=8) Remember that in category leagues you ONLY NEED TO WIN 6 categories folks! This is the benefit of punting! (And technically in h2h playoffs you can have a tie 5-5 and still advance to next round due to season standings and matchup ranking!) I think punting gives you less variance than other builds? Or maybe this less variance is just from having high AVG contact hitters? Discuss? (Could be an ongoing discussion throughout the season)
There is an interesting topic to bring up regarding trading for hitters who fit the "punt power" type of team build. I think buying low on Kwan and Trea Turner now become viable possibilities for my team and other punt power teams that may exist out there! If you have any other names that could be buy low, I'm all ears. Remember to always keep an eye out for prospects coming up who have the skills that you want/need! Sometimes you can trade away your current assets that you have for upgrades at weak positions on your team and then fill those holes of the guys you traded away with prospects who are coming up soon or have already come up. (Or a hot waiver wire bat that will fill in temporarily) In this way you become a team with "less weaknesses" (Of course that advice can apply to all sorts of type of team builds in head to head category leagues). What this means for this Undraftables team is I may be able to flip my pitching assets for hitting upgrades that give the full trifecta of RUNS, AVG, SB. (Corbin Caroll firmly on my future radar) Maybe I should already be sending feelers, hmmm...
Overall, continue to be quite happy with my team's performance and strategy, (despite last week's loss). As mentioned my goal is to win by a score of 6-4 or tie 5-5, but eventually will have upside to win 7-3 or even 8-2. I'm willing to make adjustments for each week and consider player recommendations to achieve that goal. So far, this has gone better than I expected (whereas this was tougher in the NBA)! One of the bigger takeaways you can glean from this strategy is that there are numerous ways to win a category league. I have won with punt power strategy for 3-4 years now so for me it is "proven winner". (Notate that this punt power strategy has NOT been tested in Roto YET. I plan to test that next year. Is this the best way to "punt power"? No, remember this was an "extra challenge" that I set forth upon myself.) You really don't have to go "Undraftables" (hard mode) like I have! A big takeway is that having superstars (or stars) undeniably will help a build like this do even better (Ronald Acuna, Elly De La Cruz, Witt, Corbin Carroll, etc), but you don't necessarily "need" those superstars. Instead you just need to have the right build or combination of players and a focus on your matchups. (In fantasy and MLB) There are various "useful" players with skill sets that are still worthy. You don't always need "The best player" in everything. (At least NOT IN A CATEGORY LEAGUE) If you have suffered severe injuries to some power hitters (like Trout, Casas, Royce Lewis, Josh Jung) you could transition and/or trade into a "punt power build" to try it out? (Or that could be something you consider further down the road in the season too) If you need help on how to do it, I'm your guy!
I'll provide weekly updates on the team's progress, so let me know if you'd like to follow along or have any suggestions! Thoughts on the team? If you want the previous updates on the team with "How I ended up here" and each week breakdown you can find them in a FB group or I can send them to you in a message. (I wasn't able to post early in season because I changed reddit profiles (hated my username) from last year which had bunches of karma!) (Can't post if you don't have enough karma) Additionally, I'm recruiting for next year, (although this is NOT the central goal of this post) where this unique drafting strategy will be the league's standard for each owner.

I've started and stopped writing this post at least two dozen times over the last few months. Ever since the shutdown announcement, I've felt like I wanted to express my feelings the best way I know how: an overly verbose and, (probably more than) somewhat meandering screed. But every time I sat down to really put thoughts to the proverbial paper, there's been something holding me back. Whether it was a timing that didn't feel appropriate, my own insecurities about trying to distill years worth of emotions into something that was even remotely readable, or just general procrastination (let's be honest, it's at least 50% that), I sit here now realizing that the May 15th shutdown for the RT website wasn't the actual "last day" for everyone. So, my first apology should be for missing the mark here entirely. My second should be for how long I anticipate this being.
Even now, I'm trying to really formulate how to begin what all I want to convey. I guess I can start on a day that's come to, in a very cosmic coincidence sort of way, represent some of the worst times in my life. April 25th. In this particular case, let's go back over a decade, before "Funhaus" had started, to April 25th, 2012.
It was getting late. My best friend—let's call him Ryu—and I had just finished playing some Naruto: Ultimate Ninja Storm on 360. I had invited him to come hang out at the place I was living at the time (both of our boss's basement) since he'd been in a bad place recently. His ex-gf had called me earlier that day and asked me to do a wellness check on him. They had broken up recently and he wasn't taking it well. We were chatting about where we were going to try and grab a late bite when I saw some movement outside of the front door. Before I had time to process what was happening, several armed figures entered his house. He was pinned to the couch, and I felt a searing pain flash across my face as I was punched in the mouth, lifted from the couch, and slammed to the ground; jettisoning my shoes in the process. We were handcuffed as they searched the house. I thought it was a home invasion. I fully accepted that I was going to die if they were going to try and move us. Luckily for me, a few moments before I was planning on trying to make a run for it, a detective came in and led me outside. I was met by a dozen cop cars, SWAT vans, and other law enforcement vehicles. Turns out, his ex-gf had called the cops and swatted us with a false rape claim. I was booked for "obstruction of justice" and spent a few hours in the county drunk tank before my parents could come post my bail. As I was leaving the jail, I caught a glimpse of my friend sitting in his cell waiting to be processed. The light completely gone from his eyes; soul darkened. I knew in that moment I had lost him forever. Three months later he committed suicide in his car.
A few years later, I was working a retail job. I had gotten the gig from a friend—we'll call him Sky—who also knew Ryu. In fact, Sky had trained Ryu at a previous company, and then Ryu trained me. Sky went onto to this new company, and Ryu followed shortly after. Unfortunately, due to his arrest, Ryu was let go from his position. I was now picking up where he left off. Following in the footsteps of the only person I had ever considered an "older brother". One morning, Sky says he's found this hilarious new YouTube channel. It's these guys. They used to be called Inside Gaming, but they went rogue from Machinima and started something new with Rooster Teeth. It was called "Funhaus" and they did comedy gameplays. I was vaguely aware of all the words he said. I knew RvB but hadn't kept up with it. I knew all the AH personalities because I was (and still am) hopelessly addicted to achievements. But until this point, the only real YouTube stuff I kept up with was Extra Creditz. It just wasn't something I really consumed in that way. That was all about to change.
Funhaus was an instant rabbit hole for me. I think it was about six months after the channel launched that I was introduced and I cleared the back catalog in two weeks max. The humor, the gameplay, the way everyone riffed on one another. It was the first time I actually listed to an entire episode of a podcast. I was fully bought in. It also didn't hurt that both Sky and I agreed that Lawrence reminded us so much of Ryu that it was almost uncanny. From the weeb tendencies, to the bombastic pontificating, to the frame of glasses he wore. It wasn't a perfect facsimile, but only being a few years removed from the incident it was an oddly comforting form of catharsis. And so, I began my daily ritual of watching the newest Funhaus video. Monday's in particular I remember opening the store and eating my chicken biscuit every morning while watching the newest Demo Disk. I would often get asked by my teammates, "What are you watching?" and they'd have to politely sit through a short dissertation on Funhaus and why it was the funniest thing on YouTube. There was one such conversation that always stood out to me that went something like this,
Co-Worker: "You know kliq, I see you in here on your lunch break every single day watching a video on your phone. About half of the time you can't even breathe you're laughing so hard. So I looked over your shoulder the other day and it's just three white dudes playing a video game? How can it be that funny?" Me: "Lemme show you something."
I pulled up the gameplay of James yelling at FIFA 2006 and I had converted another fan.
The years from 2015-2019 are some of my favorite Funhaus memories. Not in a "I hate Future Funhaus" way, but just as sort of going through my mid-20s and starting to become a person. I know it became a common joke to talk about the parasocial nature of YouTube channels around this time, so pardon me for this bit of cringe, but in a very real way I felt like I had discovered several long-lost older brothers (and one sister). I knew that I didn't actually know these people. But the caricatures they played while performing for the camera became a very impactful part of my life. Much in the same way that a good character in a book or a TV show can resonate with you in ways you wouldn't expect, the Funhaus crew informed a lot of my sensibilities. They taught me about comedy, they gave me different perspectives through which to the view the world, and, in a very real way, helped me navigate away from some of the online cesspools that I would have otherwise probably succumbed to. It was during this time that I also met the crew. I went to a PAX East Panel where I was front-row for the "De-pah-ted" gag over and over. Afterwards, we went to world's oddest meet-up location (a children's science museum) where everyone queued up to meet each person individually. Everyone was incredibly kind and funny. The next year the meet-up was smaller, but I trudged through the snow to stand in around the upper floor of a mall to chat with Lawrence and Peake. The next day Lawrence was MCing a competition and I won some free swag after beating some people in Jenga. (We never did figure out how to eliminate multiple people.) This was also around the time that I finally signed up for RT First, specifically to watch Arizona Circle on repeat.
It's around here that my Funhaus story takes a turn and it's really the reason I feel most compelled to apologize profusely to everyone that worked there. The pandemic hit me hard. In 2018, I was laid off from a job and spent six months unemployed with absolutely nothing. I was paying my rent on my credit card (among other things), and would buy my friends groceries on my cards to have them pay me cash so I could pay the minimums. I had to move across the country for a new job and I left everyone I ever knew behind except my wife. But for those first two years, I knew I had Funhaus to keep my spirits afloat. Then the lockdown. I fell behind on everything. I still remember the last video I watched all the way through. It was the murder mystery yacht video where everyone dressed up. For whatever reason, I just... stopped. Before I knew it, I was six months behind in my videos and then everything happened with Adam and I sort of just floated away.
