I’m on my second or third rewatch of glee and honestly Tina is seriously growing on me. I mean Rachel still my favorite but Tina is definitely definitely growing on me and I definitely think that she should’ve been the one to play Sandi when they did grease why they gave it to Marley I don’t know that made no sense and you know what since were on the topic of stuff that didn’t make sense for that episode. I didn’t put in the title but I’m gonna put it here and I hope you guys don’t mind why didn’t they just let unique play Rizzo why did they have Santana back all the way from Kentucky excuse me Kentucky sorry why did they have Santana come back all the way from Kentucky to play Rizzo she wasn’t even a student anymore. I’m sorry but stuff like that. Makes no sense. Tina should’ve been Sandi unique should’ve been Rizzo and quite frankly Kurt and Mercedes were both really hypocritical because they were telling not to go for Rizzo even though they are always the ones screaming about oh except for who we are except for who we are and I’m sitting here thinking you aren’t being very accepting now are you so what do you think of these three instances please let me know.

I cut my teeth on the Slayers in the late 90s/early 00s with the big three of Slayers, Slayers Next, and Slayers Try. Then I went through all of the Lina-and-Naga adventures across the movies and OVAs before dropping out of the fandom because there just wasn't much left. I skipped out on the Tokyopop translations of novels 1 through 8 when I heard that they were A) not very accurate and B) incomplete. I also heard about Revolution/Evolution-R, but I just never got around it.
Then I caught COVID in March and had a lot of time on my hands while I spent about ten days straight laid up in bed. I started a massive marathon of all the old Slayers content I was familiar with (still holds up), Revolution/Evolution-R (fun to see the gang again but a step down from Next/Try), Hourglass of Falces (awful), Medieval Mayhem (great), Knight of Aqualord (mediocre), Light Magic (cut and fun but ultimately forgettable), and the Rev/Evo-R manga adaptations (start off pretty predictable before suddenly getting really good once it starts adding new wrinkles to Lina, Zel, Duclis, Pokota, etc.).
Then I got around to the J-Novel Club translation of Kanzaka's 17 novels. Great stuff. Here are some scattered thoughts:
-I love Lina's sassy, irreverent inner monologue. The anime does a pretty good job of translating this to her dialogue, but it's still something I would have liked to see carried over in short bursts of narration.
-The side effect of so much Lina is so much less of everyone else (except Gourry, but more on him later). For instance, Zelgadis and Amelia become Ra-Tilt factories by the end of the Gaav/Phibrizzo arc. That's pretty much all they contribute past a certain point. They're barely characters.
-It's funny to see how Lina and Gourry go through additional party members like tissues in the novels. Lantz, Aria, Dilarr, Jade, Luke, Mileena, Milgazia, Memphys, and Alaina are an incredibly mixed bag of utility and likability; but it was nice to get such a wide range of voices and perspectives. Comparing and contrasting over-accomplished adventurers like Lina and Gourry with total normies like Lantz and Aria really puts into perspective how special they are, but it was also fun to see them being totally blown away by the two heavyweights, Milgazia and Mephy. Having watched the anime, I thought I had the Slayers formula down to a science: The core four of Lina/Gourry/Zel/Amelia with Xellos popping in and out as a frienemy who alternates between helping and hurting and an extra party member or three to round out the team. Nope. The novels have no such sacred cows. It is the Lina and Gourry buddy cop (buddy mercenary?) adventure, and everyone else is along for the ride.
-Poor Gourry. The guy is scandalously under-written in the show. Even when I was watching Try the first time, I thought it was weird that the guy who inherited the Sword of Light didn't have more to say in the season all about the Sword of Light. Then he just gives it away to Sirius? We couldn't have had even one episode about him wrestling with the Sword's legacy and laying the groundwork for his eventual decision? He's an absolute star in the novels. He's not very brainy in any medium, but I came away with a much stronger sense that he's selectively oblivious rather than the kind of dumb you get from room temperature IQ. He simply chooses his (mental) battles and puts his priorities in places that Lina does not. He knows that Lina handles the magic and planning stuff, so he plays to his strengths and sticks to his animalistic instincts (as her narration constantly reminds us) to pick out what's wrong -- whether that's seeing an ambush ahead of time or perceiving some emotional turmoil that Lina is trying to hide.
-The novel battle scenes were pretty hit or miss for me. They are incredibly repetitive. How many times does Lina detect malice to tip her off to a sneak attack? How many times does she use a Lighting spell like a flashbang to stun her enemies? How many times are we going to see a demon slip away from a big spell by casting off a small fraction of their astral body to take the hit while their main body is unharmed? Lina even calls it something like "the old demonic lizard's tail trick" after having seen it so many times. But it makes sense. A lot of those tricks work out for Lina and her enemies. If it's not broke, don't fix it. Still, it might have been nice to get more than the usual combo of teleportation blinks, spears of light, and shockwaves from the latest demon-of-the-week. So many fight scenes feel like they started with a template. It gets old very, very quickly. The best fights were the ones where the demon has some funky, unique ability that Lina and friends have to outthink and outmaneuver.
-Sylphiel being introduced as Zel's temporary, off-screen adventure buddy was funny for how unexpected it was. They both have something against Copy Rezo, but it's the most random collection of characters.
-Eris playing the part of an incompetent bounty hunter was a trip, too.
-Lina learning Astral Vine in the second half of the novels to power up her melee and to give Gourry an extra edge now that he no longer has a magic sword was a great bit of understated storytelling. She wants to kill demons faster now that she is on their radar, but she presumably wants to keep Gourry both useful and safe at the same time and in her own way.
-Rubia's comeback in novel 15 came out of nowhere, and I loved everything about it. It's a great thematic counterpoint to Luke's decision about what to do with yourself when you are the one left behind, and the whole detour into the greenhouse was hysterical. Readers like me really needed that moment of lightness, and it really reinforced the notion that life goes on even when it feels like it's over. The animation team working on Next had no way of knowing, but killing her off will forever feel like a missed opportunity.
-I really, truly did not like the way Phil and Wizer were introduced in the novels. As users on this sub helpfully pointed out, they both started in Slayers Special and were later imported to the main novels. It feels like watching a Marvel movie or TV series, where you are going to be lost if you haven't done your "homework." Franchises are fine, but homework storytelling has never been my style. I would much rather have those small, passing, funny-if-you-get-it references to Naga than full-blown character reunions with people I, as a reader, am meeting for the first time. It's especially galling when Lina's history with Wizer and adventure in Ruvinagald comes back to haunt her in such a major way in novel 14. It's harder for me to buy into the one-sided blood feud when I have so little context.
-Rod served his purpose well enough, but Zangulus is the superior master swordsman/battle junkie rival to Gourry. Martina has absolutely no basis in the novels, but she gets a thumbs up, too. Man, Next was so good.
-While Lantz served his own purpose as a "working man" adventurer who isn't up to Lina and Gourry's level, freaking out at the flesh curse and needing some extra firepower make himself useful in Sairaag, I'm totally fine with him being one of those forgotten novel characters. He's introduced being a sleaze to Lina, and he jokes about raping Eris when he finds her passed out in a bush. Go and stay gone.
-The novels as a whole are a little too eager to tell rape jokes. It is mostly phased out as it goes along, but I really did not need to read about two thugs debating the pros and cons of raping Lina or Lina getting information out of a burglar by pretending Gourry is a gay predator.
-By the same token, I don't feel the least bit bad about Zolf getting incinerated. Sucks that you lost your friend, Zel, but your friend was a guy who took turns going down the list of every guy he knows and trying to convince each and every one of them that it's time to sexually torture Lina. A similar joke was in the anime with Nunsa the fishman, but it was a tasteless and blessedly brief one-and-done. The novel goes into excruciating detail about why each guy on the team can't or won't play ball with Zolf's sick little game. Rot in Hell, Zolf. Pick better friends, Zel. (At least Rodimus seemed like a decent guy.)
-Speaking of Zel's old posse: Dilgear came back for the Sairaag/Copy Rezo arc, as he should have in the first season. The last we see of the guy, he's swearing revenge on the team. Why not bring him back in the anime, too? Sure, he doesn't stick around for long or accomplish much even in novel 3, but at least Kanzaka thought to bring him back.
-On a lighter note: It was great seeing Aria's growth as a sorceress in the short time we know her. She went from saying her magic is better than nothing to showing off some spells stunts that she had clearly picked up from Lina. I get the sense that she would have been a magical monster if she stuck around.
-I wish we got more insights into Luke and Mileena, such as how they met (how does an all-business shaman meet and halfway-reform a professional assassin with the setting's version of the Devil sleeping his soul?) or how they became such a well-oiled machine with their combination spells, but it's actually a pretty important character beat for Lina to realize how little she knows either one of them. Kanzaka really succeeded in making both Lina and the reader wish we had more time with them.
-On the other hand, it undercuts the notion that they had this great connection to Luke, and he would set the stage for them to kill him. Is he the friend you could not save or is he someone you wish could have called a friend? I guess there is a middle path -- a more distant friend that you wish you could have gotten to know better when you had the chance -- but it still comes off a little bit muddled.
-I'm still not sure if Luke's magic sword was one-of-a-kind after we see him using a bunch of other edged weapons in 14 that can also hold a magic spell. Did Luke find an entire set of special swords with that property? Was that an ability of his that he already possessed and he only pretended that his main sword had that power? Did he find a magic sword and reverse-engineer the ability to store one spell at a time in other blades? Not a huge thing but I found it a little odd
-The prevalence of madmen cooking up chimeras and other magical fusions makes me wonder if they were all pen pals with each other. It's incredibly rampant. The novels already gave us the thread of Sherra's demon sword spreading chaos and creatures, but it might have been nice to string the rest of them together a little more strongly with something like Lavas mentioning that he discovered one of Rezo's old chimera labs. Or insinuate that a character like Sherra may have been feeding Rezo information in order to grease the wheels of his descent into villainy and Shab's awakening. I know novel 1 is written as a single story and only later ballooned into a series, but it might have been nice to get some more play between Rezo and the demons even if it is after the fact. The anime went so far as to imply Rezo was in contact with Phibrizzo or at least researched his style of magic in Revolution/Evolution-R with the green stasis crystals and the Hellmaster's Jar. Wouldn't it be interesting to reveal that someone was pulling on that particular thread?
-As much as I would love to see some of the novel content adapted to screen some day, I just don't see how you could preserve some of the chimera/fusion body horror and the purely tragic elements in the way more light-hearted anime. People already complain about Try being too dark for tackling something as heavy as the ancient dragon genocide in their goofy fantasy comedy anime. The end of the Crimson City arc and the Selentia arcs would be enough to trigger total meltdowns about how it's not really Slayers anymore because Slayers is supposed to be fun. We're never getting the Luke and Mileena story arc in any other format, are we?
-But novel 16 could totally be a movie. (Just remove the lines about Mephy and the Zenefa armor.) It is mostly self-contained, not as dark as a lot of the stuff in 9 through 15, brings back the classic lineup of the core four plus the token newbie and a Xellos cameo, caps off with a big flashy fight scene that would probably be fun as hell to see in glossy bid budget animation, etc. Sure, it's more Zanaffar when we've already seen a bunch of them, but it's actually a minor plot point that the elven armors play by different rules. They could get away with it.
-Novel 17 feels so weird and distinct from everything else, and I mean that in the best way. Kanzaka really thought about how to make this neck of the woods feel alien to Lina and Gourry. Lina worrying about how to read the local script, whether or not they will eat something poisonous, how hard it would be to find a map, currency conversion, etc. Great stuff. It's also funny to see that 17 seems to be setting up a bunch of smug, holier-than-thou dragons with questionable moral fiber as the major villains of this new story. Starting to smell a lot like Slayers Try in here, which is funny when some of the crankier fans like to say that Try doesn't count.
-The novels and anime are pretty evenly matched in their pros and cons for the most part. For every one thing the novels do better, I could come right back and say there is something the animation does better, and back and forth and up and down over and over again. But one thing really stands out to me. Slayers Next absolutely blows novel 8 out of the water for how it handles the end of the Phibrizzo/Giga Slave story. The grand finale of Slayers Next is my vote for the high water mark of the entire franchise, so novel 8 was probably always doomed. Credit to the animation production team for pulling that tour de force out of their hat. I'm normally a "source material is sacred" kind of fan, but Slayers as a whole is a fascinating compare-and-contrast piece as I slowly learned what was cut, condensed, or rearranged in the translation from page to screen.
-But I will say that it makes the Lord of Nightmares out to be a more menacing, insidious character. Next gave me the impression that she is something of a literal genie, giving Lina the power she asked for (even if it cost her, which was part of her wish) and Phibrizzo the destruction he wanted. The Lord of Nightmares even appears to respond to Gourry's pure wish to have Lina restored. She is an overwhelming but ultimately neutral force. Novel 8, on the other hand, seems to suggest that she's proud enough and petulant enough to annihilate Phibrizzo for his disrespect and only accidentally released Lina from her hold. Granted, that's just Lina taking a shot in the dark and making her best guess with the completely unprecedented event of the lord of all creation coming down to possess your body. She could be wrong. Still, 8 makes L look like a cruel and moody god. Slayers Next's concept of L is something that would destroy the world because it is simply her nature as Chaos itself. Novel 8's concept of L strikes me as a being that would destroy the world because it offends her. Maybe the Monsters/demons/Mazoku were right. Maybe she does desire a return for all creation to Chaos.
-I would kill for Novel 18.

So I’m auditioning for Betty Rizzo from grease next week, and I don’t know what to wear. I’m debating between dark (possibly black or gray)jeans, boots, and a black top or a faux leather mini skirt, heeled boots (I think they’re called booties?) with a black long sleeve crop top (it’s not too cropped considering the skirt is high waisted). Any other ideas are more than welcome

