#triggerwarning the floor / row blocks are team challenges

Capture the flag everywhere! Tread, row and floor! There is zero sharing of equipment on any of the team challenges (just to put minds at ease).
Pretty nuts treadblock with capture the flag goal challenges. Burpee team relay on the floor. Team row with squat holds on the floor. 🔥 💀 ☠️
Tread Block - 23.5 minutes * Goals: * Green: round 2 * Orange round 4 * Red: round 6 * Mayhem: round 7 * Round 1: 1.1km (0.7 miles) tread for distance (PW half distance), WR until ready for next round * Round 2: 0.8km (0.5 miles) tread for distance @ 3% (PW half distance), WR until ready for next round * Round 3: 0.48km (0.3 miles) tread for distance @ 5% (PW half distance), WR until ready for next round * Round 4: 0.16km (0.1 miles) tread for distance @ 7% (PW half distance), WR until ready for next round * Round 5: 0.48km (0.3 miles) tread for distance @ 5% (PW half distance), WR until ready for next round * Round 6: 0.8km (0.5 miles) tread for distance @ 3% (PW half distance), WR until ready for next round * Round 7: 1.1km (0.7 miles) tread for distance (PW half distance), WR * Bonus: Tread or WR until finisher * Finisher: 1 min AO * Collapse (member’s choice)
Floor Block - 14.5 minutes * Goal - Capture the flag team burpee relay: * Green: 3 rounds * Orange: 5 rounds * Red: 7 rounds * Mayhem: 9+ rounds * If your turn: * 1 - 2 .. x full burpee * when done, tag next team mate * Repeat - work & rest: * 8 x TRX reverse grip low row, rest * 8 each x single arm overhead reverse lunge, rest * 8 x TRX y-raise, rest * 8 each x single arm split stance dead lift, rest
Row Block - 7.5 minutes * Goal - Capture the flag team row: * Green: 2 rounds * Orange: 5 rounds * Red: 4 rounds * Mayhem: 5 rounds+ * Each round is: * 150m AO row, squat hold until last team member has finished row * 4 total x squats hold to rainbow * Repeat, counting rounds, until finisher: 1 min AO row
DC commentary: >! OTF has left the best til last. Today is a team challenge on the floor and the rower and a capture the flag on the treadmill. Very brutal and very few people got to the mayhem goals (maybe two in our class of 30ish). \ \ On the treadmill you have a 23.5 minute block. You have seven rounds that you will attempt on the treadmill with as much walking recovery as you need between rounds. You start with a 1.1km (0.7 mile) run at flat road. Each round the distance drops by ~320m (0.2 miles) but you are adding 2% to the incline. The peak you will reach is 7% for a 160m (0.1 mile) sprint. Once that is done you start your way back up again with the 480m (0.3 mile) run at 3% and so forth. This is a brutal block and do not expect to get through all of this. Someone will do the math but I think you will need to average around the 12.56kmh (7.8 mph) without any walking recoveries. I probably needed about 30 seconds of breathing space between the rounds. \ \ This is a very tough tread block. I maybe finished with two and half minutes spare but that was really pushing it and the incline runs are very painful. Once you get to the end of the rounds you can either just walk and recovery or continue to tread for distance until the end of the block. The finisher is a minute all out which you can either use to complete your round or just as a cherry on top if you have finished everything. Total distance today was 5.52km (3.43 miles) in the tread block (including a bit of cool down time). \ \ The floor is the burpee team relay. Essentially one person has a “flag” and is doing burpees while the rest of the floor is doing the exercises on repeat. Once the whole team (floor group) has completed a burpee round you go back to the start and you increase the rep count of burpees by 1. My team got to the red round and almost on to the Mayhem goal. Exercises weren’t too bad apart from the reverse lunges with the the dumbbell in an overhead position - careful with your weight selection here as this will burn out your shoulders. \ \ On the row block, this is again a team challenge. Every does a 150m all out row and then hops off the rower into a squat hold until the last rower has completed. Once everyone is done the coach will tell everyone to do 4 squats with overhead rainbows. Once done, everyone gets back on to the rower to do the next round. So on and so on until you get to the last minute where we are doing a minute all out row. Our team did well today and got to the Mayhem goal but we were all reasonably strong rowers and were able to get through the 150m all out rows pretty much at the same time. \ \ Brutal one today but I loved it. To be honest, even though it was a team challenge no one shared equipment. I give today a 1 (🪶) out of 5 for gentleness and 5 (☠️ ☠️ ☠️ ☠️ ☠️) for Mayhell. Nice one to sign off Mayhem on. !<

HEIMLICHS AND BONE SPURS AND BURPS, OH MY!!!
Hello all! In passing, I mentioned to a friend that I've never been able to burp. She introduced me to RCPD and referred me to Craig Villari - the rest is history. I got surgery in March and I figured I would share my kinda crazy story! It's a long one.
In January, my friend mentioned that she suspected I have RCPD, which she had recently received treatment for after learning about it here on Reddit. I was stunned - I didn't realize this was a real thing! I had just thought all my life that I was a coward who couldn't burp
I was able to get an appointment with Dr Villari, an ENT, in early February, and he said he has been receiving lots of referrals and that he's starting to suspect that RCPD is more common than originally believed. It was a short appointment - he asked about my symptoms, explained the treatment, and then we scheduled a date for surgery. I was excitedly telling all my friends to pray for me and my 'burp surgery'
My symptoms for the last 24 years were pretty straightforward: I just couldn't burp. Anytime I tried to follow someone's advice, I felt like I was forcing myself to gag and vomit. I could never find the air or gas to make it happen. I was often bloated, I farted A LOT lmaooo and I always had emetophobia. That's about it, though - I didn't think it was anything that out of the ordinary.
My surgery was on Monday, March 25th, Dr. Villari said it went well and that my recovery should be smooth! I was surprised by how sore I was - I knew they'd be putting me under and invading my throat, but my friend had told me it was the easiest surgery of her life with no complications, so I think I just underestimated everything. My throat felt MASSIVE from the swelling and my inner gums had been nicked during the intubation, resulting in a small and swollen cut. I don't think I really processed the idea of 'slow swallowing', since it was mostly mentioned in passing as a part of the healing process - maybe I was hyperfocusing more on the 'microburps' and the excitement therein. This was also before I'd perused this subreddit.
I was back at work the following Wednesday after my surgery, feeling normal but a bit thick around the throat with a raspy voice and uncontrollable microburps. Optimistic about recovery!