I kept telling myself I would come back. I kept saying I could still catch up. But suddenly it was 2021, and then 2022, and I still hadn't watched a single video. I would see Reddit posts about how "I miss the old days" and "What's with this new cast", but whenever I would see a clip, I would laugh as hard as I always had. For whatever reason, I just couldn't come back and watch episodes. Toward the end of 2022, I was experiencing the lowest point I had in nearly a decade. I was extremely depressed and could barely focus on life. I decided then that I was going to restart at the beginning. I was going to watch the entire Funhaus catalog for a big, grandiose project that I would publish for their 8th anniversary in 2023. I made it about six months deep into the catalog before I succumbed to more despair. I had to take time off of work. Then, on April 25th 2023, I was laid off from my job. (I told you this day sucked.)
Fast forward to this year, and I'm realizing that I'm watching some of my absolute favorite people in the world present their last versions of themselves on stream on the one-year anniversary of me realizing I was jobless again. I cried all the way through that stream. James's speech at the end had me in absolute shambles. I almost still can't reconcile that this is all ending. I know that some people reading will probably think it's gauche to compare Funhaus ending with the death of a best friend and losing my own job, and I wouldn't necessarily hold that against them. It's funny how certain things link themselves in our minds. One of the hardest things to reconcile about losing Ryu was that I wouldn't be able to do certain things with him anymore. We couldn't watch the newest cours of anime, we couldn't talk about the fact that Bayonetta actually got a sequel, or that I finally managed to finish all of the Final Fantasy XI achievements before he did. In the same way, that feeling of missing out on the unknown future is what breaks me down to my core. It is highly likely that we'll never see all of those incredible people in the same room together in the same way, and the world is worse off because of it. That really applies to Rooster Teeth as a whole as well. I've always been more of a Funhaus fan that RT in general, but I really can't understate how incredible the talent at Funhaus always was.
I'm sure everyone wanted to, over the years, work at Funhaus because they liked the cast, or they thought being a YouTuber was a glamorous job. Some might even go so far as to say it was their dream to work there. I am one of those people. But, I literally mean it was my dream. For as long as I can remember, I have had extremely vivid dreams of just working at Funhaus. Not necessarily being on camera, not even like doing a gameplay. I mean I would dream about sitting down at a computer and getting instructions on how to edit a video. Or, I'd be interviewing for a position to intern/help out. I'd be in different offices throughout the years, answering emails, creating production schedules, just interfacing with everyone as if they were my co-workers. In fact, just this past Saturday I had one of these dreams. Probably from realizing that the 10th was everyone's actual last day. But I showed up, and talked to James about an edit on the "final video". We compared notes, and then him, Bruce, and Patrick all walked out together singing a Tenacious D song as they shut the doors to the studio. (Look, I didn't say they always made sense.)
Again, I know there's a certain level of, "You don't actually know these people," at play here. And I'll readily admit that we don't know each other from... uh.... Eve. But, that never mattered to me. Sure, I always thought, maybe if I could get a job there and prove myself that a natural camaraderie would develop like any good workplace. But that didn't matter to me as much as just being part of something. I ardently believe that the Funhaus crew are some of the most talented entertainers to ever put their likeness to video. In the same way, that someone might want to act alongside Tom Cruise or be in a Steven Spielberg movie, I wanted to work with Funhaus. In 2021, when I turned 30, I wrote down a list of "30 people in my 30s" that I had aspirations to do something with in terms of media creation. Despite not having watched them in some time, Funhaus was still top of my list.
So, I'm sorry. I'm truly deeply sorry. I'm sorry that I fell of watching the videos. (The grand tragic irony is that when I heard the news about the shutdown, I started watching the newest videos and was laughing just like old times.) That I wasn't there in the trenches when things were roughest. That I wasn't able to, in the only way a random viewer can, support the channel and the people within, in the same way y'all had (unknowingly) done for me for years prior. I know that a single view probably doesn't make a difference in the grand scheme of how thing shook out. But I can't help but feel some complicity in the declining view count. I know people move on from projects, or they morph over time, but I truly wished I could've tuned into the channel decades from now and still heard the comforting voices that had become so familiar.
I don't really have a great way to end this section of the post. If you've read through all of this it probably means you're either taking massive dump and you're hitting your second flush right now, or some of these sentiments resonate with you too. In either case, I thank you for affording me the opportunity to express my thoughts and feelings here. I'm honestly not sure how fluid this will end up being, and my editor brain is telling me I should re-write about 90% of it. But it's now or never.
To any past/present/future Funhaus employee who might see this, thank you so much for all you've done for people over the past decade plus of entertaining. If I can oblige just a few more moments of your time, I wanted to speak directly to each of you as a final expression of my adoration and thankfulness.
u/fh_James - It's truly fitting that the first and final shots of film posted to the Funhaus channel are of you. It took me a while to truly understand how much of the backbone of the channel you were. Throughout the years, you always challenged the way I thought about comedy and how to make things funny. You were constantly one-upping yourself with the way you crafted your humor. This, coupled with your deep sincerity, loyalty, and strength of character always made me think you'd be the "last one out". Thank you so much for all of your work on Funhaus, thank you for Talking Stalkings, for Arizona Circle, and for everything else. Thank you for answering my tweet about a limited-time "Sonic Makeup line" that allowed me to enshrine myself in some small way in Funhaus lore. Your ending stream speech touched my heart deeply, and I hope that you are able to take some time to yourself before find the next big thing. (Obviously, steaks.) I still have hope that one day I'll be afforded the opportunity to work with you on something.
u/FH_Elyse - Thank you for bringing such a genuine warmth along with sharp, witty comedy to the channel. Funhaus would truly not be 1/10th what it was without your contributions. The characters, the off-scene work (the pony-tail clip is still hall of fame), and everything in between. I'm so happy you've branched out into doing creative writing work, and I hope you continue to find success there. I also want to thank you for being the only reason I could convince my wife to ever watch a Funhaus video. She adores you and thinks you're so funny. Having you come on finally allowed me to share a small part of Funhaus with her and for that I'll be forever grateful. I'd also be remiss to not include one of my favorite anecdotes. After you joined, we were talking and I mentioned that you and James were married, and my wife asked, "Which one is he again?" I pulled up a picture and she replies, "Oh, the hot one. That's my girl."
u/FHJacob - Funhaus's badboy the OG "editor". Thank you for all the years of hardwork you put into making the "Funhaus" style a thing of beauty. I was so happy when you started doing on-screen videos. Your absolute unabashed passion for different nerdy endeavors is truly infectious. The ending to Star Boys was incredible and watching you and Rahul quote the entirety of three movies at once another will always be something I treasure. One day, I hope you can school me on some Gundam lore.
u/FHBruce - I know you've moved on, but not only were you an integral part of my formative Funhaus experiences, but there's something I've always wanted to tell you. In your "Goodbye" video, there's a section where everyone is describing your management style and how you led the team during your run at FH. When that video dropped I immediately sent my manager at the time the section where Omar is talking about your leadership. That whole portion of the video I have maintained is how I think everyone should talk about their leaders, and is something that I strive to work towards in my own personal job currently. I know that is but the smallest window into your management style, but it's pushed me to be a better overall leader. So thank you.
u/rufhaus - Autumn, I'm not positive if you were ever technically "Funhaus" but I loved your stint on Inside Gaming and Sugar Pine 7, and I think you've more than enshrined yourself in the eternal codex of this channel. Very happy to continue to see you thriving, and obviously much congratulations to both you and Bruce for your child. I'm glad we all got to experience your talent throughout the years.
u/FH_Omar - Speaking of you Omar, thank you so much for everything you've done over the years at FH. I still remember the "Where in the World is Omar" bits on Open Haus, and learning that you were super into heavy music. I was like, "This dude has dope kicks AND can crowd kill. Let's absolutely go." I mentioned above that you talking about Bruce in his goodbye video was inspirational. In having watched all of the current "goodbye" content, and the way that everyone has talked about you since, I hope it's not too out of line to say that I think you've probably embodied those exact same principles in your leadership. Again, I have only what I'm seeing externally to go on, but from the way people talk about you, to the emotions you've worn on your sleeves during the shutdown, I believe that you're an awesome person to work for and with.
u/SirLarr - Lawrence, I should take a moment to apologize for ambushing you with what I'm sure was a very confusing story to hear at children's museum. "Hey dude you remind me of my dead friend so that's part of why I got into Funhaus," is maybe the worst first sentence I've ever spoken to someone in real life. So again, I'm terribly sorry. But I also want to say how awesome it was to watch all the stuff you did over the years at Funhaus. I know from still watching your content now that there's some level of grime that covers those years and they aren't the fondest to look back on. But I do think things like Time 2 Hakk, Quintessential Gamer, Hard Nettin' were such touchstones of Funhaus content that will live on forever. From an outside perspective, it seems like you're doing well, and I'm excited to keep seeing you on BYTT and IGv3(4?).
u/RyanRyanReddit - Ryan, my dude. I literally don't know if I could even adequately describe just how much you've made me laugh just by literally being you. I have a file in my notes app called "Real Life Stories" where I have a few words that trigger a specific memory from my life about some absurd happenstance that I found myself in. I feel like every time you tell a story, you're pulling from your own file like that but it's five thousand times longer and more interesting than mine. You're a supremely talented and funny dude and I'm so glad you were brought into Funhaus and ended up staying as long as you did. I hope to see you on Survivor 47/8/9! (I think I have Charlie for this season.)
u/hohnjolland - John, the perfect musical addition to the team. I'm so thankful for all of your awesome tunes, sick edits, and willingness to dive into the bit over the years. You brought an different vibe / flair to the videos you were in that always had me thinking, "Why is this dude the coolest person in the room." I've got my sub to Pour Choices Kitchen locked and loaded, and it has somewhat got me considering picking back up my own mantle "Chef Dude Jour" again. I hope that PCK is successful or you're able to explore other avenues as well. Also, I'm the guy from Gastonia that was in the chat. DM the location of that fish place in Lincolnton.
