Scott Masterson had first met Scarlett at a rooftop party in downtown Dallas. Their age and the time of year were both in late springtime, them in their mid twenties and the date in early May. He had on a sharp yet breezy blazer and she astonished in a thigh length sleeveless blue dress.
“Oh hey Scott I don’t believe you two have met…” his then happily married friend had remarked with a slow swinging open hand toward her.
“Scott Masterson…reluctant friend to this knucklehead” he said with a tight lipped grin, trying not to be so obvious with his instant rapture.
“Scarlett…a pleasure…”
Her hand was so delicate to Scott’s touch. They locked eyes. It was like looking back through centuries of connection, endless days of laying in the sun next to the Seine River, or rising to Hollywood fame in the 1940’s and only having each other who would understand the glory and the pain of it all, or generations of quiet, simple country love that would bear such beautiful, happy children that would go on to raise beautiful, happy children, all with their dark blue eyes. Yes, the memories of every love story since the beginning of time was swirling right there in Scarlett’s irises. Scott had to catch himself before he stared embarrassingly too long.
“Sorry Scottie here doesn’t get out often” his friend quipped, which Scott appreciated actually, it helped him snap back to professionalism.
“Well I don’t either…at least I prefer not to.” Scarlett’s words flowed through the air like a flock of rose petals.
“Hey, kindred spirits.” Scott was really sensing a rising energy out of her, they had barely broken eye contact.
“Well, I’ll let you two have at it, I got a wife around here somewhere. Hey…Scott and Scarlett…not bad, not bad.” His friend exited stage right with a sly chuckle.
“Nice guy…so…what are you drinking, Scarlett?” Scott looked around for the emptiest corner of the rooftop bar, hoping to find a nice place for them to be able to hear each other. This night had just become something.
“That depends, Scott…what do you like?”
Oh man.
Well, as you can expect, the evening blossomed into a beautiful, long winded conversation that etched a long list of similarities between the two. They both lived in the city, had never married, and had dreamed of stable, simpler lives far away from tall buildings and busy streets. The next morning Scott awoke in her arms, which warmed much deeper than just his skin. He could feel her soothing his very identity, his future, everything. Her arms were tailor made to fit his very soul, and he had never felt more safe and at home.
“Mmm…you can stay right here…” she whispered, eyes still closed.
“I will…I will”
They both fell back asleep, into a dream that wouldn’t end upon waking.
Two years passed and suddenly they lived that simple backwoods life, way out where acres of land far out-populated the few and far between people. They took a lovely home, which happily looked over a long backyard, right up to a lively yet mostly undisturbed river. Their only neighbor within a mile was an older ranch worker named Charles, who rarely made himself perceivable. Days were spent way on into town where they both had offices. They didn’t mind the commute. Nights were spent mostly like this night, cuddled outside near a lovely little fire, with a slowly shrinking amount of wine sitting between them. Enjoying their Kingdom. Tonight, however, would prove to be a special night, for many reasons, all unexpected.
“Honey, I’ve been thinking…” Scott began, sitting up and opening his hands to the warmth of the fire.
“Oh?” Scarlett also sat up, eyes widening.
“So look, Scarlett, the last two years have been the best of my life. An absolute dream…”
She held her breath, her focus darting between his eyes and mouth.
“Yeah?”
“We have everything we ever want out here. But…what if there’s more?”
“More?” She had envisioned this very conversation hundreds of times.
“Our dreams have come true, but what if we…made some new dreams?” Scott turned and embedded his eyes into hers. He burst into a big smile.
“Scott…I thought…”
“Nevermind what I said” he cut her off, which he always made a point to never do, but this was a good exception.
“I’m ready, Scarlett…let’s have a family.”
“Ohhhh Scott, oh Scott”
They hugged tight enough to where it hurt.
“Well, in that case, we may need to open another bottle.” She said playfully, bouncing her eyebrows twice.
“Excellent. I’ll be right up. I’ll put this fire out and then start yours up.”
“Oh stop!” She bounded away girlishly, up the snowy back steps and into the house.
Scott let out a big sigh that he could see in the cold air and sat back in his chair, taking in his decision. He really was ready. He had secretly been keeping a long list of names that he liked and that he thought would work in front of Masterson. Especially little girl names. He stared into the campfire flames, getting lost imagining the three of them sitting right here, a little girl resting securely in Scarlett’s arms, as Scott had found himself, and stayed within these past two years.
Suddenly his trance was broken when, from the road in front of their house, came the sound of a vehicle approaching at high speed. Scott snapped his head back toward the house to get a better listen. He could see, around the house and through the trees, a large truck barreling down the country road, its headlights racing and bouncing with intensity. In an instant, it had passed up the road and out of sight.
“Huh?”
Soon, after a moment of silence, another sound echoed into the night. This sound rattled Scott to the bone and tore all that was right in his world into pieces. A sharp, bellowing squeal. His eyes shot over to his neighbors house, which was about a tenth of a mile to his right but still had a couple dim lights on that he could see. The shriek seemed to come from there.
Then, more squeals. It was hellish. More than animal but not quite human. Scott stood up. He heard crashing and tearing and further destruction coming from Charles’ house.
“Scarlett!! Scarlett!” He yelled toward his house, where he looked and could see her silhouette behind the curtains at the kitchen window. She didn’t seem to hear him.
He turned back toward his neighbors. The chaos had gone quiet. Not a half a moment after, though, he heard something big barreling through the trees as fast as that truck had been sprinting. Running, running furiously between the two houses. Searching, hunting. Scott was taken aback so hard that his heel had caught the edge of the fire pit, throwing him down only inches away from severe burns. He had knocked his head in the whiplash, making him groan and take a moment to regain his bearings.
“SCARLETT!!!!”
He screamed out toward his home as he sat up, rubbing a quickly rising bump on the back of his head. He heard a loud breaching on the side of his house. The patio door. No. No. Then, all hell broke loose. Scarlett started wailing and crying and he could hear crashes of plates and glasses and deep guttural roars coming from the kitchen inside. Shadows danced in a frenzy from the curtained windows. Sounds of instinctual survival seemed to be thrown from Scarlett inside. Sounds of defeat. Sounds of agony. Sounds of insanity. Scott sprang to his feet, his equilibrium being more damaged than he realized after his fall. He had to catch his hand on a chair to stabilize himself. Scarlett’s symphony of pain had gone quiet. Soon after something burst back out the patio door again and off in the same direction as that truck before.
Scott struggled back up to the house, slowly climbing the wintered, crunching stairs that led to the patio. He no longer yelled for Scarlett. In fact, the only thing that came to his senses was the sound of his own heavy breathing. Everything else had been turned off, save for a heavy and sudden dread that he had prayed he would never feel. He came to the side of his house where indeed the patio door had been busted and forced open. It laid inside the kitchen, its hinges snapped like toothpicks. Scott, with eyes wide and twitching, slowly entered his home and looked into the kitchen.
He didn’t scream. He didn’t even change his breathing. He didn’t blink. He just got a good long look at what laid before him.
Everything was broken. The fridge was on its side, the door hanging open and food and drink scattered all over the floor. The table was upended, its legs to the ceiling. A chair was resting on the counter, possibly having been thrown in defense. And Scarlett. Oh Scarlett. She…was…everywhere. She was all over the floor. She was sprayed against the walls. She was stuck to the window. She was in the sink.
Scott gently walked through the carnal mess and sabotage of his world. Long ago he had known exactly what he would do if something anywhere near this bad were to happen to him. He politely stumbled through the kitchen, down the hall, and into the bedroom. He opened his closet door and lowered a fire safe from the top rack. He unlocked it with a passcode. 511, after that warm May date when he had first met Scarlett. In the safe was a Sig Sauer P320 handgun. Scott took it out, along with a box of bullets, loaded one into the gun, put the safe back on its rack, and walked out of the closet, sitting on his bed. Their bed. Where they should’ve been laying right at this very moment, working toward a happy future. Where he would’ve kissed her forehead and put a hand on her growing midsection. Where they would have awoken on Christmas morning to the sound of children who were way too excited to remain asleep. Where they would’ve grown old. Where they would’ve smiled at each other through wrinkles, satisfied with all the love they shared and passed on to the next generations. Where they would’ve held each other in deep peace as they finally fell asleep to this world.
“I will…I will”
In one quick motion Scott pulled back the hammer and stuck the barrel of that pistol right up against his Governor and blew himself away, far away, right back into Scarlett’s loving arms.
Jeremy “Smallmouth” Bassett quickly yet stealthily made his way back to his Uncle’s house. He hugged the sides of the dark country road, keeping his eyes and ears wide open as to notice any sounds pertaining to the event that he had just witnessed there in the field next to the huge blaze. His only thought was Uncle Chuck. His house was right on the warpath of that horrible thing and Smallmouth had to go to him and make sure he was safe. He dared not go back to his truck, which would bring a lot of unwanted attention. No, Smallmouth walked and walked and finally saw the lights of his Uncle’s house. He carefully approached the front door from the shadowed driveway. Suddenly it occurred to Smallmouth that something was very wrong here. The door was busted in, having been plowed through by something very large and very strong.
“No…no…no”
Smallmouth slowly entered the house. The kitchen and living room were a disaster, chairs and tables and bottles strewn about and shattered. Bloody hoof-prints covered the floors, each of them the size of dinner plates. Smallmouth heard no noise. He felt himself well with tears, his nose a faucet that he began to sniff up as he worked his way through to his Uncle’s room, the door there also being broken in. A small whine growing in his throat, Smallmouth peaked into his uncles bedroom.
It was all in tatters. The bed had been attacked and shredded, the mattress being ripped up and thrown about as if it were made of cotton candy. More bloody hoof-prints were painted all over the brown carpet. Smallmouth trembled and put a hand up to his wet face. He didn’t see a way that his Uncle was anywhere near alive, knowing what he knew about the monster that had been in this house.
Smallmouth slowly walked to the living room, to the only little table that had been untouched in the attack. It was almost as if the bottle of whiskey teleported into his hand from the overturned cabinet, unopened. He fixed that real quick.
Soon he was several pulls deep of the only thing in the world that he knew would make him feel better, even if only for a few hours. He found his pack of cigarettes in his coat pocket and lit one up, although he was indoors. What did it matter? He sat in a chair that he had turned right side up and set the bottle on the table and looked out the back window into the pitch black. He cried for his Uncle and he cried for the world. He cried for himself. He cried for broken promises and his own weakness. He drank and drank until his vision shook from right to left everywhere he looked. At first he didn’t even notice the figures on the back porch. Then his vibrating focus did pick up on them, but by then it was too late. It was so dark out there but in their outlines he could see they wore long robes and hoods.
“HA!! COME AND GET ME! HAHA!! YOU COME AND YOU GET ME!!” Smallmouth boasted with a delusional amount of courage.
A creak escaped from the kitchen and he drunkenly slung his head over toward it. Three more figures stood there. Or was it just one? Smallmouth was none the wiser. All at once the hooded intruders from both inside and outside began to chant a strange, twisted rhyme in strikingly low and dissonant harmony:
“A sliver…of liver…goes down…with a shiver… …and gives…your gullet…to gall… …but drink…the Cider…that drowns…the Spider… …and you…will be free…of it all… …so tighten the grip…that loosens your lips… …O raise…the bottle…of brown… …and wake tomorrow…to find…in sorrow… …ANOTHER…SPIDER…TO…DROWN”
Smallmouth groaned at them in dissatisfaction and turned his bottle up again and began to chug the whiskey. As he did they repeated the chant except this time it was louder and closer. By the time Smallmouth had finished his bottle he was quickly losing consciousness. This wasn’t just whiskey. As he closed his eyes he felt hands grabbing him from all sides.
Smallmouth pulled open his sticky eyelids. His head felt like someone had bowled a strike into it. Wind froze his face. The smell of sickly, wet iron stung his nostrils. His vantage was higher than usual. Way higher. He was looking out into another field, but from easily ten feet up. He saw an old church, formerly painted white but now a flaky pale-beige. He heard the friction of a quick pull of rope below him, matched with a slight, tight pain at his feet. He looked down. A red-robed figure was fastening him against a wooden structure of some kind. His feet sat on a small flat platform perpendicular to a post that went from the ground up past smallmouths head. He couldn’t move his arms, so he quickly shot his eyes side to side. They were also tied to another horizontal post. A cross. He was being tied to a crude wooden cross. His shirt had been removed, exposing a hairy, overweight belly. Smallmouth tried to speak, but all that came out was a slow, unintelligible grumble. He was still drunk. No, this was more than that. He was under the influence of something strong and absolutely inhibitive. He wallowed again, and took in a deep breath. The smell of iron once again hit his nose. He looked down at himself. He was covered in a thick, red liquid. That wasn’t just the smell of iron. He had been splashed full body with blood.
“Now now, young servant…” the figure at his feet had finished his task and took a couple of steps out to admire his own handiwork.
“Ahh…perfect. The picture of martyrdom. Yes, you will always be remembered, Brother Bassett. You are to be the first Saint of The New Bible.” He opened his arms in his declaration.
Smallmouth looked up into the cold night sky. The moon shown down, giving everything a midnight spotlight. It was a gorgeous waxing gibbous, big and bright but not quite full. Yes, he was in a great big snowy field that housed an old worn down church. From the windows of the church he saw candles glowing, showing dark heads and shoulders looking out to him, also covered in loose hoods, hiding faces. He was hanging on a cross about one hundred feet from the old church. In front of the cross was a partially covered pit, a couple of two by fours supporting double armfuls of branches and dead leaves.
The figure at the base of the cross put his arms back to his side. He was still looking right at the drugged Smallmouth’s dumbstruck face. Even with a veiled mouth you could hear the twisted smile in his voice.
“Tonight you will help us finally defeat this legion, Smallmouth. You see, it may have the evil spirits within it, but at its core, it is still an owned animal. An animal that knows its Master very well. An animal that will remember the smell of its Master. You, my friend, are covered in its Master right now. And you are hanging on a cross, the symbol of this brute’s most hated enemy. But take heart, young Brother. Before you is our pit of spears. Yes you will attract the beast, but our Divine plan will intercept it and the beast will fall and be pierced. And then, oh dear brother, you will forever be immortalized. You will be purified in fire by the hands of your church brethren. Out of your screams and into the smoke the iniquities of all will be released. We will go on to preach your good example and your sainthood forever and ever.”
Smallmouth began to drool and hum pathetically. He could hear and understand the words of the robed man but he couldn’t fight back. His body was useless, limp inside its rope confines. All he could do now is think, and watch, and wait, and dread his fate.
The figure turned away from him, walking over near the pit and gathering up a bundle of brambles and throwing them over the last open area, covering it completely. He then crunched through the snow over to the front door of the old church, groaning open the door. He stood at the dark doorway for a few seconds in silence, and then began to make a noise. An over exaggerated pig squealing noise, high pitched and infuriating. Soon after other voices from inside the church began to do the same, their wailing echoing out of the building and all across the field, loudly signaling, calling out. It may as well have been a dinner bell. Not a half minute after they began the distress signal it was loudly answered by a distant squall. A furious squall.
This was it. Either way it happened Smallmouth was about to die. Experience terror, and then die, and not even have the ability to put up any kind of defense. It wasn’t fair. He just slowly lifted up his head and watched out far into the moonlit, white field. He then raised his heavy head further and took a good gander at the moon and stars for the last time.
“God,” he thought to himself, still having full inner monologue yet no outer motor function, “I am so sorry. I am so sorry for being what I am. I am so sorry for ending up in this place. It’s only my own fault. If it wasn’t for me being so stupid and messy and drunk and terrible then this wouldnt be happening to me.”
He began to shed tears that washed lines into the blood on his face.
“Please forgive me God. Please, please, please forgive me for all of my sins. This is it. I’m gonna die. I’m gonna die. PLEASE FORGIVE ME!!!!” He yelled inside his own mind, hoping and trying to send his silent words as far up into heaven as they could go.
He lowered his eyes back to the ground. He looked over at the church again. The windows were empty, the candles were extinguished. Those hooded cowards were hiding from their own handmade sacrificial service. All was quiet for a long pause until a much louder, closer bleating began at the edge of the forest not even three hundred feet away from Smallmouth’s glazed over eyes. It was time, and it was too late for a miracle.
Out of the woods, slowly and heavily, stomped the massive hog. As it marched closer and closer Smallmouth could see its white, boiled over eyes and black-burnt skin. Its jaws were flying open and snapping its sharp, pocket knife-sized teeth together in an intimidating “clack”. It was now less than a hundred feet away, the dark old church to its right shoulder. It stopped, its pale glowing eyes fixed right on Smallmouth on the crude cross. It truly was a monster. It stood as tall as a man and as long as a canoe. Around its murderous mouth were stains of red, the remnants of all that it had taken from the world on this unholy night. In its clanging jaws were bits of flesh. It snorted and scowled.
Then, in a fury, it wailed that horrible squeal and started off into a dead sprint. It galloped and galloped toward Smallmouth at a high, blistering speed. It kept yawping and howling as it cut the distance from the cross down to fifty feet, forty feet, thirty, twenty. All at once it passed over the covered pit and plunged in. In his doomed, dead eyed stupor Smallmouth could hear what sounded like paint being dumped from a rooftop onto concrete. Trails of black liquid squirted and splashed up from the pit, which had been uncovered in the fall of the beast. Unbelieving, Smallmouth saw dozens of steel spear tips standing up from the dug-in ground. Right in the middle of them the beast was stuck. The sheer weight of the animal had caused the spears to pierce through its tough skin, sticking out of its back, soaked in black blood. One spear had stabbed right under the hogs chin, passing up through its jaws and out its black snout. It made agonized sounds. It roared and roared and shook the spears inside it, beginning furiously, then growing weaker and weaker within seconds. Finally, it let out one last weak little squeal, before it went still and quiet.
Smallmouth was frozen both physically by drugs and constraints and mentally by shock. His mouth hung open toward the pit of spears, his vision blurry. He took in a deep, troubled breath and let out a moan of disbelief and relief. The old church doors sprang open, and the sound of jubilation within flowed out into the night. The red robed figures flocked out of the building toward the pit, arms raised in celebration. They surrounded the hole, getting a good look at their success and their enemies defeat. Some held additional spears and began further stabbing the dead animal, causing more black blood to be shed up at them. They all yelled loudly and triumphantly. Some danced around the pit. Some skipped over to Smallmouth on the cross and danced around him, slapping his legs and spinning in circles.
Smallmouth looked on at the raucous celebration, both in utter disbelief of their trap actually working and also in turmoil. How long now until they fully execute their plan.
A taller robed man, whose voice matched the same one who spoke to Smallmouth as he tied his feet, spoke up, sounding almost happily intoxicated.
“Ahh yes my Brothers!! It is done!! We have won!!!”
They all whooped and cheered.
“Brother Norman, go into the church and bring me the small tank of fuel. Let us send our dear Saint Bassett to the Holy lands, where he will be adored for all eternity!”
They all clapped and hollered. One figure began childishly skipping away from the pit and over toward the front door of the church.
Then, it happened.
From the pit all of a sudden a great blaze erupted instantly. It stood as tall as the cross, and it burned a furious red and blue. It raged and raged, blinding Smallmouth and making him clumsily turn his face away from the heat.
All of the figures panicked, screaming and scattering away toward the church. They didn’t get far. Up from the fiery pit, dozens of long, long, black arms, adorned with six hooking claws emerged and stretched out of the flames and latched on to the legs of those trying to escape. Smallmouth heard crying and wailing from the men as the black, razor clawed-hands of the legion grabbed them and began pulling them back, into the blazes. One by one the red robed people were dragged into the flames, their clothes catching instantly. Smallmouth could see violently shaking bodies in the evil furnace. Oh, the screams. Above the tortured howling, the sound of laughing broke out. Deep, menacing laughter, hundreds of voices, echoed up into the air from the burning hole. Then, in one extinguishing squeeze, the ground swallowed the entirety of the fiery pit, leaving it completely covered in dirt, still and quiet. Soon after, and just like the pit of spears, the old church building caught in an instant and raging fire, quickly toppling the walls and dropping the steeple into its ruins. The smoke towered high in the night sky, which had just began to hint at a pale morning blue. Smallmouth hung on his cross in utter horror and surprise.
As the late evening hours glowed into early morning the smoke eventually tapered off, as Smallmouth’s drugs finally began to wear off as well. The fires of the church did garner long distance attention, though. Just as Smallmouth was able to regain control of his muscles and voice he heard emergency sirens call out into the cold morning air. Not long after, two fire trucks, an ambulance and a sheriffs truck tore into the field and toward Smallmouth on the cross. Not long after Smallmouth could feel the tied ropes being cut loose by firemen, their uniforms easily the best red clothes he had seen all night.
“What on God’s green Earth happened here son?” A bearded man with a dark hat and brown shirt and pants asked Smallmouth once he had been lowered down from the cross and sat on the ground with a shock blanket around his shoulders. The Sheriff, no doubt.
“God’s green Earth. It really is God’s, isn’t it?” Smallmouth whispered, staring out across the cold field. Then, at the very place he was staring, an old, familiar truck came barreling out of the gravel road in the woods and through the field in the steadily growing morning light. It was Uncle Chuck’s truck. It hurried over toward the other emergency vehicles, parked, the driver’s side door burst open, and Uncle Chuck came bounding out over to Smallmouth, his eyes wide and his mouth a wonderfully shocked “O”.
“JEREMY! JEREMY!!!” He basically fell on Smallmouth in a tight, warm hug. Smallmouth was caught off guard by Chuck using his real name.
His Uncle held him for several seconds and then let up, but kept his hands on Smallmouth’s shoulders.
“I thought you were dead.” Both of them said at almost the exact same time.
“I came back and your house was a mess and there was blood everywhere. I thought you were dead.” Smallmouth weakly spat out.
“Well, I woke up and you were gone, son, so I walked to the ranch to get my truck. I was worried bout ya son. I came back home and the whole place had been turned upside down. Blood on the carpet. I just thought the worst. Then I tried my neighbors house. Buddy, they’re dead. Looks like some wacko murder-suicide if I ever saw one. Scott probably tried to come kill us too and wrecked the place when he found it empty. I don’t know. But what I DO know is that you are right here! You are okay Jeremy!! Ahhh Praise Jesus!!”
“It’s not that, Uncle. That isn’t what happened out here. It’s..it was a..a, uh…”
Smallmouth’s fried brain couldn’t even comprehend what he had witnessed over the past few hours. It was all a violent blur.
“Dont worry bout it son, you can tell me everything on the way to the hospital. We gotta go get you checked out and cleaned up. C’mon.” He helped Smallmouth up and they walked over to the ambulance, his Uncle’s arm thrown around his shoulder.
Smallmouth would be sent home later that afternoon. It would take him and his Uncle a long time to sort through the chaos of that deadly night and rebuild their lives. But life kept on. Smallmouth would remain living with his Uncle, and would begin a job working with him down at the ranch. Together they started to attend a local church. Smallmouth never touched a drink or a drug or even a cigarette ever again, and remained steadfast in his newly revitalized faith.