Elijah narrowed his eyes at the young teenage girl he had ‘rescued’ from the literal house of horrors. She sat hugging her knees on a cart, her eyes bulging out of her head as she stared into the distance.
He couldn’t quite imagine what was going through her mind. The trauma, the fear, the sheer weight of having lost everything in such a brutal, senseless fashion. It was a familiar scene to Elijah. He had seen similar scenes in Iraq and Syria, where ISIS's reign of terror had left indelible scars on countless lives. Villages were destroyed, families were torn apart, and the haunting presence of slave markets where human lives were traded like commodities.
As he looked around at the burning village, Elijah saw innumerable faces overwhelmed with a sense of deep helplessness. These were not soldiers, they were just regular ol’ people trying to live their lives, and the people charged to protect them and their way of life turned out to be their worst enemy.
Fate would have it, said hostile force turned out to be the only lifeline these villagers had.
Sure the special forces team had ulterior motives, but they were still offering tangible help and compassion to those who had just faced the unimaginable. And Elijah was acutely aware of the complex dynamics at play. He had just finished treating one of the few surviving men who had been fortunate enough to have survived the attack. He had multiple fractures, lacerations, and severe bruising, but the man had avoided anything life-threatening.
Glancing over to Samson, the team's other medic who was assisting his own patient. A young boy with a stab wound and a broken leg. Elijah called out to him, "Hey, don't use any of our supplies if we don't have to. We need to keep a handle on what we go through."
When he heard Elijah's words, Samson was already digging into his advanced trauma kit when he froze. The younger and gruff-looking man froze as a scowl formed on his face. The kit contained items that would greatly assist in treating the boy's injuries, but they had to be judicious with their resources. With a mix of frustration and understanding, Samson clicked his tongue and instead, applied only the most basic form of first aid, using the very primitive and equally limited medical resources available from the village's own supplies.
Coleman narrowed his eyes and stared disapprovingly at Elijah. "It's a kid, Eli," he commented, his tone laced with a hint of reproach, knowing full well the kind of response he might receive.
Elijah, tying off a bandage on the injured man he was working on, didn’t even look up as he retorted, "Doesn't change the fact we gotta conserve what limited resources we have. Plus, we don't know how long we'll be out here." He finished securing the bandage with a precise knot and added, almost nonchalantly, "So, fuck them kids."
The team leader rolled his eyes at the stark and unapologetic response. Coleman couldn’t help but think he should have known better than saying anything. This kind of cold and calculating pragmatism had been a staple when it came to Elijah for as long as Coleman had known the borderline sociopath.
But as distasteful as it was, the medic wasn’t wrong. In his line of work, resources were always finite, and prioritizing them was part of the job, no matter how harsh it might seem.
“Ugh! Those stupid idiots!” Yana barked in annoyance as she looked around. “It’s all a mess!”
Yana's exasperation was palpable as she fluttered about the devastated village, her eyes a glowing violet hue indicative of her emotional turmoil. Her frustration seemed to stem not just from the physical destruction around her, but from something unseen, something beyond the understanding of the Special Forces team.
"What the hell are you going on about?" Elijah finally asked with a tone mixed with concern and confusion. He and Coleman shared a look, unsure of how to interpret Yana's erratic behavior.
Ignoring their queries, Yana continued her agitated monologue, seemingly addressing someone or something invisible to the human eye. "Go, stay, become a wraith, MAKE UP YOUR MIND!" she yelled impatiently.
Elijah turned back towards his GMV to see if Azeline held any answer, but the woman’s own gaze was a potent concoction of skepticism and discomfort. She side-eyed the fairy as if she was truly feeling something troubling as her brow furrowed in a silent, questioning alarm.
Several moments passed as Elijah’s gaze remained fixed on Azeline who seemed just as perplexed and disturbed by Yana's outburst as everyone else. Her own gaze searched for any sign of insight or understanding, but it was evident by her hard look and gaping mouth that she was equally at a loss.
Turning his attention back to Yana, Elijah watched for several long moments as the fairy darted about in the sky and continued to rant and rave like a crazy person. With a shake of his head and an incredulous look on his face, he muttered under his breath, "I ain't dealing with this shit right now,” before getting up and moving to his GMV.
Coleman, following closely behind, chimed in with his own thoughts. "Logic dictates we should look into whatever the psycho magic demon says, but I can't be fucked to be honest." His voice blended resignation and practicality while he sat in the passenger seat and started fiddling with the radio.
“Voyeur 1, this is Baron, over," Coleman began, keying the radio as he prepared to give a situational report to the signal intelligence unit hiding out somewhere and acting as a relay to higher command. His voice was calm and composed, but there was an undercurrent of weariness that hinted at the strain of the day's events.
"Baron, this is Voyeur 1, send your traffic, over," came the crackling response from their unit headquarters.
Coleman glanced briefly at Elijah, who was rummaging through the bags near Azeline before he continued. "Voyeur 1, we’re pivoting to unconventional warfare. We've made contact with locals and are currently assessing the situation. Encountered hostile forces employing scorched earth tactics on the civilian population. Providing immediate aid and security. Over."
“Baron, stand by.” The radio fell silent as Voyeur 1 processed the information, leaving Coleman waiting.
During this lull, Elijah took the opportunity to address the elf in the back of the vehicle "The fairy really makes you uncomfortable, doesn't she?" he asked as he still rifled through baggage.
Azeline shot a quick, scrutinizing glance at Elijah before her gaze fixated back on the still-agitated Yana, fluttering erratically in the sky. "Yes," she began, her voice carrying a weight of experience. "I've seen what these little monsters can do to people." Her expression was a complex mix of wariness and nostalgia.
The scene became a flurry of activity as they all did their best to prepare the survivors to leave the area. Bennett and another engineer were focused on fixing and reinforcing carts, ensuring they were functional enough for travel. The weapon sergeants were sorting through the mountain of salvage items, prioritizing what could be useful.
With a grunt, Elij pulled the 5-gallon jerry can from its secured location. When he looked around for help, his eyes fell on the team sergeant, Kwon, and the intelligence sergeant, Jones walking towards him.
“I’m curious.” Kwon spoke up as he reached up to help with the jerry can. "So, why'd you decide to bother with the villagers?" He asked, looking at Elijah with an inquisitive gaze
Jones, who was standing a step behind, also chimed in, "I get that making contact and ingratiating ourselves with the locals would be useful, but we could've easily done that with a village that wasn't destroyed. This one's a complete write-off."
As Elijah secured the equipment back into place, Coleman, who had been quietly listening, suddenly interjected and answered for him. "Information operations."
"Bingo," Elijah responded with a grunt as he tightened the paracord knots. He then turned back to Kwon and Jones, explaining further. "As you all know, our main directive is to Influence, disrupt, corrupt, or usurp the decision-making process of our adversaries."
Elijah continued, "By helping these villagers, we're creating a narrative. It's a strategic move. We're showing that we're not just invaders or combatants. We're allies, saviors even. This kind of goodwill can lead to more cooperation from the locals, better intel, and a more favorable view of our presence here."
With an eye twitching with impatience, Kwon spoke up once more to cut through the double speak. "Yeah, yeah, the standard information warfare bullshit. We get it, Eli. But get to the point. Why this village?" His said, demanding for a more direct answer to Jones' question.
A moment of silence enveloped the group as Elijah looked around until his eyes fell on that teenage girl he pulled out of that cabinet. "They're doing scorched earth here. Burning their own villages and harassing their own people," he explained, turning back to Kwon and Jones. "We need to be ahead of the curve in the information game. They've been caught red-handed, and we've got survivors to act as witnesses."
He paused for emphasis, ensuring his words sank in. "if we jump from village to village, town to town, we can get a handle on the narrative before this Empire or whatever they are, do.”
"Our enemy is playing dirty and being brutal to their own people in an effort to turn the local population against us. If we can get ahead of this and spin it around, it'll open a lot of doors for us and make operating in this area significantly less complicated," Coleman spoke up reinforcing Elijah’s point.
Elijah nodded in agreement. "Yep, if we take our survivors, act as saviors, and potentially intervene in any other attacks, we can make a significant impact in the information space and create a huge disconnect between the government and it’s people." He elaborated as he jumped down from the vehicle’s roof.
“Hearts and minds, gentlemen!” he finished with an annoying, tooth smirk. “Hearts and minds!”
Just as Elijah finished his statement and hopped down from the vehicle, the radio crackled back to life, interrupting the conversation. "Baron, You are authorized to proceed with your new operation. Execute as you see fit. We're cutting you loose to manage this situation on the ground. How copy?"
The team members exchanged looks, a mixture of determination and resolve in their expressions. This was it – they were being given the green light to run the operation in their own style, adapting to the unique challenges of this environment and the unconventional warfare they were engaged in.
Coleman keyed the radio, responding with a crisp acknowledgment, "Baron copies all, proceeding with the new mission as per new directives. Baron out."
Kwon and Jones exchanged a look of understanding. What Elijah and Coleman said made a lot of sense, especially with a ground invasion looming on the horizon. If they could turn a few villages and towns friendly, it would significantly simplify operations for all special forces units operating in the area.
“Not only would mapping enemy locations become trivial, but we’d also probably get quite a bit of targets of opportunity,” Elijah said as his gaze floated between the other three men. “And that’s where my next little scheme comes into play…” An evil smirk spreads across his face, causing Coleman to narrow his eyes and Kwon to shift nervously.
Jones was relatively new to the team and was the least familiar with Elijah's antics. The poor Intelligence sergeant looked on with a mix of curiosity and apprehension. "What scheme?" he asked cautiously.
Elijah leaned against the GMV, his gaze sharp. "Now that we've seen they’re using a scorched earth policy, we should make it backfire spectacularly. If we start spreading these survivors out and dropping a few in each village and start a little strategic rumor-mongering, maybe greasing a few palms where necessary. Before you know it, the locals aren't just passive observers; they become active participants in undermining their own tyrannical regime."
“Peasants start to get nervous and merchants become loose-lipped in an effort to save their family and property,” Elijah said in nearly a sing-song voice as he looked up at Yana as she did her strange soul-tornado ritual again. “Then suddenly, you start getting high-value targets dropped in your lap
Kwon's expression hardened as he considered Elijah's plan. "You want to break apart an already broken community even more...?" he asked, a hint of skepticism in his voice.
A scoff left Elijah’s mouth as he waved dismissively. "Oh please, as if the prospects of this community aren't already doomed." His gaze shifted to Azeline, who had been quietly observing the discussion.
"Here," Elijah continued, switching to a language the Elf could understand. "We’re talking about what to do with the survivors. What do you think the fate would be for the people of this village?" He asked, genuinely curious about her perspective.
Surprised by the question, Azeline looked back at Elijah with a raised eyebrow. After a brief pause, she spoke, her voice laced with a grim certainty. "In situations like these… They would likely become slaves.” She said indifferently looking over at the women as if they were pitiful. “At best they’d be forced into brothels or work in taverns and whore themselves.”
Elijah turned back to Kwon with a look that said ‘I told you so’ and leaned against the GMV.
However, Coleman interjected and stood up. “And I’m not going to allow that to happen.” He said definitively as he shot Elijah a scolding look. “Just because that is the norm here, does not mean we have to accept it.”
A sigh left Elijah’s mouth as he rolled his eyes.
“We’re at least going to try to get these people to a place of reasonable safety," Coleman continued, his tone firm and authoritative. "The mission comes first, but we don't have to discard people like objects."
Elijah wanted to protest as the thought of how rumors spread quickly among certain circles and professions crossed his mind, but he stopped himself. He decided it was best to let sleeping dogs lie. The man was rather cold and callous, but he could still read the room and people's emotions, so he thought better of rocking the boat.
"Alright, everyone, let's hurry it up!" Coleman bellowed as he clapped his. "We need to be out of here within the hour. Let's get these survivors sorted and get the hell out of here!"
A collective grumble spread throughout the team as they picked up the pace and it wasn’t long until the villagers were helped onto the carts. Despite the bleakness of their situation, there was now a glimmer of hope.
Maybe all was not lost after all.
-
Lysandra sat on a strange stool over half her height as her brow furrowed with curiosity and wonder. The tavern she was in was unlike any place she had ever seen. The ambient light flickered from small lamps scattered throughout the small building, casting shadows that danced along the walls. People were gathered in small groups, engaged in hushed conversations or laughing heartily over shared jokes. In one corner, Lysandra watched as a group was absorbed in a game that involved sticks and balls on a table.
Everything about the situation was alien. Even down to her attire. In stark contrast to the armor or loose clothing she usually wore, she found herself dressed in form-fitting clothes that were both stylish and shockingly flexible. The material hugged her body in a flattering and practical way, allowing for ease of movement.
As she turned towards what looked like a large bar, Lysandra hummed in interest as she looked at the bottles of liquor that lined the wall and her hand instinctively reached up to her left eye. She scratched at her eyepatch, an old and bad habit when she was still trying to get used to its permanent presence.
“Anythin’ I can get ya?”
Lysandra's attention was snapped back to the present as the bartender finally noticed her. A rotund, yet muscular man lumbered over. placing both hands firmly on the counter before leaning forward. The man gave her an unimpressed and annoyed look as his eyes traveled up and down, but Lysandra occasionally caught the man’s gaze flicker away every moment or so.
In the corner of the claustrophobic tavern was the group that strange stick and ball game, laughing and joking while slapping money on the table.
"Uh, yes," Lysandra responded in her heavily accented English as she glanced briefly at the assortment of bottles behind him. "I'm not quite sure. What do you recommend for someone... new to this kind of establishment?"
The bartender sucked his teeth as he looked her up and down one more time. “Prolly somethin’ light.” He said in a heavy drawl.
“Light…?” Lysandra repeated what the man had said as her sole good eye twitched. “I do believe I’m capable of doing better than 'light'.” She said in mild annoyance.
A childish grumble of a chuck left the bartender's mouth as he watched her scornful glare. “Heheheh, alright then, lady.” He said turning around and grabbing a bottle of dark brown liquid. “Don’t tell me I didn’t warn ya.”
Narrowing her eye, Lysandra watched him pour the liquid into a small glass, containing two large ice cubes that clinked against the sides.
As he did so, the bartender smiled annoyingly and opened his mouth again, “I dunno, you don’t want somethin’ fruity and light?” He said snidely.
"Enough, just give me the drink!" Lysandra hissed, stabbing her finger onto the countertop.
Another petulant laugh left the man’s mouth as he handed over the glass, but his attention was suddenly diverted toward the group playing the game. "Hey!" he snapped in a deep drawl. "Cut that shit out, or both of ya are getting thrown out on ya asses!” The bartender's voice bellowed throughout the establishment.
Lysandra's gaze turned to the corner where the group played that strange game. The atmosphere had shifted from friendly competition to something more tense. One players, visibly agitated, grabbed the other by the scruff of his neck and cocked his fist back. The potential victim’s hand clenched around a fistful of money and moved his hands to protect his face when the bartender's threat caused them both to seize up and shrink away meekly.
With the situation diffused, Lysandra returned her attention to her drink and took a cautious, but still generous sip. However, once the liquid had hit her tongue and slid down her throat, she almost regretted her decision. The drink was MUCH stronger than she had anticipated and its warmth quickly spread throughout her body as her tongue flicked against the roof of her mouth, and her long Elven ears bounced up and down.
It took everything she could to stop from choking and causing a scene, but she couldn’t help but be struck by the drinks complex character. The alcohol, dark and enigmatic in its essence, cascaded over her tongue like a wave of intense, smoky flavors intertwined with subtle hints of caramel and spice. It was an intricate dance of tastes, each sip revealing new layers of depth that unfolded gradually, warming her from the inside out. The burn of the alcohol was strong, yet it was tempered by a lingering sweetness that clung to her palate, making it both challenging and intriguing. This was not just a drink; it was an experience, a journey through flavors she had never encountered in her previous world.
Trying to maintain her composure, Lysandra couldn't help but feel the corners of her mouth twitch upwards in a reluctant smile.
Feeling the need to tidy up after her adventurous sip, she looked to the bartender and requested, "A napkin, or something similar, please."
The bartender, with an arrogant smirk, leaned in closer. "Having trouble there?" he teased in a condescending tone.
Lysandra shot him a glare, her good eye narrowing into a slit, but she chose not to engage any further and she waited silently to do as he was told.
With a chuckle, the bartender bent down and grabbed a fistful of napkins, placing them on the counter with a deliberate thud. "Here ya go, lil miss," he said, still smiling.
Snatching the napkins of his hand with an icy look, Lysandra delicately dabbed her lips as she stared down the smirking bartender. Even when he went off to service other customers or busy himself with other tasks, she still glared hatefully at the man as she slid the napkins into her pocket.
It took her a while, but Lysandra finally calmed down and slowly finished the rest of her liquid treat, She sat there sipping contentedly as she glanced around, observing the dynamics of this shifty and strange tavern. But it wasn’t long until she decided she had her fill of this new experience and stood up to take her leave.
As she walked out of the tavern, Lysandra felt the shift in atmosphere from the dimly lit, bustling interior to the cool, open air of the outside world. The change was refreshing, a welcome reprieve from the close confines and the intense scrutiny of the tavern's patrons.
Gaining some distance from the establishment, she turned a corner, her senses heightened by the unfamiliar surroundings. It was then, out of the corner of her good eye, she noticed something unsettling – two figures discreetly following her. It was only a momentary glimpse, but it was enough to set off the alarm bells in her mind. She tried to recall their features, piecing together their appearances in her head. Then it clicked – they were the same individuals involved in the heated game involving sticks and balls at the tavern.
Her instincts kicked in, and Lysandra quickened her pace, her hand instinctively reaching into her pocket, feeling for anything that might aid her in a confrontation. The rhythmic sound of her pursuers' footsteps grew louder, indicating they too had increased their speed.
Suddenly, she heard the rapid approach of footsteps and a voice calling out, "Miss! Miss! You forgot something!"
Lysandra's heart pounded as she weighed her options – to confront or continue evading. And coming to a snap decision, she faced the situation head-on. Turning sharply, she braced herself to confront the two men, her hand still firmly inside her pocket, ready for whatever was about to unfold.
When the two men approached, Lysandra noted a slight hesitation in their steps, but they continued to advance. The closer of the two, breathing heavily from the chase, managed to say, "Ma'am, look, you forgot this." He said looking at his friend who was reaching into his pocket.
But Lysandra noticed something strange; they were still maintaining their brisk pace.
Without hesitation, Lysandra immediately tried to yank her hand out of her pocket, but the men were faster. One of them leaped at her, attaching themselves to her arm while the other rushed her, pulling out a knife.
Lysandra stumbled back from the sudden tackle, but she was still in the fight. Her other hand shot up, grabbing the wrist of the knife-wielding assailant. She initially struggled to maintain her footing, once steadied, Lysandra pushed forward with all her might, slamming everyone, including herself, against the wall, eliciting a chorus of gasps and yelps of pain, but the men clung on tenaciously.
Bracing herself, Lysandra yanked her arm back with all her strength, causing the man hanging onto her to fly back with a scream. Now free, she finally was able to pull the gun that was resting in her pocket and aimed it directly at the face of the remaining attacker.
Her finger tightened on the trigger, but before she could act, a sudden booming voice filled the air.
“STOP SCENARIO!!”
Everyone immediately relaxed at the sound of the command, and their hands dropped to their sides.
-
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Apologies for the delay on the next 4-H story! I've been taking time to contact old friend, getting in touch with pals of decades past in my quest to provide for you an accurate tale regarding the 4-H days.
I COULD just embellish, hammer out from a memory that's suffered under repeated blows to the head, however thick it may be, and whose vault oftentimes finds itself a victim of the thief known as Father Time, but you, dear readers, my dear friend ReddX, you deserve the Real McCoy.
However, during a recent celebration of three family birthdays (When you have a family as massive as mine, you consolidate birthdays by Month so that we can gather the family, but won't lose dozens of weekends out of the year) I conversated with my younger brother, Mongoose, over beers while sitting on the patio of our parents' house during one quiet Spring evening, basking in the glow of citronella candles and sipping an amazing IPA called 'The Way Home', I heard stories from Mongoose's butcher job while he was waiting to start his career as a market research analyst.
When he got started, he didn't quite know when to stop and he opted to write them down. I asked if these tales could be shared here and as Mongoose found our gracious, illustrious and golden-voiced host, ReddX, to be apt both of vocalism and commentary, he has given his blessing to share this chronicle.
Deep-lore fans of ReddX will have already known of Mongoose from the Burger Beard saga and the ongoing 4-H tales!
In the interest of expounding upon trace amounts of science, it behooves me to deliver a moving monologue of the miasmic misadventures maligning Mongoose as he battled the bleak-brained, blank-stared, banal, barmy, baffling, buffoon, Bongwater.
These tales originate from Mongoose's job as a butcher at a grocery store, having taken the advice of a friend of the family when he asked him 'How do I get my dream job?'
The family friend's answer: Get ANY job and use it as a springboard to your desired career and SHOW UP to it so you have people telling your dream job what a great employee you are.
Thus, did Mongoose the college graduate become Mongoose the Butcher.
This tale is a side-story in the Zuccaverse, but this one is told by Mongoose himself!
He is not a man who is prone to exaggeration and believes the facts should speak for themselves.
But before we begin: shoutout to my brother Mongoose, his chipper wife Orca, his son Gearhead and his daughter Tardigrade! And shoutout to ReddX, to whom we all owe a debt of gratitude for providing us with free entertainment! Do us all a kindness and hit that Like Button and leave a comment, even if it's just to say 'YOU STINK, ZUCCA!' as it helps Redd's Al Gore rhythms!
It's time to warm up the pipes, ReddX... The Maestro, as you dubbed me, is back!
The tune is 'Goldfinger' ;3 (I'm running out of Disney songs XuX;)
​
Bongwater, he's the manThe man with the crappy touchA moron's touchSuch a house squatterBeckons you to take a puff on his bongBut don't go onSlurry words he will pour in your earBut his lies can't disguise what you hearFor a roasted fowl knows when he's wrecked herIt's the choppy mess from Mister BongwaterCoworkers, beware of his brain of mushFingers he'll crush!Slurry words he will pour in your earBut his lies can't disguise what you hearFor a cut of meat knows when he's on the chopperIt's the sucky touch from Mister BongwaterCoworkers, beware of his brain of mushFingers he'll crush!He loves only potOnly potHe loves potHe loves only potOnly potHe loves pot
​
It is at this point that I turn over the holding of the sacred storytelling flashlight to my brother! The writing henceforth is entirely his work and it is my honor to give the floor to him!
Take it away, Mongoose!
\Starfox 64 stage start chime**
"Good luck!"
Bong Water and his Arch nemesis the Learning Curve
Written by Mongoose, the brother of Zucca
I don’t buy it when I hear the phrase “people are stupid”. Oh? Relative to what? To the average? Well the average person is of average intelligence by definition. Perhaps relative to the speaker? Well done. Be proud of your intelligence and remember to cultivate it. But don’t waste too much time stressing about how smart you are. Instead figure out what you can get your brain to do.
But I digress. Perhaps we are stupid relative to humanity’s challenges? Oh? But we’re still alive aren’t we? That’s at least a necessary condition for not being so far doomed by want of intelligence. No, I’m someone who, as a matter of fact, does have some faith in humanity. But I say all this as a preface to a story of a truly remarkable man.
Remarkable, unfortunately in the sense that he is by far hands down the stupidest human being I’ve ever met in my entire life. He’s so far on the wrong side of the bell curve that only those with extraordinary neurological disorders beat him out and they have a valid reason for it.
You may think it unkind of me to speak so poorly of someone with such a handicap. But as you shall soon note in the following story, his want of intelligence is only surpassed by his immoral, dishonest cheating behavior, so I don’t feel too bad for it. His name is omitted in respect to his privacy, but shall hence fourth be known simple as Bong Water. This nick name won out over Dick Cheese, as I’ll explain below. This story takes place over the course of my time employed at Whole Foods as a meat cuttebutcher.
​
The players;
Mongoose: The recently graduated and unemployed young man who just moved to Texas with his new wife in search of greater fortunes. At this point in his life he was undergoing an existential crisis where he was learning that his beloved study of economics wasn’t the panacea he thought it was, and that having a degree didn’t necessarily promise a good job.
Bong Water: A recently released ex-convict. I’ll omit most of the details for later as I find it best to take this person in small doses. He is of pale complexion, average of height with straight wiry hair that was in the early stages of receding. He had an angular face and small pitch black eyes and a somehow disorganized, distant voice. Most notably, something about his countenance made it very uncomfortable to look into his face for too long. (Zucca's commentary: I'm beginning to suspect Bongwater might be an Eldritch abomination.)
Note; For those who do not know, bong water is a technical term from weed culture. Water located in the bottom of a bong serves to filter out much of the carcinogenic material from smoking marijuana. Stoners of the past have experimented with drinking this water in search of a high, but such experiments have consistently found the water to be completely useless. (Zucca's commentary: I'm getting flashbacks to Old Man from Phelous' Beauty and the Beast reviews... https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=CxlBmJdtMVA )
The Boss: The department manager of this particular meat department at our store.
Father of One: One of the main people training myself and Bong Water. A stout, third generation Hispanic man with a wicked sense of humor.
The Cajun: Straight from Louisiana with the Cajun accent and everything.
Old-Timer: One of the older employees . A crotchety old Texan with a temper, but very skilled and great at training.
Scarecrow: A somewhat self involved gentleman, lazy and entitled. Be that as it may, he was otherwise a good worker in that he always did his job and would do you favor.
Welder: A highly reliable dude who was nearing completion of his welder training. Smart, funny, helpful, the works. Bong Water's name was his idea.
Orca: Wife of Mongoose. Recently promoted to shift supervisor at Starbucks. So named because she loves swimming and played water polo during high school.
Part 1. The Interview, the Orientation and the Turkey Degreaser.
I first met Bong Water during a round of interviews at the Whole Foods we were both destined to work at. The Boss had two openings and two seemingly eager people. At the time I was desperate for work and rather feeling down about myself. I used my 4-H training to convince the Boss that I knew my cuts of cattle and sheep. It seemed to do the trick. After the interview, I wandered around the store where I bumped into the other guy vying for work.
“Hey man….you think you got it?” As I said before, something about this guy made it hard to look right at him. His voice was oddly distant,
“I think so.” I said. “You?” But he seemed to have a different track in mind.
“$11.50 an hour is a lot of fucking money man!”
“I-uh-yeah man, should be good. Especially here in Texas, the cost of living is so low.”
“$11.5 an hour is a lot of fucking money man.” With the exact same tone and inflection.
So I tried to match his tempo. “Yeah man, we’re gonna have some fun on it.”
But he just stood there staring for a good long while. I was going to step away but he spoke “What are you gonna spend yours on?” He said it like he and I just stumbled across a treasure chest full of gold and now were entertaining our wildest fantasies.
“Oh, a roof over my and my wife’s head and food on the table of course.”
“Co’ on man! I’m gonna buy fucking alcohol man!”
“Yes… of course, that too.” I tried to sound relaxed, but I took my leave, not knowing that this was as normal as he would ever be.
The following week was orientation. They had us go to the main store in the region where an HR lady was set to give us the basic training and orientation that all employees get. It was the standard stuff about what in particular made Whole Foods special and we were meant to memorize the material and be able to regurgitate most of it to customers. I saw Bong Water there. Apparently he got the job just as I did. We were setting in classroom like chairs with little fold out desks for taking notes. The HR lady began with a lengthy slide show of Whole Foods corporate history and company line. About halfway through, while on a slide of the company founder, Bong Water piped up. “Hey, do you guys do drug tests?” The room fell silent.
The HR lady just stood looking incredulously at him with her mouth slightly open. The whole room turned to look at him. You could hear a pin drop. Bong Water remained oblivious to everyone’s gaze as he stared on at the HR lady, waiting with bated breath for her answer. I found myself looking for the camera were I could make a face like Jim Halpert.
“No…we don’t.” She answered him slowly. What happened next will stay with me until the day I die. The reader should be advised that I changed no dialogue and took no liberties throughout this story.
“Good!” He said. “Because I don’t have a problem!!” he said slamming his fist on his desk. “I don’t have a problem. I don’t have a problem.” I looked around at everyone else in the room to confirm I wasn’t insane. Nope, he said it. Several young women were holding back laughter. Others thought it was some kind of joke. But off all the people in the room, only I was destined to work directly with this guy.
The first day, Bong Water and I found ourselves at the bottom of the job's hierarchy during the night shift, which meant we would starting out cleaning things and cutting lots of chicken meat. The floor was slippery and regrettably, our special order boots hadn’t come in yet. Father of One and Welder took up the first part of our training. We were to clean out the Turkey grinding and poultry storage room. After removing everything which must not get wet, whole chickens, turkeys and such, all that was left was a big empty room and an industrial sausage grinder.
After Father of One finished blasting the room with hot water, Welder explained a few basic points about disassembling the sausage grinder and he switched it to de-greasing mode and proceeded to make a critical error in judgement...
He handed the hose to Bong Water who reached out and grabbed it about a foot from the actual nozzle and violently yanked it from Father of One’s hands. Chemical de-greaser began flying in every direction. Bong Water began to scream and panic as the whole room was coated.
“Choke up on it!” Welder shouted. But Bong Water held the hose at arms length looked away and slammed his eyes shut like he was Indiana Jones and the turkey de-greaser was the Ark of the Covenant.
He screamed back “I can’t!” all while we were collectively trying to keep the chemical out of our eyes.
Out of options, Bong Water tried moving around to shoot the de-greaser in a less problematic direction, unintentionally playing keep-away with the hose from Welder, Father of One and myself.
Finally, Welder grabbed the hose and bent it, cutting off the spray. Absolutely covered in de-greaser and now wet through our clothes, Welder and Father of One decided that the rest of the training was going to be a purely visual demonstration. Working as a meat cutter basically means working in a refrigerator, so we got very, very cold that day. But of course, the worst was yet to come.
​
Part two: Wrapping chickens and continued indications of his character.
The next day Bong Water and I were being trained to wrap up trays of chicken in tight plastic wrap by Old Timer. The machine which helped on this task was off to one side of the department.
With enough practice, one could make our product look nice and presentable. But it wasn’t easy to get there. The work requires the ability to toss up the tray while pressing the clear plastic downward for a tight, clean fit. Old Timer came over with a large metal tray holding about 12 individual styrofoam packs of chicken breasts that needed to be wrapped up. (Zucca's commentary: Be advised, Mongoose hates the word 'packet' and will die on the hill that it is a superfluous entry in the English lexicon. Just though you should know that! >:3) About 90 pounds of chicken all told. Old Timer set the tray down on one side of the machine, the side Bong Water happened to be on. On the other side was myself. Two large trash cans were sitting on either side. Today the machine happened to be covered in a lot of clutter, like wrappings and paper sheets.
Old Timer said “Here, let me throw this away” while he bundled up the trash to dispose of on the side closest to me, Bong Water took the initiative and grabbed the tray of fresh chicken and poured it all into the trash can closet to him. Old Timer returned to the other side with his hands reaching, expecting to find trays of chicken, but finding nothing instead, he stood there for a awkward second and slowly, deliberately said “Bong Water…where is the chicken?”
Bong Water was taken aback by the question. “Hey man, you told me to throw it away.” He said in a relaxed, but indignant tone.
Old Timer spun his head around to face me with a wide eyed smile reminiscent of the Joker. My eyes were as wide as dinner plates. It happened so fast and so unexpectedly. I didn’t know whether to laugh, gasp, or what. Old Timer closed his eyes. “Stay here, don’t touch anything. I’m getting more chicken. Don’t throw it away this time.”
“Wait? I shouldn’t throw away chicken?” Bong Water asked.
Old Timer winced. I knew he was biting his tongue. I happen to learn he was only just recently reprimanded for being rude to coworkers. “Only when it’s appropriate.” He said through gritted teeth.
“So, I should throw it away?” Bong
I could have sworn I saw steam coming from Old Timer’s ears. “I think we should ask first.” I said trying to play the peacemaker.
“Yes” Old Timer hissed.
“Who should we ask?” Bong Water inquired.
Swear on me mum, I could see Old Timer’s eye twitching uncontrollably.
It was getting late one day in the third week of my employment there and I was doing the dishes of the day. Bong Water was cleaning out the turkey grinding and storage room which he had technically yet to master, but the Boss figured that putting him on that work alone would get him up to speed.
I saw him approaching with the drill of the grinder dripping turkey meat all over the floor. In theory he was supposed to clean it off before moving it to prevent injuries. He walked up to hand it off to me to clean but before he did, he held it up, looking at it admiringly.
“Hey man, can you imagine if this was a dong?” At this point I had already had enough conversations with him to resolve to talk as little as possible with the man.
I gave a non-committal nod and “Mmm.” in response.
In reply. He took to exploring this notion of his further. “Yeah, it’s like a horses weiner!”
But things only really got creepier when he gave it a thousand yard stare with a his pair of beady little black eyes.
He mumbled “Yeah, that's right, dumb bitch.” under his breath.
My nostrils flared in agitation. Father of One, Welder and all the rest told plenty of dirty jokes (very dirty jokes). But there's a difference between telling jokes for an audience and telling jokes for yourself.
I decided to break him out of his trance. “Hey man, I think you’re suppose to clean the grinder equipment before taking out of the storage room. We could slip on that meat.”
He scoffed. “Man, I don’t give a fuck man, man. I ain’t got no shit.” And he carried on with his task. But at least he was walking away.
​
Part three: 'The band saw almost takes Bong Water’s life', 'Bong Water almost takes Bong Water’s life on the trash trek' and 'A false prediction'.
The department has a band saw, and for anyone who doesn’t know, its purpose is to cut through bones like they were made of wet paper.
On the third day, they tried training us on the safe use of the band saw. Everyone watched nervously as the Boss gave instructions.
There is a long safety list which must be observed every time one uses this machine. 1) Don’t use a cut glove; if it gets caught, the metal weave will get stuck on the blade on the blade and your hand will get sucked in and you’ll loose it (The hand AND the glove). 2) Keep your eyes on the blade and your limbs. 3) Don’t talk while using it. 4) Always ask a supervisor to watch you work on it for the first couple weeks until they can trust you with it.
On the first day we learned these rules, Bong Water managed to break all four in one go. At the time, he was talking to people over his shoulder while using the saw. They were trying to calmly tell him to stop. Father of One saw his arm heading for the saw, he grabbed both Bong Waters arm and collar and violently ripped him away from the machine. All that was lost was part of his sleeve. Bong Water spend the rest of the day muttering incoherent curses against Father of One.
Rule number 5) Bong Water isn’t allowed to use the band saw.
I wasn’t here for this one, but Scarecrow and Welder told the story over some beers at the bar down the street.
Late one night near closing time, Scarecrow was trimming some beef tenderloin, Welder was breaking down the beef storage room and Bong Water was cutting some chicken for the meat case the following day.
Scarecrow looked over at Bong Water and asked him to slide over a garbage can for him. The floor was slippery enough that with a solid kick, a trash can will fly from one end of the department to the other, which is why we need to wear special rubber boots while on the job.
Upon hearing this request, Bong Water turned to face the can, he stared for a good long while as the greasy cogs in his head noisily cranked.
“You can just slide it over, don’t even have to move.” Scarecrow informed him.
Bong Water, keeping his knife in hand as if the act of placing it safely on the counter would render it lost to the cosmos and began slowly scooting the can over to Scarecrow. And by slowly, I mean glacial. It took him about ten entire minutes to cover the length of the department all the while Scarecrow keep repeating every possible variation of “No, just slide it!” he could possibly imagine.
But Bong Water was a man on a mission and in fact the dread quest nearly took his life because at the end when he finally got the trash can to its destination, he tripped and fell with the knife still in his hand. But instead of impaling himself, he landed on the flat side of the blade.
The Cajun warned me that Bong Water had repeatedly accidentally stabbed himself when the Cajun was trying to train him how to cut beef and that I would stand clear. He assured me that the Boss wouldn’t let this slide and Bong Water would be gone before the week was up.
Bong Water was, in fact, not fired.
​
Part 4: The 8 piece and the Criminal Mastermind.
There’s lots of not so funny details about his performance at Whole Foods. Like, not removing all the raw chicken from the dishes and equipment he cleaned. Or that he tried to cheat the punch in/punch out system. He even asked me to punch in for him so it would look like he got in on time. I refused. He was rude to customers and his supervisors who criticized his performance. But there are a few instances worth reporting on.
About a month and a half into his time at Whole Foods, Bong Water had yet to master any of the skills required of him except washing dishes. Incredulity began to grow among the staff as to why the boss hadn’t yet fired him was beginning to fuel speculation that something strange was happening behind closed doors. Nepotism? Blackmail? A sordid love affair? But more on that later.
In theory at least, Bong Water could cut up a chicken. He had done it a few times before. This day, a customer asked him to take a particular whole chicken, remove its skin and cut it up into the standard 8 pieces. I was working on pork chops at the time and watched as he took the order, but didn’t seem to grasp what was being asked of him. He kept asking the customer to repeat the request a few times and when he seemed confident he finally set to work while the customer finished his shopping. There were about five people other than Bong Water at work.
My eyebrows practically jumped to my hairline as I saw him grab the cleaver. Absolutely the wrong knife for the job. His eyes went vacant (Well, MORE vacant) and then... it began.
WHACKWHACKWHACKWHACK!!!!
Suddenly the song 'Butcher Pete' starts playing in my head.
Bong Water started slamming the cleaver down on the chicken over and over again with all his might.
He took huge gouges out of the table. No one dared approach to stop him. After about a minute of hammering down on the chicken, all that was left was a strange soup of chicken meat, skin and splintered bones. (Zucca's commentary: Now THAT'S what I call a 'Fowl soup!' ;3 )
For a second I thought he must have been angry. Perhaps his home life had cultivated new complications, perhaps he heard something that upset him that morning.
But no. He looked down at his work with a simpleminded joy, smiled and nodded like the insanity he'd displayed hadn’t just happened, like it was a job well done.
Wrapping up this revolting mess proved to be a challenge as the splintered bones were poking him through his gloves. He put a price tag on it and handed it to the unsuspecting customer who had only just returned.
He practically had to drop it in his basket to keep from getting his skin stabbed by raw chicken bones. Confused, he unwrapped the unholy contents and simply stared in disbelief. Not knowing what to say, flabbergasted beyond reason, the man simply said “You... didn’t take the skin off...?”
Bong Water was deeply offended at this insult to his honor, his craftsmanship and his person. His beady black eyes twitched with anger and he retorted “This chicken can’t have skin, it’s already dead!”
I had to evacuate the area to keep from busting my gut laughing. Last thing I saw was the Boss's assistant offering his apologies and promises to fix the situation.
It was rare for the Boss to be there during the night shift as he was the one who generally opened the department.
But on one such occasion I saw Bong Water approach him with a sad, deflated look. He informed the Boss that his grandmother had passed away.
The Boss, putting a supportive hand on his shoulder, told him to take a couple days off and that he would personally pick up his shifts. He told Bong Water that he himself was very close with his own grandmother and that he understood the pain.
Bong Water took off and the Boss and I finished the closing.
Walking out the front door nearly at midnight, Boss and I saw him, right there in the food court area which is at the exit of the building, partying and laughing with friends in front of the What-A-Burger.
Now if anyone has any doubts that perhaps his grandmother really did die and this was his particular coping technique, a week before the conclusion of this tale, that same grandmother somehow managed to pass away all over again.
​
Part five. 'That f*cking chicken...'
Closing time was generally given to the two newest employees. Which sadly meant that it would fall to myself and Bong Water.
One night not too long before the end of this tale he and I were in the mist of closing. For those who don’t know, meat processors have a whole bunch of rules that we need to follow to respect different religions (don’t mix pork with other meat), standards for true organics (don’t let non-organics make contact with organics), and sanitation for self evident reasons.
Bong Water ignored these rules in the same way a gangster ignores the laws. He could sorta recite the rules and show you the right way if you really pressed him (but that was always touch and go), but past that, once you weren’t looking he would just go back to not following the rules. So part of my job wound up being setting up stations to be Bong Water proof so that he didn’t have to remember the rules.
So, I had to use some deception on this particular night. I knew Bong Water never cleaned out the poultry area properly, which involved breaking down the equipment, moving everything into another cold room, throwing away meat that fell on the floor into the trash and sanitizing and de-greasing the entire room. I was doing the same task in the beef and pork room on the other side and I could not keep an eye on him. So I told him that I found out that The Boss was going to be in the next morning and would see our work. So, yes it sucked, but we had to do our jobs and follow the rules.
I finished work on my side and was happy to realize that Bong Water hadn’t come out yet. I figured this meant he was working hard. So I went on to other jobs line cleaning knives and covering, shelves and disassembling the band saw. I started to get annoyed as more and more time past. I could hear the hose running, so I knew he was doing something. I crept over and looked through the little window on the door. It took me a while to realize what I was looking at.
The room was still full so right away I knew something was wrong because we don’t use the hose while product is still in there. There was Bong Water, holding on to the de-greaser hose shooting a powerful blast of extremely hot water with all the intensity of a novice firefighter blasting the water cannon for the first time. What was he blasting? I took me a second to realize it was a whole chicken underneath an empty aluminum rack. Slowly, very slowly bits were being cooked and falling off to meet their eventual fate down the drain. The chicken was slowly disintegrating from Bong Water’s chemical onslaught. And there he was with fire and determination in his eyes. It simply didn’t occur to him to roll the feather light aluminum rack away from the wall, pick up the chicken and throw it away.
I’ll confess I didn’t believe my eyes at first, I thought I must be misunderstanding something. But no, he got frustrated and added his own scolding to the dead fowl “come on you stupid f*cking chicken!” I was going to go in there and make things right, but I realized three things. First, no product was being reached by the splatter. Secondly, it was such a light day, I could just leave him to his own devices while I finished up. And finally, I figured that as long as I was quick he was hurting anything, so no big deal.
By the time I returned, the chicken was mostly just a set of bones with the last bits of meat hung on. I suggested my grand strategy of moving the rack first and then picking it up, he agreed, having at this point feeling entirely defeated by the bird.
Incidentally the last thing ever I heard Bong Water say as we parted ways at the front door was his mumbling his frustration “stupid f*cking chicken.”
​
Part six. Orca’s visit.
Over the course of my time at Whole Foods, I managed to land an internship at a big Economic Development Corporation. One day I forgot to bring my nice office clothes. I texted my wife, Orca, to ask if she could bring them. Being the amazing gal she is, she got dolled up and headed over to hand them off and show off what a catch she is.
I happened to be in the back when she swung by and it happened to be Bong Water who took the bag from her. To put it mildly he was enamored.
After I got to the front and stole a little kiss from her, I resumed my work.
Bong Water approached me while I was preparing some pork tenderloin. “Man, your wife is so hot.”
I held back a reaction and just tried to close the conversation off at “thanks.” But he pressed on. “Man, she’s so hot.”
“Yup. I’m a lucky man.”
“She’s hot.”
“Yes.”
“Your wife is so sweet.”
I wanted to tell him to piss off, but so far the strategy of being a bad conversation partner worked well on him.
“My girlfriend is hot too. Not as hot as yours. And she’s not as sweet as yours. My girlfriend is mean and her kid too. You know how those blacks are.”
“…..”
(Zucca's commentary: Truly, Bongwater is a shining example to all to show that we too can overcome our misgivings of others based on immutable characteristics!)
One day, I had come in to shift and should have suspected something was amiss.
The sun was shining a little brighter, birds were singing, insect life had returned.
Nature was healing.
It occurred to me that I hadn't seen Bong Water all day, but Boss was around, working the shift normally reserved for our hero.
Father of One had informed me that he'd be taking over the shift because, and I quote, 'That headcase is no longer on the team.'
We were finally free of this ghastly presence. As mysteriously as he had arrived, so too had he vanished.
Come to think of it... it was remarkable that he left so quietly that nobody knew he was even gone.
​
Part seven. Aftermath and speculations as to Bong Water’s past and why he wasn’t fired.
Over some beers at the bar, possible explanations circulated as to why Bong Water was still gainfully employed, even though he had failed to master any skill, constantly lied to the boss and put himself and others in danger.
One coworker had found out from him that he had just gotten out of prison and for that reason she speculated that he must be a child predator. She admitted she didn’t have anything to justify that belief outside of his overall creepy vibe.
I contested that it didn’t explain why he hadn’t been fired. I thought it was more likely that our employer was in some work placement program for convicts and that the kickback was greater than the net loss that Bong Water consistently produced.
Others thought that he and the Boss were related. But that was quickly shut down because of the grandma thing.
It was also proposed that instead he might be related to the owner of the store.
Another idea that got floated was that the Boss couldn’t spare any workers.
But that didn’t make much sense considering how much turn over there was in prepared foods at the time. It was suggested that he was trying to get fired so he could tell probation it was out of his control.
This was only refuted after he got fired as someone in the fish department next to ours informed us that he was begging for his job back when he finally was actually fired. The higher ups in the department all agreed that everyone was being honest with the Boss about his terrible performance.
We all committed to maneuvering him to the least dangerous jobs. To this very day it remains a mystery how he managed to stay on for all those months.
Sometimes I wonder what became of Bong Water. I try to remember to be grateful for what I have. If I got slammed in my head so hard that I loose what intelligence I have, I’ll need to remember to try and be a good person at least. I finally got that job in economic research, but I’ll always be grateful for my time working at Whole Foods.
Mongoose out.
​
And there you have it, ladies and gentlemen! My brother Mongoose's recounting of his adventures alongside the most Kevinist of Kevins!
Thank you all for tuning in on this one! Y'all remain the best audience in the world! Remember to hit that thumbs-up button, okay? And drop your theory as to why Bongwater didn't get fired for so long! ReddX's Al Gore rhythms can always use the boost! Mongoose and I had a lot of fun journeying down memory lane on this one! Oh, and remember friends: As in nature, as in life, Mongoose wins!
Zucca out, now!