u/FH_Jon - Jon Deux. Man. I still remember when you first started appearing on videos. The chaotic energy, the commitment to bits, you've got some absolutely all-time classic FH moments under your belt. I'm super thankful that you got to be part of this crew and share your weirdness (complimentary) with the world. I know you put up the video a few months ago about your mental health, and I hope that things have gotten better. As someone who also struggles with depression, I know how devastating that can be sometimes. I truly wish the best for you man. Thanks for all the laughs.
u/linzbot - We're approaching territory where people were onboarding right as I fell off, but literally every single video I've seen since the announcement, not to mention your contributions to the streams has filled me with joy. I'm so glad you made the transition from Cow Chop to Funhaus, and, if there's nothing else I can say in adulation, it's that you blessed us with the absolutely perfect sign-off to something that meant so much to all of us. I had to pause at least a dozen times watching that documentary to cry, and I wouldn't have had it any other way. A truly stellar capstone to a truly stellar run.
u/mc_lotta / u/snackary__ / u/HandsomeMaster2 - It would be somewhat disingenuous of me to applaud the entirety of y'all's run at Funhaus because I, foolishly, missed so much of it. But what I do remember is how this trio absolutely crushed Inside Gaming, and how excited I was when I heard everyone had made the jump over to FH. Charlotte, your sardonic quips and joke delivery have always made me laugh. Patrick, I watched the entirety of the Demo Wheel run and I was amazed at how incredible a foil to James you were. Then, I watched a smattering of other content and realized you're the perfect foil in nearly every video. I'm so excited to see that both of you and Jacob have started up your goblin activities. Zach, I'm sorry I missed your true FH run. I was supremely stoked (and unfortunately subsequently saddened) as a fellow games industry person to see you rocking out on CoD socials. Hope you're doing well.
u/Gargarbinks - Brian! Screw it. Inside Gaming is basically Funhaus, so I'm including you here too. I've been watching you deliver gaming news for ages and I'm so thankful that you were part of this entire journey. Loved seeing you on Inside Games (legally distinct entity) and I hope the games industry never loses you. If anything, I know at least one other person who will freak out if Dragon Quest X makes it's way westward.
u/MadMattBT - No idea if you still peruse these parts or use Reddit anymore, but I just wanted to say, in addition to all the amazing work you put in as an editor, as well as the absolutely CLASSIC appearances as Hitman, thanks for being open about your faith and ideals while working at Funhaus. As someone who is also a Christian, it's always nice to see people who are comfortable enough in their beliefs to not only poke fun at themselves, but also embrace other viewpoints.
u/harmonygrits - Really getting into the archives now, Joel, I know your run on FH was short(ish), but I really did enjoy whenever you'd be involved with a video. The whimsical, but also oddly parental like vibe you brought to videos (despite your most well known meme maybe being liking something called "Unicum") were always a delight. Since then you've showcased your skills in for other content creators, and even now you've been giving away your fount of knowledge for free in some very interesting Medium articles. The industry itself might be in a worrisome state, but there's hope that people such as yourself will find a better path forward.
u/Spooleo - Spoole. The original "Goodbye" video. Thanks so much for all the laughs during that opening era of Funhaus. I'm not sure I ever agreed with the 1 Dollar 1 Hour premise, but it certainly made for some entertaining videos. And hey, your current gig ain't so bad itself, yeah?
u/charalanahzard - I was so supremely stoked when you first started showing up in videos because you fell so naturally into the format it was uncanny. I had enjoyed your games industry coverage up till then, so I thought I was getting the best of both worlds. So supremely thankful for your time at Funhaus and even now continuing the Deadly Premonition dreams alive and well on your stream. Not to mention the slate of podcast content you've been producing for some time now. As someone who is also hopeful to one day write for games, your journey has been inspiring. I hope to see your book come out as well! (If that's your goal!)
u/RahulKohli13 - Dunno if you consider yourself a Funhaus "member" or not, but given how much joy you've brought me through your involvement with their videos, it wouldn't feel right to not include you. Boyfriend videos, Sundered, Talking Stalkings, and everything in between, I couldn't be more thrilled that you were part of this journey. Also, selfishly, I miss you posting on Twitter. Those last few years were just great fun, but I understand why you left. I try to watch everything you're in. Mike Flannagan has an eternal fan because I just wanted to see more Rahul Kohli. You even reinvigorated my love and passion for football. YNWA. (I assume we just never talk about this season again, yeah?)
u/mandodoesstuff - Mando! Your Funhaus run is definitely in my personal time away from the channel, but one thing that consistently happened during that period was I would see clips with you in them and I would always, always laugh. I thought you were incredible during Last Laugh Season 2, and I've caught some of your RTP rebrand and subsequent Zazlav diss tracks. You're an incredibly funny and talented dude and I'm absolutely following Midnight Snack to see where the next thing takes you. (Yes, y'all should make a Patreon.)
u/filmDstryr / u/thenasacova / u/adambrouillard - So I couldn't find any of y'all's actual Reddit accounts, but these are your handles elsewhere so maybe this will work? For some reason the three of you are tied together in my mind as all having started at relatively the same time and were always the "Oh, there's Dan/Don/Bones!" excitement when you'd show up in a video. Dan, I loved your stuff on Filmhaus and Board as Hell, and I hope that Funhaus Avenue... I mean "Fhave" takes off. (Yes, I made that joke on Twitter already). Don, I still randomly quote "Michael Transactions" till this day. Just all-time incredible character work. Bones, I'll never get your insanely cool random nickname that's only used at Funhaus. To all three of you, thank you for your tireless efforts across all your time at the company, and for helping create some of my fondest memories.
u/therickreveche / u/ekombokom / u/HeyYoItsGabz - Rick, Justin, Gabs; first, I'm not positive if any of these accounts are actually y'all, so I apologize that I couldn't sleuth down your official accounts. Second, I completely missed the entirety of y'all's FH run and that sucks. Rick, I saw your work on the finale stream with the climax of what I assume to be an astoundingly good FH Wrestling show that I fully plan on watching in it's entirety. But I know that each of you contributed your talents, time, and effort to creating content on the channel and for that I'm forever grateful. I'm sure that as I (re)watch everything it will make me feel even more foolish for the time I missed out on.
I think that's every on camera person from the entire run. I've been writing for *checks clock* five hours now, so I'm going to feel like a real chump if there's some sort of glaring omission from this list. I also had originally wanted to see if I could track down a list of all the editors, interns, and other employees throughout the years that were either never on camera or only on there briefly, but I couldn't find a cohesive enough list that felt "right", so I'll just dedicate this final paragraph to everyone else that has ever contributed to this behemoth undertaking. No matter how "small" a part you may have played, it all worked toward a common pursuit that has impacted millions of people's lives over the course of a decade. I'm so thankful for everyone who ever walked through those doors and sat down to work on Funhaus.
Okay, this was even longer than I anticipated it being. If anyone has read this far, I just want to say... please get off the toilet. I'm sure your legs are asleep. If you're still taking a dump go see a doctor immediately, that's not normal. See ya!

(An animation shows black and white clouds parting)
Charles: (Off-screen) Once upon a time, there was a glowing city protected by golden gates known as Heaven. It was ruled by beings of pure light. Angels that worshipped good and shielded all from evil. Lucy was one of these angels. She was a dreamer with fantastical ideas for all of creation. But she was seen as a troublemaker by the elders of Heaven. For they felt her way of thinking was dangerous to the perder of their world. So she watched as the angels began to expand the universe in their ways. From the dust of Earth, they created Eve (I couldn't think of a female name that looked like Adam) and Lilian. Equals as the first of mankind, but despite this, Eve demanded control and Lilian refused to submit to her will. He fled the garden. Drawn in by his fierce independence, Lucy found him and the two rebellious dreamers fell deeply in love. Together, they wished to share the magic of free will with humanity, offering the fruit of knowledge to Eve's new groom, Adam, who gladly accepted. But this gift came with a curse. For the single act of disobedience, evil finally found its way into Earth. With it, a new realm of darkness and sin. And the order Heaven had worked to maintain was shattered. As punishment for their reckless act, Heaven cast Lucy and her love into the dark pit she had created, never allowing her to see the good that came from humanity, only the cruel and the wicked. Ashamed, Lucy lost her will to dream. But Lilian thrived, empowering demon-kind with his voice and his songs. And as the numbers of Hell grew, so did its power. Threatened by this, Heaven made a truly heartless decision. That every year, they would send down an army, an extermination to ensure Hell and its sinners could never rise against them. But Lilian's hope remained. And his dream was passed down to their precious son, the Prince of Hell. (The prince shuts the "Story Of Hell" book) (On-screen) Don't worry, Dad. I'll make you proud. (He holds a key)
Vagner: Charles?
Charles: Augh! (The key turns into a cat) Oh, shit. Did you hear all that?
Vagner: Uh... Yeah, I was right there.
Charles: Sorry. I get worked up after an extermination happens. This story helps.
Vagner: (chuckles) I know. Don't worry. I enjoy your theatrics. Are you okay?
Charles: I'm fine, just...Thinking, ya know, family stuff.
Vagner: Did you hear from your dad yet?
(Charles shakes his head saying no)
Vagner: Oof. How long has it been now?
Charles: Not that long, only...Seven...Years...Off something important, I'm sure. But this kingdom was something he really cared about. Something I care about.
Vagner: Well, at least you aren't alone.
Charles: I just hope what I'm trying to do here will work.