I want to write a FNAF fan series that ponders the question "If every disproven FNAF theory was correct, what would that actually look like?" This isn't just recontextualizing the timeline, btw. I'm rewriting the series from the ground up with all these theories applied. So, I looked into lists of debunked FNAF theories to apply them to the story, but I quickly ran into a problem. These lists suck and are super biased.
Like, I can understand that in a series with this little confirmed, you can stretch the definition to include theories that just don't work, even if they aren't technically debunked. But some of these guys (not naming names) genuinely listed stuff like RealGolden (Golden Freddy being a real animatronic), WorldCanon (FNAF World being in continuity with the games), OMCHelp (William screaming for help when you speed up the audio in the red lake in UCN), and FNAF2Summer (FNAF 2 being set in summer) as examples of debunked theories. Like, bro, what? The fact that a very large number of people not only believe these theories, but are able to use them to build other theories like RealGolden > normal MoltenMCI, or WorldCanon > BVReciever and ShatterVictim is evidence in and of itself that these theories are far from debunked.
BTW, that's my criteria. A theory is only "debunked" if it is effectively impossible to argue that it's true without ignoring or straight-up contradicting what is shown in the games (or other in-continuity material) or what is stated by Scott. I'd appreciate it if you all could let me know of any theories you have that fit this criteria. There are only two rules:

1. No Dream Theory or any similar theories, because that removes all room for potential storytelling.
2. No Adult Theory. You know why if you were planning to suggest Adult Theory.

Here are theories I currently have listed, which I'll update as more people chip in.

• Foxy is a good guy
• Phone guy survived
• Bonnie is a girl
• Freddy is possessed by a girl
• PinkGuy
• Vincent
• Phone Guy is Purple Guy
• Golden Freddy murder suit
• Salvage as the name of Springtrap
• All animatronics are springlock suits (seemingly suggested by MatPat back in the FNAF 3 days.)
• Innocent Springtrap
• Puppet Victim
• MikeTrap
• PurpleWill
• MangleDog (I haven't heard anyone try to argue in favor of it since 6, and while it doesn't contradict anything, I wouldn't describe Mangle's behavior as very "dog-like")
• MikeHell (Regardless of what you think Frights is to the games, it disproves this theory.)
• Cult of Glitchtrap (still holding out hope that I can take this one off someday.)
• Guardian Vanessa
• Oops! All Elizabeth (u/SireSquawks name for the theory that Vanny, Vanessa, the Fazbear Entertainment CEO, and Cassie before we knew she was black were all Elizabeth robots. Cassie being black kinda threw a wrench into this whole theory.)
• MXES Mimic
• HenryAfton
• LonelyFredbear (Fredbear plush is a lonely freddy.)
• BVTOYSNHK/VengefulVictim
• MimicBaby
• HwReboot (Help Wanted being a reboot.)
• MikeEmily
• AndrewReceiver
• MikeVictim
• Fazbunker
• MikeRobot
• BiteVictim87
• MikeBoth
• N-StitchlineGames
• NormanAfton
• MCI87 (Phisnom's lore stream shows that a good amount of people still believe this, but it doesn't really work logically. If enough people disagree with this entry, though, I'll remove it.)
• CassidyIrrelevant
• BonnieFritz
• FoxyJeremy
• ToyAI
• FollowMe 85-87
• Logbook86-89
• FNAF 1 1988-89
• FNAF 1 1996-2010
• Freddy's83 (the theory that Fazbear Entertainment got it's start in 1983.)
• GoldenPhone

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

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

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

Hamp’s theory that *wik^- > z- in Albanian has been challenged as unlikely phonetically. I do not feel that such considerations are important, since out of the thousands of sound changes needed throughout the world, at least some would look odd. Instead, I disagree with it due to other etymologies and sound changes that explain the data better.
​

1. zog

Hamp’s *wik^e-gWo- > zog has no basis in comparative data. Instead, since *g^(h)w and *g^(h)y > z, metathesis in *g^haH2ghw- > *g^wa:g > zog :
​
*g^haH2ghu- > Arm. jag -u- ‘youngling / nestling / little bird / sparrow’, *g^wa:g > Alb. zog ‘young animal / nestling / bird / son’, Sog. zāγ ‘kind of bird’, NP zâγ / zâq ‘child / offspring’
​
Also, the similarity of *g^haH2ghu- to Skt. jahu- ‘young animal’ could be explained if *H2 were velar or uvular (Weiss 2016, Whalen 2024a) and caused optional assimilation of *g^haRg^hu-> *g^haRghu- outside of Skt. (which lost *-H2-). H-loss does not seem regular, but if one is desperate for regularity maybe there was optional dissimilation of *gh-gh > *g(h)-g(h) in both directions before regular *g-gh, etc., became standard, with *-Hg- > *-g- (Lubotsky 1981). Otherwise, if *-gh- was original, optional assimilation of *gh() in *g^haRghu-> *g^haRg^hu- for Skt. (similar to *s-ś > ś-ś in *smamk^ru- > *sma(m)k^ur- > Hittite zma(n)kur ‘beard’, šmankur-want- ‘bearded’; *smak^ru- > Sanskrit śmáśru-; etc.).
​

1. -zet

*widk^mti- > *vinćati- > Skt. viṃśatí-, Iran. *vinsati > Os. insäj, G. Dor. wikati, Pamphylian phíkati, Alb. një-zet, Arm. k’san ‘20’
​
This word already has several oddities, so looking for regularity here seems suspect. Since it seems to contain *dwi-dek^mt ‘two tens’ > *(d)widk^mt-, *wik^- > z- in Albanian might not be possible anyway, even if other examples proved true. Of course, since it only appears in compounds (një-zet ‘20’, dy-zet ‘40’), there’s no reason to think initial *wi()k^- was the source at all. Loss of -V- in long words could be the cause. Thus, *-dk^- > *-dg^- > *-g^- might be possible, and only in compounds like *oino-widk^ati > *onyo-w(i)g^ati > *onyo-dg^wati, etc., did the loss of *-i- allow metathesis of *-wg^- > *-g^w-.
​

1. zot

For *zo:tin > zot ‘lord’, *zo:tni: > zonjë / zojë ‘lady’, a source in *poti- > Skt. páti- ‘master / husband’ seems clear, but Hamp’s connection to *wik^-poti- (Skt. viśpáti- ‘master’) has problems. I do not see any reason to believe analogical **wik^-aH-poti- ever existed in Alb. (to explain -o- by *āpo > *ābo > *āo > *ā > o). If the etymology requires an unmotivated affix within the word, not seen in any cognates, it should be rejected. Instead, since Alb. is often similar to Greek, despótēs and fem. déspoina (Skt. dámpati-s, PIE *dems-poti- ‘master of the house’) makes more sense. Not only does Greek also have optional z- here (G. pédon ‘ground’, dápedon / zápedon ‘floor / ground’) for *dem(H2)- ‘house’, but Bithynian might show the same in G. despótēs : Bi. Ziboítēs \ Tiboítēs \ Zeipoítēs ‘a king’. That a cluster *-msp- could become -b- in Bi. means that it could in Alb. as well (no other ex.), so :
*dems-potin- > *de:z-potin > *de:z-botin > *de:botin > *de:otin > *de:tin > *zo:tin > zot
​
A change of *d > *z > s (based on accent) might also exist in (Whalen 2024c) :
​
*sweidro- / *swi:dro-? ‘sweat’ > G. hīdrṓs, Arm. k’irtn
*swi:zro- > Skt. kṣīrá-m ‘milk’, *swi:rso- > Alb. dirsë / djersë ‘sweat’
​
*bhlaido- ‘pallid / ill’ > Slavic *ble:do-, OE blát, Alb. *blaisuro- > blehurë ‘pale’
​
Still more words show optional d(h) / z in the area. Ex.:
​
G. pédon ‘ground’, dápedon / zápedon ‘flooground’
​
*d(e)mbh- > Skt. da(m)bh- ‘slay / destroy’, G. záphelos ‘violent’
​
*dlegWro- ‘naked’ >>
*dlegWor- > *ðlaγar- > Pashto laγaṛ ‘naked / bare’
*dlogWor- > *tlukWor- > EArm. tklor
*dlugWro- > G. zágros ‘barefoot’
​
G. dágklon / zágklon ‘sickle’ (likely a loan)
​
G. dérma ‘skin’, Th. zalmós, Ebro-zelmis \ Diza-zelmis “(having a) goat-skin”
G. dorā́ ‘skin’, *derha > Arm. teṙ ‘veil / coat’, Th. z(e)irá ‘kind of upper garment / cloak’
​
*H2azd- > G. áz[d]ō ‘dry up’, Arm. azazem ‘dry’
(*zd > *zz > z is not regular, see *nizdó- > E. nest, Arm. nist ‘site/dwelling’, *dorusdo- ‘thrush’ > *dorzdo- > *dorðo- > Arm. tordik)
​
*H1leudh- > Arm. eluzumn ‘sprout’, (compare elust ‘growing of plants’), mard-eloyz ‘man-kidnapper’
​
*(s)kewdh- > OE hýdan, E, hide, G. keúthō ‘covehide’, Arm. suzem ‘immerse’
​
*samHdho- > E. sand, G. (ps)ámathos, Arm. awaz, L. sabulum
​
*widh- > L. dīvidere ‘separate’, *weidho-? > Arm. gēz ‘fissure/cut’
​
*H1edh-? > OCS jed-inŭ, MArm. ez ‘one’
​
Skt. vrādh- ‘be proud / boast’, Av. urvādah- ‘*pride / *entertainment > joy / bliss’
Av. urvāz- ‘be proud / entertain’
​
Skt. khād- ‘chew/bite/eat’, khādá- ‘food’
Pth. xāz- ‘devour’, *xāza- > Kho. khāysa- ‘food’
​
*swaH2du- > Skt. svādú- ‘sweet’
*sH2aldu- > Li. saldùs ‘sweet’ ( E. salt, Arm. ał )
*swaldu(r)- > *xwaldur > *xwałtür > Arm. k’ałc’r ‘sweet’
*xwald- > *xwalz- > Av. xVarǝzišta- ‘sweetest’
​
One cause of this might be when metathesis created *dH- > *zH- > z-. If PIE *demH2s-poti- became *dH2ems-poti-, only oddities like d- > z- would give evidence for it. If so, the same for *Hd- > *dH- > *z- in
*H1dntyo- > Arm. *dH- > *zantyo > *žanyo > žani ‘tusk’
with assimilation of *S-y > ž-y, as in *sm(e)id-ye- ‘smile, laugh’ > Greek meidiáō, Arm. žpit ‘smile’, žptim / žmtim ‘I smile’ (Whalen 2024d). That *C-y was affected by change-at-a-distance also shown by :
*g^hrzdhyo- > *γ^arzðyo- > *γarðyo- > Arm. gari ‘barley’
in which no *g^ > j occurred due to dissimilation of palatals.
​
For *zo:tin > zot , *zo:tni: > zonjë, the -n- in the masc. seems to show that PIE *potin- ‘lord’, fem. *potin-H2- > *potniH2 existed. This would match *swe-k^uro- > Sanskrit śváśura- ‘father-in-law’, fem. *swe-k^ur-H2- > *swek^ruH2- ‘mother-in-law’. If so, it would be evidence that i-stems could come from *-in-, nom. *-in > *-ir. Thus, Arm. u-stems in *-ur > -r retain an old IE feature (Whalen 2024b), and pl. *-un-es- > -un-k’ would also be old (*bhrg^hu(n)- ‘high’ > barjr, gen. barju, pl. barjunk’). Armenian neuter *-ur > -r also appear as -u in Greek but -ū in Latin, possibly showing a uvular *R that disappeared in most, but lengthened the *u in *-uR in Latin with the loss of a mora. More complex origins, like *-urx^o- > *-uRH1 > *-ur / *-u(H1), are also possible. It would need to be optional, since Nikolaev relates Latin femur ‘thigh’ to Greek thamús ‘thick’ (2010: 62, also citing Nussbaum in fn 27).
​
Hamp, Eric P. (1997) A Far-Out Equation
Indo-European, Nostratic and Beyond: Festschrift for V.V. Shevoroshkin
https://www.academia.edu/2304575
​
Lubotsky, Alexander (1981) Gr. pḗgnumi : Skt. pajrá- and loss of laryngeals before mediae in Indo-Iranian
https://www.academia.edu/428966
​
Martirosyan, Hrach (2009) Etymological Dictionary of the Armenian Inherited Lexicon
https://www.academia.edu/46614724
​
Nikolaev, Alexander (2010) Issledovanija po praindoevropejskoj imennoj morphologii [Studies in Indo-European Nominal Morphology]
https://www.academia.edu/396023
​
Weiss, Michael (2016) The Proto-Indo-European Laryngeals and the Name of Cilicia in the Iron Age
https://www.academia.edu/28412793
​
Whalen, Sean (2024a) Greek Uvular R / q, ks > xs / kx / kR, k / x > k / kh / r, Hk > H / k / kh (Draft)
https://www.academia.edu/115369292
​
Whalen, Sean (2024b) The Thick Thigh Theory
https://www.academia.edu/117080171
​
Whalen, Sean (2024c) Greek Variation of l / d / th / z, z / y / l, d / b in Context with Indo-European r / l / d(h) / z, d(h) / b(h) (Draft)
https://www.academia.edu/114443926
​
Whalen, Sean (2024d) A To Ž: Latin Ambi-, Am ‘Around’, Armenian Žptim / Žmtim ‘I Smile’, Žołovurd ‘Multitude’; CiV > CyV; Ciy, Cvy > Cy
https://www.academia.edu/114189609
​