Anybody else sometimes picture certain characters in wildly different ways to what they are described? Or just see them as other characters from different books/films because they are similar looking? Every time I think of Nesta I picture Rizzo from grease! Even though I know she looks nothing like her haha! And I picture Amren like Edna Mole from the incredibles… NO CAPE! Would love to know I’m not the only one!

Hey everyone I'm back with another post and it's about my otp Brittana! They are my favorite on Glee and I wanted to share why I love them so much so enjoy :)

1. The chemistry between them is so electric - The way that Santana stares at Brittany is so loving and intense and the way Brittany looks at Santana with so much care and emotion,you can't deny their chemistry is off the charts!
   
2. How protective they are of one another - They look out for each other and comfort each other with they are sad or angry. Like when Brittany comforted Santana when she lost Prom Queen or when Santana comforted Brittany when she and Artie broke up. Really shows that they are stronger together!
   
3. Their hugs and pinkie holds were just as beautiful as their kisses - They didn't get many kisses but thankful for the kisses they got,they were beautiful! But let's talk about those hugs and pinkie holds,now those were freaking beautiful as well! The emotion they put into those little things were everything to me!
   
4. Their friendship remained even when they broke up- It crushed me when they broke up in season 4 but even though they broke up the connection was still there. There was drama with the whole Santana vs Sam situation and Santana bringing another girl to McKinley but that scene when Santana getting ready to play Rizzo in the Grease play and Brittany comes to visit her backstage and they talk,it's no arguments and they talk like normal and laugh together. I love that they were still comfortable around each other after they broke up,that's maturity!
   
5. I love how they helped each other get opportunities and supported each other - There's nothing better than a couple that supports each other and Brittana showed that a lot on the show but the moments that stuck out to me were when Brittany helped Santana get a scholarship to Louisville and when Santana helped Brittany graduate in season 5. Brittany wanted Santana to follow her dreams and got her a scholarship to her dream school,she's such a good partner and Santana was equally a good partner when she helped Brittany graduate because she loves Brittany and wanted her girl in NYC with her and she made it happen. Such sweet girlfriends!
   
6. I love how their relationship wasn't just rainbows and butterflies - Their relationship was a rollercoaster ride of emotions. They experienced sadness,happiness,jealousy,and everything in-between. I love their story in season 2 because it was emotional and sorrowful. When Santana told Brittany she loved her at the lockers,it was heartbreakingly beautiful and when they sung that song with Holly the emotions were there and then the locker scene at the lockers when they lost the competition at the end of season 2,they were happy and Brittany told Santana she loved her aww! Like I said rollercoaster!
   
7. They don't even need words to tell each other how they feel - Santana told Brittany at the end of season 4 when Brittany is leaving that she doesn't need to say anything because she already knows how Brittany feels about her. Hell she broke up with Sam because she missed her sweet lady kisses,that says a lot! And the scene when her and Brittany are in the auditorium,Brittany whispers I'm going miss you and that just makes me believe that they are meant to be for infinity!
   
8. Their height difference is so cute - Santana might be the fierce one but Brittany has the height and I love when she picks Santana up or when they dance and she leads. Santana is her smol baby and I love it ♥
   
9. Brittana's whole season 6 arc - This was the best season for us Brittana shippers! We got kisses,a proposal,wedding dress shopping,a wedding and our girls got a honeymoon! First let's talk about the kisses,my favorite one in season 6 was the before the wedding kiss when Santana stops Brittany from freaking out and comforts her with her words and then her lips lol. Then that proposal was so beautiful,Santana's speech and Brittany eagerly putting on the ring was soooo cute ahhh! Then the wedding was so beautiful too and I love the vows Brittany and Santana said to each other,it was heartwarming. Watching them become wives was the best thing in the world because our girls came so far! And I hope they enjoyed their honeymoon,they deserved it!
   
10. Fast forward and in the end they still were together - Even though we didn't get any more scenes with them in the finale,Brittana walking in hand in hand was confirmation that they were still married and happy as they should be because they are infinite and I believe that they will be together for a very long time! I can picture them now living in NYC,Brittany as a dancer and her show Fondue For Two very popular and Santana as a singer-songwriter who is also a part time lawyer and they live in a four story house with Lord Tubbington. Imagine that!
    