Slow swallowing was really rough for me. I thought the 'soft food' was more of a tip as opposed to a prescription, and so I opted to eat somewhat normally but avoid crunchy/crumbly food. Dear reader, I should've been eating waaaayyy more applesauce and pudding. The swallowing was so slow that I constantly felt like I was being slowly suffocated by my food and throat. Along with slow swallowing, I felt a constant frog in my throat. When I'd lay down at night, my throat felt like a half full water bottle laid on its side. I don't know how else to describe the feeling of slightly drowning. I had to sleep with my head elevated for almost 3 weeks after surgery, which was mostly just a nuisance considering the otherwise simple recovery.
In the days following my surgery, I'd been making off-hand jokes to my brothers that I was slowly suffocating and being choked by my food every time I ate. Eating took FOREVER. I can usually eat a burger in 10 minutes tops LOL. That Friday, it took me the better part of an hour to eat 3/4 of the same burger. Eating was such a long winded chore that most days, I avoided food and went hungry - something I hadn't anticipated. That's not to say it was painful or truly challenging - more so just a psychological battle that I was not prepared for. I figured it would pass soon enough.
The Sunday following my surgery was Easter sunday, so my whole family would be spending the day together and having dinner. My dad made a prime rib ^.^ I was so excited. I ate everything on my plate, in small bites with lots of water. Everyone was mostly done eating after about 30 minutes. Meanwhile, I was still chewing after an hour had passed at the dinner table. At one point, a small piece of steak took an especially long time to find its way down my throat, and I touched my brother's shoulder to say 'ok keep an eye on me here Im struggling to get this down' and by the time he acknowledged me, the moment had mostly passed. That is to say, just lots of moments where the slow swallowing would get too slow and I'd struggle to breathe. But I was mostly okay! Four hours after dinner, I offhandedly grabbed a rye chip from the trail mix bowl. Literally just one rye chip - and it became lodged in my throat and I immediately started choking, like, frantic no air turning blue choking. I had to get heimliched 4 times before I was able to dislodge the chip and start breathing again. I threw up after that : ( I've never been heimliched before. I think it was just a perfect storm that was mostly borne of my own carelessness - dry, crumbly food and a thick, slow throat. I literally thought I was going to die in that moment lmao I had a gooood loooong panic attack immediately afterwards. But its okay my slow swallowing got a lot better after that!
Dr. Villari called me for my post-op check-in on the following Monday, April 8, and I relayed the heimlich story, which he sounded genuinely shocked to hear. I know it had nothing to do with him, but it still shocked me that he hadn't heard of the slow swallowing affecting anyone else so strongly. I also mentioned to him that my gums had been cut during the intubation, but that my mouth was slowly healing from that. He told me to reach out if I had further concerns. He was really kind and professional!
After the heimlich, I was much more careful about what I ate, and my slow swallowing seemed to get better each day. However, my gums were not healing from the small cut I'd received during surgery. The left side of my inner gums was acutely painful and I became worried that the cut had become infected. So I figured that I was due for a teeth cleaning anyway, and scheduled an appointment with my dentist on the soonest day they could get me in, April 30th.
There was no infection in my gums, but the dentist did acknowledge that the cut seemed to be a result from trauma, and she said she could've sworn that she saw some bone sticking out. She told me to rinse with salt water twice a day, she prescribed me with chlorhexidine, and told me to come back in two weeks once I was more healed up. I was relieved that I wasn't infected.
I came back on May 13th with less pain and what I thought was a white scab over my cut. The hygienist noted that it was odd and took a photo for the doctor to review later. We cleaned my teeth no problem and I went home. I became increasingly curious about my gums and kept prodding that rough white spot with my tongue. Eventually, I got curious and reached in with my fingers and was able to pull it out of my gums - it turned out to be a bone spicule, likely resulting from trauma during intubation. I was super disturbed, but the cut was completely healed over and the pain was gone.
Now, it is May 23rd: nearly 2 months after burp surgery. It was a fuckin TRIP to get here, but here we are. The burps are lovely. Just monstrous. I had a 15 second long burp, which had to be over 20 years in the making. I've had many friends coach me on belch strategies and I feel like I am completely relearning my table manners. I have also since learned that heartburn is a beast all its own. I am so glad that my friend recommended Dr Villari, even though the recovery was nothing like what I had anticipated. I am so happy to be burping.
Even after the heimlich and the bone spicule, I have to assert that BY FAR the most traumatic part of all is the FLAVORS of my burps. My god. I don't know if I will ever get used to it.
Thank you for reading my behemoth post! Let me know if you have any questions!
TLDR; surgery went well, slow swallowing fucked me up and I had to get heimliched, intubation fucked me up and caused a bone spicule, and burps taste really bad but feel really good. Sláinte!

You ever look into a window and wonder what’s on the other side? I mean, a room, obviously, but what’s in it? Who lives there? How do they live? For as long as I can remember, that was my fascination. It started innocently, if creepy; I used to peek into people’s windows when I was a little kid, back when I had to get on my tiptoes to peer in through a kitchen window. I’d see the light reflecting off tile and appliances, and sometimes people would be moving about, living their lives. In a sense, it’s sort of like an ant farm; the windows people use to see out provide a small vertical slice of their inside life. I never got caught or scolded when I did this, even though I instinctively knew it was wrong. It was the same reason my parents chided me for peeking in the door when they’d use the restrooms; people liked their privacy.
But you know what happens when a bad habit is allowed to fester, don’t you? It escalates. When I was twelve years old, I broke into a house for the first time. Not for criminal reasons, mind you, I simply wanted to get a more… tactile appreciation for someone’s life. It was a house that had overgrown grass and sometimes had a beat-up old Buick out front that needed a wash. I’d never met whoever lived there, but I knew they did.
There’s a fatal flaw with burglar alarms: the infrequent nature of burglary. Potentially 365 days of a year, the homeowner is paying for a service that ideally won’t be used. But the device, it never sleeps unless you let it. Eventually, turning it on in the morning when you leave for work or off when you come home becomes such a hassle that in some neighborhoods, people just use the sticker as their ward against burglars. This person was one of those people. And he was also one of the people who failed to lock their windows.