As Reddit doesn't allow posts to exceed 40,000 characters, Eastwood's edition had to be split into two parts because his whole career cannot be ignored. The first part was posted yesterday.

Million Dollar Baby (2004)¨

"Beyond his silence, there is a past. Beyond her dreams, there is a feeling. Beyond hope, there is a memory. Beyond their journey, there is a love."
His 25th film. Based on stories from the 2000 collection Rope Burns: Stories from the Corner by F.X. Toole, it stars Eastwood, Hilary Swank and Morgan Freeman. The film follows Margaret "Maggie" Fitzgerald, an underdog amateur boxer who is helped by an underappreciated boxing trainer to achieve her dream of becoming a professional.
Paul Haggis wrote the script on spec, and it took four years to sell it. The film was stuck in development hell for years before it was shot. Several studios rejected the project even when Eastwood signed on as actor and director. Even Warner Bros., Eastwood's longtime home base, would not agree to a $30 million budget. Eastwood persuaded Lakeshore Entertainment's Tom Rosenberg to put up half the budget (as well as handle foreign distribution), with Warner Bros. contributing the rest.
The film had an incredible run in limited release, breaking many records for Eastwood's career. It eventually earned a fantastic $216 million worldwide, becoming his highest grossing film ever. It received critical acclaim, and it was named as one of his greatest films. It won four Oscars: Best Picture, Best Director, Best Actress (for Swank), and Best Supporting Actor (for Freeman). Eastwood became one of the very few directors to make two films to win both Best Picture and Best Director.

• Budget: $30,000,000.
  
• Domestic gross: $100,492,203. ($166.8 million adjusted)
  
• Worldwide gross: $216,763,646.
  

Flags of Our Fathers (2006)

"A single shot can end the war."
His 26th film. Based on the book written by James Bradley and Ron Powers, it stars Ryan Phillippe, Jesse Bradford, Adam Beach, John Benjamin Hickey, John Slattery, Paul Walker, Jamie Bell, Barry Pepper, Robert Patrick and Neal McDonough. The film follows the 1945 Battle of Iwo Jima, the five Marines and one Navy corpsman who were involved in raising the flag on Iwo Jima, and the after effects of that event on their lives.
The film received positive reviews, but it bombed at the box office with just $65 million against its huge $90 million budget.

• Budget: $90,000,000.
  
• Domestic gross: $33,602,376. ($52.2 million adjusted)
  
• Worldwide gross: $65,900,249.
  

Letters from Iwo Jima (2006)

"The completion of the Iwo Jima saga."
His 27th film. Based on Picture Letters from Commander in Chief by Tadamichi Kuribayashi, it stars Ken Watanabe, Kazunari Ninomiya, Tsuyoshi Ihara, Ryō Kase and Shidō Nakamura. It's a companion film to Flags of Our Fathers, and portrays the Battle of Iwo Jima from the perspective of the Japanese soldiers.
In the process of reading about the Japanese perspective of the war for Flags of Our Fathers, in particular General Tadamichi Kuribayashi, Eastwood decided to film a companion piece with this film, which was shot entirely in Japanese. The film was shot back-to-back, starting filming just one month after Flags of Our Fathers wrapped filming.
Despite being seen as the least accessible of both films, this film was much more successful at the box office than the previous film (including a colossal $42 million in Japan alone). It also received critical acclaim, particularly for how it handed the depiction of good and evil from both sides. It received 4 Oscar nominations, including Best Picture and Best Director.

• Budget: $19,000,000.
  
• Domestic gross: $13,756,082. ($21.3 million adjusted)
  
• Worldwide gross: $68,673,228.
  

Changeling (2008)

"To find her son, she did what no one else dared."
His 28th film. It stars Angelina Jolie and John Malkovich, and is based on real-life events, specifically the 1928 Wineville Chicken Coop murders in Mira Loma, California. It follows a woman united with a boy who she realizes is not her missing son. When she tries to demonstrate that to the police and city authorities, she is vilified as delusional, labeled as an unfit mother and confined to a psychiatric ward.
The film earned $113 million worldwide, barely breaking even at the box office. The film received mixed reviews, but Jolie received praise for her performance. She was nominated for the Oscar for Best Actress.

• Budget: $55,000,000.
  
• Domestic gross: $35,739,802. ($52 million adjusted)
  
• Worldwide gross: $113,398,237.
  

Gran Torino (2008)

"Ever come across somebody you shouldn't have messed with?"
His 29th film. It stars Eastwood, and follows Walt Kowalski, a recently widowed Korean War veteran alienated from his family and angry at the world, whose young neighbor, Thao Vang Lor, is pressured by his cousin into stealing Walt's prized Ford Torino for his initiation into a gang. Walt thwarts the theft and subsequently develops a relationship with the boy and his family.
The film received great reviews, as well as praise from the Hmong community. It ended up becoming a sleeper hit, and it earned $270 million worldwide, becoming his highest grossing film.

• Budget: $25,000,000.
  
• Domestic gross: $148,095,302. ($215.6 million adjusted)
  
• Worldwide gross: $269,958,228.
  

Invictus (2009)

"His people needed a leader. He gave them a champion."
His 30th film. It stars Morgan Freeman and Matt Damon. Following the aftermath of the apartheid, President Nelson Mandela decides to unite his people by supporting a rugby team in their bid to win the 1995 Rugby World Cup.
The film earned $122 million worldwide, barely breaking even. It received positive reviews, and Freeman and Damon received Oscar nominations for their performances.

• Budget: $50,000,000.
  
• Domestic gross: $37,491,364. ($54.7 million adjusted)
  
• Worldwide gross: $122,426,792.
  

Hereafter (2010)

"Touched by death. Changed by life."
His 31st film. It stars Matt Damon, Cécile de France, Bryce Dallas Howard, Lyndsey Marshal, Jay Mohr and Thierry Neuvic. An American with a special connection to the afterlife, a woman with a near-death experience and a young English boy, who lost his loved ones, cross paths in an effort to find closure in their lives.
Despite mixed reviews, it managed to earn $107 million, turning a small profit.

• Budget: $50,000,000.
  
• Domestic gross: $32,746,941. ($47 million adjusted)
  
• Worldwide gross: $106,956,330.
  

J. Edgar (2011)

"The most powerful man in the world."
His 32nd film. The film stars Leonardo DiCaprio, Armie Hammer, Naomi Watts, Josh Lucas, and Judi Dench, and follows the career of FBI director J. Edgar Hoover, focusing on Hoover's life from the 1919 Palmer Raids onward.
The film received mixed reviews; while DiCaprio received praise, the technical aspects of the film were criticized. It earned $84 million, making it a box office success, but far below what DiCaprio usually makes at the box office.

• Budget: $35,000,000.
  
• Domestic gross: $37,306,030. ($52 million adjusted)
  
• Worldwide gross: $84,920,539.
  

Jersey Boys (2014)

"Everybody remembers it how they need to."
His 33rd film. Base on the 2004 jukebox musical, it stars John Lloyd Young, Erich Bergen, Michael Lomenda, Vincent Piazza and Christopher Walken, and tells the story of the musical group The Four Seasons.
It received mixed reviews, with praise for the musical numbers but criticism for the narrative and runtime, and failed at the box office.

• Budget: $40,000,000.
  
• Domestic gross: $47,047,013. ($62.3 million adjusted)
  
• Worldwide gross: $67,647,013.
  