I could list more reasons but I gotta go to bed now but hope ya'll enjoyed reading this and feel free to share why you love Brittana below. Thank you all bye 👋

Author's Note:
Read Part 1 before this. It can be found here.
​
--
​
A tremendous beam of energy shot forth. It impacted the Second Will's open mouth before the cloud of miasma had fully coalesced. The creature's form trembled as swathes of flesh were seared away like a sci-fi space laser impacting a giant monster. Gradually, the miasma cloud dissipated, unable to sustain itself under Annihilation's devastating pressure.
The beam faded soon after. Silence reigned for a time, everyone stopping to process what they'd seen.
Rob had to try extra hard not to give Ragnavi props. He doubted that her attack could've taken the miasma head-on, but even preventing it from forming was something that no one else in Elatra could have pulled off.
POWERFUL, the Second Will admitted, usurping silence's short-lived reign. BY MORTAL STANDARDS. POWERFUL NONETHELESS.
"Of course," Ragnavi snapped. "Every person in this world is aware of my strength. From the highest noble, to the lowest pauper, to children just learning to speak, all know that I am above them. You will show me the respect that I am deserved."
From the distance he was at, Rob's Heightened Senses strained to barely make out what she was saying. For once, he was grateful that she had a habit of arrogantly projecting her voice. Otherwise she would've just looked like she was pantomiming frustration at the Second Will. Funny, sure, but not super helpful.
His focus was interrupted as Jason took that moment to contact him with Dimensional Message. <"Hey man,"> Jason began, <"found a possessed human. Looks like evil accountant Santa Claus. Probably a Blight. Got any advice on how to dig info out of it, or can I just have fun fighting–">
"Can't right now." Rob immediately ended the Message. He needed to concentrate on how this conversation between Queen and Abomination was playing out – specifically to see if the Second Will revealed any useful info – and he didn't have the mental capacity to fake being calm for Jason's sake.
I REMEMBER YOU. The Second Will closed its maw. YOU FELLED ONE OF MY PARTITIONS. ON YOUR OWN. THROUGHOUT INFINITE EONS, LESS THAN A DOZEN HAVE ACCOMPLISHED THAT FEAT.
"And it was without Purge Corruption." Ragnavi's boasting was undercut by the exasperation in her tone. "Yet you still aim your fixation at the Human. Tell me, oh Blight of Blights...what makes the Heartkiller so unique? Surely one ability isn't enough to justify this degree of obsession."
Rob wanted to strangle her. That obsession is what's KEEPING US ALIVE, YOU NARCISSISTIC, SELF-ABSORBED–
The Second Will let out a low rumble. PURGE CORRUPTION IS MORE NOTABLE THAT YOU REALIZE. HOWEVER, YOU ARE PARTLY CORRECT. AS A MORTAL WHO ALSO BEARS POWER BESTOWED BY THE GODS' IMPRISONED SOULS, YOUR EXISTENCE IS SOMEWHAT UNIQUE AS WELL.
"Then–"
BUT THAT IS ALL. RAW POWER REPRESENTS NOTHING. The Second Will cackled with a dozen misshapen heads. INSIDE, YOU ARE HOLLOW, LACKING ROB'S CORE OF DETERMINATION.
"I HAVE SLAIN COUNTLESS ENEMIES!' Ragnavi bellowed. She seemed about ready to divebomb the Second Will, despite how obviously ill-advised such an endeavor would be. "MIGHTY FOES HAVE FALLEN BEFORE ME!"
FEW THAT YOU WERE IN DANGER OF PERISHING TO. EVEN NOW, YOU ONLY FACE ME BECAUSE OF YOUR CAPACITY FOR FLIGHT, LETTING YOU FLEE IF THIS BATTLE TURNS GRAVE. HELPLESS PREY IS YOUR PREFERRED QUARRY, AND THAT DISPOSITION IS AS COMMON AS THERE ARE STARS IN THE SKY. THERE IS NO MEANING TO BE GLEANED FROM A PENCHANT FOR LORDING POWER OVER THE WEAK AND DEFENSELESS.
The Second Will paused. When it spoke again, a touch of lucidity had crept into its omnipresent voice. I KNOW THAT WELL.
No one dared respond. After nearly ten seconds, a muted gust of wind emanated from the Second Will, as if it was sighing. WE TIRE OF THIS. YOU SHALL INTERFERE NO MORE.
Its form began to mold and reshape, a massive hole opening at the top of its body. Corrupted energy gathered within, growing at a rate similar to the gods' Beacon before it had unleashed – which was not a comparison that inspired confidence. The alliance members with ranged attacks threw everything they had at the Second Will, to no avail. Ragnavi's Annihilation was on cooldown, and the other Combat Class users just didn't have the oomph to interrupt whatever it was concocting.
Perhaps irritated by their struggles, the Second Will spat out five spheres of Corrupted flesh at them. Most people dodged. Two didn't, reduced to smears of blood and bone. The spheres swiftly mutated into Leader-Level monsters, forcing the alliance to divert their attention to a more immediate threat, even as unstoppable ruination formed not far away.
APART FROM ROB, YOUR WORLD HAS PRODUCED ONE ITEM OF NOTE. The Second Will sounded almost giddy. THIS IS MY TRIBUTE TO ITS GRANDEUR.
An intense orb of energy drifted upwards. It writhed violently, as if something inside was attempting to break free.
Seconds later, it did.
CORRUPTED CATACLYSM.
The orb burst, and blackened rays of light rained down from the sky.
Rob's blood turned to ice.
Quick Thinking Level Increased! 6 → 7
Before fear or panic set in, he killed his emotions. Smothered them until cold analysis was all that remained.
What – if anything – could he do?
Waymark would let him escape. While the Second Will was incomprehensibly strong, it wasn't strong enough to match a nation-wide Soul Burn with only seconds of preparation. This Cataclysm wouldn't encompass all of Elatra. Just the surrounding area, probably.
However, using Waymark would also abandon Riardin's Rangers. Rob was willing to leave behind the rest of the alliance if it saved his friends, but with Party invites being blocked, he couldn't take them with him. And even if the invites went through, Party size limitations meant some people he cared about would be abandoned regardless.
Outside of Waymark...there was nothing. Saving himself would already be a tall order.
Think, you blind idiot. Think. His thoughts raced a mile a minute, the Cataclysm rays seeming to inch down like dripping molasses. What detail are you missing? What can be done? Are you really going to let your friends get decimated when they've come this far? After they averted major casualties twice in a row?
His mind snagged upon that notion. Low casualties so far. How? Second Will should've done more to them. Didn't. Both groups managed to rendezvous without issue. Only lashed out at the alliance when visible...
To him. When visible to him. It ignored them when they weren't aligned with his perception of the Deadlands. Otherwise? Out of sight, out of mind. Maybe the Second Will's attacks never reached them there at all.
Remove the interlopers, and it stops targeting them.
Rob deactivated Illusion Resistance.
"DURAN!" he shouted. "CLOSE YOUR EYES! DON'T THINK ABOUT THE ALLIANCE WHATSOEVER!"
The Elder obeyed his order without question. Rob turned away from his friends, focusing on the Corruptive beams descending from above. He emptied his mind of distractions. It was just him and Duran here. Two allies confronting the Second Will. No one else.
NO ONE ELSE.
Out of the corner of his eye, the people-who-could-not-be-named flickered and disappeared.
Thank Christ, Rob thought – right before a localized apocalypse erupted around him.
He ran. Eldritch laughter assaulted his ears, practically drowned out by the cacophony of Cataclysm rays detonating as they hit the ground. Geysers of dirt flew upwards, the terrain battered into an unrecognizable state. Every moment was a narrow brush with death. Elder Duran hung his head, as if accepting that the end was nigh.
Perhaps he had the right idea.
Rampage. Rob dodged a Cataclysm ray, pulled an MP Potion from Spatial Storage, dodged another ray, then chugged the Potion in record time. Rampage. Rampage. His MP was dwindling. Needed to conserve. Couldn't conserve. One misstep was–
A beam caught him.
He shielded Duran's body with his own. "DAUNTLESS REPRISAL!"
22,411 Damage Reflected!
The Corrupted beam of light flew back from whence it came. Dozens more were eager to take its place.
Two minutes until he could avert instant death again.
Rob threw in the towel. Would have to Waymark to safety, wait out the Cataclysm, then rush back before the Second Will targeted his friends again. He activated–
Waymark has been \\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\ and placed on a 10-minute cooldown! NO ESCAPE.
Oh.
Blazing mana passed just overhead, singing the tips of his hair.
Run. Dodge. Rampage. Rob was panting, somehow. Stamina still above half. Likely psychological response. Adrenaline, panic, explosions. Sensory overload. Deactivate Heightened Senses. Mild improvement.
A ray of light opened up a small canyon in front of him. Reverse direction. Never stop running.
"DAUNTLESS REPRISAL!"
24,638 Damage Reflected!
Like the Wind. Step of the Wind. Dodge. Rampage.
Quick Thinking Level Increased! 7 → 8
Bracelet of Teleportation used. 5 minute cooldown.
He saw his own headless corpse – the one chomped by the Second Will – erased in a blink.
"DAUNTLESS REPRISAL!"
27,155 Damage Reflected!
Out of MP. No more Rampages.
Keep dodging anyway.
Feet pounding. Ears ringing. Throat dry. Twenty seconds until Dauntless–
He slipped on an uneven piece of ground.
Didn't fall. Also didn't matter. One off-balance moment was enough. Rob covered Duran's body with his own, hoping against hope that his durability would somehow protect the Elder from being instantaneously vaporized.
It took him a few seconds to realize that the Corrupted Cataclysm had finally dissipated.
Rob sank to his knees. Streams of sweat poured down his face. He should have felt relief, but there was nothing there except a bone-deep exhaustion.
Lips trembling, he glanced up at the Second Will. Its mountainous mass quivered with jubilation.
SHOW. ME. MORE.
He tried to retort. To say a one-liner and amp himself up. The words failed to materialize. Show the Second Will what, exactly? He'd only damaged it three times. The creature was ramping up with increasingly powerful attacks as their fight progressed. What was next – fending off ten Leader-Level Blightspawn, an arm strike, a cloud of Corruption, a head bite, and another Cataclysm all at once?
Pointless. An ant couldn't kill an elephant. Just delay the inevitable until getting stepped on.
Rob didn't even have the energy to be annoyed when Kismet intruded upon his mind. We have news, the god said, sounding uncharacteristically dire.
Speak.
My brethren and I have analyzed the Blight. To attain this form and this strength, it has gathered nearly every fragment of its consciousness into one body. There is no external wellspring of mana for it to draw from anymore. While that grants the Blight's current body phenomenal power, it should also prohibit it from growing stronger, in addition to stunting its regenerative capabilities.
Kismet hesitated. Despite that...it is gradually gaining power as time goes on. Furthermore, the non-Purge Corruption injuries you have inflicted are healing far faster than they should.
Rob's vaguely recalled the Second Will's two arm strikes. First one did around 83,000 damage. Latter one did more, around 104,000. Stronger than first. Dauntless Reprisal reflected both – yet from what he could see, the grievous wounds that had caused weren't visible anymore.
He closed his eyes, then slowly opened them. Why?
We do not know.
Right.
Rob sighed, the tension fleeing his body. Suppose that's that. It had been a good run, but he'd finally met an unkillable opponent. Some elbow grease and a can-do attitude wasn't going to cut it here. Not when the gods themselves were at a loss for what to do.
With that knowledge, his adrenaline faded. Why wouldn't it? He couldn't win. All hope was dead. The light of a better future had faded to darkness.
There was no point in continuing on.
And yet...
"I'll give you an 'A' for effort."
Rob stood.
"Buuut you'll have to try harder than that." Sporting a plastic grin, he dusted off his pants, using the motion to hide his shaking fingers. "Ready for Round 2. What's next on the docket? Mouth laser beams? Already died to that once before, but I'm a fan of remixes."
Rob stood, and he kept standing. Even if the light of a better future had faded to darkness, as long as there was strength left in his limbs...a heart beating in his chest...spite simmering in his soul...and loved ones smiling in his thoughts...
He would pretend that fading light was as luminous as the sun.
The Second Will's mouths bellowed with laughter. He couldn't tell if it was impressed, amused, or both.
While it was distracted, Rob took the opportunity to activate Dimensional Message and contact Jason. Wasn't sure why. Maybe talking to his best friend would give him some much-needed motivation? Or maybe this was his version of a last will and testament.
Either way, the connection established. "Hey," he began. "You okay? Want to...be sure."
<"About to bully Blight Santa to death,"> Jason replied, seeming mostly cheerful. <"You?">
He could lie to himself just fine, but lying to Jason had always been difficult. "Don't know," Rob admitted. "Second Will – Blight keeps regenerating. Running out of options." A curse slipped out from under his breath. "I'm not sure we can...anyway, it's tough over here."
Jason didn't respond right away. It took him a long time to reply.
When he eventually did, it was in an entirely serious tone of voice.
<"Mind if I help with that?">
--
??? Minutes Prior
The Spire was more and less than what Jason expected.
Rob had warned that it might be like one of those trippy dungeons he'd encountered in the fantasy world. A place where geometry was malleable, distance was a suggestion, and anything could happen at any time. Jason, taking the advice to heart, had prepared his team to tackle a deathtrap maze filled with Blightspawn numbering in the thousands.
They'd both been right. But what he and Rob – and the Dungeon, apparently – had failed to account for was Baker. Because the instant Jason's team stepped inside the Spire's labyrinthine walls, Baker stood at attention, like a bloodhound smelling wounded prey, and pointed towards one specific passage. "That way," the former Blightspawn had stated. "I can detect the patterns of Corruption. All other paths are fatal."
It was surprisingly smooth sailing from then on, to the point where Jason was almost disappointed at the anticlimax. Blightspawn came at him in waves, yet none were stronger than Level 45. Wasn't any worse than what his team faced every day out on the streets. They might've been overwhelmed if they were forced to stop and consider the various branching paths, but Baker's guidance trivialized that risk, always leading them down the safest possible route.
The result was akin to a group of four lawnmowers tearing through a weed patch. Jason sliced apart Blightspawn with ease, not even needing to pull out any fancy moves or footwork. Baker refused to be outdone, matching each of Jason's kills with one of his own. Lucio's incredible strength pummeled whatever creatures slipped past their front lines. In the back line, Jeanette used her gun to snipe at airborne monsters, ensuring that nothing surprised them from above.
Jason couldn't help but grin. Much as he would've enjoyed a challenge, getting to flex his muscles wasn't bad either.
His team stepped through another portal, teleporting them to who knows where. They emerged in another beaching pathway, surrounded by walls of onyx-colored marble illuminated with a faint silver hue. Jason didn't have the slightest idea where the light was coming from, but, eh. He wasn't about to question fantasy world logic.
"Where to next?" he asked Baker. "We any closer to the top?"
The man wearing his face frowned. "Who the hell knows. Dungeons don't conform to human assumptions. Even if this Spire does indeed have a core – or something else of significance – it could be located at the center, or underground instead."
"Nah. You make a big tower, you put the important part at the top. Just how it goes."
"Human, that's what you would do. The Blight–"
"No, no," Jeanette interrupted. "He's got a point."
Baker grumbled uncharitable words under his breath, motioning for them to follow with a surly wave.
Jason chuckled as he readied his greatsword to strike down an approaching Blightspawn. Actually, he realized, I should call Rob and let him know how we're doing. Not like I need to concentrate on killing...is that another goddamn mutated wolf? This place is running out of ideas.
He activated Dimensional Message, then started speaking as soon as the connection had been established. "Checking in. Things are going well over here. You?"
There was a long pause. <"All good,> Rob answered. He paused again. <"Sorry, got another call. Glad things are going well for you.">
The Message ended without warning.
For the first time since he'd entered the Spire, Jason missed a step.
Huh. His thoughts were so preoccupied that he just barely managed to dodge the wolf's bite, its fangs coming inches away from piercing his arm. That's odd. Could've sworn that Rob sounded nervous or something. But...no way. I've heard his stories. He should be basically unbeatable by now, right?
After a few moments, Jason shook his head, gutting the wolf as he regained his balance. Rob was in the middle of a major battle – of course the guy was going to sound a bit nervous. That was normal. Didn't mean he was in trouble. He would've mentioned if things were going south.
Task focus, Jason told himself. Keep your head in the game. Rob is fine. Dude handles every Blight he meets, no problem. There's nothing to be worried about.
He kept telling himself that, over and over, all the way until his team reached the top of the Spire.
The last teleporter deposited them in front of an entrance that looked – for lack of a better word – dramatic. It was a set of broad double doors, ten feet tall and twenty wide, heavy and thick with gleaming marble.
Baker's expression soured the second he laid eyes on it, as if he'd inhaled an entire carton of lemons. "There's something past those doors. It's..." He let out an aggrieved sigh. "Vital. A core, perhaps."
Jason smiled, using his moment of triumph to dispel the anxious cloud hanging above his head. "Told you that–"
"Don't fucking start."
Jeanette ignored them, examining the door. "Looks like there's a lock." She glanced at Lucio. "We don't have time to find the right key, so mind opening it with yours?"
The wrestler nodded, stepping forward to push his scaled fists against the double doors. Muscles tensed, a lock shattered, and the doors effortlessly flung open, scraping on marble floor as they crashed into interior walls of the room that laid beyond.
That's one way to do it, Jason mused, as he led his team through. The top of the Spire housed a spacious chamber – more spacious than it should have been when viewed from the outside. It was completely empty save for two objects of interest. The first was a shimmering black crystal floating in the center, seemingly protected by a translucent shield of magic. With each passing second, the crystal dispersed Corruption particles into the surrounding air.
It was somehow a less strange sight than the person standing patiently behind. At the very end of the chamber was what appeared to be a genial, full-bearded old man, dressed like an accountant. He had a pleasant smile on his face; the kind that belonged to everyone's favorite grandpa. If not for his mottled skin, pulsating veins, and vacant eyes, Jason would've been tempted to wave.
"Greetings," the old man said, bowing. "Quite the busy bees you are. Arrived much sooner than anticipated."
Jeanette immediately raised her gun. Before she could fire, Jason held up a hand to forestall her. According to Rob, it was smart to let the Blights monologue when they got in a talkative mood. Whatever information they offered tended to be priceless.
Besides – it's been a while since I fought someone who could talk back. "Hey, sorry for the door. That's my bad." Jason cracked his neck. "Although you don't seem sorry about what you've done to our planet, so I'm not feeling overly polite." His hand inched towards his sword, and he began jumping in place to warm up. "Hair's looking a bit white there, gramps. Time for a dye job."
In a flash, his greatsword shot forward, its blunt tip of massive steel glaring at the old man. "Red would look great on you."
The Blight-possessed human laughed. "Isn't humor such a wonderful thing? Would have never understood your meaning before subsuming this human's mind. We've neglected the intricacies of thought that mortals are capable of."
His smile widened farther than what was physically possible, skin ripping at the corners of his mouth. "Perhaps the next world shall be treated with a lighter touch."
Jason didn't take the bait. Blights being creepy sadistic weirdos was nothing new. Instead, he activated Dimensional Message to contact Rob. "Hey man, found a possessed human. Looks like evil accountant Santa Claus. Probably a Blight. Got any advice on how to dig info out of it, or can I just have fun fighting–"
<"Can't right now.">
Rob immediately ended the call.
At once, Jason's blood froze. This wasn't him imagining things. Rob's tone had been more urgent than simply being preoccupied with a battle. He'd sounded...
Desperate.
Jason considered calling Rob back, then decided against it, not wanting to distract him in case he – just in case. Task. Focus. Interrogate the Blight. That's what will help him.
Without knowing how to question the old man, he improvised. Vague banter usually got people talking. "Gotta say – for an eldritch grandpa, your decor isn't total shit." Jason gestured around the chamber. "Don't think I'd like, bring a girl here or anything, but you've got a vibe going on."
The man's smile dipped slightly. "You should have savored the Dungeon I prepared," he said, almost sounding annoyed. "This mortal believes that all humans enjoy mazes and challenges. Why did you circumvent them?"
"The thing about challenges," Jason said, holding up his index finger, "is that they have to actually be challenging. I'm not gonna go easy on you, that's not how this works." He smirked. "Seriously though, interesting decor. What's up with the disco ball? We having a dance-off next?"
He pointed at the floating black crystal. The old man's vacant gaze lit up with excitement, as if he couldn't wait to spill a morsel of juicy gossip. "It is a marvelous invention, isn't it?" he began. "Your world was a conundrum at first. With no mana to consume, we were at a loss for how to harvest energy. Devouring mortals only produced a fraction of bioelectricity, and nothing more."
The man gestured straight down. "Your planet, however, is bountiful. We could harvest its core for decades and still continue to sup."
Jason blinked. "The Spires are sucking energy from the Earth's goddamn core?"
"How else are we to support our main body in Elatra? Hyper-compressed metal doesn't yield as much energy as mana, but it will suffice. In fact, we gained the idea from humanity – removing finite materials from your own home has ever been a favorite mortal pastime."
His eyes shone with irritation. "Originally, to facilitate a hastened retrieval of energy, temporal acceleration was enforced upon this structure. Time passed faster inside here than the reality outside. It proved to be remarkably efficient...until your dimensional correspondence with Elatra set its chromatic sync off-balance. Now time flows without rhyme or reason. Would you mind refraining from such behavior moving forward?"
Only one sentence out of all that actually mattered to Jason. Support the main body. "You're making Rob's Blight stronger," he marveled, several puzzle pieces sliding into place.
"It would be remiss not to utilize all the resources in our employ. The Heartkiller deserves no less."
Before Jason could respond, the old man spread his arms. "My thanks for indulging in this frivolity. For some reason, pre-battle banter is excellent at prompting adrenaline to course through mortal veins."
His flesh bubbled, limbs swelling into distended, bloated appendages. "Yet I have grown bored, and your souls are so very ripe."
Jason's team readied their weapons. This was it. Winning here would permanently weaken the Blight. They'd finally get to go on the offensive – not just defending civilians from random monster attacks. Exactly the way I like it. Let's make this a fight to remember.
He was about to fire off some prime trash talk when Dimensional Message activated.
<"Hey."> Rob sounded exhausted, both physically and mentally. <"You okay? Want to...be sure.">
Jason's grip on his sword tightened. "About to bully Blight Santa to death. You?"
Rob was quiet for three eternally long seconds.
<"Don't know,"> he admitted. <*"Second Will – Blight keeps regenerating. Running out of options.">* A curse slipped out, barely audible. <"I'm not sure we can...anyway, it's tough over here.">
In that instant, the enormity of what was happening slammed into Jason's psyche. It forced him to understand things he'd already known yet refused to accept. He was vaguely aware of his teammates staring at him in confusion as unfiltered shock spread to every inch of his body.
Rob's words kept ringing inside his mind. While the guy hadn't finished what he was about to say, it wasn't hard to figure out.
'I'm not sure we can win.'
"Mind if I help with that?" Jason asked. His reply came from pure instinct, before his thoughts had even recovered. It was what Rob needed to hear – and so, he said it.
<"What? How?">
The faint hope in Rob's voice indicated to Jason that he'd done the right thing. "My Blight said the Spire is powering up the Blight you're fighting in Elatra. We also found a crystal core thing at the top – you get what I'm saying, right? If we break the core, we probably break the Spire. Should weaken the Blight on your end."
<"...Shit, man, that would..."> Rob hesitated. <*"Be careful. No stupid heroics on my account – if you need to retreat, then run like hell. Blights are harder to kill than you're imagining.">*
Yeah. I can tell. The old man had nearly finished his grotesque transformation, little remaining of the human he was once. More than his hulking muscles, razor-sharp claws, and wide mouth of red-rimmed teeth, it was the Blight's aura of intense pressure that gave Jason pause. This was clearly a far stronger creature than any Blightspawn they'd fought before. Stronger than even Valmight.
If Jason was being honest with himself...he wasn't sure they could win this, either.
He accepted that fact – and then raised his sword. Whether his opponent was a god, the devil, or anything in-between, his chosen path would stay the same. It had been decided the moment he'd realized Rob needed him to take this thing down.
That was all Jason needed to know.
"Don't worry." He grit his teeth. "You've always had my back, man. Saved me so many times...even before gods and Blights started appearing. So just for today–"
The monster inside surged within his veins, blighted scales overlaying on top of human skin.
"Let me be your hero." Jason dashed forward, sword in hand, and cried out, "BLIGHT–INS–TALL!"
​
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​
Thanks for reading!
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Next Chapter

Another chapter, another entry into my first-timer's close reading of Malazan: Book of the Fallen!