It didn’t smell great in that place. I let myself in through the kitchen window and I just stood there, taking it all in. It was cluttered, lived-in, but not hoarder-level crazy. There was a fat stack of shitty self-help books on the dining room table, and more than a few pizza boxes crammed into an overflowing trash bin. The floor was once, presumably, a nice carpet, but decades of neglect had rendered it crusty and brown. In retrospect I recognize the smell as marijuana, but at the time I thought it was a skunk. I could almost see the guy who lived there wandering around, mired in the detritus of an unkempt house. I could imagine him pouring over those dog-eared self-help books, eating pizza for the fifth time this week, wondering how his life went so wrong.
There wasn’t much to do. Like I said, my intentions were curiosity, not theft. So I went back out the way I came. That night, when the shitty old Buick rolled up onto the driveway, I watched the guy. He was shorter than I’d imagined, and he had thick glasses and thinning hair. He wasn’t super fat, but he wasn’t skinny; all in all, a fairly normal individual. Yet from that moment I spent in his home, I knew so very much about him. I think that’s where the problem started, really.
I got really, really good at it. Sneaking into people’s homes. Walking through undetected. Again, I never took anything, just explored the place and drew connections about their life. Creepy, yes, and very illegal, but I rationalized it at the time as being functionally identical to being invited in. It’s not creepy when a guest looks around, and since I wasn’t doing anything untoward, I was basically a guest, right? I even got so good I could do it when they were home. A lot of close calls, but those were the most exciting. Again, at this point I had yet to steal anything. I was chasing the high of just sneaking around, going where I wasn’t supposed to.
When I got into high school, however, I started wanting things. I wasn’t poor, but there was always something I wanted that was just out of reach. Well, I made the logical leap that my hobby and my desire could aid each other.
I prepped by “mock-robbing” my own house. When my parents were out, I combed through their things, looking for stashes of goodies. Naturally I wouldn’t steal from THEM, mind you; I hadn’t done that since I took a five-dollar bill out of my mother’s purse when I was six. Sure enough, I found the classic sock-drawer with the stash in it. Wasn’t much, just a couple documents. A xerox of my birth certificate, a copy of my grandparents’ will, some insurance papers, and a single hundred dollar bill, all rolled into an old black tube sock at the back of my father’s sock drawer. My mom’s nightstand held a bunch of her old expired credit cards, receipts for purchases deductible as work expenses, and her old earrings she’d worn before her earlobes had healed over. The kitchen junk drawer tended to be where lost coins were deposited, and by quarters alone I reckoned around 50 dollars had accumulated over the years. Finally, under my parents’ bed, I found the real stash: bonds given to them by my grandparents, the deed to the house itself, and my grandfather’s old ring. Worthless to me, obviously, but it proved that humans and dragons both choose to sleep atop their riches.
I chose my mark well; a large house, and one I’d already familiarized myself with on the inside. Once the geriatric woman had left to go do whatever octogenarians do on Thursday afternoons, I stole into the building and rifled through her things. It was a completely different experience to go in with the intent of robbery. I felt heightened. Paranoid. Instinctively I shied away from windows and lights like a scuttling rat, and any time the house shifted or settled, I dove for cover, cramming myself into cabinets or closets. The place was big, but sure enough, I found the old cigar box under the bed. It didn’t have money or jewels, but rather pictures. Grainy, faded, black-and-white pictures of a man in a naval officer’s dress, and a girl in a skirt with frizzy brown hair. I realized with a start that it was her, and who I could only assume was a late lover. There were family pictures on the walls, but none of them featured her with a man at her side. An elderly spinster, clinging to a love who no doubt was long gone. When I discovered that, I shook my head. No way I was going to rob her, even if I’d found gold bullion in the box. So I tidied up the place, making sure to wipe away the places where fingerprints could have been even though I was wearing latex gloves, and put her secret box back where it belonged.
For a few weeks, I didn’t do any B&E. Truth be told, I was disgusted at myself. Every house I’d snooped through, every life I’d reverse-engineered in my head… to think that I’d rob them, make those pristine little lives worse for my own benefit… I couldn’t stomach it.
Looking back, I wish I’d just abandoned that moral hang-up. Because it was that morality that led me to the Mortheimer house.
In the state of California, where I live, burglary is a felony. I think it’s that way in most places. Now I didn’t consider myself a burglar, because in order for it to be such, I had to be entering with the intent to do a crime. As of yet, save for the old woman’s house, I had never entered for any reason save to observe, so in my mind I was not a burglar.
I heard about the Mortheimer house from a friend. He said it had been owned by the bank for some time, after the owner had lost everything to a gambling addiction and shot himself in the building. It wasn’t called the Mortheimer house at the time, though; that wouldn’t be until Jason Mortheimer moved in and bought the old, buttress-ridden house for next to nothing. For weeks, my friend said, they had done construction; as to what they were doing, he couldn’t tell. Aside from cleaning, repainting, reshingling, and repairing the windows, the old house looked practically unchanged from the outside. Yet power tools could be heard from dawn until dusk within the old place, and construction teams came and went with clockwork regularity. Jason Mortheimer was an oddball in the neighborhood; he was never seen during the day, save peering out from his windows to watch people on afternoon strolls. By night, he’d wander and be cordial to passersby, but he walked stiffly, leaning heavily on a mahogany cane. Between the constant noise of construction and the leery glances he was caught giving joggers from behind heavy curtains, it was safe to say Jason Mortheimer was unpopular.
My friend wanted to know what was going on in the house, nothing more. We’d talked about my interests and he’d been understanding; on some occasions, he’d paid me to snoop on romantic interests, to find out their sexual preference and availability. Usually, I’d take his money and not even break in, simply observing the individuals and using the key context clues that he so clearly had missed. His current boyfriend, who like him will remain unnamed, was a closeted individual who I’d been hired to snoop upon; now he was out of the closet, and happier than ever before. Good for the two of them. But this was the first time my friend wanted me to snoop for anything approaching a benign curiosity, and I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t also curious.
It wasn’t until the construction had stopped, about a week after the last team had left, that I made my move. I was going to enter the Mortheimer house, I was going to take this rich eccentric menace for everything that I could, and I was going to satisfy my curiosity.
The smell was, as it often is, the first thing I noticed. In most places, it’s a very human smell; scented candles, food, soaps, or even unwashed individuals sweating in the summer heat. This place, however, smelled sterile, and vaguely metallic. Like the smell of dentist’s tools, fresh from the sealed pack.