American Sniper (2014)

"The most lethal sniper in U.S. history."
His 34th film. It is based on the memoir by Chris Kyle, Scott McEwen and Jim DeFelice, and stars Bradley Cooper and Sienna Miller. The film follows the life of Kyle, who became the deadliest marksman in U.S. military history with 255 kills from four tours in the Iraq War, 160 of which were officially confirmed by the Department of Defense. While Kyle was celebrated for his military successes, his tours of duty took a heavy toll on his personal and family life.
In 2012, Cooper and Warner Bros. bought the rights to the memoir. Cooper wanted Chris Pratt to star as Kyle, but WB told him they would only greenlight the film if he stars in it. After Kyle's murder in 2013, Steven Spielberg signed to direct. Spielberg had read Kyle's book, though he desired to have a more psychological conflict present in the screenplay so an "enemy sniper" character could serve as the insurgent sharpshooter who was trying to track down and kill Kyle. Spielberg's ideas contributed to the development of a lengthy screenplay approaching 160 pages. Due to Warner Bros.' budget constraints, Spielberg felt he could not bring his vision of the story to the screen. So Eastwood was brought in to direct.
The film attained a solid, but not extraordinary response from critics. It also attracted some controversy over its portrayal of both the Iraq War and Kyle himself.
The box office though?
To say that the film had a fantastic run would be selling it short.
It opened on Christmas Day in 4 theaters, and it earned a huge $633,456 ($158,364 PTA). But the following weekend, it actually increased despite playing at the same amount of theaters, adding $676,909. That translated to a $169,227 PTA, becoming the highest second weekend PTA in history for a live-action film. And on its third weekend, it earned $579,518 ($144,879 PTA), becoming the first film to have three weekends above $100,000 PTA. In the 22 days it played in just 4 theaters, it earned $3,424,778.
On its first wide weekend, the film shook the industry by opening with a colossal $89 million. That was almost as much as the other 2014 blockbusters, and given that the film didn't have 3D pricing, it's very likely it sold far more tickets than them. It broke the January opening weekend record by twice as much, and the second biggest for an R-rated title. With insane word of mouth ("A+" on CinemaScore), this film had the legs. In less than one week, it became Eastwood's highest grossing film domestically. On its second weekend, it dropped just 28% and made $64 million, which was the biggest second weekend for an R-rated film (a record it still maintains) and crossed $200 million domestically. And by March, the film overtook The Hunger Games: Mockingjay – Part 1 ($334 million) as the highest grossing 2014 film in North America.
After an insane run in theaters, it closed with a gigantic $350 million domestically, which made it the second highest grossing R-rated film in North America. Overseas, it was also very strong, and it made a huge $547 million worldwide. It was easily Eastwood's highest grossing film, even adjusted for inflation. One of the greatest box office runs in recent memory. It received six Oscar nominations, including Best Picture, Best Adapted Screenplay, and Best Actor for Cooper, ultimately winning one for Best Sound Editing.
The biggest surprise of the 2010s? Perhaps. Cause let's face it, when 2014, did any of you had this as the top film of the year? Or even in the Top 20? Please.

• Budget: $59,000,000.
  
• Domestic gross: $350,159,020. ($463.7 million adjusted)
  
• Worldwide gross: $547,659,020.
  

Sully (2016)

"The untold story behind the miracle on the Hudson."
His 35th film. Based on the autobiography Highest Duty by Chesley "Sully" Sullenberger and Jeffrey Skiles, it stars Tom Hanks, Aaron Eckhart, Laura Linney, Anna Gunn, Autumn Reeser, Holt McCallany, and Jamey Sheridan. The film follows Sullenberger's 2009 emergency landing of US Airways Flight 1549 on the Hudson River, in which all 155 passengers and crew survived and the subsequent publicity and investigation.
The film received strong reviews, and earned over $240 million worldwide, becoming one of his highest grossing films.

• Budget: $60,000,000.
  
• Domestic gross: $125,070,033. ($163.3 million adjusted)
  
• Worldwide gross: $243,870,033.
  

The 15:17 to Paris (2018)

"The real heroes."
His 36th film. Based on the autobiography by Jeffrey E. Stern, Spencer Stone, Anthony Sadler, and Alek Skarlatos, it stars Stone, Sadler, and Skarlatos as themselves and follows the trio through life leading up to and including their stopping of the 2015 Thalys train attack.
Despite choosing Kyle Gallner, Jeremie Harris and Alexander Ludwig as the leads, Eastwood decided to cast the heroes to play themselves, which was met with confusion as they lacked acting experience. And that was reflected on the final film; it received negative reviews for its acting, and it bombed at the box office.

• Budget: $30,000,000.
  
• Domestic gross: $36,276,286. ($45.2 million adjusted)
  
• Worldwide gross: $57,176,286.
  

The Mule (2018)

"Nobody runs forever."
His 37th film. Based on the 2014 The New York Times article The Sinaloa Cartel's 90-Year-Old Drug Mule by Sam Dolnick, it stars Eastwood, Bradley Cooper, Laurence Fishburne, Michael Peña, Dianne Wiest, and Andy García. Due to financial issues, horticulturist Earl Stone becomes a courier for a drug cartel. Slowly, he grows closer to his estranged family, but his illegal activities threaten much more than his life.
It received good reviews (although some questioned its story and tone), and earned over $173 million worldwide.

• Budget: $50,000,000.
  
• Domestic gross: $103,804,407. ($129.6 million adjusted)
  
• Worldwide gross: $174,804,407.
  

Richard Jewell (2019)

"The world will know his name and the truth."
His 38th film. The film stars Paul Walter Hauser, Sam Rockwell, Kathy Bates, Jon Hamm, and Olivia Wilde. The film depicts the July 27 Centennial Olympic Park bombing and its aftermath, as security guard Richard Jewell finds a bomb during the 1996 Summer Olympics in Atlanta, Georgia, and alerts authorities to evacuate, only to later be wrongly accused of having placed the device himself.
The film received positive reviews, but several journalists criticized the critical portrayal of the reporter that first accused Jewell: Kathy Scruggs (specifically for trading sex for stories). The film marked another commercial failure for Eastwood.

• Budget: $45,000,000.
  
• Domestic gross: $22,345,542. ($27.4 million adjusted)
  
• Worldwide gross: $44,645,542.
  

Cry Macho (2021)

"A story of being lost and found."
His 39th film. Based on the novel by N. Richard Nash, it stars Eastwood and Dwight Yoakam. Set in 1979, it follows a former rodeo star hired to reunite a young boy in Mexico with his father in the United States.
Nash tried to get this film made all the way since 1970s, but no studio was willing to pick it up. He restructured his films as a novel, was successful and studios were now interested. There were a few candidates for the leading role; Robert Mitchum, Roy Scheider, Arnold Schwarzenegger and Eastwood himself. Arnie was willing to star in the film back in 2003, but put it on hold when he was elected Governor. He was set to star after leaving office, but the project was scrapped after his affair scandal was made known. In 2020, Eastwood signed to return.
The film received mixed reviews, particularly for its writing and acting. It was also a huge flop at the box office, and marked Eastwood's least attended film as leading man. David Zaslav criticized the studio's decision to finance the film. Warner executives allegedly said that although they knew the film was unlikely to turn a profit, they felt indebted to Eastwood for his decades-long relationship with the studio and his consistent ability to deliver films under budget and on time.

• Budget: $33,000,000.
  
• Domestic gross: $10,310,734. ($11.9 million adjusted)
  
• Worldwide gross: $16,510,734.
  

The Future

He recently wrapped post-production on his 40th film, Juror No. 2. It stars Nicholas Hoult, Toni Collette, Zoey Deutch, Leslie Bibb, Chris Messina, J. K. Simmons and Kiefer Sutherland, and follows a juror serving on a murder trial who realizes he may be at fault for the victim's death.

MOVIES (FROM HIGHEST GROSSING TO LEAST GROSSING)

No.	Movie	Year	Studio	Domestic Total	Overseas Total	Worldwide Total	Budget
1	American Sniper	2014	Warner Bros.	$350,159,020	$197,500,000	$547,659,020	$59M
2	Gran Torino	2008	Warner Bros.	$148,095,302	$121,862,926	$269,958,228	$25M
3	Sully	2016	Warner Bros.	$125,070,033	$118,800,000	$243,870,033	$60M
4	Million Dollar Baby	2004	Warner Bros.	$100,492,203	$116,271,443	$216,763,646	$30M
5	The Bridges of Madison County	1995	Warner Bros.	$71,516,617	$110,500,000	$182,016,617	$22M
6	The Mule	2018	Warner Bros.	$103,804,407	$71,000,000	$174,804,407	$50M
7	Unforgiven	1992	Warner Bros.	$101,167,799	$58,000,000	$159,167,799	$14.4M
8	Mystic River	2003	Warner Bros.	$90,135,191	$66,460,000	$156,595,191	$25M
9	Sudden Impact	1983	Warner Bros.	$67,642,693	$83,000,000	$150,642,693	$22M
10	A Perfect World	1993	Warner Bros.	$31,130,999	$104,000,000	$135,130,999	$30M
11	Space Cowboys	2000	Warner Bros.	$90,464,773	$38,419,359	$128,884,132	$60M
12	Invictus	2009	Warner Bros.	$37,491,364	$84,935,428	$122,426,792	$55M
13	Heartbreak Ridge	1986	Warner Bros.	$42,724,017	$78,975,983	$121,700,000	$15M
14	Changeling	2008	Universal	$35,739,802	$77,658,435	$113,398,237	$55M
15	Hereafter	2010	Warner Bros.	$32,746,941	$74,209,389	$106,956,330	$50M
16	Absolute Power	1997	Sony	$50,068,310	$42,700,000	$92,768,310	$50M
17	J. Edgar	2011	Warner Bros.	$37,306,030	$47,614,509	$84,920,539	$35M
18	Letters from Iwo Jima	2006	Warner Bros.	$13,756,082	$54,917,146	$68,673,228	$19M
19	Jersey Boys	2014	Warner Bros.	$47,047,013	$20,600,000	$67,647,013	$40M
20	Flags of Our Fathers	2006	Warner Bros.	$33,602,376	$32,297,873	$65,900,249	$90M
21	The 15:17 to Paris	2018	Warner Bros.	$36,276,286	$20,900,000	$57,176,286	$30M
22	Firefox	1982	Warner Bros.	$46,708,276	$0	$46,708,276	$21M
23	Richard Jewell	2019	Warner Bros.	$22,345,542	$22,300,000	$44,645,542	$45M
24	Pale Rider	1985	Warner Bros.	$41,410,568	$0	$41,410,568	$6.9M
25	The Gauntlet	1977	Warner Bros.	$35,400,000	$0	$35,400,000	$5.5M
26	The Outlaw Josey Wales	1976	Warner Bros.	$31,800,000	$0	$31,800,000	$3.7M
27	Blood Work	2002	Warner Bros.	$26,235,081	$5,559,637	$31,794,718	$50M
28	Midnight in the Garden of Good and Evil	1997	Warner Bros.	$25,105,255	$0	$25,105,255	$30M
29	Bronco Billy	1980	Warner Bros.	$24,265,659	$0	$24,265,659	$6.5M
30	The Rookie	1990	Warner Bros.	$21,633,874	$0	$21,633,874	$30M
31	True Crime	1999	Warner Bros.	$16,649,768	$0	$16,649,768	$55M
32	Cry Macho	2021	Warner Bros.	$10,310,734	$6,200,000	$16,510,734	$33M
33	High Plains Drifter	1973	Universal	$15,700,000	$0	$15,700,000	$5.5M
34	The Eiger Sanction	1975	Universal	$14,200,000	$0	$14,200,000	$9M
35	Play Misty for Me	1971	Universal	$10,600,000	$0	$10,600,000	$950K
36	Honkytonk Man	1982	Warner Bros.	$4,484,991	$0	$4,484,991	$2M
37	White Hunter Black Heart	1990	Warner Bros.	$2,319,124	$0	$2,319,124	$24M
38	Bird	1988	Warner Bros.	$2,181,286	$0	$2,181,286	$14M
39	Breezy	1973	Universal	$200,000	$17,753	$217,753	$750K

Across those 39 films, he has made $3,536,687,297 worldwide. That's $90,684,289 per film.