Book 2: Hearthstone

Weirdly, the opening of this Book felt more akin to Gardens than Book 2 of Deadhouse new setting, new characters, and a new unseen backstory. It worked in GotM and it works here, but I find the parallel interesting given these share a closer continuity. But we at last get to see Capustan in all of it's bizarre glory, as well as the deep-time history of this world dragged to the forefront.

Epigraph

From The Road Before You by Jhoram of Capustan. It speaks of "midnight" characterizing the "dusk of my life" and expands on that thought. This individual is tired and regretful of war. There is, to his mind, no glory at all to be found on any side or under any cause on the field of bloodshed. Not when one considers the lives and one-day glories cut short. He considers the battlefield a place of chaos, saying: "To have escaped those random fates has lost all triumph." When a stray arrow, a false footing, a misheard order, or a spoiled ration the eve past are all that separate the living from the dead, who can escape the war plain and be called great?
The narrator then expands on his sufferings; he generalizes it to all old men. The pain of a breaking body renders the solace of guilt in the broken mind inescapable. So he walks slower, stands lower, greys and wrinkles, all while wrapped in dark memories. I expect the title alludes to someone about to come into their own life, and the road this narrator has walked is one which he is warning the "you" of this passage to either avoid or prepare for.

Chapter 7

Another long one. We'll be two-parting this as well as we have quite a bit to unpack here. And while less obvious this time, there is yet another breakpoint midway through. Although something is to be said about the lost momentum a chapter break necessitates, so I'll drop my grumbling on this point.
We at last meet the Grey Swords and their intriguing but as yet unexpanded hierarchy. We see the dire situation of Capustan even as they begin to receive the hope of aid. We get more K'Chain Che'Malle, as well as our first true look at the Kron T'lan Imass and some better ideas of the escalating stakes of this upcoming war of the gods. What I'm trying to say is, we're swimming in information here and I'm going to have to streamline my writeup to unpack it.

Epigraph

In contrast to the previous epigraph, we get a Feneric perspective on the nature of war. An excerpt from Fener's Reve, by Destrian Dellan (b.?)* it characterizes war, as not glorious per say, but certainly with a more awful (in the archaic sense) cast. Fener's (war's in general, I'd say) approach is categorized by "drum-beat hoves" before which all are rendered "as children, as children once more." The dread madness of the battlefield is to much for anyone to endure with true calm or sagity.
*Hiding the historic through-line of Fener's Reve into modernity, I'll note.
So, we get some ideas from this epigraph and the following chapter of the Grey Swords and their perspective on warfare. They are by no means warmongers but they do understand history in terms of cycles of violence and preparation for such. War is, to them, assumed, so you might as well empower yourself to be on the "right" side of it for those who cannot. Perhaps no glorious, but definitely not as regretful of a thing as Jhoran cast it as.

Grey Swords in Capustan

As with most of Erikson's book openers, we get some great prose (this time drawing from Homer*) to set the scene and the mood, before settling more directly into the head of our PoV, Karnadas, the Destriant of Fener's Reve. Information on what the Reve and it's positions are is scattered throughout the chapter, but we never get a great answer, yet. But for now, we can play with some definitions: First, Reve itself is an archaic word meaning administrator or bailiff. So this is the administration of Fener. As for Destriant, it seems to be... ** the gerund form of destriar, a word in romance languages denoting choice or distinguishment. (Although the romance language angle opens up the potential that Reve is rêve or "to dream" although Erikson has tended to use diacritical marks to this point when needed)
*And if I were feeling cheeky, Robert Jordan
**He begins, pointedly ignoring the Malazan Wiki as the top result
So, Karnadas (note the romantic naming scheme) is Fener's distinguished/appointed, in the Boar of Summer's administration. Depending on how old the old sow is, it may well be that these are a set of Hold based roles akin to the Assassin/Magi/Hound of Shadow. He is fixated on the palace in the center of the city, home to Prince Jelarkan, who is presently in a meeting with the Mask Council and the First Mortal Sword of Fener's Reve, Brukhalian. Karnadas wonders at the building's bizarre architecture, windowless stone, "seemingly" pointless ledges and overhangs, and clearly of non-human make. Given the prominence of the K'Chain in the narrative and it seems (at one point) upon the continent, it may be of K'Chain Che'Malle make, but that is entirely a shot in the dark.
The Destriant's internal monologue focuses on those cycles of war I was referring to in the chapter epigraph breakdown, considering peace "the time of waiting for war," and the prattling and aspiring for more peace therin to be willful ignorance; the debates going on in the palace are much the same. Karnadas' internal monologue reveals just how fierce the debates are, and just how much the Grey Swords have done in secret to save the city of Capustan.
He thinks on the one member of the council who should be a voice in their favor, Rath'Fener, and the politicking and scheming that prevents him from being so. While the Destriant understands the ambition that lead's the priest's actions, he himself occupies the office which is the office of those ambitions. Karnandas idly daydreams about deposing the Masked priest, and the political and religious ramifications of such an unveiling, that the true service to the Boar of Summer is not in hallowed temples but on the fields of iron and blood, but Brukhalian has prohibited such a gesture. It would seem that Mortal Sword outranks Destriant, in some matters at least.
These thoughts are interrupted by Itkovian, the "Shield Anvil" of Fener's Reve. While we have some hints of both the Destriant and Mortal Sword roles, it is "Sheild Anvil" which eludes me the most. Curious, because we are going to have quite a bit of time in his head later this chapter. Yet with this arrival, we get indication that Destriant is somewhat akin to a High Priest role. The two discuss the upcoming outing that Itkovian is preparing to lead, taking two wings of scouts with him.
The characterization we get here and later of the Shield Anvil seem to cast him as somewhat of a go-getter, foregoing sleep with all of his marshal and studious pursuits. Itkovian informs the Destraint that Brukhalian has summoned him to reveal some of the information gleaned from his meeting with the Mask Council. The Mortal Sword cuts an imposing figure and is straight to business to boot. He announces that Rath'Trake believes that there are demonic aspirations of some sort or another out on the plains. Karnandas expresses disdain over the Tiger of Summer's suden claim to godhood, but is censured by Brukhalian, who asks if the Destriant would be willing to take a rivalry with every spirit of every tribe as well. The Mortal Sword asks that Itkovian be careful, considering the news, and then dismisses the Shield Anvil.
Brukhalian then asks if the message they received still awaits a response, and Karnandas replies in the affirmative. He notes with surprise that the language of the message is in Fener's own Reve and displays a deep understanding of their religion. He assumes some extreme arrogance on the part of the sender for this fact,* or else an insider. Karnandas asks if they should call for a Mane (w/e that is) but Brukhalian is confident as Fener's own weapon. Ah, Mortal Sword. But is this to mean a mortal who is the Boar's sword, or a sobering reminder that the Sword is a mere mortal? Perhaps both.
*While the deduction itself is unsound, he isn't actually wrong, lol.
Karnandas "picks up the call" if you will, noting with alarm that there are twelve souls bound into one in the making of the spell. As the message orb gives way to an image, we see ol' twelve-soul himself, Quick Ben, sitting down in anticipation. I like that we get a moment of sorting out the language issue. He opens with a greeting, asking if he has indeed reached the rulers of Capustan. They respond in the negative, they are the Grey Swords. After a bit of back and forth, it is established that the Grey Swords are themselves both mercenary army and temple, chosen and sanctioned by the Destriant himself. In fact, their numbers grow, collecting the discarded second and third-born daughters from the city's streets.
Quick Ben then introduces himself, revealing that he is with Caladan Brood's host. While Brukhalian has heard of the name, he does not have all of the facts, and we are once again reminded just how much news doesn't travel in the Iron Age. QB then asks if he can be placed into contact with the rulers of Capustan, to find out that the Prince and the Masked Council are deadlocked largely on that issue, with the GS answering to the Prince. Finding out that Karnandas is the Destriant (or Arch-Priest) and Brukhalian is the Mortal Sword, Quick Ben then becomes confident that Caladan Brood would be fine with relaying his message to them. Aid comes, by their army, in relief of Capustan. While they don't have the numerical advantage, they have a few more surprises.
After negotiating the next time to meet, the communication fades, leaving the two to discuss this new development. Neither believes that this strange warlord's assistance shall prove enough, but they hope it will make the immanent catastrophe less so. Their conversation ends with Karnandas's doubt that his reading of twelve souls is correct, but that may bee merely a reflection of his own disturbance at the proposition.
​
Far away, Quick Ben himself muses at how this discussion has gone and we learn that Whiskyjack was a silent observer to the whole interaction. The commander has some questions regarding the titles used here. It would seem that indeed these are prot-deck roles, with Mortal Sword being a Knight analogue, and Destiant being a position thousands of years in disuse. QB believes the titles to be fake, and takes the Grey Swords secrecy regarding such as proof of their fraud. Regardless, he considers them the best of the bunch within Capustan. An obvious incongruity in QB's theory then presents itself, the message was received and reflected the men's pious faith. They certainly might be mistaken regarding their offices (or lack thereof) but why would con-men hold such sincere belief? Keep in mind, this isn't just any con, but depicting themselves as the highest office in the religion, sincere believers don't do that. Whiskeyjack then leaves to fetch Brood and Dujek, ad the Seven Cities mage suggests they might be at the front of the collum. WJ quips that QB is sharp tonight, and I chuckled at Quick Ben being full of himself enough to take several moments to realize the compliment as the sarcastic dig it was.

Undead Warriors upon Vission Plain

Itkovian watches the old burial site of one of Capustan's founding tribes. He has been assigned to understand more of the city and it's history. His role is apparently natural to the Shield Anvil, a position as scholarly as it is marshal. He muses as he walks along at the odd history of the city and how that gave way to its very unique layout. A city of tribal roots, quickly modernized by early Daru concordance. This resulted in urban planning with decidedly un-sedentary sensibilities, wide concourses and numerous sand pits, Camps instead of Districts, literally grown from their namesakes, each often a self-contained community all to itself, buildings asture and practical, with the Temple District alone reflecting the Daru-imported gridlock and opulence.
But the people themselves are well-adorned and kin-bound. Most curious are the winding streets and clay burial-pillars. The dead stand where they fell, or near enough. Tribal traditions assert themselves still, and as such no less, preserved by the city's bizarre history. Above it all looms the older still palace, chosen for it's domineering visage rather than any defensibility of it's own. Only one singular entrance, wide and open* the palace cannot even be modified, it's stone surface rejecting mortar. I'm puzzled by the assumption that the thin walls are weak, however, as the structure has obviously stood from well before the apparently dozens of generations of Capu dwelt in it's shadow.
*not that that will matter later or anything.
Itkovain meets with his wings, and they head out through the Main Gate of Capustan. They ride further inland, until they've made their way fourteen leagues from Capustan, stopping to eat and gather intel on the surrounding region. A recruit asks what they're looking for, and this gives Itkovain a moment to regard the woman. One of the Capu recruits, against the Capustan prohibition against woman enlisting (largely novel for Wu) and he respects the potential of these women. He orders them into Raptor formation* and they ride out, as Itkovian thinks about the training in the field the Grey Swords offer their recruits. She will be protected by two veterans and is riding an experienced horse, but there is always danger. That is somewhat the point of such a practice.
*The birds of prey, I assume, but humorous given the impending confrontation.
The Sheild Anvil eventually spots an approaching Outrider Sidlis, who informs him of some odd tracks they have discovered. She describes their size and speed, and it becomes apparent that they've found their demon. He orders one of the wing's heads, Nakalian, to lead them in the way the outrider described, while Torun and Farakalian ride by him with lassoed ropes. All others are to either bear bows or else spears. They soon come upon the lone K'Chain Che'Malle, which is just minding it's own business in an open field. No alterior motive or anything. They decide to charge it, gauging it's capabilities. After Itkovian gives a few orders, they do exactly that.
It goes about as well as you'd expect. The creature has it's eyes bristled with arrows, but is unblinded. It's hide quilled with lances, but is unburdened. It hacks through their numbers effortlessly, cleaving man and horse alike. Itkovian looses his mount and must mercy kill the thing. But moments later, the beast is torn apart by lassoes, each being pulled by a team of four horses. But ten of the scouting party remain. The eight on lassoes, the recruit, and the Shield Anvil. What's worse, five more of the monsters have crested a nearby hill, and there is no way the Grey Swords can escape them.
Itkovian begins giving orders to split up and delay them, even as he mounts a new horse and they begin flight. But he is soon interrupted by a withered hominid manifesting in the way. It informs him that an army is manifesting to deal with the K'Chain Che'Malle, and they were surprised to find such creatures in the region. With some losses (which is itself terrifying to think about) they are able to swiftly dispatch the remaining K'Chain Che'Malle, and the corpse he first met introduces himself and his host, even now rising from the dust in greater numbers. It is Pran Chole, Bonecaster, and this is the Kron T'lan Imass.
Later, Itkovian checks in on the recruit. She's about as devastated as one would expect, face blanched, mind reeling. He reaches out to her gently, and she responds, noting how many T'lan Imass there are. He agrees, slowly coaxing her out of her feuge. He describes the upcoming mission. He will lead eight of their number across the plain, as the T'lan Imass ride the winds unseen, waiting to ambush any K'Chain Che'Malle who take the bait. The recruit will ride with an escort and few Imass to report these developments back in Capustan. She asks to ride with them on the field, showing her resolve. He warns her, however, not to think that witnessing K'Chain die will offer her solace, a soldier must fashion their own internal armor.
Heading back to Pran Chole, the Shield Anvil is informed by the Bonecaster that the K'Chain Che'Malle are what is known as K'ell hunters, bred specifically for battle. Whatever is controlling them is far south, quite possibly their Matriarch herself, free at last from the bindings which hold her. We know from Lady Envy that the Matriarch is indeed freed, but if I hadn't before, I'll say it now: it's weird that she's freed now. If she is in league with the Pannion Seer, and the Seer himself is in league with the Crippled God, then the Fallen One may have had a hand in empowering her as he potentially has the PS. Anyway, it is interesting that while even the landmass of Genebackis has changed its name (from Maeth'ki Im and likely innumerable other monikers in the intervening 300k years) the region of Morn has retained its name. Not only that, but it had done so while maintaining a reputation of barrenness and uninterest in the Grey Swords own Elingarth and likely elsewhere.
Itkovian volunteers an explanation for their controller south: The Pannion Seer, although his expansion has been ongoing for quite some time, compared to the K'ell. Although we know that the K'Chain Che'Malle Matron was freed some decades ago, so it is possible that they've lain in wait until now, not that the Shield Anvil could know this. His train of thought is cut off however, by what we learn later is actually over fourteen thousand twin pits, as the word "Pannion" elisets their direct attention. Pran Chole asks Itkovian carefully if "Pannion" has some particular meaning to the natives. When he is answered in the negative, he announces it to be a Jaghut name. The idea that one of the kids in the Rent got out grows ever more promising.

The Soul-Bound Scout

Toc the Younger is alone with his thoughts and a proto-wolf supposedly three hundred thousand years extinct. He finds himself examining the formidable creature and mussing on the potential campaign that Onearm's (ow Brood's) Host is marching into. Lady Envy has gone ahead to a place called Callows, ostensibly to collect supplies. She has taken Mok and the other Ay with her. Tool is off on a hunt; Senu and Thurule watch the sunset with ramrod attention. This leaves Toc alone with his thoughts, now turning to the mystery of his emergence into Morn months after his encounter with Hairlock. He does not consider his being dropped into the middle of a convergence to be random, but can make nothing of why he of all people would be sent here, nor by what means.
Bitterly, he thinks of Paran, who shoulders each attempt at use and each abuse with brute determination, sloughing off the pain and breaking. Nay, scout, he merely hides it deeper than you can fathom. Deeper than a man can long endure. Irronic, then, that the man who takes all manner of bizzare abuse in stride, burring it deep and lamenting that he does so, would envy the man who does much the same, seeing the former in Parran, the latter in himself, while both traits so define each.* He returns his attention to Baaljagg, asking her where her own family had gone off to.
*He wished Mat/Rand/Perrin were here, Perrin/Mat/Rand were better at handling girls, Rand/Perrin/Mat simply fouled everything up from the start.
Thus he receives a vision from his lost eye, a memory of the ancient Ay's loss and wandering. She was but a pup, the very last of her kind, before she was found by a wanderer with the touch of an Elder God. We technically don't know which, but I'll make a placeholder guess of K'Rul given his other machinations revealed later in this chapter. He promises her another wandering soul, a kindred spirit, but for now, he blesses her with unending life, and sleep. As she dreams, she lives in an ideal world of plentiful game and innumerable children, when she wakes, hard times and incomprehensible loneliness. But wait she does, as another lost soul comes wandering into her life, asking her story, only to be bound to her by the asking. Toc the Younger reels from this, sensing yet deeper sorrow, along with a demand for redress not from the ex(ish)-Claw, but Onos T'oolan.
He wakes, to see Tool observing him; he demands to know what it is that the wolf wants from him. The T'lan Imass responds mournfully, that he cannot provide what it is that she wants, an end to her loneliness. Toc comments on his tone, but he reverts back to his usual dry candor, stating that the scout heard wrong. Toc prepares to get their meal together, stating that he will treat the Seguleh as equals while Lady Envy is away, making small talk with the First Sword regarding his makeshift arrows and the surrounding terrain. We get a curious note regarding Tool's Tellann Warren, that it is being drained by something he refuses to elaborate on. Silverfox? Wasn't she draining the Mhybe as harshly as she was because there were no living kin among the Imass?
But Tool does note that they are being tailed by Ay'tog who may wind up confronting them sooner or later. This reminds Toc of Baaljagg's ancient Memories of Ice, and he raises the subject. Tool confirms that this betrays a binding of sorts between Toc and the Ay. He asks how this has come about, but all Toc can raise as explanation is the old Seven Cities superstition that to loose an eye is to gain other sight. When Tool learns that the scout lost his eye to a burning piece of debris from Moon's Spawn, he surmises that he is under the influence of Obelisk, known in the Deck of Holds as Menhir. Toc the Younger is Touched by Stone, or Aral Fayle in the T'lan Imass' archaic tongue, and so he is named by the Imass himself. While Toc denies the name, Tool is of the opinion that names are earned rather than taken.
The First Sword then recounts all the ways that Toc has proved his significance, that he has been impacted by something beyond himself. Desperate to move on, Toc asks Tool what his own name means. We get some etymology, and his name means "Flawed Flint." There is a further discussion of the name and it's meaning, but I don't have much to comment on other than how it highlights the tragedy of Tool's wandering. He is alone because he has failed his people in one way or another too long and so has his family. He commits the worst sin known to the Imass, that of wandering alone, of taking on the Jaghut way, in a sense. But he is now returning for reasons he will not give. Toc wonders at what it is, exactly, they all are getting into in the north, when another vission hits.