The interior was lavish, but just as odd as the man who inhabited it. Oil paintings of gargantuan scale leered down at me, Bavarian dukes and kings with severe faces glowered from antiquated frames. The floor was mostly granite, covered by a single crimson velvet rug that spanned the various landings. Dim halogen bulbs lit the corners of the halls, leaving the rest of the walk in murky near-darkness. Only the front of the house, as I would come to learn, had windows; the rest of the rooms were the same tiled, featureless rooms with odd decor. I passed no less than three bedrooms, each pristine and untouched, and entirely identical. Even the paintings began to loop, but those were more noticeably wrong, as the individual texture of the brushstrokes would differ between rooms.
The upper floors to the house were bizarre. Dining rooms and redundant kitchens on second-floor landings. An attic with a bathroom in it. Bedrooms so close as to be functionally adjoining. And all of them without so much as a sign of life. I checked three separate refrigerators, and while they were indeed cold, there was not a crumb of food in any of them. Drawers in the bedrooms would be completely empty, just varnished wood staring up at me where some evidence of habitation should have been. The attic bathroom was functional, I was surprised to see, and I marveled at the sheer ridiculousness of it. How much pipe the drains must have had.
When I reached the ground floor once more, I saw him. Jason Mortheimer, staring out the window as he always did. He was hunched, lame almost, as he peered from curtains of the same velvet as the rug. Without a sound, I descended the stairs and entered the first sub-level.
Roland Wood died two years ago. I feel this is important. You must understand that Roland Wood, captain of the volleyball team, was struck by an 18-wheeler and given a closed-casket funeral two years ago. I was there. I hadn’t been close to Roland, or Rollie as he was called by his friends, but the family had invited my family and we weren’t so disrespectful as to ignore the grief of our neighbors. I watched the pallbearers put Rollie in the grave, heard his mother’s hysterical sobs as the burial continued, and saw the grave covered in the cemetery.
Roland Wood, two years dead, body irreparably damaged by the crushing force of an 18-wheeler truck, stood before me as I rounded the corner into the first room. He wore a dress shirt and pants, and he stared straight ahead, eyes glassy and unfocused. It was all I could do to not yelp in surprise as I saw the slack features of a dead teenager in the first room of this strange place. Thick, iron staples perforated the skin everywhere, and numerous discolored teeth shone unblemished white alongside the rotten and deteriorated others. His skin, usually so tan from the volleyball games in the summer sun, was pale and slightly blue, riven with lumps and thin patches where the impression of bone could be made out.
Rollie wasn’t alone in that room. A dozen others stood still, staring at the wall, similarly dressed in formal wear. Women wore elegant dresses and pearls, men wore dinner suits and tuxedos, and all stood like mannequins in the cold, bare room.
“Admiring them, are we?”
I spun as Jason Mortheimer limped into the room, looking straight past me at the ghoulish tableaux.
“I- I-,” I began, but he jerkily raised a hand and shook his head.
“Don’t speak, lad. I heard you on the stairwell. Now tell me, what do you think of my merry little gathering?”
I swallowed and looked back over the legion of corpses.
“Are they… alive?”
Jason chuckled and shrugged.
“In a way. Although you’ll find they’re quite poor conversationalists. Everyone,” he called out, clapping his hands together, “please greet our new guest.”
In unison, the corpses turned to face me, their jaws opening with a creak and their eyes locking onto mine.
“Greetings,” they all intoned, a single voice coming from numerous throats. It cared not for the gender of the body it spoke from; they were all the same dolorous rasp, forced from lips that did not match the words spoken.
“Listen, Mr. Mortheimer, I didn’t come here to-”
“-rob me? Oh, I don’t believe that, friend, and neither do you.”
“Please, sir, I’ll just leave, I won’t tell a soul what I’ve seen.”
Jason shrugged, a jerky spasmodic gesture.
“It doesn’t matter if you do or don’t, dear boy. Nobody will believe you. So, you may go.”
I looked at him. He still didn’t meet my gaze, staring intently at his grisy arrangement.
“That’s… it? I can just leave?”
“Of course. I would prefer you to.”
“You’re not going to hurt me or something?”
Finally, Jason turned his gaze on me, an insincere grin twisting his features.
“Everything I can do has been done.”
With that, he turned away, jerkily climbing the steps. I ran past him, bolting for the door. It wasn’t far, and he made no move to stop me. I flung the old door wide and sprinted out into the daylight, gasping and shuddering as I ran. Confused passersby blinked as I stormed past, sprinting in the direction of home. Relief and terror warred in my mind as I reached my front door, and I threw it wide, startling my parents from the couch.
“Jacob?,” My father asked, “where’s the fire?”
I panted my excuses and sat at the kitchen table. I said I’d had a fright, thought I was being followed, because someone put a note in my locker.
“Speaking of notes,” said my father, gesturing to where the mail lay piled on the counter. There, a yellowing envelope had been opened.
“What’s this?” I asked, dread settling in the pit of my stomach.
“It was an invitation,” my father answered, “to a party. Fancy dress. It’s at that old… oh, what’s the name of the guy who owns it now?”
“The Mortheimer house?”
He nodded and smiled.
“That’s the one. Your mother and I are planning on going at the end of the month. Do you want to come along?”
I smiled weakly, my mind racing.
“I… I guess.”

“So, how much?”
I didn’t know Charles well, but well enough to guess that the grizzled hog farmer was a talented salesman. ‘No lowballs,’ I imagined him drawling, waggling his finger, and speaking over his exceptionally jutting chin.
“Three-hundred fifty for the land, the pen, and the house,” the man said. He spat, hard, and the tobacco-black phlegm stuck to the side of the fence post and slowly ran down the side in three rivulets.
“Then another twenty grand for the hogs. Two-hundred thirty-three of ‘em, not a large passel. Price of swine is goin’ up, I’ll tell you, so t’s the best I can give you for what you’s gettin’.”
I had expected to hand him even more money. Charles and his wife had a small operation, but big enough to matter, with a beautiful two-story farmhouse to accompany it nicely. I wasn’t getting a better deal anywhere else. At least not anywhere I wanted to be. I’d longed to live as a farmer in Tennessee ever since my family’s entire property burned to the ground back in the fall of ‘68. It was dry, and we’d just fertilized after the harvest.
Not a living thing was left untouched by the flames, not even my father, who ran back to get the horses after the barn shot up with a pillar of fire. We never found his body. Or maybe we did, but the charred dust of the barn, the corn, and the animals we called our lives and the blackened remains of the man that was my world were all reduced to ashes in the end. And when the wind came, they all blew away just the same, forever to leave me, my two sisters, and my mother behind.
I held out my hand to Charles and we shook on it.