Vagner: It will. I have faith in you.
(The cat hopes on Charles)
Vagner: All right. Come on. Alice says she has something to show us.
(Vagner heads to the door and Charles look out of the window and see Hell on fire and goes)
(A commercial plays)
Alice: Well, hello there you wayward sinner. Do you like blood, violence and depravity of a sexual nature? Of course you do. That's why you're in Hell! But what would you say there was a place to stay that had none of that? Welcome to the Hazbin Hotel, a misguided path to redemption! Founded five days ago by Lucy's delusional son Charleson Morningstar! Come place your fate in his inexperienced hands as he tries to work through his mommy issues by fixing you! Here, we offer fun thing! Such as somewhat functional staff! And 24 hour Pest Control! Custom rooms, and just look at this tacky parlor! Enjoy riveting conversation with our singular resident. Wow! All this and more at the Hazbin Hotel! You last desperate attempt at salvation starts here.
(The tv suits off)
Alice: So, what'd ya' think?
Vagner: I'm sorry, what the fuck was that?!
Charles: Uh, yeah, one note...Alice, I mean...First off, thank you so much for making this, seriously, amazing, but um...Maybe the tone is a bit...Off? We want people to want to come here, this makes it look...Ummm...
Vagner: Bad. The word you're looking for is "bad".
Alice: Funny, I was going for hilarious!
Vagner: It didn't explain anything about how we're trying to save demons from extermination, which is the whole fucking point.
Charles: Vagner is right, Alice. The commercial was to let sinners know we are trying to help them.
Alice: Well, my dear, I haven't been active in Hell for some time, and everyone remembers me from my radio show! The proper medium to express oneself! But YOU insisted on this noisy picture box adversiment! So I had a little fun with it.
Vagner: Oh, fun? You had a little fun with it? (Stand on the sofa) Well, this is not what we want to represent us. When you showed up here a week ago, you told us you would help run the hotel! Instead, you're mocking us. Nobody's going to want to come to a place that a powerful overlord like you thinks is a waste of time!
(A demon on a sofa raises her hand)
Vagner: What?
Angela: If'n ya filmin' a commercial, can I suggest you take better advantage of the talented celebrity you have right here?
Vagner: Angela, you're a porn star.
Angela: A famous porn star. I'll have the horniest sinners knockin' these walls down to get in.
Vagner: We are not filming a porn as a commercial.
Angela: Why not? Sex sells, don't it? I swear if you film me goin' at it with mistress fancy-talk-creepy-voice here, you'd rollin' in participants willin' to stay at this tacky hotel.
Alice: Haha! Never going to happen!
Charles: Angela, I appreciate you wanting to use you special skills to, um, attract folks to the hotel, but...I really don't want to exploit you, in that way!
Angela: Oh, please, baby. This body was made to be exploited. I got the arms, I got the stamina, I got the legs. I got the lung capacity-- Oh-oh I got the legs! The gag reflex, the holes...
(Charles laughs uncomfortably and his phone rings with his mom calling)
Angela: The small tits that make everyone think I'm a man...
Charles: Uhhh, hold that thought. I'll be right back! (Walks away)
Angela: I could keep goin' all night, baby.
(Charles breathes and answers the phone)
Charles: Hello? Mom?
Angela: Hey, I have a question. If freaky face over there is so powerful, then why can't she just make people stay here?
Alice: Oh, trust me, (ominously) I can!
Hisky: Why the hell do you think I'm here?
(The camera goes to Hisky at the bar)
Hisky: You actually think I'd be cleaning bottles and listening to you fuck's bitches moan all the time if she wasn't forcin' me?
Niffter: I like being forced!
Hisky: Keep that to yourself, Niff.
Angela: What, you don't like being here with me, Whiskers?
Hisky: Call me "Whiskers" again and I'll that bottle down your throat.
Angela: Kinky. But I like pussies. But keep talkin' dirty.
Vagner: Ugh, Angela, let Hisky do her job. And no, we can't force sinners to stay here. They need to choose to.
Angela: I'm choosing to be here, and I think is all stupid. We're in Hell, toots. It's kind of the end of the road, ain't it?
Vagner: Well, maybe it doesn't have to be. Just because nobody has made it before doesn't mean is not possible. (Angela pust her arm in his shoulder)
Angela: Hey, whatever means I can keep crashin' here rent free. Crack is expensive.
Charles: (excitedly) Yeah, I can! Totally. Yeah, I'll head over there right away...Okay. (Turns off the phone) Hah! YES! YES!! Hahahaha!! Vagner! Holy shit!
Vagner: Ahh! What?!
Charles: (through closed mouth) Get over here!
(Vagner sighs and goes to where Charles is)
Vagner: What's going on?
Charles: (Inhales) My mom just called. She said that the leader of the Angel Army wants to meet. She asked if I could go instead. (Breathes deeply)
Vagner: But... But...But the extermination just happened. What would they want this soon after...
Charles: (Singing) I can do this. Somehow, I know it I'll get Heaven behind my plan!
Vagner: Charles, hold on.
Charles: There's just no way I could blow it. Not this once a lifetime change!
Vagner: It's just a meeting.
Charles: To change their minds. And touch their hearts. Or whatever angels have.
Vagner: This could be bad.
Charles: Cheer up, Vagner. This could be swell. Something tells that today will be a happy day in Hell!
Vagner: Okay, but just don't... sing to them.
Angela: That motherfucker is halfway down the street.
Vagner: Is he...
Angela: Oh, he's dancin'.
Vagner: Ugh, no.
Charles: There's a warm fuzzy feeling that wafts through the air! Every street so revealing it's hard not to stare. It's a realm so appealing it beats anywhere! If you don't mind the smell! It's a happy day in Hell! Hi, miss!
Demon: Go fuck yourself!
Dead Sinner #1: There's a endless trash fire that's burnig my soul!
Charles: Hello!
Imp: There's a lot of barbed wire to shove in her holes!
Charles: Uh, excuse me...
Executioner: Doing what is required we all have a role!
Dead Sinner #2: I'm not doing well!
Ensemble: Another shitty day in Hell!
Charles: If I can show them the dream I've dreamed, that any soul can change!
Vagner: Those angels minds are hard to change!
Charles: Then they know that everyone can be redeemed from the evil to the strange!
Vagner: They're bloodthirsty and deranged!
Charles: I can hear all their stories, the lost and the displaced! And I know that they're of an acquired taste! But if I open the door and give them a place at my Hazbin Hotel it'll be a happy day in Hell! (Jumps in the back of a truck) From the porn studio where the cinephiles go to watch award winning demon bukkake shows to the Cannibal Town where they don't wear a frown 'cause...Holy shit, ew, my gosh, why?! And I don't give a crow that her brains got in my eye! Cause I know I can spare them from Heaven's genocide! I can do this...
Dead Sinner #1: There's an endless trash fire...
Charles: I just know it! Dead Sinner #1: That's burning my soul!
Chorus: Ahhhhhhhhhh!
Charles: I'll get Heaven behind my plans! There's just no way I could blow it!
Demon Sinner #3: I kinda like the barbed wire that's shoved in my hole!
Charles: Not this once in a lifetime chance! To change their minds!
Trenchcoat Demon: And touch my parts!
Charles: Oh...No, thank you. I'm just gonna...Fullfill my destiny!
Trenchcoat Demon: Your loss fucker!
Charles: I can already tell! Today is gonna be a fucking happy day in Heeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeell! (Charles enters at the lobby) Hello? (echoes) Hello? Creepy...(He goes to the reception, rings the bell in the table and a paper and a feather pen appear in front of him) Oh, okay! Also creepy. (Signs the paper)
(Elevator doors open, Charles goes to them and enters in a dark room)
Charles: Hello? Is anyone here?
(The lights turn on)
Eve: 'Sup?
Charles: Holy shit! (Falls in the floor and gets up) Hi, I'm Charles. My mom asked if I could meet you.
Eve: Yeah, I know.
Charles: Okay, well, it's nice to meet you. (Stands his hand)
Eve: Totally. Nice to meet you, too. (Stands her hand)
(Charles hand passes through Eve's hand)
Charles: Ahh!
Eve: Ha! I fucking got you! Did you fuckin' see that?
(Luther shaves his head in yes)
Eve: Good shit!
Charles: Uh, so wait, you aren't here?
Eve: No, you think I'd come down there? (Laughs) No. I mean, I love the vibe, totally, I love your tunes. Pretty fuckin' hardcore, don't get me wrong. But, it's such a bummer, man. Everything down there's just so "eugh" ya know? (Chuckles) Ew.
Charles: Right. So I'm happy we got this opportunity to meet. There's a project I've been working on that I really want to talk to you about...(Eve puts her finger in his mouth)
Eve: Hey, hey, hey, slow down. We got time. How about we get to know each other, mm? How about some lunch? You hungry? I got you! (Shows a plate with ribs) Here's my personal favourite. You'll love it.
Charles: Uh, thanks! (His arms passes through the plate of ribs)
Eve: (Laughing) I got you again, fucker! Haha fuckin' hilarious! Haha!
(Back at the Hazbin Hotel, everyone is at the lobby)
Vagner: Okay, so Charles is dealing with something very important, so while he's gone, we are making a new commercial. One that representants his vision and what we're doing here. So we need a camera. Alice?
(Alice snaps her fingers and an old camera appears in Vagner's hand)
Vagner: A video camera.
Alice: Hmmm. (Snaps her fingers)
(A video camera appears in Vagner's hand)
Vagner: All right, let's do this!
(Vagner films Angela sitting at the bar)
Vagner: And...Action!
Hisky: "Welcome to the Hazbin Hotel, can I help you with anything?"