Tiger of Summer and Panther of Midnight

Rage consumes him, rage being felt right now in some nearby place. Through the eyes of a beast, Toc watches the end of a battle, even as his identity is lost in that of one which had been dormant for so long. The last thing that Trake, Tiger of Summer remembers with full clarity is the End of the First Empire. The Second(?) First Empire, which had, in a moment of hubris, attempted to (A?)scend it's entire population into immortality. The earth boiled, cooling much later into what later generations would know and fear as Otataral. The powerful among them had it the worst, their selves shattering into many forms, the D'ivers. But in attempting to claim that which was the T'lan Imass' they awoke the only mercy known to these creatures, indiscriminate slaughter. Let no others take up what the Silent Host damned themselves to. It would seem that the shattered warren on Seven Cities was their fault, used it's shattering to power a ritual. Imitating the Imass as they had in naming their own doomed kingdom.*
*Let's put a pin in that...
He fled the carnage with others, many of whom we know from the Path of Hands. Poor Messremb, will your companion ever know what befell you? There is a ton about these characters nestled in here, but it's not more relevant than the hundreds of other hints I gloss over in these books. He receives a memory, sharp and clear, of Prologue Wolf, potentially prompted by his current connection to Toc, but other than the fact that these two met we learn nothing. But with each mighty battle, each First Heroic excepade, he sunk deeper, yet deeper, until, thousands of years ago, Treach the First Hero fell, and Trake the Tiger of Summer, of Battle and War, was all that remained. Until now. As he lay dying from an ambush by four K'Chain Che'Malle. They left him to die, not sparing the time to show mercy. Yet as they walk away, a sleek, dark figure in the grass ambushes them, withering them before immense power.
He slithers through the grass, the way before and under him greased by his own immortal blood. He thinks back to the innumerable prey he has consumed, and at last truly understands them, in their bestial refusal of death. Soon, the panther returns, and in its place appears a short, ancient woman. An Imass in the flesh. She sooths the dying Ascendant, complementing his courage and power, yet stating that she has not the power to heal him. When he begs for death, she denies him, asks that he take pride in each moment he refuses Hood. She then asks who this other within him is, the one who unchained his memories and gazes even now through his cocked eye. Treach knows nothing of this, but the Imass woman chalks it up to the interference of an Elder God, one preparing for a terrible war.
This god may well be the Eldest of all (eliminating the usual suspects) and their touch is permeating the world in preparation for the coming conflict. She suspects that Treach shall find himself not before the SCDAT but, instead, elsewhere after death. Where he is needed. She moves on, even as his life fades out, looking upon the last moments of his old humanity, giving into the beast, before the Tiger ruled.
Theory Time:
Remember that pin I stuck a little while back? So, I don't quite understand the mechanics of everything, but I have the vague strokes sorted out I believe. Seven Cities was a place once dominated (like much of everywhere else) by the T'lan Imass culture, some time later, the human First Empire cropped up in its wake. They attempted to imitate their forbearers and extend the lives of their citizens in an ambitious ritual. In some way, Shapeshifting is associated with the Imass (who originally held the racial Beast Hold) and the ritual's result in mass producing shapeshifters, as well as the T'lan Imass' attempted quelling of the ritual betrays some connection. What's more, they nuked a warren to power things, which I'm not quite sure how that figures in, but it does tie in a bit to the ritual's side effects. This theory isn't about the ritual itself per-se (to many unknowns as yet) but it does pertain to those side effects. Shapeshifters have their roots in the Imass, the Imass have been Summoned by Silverfox back to the place of the First Gathering. In some magic glitch, for lack of a better word, so have the Soletaken and D'ivers. Returning to whence they came on Seven Cities in the Path of Hands. The shattered warren being a powersource or else sacrificial victim would then explain away why these immortal, hyper-cunning creatures would fall for the trap, it literally stank of the ritual which produced them. This would also be why the non-human Soletaken are unaffected, because their strand of shapeshifting doesn't have it's ultimate source in this Walmart-brand Ritual of Imass. But this also raises some interesting questions, namely the implication that the Whirlwind was triggered by the same event as the Path of Hands, and if that is the case, then Dryjhna was either a Shapeshifter or else an Imass herself, pre-ascension. And given the whole sand-on-the-wind and genocidal rage aesthetic, my money is on the later. But yea, Silverfox really do be playing with fire if this checks out.
​
Toc awakes suddenly upon Senu's slap. The Seguleh admonishes him for sleeping, then moves on. Toc notes that Tool and Baaljaag have not moved from their position, now understanding who they sense. He announces what it was he was just witness to, then joins them to wait her approach. The panther arrives just as he knew she would, and then veers into Kilava Onass, sister to Onos T'oolan. She notes how poorly he has aged, he how well she has, as their tense dialogue electrifies the scene throughout.* Kilava's attention is then arrested by the living Ay before her, and the two have a powerful reunion. Two species, separated by epochs and undeath, united in the flesh at last. Then, her attention moves to Toc, whom she recognizes as the observer behind Trake's eye.
*Editors note: This scene took forever to writeup because I kept getting sucked in from just how good it is.
They wonder on what this Elder God has planned for them, although neither can guess at their identity. She asks Tool who this mortal is, and he states that he has named him Aral Fayle. When she insinuates that this was the planning of a god (he was left with a bow, yet no arrows) Tool angrily denies that he could be used in such a way. She states that whichever god this is risks the wrath of the First Sword and a living Bonecaster, Tool states that their paths have only crossed, yet do not align. She denies that she will attend the Second Gathering, just as she ignored the first, and Tool demands to know why she is even here, then.
Toc is at last addressed by his mysterious Elder benefactor, who, in time admits many things. She seeks redress, that they will meet again, and that the scout will be cast into the arms of the Pannion Seer, though Toc may never forgive him that. Toc ask why, why him, why there, and the Elder God responds, speaking of compassion. Shown to him... by... a man who dreams. Is this K'Rul? Is Kilava just mistaken on the relative age of the Elder Gods? Or is K'Rul just believed to be the oldest living Elder God, with the others who are AWOL presumed dead? K'Rul himself is presumed dead, so what gives? I'm going to stop overthinking this now...
Toc returns from his mental conversation declaring that "compassion" is what drives Kivala, it is what she is here for. This answer surprises both Imass. Onos for attributing compassion to Kivala, Kivala for his being right. Their fight cools, and while they do not reconcile, they both wish it. Onos offers her a place at the Second Gathering, to heal their broken blood ties. The Bonecaster turns him down, saying that their ties were strained in the first place, had they ever existed. She then leaves, as abruptly as she came. Tool has the closest thing we've seen to a breakdown, likely to weep if he could. Toc, offering words of encouragement, suggests that Tool was wrong. That their Blood Ties might yet remain, if this parting pains Tool so. While Senu attempts to defend the T'lan Imass' honor, Tool denies him, saying he takes no insult from such language. Toc helps the ancient warrior up, receiving admiration from the Seguleh for the gesture. Aral Fayle, he was named but minuets ago, Stonearrow is he named now. Wondering what he did to receive such honors, Toc closes out the scene quipping with his companions. It goes better than it could have.
​
And with that, I'll cut for now. We're 75% of the way to our word count with some dense scenes yet to come. FWIW, this or after the next scene would make a natural chapter break, but I already promised to drop my grumbling on that front. Until next time, soonish I believe!

first
​
Rafael moved carefully down the corridor. The passage was wide; you could easily drive a scooter or even a small car through it. The walls were copper in color and seemed to be made of metal. The man did not find any joints, welds, or screws. Often he had the feeling that someone was watching him; sometimes he thought he heard footsteps, hushed voices, or whispers. Initially, he tried to move away from them, but after several dozen minutes of wandering around the corridors, he began to accelerate and head in the direction in which he thought he heard something. Raphael had the impression that the corridors were only illuminated with some kind of emergency lighting. The only source of light was the phosphorescent wires that ran along the ceiling. There was enough light in the middle of the corridors, but there was a lot of shadow around the walls, especially around the corners. Rafael could have sworn that something golden glittered there a few times, like the eyes of some nocturnal animal.
​
As he walked, he wondered about this strange place. Where was this place in the first place? The last thing he remembered before losing consciousness was levitating in space, near Mars. He also remembered crashing into what, at least at that moment, he thought was an extraterrestrial spacecraft. Now the question was: where was he? His first thought was that he was actually on an alien ship. However, the more Rafael thought about it, the more he had problems with it. He had been walking around this place for several dozen minutes, and the area was simply huge. If that was a spacecraft, then how was gravity generated? Rafael tried to jump and run and noticed that the gravity was a bit off, slightly less than on Earth because he jumped further than he remembered being able to, but again, it was not a big difference as on the moon (not like he had ever been there). Therefore, he began to suspect that he was somewhere on Mars instead. Maybe the aliens already had a base here? Or have they always been here? somewhere in a secret underground place?
​
Yes, instead of betting on an alien spaceship, Rafael started betting on an alien, martian base. The man looked at his watch; it was a normal commercial smartwatch, nothing fancy. However, thanks to it, he was able to determine how much time had passed since the collision with the alien spacecraft until now: only 35 hours had passed, of which the last 58 minutes had been spent wandering the corridors.
​
At first, he was surprised that the room he woke up in was open, but he took it as a good sign, thinking that the aliens wanted to let him know that he was not a prisoner.
​
But now he knew that this was a labyrinth, a real dungeon, and he doubted if he would ever make it…anywhere. He could as well be locked in the cell, as that would make no real difference.
​
Well, there was a difference, of course, but not in the grand scheme of things.
​
Rafael many times came across alcoves that had the same shape as the door through which he had left, but these remained closed.
​
The other thought that crossed his mind was that there were no aliens at all. Okay, he saw a huge spacecraft, but was there no other, more reasonable explanation? Maybe it was supposed to look like this? some kind of government conspiracy? Rafael played not one but several different devil's advocates, trying to convince himself of different options. Nothing he saw here looked particularly strange. He saw what looked like an alien script, but there were different alphabets on Earth. It wasn't Latin, it wasn't Chinese, and it wasn't Cyrillic, but there were others. Rafael remembered that somewhere in the Caucasus, the Armenians had their own alphabet, and there was also a special one in Ethiopia. The man didn't even know what they looked like; he only knew that something like that existed.
​
"Fuck… Which is more likely?"
​
"a) The Armenians, together with the Ethiopians, secretly built a secret city on Mars. Actually, that would explain the big beds a bit; Ethiopians are rather tall…"
​
"b) Star Trek/Star Wars-type aliens built this base?"
​
"c) the same aliens as above, but this is a spacecraft where gravity works thanks to some kind of bullshit sci-fi force field?"
​
"d)... I'm crazy."
​
Rafael leaned against the cold wall and grabbed the hair on his head, trying to gather his thoughts.
"d)..."
​
The flight to Mars lasted for months, and long ago, all crew members began to feel bad. The exercises weren't helping one hundred percent; accidental decompression of one of the storage units meant that almost from the beginning they used only half of their food rations, and this again did not have a good effect on their well-being or mental health. There were even a few fights during the flight. One crew member had his arm broken, and it didn't seem like it would heal.
​
It was bad, but it wasn't the worst. Contrary to what was said publicly, it was a one-way flight; the governments and the agency simply did not want to make it to the media. The plan was to play it slow and present it as some kind of accident or necessity. Therefore, very specific volunteers were selected. Years were spent selecting the right people, but even so, in this case, not everything went perfectly. What had to happen in a man's life for him to agree to a one-way flight to hell?
​
The colonization of Mars sounded good in books and movies, but the reality was that the south pole of the Earth was a million times friendlier to people than Mars, and yet no one was building cities there ...
​
Their crew consisted of four people. One of them turned out to be mentally ill... one was an idealist, and the other two, including Rafael, were just disappointed and tired of humanity.
​
Rafael had an interesting resume for an astronaut. He spent his youth in prison, then in the Foreign Legion (thanks to which he received a completely new identity and French passport), and finally, he started farming. Over time, he became a permaculture expert.
​
Not one big tragedy happened in his life; nothing from Hollywood movies; no mafia killed his whole family; No evil corporation was poisoning the river or anything like that. It's just that day after day, year after year, a series of little shitty things led to the fact that Rafael had nothing to hold on to on Earth.
​
How did he become an astronaut? He applied online for the program, and after completing dozens of tests, interviews, and lots of training in a couple of years, he was sent into space.
​
Is it really that simple? Well, yes, if you turn out to be the right person.
​
After over an hour in the dark maze, Rafael's senses had already sharpened. He thought that he heard some voices again, Determined to move towards them, the man leaned around the corner and...
​
"How best to describe it?"
​
Two figures stood in the corridor opposite him. The first was a white-haired, pale elf... She was no more than one meter, forty cm tall. This wasn't a grandiose high fantasy elf with a bow. It was an anime elf, dressed in a skimpy gray tunic, reminiscent of something from a movie about ancient Greece or Rome. Her feet were bare, as were her knees and arms. The elf's hands were constantly rubbing against her body. She appeared cold. Rafael noticed it was a bit chilly in the tunnels, but not that much, at least not for him. The elven chick had bruises on her legs, arms, and even her face.
​
Behind the elf stood, well ... Rafael liked RPG, and it appeared that he would be sticking with it for reference from now on.
​
"Sorry, science."
​
The other character was also a woman. She was probably a meter taller than the elf. Rafael was one meter eighty, and the woman was about half a meter above him. The man immediately thought of big beds and doors. The whole complex was built with the other woman in mind, not the tiny elf. Using dnd terminology, the woman resembled one of those races that were added to be as strong as orcs on the one hand but could also be sexy, so for example, a goliath in the fourth edition of DD (or was it only the 5th? Rafael couldn't remember now; he was more into OSR than mainstream systems) The woman had a strong Amazonian vibe, was athletically built, and, at the same time, her face was really pretty. The giant had a dark red complexion, and her eyes were golden. The woman's head was bald, but Rafael could see little pink hairs starting to grow back. The big lady wore a similar tunic as the elf; it was probably even the same size, which made everything much tighter on her. The giantess had a chain wrapped around the wrist on her right hand, which, combined with her footwear that looked like studded sandals, looked like she was getting ready for a gig with some old-school glam metal band. For example, Mötley Crüe…
​
"That was definitely Looks That Kill," Rafael smirked.
​
The giant chick wasn't shivering. She looked ready to kick 300 Spartan asses or something.
​
Rafael reflected on the situation:
​
"I am in a dark maze. Met a sexy elf and a sexy barbarian."
​
"I am in D&D!"
​
"In D&D hentai…"
​
"In D&D hentai on Mars."
​
"... maybe in space."
​
"I'm crazy," Rafael decided mentally, then added:
​
"Fuck it and let's roll with it!"
​
The man cleared his throat carefully, raised his hand, and waved at the women who were watching him.
​
The elf pricked her ears and waved her hand at him. Rafael instinctively smiled, and after a moment, the elf did the same.
​
"Oh fuck! She has teeth like a vampire!" the man realized.
​
"But a sexy vampire..." He also realized.
​
"Nice"
​
The giantess, on the other hand, put her hand on her chest and bowed her head; it looked very old-school and very fantasy, like some knight or paladin. The woman also said something to the elf. Her voice was awfully low for a woman, but considering she was, well, an alien, it wasn't weird anyway. It sounded just like you'd expect from a female orc voice in World of Warcraft. Rafael confirmed his belief that Star Trek was more right about extraterrestrial life than any Nobel Prize winner; the woman's language also sounded Klingon-ish.
​
***
​
"This is a male of the noble Celestial, Aemarian race. You will pay him the honor due to both his lineage and gender." Laersa ordered her. The feyari woman fell to her knees in fear. She had never heard of any race that the devils considered noble.
​
Except their own.
​
***
​
The giant woman said something to the elf that made her kneel in front of Rafael with her forehead touching the floor.
​
The man considered whether he should kneel, too, but decided not to.
​
"The relationship between the women was something other than what casual D&D fans might expect; it wasn't an elf wizard and a big barbarian muscleman. The giant and her race were rather the hosts here, and the elf... was battered, perhaps a servant. Or a slave? Sexy space Roman Empire?" Rafael reflected.
​
"Hey, stop it; that's enough," Rafael spoke in English, not counting on the fact that aliens understood him (after all, Star Trek can't be right about everything). Still, the man assumed that if they started to communicate somehow, he should do it in a more international Language. For humanity's sake.
​
"Don't kneel, please," the man said, and at the same time, he gestured for the elf girl to get up.
​
The elf understood immediately. She got up.
​
"Kneel enough, stop." She repeated his words flawlessly.
​
"Yes," Rafael agreed while nodding.
​
"Yes." The elf did the same.
​
"Are you repeating what I say?" Rafael asked, smiling and trying to gesticulate as best he could at what he was saying.
​
The elf pierced him with a look; her face expressed complete concentration. After a moment, she replied:
​
"Yes."
​
Rafael nodded, then pointed at himself and said:
​
"I'm Raf," he said, then pointed at the elf. "You?" then on the giant "She?"
​
"I ... " the elf moved her gaze to the large woman. The giant said something to her.
​
***
​
"You will learn his language," the she-devil commanded her.
​
"The man demanded that we introduce ourselves."
"As it should be," the asharid woman agreed.
"The first sound was pronouns, probably First-person singular. Pointing to me, he probably said second-person, third-person to you, and possibly feminine. Great One."
​
***
​
The giantess placed her hand on her chest again.
​
"I'm Laersa," she said.
​
"Laersa, right" Rafael smiled and nodded, then looked questioningly at the elf.
​
"I'm Geshtugla," said the elf.
​
"Geshtulga," repeated the man, "yes... nice to meet you, girls, well..." Raf wondered what to do next. After a short exchange of words between the women (basically, the larger Laersa was not really talking to the smaller Geshtugla; she was telling...), the elf pointed to the right corridor, and then both the women slowly moved in that direction, but they waited eloquently for him.
​
"I'm supposed to go with you in that direction, right?"
​
"Yes," answered Geshtugla, then hesitantly added two more words that he had already used: "please you"?
​
"Now, she is smart!" The man thought, then said aloud:
​
"Yeah, I can see you're a fast learner, so I'll just keep talking non-stop and gesture if possible. The language supposedly requires less than a thousand words to communicate; let's see how much you will remember," he said as he followed the women.
​
***
​
Geshtulga absorbed new words, quickly understood how sentence order works, noticed some tenses, and basically just needed to expand the lexicon of words. The Devil told her to go ahead to the nearest elevator. Geshtulga was relieved that the man caught up with her step, thanks to which she could constantly observe his gestures while speaking, and this helped her to learn his language. The devil followed them, carefully but discreetly watching them.
​
***
​
Raf was shocked at how quickly the elf absorbed the words. In just a few minutes, she began to insert individual words into his continuous monologue, like "Really?" or "You can repeat?"
​
Finally, the shorter woman stopped in front of one door, and when it opened, its interior resembled a cylindrical elevator. All three went inside.
​
It was actually an elevator. They got off at some other level and continued their journey for a few more minutes.
​
"God, this place is huge; it can't be a spaceship." Raf was convinced.
​
They entered a room that immediately screamed "canteen" to the man.
​
"A barracks mess hall," he thought. The biggest difference was that the tables were very low (especially for someone with Laersa's height). Also, there was no single chair or bench. There were dozens of tables, but only two were occupied. At one end sat four large women of the same race as Laersa, sitting in a circle on the floor. Around the second table sat three women. All dressed in similar "Roman" or maybe "Amazonian" tunics. The women were busy eating, eagerly tearing apart the steaming pieces of something that looked and smelled like cooked meat in their hands.
​
That loudly reminded Rafael's stomach of how hungry he was...
​
The big women immediately jumped to their feet as soon as they saw Laersa and her company. Raf could then see them even better. They were definitely of the same giant race as his companion, but they were still visibly shorter than Laersa, so only about two meters tall. They also had different hairstyles, although all of them had some shade of pink. Laersa led Rafael and Geshtulga to one of the low tables.
​
"Okay," said the man, and he slowly sat down on the ground, placing his hands on the table. The women at the other two tables were still standing. No one said anything; the room was completely silent. Laersa broke the silence. She spoke imperiously for all the women to hear and probably commanded them to sit down, which they did. Laersa herself looked at Raf, bowed her head apologetically, and started toward the counter. The other women sat at their tables, but Geshtulga was still standing.
​
"Emm… Geshtulga, aren't you sitting down? Raf asked. The woman bit her lip.
​
"God, how sexy she looked then!" In fact, Raf has not seen any alien here so far that was not sexy, but what to expect from a man who has been locked in a small space without a woman for almost a year...
​
"Should I sit down? She asked hesitantly in English, the language she was studying hard at the moment.
​
Erm, yeah, sure, sit down," the man said, patting the spot on the floor next to him. The elf humbly sat down in the indicated place. She was still shaking.
​
"Hey, wait" Raf couldn't stand it, he took off his cut-up jacket and threw it over the little elf's shoulders. The woman's eyes screamed in horror.
​
At the same time, Laersa returned with a metal tray full of pieces of cooked meat. Geshtulga immediately stood up almost to attention, which looked quite comical because even in this position she was still a good meter to the larger woman.
​
Laersa's face still showed no change, but the woman spoke to the elf before placing the tray in front of the man.
​
***
​
"A word of some explanation is required." Was the only comment Laersa said to Geshtulga, and the other woman knew immediately that it was a promise.
​
"Ask the honorable male if he wishes me to accompany him to the table." The asharid woman ordered, and the feyari swallowed.
​
"Of course, Great One," she replied in a shaky voice, then shifted her gaze to the man she was growing more and more afraid of.
​
***
​
"Sure, sit down." Raf was beginning to wonder if the aliens were so stiff or if he was so easygoing. So far, however, his Close Encounters of the Third Kind have gone very smoothly.
​
"Fuck this meat smells nice!" he thought, swallowing. He carefully reached out and grabbed one of the pieces; it was warm but not hot. Even the texture was like normally cooked meat.
​
"The way to a man's heart is through his stomach." Raf laughed hesitantly, then carefully bit into a piece he had to hold between his two hands.
​
"Mmm…" it was definitely not the best meat he had ever eaten. It had no seasoning and was terribly greasy and watery at the same time.
​
It wasn't the worst, though. Although it was close.
​
But Raf was really hungry, so he ate mouthful after mouthful.
​
Women just stared at him, and the man decided to risk something. At first, he wanted to give a piece of food to the elf girl, who looked like someone who really needed it but eventually decided that to avoid causing trouble for the woman, who was definitely some kind of servant to the giants, he would offer food to Learsa first. It wasn't until the big woman had taken the piece of meat and put it in her mouth that Raf handed the portion to the elf and smiled kindly.
​
***
​
Geshtulga squirmed at the thought of putting a piece of meat, cloned or not, in her mouth. However, fear was stronger than disgust, so she obediently bit into the abhorrent flesh tissue with tears in her eyes and showed the man she had swallowed a bite.
​
***
​
"Jesus, she's crying with happiness..." Raf spent some time in the poorer countries of the world and saw how people starve.
​
"Gesh… Are you okay?" He asked, and when the elf nodded, Raf tried to focus on his food. Grease and moisture might be running down his chin and hands, but it was the most nutritious meal he'd had in almost a year!
​
The elf was taking very small bites and asked him more words, mainly names related to food, then also about the decor of the room they were in, body parts names, and so on.
​
***
​
Learsa contemplated the situation in the privacy of her thoughts; of course, the record from her eyes was registered for loremistress Kisikil, but the flock leader had her own observations. The man noted Its weakness. Did he appropriate It? He immediately noticed that It is not a person and cannot decide for itself. Laersa smiled at her own thoughts. The man changed the thing's name and ordered it to eat regular food. The fleshmistress mentioned that he was an unaugmented being, but authority was just his nature. Are all men like that? What if Raf changes her name alike? How should she behave?
​
***
​
It was a bit weird and awkward, but a solid meal. It also took quite a long time because Gesh (she didn't seem to mind diminutive) kept talking to him about more and more complex topics.
​
The man looked at his watch. They've killed over an hour here.
​
"Listen Gesh… I ate. Is there a place around here…?"
​
"To defecate?" The elf came to help.
​
"Yes! Exactly! Wait... Did you get that word out of me while I was eating? Wow…"
​
The women got up and walked together to the door on the opposite side of the room. Raf was very nervous; he hoped that it would be a "normal" restroom, even if it would rather be a ladies' restroom... because he still hadn't seen any guys yet. Fuck, they must be huge...
​
"Glory be to Star Trek!" he praised when the toilets were relatively normal, apart from the fact that there were no cubicles and the room consisted of a series of metal toilet bowls along one wall and sinks on the other. Raf had spent some time in prison and even more in the army, so he wasn't particularly shy, but he was glad that no one else was in the room at the time. There was also no paper ... but the toilet bowls were equipped with showers that sprayed some kind of foam under pressure. A cool but quite pleasant shower in private places. Raf decided that maybe one day he'd get used to it...
​
When he went outside, the women were waiting for him.
​
"Gentleman Raf," Gesh began, using words she had gleaned from him over the meal, "soon I will be able to communicate in your language in a way that I hope you will find satisfactory."
​
"I think you're doing great; you already talk, and we've known each other for... an hour and a half?"
​
"Thank you, Mr. Raf," the elf timidly bowed her head, "thanks to my study in a few hours, Honored Laersa will also be able to talk to you." The woman explained.
​
"Wow! It's amazing. Cool!" Raf was surprised.
​
"I'm glad you're happy, Mr man Raf." The elf was saying, "I hope you are not angry. Is there anything you would like to do until our communication allows us to answer all your questions? Something that doesn't require complicated language?"
​
Raf had about a million questions. He would also like to take a real shower. But language problems aside, he wanted to know something:
​
"Are we on a planet?"
​
"No"
​
"So we're off-planet?"
​
"Yes"
​
"I want to see it!"
​
first

At the same time, I hate being transgender. I feel like this aspect of my life has shaped who I am and made me a better person and I am very happy about that, but I hate having to come out to people because I don't pass, or they see my deadname, or they clock my voice. I hate being the poster trans kid for my college. I hate being treated differently because of my identity. I hate how my own sister only uses my name/pronouns when she wants something from me. I hate how the biggest fear in my life right now is my own father, and how im worried that if I ever get married he won't come. I hate having to look over my shoulder to make sure I'm not being stalked. I hate having to fight for my right to live on a planet I didn't ask to be born to. But most of all, I can not stand how people look at me. How my friends look at me. They try to hide it, but I can still see that they look at me differently. I want so badly to be able to change my name and Gender Marker and go full stealth. But in doing that, I would have to sacrifice this other part of my identity. This part of me that has formed the backbone of who I am for so long. Transitioning saved my life, saved me from the sad little boy they told me to be. When I realized that I was transgender, it was like a switch went off. My mood improved, my social life improved, I started trying new things and coming out of my shell, hell I even joined my high school theatre program and played Rizzo in Grease! I don't know if I can put that part of me away in order to live in some semblance of safety.