It wasn’t the life I envisioned for myself. Not when I got my engineering degree from Georgia Tech. Not when I began work at a small engineering firm. Not even when I saw the hog farm for sale less than an hour from my house did I realize that was the world I lost that I needed back. My wife didn’t care; in fact, it brought her work commute down to forty minutes from an hour ten.
After we moved there and I began consulting part-time to make allowance for the time I needed to spend raising the hogs, caring for the land, and tending to my now-pregnant wife, the fulfillment I sought seemed that much closer. But only that. Closer, yet still out of the reach of my yearning clutches. It wasn’t until two years after I bought the farm, almost to the day, that the chips seemed to fall on my side with her.
“Micah?”
Jackie was calling from the cubicle over. Then I heard footsteps coming towards my own office space.
“Hey, yeah, did you finish the drainage plans for the floodplain you were working on? If so, I’d happily review and sign off on them.”
Jackie had come here a couple of years after I did. She was an intern at first, and everybody loved her cheery smile and sharp intellect, so she was hired on after she finished her degree. The youngest of our crew, she lived by herself in an apartment, but her lack of experience didn’t keep her from coolly sharing her opinion on matters of work when she knew she was right. And she was always right.
Jackie had always taken a liking to me in a way she didn’t seem to show toward the others. I never became sure of why she did, but I had my suspicions. Trauma and mystique go hand in hand. Maybe she saw me as broken in the same way she saw herself. After all, it didn’t take a psychologist to tell Jackie had her own skeletons in her closet. She just had that aura, the one that neglected children and broken adults share with each other. Nobody knew what life she walked out of and nobody cared. She did her job, and that was all the company cared for. But not me.
I turned away from my computer screen towards the opening of my cubicle and she was there, half silhouetted by the light behind her, staring me in the eye. Jackie trailed a finger down the edge of the cubicle wall, her mouth open barely enough for me to see her tongue flit deftly over her perfectly-aligned incisors. Ignoring my question, she continued.
“Your wife, I take it?”
She gestured with an outstretched palm toward the wedding photo I had framed on my desk.
“Yeah. Hard to believe we’ll be a family of three soon. Ha!”
I chuckled, nervously. Slightly excitedly, too. I can’t tell if Jackie knew that the latter was for what I knew was coming rather than what I had already said, but I don’t think she would have cared one way or the other.
“Say, she must be lonely waiting for you at home? I know that feeling. Being lonely.”
She took a step towards me and I glanced down at my feet. Looking back, it felt like an eternity, that looking down, that knowing what was happening and making a decision. It was a choice. And while it felt like it stretched for minutes, hours, I knew it was but a moment. Yet it only took a moment to make my descent into sin.
“I know it too. Well. Too well. She’s on a business trip - a long one. Say, I raise hogs. Prize swine, there’s good money in them. What’d you say about coming to see my farm sometime?”
It had been two hours since Jackie had left the farmhouse and was almost one-thirty in the morning, yet I wasn’t tired. According to my doctor, I have insomnia. According to my mother, I have “bad juju.” According to myself, well, I guess I just don’t feel like sleep is worth the trouble sometimes. That night, though, I didn’t sleep at all until the sun shone through my window in the early hours of the morning.
Living among swine never gave me a lot of grief before then. Some people hated the stench - my wife among them - but the manure never bothered me, and, come to find out, it didn’t bother Jackie, either. I would have asked if she had been on a farm as a child, but her demeanor and attitude told me that she wasn’t interested in the slightest in my life and that I shouldn’t be in hers, either. I suppose I wasn’t - not in the one outside of our affair, at least.
But that night, when the stars were out and shining like eyes in a limitless black sea, and when the wind rustled through the trees, a gigantic army moving across the land like a plague towards destinations unseen, I started to feel bothered in a way I never had before.
I had been sitting on the back porch in view of the pig pens after having just finished the chores. I knew I wasn’t drunk, I was only on my second beer, but sitting outside, half-empty bottle in hand, I suddenly wished I could be completely wasted. I’d never been one to believe in those types of things that you can’t touch with your hand or see with your eyes. The hair stood up on my arms and the taste of metal lapped my tongue as if a storm was coming. No, I didn’t believe in the things you couldn’t really feel, but I could sure as hell feel something now.
Unsettled, I was turning around to go get another beer before something caught my eye in the pig pen that made me glance over.
All of the pigs visible from this side of the house could be seen, through the metal fencing, staring in my direction. The ones who were blocked by the lumpy bodies of the other swine stood on the hind ends of the others to see. With their combined mass, the pigs strained the metal of the pen stalls until each stall’s fencing bulged out in the middle where the weight was distributed.
Most unique of all was the unanimous behavior of the swine. Not one fell out of sync. Each one, eyes glowing like headlights in the dark, bodies silhouetted against the light of the moon, was without noise or disturbance. Once all of the pigs were in position, they all stayed ominously still.
As I watched, one by one, hundreds of eyes closed, and a wave of darkness spread over the pen as no more eyes were open to reflect the light. I swore for a moment that the stars did too and that the world around me plunged into complete darkness, but I cannot be for certain, because at that same moment, I involuntarily blinked.
I say involuntarily because, frozen in place, the scene was too strange for me to willingly turn away from. I do not know if the same force that caused the swine to flicker their eyes caused me to do the same, perhaps a gust of wind - or of something less tangible - but upon opening them, the pigs had returned to their discord, with several having already gone to sleep. Deeply disturbed, I went inside the house and drank until the morning came and I finally found sleep.
My wife returned from her trip soon enough and without much ado upon her arrival. For the next month or so, the two of us were together, and our lives were lived without significant discord. None that she knew about, anyway. I never told her about Jackie and I certainly didn’t mention the times I saw my coworker after my wife returned, either. And while I did float an innocent question to her asking if she had noticed any of the hogs’ strange behavior, I didn’t enlighten her as to the motivation for my interrogative manner. She never appreciated being in the company of swine as it was, and turning her disdain into disgust wasn’t on my agenda.
Almost as abruptly as she had returned, my wife left, again, to be gone for the next week and a half on another trip. Probably best for her, too, because the hottest days of the year hit western Tennessee when she wasn’t there to experience them. And no sooner had she gone than Jackie resumed her nightly visits to the farm. Each time, she showed up without much notice, if any at all, and left just as abruptly.