Angela: "I've been a bad girl. And I need a big strong mommy to put me in my place...On the path to redemption!"
Hisky: Ugh! "Well, you come..."
Angela: "Oh yes!"
Hisky: (boredly) "To the right place!"
Vagner: Cut! Okay, Angela, I need you to be less horny, if possible. And Hisky, can you maybe not have a script in front of your face?
Hisky: (Angrily) I ain't no actress, I can't memorize this shit!
Angela: Well, we could improve this shit, baby cakes! (Purrs seductively and Hisky push her out of the counter) Ahh!
Hisky: Whoops. (Drink a bottle)
Vagner: Hisky, come on!
(Meanwhile, Charles is bored)
Eve: So I was playing this gig, and for some fucking reason this virtue boy was digging on the drummer, and it's like, do you know who I am? I'm fucking Eve. I'm the original pussy! All pussies descend from me. You think you like a drummer pussy? No way, I'm the Pussy-fucking master! (Eats sloppily) So anyway, then we fucked, and it was awesome. What'd you do this weekend?
Charles: Wait, your name is Eve? Like the first woman? That means you...Ohhh...(Enlightened) That explains so much.
Eve: I know. I fucking rock.
Charles: Well, Eve, ma'am. Mrs. Eve, ma'am.
Eve: Call me Pussymaster.
Charles: Eve, you seem like a smart...well, stand up girl.
Eve: (With the finger in her teeth) Uh-huh.
Charles: And I know you are the leader of the angels. And you are a bigger revolutionary, a...A genius!
Eve: I maen, your words, babe.
Charles: Who would really her name on something.
Eve: Fucking love putting my name on shit! Shit's the best!
Charles: It's a solution to our biggest problem!
Eve: Oh, herpes. Yeah, that's a bitch.
Charles: No! Our other biggest problem.
Eve: Oh, uh...Ugly people? (Looks at the camera) Math? Global warming? Nah, wait that's Earth's problem. Umm...
(At the hotel, a bug walks in the floor and a needle tries to stab it saverel times)
Niffter: Hehehe. Stab. Stab. Stab.
Vagner: Alright Niffter. Niffter? Niffter! (Stops him) Your line is "We have the cleanest rooms". Okay?
Niffter: Got it. I'm ready.
Vagner: (Turns on the camera) Action!
(Niffter looks at the camera with his pupil constricted and Angela and Vagner look at him confused and he keeps staring weirdly)
Vagner: Uhh...Cut. (Turns off the camera)
(Niffter smiles again)
Niffter: (Giggles) How was that?
Vagner: Well, Niffter, you actually have to say the line. So let's roll again.
Niffter: Okay!
Vagner: Action. (Turns on the camera)
(Niffter stares deeply at the camera)
Angela: You're doing great, Vagina!
Vagner: Cut! Alright, um, maybe wr can try to fix it in the post.
Angela: Do you even know what that means?
Vagner: (Angrily) I'll figure it out!
(In the lobby, Vagner is watching the video with the camera connected to the tv)
Hisky: (On TV) Welcome to the Hazbin Hotel.
(Vagner groans, covers his eyes and Alice appears in his side)
Alice: Seems like you're having a bit of trouble there, hm?
Vagner: Ugh, esta pendeja...Why are you even here?
Alice: For the entertainment! I came here because I love seeing wasteful souls struggle to accomplish something meaningful and fail spectacularly. Like you are doing now! Good job!
Vagner: (Turns on the camera) And here is Alice, the egocentric piece of shit that...
(Alice gets static on the camera and it starts to spark and Vagner screams and knocks the camera down)
Alice: I wouldn't try that, my darling. (Sinisterly) This face was made for radio.
Vagner: (Gets angry) That's it! I don't care who or what you are! If you are staying here you are going to make this work! Beause it won't be so "entertaining" to watch an empty hotel will it, shit ass?! (Turns around and walks away)
Alice: Fair enough. I'll tell you what. Let's make a deal.
Vagner: Pft! You think I'm that stupid? Making a deal with a demon like you.
Alice: Not for your soul, just a simple deal. I do this for you, and you never ask me to engage with this frivolous television technology ever again. Or...Charles can come back to absolutely nothing! Your choice.
Vagner: (Sighs) Fine. (Gets the video camera and raises in Alice's hand and green ghosted skulls fly around it)
Alice: Now then! (Makes the camera disappear and snaps her fingers)
(Angela, Hisky and Niffter, a lot of filming materials and a ghost recording team appear in the lobby and everyone gets tailor clothes)
Vagner: Alright, everyone! Let's make a fucking commercial.
(Meanwhile)
Eve:...When you take him out for the fifth time and he still expects you to pay the check, but you're like, (In deep voice) "Hey I thought you wanted equality"!
Charles: (Frustrated) No! Our shared problem of overpopulation in Hell!
Eve: (Normal) Oh! Well, that's not a problem! We got that covered! Luther, how many demons did you kill this year?
Luther: Got a good 275 this year, ma'am.
Eve: 275? Whoa, badass! Awesome job, danger dick! Pound it. (Punch fists with Luther)
Charles: Uh, no, not awesome. Those are my people, you know that, right?
Eve: Ohhh, yeah...That must suck for you. Pft...Hahahaha! Charles: But these are souls. Human souls, just the same as the ones you have in Heaven.
Luther: They're not the same. They had their chance and they earned damnation.
Charles: You're wrong. Sinners made mistakes, sure, but everyone makes mistakes.
Luther: Angels don't make mistakes.
Charles: You really think that?
Luther: I know that.
Eve: Yeah, I've never made a mistake in my fucking life.
Luther: The only reason you're still here is because Mommy gave you and your Hellborn-kind a pardon from an exorcist blade. How does that feel? To know how little you matter.
(Charles shrinks back)
Eve: Oops, almost out of time. Guess we should get into it...
Charles: Oh! Fuck!...(Get up from the chair) Okay. I've a lot to get through and not a lot of time and I feel like you weren't really hearing before, so here goes. (Clears throat) (Singing) I know Hell's population is out of control. It's a bad situation, it's taking a toll. If we rehabe these sinners and cleanse all their souls at my Hazbin Hotel! (Normal) Wait I'm getting ahead of myself! Right! Extermination! (Singing) I know you guys fly down just to kill once a year. And it must be annoying to schlep all the way here. If they join you in Heaven that trip disappears! You can wave that chore farewell! (Deep breath) It'll be a happy day in...
Eve: (Singing) Let me stop you right there, save us all precious time!
Charles: (Normal) Okay?
Eve: If what you're suggesting is letting them climb! Up the ladder. Oh they rather cross the Pearly Gates? Sorry, sweetie, but there's no defying in their fates! 'Cause Hell is forever wheter you like it or not! Had their chance to behave better now they boil in a pot! 'Cause the rules are black and white there's no use in trying to fight it! They're burning for their lives until we kill them again!
Charles: Okay, but...
Eve: Just try to chillax, babe, you're wasting your breath!
Charles: (Nervously) Hehe...
Eve: Did I hear you imply that they deserve death? Are they winners? Are they sinners? 'Cause it's cut and dry!
Charles: Actually, if you take a look...
Eve: Fair is fair, an eye for an eye! And when all's said and done! (Said and done) There's the question of fun! (Fun) And for those of us with divine ordainment, extermination is entertainment! (Imitates guitar) Guitar solo, fuck yeah! (Imitates guitar) Hell is forever whether you like or not! Had their chance to behave better now they boil in a pot!
Charles: Where all these people come from?
Eve: 'Cause the rules are black and white, there's no use in trying to fight it! They're burning for their lives until we kill them again! (materializes a guitar and play it) Fucking Hell is forever and it's meant to suck a lot! So give up your dumb endeavor 'cause you don't have a shot!
(Charles groans, his paper gets on fire and his hair moves in the air and horns appear in his head)
Eve: Long as I've got your attention, I guess In should probably mention that we made a determination (Shows a contract) To move up the next extermination!
Charles: What?!
Eve: Can't wait a whole year to slaughter those little cunts! (Holds Charles' wrist) I know is just been a week, but we'll be back in six months! (Spins Charles out of the room and plays her guitar)
Charles: Um, wait, didn't you...(Goes at the door, but it closes) Awh, shit! (Punches the door)
(Charles returns sad to the Hazbin Hotel)
Vagner: Charles! (Hugs him) How did it go? Did they listen?
Charles: Oh, uh...They sure did...hear it! But, um...
Vagner: Oh! Come here. We have something exciting to show you! (Holds Charles to the living room) Alice pulled some strings, and it's about to air.
Alice: I pulled a few limbs too! Hahaha!
Charles: Wait? The commercial? You all made a new one?
Angela: Yeah, one of my better performances, if I do can say so myself.
Charles: That's...That's amazing.
Angela: Shh! It's starting!
Vagner: (On TV) Welcome to the Hazbin Hot...
(The TV changes to the 666 News channel and everyone complains)
Kallie: (On TV) Breaking news in Hell today! We have just received word from the Heaven Embassy that the next extermination is happening sooner than ever before! Do you know what that means, Tomita?
Tomita: No. What does that means, Kallie?
Kallie: It means we are all royally fucked!
(The clock in an hourglass changes to 176 with everyone screaming)
Angela: Wait...What? Why?!
(A drone laser scans a headless body of an angel laying in Hell and Eve and Luther see then from the ship)
Luther: We found the body, ma'am. They've never managed to kill one of us before. We should just go down there now and destroy them!