I just binged this show and loved every moment of it. I'm so obsessed. Can't wait for Season 2.
Anyway, the moment Rhonda popped on screen, I thought, "I know her from somewhere else." It's making me crazy. I checked IMDB and I saw Sarah Yarkin in The Good Place... but that's not it. Rhonda just seems like an homage to someone very specific. Definitely strong Rizzo (Grease) vibes, but... that's not quite it.
Does she remind anyone else of ... anyone else?

My partner and I are both adults with work-from-home desk jobs. Overall, being around my partner often feels draining, stressful, demotivating, and oppressive. I don't feel like we're a team, more like I'm trying to do the best I can with what I get each day.
I don't know how much of any of this is ND (either my partner's or mine), my personality not meshing with his, being socially inexperienced, annoying habits my partner never got out of, or him being too used to living as an adult child in his mother's house where he just lives in his bedroom.
My partner has repeatedly mentioned seeing a medical professional in childhood and during college, but that "the doctor couldn't tell whether it's autism, anxiety, or ADD." Now as an adult, he doesn't want to see a professional or try treatment, because he says it will affect his ability to work and enjoy life.
I'm trying to figure out if this is stuff I should learn to accommodate better or if there are areas here where I can reasonably insist for him to spend more time and energy on compromises that work for both of us.
In a nutshell:

• He makes zero effort to synchronize his schedule with mine and doesn't see why he needs to.
• He often asks me a bunch of unprompted rapid-fire questions on random topics to which he expects instant answers.
• He sometimes instantly loses interest in the thing I'm telling him.
• He sometimes doesn't notice that I'm talking to him despite me repeatedly addressing him and waiting for a response.
• He often talks in monologues and complains if I respond to something before he's completely done talking.
• He never plans for any "family" activities, like looking for shared things to do or holiday planning.
• He never takes time to clean up debris in our living space.
• He completely ignores all administrative "adult responsibilities," like shopping, bills, and paperwork.

My partner does zero time management. I can't be sure he'll be awake for lunch (which matters because I need to actually prepare the lunch). I can't know if he'll go to bed at 9 p.m. or still be up watching videos at 4 a.m. He spends almost all his waking hours in front of his computer behind a dry-erase cubicle partition where I can't tell what he's doing. There is no "work time" and "play time." At any given time of day he can be watching videos or freaking out about a work-related problem. Is he working or chilling? For how long? What does he expect to do next? Can I talk to him about something random or is he too focused? When I ask him for help with synchronizing with him, he acts frustrated and confused why I want to limit what he does and when, or "can you really not sleep by yourself." Basically whenever we're in the same room together, I try to sit quietly and not to disturb him, all the way until I go to bed (although he sometimes still calls my being in the same room too distracting for him, so I go to sit in the bedroom). We almost never do the same activity together, even when we're literally in the same living room all day.
On the other hand, he has repeatedly told me that he wants more support with making each day more predictable, especially regarding food and mealtimes. He has repeatedly said that he can't remember "the last time we ate the same thing for two weeks straight." He talks about how a perfect mom is a "machine" that does the same thing at the same time, every day. He says that he finds takeout and fast food preferable in many ways to home-cooked meals (I prefer the opposite). He has complained that we eat out at too many different restaurants and that we don't always order the best thing on the menu. He seems happy to eat almost anything I cook and has a pretty varied palate, but seems to have no self-control about how much he eats. He will get up for second and third helpings as long as there is more food in the pot, even if I say that I expect to save leftovers. He doesn't organize mealtimes. He keeps bags of snacks and chips at his desk and is eating from them constantly. He complains about his weight gain and says that he used to be much thinner in the past despite even then being completely sedentary and never exercising.
If my partner is talking to me, I constantly have to save and discard responses in the back of my mind. He wants me to be engaged, but if I respond in a way I thought was reasonable, he often complains that I derailed the topic and didn't let him have the conversation he wanted to have. We often have strained meta-conversation in which he asks why I thought something was worth saying at all while he was talking. He has repeatedly said that he can't think about what he wants to say and what I'm saying at the same time, so he either gets through his monologue completely or there's no use in him talking to me. He rarely tries to steer the conversation. If it doesn't turn out how he wanted it to, he just considers it ruined.
Sometimes I have to address my partner 3-4 times in a row, with increasing salience and pausing in between, before he responds with something like, "What? I was focused on something else." This can happen even if we were just in the middle of conversation, because he has switched his attention to something else without indicating to me that we're done. This makes me feel hurt and like I made a social mistake. On the other hand, he seems to expect that I will respond to him quickly, even if I wasn't paying attention to him until then and was in the middle of something else (for example, literally about to use the bathroom), which he rarely notices.
My partner watches videos almost constantly, at all waking hours, with the sound on, as a distraction from other tasks. Those videos are almost always either shonen anime (with cartoon characters who scream non-stop), shocking Reddit videos (with screams of horror and surprise), or screechy video streamers who yell out catchphrases. This soundscape plays for many hours each day, whether I'm trying to concentrate on something or read a book, because my partner never considers wearing headphones to spare my ability to concentrate.
When we're in the same room, my partner often asks me a stream of spur-of-the-moment questions on topics I wasn't thinking about just then, like "What do you think will happen to China's tech manufacturing in the next 5 years? Do you think any animals have a concept of aspiring to something? Is it moral for an instructor to offer extra credit for unpaid assistance?" He switches from topic to topic without much continuity and gets irritated if I don't immediately engage in wild speculation, because he thinks of these as banter and he just wants an instant "gut check" from me on topic after topic.
On the other hand, if I'm telling my partner about something minor that I think is funny or interesting, he sometimes abruptly stops me by yelling "I don't care!"
Every day is almost the same. He wakes up and immediately goes to sit at his desk to work and watch videos. I serve him lunch and dinner or we eat out somewhere. Every few days we will go on a walk after dinner. Then I go to sleep. Meals and walks are the only activities we share. He has responded with disregard and indifference to every other casual activity I have suggested sharing: cooking, games, watching movies, the gym, hobbies, etc. When I'm home, I constantly feel like I'm waiting in a waiting room until it's time for bed. He is busily and noisily doing his thing behind a cubicle partition, and watching TV or listening to music with the sound on while my partner is in the same room 10 feet away seems impractical and disruptive, like I'm trying to drown out his noise with my noise.
We used to do a lot of walking along local park trails, but we gradually stopped doing it at all. Eventually, there was one park left that he used to suggest every time, with one specific trail loop he suggested every time. Now, there is basically a single "outdoor activity" left, which is a nighttime walk through a local college campus, following the same path every time. My partner says this walk meets all of his criteria for outdoor stimulation and exercise, so there is no reason to ever vary it.
My partner never puts things back in their place. Everything is "on demand." If I need a cup to drink from or a spoon for stirring, I need to go find one on his desk and wash it. Every cup is always at his desk and it's always dirty. There are piles of clothes and product packaging taking up space everywhere. If I want to put something down on the table, I first need to wipe off the grease and crumbs. If I need to put a dish of food in front of my partner, I need to shove aside a layer of debris on the dinner table. Everything is always taken out and thrown into a crumpled pile. When I try to clean up and need his input to throw something away, he gets irritated why I thought it was worth interrupting him and why is this worth thinking about right now.
My partner never does laundry and never washes his clothes unless I explicitly ask him to put stuff in the hamper. He is fine wearing the same handful of old clothes that are literally grey with filth and grime. He also doesn't wear underwear, and when he goes outside in his stretched-out filthy childhood clothes, it's very obvious that he's not wearing underwear underneath. When I ask him about the impression he wants to create in public, he says that only an "immature f***face" would care about the clothes and hygiene of others.
My partner doesn't wash his hands after using the bathroom and before touching food or dishes. He does not use bathroom air freshener and doesn't like bathroom air freshener to be used. He prefers to keep the bathroom light off and the bathroom door open while using the bathroom, with a little bit of hallway light coming in. He spends a lot of time using his iPad in the bathroom.
He is what I would consider dangerously irresponsible. He let his driving license lapse without renewing it, and he drove our car without a license for a year. He abandoned his own car on the street until the battery died. The car got tagged and almost towed several times, until it finally got impounded. When I noticed it was impounded, it took him a week to decide to get in touch with the impound lot. He got into a car accident where he wasn't at fault, but he never responded to the insurance adjuster. This led to some kind of default judgment against him, which he then ignored until it went to collections. If he gets paper checks in the mail, he ignores them until they expire. When he travels for work, he doesn't file expense reports to get reimbursed. He explains all this by saying that the things he decides are worth his limited attention and energy are so important that absolutely nothing else, no matter how catastrophically urgent or dire, is worth the distraction.
I feel at my wit's end trying to live with his quirks. After a long time of trying to find middle ground and accommodate differences, I feel constantly dissatisfied and off-balance.

Yes, the first vice president was Otter from Animal House
Yes, the second vice president was Lumbergh from Office Space
Yes, the first lady was Rizzo from Grease
I think those all qualify as common knowledge at this point. However, CJ had minor roles in two big movies that may have gone unnoticed. First she was the DC101 program director in Private Parts. Then, she was the wife next door in American Beauty.
Are there any other memorable roles you can think of for the cast?

Full Gear is less than a week away and many of you have reached out requesting investment guidance. You need to make sure your money is working for you, especially if you don't have much to invest at the moment. Fortunately, I'm here to tell you who to BUY and who to SELL ahead of this week's PPV for max returns.
Sure Things:

• MJF - You can't go wrong with MJF stock. Look, it's already expensive. It's hard to get in at this pricepoint, I know, but for those who can afford it, there's almost no way to lose at the moment. MJF has too many concurrent storylines to drop the belt at Full Gear and it's only going to get wilder as our beloved metaphorical Spider-Man is forced to confront his very own Sinister Six over the next several weeks. You add Adam Cole to the mix and the mystery of a Devil Clone Saga and we have something truly magical. This ride is far from over, but for those looking for more entry level stock, look elsewhere.
• Timeless Toni Storm - There is no losing here, only whether you cash out now, or later. Savvy investors will have bought in long ago, but it's still not too late to make money off one of the most unexpectedly explosive stocks in all of 2023! Shida is an impressive opponent and these two are poised to tear the house down, but make sure to play your stocks accordingly based on the outcome! If we see Toni win, SELL SELL SELL. Her stock will spike as new champion, but a three time champion probably will not have a long reign, especially with people like Rosa and Hayter poised to return! Cash out on the hype of her title win and invest elsewhere until her stock dips. If Toni loses though you stand to make FAR more money! If she loses, Toni will continue to unravel, especially as Mariah May gets added to the mix! This stock will continue growing as Toni becomes progressively unhinged and it's likely she will win a title before long, whether it be this or the TBS title. If Toni loses, HOLD HOLD HOLD!

Low Cost, Huge Upside:

• Skye Blue - If you get in now, you'll have purchased stock before her inevitable win this Wednesday against Velvet. Expect a small bump there, but the question is, what happens at Full Gear? Currently Skye Blue stock is pretty cheap, but there's a possibility she turns on Julia and somehow gets the TBS title, which could make for astronomical overnight profits. This is not a sure thing however! Beware, Skye Blue purchasers, as there is also a chance Skye Blue helps Julia win and joins the House of Black. If this happens, her stock may fall slightly if relegated to Julia's lackey in a way that parallels how Velvet accompanied Jade. This would not be ideal short term, but could still be a long term play as there's potential for a redemption storyline later. Watch this stock closely!
• Mariah May - If you don't know her or haven't done your research, know this: BUY BUY BUY. This is probably as low as Mariah May stock is ever going to get, especially knowing she's going right into a storyline with the single strongest stock in the entire women's division. Right now you have the advantage of the masses not knowing how good she is yet... buy, hold and thank me for massive profits down the road.

Risky Trading:

• Kris Statlander - It seems as though the only way Kris' stock can prevent a collapse this weekend is if she puts on a 5 star classic. Currently, it feels like a lose/lose; If she wins, she will have beaten two relatively young up and coming talents, but it's not enough to see immediate short term returns like a win against a Hayter or Shida. Furthermore, this storyline feels more focused on Julia and Skye than Statlander. With Skye being the X-factor in this match and Julia's stock seeing a meteoric rise as of late, it's not impossible that Kris drops the belt. If she does, expect to see a catastrophic drop in Kris stock value... I love Kris, but in my professional opinion, it may be time to sell prior to the PPV. Even if she wins, the spotlight still feels like it's on the two younger competitors in this match.
• Sting - Sorry, but it's far too late to invest in Sting stock. The time was three years ago. By this point everyone knows his last match is coming and his value has hit an all time high. There's almost no money left to be made before this stock inevitably closes next year at Revolution, leaving countless people holding the bags. Don't ride the FOMO of investing prior to his last match; you'll just further inflate the stock for all the people who got in early and plan to sell at Revolution. For all of you who invested in the icon early, enjoy your absolutely insane profits as Sting's run has been more legendary than we could have ever hoped for and exceeded all expectations. Perhaps one of the best performing stocks we'll ever see, truly befitting one of the all time greats.
• Kenny Omega - This has been the roughest year for Omega stock potentially... ever. After being stuck in multi-man matches, the Best Bout Machine has suffered loss after loss in what is now an unprecedented slump. I do think Kenny Omega stock will rise again, and it's still not what I would consider cheap, but here's my word of caution: I don't think it's done falling. With Ibushi not appearing to be his old self and a very strong possibility of a loss against the Young Bucks at Full Gear, it may be smarter to wait until after the PPV to begin purchasing Omega stock again. Wait for now, buy at the lowest point after it continues to dip, and hold for the inevitable rise. Trust me!
• Serena Deeb - Yes, according to recent reports she may back, but the wounds are still fresh for veteran investors who bought in right when it seemed like her constant string of excellent matches would firmly cement her near the top of the division. She may return. She may have banger after banger on Dynamite. She may also lose you money if you're not careful.

Long Term Investments:

• Saraya/Ruby, Cool Hand Ang/Daddy Magic - We're at the beginning of a storyline that's poised to capture the hearts of fans everywhere. Look, we all know these four stocks have been incredibly unreliable. Getting lost in the Jericho Appreciation Society has been detrimental to 2.0's growth, whereas Ruby has had multiple instances in which her stock was poised to take off only to crash. People are afraid to invest in Ruby again as they're justifiably afraid to get burned. Not only that, but people abandoned ship on Saraya after savvy investors predicted her hometown win at All In, and with her value having crashed it seemed like there was little to no upside... until now. Saraya and Daddy Magic are acting as the Rizzo and Kenickie of this love story that feels saturated with Grease. If these lovable goofs can execute on this storyline, we may see all four of these stocks soar, but don't expect immediate returns. This seems like a slow burn, but weeks from now those who get in early may be counting their money.
• Jack Perry - There's an argument for this to be in risky, but I think Jack is a long term play. Due to recent events his stock has taken a massive hit, and many people aren't confident that he won't get "go away heat" upon his return by a certain portion of the fanbase. That said, with the right presentation we might see his controversy catapult him to super stardom. Jack Perry stock has been very reliable in the past and it's currently at the lowest point we may ever see. I think it would be foolish not to buy this dip!

Penny Stocks:

• Peter Avalon - Look, I'm trying to find the most ethical way to say this, but here it is: I lost a ton of money on PPA stocks back when I thought the Wingmen were poised to take off and become the hottest jobber act in AEW. It's a penny stock, all I'm saying is consider it. I need some of this money back. Buy it, please. For me.

The Graveyard:

• The Bunny - Currently she is no longer on the roster page so I fear anyone who had invested in her previously is left holding bags. I'm sorry for your losses. It may be a time to start selling any Butcher and Blade stock you may be sitting on...

​
Please, as always, trade responsibly!

Hey! I am thinking about auditioning for my college's production of Grease but this is my first time auditioning for something like this and I am kinda lost on what to audition with. I was thinking of auditioning for either Rizzo or Frenchy. For Rizzo I might do What Did I Ever See in Him from Bye Bye Birdie and could use some feedback on the choice and I have no clue what to sing for Frenchy. I tend to stay in an Alto 2 to Tenor 1 range but am planning on singing higher into alto, but I can't really get past a C5 comfortably. Sorry if this is ranty.

Disclaimer: I am not an English major, but English is my first language. I couldn't stand the inconsistencies with A Knight's voicelines; ranging from the use of first person when he should be using third person... to inconsistencies of Old English, and a bunch of other small grammar issues.
I've seen some people talk about the translation errors and it seems the creators of Reverse:1999 read Reddit so here's my version of voice and text updates.
I just want to help fix the issues and I hope this helps the developers or something.
Bolded words are the new words, italicized words are the original words I changed
​
First Encounter:
Original: Someone is just a knight, nameless, wandering. Beholden to thee for taking me in. If thou dost not mind, please let Someone serve thee till the end.
New: Who stands before thee is just a knight, nameless, wandering. Beholden to thee for taking one in. If thou dost not mind, please let this one serve thee till the end.
​
Suitcase Climate:
Original: If it doesn't stop raining, Someone will be the first knight to sacrifice his life because of the rusty armor.
New: If the rain doth not cease, this one may become the first knight to sacrifice his life because of rusty armor.
​
To the Future:Original: Chivalry today is not common among young people. In the future, will it be even worse? sigh It really makes Someone worry...
- really is pretty informal
New: Chivalry today is not common among young people. In the future, would such a thing become obsolete? sigh It troubles one...
​
Idle:
Original: Sometimes, Someone looks away just like thee, but no one hath noticed it.
New: Sometimes, one looks away,.. just like thee, but how could any person notice such?
​
Greetings: Don't know French, I am assuming it's right.
​
Morning:
Original: Good morning. Someone is practicing how to rotate the plate on the tip of the sword and keep balance.
New: Good morning, this one is practicing how to rotate the plate on the tip of his sword and keep balance.
​
Bond Morning:
Original: In the age when Someone lived, breakfast is not customary. However, thy meal looks so delicious that Someone would like to have some grease for himself.
New: In the age when one lived, breakfast was not customary. However...since thy meal looks so delicious, one must have some grease for himself.
​
Night: (man... could not understand it for the life of me even after reading it 2 times)
Original: Are you worried about going bald if you stay up late? Someone hath an ancient secret recipe from my Lord... Oh, please do not look at the portrait of his grandson. Someone believes there is no necessary connection between the two.
New: Thou art worried of balding because thee continues to stay up late? Well, this one possesses an ancient secret recipe from one's Lord... Oh, please refrain from looking at the portrait of his grandson. One is sure that the potion bears no connection to him...
​
Bond Night:
Original: Many years ago, on a starry night, an old friend drove to the moon... This may surprise thee, but even an elderly armor remembers things past once in a while.
This one is good.
​
Hat and Hair:
Original: One step further, and you will be in close contact with Someone's nose... As long as you can hit Someone's head.
New: Another step further, and thou will be in close contact with one's nose... but only if thou could touch one's head.
​
Sleeves and Hands:
Original: What is the motivation for A Knight along the way? For justice. For honor. For faith... And for a bit of grease to prevent the armor from rusting.
New: What is the motivation for A Knight along the way? Well it is simply... justice, honor, ... faith.... oh and a bit of grease to prevent one's armor from rusting.
​
Clothing and Torso:
Original: Living without the body makes thee disappointed? Then, please allow Someone to introduce thee to a trusty friend—Knight Dullahan.
New: Seeing one without a physical body makes thee disappointed? Then please, allow this one to introduce himself—Knight Dullahan.
​
Hobby:
Original: Don't worry. All thy efforts will pay off. Someone once learned the difficult technique of armor maintenance, and now it can be applied to himself.
New: Do not worry. All thy efforts will pay off. One found armor maintenance to be immensely difficult in the beginning but now, it is easily applied to himself.
​
Praise:
Original: Someone hath never doubted the reason for his loyalty to thee, and thou hast proved Someone's choice.
New: One has never doubted the reason for his loyalty to thee, and thou hast proven to be an excellent choice(~of master).
LOL maybe not add that last part,,,
​
Intimacy:
Original: Someone hath experienced the fight on the battlefield, as well as the brocade bed and the rose garden. If you'd like some stories, Someone is always at thy service.
New: One has experience on the battlefield, as much as he does in brocade beds and rose gardens. If thou would like some stories, this one shall always be at thy service.
HOT AWOOOGA
​
Chitchat I:
Original: Even if the enemy is just an apple, A Knight will follow the code of fairness... So Someone only challenges one at a time.
New: Even if thine enemy is just an apple, thou must follow the code of fairness and challenge one at a time.
​
Chitchat II: French oooo
​
Monologue:
Original: Someone's past will fade away with poems in the wind. And now, Someone, with the sword, will once again build a brand new legend for thee as a knight.
New: One's past has faded away to poems in the wind. But now with his sword, A Knight shall build a brand new legend just for thee.
​
For battle chants, just change "someone" to "One's" or "One" or "This one."
​
Insight:
Original: Thank you for taking good care of me. Someone's armor was saved from rust.
New: Thank thee for taking good care of this one. His armor hath been saved from rust.
​
Bottom of Insight:
Original: The last time when honored, Someone was only a man too young. But Someone's piety and oath hath been unchanged, now and always will be.
New: The last time one was honored, he was only a man too young. But his piety and oath remaineth unchanged, now and always will be.
- could be "remains" instead of "remaineth"
​
Let me know what yall think!
​