Funnily enough, I didn’t care much. I felt no more and no less empty after she left than when she was here. So after I spent my days with my eyes on my screen and my nose in my boss’s ass, I spent my nights staring up through the bottoms of bone-dry bottles, faintly wondering if the path I walked down could’ve been just a little warmer or just a little brighter if things were different.
In spite of my catering towards my boss’s every wish at the office, he didn’t return the good-will in kind.
“What do you mean you’re asking for a raise?”
I swallowed and continued.
“I mean that it’s been five years, Glenn. I simply asked that my pay might increase to match inflation.”
My boss folded his hands across his desk and sighed. Pulling a handkerchief from his pocket, he dabbed at a couple of beads of sweat running down from his brow. We were in the heat of summer, and the air hung thick and humid around us. The office had air conditioning, but the unit was old, and the fan whistling away in the corner didn’t do much good against the record-breaking heat pressing in around us.
“I’m sorry, Micah. It’s just that you’re consulting, now, and… I can’t afford you those kinds of benefits-”
“What do you mean benefits? I’ve been here long enough I’m owed at least that, Glenn! What the fuck do you think I’m still here for? Pot lucks?”
That was the first time I had lost my temper at my boss; at least, the first time since he ripped up one of my drafts for a project several years back. That had been a long day for both of us. Now, Glenn sat back and scowled ever so slightly, and only for a brief moment, an indication that his inhibitions keeping his attitude in check were wearing thin. Nonetheless, he put on a smile, and chuckled coldly.
“Micah, look- you always were my right hand man, but you’re here so little now. One could say you’re more like my right thumb man, now.”
That was a long day too. The heat didn’t help. Somehow some bugs got into the office. Somebody probably left a door open to quash the heat, fruitlessly.
No wonder the AC’s shot, I thought to myself.
By the time it was the hour for me to leave, there were moths flitting around the lights, flies eating the stale food in the cafe, gnats alighting on every exposed surface in the office- insects were everywhere. I figured that door must have been left open most of the day.
Gotta be pretty stupid bugs, if this is where they want to be.
The time came for me to leave and I did so without a fuss. As little as I could manage, anyway. I took time to complete some errands and returned home, only to realize the heat wasn’t much less oppressive there than it was at the office, even if there weren’t any insects. If anything, it felt oddly empty without them, even after Jackie showed up. The rest of that evening was a blur of empty bottles and used cigarette butts littering the porch.
At some point — two in the morning, three, it didn’t matter — I was pulled out of my drunken slumber and forced into sobriety by a noise I could no more determine the source of than what I had eaten for dinner a year ago from the day. I sat up with a jolt and listened, suddenly feeling the hairs on the back of my neck stand on end.
The sound, if it could be called that, was discordant, unnatural, wrong — and yet, I couldn’t remember another thing about it. It wasn’t a sound heard through your ears, a vibration in your skin, nor even a sensation of one’s physical brain; it was a thought processed through one’s sleeping soul, something that certainly cannot be described with words without diminishing the weightiness placed; without negating, in full, the sense of abject horror at its state of being.
I had sat atop that precipice between reality and unreality; sleep, the abyss, where devils absently play amongst the nightmares of men. I told myself it was just that, a dream, but I know now that the place I was and the places I was soon to go were gateways between the waking world and the one beneath it. Before I had time to process what I had just felt, I heard another sound, this one very much real, and resembling a dying animal. Slowly, I made my way out of my crumpled bed and opened the blinds. I almost wished, upon doing so, that I was back on the precipice.
Thirteen of the hogs stood in a circle on the lawn; how they had gotten out, I don’t know. Each stood perfectly still, equidistant from the next, and faced a quivering shadow in the middle of them all. I could make out faint features: a scraggly beard, a bottle- whether the man was a hiker or a drunk, I couldn’t tell. Nonetheless, he had wound up on my property, and found himself caught in a circle of pigs.
I watched the man’s motions and noted with rising horror that as he walked in one direction, the circle of pigs shifted to keep him at the center of the ring, and all the while they drew nearer to him. The man was clearly intoxicated now; it was almost half a minute before he stumbled, fell, and no sooner squelched in the dirt than thirteen squeals rang through the night and the animals blotted out his body from sight with their unified mass.
The man let out one scream but could manage no more than one. The ring was a blur of motion. I saw little but I saw enough; one pig reared its glistening head and I watched part of a scalp fly from its gaping mouth, arcing dark liquid as it trailed across the yard. Another couple chunks of meat rolled away from the pile and reached a stop several feet away in the yard; once the pigs were through with their feast, they broke off from the previous site, now nothing but a red stain on the earth, and gobbled up the pieces that had got away.
It took me the next four hours to get the pigs back into their pen, but I managed it. And, none had to be shot in the process, though I surmised I should come with a gun readied. A cleanup wasn’t necessary either; it was a hog farm, so it’d be getting dirty again soon. I considered another individual might find the stain, but there was no proof it was human blood, and I had no intention of calling the police out there.
That morning, my boss was late to work. I suppose that’s to be expected, though, when one has had their tires slashed. He was livid, and I didn’t correct his supposition that his ex-wife had committed the act, though I’m sure he would have loved another reason to fire me. After all, I was nothing more than a right thumb man.
The day had gone quicker and cooler than the former, and the low droning of the rain made the day seem just a little less lonely. Of course, I was slated to see Jackie that night, and after lunch I had left work, gone off to purchase more drinks from the local liquor store. I remember having gotten enough to fill the passenger seat of my truck, and felt almost as if the pile of liquor was a singular being, watching me; the silently judgemental friend. I had a twinge of anxiety, and half wondered if I was going insane; at that, I laughed.
The air was cool when Jackie got there. My mother always used to call that the first breath of autumn, when the reaper opened his eyes and cooed softly to his crop before the inferno was snuffed out by the frigid winter. As a child, I didn’t pay much attention to her words, but as I grew older I felt the cold in my bones, and tonight I felt it in my soul, a faint whisper of death like the mark of the beast. I watched Jackie’s hair whip to the side, a black flag in the wind, as she approached the house. On the doorstep, we embraced, and I recall she said she needed to talk.
“You’re an awfully successful man, Micah. And I know you’ve got a lot of money. Maybe you’re not wealthy, no, but you’re richer than me, and there’s enough to go around. It’d be a damn shame if your poor wife found out about me. No, I haven’t said a thing yet, and I know you know that, for the poor thing couldn’t take the stress and might just die. But I could say a thing, and maybe even a little more. And a nasty thing it’d be, too. I’d just ask for $1,000 a month, but times are tough, so I’m inclined to say $2,000 would be enough to keep my mouth shut. And, of course, we could continue seeing each other. . . if you’d so please.”