The Verdict

Insanely profitable.
Even the bombs do not taint this kind of reputation. Eastwood has made all these films under budget and never past its deadline. That's something that has to be treasured for studios, no wonder he's been staying with Warner Bros. since 1976. His ability to get films ready in short notice is impressive; Richard Jewell started filming in June and it was on theaters in December. One of the most impressive actors who transitioned into directors. You can tell that Sergio Leone and Don Siegel taught him well.
Now of course, his method of directing can also have its setbacks: he's often known for not asking for multiple takes and he skips rehearsals. So that means the performances of his actors aren't always the best they could've done. Which is why, despite making some masterpieces or fantastic films, he's also made a few films with weak technical aspects: poor lighting (J. Edgar), questionable logic (Cry Macho), and some bad acting (Gran Torino and The 15:17 to Paris). At the same time, it's clear he can also get extraordinary performances through these methods; Gene Hackman, Sean Penn, Tim Robbins, Hilary Swank and Morgan Freeman won Oscars for starring in his films.
He also proved old age doesn't prevent you from continuing to work. He's turning 94 in a few weeks, and he's still directing films. Manoel de Oliveira directed films until he was 104, so perhaps we still have a few more years with Eastwood behind the camera.
P.S. Ever since I started this series, there's been suggestions that I should do "Actors at the Box Office" multiple times. While the idea is intriguing, that doesn't seem feasible for me. I'd have to categorize whether the actor is leading, supporting, original IP, adaptation, remakes, etc. Besides, with the continuing decline of star power, it's tough to decide what actor is truly moving the needle at the box office. That's why I'm making solely "Directors at the Box Office", because the director is responsible for the production. If the film succeeds, the director will get credit. And if the film flops, the director will be blamed. So this is the closest you'll get to "Actors at the Box Office".
Hope you liked this edition. You can find this and more in the wiki for this section.
The next director will be Robert Zemeckis. One of the biggest falls from grace.
I asked you to choose who else should be in the run and the comment with the most upvotes would be chosen. It had to be a controversial filmmaker. Well, we'll later talk about... Zack Snyder. Oh, BoxOffice chose fuego 🔥
This is the schedule for the following four:

Week	Director	Reasoning
May 20-26	Robert Zemeckis	Can we get old Zemeckis back?
May 27-June 2	Richard Donner	An influential figure of the 70s and 80s.
June 3-9	Ang Lee	What happened to Lee?
June 10-16	Zack Snyder	RIP Inbox.

Who should be next after Snyder? That's up to you.

I have been an atheist my whole like and it is an identity I have always never been ashamed of. As such, I was a fan of atheist YouTube channels back when they were at their peak in 2010. However, around 2014 when Gamergate happened something really strange happened. It seems like a good 70 to 90 percent of all the popular atheist channels became pro-Trump, alt-right channels. Now it seems most people who identify as atheists these days are dorky, neck bearded basement dwellers who cry about how woke culture and SJWs are ruining America because of black mermaids, transgendered video game characters and Brie Larson tweets. Basically, trivial shit that nobody who has a life outside of social media cares about.
Honestly, it makes me wish I wasn't an atheist. I wish I could be one of those compassionate religious leftist type people like Raphael Warnock, or Pete Buttigieg but I can't do it because atheism, for as despicable as its proponents have largely become still is backed by the most evidence.
I am just extremely upset the movement has been hijacked by Trump-worshipping, neck bearded, dipshits who spend less time talking about science and more time talking about "forced diversity" in video games.

Emer O'Loughlin was a 23 year old Irish woman who was brutally murdered on April 8th 2005. Despite a known suspect, no motive has ever been uncovered and the person of interest hasn't been located, leaving this case unresolved.
Emer O'Loughlin was a student from Galway. She was studying art at college in the city and was described as a "talented artist with a love for photography and drawing". Her family also described her as a "gentle soul who loved living in the rural country". Emer and her long-term boyfriend, Shane Bowe, had arrived back in Ireland after a year long world trip and were sharing a caravan in an effort to save money. They planned to live on the site in Ballybornagh, County Clare until they could save enough to build their own house. Friday the 8th of April 2005 was a bit different for Emer as normally she would be at college but it was a public holiday due to the funeral of Pope John Paul II so she was off. Shane had to leave for work that morning but recalled that the electricity supply to their caravan had encountered a fault and so wasn't working. Emer's phone had died and she needed to charge it so he suggested that she go and ask their neighbour in an adjoining field to charge it for her. He then left for work, not knowing he wouldn't see Emer again.
At some stage during the day, while at work, Shane got a call to inform him that there was a caravan on fire at his site. He rushed back home to discover that the caravan owned by his neighbour, a man called John Griffin, was fiercely ablaze. Horrifically, after the fire was extinguished, human remains were found among the wreckage. It was stated that the body was so disfigured and mutilated, investigators couldn't tell if they were male or female. A week later, the remains were positively identified as Emer O'Loughlin. John Griffin, the owner of the caravan, was nowhere to be found however and a Garda search began. He was eventually located in Galway City and when interviewed, stated that he had stayed with a relative the night before and had no idea about the fire.
Two days after being interviewed, John travelled to the island of Inis Mór and barricaded himself inside the ancient fort of Dun Aengus. After a 9 hour standoff with Garda, he was eventually subdued and taken to a psychiatric hospital in Galway city. However, only 5 days later, John walked out of St Bridgid's psychiatrist hospital in Ballinasloe. He had shaved his head and beard and was last seen boarding a ferry back to the island of Inis Mór. Garda later found a pile of his clothes, neatly folded, at the edge of a cliff on the island.
At the time of Emer's demise, the coroner was unable to accurately determine a cause of death due to the condition of her remains. However, her family were adamant she had met foul play and that this wasn't an accidental death. After much campaigning on their behalf, her body was eventually exhumed in 2010 and a second autopsy was conducted. This investigation revealed some very concerning things, most notably numerous cuts on the skull and spine. It was concluded that Emer had met a very violent and aggressive death with a machete-like knife prior to the fire and that the caravan was destroyed to conceal the crime scene. It was also revealed that a traditional Nepalese knife had been recovered from the wreckage at the time. The case was immediately upgraded to a murder investigation and an Interpol notice for John's arrest was sent out.
Garda and Interpol don't believe that John ended his own life and that he faked his own death before fleeing the country. It has now been over 19 years since Emer's life was cruelly cut short and the key suspect has never been caught. However, there have been numerous alleged sightings in that time. It's believed that he is living under an alias somewhere in Europe. He had previously lived in Scotland under the name 'John McDermott' prior to returning to Ireland. In 2014, it was revealed that Griffin might have been living in Edinburgh after an alleged paper trail was discovered. Then, in 2022, he was tracked down to a drug rehabilitation facility in Scotland following co-ordination between gardaí, Scottish police and Interpol. However, by the time his whereabouts were revealed, he had been discharged. He has not been seen or heard from since. Emer's family has still not received any justice and believe that he may not be caught, stating that "He could be anywhere in the world now, using any name". The Garda investigation continues to this day but unless John Griffin is apprehended, Emer's case won't be closed and her family will never receive the peace and justice they so desperately deserve.
Sources: https://m.independent.ie/irish-news/family-of-emer-oloughlin-appeal-for-information-on-19th-anniversary-of-her-violent-death/a902392677.html
https://m.sundayworld.com/crime/irish-crime/sister-of-murdered-emer-oloughlin-publishes-last-known-image-of-chief-suspect/a176727619.html
https://www.dailymail.co.uk/femail/article-13287177/The-tragic-murder-Emer-OLoughlin-suspect-faked-death-19-years-later.html

Hey! Thunder fan from europe here (Since 2010, not a Bandwagon haha) So we lost Game 5 and right now it looks like there's very little chance we'll make it out of this series. what do you think: 1. What changes in the squad would you expect Presti to make for next year? Which positions to strengthen and which specific players 2. Do you keep Gidi and give him a chance to improve his shooting or do you trade him now (when his stock is the lowest ever)? 3. Should Presti be aggressive or continue to be Patience? For me, the expectation is first of all that Presti will make an aggressive move, I see no reason to waste time. and for me potential players are: 1.Top priority is more size in position 4-5 Lauri markkanen- the ideal fit imo, but Ainge would demand 15 fr picks for him, other options: Jeremy grant or Deni avdija. 2.For experience would very happy if we can bring Alex Caruso 3.Also i think we need to improve our scoring talent to take some of the pressure from Sga.. what do you think about Dejounte murray? or (and i know its super Risky) Zach lavine? or Someone like Anfernee Simons? let me know what you think! 