I was incredibly interested the first half of the show. Loved the supernatural element. I binge watched episodes 1-6 the other night and just finished the season tonight. However, in sum, I’m so frustrated for multiple reasons with this show. As a black woman in corporate (I work for a hedge fund) who currently works with zero black folks, I felt so so so disappointed in Nella and her reasoning capabilities. That’s number one. We don’t get to where we are by being gullible and insecure.
Nella, like me, was raised around white people. The primary advantage to that is learning early on how to navigate these spaces. Clock the game and play along without revealing 100% of yourself and your family problems. Be friendly but assertive. Be cooperative but create boundaries early. As you get older, the insecurity of being afraid to “push back” for fear of being labeled aggressive dissipates. You, black woman, got to where you are because you worked your ass off and earned it. No man or woman in the corporate structure should make you abandon the discipline that got you there, so, quite frankly, Nella should know better!
My first job out of college was in a majority white office with the only other black woman being assigned as my mentor. We clicked immediately and she’s still one of my closest friends years later, but if she had ever done ONE thing Hazel did, that door would have been slammed shut. No matter where we come from, most black women share the same caution in trust at the workplace. For her to allow Hazel to disrupt her progress on her first day, repeatedly do shady things, and then INVALIDATE all of her hard work in that ep 10 monologue to convince her to put on the hair grease, is absolutely ridiculous. This plot would have ended quickly if Nella exercised restraint and critical thinking.
Second, the only reasonable person in the show being Malaika (who is stereotypically forthright and aggressive btw) is insulting. Suburban and/or nerdy black girls are always painted as insecure with an identity crisis OR conniving and fake. It doesn’t make sense for her to have a lifelong friend like Malaika and not have any similar traits regarding her confidence. Btw Malaika getting ran over and returning with no injuries two episodes later is just silly.
Third, the supernatural plot was wasted. I would not be so critical of this show if the plot was rooted in supernatural elements, as was indicated. Fantasy plots require suspended logic. But when you look at the behavior of Nella objectively and the course of events, the plot begins to insult your emotional intelligence.
Sorry if I sound triggered but I honestly am! This show paints us as desperate and insecure in so many ways. Nella is at the height of her career and cannot articulate her emotions or stand up for herself. How did she get into that office? How did she queue herself up for a promotion? She didn’t need that hair grease at all but fell apart just because another black woman was hired.
And we won’t even discuss how problematic a “hair grease that makes black people more agreeable and bougie” is. The hell? I understand this is fleshed out more in the book but the trope itself is insulting.
So much wasted potential for a sensitive topic.

cyborg was originally going to be a sequel to masters of the universe.
the collector was originally going to be a prequel to saw.
dreamwork's monsters vs aliens was originally going to be an adaptation of the comic book series rex havoc. it eventually got rewritten halfway through production to be it's own thing.
the avenging fist was going to be a film adaptation of the popular fighting game series tekken. while it became it's own thing, it's hard not to see the tekken influence.
colombiana was originally written as a sequel to leon the professional that would have focused on natalie portman's character.
darkman was born from sam raimi's failed attempt to make a movie based on the shadow.
the first final destination movie started it's life as a script for the X files.
high school musicial was originally going to be the third grease movie. adding onto this, sharpey was going to be rizzo's daughter.
princess of darkness started it's life as the fourth halloween movie.
doctor morbid was originally going to be a doctor strange movie but the rights expired.
mr smith goes to washington was going to be a sequel to mr deeds goes to town. however, gary cooper's unavailability led frank capra to rewrite the script and give the lead to james stewart. the rest as they say is history.
the rescuer was originally going to be a sequel to 101 dalmatians with cruella devil coming back as villain. obviously, that didn't happen and it became it's own movie. when watching the movie, it's hard to not watch madame medusa and not notice similarities to cruella.
excalibur was born from john boorman's failed attempt to adapt the lord of the rings.
zack snyder's upcoming rebel moon movie started it's life as a pitch for a star wars movie. the project was actually in development before disney bought lucasfilm, at which point the project was shelved. now, it's going to become it's own thing.

Hi! I'm new so sorry if this is an annoying post but, I am writing a short story and have kind of come to a blank. I would love if you could give it a read and let me know what you think. I hope you enjoy it :) Also, it's a bit strange, I'm trying some things and sort of dove headfirst into a style. I think its fun. Anyway
I like to introduce myself, makes me appear more approachable I I think. I’m Riff, and I’m a detective you see. But not just any old garden variety one. No I've got something the other guys don’t. I’ve got the groove in me. I’ll give an example.
The sun was searing my skin a nice medium rare. Pinkish and smelling BBQ I entered the Museum before my neck became the morning bacon.
“How can I help you?” she was a Scottish elf of a woman, no taller than my kneecap. The befreckled Amanita Muscaria was named Hannah, and she would soon be my tour guide.
“Yes, do I have to pay here or at the counter?” The counter was three feet in front of me with a sign that said admission. I just didn’t want to be rude.
“At the counter.” She was polite all things considered.
Improvisation is any sleuth's biggest asset. Never find yourself stuck between any hard surfaces you can’t talk yourself out of is my motto, but when things get jumpy out of nowhere! You better be able to jazz up those runs and follow the trumpet. Hannah was not supposed to be there last week. This happened last week, I don’t know if I mentioned that.
2 Weeks Ago
Tuesday, late afternoon-ish. I had stumbled home from a café high out of my goddamn mind. I was fizzing to the tune of “What's Up?” Melancholy-ing all over the place as has become my habit. When my skin buzzed. I had to remind myself my inner monologue wasn’t a mental disorder to answer the call.
“Hey, am I picking you up for karaoke?”
My mouth made some response, but I assume it must have been positive. A quick call led to hours of panic.
Issue 1.
It was an extremely pleasant day. So, I walked through the office park on my way home. Being as high as I was it was an incredible decision. But I needed a shower.
Issue 2.
“I kinda have a thing for thing kind of thing” Was the only reason I could give myself for dressing up. I usually would love an excuse to try an outfit, but my head was in the darker area of mafia movies, so my self-esteem was way low. I wore the basic outfit #38
The Denim Superman
Issue 3.
About three weeks ago I slipped into a hell of a case, which I wrote about last month. I caught the head of a mafia family cheating on her husband. Which means I hadn’t spent time with anyone for a while. I forgot how to act completely.
I am in love with the people I know, that’s important in a detective's life. Private or Space. So I was going to swing this night into a whirlwind of mania if I had to keep them smiling. Which is what I end up doing.
Walking into Hollyhock Grove is like being slipstreamed into a botanist fever dream. It is a small Kratmosphere Bar. Which is a tea/melon mix that has calming and high-like effects. Nestled in the elbow of a fishing fashion shop and strip mall sushi was an ever-green cave. Live vines webbed within the ceiling's rafters. Flowers glow with golden lamplights. An aerial flood of pink silk fluttered ad infinitum. I felt bad for whoever had to clean it for inspection.
The karaoke was supposed to start at 10 and go until 1. I was still convincing myself I don’t talk to my hands anymore when we got there at 8. There’s nothing worse than being bad company when you needed the ride. And the best conversation I could hold was if Elf Machines could cook.
An hour in and I was watching the fish tank at the side of the bar. As everyone gathered the couple’s duet of Wonderwall, I witnessed two fish mimic my human cousins perfectly. A small brown catfish twirled his green betta partner. They mouthed and tangoed my attention away.
“You know how they train them?” The man's hand was the kind of greasy you only get from alcohol.
My head swiveled and gawked in awe at the Doomsday of man beside me. Sausage-thick fingers and thicker nails chugged past my nose. Burning my nostrils with its sharp sanitizer smell. His skin was arctic, in temperature, complexion, and glacial cracks along its creases. The arms of John Henry, the face of Henry 8th. Jeans and a Gucci shirt, Nate and I weren’t going to get along.
“Oh yeah, it’s really cool.” I lied. I didn’t know how; I just could not handle a conversation with this man.
“Really!?” fuck was the first thing I thought. He honestly asked me a question, and not only said I knew. But that it was cool. I’ve been locked into a dilemma. I would either have to confess I knew nothing about the fish and lied in hopes of avoiding an unpleasant interaction. Or I could spin a web so complex I can crawl my way out of the spotlight.
“Absolutely!” To show enthusiasm for the topic, but remain blasé, I spoke over my shoulder. I don’t think he noticed or would care but I was proud of myself.
“Because most fish are farmed for tanks,”
“I thought they were caught?”
“Caught?”
“Yeah, here I’ll google it.”
I panicked, I wasn’t too sure about this fact. My mind spiraled into what-ifs. The worst-case scenario was he found out I was lying, kisses the person of my dreams, and rides off into the Moonset singing Sweet Caroline!
“Oh, you’re right, says Tropical fish are mostly from Florida.”
My spine tingled. Nate had unlocked something in me, and we’d only just met. Using that dollop of truth, I painted Nate a masterpiece of fiction.
“That’s why they're called Disney fish.”
“What?”
“Okay so back in the 70s, Walt Disney was scoping out states to loan his big mouse house to. And to make money, the story goes he would train fish to swim in circles. Three fish, three circles, Mickey Mouse.”
“What does have to do with how they teach them to sing and dance?” his drink arrived in a metallic jug the size of my head. The 10-foot-tall behemoth held it like a water bottle.
“Well think about it, when Disney landed in Florida, what did he find?”
“Tropical fish?” I could smell it now. What the sanitizer tried so desperately to hide. But my brain was too soupy to listen.
“Yeah, tropical fish!” If you must lie to someone, the most effective way is to let them lie to themselves and agree. “And when he set up Disney World, he added the tropical fish to his roster. Who are smarter than most fish.”
“Is that true?” I remember seeing it now, the layer of grease churning on his skin. I remember catching a familiar glint in the lights. But I was too distracted by a falling petal to realize.
“I mean yeah it’s complicated. You know what? It’s like how a Doxen is smarter than a Finnish Fire Hound. But dumber than a British Baker.” I call this my Phoenix. It’s nonsense that sounds just real enough to be real but weird. High risk, high reward. Get it wrong and you could ruin a relationship; get it right and you can confound them.
“Oh, I get it yeah. Hey, your friend over there said you’re a PI?” his card weighed more than the table it rested on. His name was Nate Otnow. And I realized too late he was a business major.
Across the bar, I watched as the only two people I knew occupied, unable to pull me away. One being heavily flirted on by a man higher than me, and the other pissing like a racehorse on steroids.
Nate wanted art. And he wanted it fast. He had just bought this NFT thing you see, and that shit’s worthless, so he needed to pawn it off for something valuable. And that’s where I was to come in, cause my rates are far cheaper than a REAL art appraiser. He figured I’d pop down to the art museum a few days of the week and scope the place out. Find which piece gets the most visits.
Now, I asked him why he doesn’t just visit the gallery himself and ask them.
“Obviously they’d know I was thinking of buying it, so naturally they’d show me the most expensive one.”
“Wasn’t that the point though?”
“What point?”
“Of the art?”
“Yeah to trade the NFT for.”
“Well, yeah, no, that’s what your main goal is yeah. But wouldn’t you want the more expensive one anyway?”
“I think you’re too in the weeds with this one guy.”
He was probably right. In any case, I accepted his offer. I was out of my mind, but I’m predisposed to commerce law and had already started the invoice by the time I got home that night.
Starting from that Tuesday, I spent two weeks watching the art like a hawk. Writing down every social interaction I see taking place, and by which works. Note if they’re good or bad, how many legs everyone has, the number of photos taken, teeth, and general odor.
In doing so, I kept track of employee schedules so I could spend hours in its halls without being recognized day in and day out.
I had no safety or legal concerns. I am just very bad at that awkward half-acquaintance phase with new people.
Hannah was not supposed to be there.
I still know her schedule like the back of my hand! She works 8 pm-2 am every Thursday. 1 pm-9 pm Mondays and Wednesdays, and 5 pm-10 pm on Tuesdays. She couldn’t have been scheduled last week because it was Friday!
Every step I took closer to the counter felt like I was sinking in boiling oil. I could feel her gaze on the back of my neck, and it burnt with suspicion.
“Do you have an email with us?” I don’t know what this man looked like. My eyes hadn’t adjusted yet, so he was a large green amoeba.
“Mhm do I type it here?” I tapped the white screen in front of me, but it sat blank.
“No, I, I uh type it when I ring you up.” His gooey nubs stuck to each key when he typed.
“Oh, okay yeah it’s D-” I don’t have email. Well, I do, but I just don’t remember my password. So this was entirely pointless.
“B as in boat or G as in gut?” He never looked up, not that he had the eyes to do so mind you.
“Wait, no, D as in done.”
“Gun?”
“Done.”
“I’m sorry sir could you spell it?” His cytoplasm became a shade of pink which I assumed meant he was embarrassed to ask. But looking back it was probably my eyes slowly adjusting to the dimmer inside light.
“Of course! Never be sorry. D O N E.” I leaned over the counter to try and appear more comforting. But, while he was missing a human throat, his half cough would suggest I did the opposite.
“At?” he gently pushed my elbow off his counter.
“I’m sorry?” The oil froze over as my amoebic acquaintance stared at me. This was a different kind of embarrassment. One where I wasn’t the victim. Because there was no victim.
For the less aware of you this is what happened. While attempting to clarify what it was the receptionist was asking me, I had uninvitedly misunderstood his request. When he said, “I’m sorry sir could you spell it?” he was asking me to return the spelling of my email. Not in fact to spell done. Now you’re wondering why I added this in my retelling. It’s because we have these small misunderstandings all the time and I’m sick and tired of nobody talking about it. Minor misunderstandings, when not addressed, snowball into an avalanche of conflict and I just can’t handle that.
“What is the at? Yahoo, Gmail, Gri-”
“Thmail.” I cut him off before he could finish his question. I didn’t have the time to unravel it.
“I’m sorry but we don’t have any email associated with an account; would you like to become a member today? There’s no credit-” his organelles were swimming with excitement as he spoke. I knew exactly how to get out of it.
“Oh, I don’t have a credit card.”
“Yeah no that’s what I’m saying. You don’t need one.”
“That’s good. Ooh, wait my phone’s ringing. Oh, hi Mark I’m just checking out now for my ticket.” polite smile to where I assumed his face would be.
“Hey man, you can’t keep calling me. I have work.” So, I was really confused. My phone had died two minutes before this conversation so I couldn’t have called Mark.
“Mark? Why are you calling me?” At that moment I had forgotten my phone was dead.
“Is this an emergency?”
“No I wouldn’t say it is. Is that why you called?”
I slid my crinkled $15 across the granite counter.
“This is a fake bill, sir.”
I felt the softest nubs I have ever felt
in my life when our hands touched.
“Sorry, wrong bill.”
The bell bottoms I was
wearing had very tight pockets.
So, fishing out my wallet was a problem.
“What? No, you didn’t call Bill. Why are you at the Museum?”
“We’re meeting here in like two, no?”
Amoeba man was tapping my shoulder so
I didn’t hear what Mark said in response.
“Would you like to round up and donate the $1.06 to the G. Iles Foundation™?”
“Fuck, wait Mark, no I like starving children.”
I actually abhor the food
scarcity capitalism has invented.
But I was frustrated and said the
first thing that came to mind.
“Mark it’s crowning we need the blanket I have to go, guess we’re off tomorrow whatever man.”
Beep
I stood in a stupor stunned by the sudden silence. Staring down into the inky blackness of my screen, I met myself snarling at the sight. It dawned on me my phone had been dead the whole time a tad too late though.
“Ahem.” the $1.06 floated awkwardly in his nub. I had to pry it out, leaving a goo-like residue on my hands. He then gifted me with a small yellow pin. Proof of purchase essentially.
I was halfway up a river that was now flowing in the opposite direction. See I needed access to two different pins, which was now much harder than before. I was relying on Mark being there with me and that phone call told me he wasn’t going to be there anytime soon.
Pin on shirt, I swiveled to face Hannah. Who was belaying herself up a 5’7 segway.
“Hey, weren’t you here last night?” She waved me over to follow her down the glossy-tanned corridor. The museum is essentially a multi-story hallway with a vestigial tail sticking in its side. That was the entrance.
“Oh, yeah I was.” I had been caught in the psychosocial web of familiarity. My head was flooded with nightmarish premonishes of a two-hour-long uncomfortable “Small Talk and Walk”. An STW if you will.
“Got it, I do still have to remind you know flash photography on the first floor, I’ll be stationed right here if you’re ready to leave.” the very responsible strawberry seemed more or less uninterested in my return visit. Which was good for my paranoia, and was a reminder I’m far less interesting than I assume.
Hannah rolled aside, and motioned me to open a door ripped straight from my elementary school cafeteria. That all too familiar click and gust of AC was accented with something new. A rush of perfume that lovingly burnt my sinuses. Chemically floral, with a streak of citrus that brought visions of bleach-laden cleaners to mind. Not entirely unpleasant.
But visually I might as well just have opened a door to the heart of a nuclear explosion. White, nothing but the bluish-white from the sky. The untinted glass ceiling, with pearly walls and floor made for the world's most effective blinding method. Thankfully I remembered the timeless adage and stumbled toward the sharp floral breeze.
My nose led my eyes to a lone mop bucket across the hall. Where was the mop? Where was the mopper?
EXHIBIT I
Before my toes could tap the tiles' seam a flurry of silk, cotton, and wool lashed my face like a bad shave. I hit the floor only to be trampled by the leather heels and walking canes. Rolling across the tornado of 1910’s fashion trends I managed to escape its abuse.
It was only when I got up did, I noticed the bright red lights and caution line reading
CAUTION!
MOVING PARTS!
The entire room was molded after a square ballroom from the dawn of the 20th century. Dresses are sewn onto mannequins drawn to resemble fashion icons from the aughts. Twirling and tapping the metal marionettes spun at speeds dizzying to the mind.
But after a moment everything stopped. The figures froze flinging fabric into Frisbees. The entire room was now filled with these perfect tangent circles to one another.
Boom, there it was. The path. Snaking through the slips and dips around the showroom were branching paths of a clearing. No wider than 5 feet across. I followed slowly to the many plaques on the wall.
Each dress, that spun so deadly close to my extremities, was inspired by vintage school doodles kids did on homework. All numbered, with a corresponding biography of both the designer and artist on the wall.
“L. Frank Baum.” He obviously knew what he was talking about. But whoever had said that over my shoulder sounded like a real dick. Just a pretentious asshole. The kind of man that has done nothing particularly wrong, but just needs to stop being, you know? This was Brahhd
“Who?” I don’t know if I was asking who he was, or who he was talking about. I’m not sure he knew either because he asked me what I said.
I’m going to rip the Band-Aid here Brahhd was unfortunately attractive. Like a poor man's young Jason Biggs. But that just made me dislike him more weirdly. So, I acknowledge off the bat I am to blame for these actions.
“Your nametag, it’s wrong,”
“No, my name is spelt like that.”
“Two H’s?”
“Yes.” Brahhhd didn’t appreciate my line of interrogation. I knew I was on the right path.
“Oh! You work here!” His name tag only said Brahhhhd. No company name no branding. Suspicious to say the least.
“No?”
“Why not? Doesn’t matter, you were saying something about bombs?” I stepped back to be shoulder and shoulder, which was difficult as he was 3cm too tall. Like a bitch.
“What no! No!” he looked around nervously. I don’t know why nobody was around. Even if there were, the whirring of the dresses would’ve drowned out any potentially harmful remarks.
“No, I said L. Frank Baum.”
“Why?”
“That’s, that’s what the dress is based off of?” I finally followed his finger to the biography on the wall.
Beatrice Blum was born sometime in 1906, soon after her family arrived on U.S. shores. Almost lost to history, Blum’s leadership and heroism would have been forgotten had it not been for this artist’s exhibit. BeBe, as she was remembered by her grandchildren, spent her life raising bees and spippies. Until the Dust Bowl. During the drought, her entire city was abandoned by business and local leaders. Bebe responded by organizing and directing the families around her into a commun.../
No disrespect to Ms. Blum of course, but about this time of reading I lost my place and jumped to the end.
/...Grindal saw the young girl’s drawing and was instantly drawn to its literary connection...
So he was right. But I was in a mood now and wanted to be difficult.
“It says it was based on a drawing by Beatrice Blum?”
“Yeah but look at the actual picture!”’ he walked over and gestured vaguely at the yellowed paper behind the glass.
“Of the dress?”
“Yeah! It’s the Patchwork Girl!” he was right. Obviously drawn free hand but the color and cut looks ripped right from the cover. Blum had a talent.
“The who?”
“Wizard of Oz?”
“What?”
“The guy who wrote...” he was about to monologue. Only a few sentences but I wasn’t in the mood.
“Oh! So the dress was designed by the Bomb guy.”
“Yeah!”
“Okay, I see. But it says Wendy Grindal designed it based on the drawings?”
Brahhhhhd scowled and just turned his head. Finally, his face looked as gross as he made me feel.
“Excuse me.” he walked past me and pulled a rope hanging from the ceiling.
“Wait what’s that!?”
“A rope?” as he tugged the whirring came to a sudden stop. The world grew quiet and still as Brahhhhhhd escaped into the fabric.