Some say they see red when they’re angry enough, but I still remember how I saw even less; the next five minutes of my life were no clearer to me than several brief glimpses of reality, interspersed by periods of unreality before the next glimpse. A scream, and then another. The thought: she’s got a knife. A bone snapped: mine, hers, it didn’t matter. Blood; spattered on the carpet, on my shirt, and the drip-drip of a glistening red globe, smashed in through the side like a cracked egg. I remember the silence before the adrenaline eased and I felt pain, and I remember the pain before the squelch when I issued one last kick to the body, lying on the ground.
It had been time for me to feed the pigs. Jackie usually helped me with the feeding when she came over, always with a coy look, and often it was short lived and I needed to finish the job on my own after she left. I was betting that she could help me again. Hoisting her up onto my shoulder wasn’t difficult, though I supposed she was lighter than usual. I stooped to pick up the last few pieces that didn’t come with the rest of her and took the two of us to our yard.
The part of the brain we, as people, already understand cannot possibly encompass every sensation which we, as people, feel. Scientifically, maybe- but that feeling that makes dogs bark at empty rooms; that makes cats stare into walls before jumping away, frightened; that feeling exists in humans, too. Call it a sixth sense, or ESP, it’s there, and I felt it when carrying Jackie. The birds had stopped calling, the trees had ceased rustling, and a low, droning buzz resounded outside the pig pen. It rose in volume and pitch, and as I dropped Jackie’s lifeless corpse onto the ground, it blocked entirely the noise of the world around me.
I didn’t even hear the thump. Nor did I hear the pigs, for it wasn’t until I looked up from her body, panting heavily from the effort of what had transpired, that I saw that we stood on the fringe of a gathering of the pigs. I couldn’t see if any remained in the pen, but I could see that at least a hundred gathered here outside the pen, all staring at me with glassy eyes and salivating mouths. Some stood on the haunches of the others to see, and many were covered in blood, having been left uncleaned since the events of the previous night. Even through the foggy daze I was in, my fear registered on a guttural level and, in horror at the unreality of what I was seeing, I backpedaled, eventually tripping over a rut in the earth and falling to the ground.
The next moment, each of the pigs had turned to look at what was left of Jackie. For a couple of seconds, they stared at her, and I realized that the droning in my ears had stopped, replaced with nothing but an ominous silence. That silence was short lived, for in one, unanimous, ear-splitting squeal, the pigs raced each other to the body, and carnage ensued.
The hogs in front no sooner reached the body than were ripped apart by the pigs behind them. Huge flaps of fatty skin hung in ribbons from the napes of their necks and blood sprayed in all directions as necks, limbs, tails, and extremities were mangled with the reckless abandon of a pack of wild dogs. I suppose that’s what they were; even if I treated them like domesticated creatures, they were animals, and they were out of the control of any constraints that civilization wanted to place on them.
The mass of flesh moved rhythmically and dripping bodies were flung like oversized rag dolls from the fray to land wetly and lifelessly on the earth. Occasionally, I would hear a crunch as bones were rent and snapped under the pressure of the fray, and squeals as the broken limbs stabbed through the fleshy bodies of the animals atop them. Hooves, teeth, and bones carved the flesh of the other pigs, and while blood and feces sprayed freely, chunks of gore rolled out of the fray like meaty baseballs.
The pleasant temperature drop had undone itself, as the wind had stopped blowing, and the stench of the scene hung thick in the hot and heavy air of late summer. I vomited, over and over, bent over in the shit and the blood, eyes watering from the smell, and blood dripped from everywhere on my body. It ran off my body in rivulets and pooled around my feet. Some was mine, but more was Jackie’s, and more yet was the remains of the pigs. Blood dripped from my mouth onto the dirt, and I could no longer tell if I was looking up towards the cruel stars, down at the earth, or witnessing the slaughter before me, for my sight was veiled by a coating of blood, and my senses were clouded by the rush of adrenaline, though I could do nothing but sit in shock.
Breathe.
A chunk of meat smacked me in the shoulder.
Breathe.
An ear bounced off of my forehead.
Breathe.
An opened artery sprayed blood across my face in a line.
Breathe.
My eyes recognized four pigs on the fringe of the conflict abandoning their course for what was left of Jackie and I saw turn to me, each foaming at the mouth like a rabid animal. I saw two get ripped away by two other pigs, but the remaining couple charged. The one that reached me first clamped its maw around my leg not a moment before the next reached it, bit into its neck, and thrashed it back and forth.
I couldn’t hear my own screams above the countless squeals of the hog pile and the constant wet ripping that resounded through the dark sky. Eventually, the pig that had bit me gave out with a squeal, but not before the lower half of my leg was snapped with one, final pull, and the pig behind then buried its face in the body of the dying hog before being dragged back into the conflict by another. I failed to even hear my cries of pain over the sounds of the fray; I knew I screamed only from the burning in my throat.
Breathe.
A second later, I was thrown by the arm and crashed against the soggy earth several feet away from the conflict. For a moment, I wondered if I was alive, or if the world I was seeing around me was really Hell, and I was a damned soul being punished for my sins. At that, I blacked out, and entered a timeless, dreamless slumber that sent the world back into the buzzing mayhem I had felt before the carnage.
I opened my eyes some brief time later to find that the buzzing persisted in my ears while awake. Perspiring heavily from the heat, I found I was lying on my back on the ground, facing the burning remains of my house. The buzzing was really the rush of flames lapping at the sky and the crackling of embers as the roaring fire pulled them out of sight.
“Swine,”
The voice, which rang impossibly clear in the noise of the night, above the roar of the inferno and the sounds of the approaching sirens, had come from but a few feet behind the back of my moist head. Even after all that had transpired, the word made my hair stand on end, for it was spoken with a voice that could snuff out the stars if it were to say that they ought to stop shining.
I turned my head to face behind me, groaning sharply from the pain, to see a man atop a mountain of hundreds of mutilated hogs. The pile ran with a constant stream of blood and feces, which dripped slowly over the terraced stack of corpses to form a small lake underneath, the edge of which lapped my face with miniature waves of gore.
“. . . they never learn.”
Then, the man smiled, and I realized with horror that his legs resembled those of ruminants.
And atop his head rested two ebony horns, glistening in the moonlight.