Eve: No, no. We can't risk them catching on. But don't worry, when we come back, there won't be a demon left to pull a stunt like this again. (Breaks the projector and her eyes and mouth glow in the dark)
(The end credits start playing)

What am I doing? Dominick Mason asked himself for the hundredth time that night. It was late on a rainy Sunday evening and Dom, a tall, lanky man-boy of twenty-five with a prominent Adam’s apple and too big eyes, stared out the rain-slicked window of the 905. The big bus swayed and jostled as it lumbered down Central Avenue, the movements strangely comforting, conducive to reflection…and self-doubt.
As if on cue, his phone buzzed, and a pit opened up in his stomach. He fumbled it out with long fingers and read the text. Are u almost here
His thumb hovered over the screen, but he did not reply. Part of him wanted to block the number, slink back home with his tail between his legs, and forget the whole thing. He could boot up his PS4 and play Red Dead Redemption or GTA V like always. Safe. Familiar. The thought, however, stirred a strange feeling in the pit of his stomach.
It was dread.
Every night, he did the same thing. He came home from work to his tiny prison cell apartment. He had a peanut butter and jelly sandwich. He played video games until it was time to go to bed. The worst part of the whole night was when he turned off the TV and saw his murky reflection in the screen. Plaid. Scrawny. Disgusting. He hated being locked in that apartment, with its old smells and white walls, but he hated going out even more. At least in his hole, he was safe, like a mouse. No one hurt or lied to him there. No one gave him funny looks. No one rejected him. He was completely safe in his solitude, a wounded animal hiding in its den and licking its wounds.
He was wounded and he knew it.
And he hated himself for it. Hated that he wasn’t stronger or better. Hated that even though he tried so hard, everything he did fell apart…if it even came together in the first place, which it rarely did.
The phone buzzed again.
Just a question mark this time.
His heart began to race and a steely fist slowly closed around his lungs. He shifted uncomfortably in his seat and took a deep breath. He pictured himself alone in his little apartment. He loved the image, but he hated it too. Most nights, he didn’t mind being alone. He had to not mind it, because he didn’t have a choice. Some nights…some nights he didn’t want to be alone. Some nights he wanted warmth, he wanted tenderness…some nights, he wanted to be human.
Every so often, Dom would get the urge to find those things. They came less frequently than they did before, but unfortunately, they still came. He would create an account on Plenty of Fish and OKCupid, maybe some of the other sites as well. He would agonize over his stupid intro and his stupid list of hobbies. He would spend hours - literally hours - writing and rewriting them, trying at first to be serious, then light and funny, then cool, then aloof, then vulnerable. He would take the best possible pictures from the best possible angles, then upload them, never lingering over them because he hated the way he looked. He didn’t think he was ugly - mid was more like it - but apparently, he was ugly. Too ugly for love, too ugly even to talk to.
The ugly barnacle. So ugly that everyone died. The end.
All of Dom’s pictures were all selfies, of course. Guys he listened to on YouTube said he needed action shots, shots with friends, shots that showed women he had a life, was valued by those around him, and knew how to have fun. Too bad for him, he had no friends and no one valued him, not even his own mother. On the surface, maybe, but she had hurt him so many times over the years in so many ways that even the most devout son would stop and think.
It had to be selfies.
When his profile was in order - or as much in order as he could get it - he would start to browse. Dom knew his place and never messaged women who were too beautiful. He used to, but they never responded. He eventually began to skip their profiles with a pang of loss and a quiet what if? Now, he barely noticed them. Blonde. Petite. Blue eyes. Maybe she was a cheerleader at one time, maybe she was the type of girl who looked down her nose at guys like him. Maybe she was a sweetheart. In any case, he would never find out, so who cares?
He went for women he could realistically obtain…the type of women he’d dated and hooked up with in the past. Some were attractive in their own way, others were hard to look at, he wasn’t picky; he couldn’t afford to be picky. One woman he saw was a good three hundred pounds. She was nice and he liked her enough, but he lapsed into depression while they were dating and he never messaged her back…not that she made a huge effort to message him. Another was a pre-K teacher in her mid-thirties. Overweight with a big nose, glasses, and a plain face when she wasn’t wearing make-up. He liked her a lot and wanted to be with her, but after a month of weekend hookups, she said she didn’t love him. She told him she wanted a family - three kids, to be exact - but “changed her mind.” No, she didn’t. She just didn’t want those things with him.
Now she was in her late thirties, single, and having regrets.
She still wouldn’t settle for him, though.
Another woman he’d seen recently (six months ago) was fifty, but not unattractive. They texted for weeks, hot and heavy. She outright told him that she wanted to have sex with him. Said all sorts of nasty and sexual things. Their first (and only date) was her coming to his apartment. Instead of tender kisses, loving caresses, and intense emotions, they shared an awkward two hours on his couch. When he tried to hold her hand and put his arm around her, she stiffened. Not much, just a little. She said she “wasn’t ready.” He sat there and watched the flowers he’d gotten her wilt as she talked about her ex for an hour and a half, his arms pointedly crossed. He even leaned as far away from her as humanly possible, trying to communicate with his body language what he didn’t have the guts to communicate with his words: I’m uncomfortable, please leave. He planned to take her to a nice restaurant after they made love. Instead, he ordered something after she finally got the hint and left, eating alone like always.
After her, he deleted his profile (again) and resolved to never bother with dating again. Obviously there was something wrong with him. He saw guys who were uglier and more awkward than him with girlfriends, some actually stunning, but there was something about him in particular, something that repelled women…and men too.
Everyone.
It repelled everyone.
Maybe it was his self-loathing. After all, no one likes a sad sack. But that’s the thing: He was like this because of those experiences. It was a what came first, the chicken or the egg situation. Looking back, he had almost normal confidence at one point. Then all of this happened. The hundreds of messages he sent on the dating apps staying on read, unanswered, like he never sent them at all, like he was garbage unworthy of even a hello. The awkward dates. The occasional “success” that eventually fell apart…sometimes because of him, and sometimes because of them. The one girl who ran away from him when he tried to walk her to her car after a date. They didn’t click, he knew that, but he didn’t say or do anything creepy. Why did she do that? The girls who lead him on, talking about sex and sometimes even love but always had a reason they couldn’t meet.
There were other examples - many others - but it was all the same. Who cared?
Dom wanted to crawl back into his hole and stay there, to stop poking his head out and getting hurt. He wanted it so bad…but he was only human. Deep down, buried beneath layer after layer of scar tissue, there was still hope. Hope for love, for companionship, for acceptance, for intimacy and human touch. It was only an ember now, but even an ember is enough to spark a fire.
Some nights, he wanted to be safe. Other nights, he wanted to take a risk.
And this night was one of the latter.
Be there soon, he texted. He swallowed hard and wetted his lips. His heart was pounding faster and his bowels were loose. He really hoped this worked out. He didn’t think he could handle another rejection. If she turned him down, he’d probably go home and kill himself. Why go on like this?
He’d had that thought before…but he never followed through.
Maybe one day he’d actually shut the fuck up and do it already.
Maybe.
Ok :)
Her name was Heather and she was fat. She was not unattractive in the face and she wore her weight well, not that that mattered - he would take what he could get. They started talking on OKCupid last week and very soon, the conversation became sexual. He didn’t start it, though, she did. She was ahem very excited, she said. He liked to think that she was lonely, desperate, and wanted intimacy - any intimacy - just like him.
That really turned him on.
They agreed to meet, and now here he was, on the bus to her apartment on the other side of the city, hoping against hope that she didn’t hurt him too.
He put the phone away and stared straight ahead. The bus was nearly deserted, save for an old bag lady up front and a few Mexican guys in the back. Lights lined the bus’s roof, providing a cold, impersonal light. Dom took a deep breath and forced his dark emotions away. It was all on him to make this work. He would accept her fat, ugly, poor, and crippled, but he had to work to earn her love. He could do it.
When the bus finally reached his stop, he yanked the cord and got off. There was a plexiglass shelter lit by a single, lonely bulb. Trash littered the ground. Beyond the shelter, a park lay in darkness. Behind him, on the other side of the road, a housing project not unlike his own towered into the sky, lit up like a ship at sail. Dom swallowed his nerves and crossed the street. He found the door that she had directed him to use, and climbed the stairs. He expected trash, graffiti, and winos passed out on every landing. Instead, the stairwell was clean and deserted. His nerves welled as he climbed but he forced them down again. On the ninth floor, he went down the hall, battered on all sides by the stale smells of cooking and the murmur of TVs and voices coming from every apartment.
Dom paused at Apartment 237.
Heather’s.
You got this, he told himself.
And really, he did. Their plan - well, Heather’s, really - was simple and straightforward. She told him that she would leave the door unlocked. He was to come in, go to the bedroom, and she would be waiting for him. She said it was a fantasy of hers.
On some level, he knew all along that the whole setup sounded fishy. Was he being set up to get robbed? Would he walk in and get jumped by a bunch of Crips? He hesitated, but his need for love - and, yes, release - pushed him on.
He opened the door.
Inside, the apartment was small and messy, a living room to the right and a tiny kitchen to the left. The only light on was the one above the stove.
Everything else was in shadows.
Dom’s heart skipped a beat.
This didn’t feel right.
That thought was overpowered by the smell, a sickly sweet odor that suddenly seemed to be everywhere. His stomach twisted and he turned his head slightly to one side, as if to spare his nose. It smelled like something spoiled.
A voice spoke from the darkness, startling him. “I’m in here.”
It was light, airy, and cute.
For the last time, Dom hesitated. Some primal sense told him to turn around and leave…
…but he wanted to be loved.
Dom entered and shut the door behind him.
The smell was stronger. The atmosphere darker.
Ahead, he could barely make out an open doorway in the shadows.
He crossed to it.
The smell was overpowering here and Dom felt like he was going to puke. Any desire he had felt was gone, replaced only by revulsion and claustrophobia. It was cold, he realized, so cold that his teeth chattered.
Okay, fuck this.