It's as the title says. I've been playing Skyrim for ages, and I have multiple saves separated by profiles in MO2. On all of them, I have FSMP and its requirements, it works perfectly, etc. Artesian Cloaks is fully functional on all saves and profiles, except for one. On all saves, FSMP is fully functional as well.
However I recently decided to get Legacy for the first time, I installed all the associated patches for it, loaded the game, and played. All FSMP mods work perfectly and beautifully on this profile and its saves, except for Artesian Cloaks. Everything else is fine, just not this mod.
I have run LOOT several times over, FNIS, I've changed my load order manually to move various patches around, and none of it works. Artesian Cloaks just outright does not seem to work with Legacy installed.
I've also tried to reinstall FSMP and all requirements, all cloaks, XP32, Artesian Cloaks, all patches, and so on, multiple times now. Still, Artesian Cloaks only works on saves that don't use Legacy, and it does not work on the one with Legacy.
Has anyone else encountered this issue, and if so, did you find a fix? If you found a fix, what was it?
Here's my modlist for the profile:

# This file was automatically generated by Mod Organizer. +Folkvangr - Grass and Landscape Overhaul +Nature of the Wild Lands 2.0 +Nature of the Wild Lands - Riverwood Keep Patch +Lord of Coldharbour Armor and Harkon outfit replacer +SV Skjor NPC Replacer +Resplendent Armor and Greatsword SE textures +Resplendent Armor and Greatsword SE +Legacy of the Dragonborn Patches (Official) +Auriel's Armor (Ancient Falmer Armor) - Red +Legacy of the Dragonborn +XP32 Maximum Skeleton Special Extended +Winter Is Coming SSE - Cloaks +Wildwood Echoes +Weapons Collection 3 +Weapons Collection 2 +Volkihar Knight - Vampire Armor +Vivid Weathers - Definitive Edition +Vanilla hair remake +Vallaslin Face Tattoo's Warpaint +UIExtensions +True Ayleid Race +Thrones of Skyrim +The Great Cities - Minor Cities and Towns SSE Edition +The Grand Paladin - 2021 (Remake) +The Eyes of Beauty - Vampire Eyes SE +The Axe of the Nordic Kings (ENG and RUS) +The Art of Beard - New Facial Hairs +Tera Armors Collection Special Edition UUNP +Talos Housecarl Armor Pack +Talkative Dragons +Storm Knight's Legacy Armor +Starsight Eyes +Sound Record Distributor +Solitude Docks +SMP-NPC crash fix +SkyUI +SkySight Skins - Ultra HD Male Textures and Real Feet Meshes (4K2K HIGH) +Skyrim Unlimited Rings and Amulets SSE +Skyforge Weapons SSE +Shields Of Glory SE +Shields Of Glory - Temper Patch +SC - Barsaebic Ayleid Armor for Argonia +RS Children Overhaul +Royal Armory - New Artifacts +Rourken's Relics +Riverwood Keep SE patch +Riverwood Keep SE +Relentless +Relationship Dialogue Overhaul - RDO SE +Realistic Water Two SE +Realistic Elven Children (Aymar and friends reimagined) +RDO - Skyrim Unofficial Patch +RDO - AFT Patch Final +Rainbows over Waterfalls +RaceMenu +RaceCompatibility with fixes for SSE +Prisoner cart fix SMIM -Prince and the Pauper SE patches +Practical Female Armors +powerofthree's Tweaks +powerofthree's Papyrus Extender +Paradise City for Vanilla Skyrim Special Edition +PapyrusUtil SE - Modders Scripting Utility Functions +Papyrus Tweaks NG +Outfit Manager +Obi's HeadHunter Armor 2K +Northern Armor Set +Nordic Adventurers Armor SSE +Niohoggr Warpaints +Neocatzeo's Resurrection Rod +My Home is Your Home +Multiple Marriages SSE +MultiCraft +More Bandit Camps SSE +Modern Brawl Bug Fix +Miraak - Dragonborn Follower SE +Lionheart - Johnskyrim +Legendary Alpha Shields 2 +Legendary Alpha Shields +KS Hairdos SSE +KS Hairdos - HDT SMP (Physics) - Unisex +KS Hairdos - HDT SMP (Physics) +Kirax_OVR_Draugr +Kirax_OVR_Collection_M +Kirax_LoA_Paladin_Platinum +Kirax_LoA_Berserker_Legendary_Frost +Kirax_Hair_Pack_M +Kirax_ACV_Thor +Kenokun's Warpaints +Kanjs War Horns +JS Armored Circlets SE +JContainers SE +Invisible Armors Enhanced +In the Shadow of the Crown - No Stone Unturned Alternative +Improved Eyes Skyrim +Immersive Weapons +Immersive Armors +Ilieh - Cry of the Damned +Hvergelmir's Aesthetics - Beards +Humanoid Vampires SE fix +Humanoid Vampires SE - Vampires use normal faces and Serana's eyes variant +Horse Armors SSE +Holy Templar Magic +High Poly Vanilla Hair +High Poly Head SV Beards +High Poly Head SE +Helmet Perk Remover +Hearthfire multiple adoptions - Now with custom home support for kids and spouse +HDT-SMP Physics Racemenu Hairs and Wigs Unisex - Male and Female - CBBE 3BA - BHUNP - HIMBO +Guard Dialogue Overhaul SE +Guard Dialogue Overhaul MCM +Glowtastic SSE +FSMPM - The FSMP MCM +Fortify Enchanting +Fores New Idles in Skyrim SE - FNIS SE +Flying Mod Overhauled +Flying Mod Beta by porroone and Flying Mod Overhaul by Indefiance (Converted for SSE) +Flickering Sunlight Shadows Fix +Faster HDT-SMP +Face Discoloration Fix +Extended Guard Dialogue +Enchanting Freedom +Dwemer Spectres Special Edition +Dwemer Outfit - Morrowind Style +Dragon Wall Wisdom - Readable Dragon Walls +Dragon Priest armor SE port (original mod by Backsteepo) +Dragon Breath VFX Edit +Don't Show Headgears +Divine Cloaks +Distant Dragon Roars +DCR - King Crusader Mega Pack +DCR - King Crusader Heavy War Regalia +Dae's Titanblade - Standalone Dwarven Greatsword +Dae's Titanaxe - Standalone Battleaxe and Boss Fight +Crown Helmets Redux +Crash Logger SSE AE VR - PDB support +Crash Logger +Craftable Ayleid Items from Beyond Skyrim Bruma +Convenient Horses +ConsoleUtilSSE +Comfy Dwemer Beds +Cloaks of Skyrim SSE +Chillwind Depths CTD Fix +Cheeky Kids +Chapter II - Jeremy Soule Inspired Music +Celtic Music in Skyrim - SE +Castle Volkihar Rebuilt - SSE +Carry Weight Modifiers +Caliente's Beautiful Bodies Enhancer -CBBE- +Bulk Enchanting Redone +Body Paints patch +Body Paints 3 +Body Paints 2 +Body Paints +Blackreach Eerie Ambience +Beyond Skyrim - Wares of Tamriel SE +Beyond Skyrim - Bruma DLC Patch +Beyond Skyrim - Bruma Assets +Beyond Skyrim - Bruma +Better MessageBox Controls +Beards of Power +BDOR SAM Addon - Atanis +BDOR SAM Addon - Anemos +BDOR SAM Addon - Aker Guard +Base Object Swapper +Bandolier - Bags and Pouches Classic +Bandit Lines Expansion +Ayleid Lich Crown - Cut Content Restored (Anniversary Edition - The Cause) +Axe Of The Sea +Auriel's Quiver and Arrows - Gold and Argent Retexture +Auriel's Chapel Restored +Auriel's Bow - Gold and Argent Retexture +Artesian Cloaks of Skyrim +Armor of Hircine +ApachiiSkyHair SSE helmet wigs +ApachiiSkyHair SSE +Animated Wings Ultimate +Animated Ships Patches +Animated Ships +Ambient Warfare +Amazing Follower Tweaks SE +Alduin's Champion - a Boss Mod +Aetherium Armor and Weapons Compilation by lautasantenni +Aetherial Crown +Address Library for SKSE Plugins +Achievements Mods Enabler +[Kirax] BDOR 2024 Collection - Male -(ESL) Dwemer Dogs Companions SE *Creation Club: _ResourcePack *Creation Club: ccBGSSSE001-Fish *Creation Club: ccBGSSSE025-AdvDSGS *Creation Club: ccBGSSSE037-Curios *Creation Club: ccQDRSSE001-SurvivalMode *DLC: Dawnguard *DLC: Dragonborn *DLC: HearthFires *Unmanaged: anyonefollows2 *Unmanaged: ApachiiHairMales 

Hollyoaks is missing the Student set and hopefully this will be rectified in the year's time jump but Who has been your fave students in Hollyoaks over the years?
Former Residents

• Alex Bell (1999-2000)
• Anna Green (1999-2000)
• Geri Hudson (1999-2000)
• Sam Smallwood (1999-2000)
• Nikki Sullivan (1999-2000)

2003-2006 students

• Mel Burton (2003-2004)
• Robbie Flynn (2003-2004)
• Joe Spencer (2003-2006)
• Zak Ramsey (2004-2005)
• Dannii Carbone (2004-2006)
• Cameron Clark (2004-2005)
• Stuart Harding (2004-2006)
• Bella Manning (2004-2005)
• Zara Morgan (2004-2005)
• Jeremy Peterson (2005-2006)
• Andy Holt (2005-2006)
• Jessica Harris (2005-2006)
• Olivia Johnson (2005-2006)

2006-2009 students

• Zak Ramsey (2006-2009)
• Zoe Carpenter (2006-2009)
• Kris Fisher (2006-2009)
• Will Hackett (2006-2007)
• Elliot Bevan (2007-2009)
• Archie Carpenter (2008-2009)

2009-2011 students

• Josh Ashworth (2009-2010)
• Charlotte Lau (2009-2010)
• Dave Colburn (2009-2010)
• India Longford (2009-2010)
• Doug Carter (2010, 2011)
• Jamil Fadel (2010-2011)

2011-2013 students

• Annalise Appleton (2011-2013)
• Rob Edwards (2011-2013)
• Ash Kane (2011-2013)
• Barney Harper-McBride (2011-2013)
• Scott Sabeka (2011-2013)
• Will Savage (2011-2013)