He started to turn around, intent on leaving, but a small, white hand reached from the darkness. Icy fingertips brushed his cheek and his heart blasted into his throat.
Then she was there, her body pressing against his and her lips fused with his. The smell, the freezer chill, both stronger than ever.
They were both coming from her.
Her tongue hungrily lashed his own, and she pushed him against the wall. Her hands slipped under his shirt and pressed flat against his chest. They were so cold that he almost cried out.
Dom wanted to push her away, to run, but he didn’t. Instead, he froze up and allowed her to push him onto the bed. Was he too gutless to tell her no, the way he’d been too gutless to tell the woman who went on and on about her ex to shut up and leave? Did he secretly want to go through with this? He didn’t know, and he didn’t have time to figure it out. She was on top of him now, straddling him, his legs caged between her ample thighs. She grabbed his hands and pressed them to her bare breasts.
They were as cold as the rest of her.
She leaned down and kissed him again. He hadn’t noticed it before, but her tongue was…dry. Her mouth itself tasted strange. Off.
Heather broke from his lips and peppered kisses on his cheek and forehead, assaulting him with an intimacy that Dom no longer wanted.
Through it all, she was as silent as a tomb. She wasn’t panting or rasping with excitement. In fact, he didn’t think she was even breathing.
She brushed her lips along the exposed curve of his throat, and tingles of revulsion shot down his spine. She found his pulse and kissed it. Trembles of excitement raced through her body and she started to lap his neck like a dog.
Without warning, a fiery pinprick of pain exploded over him and Heather began to shake and pant. Dom cried out and tried to fight her off, but she was too heavy, too much.
With a tiny, mouse-like squeak - a sound of pitiable fear and resignation - Dom blacked out.

If you’d told me that the visitation with my son, an event that happened only every other weekend, would be extended indefinitely, I would’ve jumped with joy. In the end, I wish the circumstances under which they unfolded had never happened.
The clouds were sightless in the clear sky the day Jasmine dropped off my boy, a perfect day to play a little catch in the yard or go fishing at the nearby stock pond. Cyrus bounced out of the car and ran joyously toward me, unaware that his old man was a perpetual fuck up that had broken up the family in the first place. Oh well.
It was a happy day, the birds sang their old nostalgic tunes of a lost Summer in my own childhood. It was warm, not too warm, and the neighborhood was buzzing with excitement as the Spring showers had come to a close. It was as close as it could get to perfect.
The evening light danced against the tree tops, turning a violet hue as dusk began to settle in. Burnt orange water reflected the dying sun as it continued sinking away to nothing. We grabbed our tackle box, the giant beige one my uncle gifted me before he was stolen by cancer, and filled it with the empty, crumpled up bits of plastic that once held bologna sandwiches. As I said, it was a perfect day, very reminiscent of my own childhood.
We’d thrown the fat bluegill back that we had caught, I hadn’t felt like messing with cleaning and cooking them. Instead, dinner would likely be mac n’ cheese with some cut up hot dogs, a staple in my household whether or not Cyrus was visiting. Hopefully I hadn’t run through Oscar Meyer supply.
Home never felt so lonely, the walls never seemed so barren of old family pictures when Cyrus wasn’t around. Sometimes, he only added to the pain. I would never tell him that, though.
Even with the faucet turned all the way up, the water dribbled out and made boiling pasta a very patient game. Cyrus was babbling about some game he was playing on my phone. ‘He’s just a kid’, I thought, and pretended to be interested in whatever the hell he was talking about.
The sun had vanished and the moon was especially bright that night, having slid nearly halfway to its crescendo before dinner was finally done. Cyrus had stolen my phone to the living room, staring at the bright characters absentmindedly as a nondescript Netflix show played in the background.
“Here, buddy, sorry about the wait”, I sat the bowl of neon yellow stuff in front of him, the pink scramble of hotdog jutting out made me feel… a little ashamed? I plopped down next to him and flipped through the various titles on Netflix, most of which I had already seen a couple of times. Cyrus tossed the phone aside and picked at the mess of ‘food’ in the bowl. I can’t remember if he took a bite or not.
“Dad!”, I jumped, reeling from the doze I had fallen in. If Jasmine was here, it would’ve been such a perfect day, such a perfect day. Instead, this is where it all fell apart.
He massaged furiously at his temples, his knees pulled tight against his heaving chest.
“What’s the matter, are you okay?”, I jumped from the couch and got on one knee, putting my hands around his shoulders. I watched helplessly as Cyrus twisted and contorted his body, trying to run away from whatever pain was in his head.
Suddenly he fell still.
I studied him for a while, nearly on the verge of tears as his body had become totally limp. Then, a noise. At first it was quiet, then it grew and grew until it filled the room with totality. It’s hard to describe that noise, almost like a wind turbine if you were up close to it.
From behind the couch, just above my sons head, it peeked at me. Its thick, black fingers ended at sharp, nailess points. Just as I met its eyes, it slithered behind the couch and that’s when Cyrus awoke in a screaming fit.
I jumped awake again, Cyrus sitting next to me as pale as a sheet. His eyes were bulging, glued to the blank TV ahead.
I couldn’t help but check behind the couch, to make sure it wasn’t still there. Then, to my son who was still staring at the nothing on the television. His mouth was hanging open, just enough to allow the continuous stream of drool to fall out.
I ran to the kitchen to grab a paper towel and cleaned the odd amount of drool from his chin. There wasn’t a thermometer in the house but it didn’t take a rocket scientist to tell that he was burning up. A fever, I thought.
I carried the boy to his bedroom, feeling as though I was being watched the entire way, and tucked him into bed. A doctors visit would soon be on the horizon. I returned to the couch in the living room, careful to keep my gaze fixed on the TV and nothing else. Truthfully, I was too afraid to look in the shadowy corners.
That night was filled with nightmares.
The next day I rang Jasmine, letting her know that Cy was sick and needed to go to the doctor. Ordinarily, this wouldn’t have been an issue, but Jas was immunocompromised (she’d been diagnosed with breast cancer a few months before we divorced) and my son would be staying with me for the foreseeable future. I couldn’t complain, I didn’t get to see him nearly enough as it was.
That day was very much the opposite of the previous, the sky was gloomy and spits of rain fell consistently from dawn to nightfall.
The doctor had said that Cyrus had a particularly severe ear infection, but nothing that some antibiotics couldn’t fix. He sent us home with a tube of the stuff, my wallet noticeably lighter.
“Apply some of this twice a day, once in the morning and once before bedtime”, the older gentleman had said. He squeezed my shoulder and smiled, though there seemed to be something else behind his wary eyes.
He stopped me again as I turned to leave.
“Sir…”, he started, though he seemed to study his words carefully, “your son kept mentioning something he called the flumes”.
I shrugged, the only time I had heard the word was in reference to a ravine on the edge of town where we’d all smoke pot in high school. Nothing struck me as odd about it at the time.
“They come from the flumes, those noises, those noises, he kept saying”, the doctor pushed closer, his eyes growing wild. I stepped backward, tugging at Cy’s hand as we left the building wordlessly.
Aside from my busy mind, the car ride home was utterly silent. I could hear my boys heavy, labored breaths all the way from the backseat. ‘Inner ear infection, my ass’, I thought.
After laying Cyrus back down for bed, I fixed him a bowl of instant chicken and noodles and decided to give Jasmine a call. The phone rang endlessly before the robotic voice indicated that the caller wasn’t available. I tried once more but gave up after it rang a few more times. Probably sleeping.
I returned to the couch, deciding to rewatch Nightmare on Elm Street for the fourth or fifth time.
After a while, I decided to put on cable, growing tired of the listless titles on Netflix. I was never too interested in the local news, but today seemed as good as any to catch up on the towns happenings. The Grantfield Gators girls softball team had advanced to sectionals and one of the townsfolk were celebrating their 100th birthday.
A ‘Breaking News’ graphic slid below the frazzled newslady on the television. Wherever she was, it sure looked familiar.
‘Wild dog shits on mayors front yard’, I laughed at my own stupid joke and surely turned as white as Cyrus had the previous night as the lady on the TV continued.
“A local woman was found tied to a tree and disemboweled at the scene. Police are saying various symbols were branded all over the womans body, and the material used to bind her to the Elm tree was ‘of unusual property’”, she continued on for a while but I hadn’t noticed, the air had fallen heavy and that familiar warbling had filled the room again.
Heavy footsteps slammed up the staircase at an otherworldly pace. Up the staircase and towards my sons room.
I ran, I swear I ran as fast as I could but I knew… I knew.
When I got to his room, he was gone, the curtains blowing aimlessly in the wind as the window had been slammed open so hard that the glass had shattered in the panes. The bowl of chicken and noodles sat on the bedside table, untouched.
I tried calling Jasmine again and again and again. Still, no answer.
I wanted to write this, to whoever may be reading, so that you know where to look if I don’t return. I know where my son is, I know where Jasmine is.
The flumes took them, or whatever might be lurking in it.