I‘ve always been a huge fan of HTTYD. It all started with the first Movie in 2010, it really felt special to me as a kid. Watched it twice in the cinema with my parents and it used to be my favourite Movie until Dragons 2 came out in 2014. I basically grew up with HTTYD, I watched every Movie, every series except for T9R and every special. I had, and still have merch. Toothless always was and probably always will be one of my favourite characters ever if not my favourite character ever. The way Hiccup and Toothless‘ bond is depicted in the Movies just always felt special to me. The way Toothless and Hiccup develop this almost symbiotic relationship is unique in any way. HTTYD is THE ONLY franchise of animated films I still like to watch as of now. Growing up to this amazing franchise with HTTYD 1/2, RTTE, ROB and DOB and GOTNF really defined my childhood so I still am very emotional and nostalgic about the whole franchise. I grew up, moved out of my parents house and studied, but I didn‘t forget about HTTYD. I took all of my merchandising and collectibles with me into my apartment and waited for HTTYD 3 to release. I have to admit, I didn’t really inform myself about Dean DeBlois interviews concerning the future of HTTYD in about 2014, since I‘m not a native English speaker and the interview didn’t really circulate through German movie news and I was simply too young to really get into Movie news and especially on English platforms and such stuff as of 2014, so I totally missed that. So I really didn’t know what to expect from THW. I simply waited for it to release. Originally it was scheduled for 2016 and then delayed to 2017 if i remember correctly, so basically it would’ve come out in my teenage years. Then it was delayed to 2019 and well, as soon as it got into the cinemas here in Germany I simply felt like I had to go and watch it. I reserved me some tickets for the movie for the launch day and just went. Again, I really didn't know that THW was always planned as the end for this amazing series of Movies. My expectations were high. As soon as the movie started and I got into the Storyline I felt involved into plot and the events of the Movie. I felt nostalgia and excitement at the same time while watching the movie. I was really having a great time, not expecting what was to come. Then right about when the Light Fury saved Toothless and the music started to get sadder I thought there was something off. And well, there was. Hiccup and all the other Berkians saying farewell to their beloved dragons. To be totally honest I didn't really care for any dragon except for Toothless at the time being and I probably still don‘t really care for any other dragon. I started to really get emotional, not really questioning the whole Event just feeling parted between anger because of the way this movie was ending and sadness because Toothless basically was gone forever. I left the cinema before the part with the reunion of Hiccup and Toothless ten years after the main plot simply because I was so annoyed. I really felt down for the next couple of days, really thinking about the ending non stop, but I still saw no sense in doing it like it was done. I tried to ignore the fact the ending seemed so definitive and is planned as a way to really conclude the movie series, still hoping for more to come. I didn't watch the Movie for four years straight, completely ignoring it, only watching HTTYD 1/2, the variety of series and the special GOTNF. I rediscovered the movie in summer 2023. I saw the 4K version on sale at Amazon and thought: „Why not give it another shot?“, I ordered it as the Steelbook version to add it too my collection and was hyped for the delivery. I rewatched HTTYD 1 and 2 and at the weekend it finally was time to give THW another chance. Once again, I enjoyed the movie, had a great time, but I couldn’t stop noticing the way the whole movie seems to want to introduce the viewer to a Hiccup without Toothless. I really started getting upset, every single event seemed to be an introduction to the grand finale, especially when Astrid talks to Valka about the way Hiccup needs to learn he’s the same great Person and leader without Toothless. I started crying and sobbing a bit about halfway through the film, knowing what was going to happen. I still tried enjoying the movie. But then again, this really emotionally distressing scene. I really cried my eyes out. But then I noticed the movie wasn’t over yet. I felt the same emotions that I had the first time I watched THW after Toothless left, not really caring for Hiccup‘s and Astrid‘s wedding. Well, then Hiccup came, now with his mighty beard and all grown up, looking into the distance and telling a tale of how dragons used to live in their world. The camera focuses on a nearby isle, covered in fog and… I didn’t really trust my eyes at first… Toothless! I felt euphoric, really happy that I discovered this scene. But it was bittersweet, knowing this still probably is the ending to the Trilogy. Anyways… what am I trying to say? I am trying to say that I hate the way this movie and so the Trilogy ends. I not only hate it because I‘m a fan or because I‘ll miss Toothless. No it just didn‘t really make sense to me. It didn‘t felt like it was supposed to already be the end of this Movie series. I started looking up if there were more movies planned and only now discovered those interviews I mentioned earlier, where Dean DeBlois states that THW is going to be THE END. I learnt to somewhat live with the ending. I just watched the movie again a few days ago… mistake…mistake…mistake! I always feel down after watching it, no matter how often I watch it. But now I really started thinking about the ending and why it didn‘t seem like the right way to end this great critically acclaimed Movie series. Reading some old German and English reviews and YouTube video of people reacting to the movie. It seemed like almost anyone was kind of okay with the ending, not noticing how it pretty much had so many flaws in it, at least thats what I think, that I really started thinking: „Are you the only one who hates this ending? Are you stupid? Didn't you get it? Come on, this can‘t be true.“
So I decided to ask you, fellow Redditors here on httyd about your opinion: Did you feel like ending was rushed? If so, feel free to comment what bothered you most and what you would've preferred the Movie/the movie series to go on or end. If you don't feel like that and actually enjoy the ending, also feel free to comment why you liked this ending or why you felt like it was necessary. Disclaimer, please don‘t talk about the way a possible continuation of the movies could've felt like a cash grab or that DeBlois wanted the movies to end like the book, I already know those two arguments, get creative, guys!
View Poll

Mine is that I love Beard After Hours. It's a nice deviation and change of pace. Plus, it's great to see the barflies, Paul, Baz, and Jeremy, get their time to shine. They are underutilized characters.

The Sixers have the 16th and 41st pick in the 2024 NBA Draft, and out of curiosity I gathered all of the draft picks Daryl Morey has made in his career in Houston and Philadelphia. The following are the picks he made by year:
June 28, 2007: Selected Aaron Brooks (1st round, 26th pick) and Brad Newley (2nd round, 54th pick) in the 2007 NBA Draft.
June 26, 2008: Selected Nicolas Batum (1st round, 25th pick) and Maarty Leunen (2nd round, 54th pick) in the 2008 NBA Draft.
June 24, 2010: Selected Patrick Patterson (1st round, 14th pick) in the 2010 NBA Draft.
June 23, 2011: Selected Marcus Morris (1st round, 14th pick), Nikola Mirotić (1st round, 23rd pick) and Chandler Parsons (2nd round, 38th pick) in the 2011 NBA Draft.
June 28, 2012: Selected Jeremy Lamb (1st round, 12th pick), Royce White (1st round, 16th pick) and Terrence Jones (1st round, 18th pick) in the 2012 NBA Draft.
June 27, 2013: Selected Isaiah Canaan (2nd round, 34th pick) in the 2013 NBA Draft.
June 26, 2014: Selected Clint Capela (1st round, 25th pick) and Nick Johnson (2nd round, 42nd pick) in the 2014 NBA Draft.
June 25, 2015: Selected Sam Dekker (1st round, 18th pick) and Montrezl Harrell (2nd round, 32nd pick) in the 2015 NBA Draft.
June 23, 2016: Selected Chinanu Onuaku (2nd round, 37th pick) and Zhou Qi (2nd round, 43rd pick) in the 2016 NBA Draft.
June 22, 2017: Selected Isaiah Hartenstein (2nd round, 43rd pick) and Dillon Brooks (2nd round, 45th pick) in the 2017 NBA Draft.
June 21, 2018: Selected De'Anthony Melton (2nd round, 46th pick) in the 2018 NBA Draft.
November 18, 2020: Selected Tyrese Maxey (1st round, 21st pick), Théo Maledon (2nd round, 34th pick), Tyler Bey (2nd round, 36th pick), Isaiah Joe (2nd round, 49th pick) and Paul Reed (2nd round, 58th pick) in the 2020 NBA Draft.
July 29, 2021: Selected Jaden Springer (1st round, 28th pick), Filip Petrušev (2nd round, 50th pick) and Charles Bassey (2nd round, 53rd pick) in the 2021 NBA Draft.
June 23, 2022: Selected David Roddy (1st round, 23rd pick) in the 2022 NBA Draft.
Some notable things about Daryl's drafting history:

• Daryl has only made 30 picks in 17 NBA seasons
• Of the 30 picks he's made, 13 were 1st round picks
• The highest pick he has ever made was pick 12, and he has only drafted higher than 16th (this year's pick) three times
• He has actually done an incredible job drafting second round players that go on to have productive careers
• Fun Fact: Sam Hinkie made 15 draft picks in just 3 years as an NBA GM

In summary, I am certain Daryl will trade away our 1st round pick for an established player and sell our 2nd round pick for cash.

Back in 2010-11, I was in Patna for my Chote Nana's (my grandfather's younger brother) daughter's wedding. I was just 7 or 8 years old at that time. The night before the wedding, the lights went out, and it was a moonless night, so visibility was low. Due to the heat, my Chote Nana, along with my uncle and a few other relatives, and my cousin brother, who was 18 or 19 at the time, decided to sleep on the roof of the apartment building where we were staying. On the roof, it was almost pitch black, so we lay on the ground and tried to sleep. Around 2 or 3 in the morning, both my cousin and I heard some noise. We woke up to check, and the noise was coming from a corner of the roof. When my brother flashed his torch in that direction, we saw a man with long, unwashed hair and a big beard covering his entire face, sitting behind a small bicycle and staring at us. We were shocked for a few seconds, and then we shouted, which woke everyone up. The man started running, but my uncle caught him, and then we called the police. Later, we found out he was a thief who had been waiting on the roof since evening, waiting for nightfall to steal from our house. Nobody knows how he got onto the roof, but he was arrested. Both my brother and I were in shock and scared for several days after the incident. I also had a high fever afterward. Even to this day, I feel fear when I'm in a dark room, and the image of that man flashes in front of my eyes. I even have nightmares about it sometimes.

Back in 2010-11, I was in Patna for my Chote Nana's (my grandfather's younger brother) daughter's wedding. I was just 7 or 8 years old at that time. The night before the wedding, the lights went out, and it was a moonless night, so visibility was low. Due to the heat, my Chote Nana, along with my uncle and a few other relatives, and my cousin brother, who was 18 or 19 at the time, decided to sleep on the roof of the apartment building where we were staying. On the roof, it was almost pitch black, so we lay on the ground and tried to sleep. Around 2 or 3 in the morning, both my cousin and I heard some noise. We woke up to check, and the noise was coming from a corner of the roof. When my brother flashed his torch in that direction, we saw a man with long, unwashed hair and a big beard covering his entire face, sitting behind a small bicycle and staring at us. We were shocked for a few seconds, and then we shouted, which woke everyone up. The man started running, but my uncle caught him, and then we called the police. Later, we found out he was a thief who had been waiting on the roof since evening, waiting for nightfall to steal from our house. Nobody knows how he got onto the roof, but he was arrested. Both my brother and I were in shock and scared for several days after the incident. I also had a high fever afterward. Even to this day, I feel fear when I'm in a dark room, and the image of that man flashes in front of my eyes. I even have nightmares about it sometimes.

Platform(s): I think that was only to PC.
Genre: Some kind of space shooter mixed with roguelike
Estimated year of release: I don't know when was released, neither if it was actually released, but I played an demo early 2010 i think.
Graphics/art style: Lots of particles floating everywhere, a space themed overall mixed with greek mithology as I remember. Was a top-down camera, and the art was something catoonish but a little realistic.
Notable characters: I remember that you could unlock new characters as you where completing levels and earning points to unlock then. The first character was poseidon if I remenber right, and was another character that had tentacles in his beard, like Davy Jones from Pirates of the Caribbean, and each character had an special ability.
Notable gameplay mechanics: You "surf" on space and shoots trident to survive the level and go to next, it was like an roguelike.
Other details: When I played, as it was an demo, I think from somewhere like itch.io, I couldnt save the game, and never could progress enought, but I played so much, around 100 hours, but allways start over and over, I think that this made me like roguelikes, and I've been trying to find this game at least 3 years.

I was very young when I saw this movie, but this is the way I remember it. I’d say that the movie was probably made no later than 2010.
I remember a particular piece of the plot going like this: The white male (I believe he had brown or dirty blonde hair) seems to be homeless, he isn’t clean, out on the street with a full beard and maybe a bag as well. The white female with black hair spots him while in her car and tries to pick him up. I think she’s some sort of agent or is affiliated with something that she keeps a gun for. I also think she can fight, like some spy girl type stuff, but I’m not as sure about that as some of the other aspects.
I don’t remember how she took him, but eventually, she brings him back to where she lives and keeps him locked up inside her closet for days. She feeds him and never unlocks his cuffs, until she feels attraction towards him (I think), and she starts to let him have more freedom by letting him go to the bathroom, but he doesn’t leave.
I remember a particular scene of him shaving his beard in her bathroom. And when she came back, they had sex.
I remember nothing else from the movie except for those bits, hopefully I’m telling it correctly, but I’ve not been able to come across any search of this movie! Thanks for reading!