Billboard Hot 100 chart

Position	Title	Artist	▲/▼	Last week	Weeks Charting	Peak
1	Not Like Us	Kendrick Lamar	▲+100	[FRESH]	1	1
2	Million Dollar Baby	Tommy Richman	-	2	2	2
3	Euphoria	Kendrick Lamar	▲+8	11	2	3
4	Fortnight	Taylor Swift Featuring Post Malone	▼-3	1	3	1
5	A Bar Song (Tipsy)	Shaboozey	▼-2	3	4	3
6	Like That	Future, Metro Boomin & Kendrick Lamar	▲+2	8	7	1
7	Family Matters	Drake	▲+94	[FRESH]	1	7
8	Espresso	Sabrina Carpenter	▼-4	4	4	4
9	Beautiful Things	Benson Boone	▼-4	5	16	2
10	Lose Control	Teddy Swims	▼-4	6	39	1
11	Too Sweet	Hozier	▼-4	7	7	1
12	Meet The Grahams	Kendrick Lamar	▲+89	[FRESH]	1	12
13	Saturn	SZA	▼-1	12	11	6
14	We Can't Be Friends (Wait For Your Love)	Ariana Grande	▲+5	19	9	1
15	I Can Do It With A Broken Heart	Taylor Swift	▼-6	9	3	3
16	Down Bad	Taylor Swift	▼-6	10	3	2
17	Push Ups	Drake	-	17	3	17
18	Lovin On Me	Jack Harlow	▼-3	15	26	1
19	Stick Season	Noah Kahan	▲+4	23	32	9
20	I Remember Everything	Zach Bryan Featuring Kacey Musgraves	▲+4	24	37	1
21	Get It Sexyy	Sexyy Red	▲+11	32	8	20
22	Feather	Sabrina Carpenter	▲+7	29	23	21
23	I Like The Way You Kiss Me	Artemas	▲+3	26	7	12
24	Cruel Summer	Taylor Swift	▲+4	28	53	1
25	Greedy	Tate McRae	▲+2	27	34	3
26	Who's Afraid Of Little Old Me?	Taylor Swift	▼-13	13	3	9
27	Type Shit	Future, Metro Boomin, Travis Scott & Playboi Carti	▲+4	31	7	2
28	So Long, London	Taylor Swift	▼-14	14	3	5
29	Yeah Glo!	GloRilla	▲+9	38	13	29
30	But Daddy I Love Him	Taylor Swift	▼-12	18	3	7
31	My Boy Only Breaks His Favorite Toys	Taylor Swift	▼-15	16	3	6
32	Agora Hills	Doja Cat	▲+1	33	33	7
33	Florida!!!	Taylor Swift Featuring Florence + The Machine	▼-13	20	3	8
34	Austin	Dasha	▲+9	43	9	28
35	Guilty As Sin?	Taylor Swift	▼-13	22	3	10
36	Texas Hold 'Em	Beyonce	▼-11	25	13	1
37	Miles On It	Marshmello & Kane Brown	▲+64	[FRESH]	1	37
38	The Tortured Poets Department	Taylor Swift	▼-17	21	3	4
39	End Of Beginning	Djo	-	39	12	11
40	Wanna Be	GloRilla & Megan Thee Stallion	▼-6	34	5	11
41	Whatever She Wants	Bryson Tiller	-	41	12	19
42	Cowgirls	Morgan Wallen Featuring ERNEST	▲+59	--	21	40
43	Redrum	21 Savage	▲+3	46	17	5
44	Never Lose Me	Flo Milli	▲+1	45	21	15
45	Where It Ends	Bailey Zimmerman	▲+5	50	19	32
46	Good Luck, Babe!	Chappell Roan	▲+2	48	5	44
47	Act II: Date @ 8	4Batz Featuring Drake	▲+6	53	18	7
48	Gata Only	FloyyMenor X Cris Mj	▼-4	44	8	27
49	Carnival	¥$: Ye & Ty Dolla $ign Featuring Rich The Kid & Playboi Carti	▼-7	42	13	1
50	Illusion	Dua Lipa	▲+22	72	4	43
51	The Smallest Man Who Ever Lived	Taylor Swift	▼-21	30	3	14
52	Slow It Down	Benson Boone	▲+9	61	7	40
53	loml	Taylor Swift	▼-17	36	3	12
54	Fresh Out The Slammer	Taylor Swift	▼-19	35	3	11
55	Made For Me	Muni Long	▼-1	54	17	20
56	The Alchemy	Taylor Swift	▼-19	37	3	13
57	Wild Ones	Jessie Murph & Jelly Roll	-	57	31	35
58	FE!N	Travis Scott Featuring Playboi Carti	▲+2	60	27	5
59	Obsessed	Olivia Rodrigo	▲+8	67	7	14
60	Wildflowers And Wild Horses	Lainey Wilson	▼-5	55	15	48
61	Get In With Me	BossMan DLow	▲+12	73	14	49
62	imgonnagetyouback	Taylor Swift	▼-13	49	3	26
63	I Can Fix Him (No Really I Can)	Taylor Swift	▼-23	40	3	20
64	Bulletproof	Nate Smith	▲+6	70	5	64
65	So High School	Taylor Swift	▼-18	47	3	24
66	Tell Ur Girlfriend	Lay Bankz	▼-8	58	4	58
67	The Black Dog	Taylor Swift	▼-16	51	3	25
68	Back Then Right Now	Tyler Hubbard	▼-3	65	8	62
69	Hell N Back	Bakar Featuring Summer Walker	▼-1	68	5	53
70	Clara Bow	Taylor Swift	▼-18	52	3	21
71	Tucson Too Late	Jordan Davis	▲+20	91	10	71
72	Bandit	Don Toliver	▲+20	92	13	38
73	Mmhmm	BigXthaPlug	▲+6	79	20	63
74	Scared To Start	Michael Marcagi	▲+3	77	12	54
75	Enough (Miami)	Cardi B	▲+6	81	8	9
76	Halfway To Hell	Jelly Roll	▲+7	83	5	76
77	The Prophecy	Taylor Swift	▼-21	56	3	32
78	Cinderella	Future, Metro Boomin & Travis Scott	▼-2	76	7	6
79	Training Season	Dua Lipa	▲+22	--	10	27
80	Wind Up Missin' You	Tucker Wetmore	-	80	6	75
81	How Did It End?	Taylor Swift	▼-19	62	3	35
82	We Ride	Bryan Martin	▲+11	93	5	82
83	Dirt Cheap	Cody Johnson	▲+11	94	3	83
84	Belong Together	Mark Ambor	▲+3	87	2	84
85	Outskirts	Sam Hunt	▲+1	86	9	66
86	Si No Quieres No	Luis R Conriquez x Neton Vega	▲+15	[FRESH]	1	86
87	Tu Name	Fuerza Regida	▼-2	85	12	66
88	thanK you aIMee	Taylor Swift	▼-29	59	3	23
89	The Albatross	Taylor Swift	▼-25	64	3	30
90	23	Chayce Beckham	▼-2	88	19	45
91	Adivino	Myke Towers & Bad Bunny	▼-28	63	2	63
92	Wine Into Whiskey	Tucker Wetmore	▲+4	96	7	77
93	II Most Wanted	Beyonce & Miley Cyrus	▼-4	89	6	6
94	I Hate It Here	Taylor Swift	▼-28	66	3	34
95	Whatsapp (Wassam)	Gunna	▲+6	[FRESH]	1	95
96	Spin You Around (1/24)	Morgan Wallen	▲+2	98	15	24
97	One Of The Girls	The Weeknd, Jennie & Lily Rose Depp	▼-7	90	20	51
98	Let's Go	Key Glock & Young Dolph	▲+2	100	9	59
99	Take Her Home	Kenny Chesney	▲+2	[FRESH]	1	99
100	Chloe Or Sam Or Sophia Or Marcus	Taylor Swift	▼-31	69	3	36

Billboard Global 200 chart (most popular songs globally)

Position	Title	Artist	▲/▼	Last week	Weeks Charting	Peak
1	Not Like Us	Kendrick Lamar	▲+100	[FRESH]	1	1
2	Million Dollar Baby	Tommy Richman	▲+8	10	2	2
3	Espresso	Sabrina Carpenter	▼-1	2	4	2
4	Euphoria	Kendrick Lamar	▲+14	18	2	4
5	A Bar Song (Tipsy)	Shaboozey	▲+1	6	4	5
6	Fortnight	Taylor Swift Featuring Post Malone	▼-5	1	3	1
7	Beautiful Things	Benson Boone	▼-3	4	16	1
8	I Like The Way You Kiss Me	Artemas	▼-5	3	7	2
9	Too Sweet	Hozier	▼-4	5	7	1
10	Gata Only	FloyyMenor X Cris Mj	▼-3	7	13	4

Billboard 200 chart

Position	Title	Artist	Sales	Change	Last week	Weeks Charting
1	The Tortured Poets Department	Taylor Swift	285,505 (51,028 pure)	-36%	1	3
2	Radical Optimism	Dua Lipa	83,814 (52,788 pure)	--	[FRESH]	1
3	One Thing At A Time	Morgan Wallen	71,563 (1,483 pure)	+7%	2	62
4	We Don't Trust You	Future & Metro Boomin	62,293 (188 pure)	+4%	3	7
5	SEVENTEEN Best Album '17 Is Right Here'	SEVENTEEN	54,465 (50,790 pure)	--	[FRESH]	1
6	Vultures 1	¥$: Ye & Ty Dolla $ign	err	err	52	13
7	Dangerous: The Double Album	Morgan Wallen	42,315 (432 pure)	+7%	6	174
8	Cowboy Carter	Beyonce	42,201 (4,928 pure)	-19%	4	6
9	Stick Season	Noah Kahan	40,675 (3,588 pure)	+1%	5	76
10	SOS	SZA	39,353 (1,948 pure)	+3%	9	74

Frequently Asked Questions:
Q: Why is X artist higher than Y artist on the 200 chart, even though X artist sold less?
A: This is because of a discrepancy between Billboard's ranking and the ranking from the website that the sales data is scraped from
Q: Where do you get the sales data from?
A: https://hitsdailydouble.com/sales_plus_streaming
Q: What does "err" mean on the 200 chart?
A: If you are seeing "err", that means that the bot I use to gather chart data couldn't identify sales data for a particular album because of a difference in album naming between Billboard and HitsDailyDouble

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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.