I see a lot of newcomers to being poly and this subreddit and it's usually a lot of conflict and stress, so I wanted to share my experience
I'm new to the subreddit but I love seeing everyone's experienced advice and resource sharing. I recognize myself in your posts from what I've experienced with polyamory. I appreciate y'all!
... I personally (25afab NB) started a polycule a year and a half ago after being with my (27cishet M) Nesting Partner for 6 years. I seem to have attained what people here call kitchen-table polyamory.
NP and I were already living together for a few years and I really wanted a girlfriend. My gay little heart had a crush on a good friend of mine and while that didn't work out, I had already communicated with my NP about my wish and he had consented to me getting a girlfriend, eventually. A year after the crush on my friend died down, I had a whole new one, a lovely trans girl I knew for a few months from WLW groups and had been hanging out with, including inviting her to our semiweekly movie nights, so my NP and her also knew of each other.
I communicate nearly everything to my NP and so I did this too, and the girl and I ended up confessing & going on a date much sooner than I could have ever hoped (I am demisexual and need time to get to know people + both of us had never had a gf before and were really excited). I worried about my NP having a problem with me dating a trans girl since he didn't want me seeing guys (nor did I) and it nearly went like what people here call a one-penis-policy. (she was pre-HRT at the time). NP was hesitant but open to it, and supported us.
I of course had my failings as a first-time hinge, like making out a bit too much w gf around my NP, but I always made sure to check in and tried to tone it down. NP struggled with jealousy but I talked to him daily, checked in how he was feeling and what I could do or change. Of course we also had to set times for when I hang out with them 1on1. This is still one of the most important things. I've also learned 2 is definitely my maximum for devoted partners (so much time and energy).
Anyway over the year+ we have continued having movie nights, travelled together, hung out a bunch at museums, cafes, cooked together etc. Lucky thing is they both had a lot in common, and are more technical minded than myself. Sometimes we have a 3 person sleepover in 1 bed, with me as the middle -- at first NP didn't want it, but now every so often I get to be between my two favorite people, trying to sleep while they excitedly discuss planes.
(We will never be a triad, lesbian + cisguy don't mix)
They have both been a great comfort to me, and lovely cooks. We plan to move in together someday, as a) rent is easier as three people, b) I don't drink coffee and they both like having it with company, c) we are goofy goobers that get along great. As long as we also get to have enough privacy of course!
My gf by now has 2 more partners -> now it's my turn to learn how to talk to my feelings of jealousy and her turn to learn how to be a good hinge. My NP is still looking around for someone, he also had a potential partner who turned out to be mono, so now they stayed friends.
My main takeaways: - Have a support system outside of your partnes. Have friends! That you talk to about your private life and feelings! - Learn about red and green flags, recognizing emotional manipulation - Communicate! Like, everything! Check in! - Be courteous to your metamours... - Research before you get into all this... I got lucky and happen to be a good communicator (most of the time) - Astoundingly many problems stem from a bad hinge (the person dating/connecting multiple people) - Do not rush things please it is okay, life is short but also there is lots of time. - This is where I should recommend everyone getting therapy but I have not been able to find myself a good therapist yet lol, also money is tight
Unrelated but still important: - Do not attempt a triad while everyone involved is a) new to poly, b) experiencing New Relationship Energy, c) lacking time & energy for all this. - T4T relationships can still bring out dysphoria in you, it is okay if you are not compatible with the person. - If you're demi and haven't had enough 1on1 time with a person, do not have sex with them just cause it seems hot in the moment, kay? Instant regret - A 35yo and a 17yo together may be legal in a certain country but it is WRONG and no womens- or youth-helpline can convince me otherwise. (I am frustrated with adults in a certain situation I know of)

Let me start off by addressing the title. Yes I am an arsonist/pyromaniac. Ever since I was young I’ve had an unhealthy obsession with fire and anything that goes bang. I can remember being as young as 7 years old and stealing my parents match’s to light them and just watch them burn out and to also light small things like individual leafs and sticks on fire. I used to take match’s and lighters to elementary school and do the same thing with some other delinquent friends that liked the same thing. The habit slowly progressed from lighting small fires into bigger and bigger ones. Before I knew it by the time I was in middle and high school I was starting fires that required the police and fire department to show up.
I grew up by the woods and that definitely didn’t help but most of my fires got put out before they could get wildly uncontrollable. Mostly just burned down a few trees before the fire department showed up and put it out. Haven’t got caught for it yet though. My main way of starting these fires was with a cigarette or a joint that I would smoke until I would get it down enough and tie it around a piece of yarn. That yarn would then start burning like a fuse until it hit a pile of dry leafs that I doused in lighter fluid. That shit would light right up and everything else around it I tell you what. I guess I got addicted to the rush of getting away with this type of shit. I’ve also been involved with wrong crowds and done tons of other dumb shit that I won’t get into on this post cause frankly it would be way to long. Also before any of you guys tell me I’m a lunatic and I’m fucked up and got some sort of childhood trauma I’m not addressing “you should go to therapy” blah blah blah, I know. I know I’m fucked up in the head for doing shit like this and it probably is some un delt with childhood trauma. I’ve been to therapy many times for this and many other things like my anger issues I just don’t really believe in it and honestly think it’s for pussies. So save all your preaching bullshit for someone else that cares. That’s not the point of this post.
I’m in my early 20’s now and recently I’ve been going around to abandoned building in my town and towns around mine starting fires there. I was born and raised in a town outside of a major city in western Massachusetts. I’m not gonna name the city in case this makes it to the cops and they can track me down in some way but I think it’s important to state that the tons of abandoned mills and failed businesses that are all around here are great targets for someone like me. Especially since I’ve upgraded from my fires in the woods to more risky targets. Hell I’m probably doing these fucks a favor so they can collect the insurance on it without hiring some crackhead do it and risking them snitching when they inevitably gets caught. These guys are getting it from me for free!
I need to talk about this weird thing I experienced lately though. Old abandoned buildings often have stories of being haunted and are overall unsettling no matter where you are. Just something about the nature of the fucked up things that happened there whether it’s an old insane asylum where the patients where tourtured or old mills where some worker got grinned up in a giant machine and now haunts the building. Along with the large population of homeless people that stay in the buildings so they can sleep and have a place to get high for the night. The eerie silence and every little thing that goes bump in the night is enough to make just about anyone scared even if it is just all bullshit story’s. Anyways my last burning I went to one of the old loading docks/storage buildings that was part of my towns textile mill. The small building was separate from the huge main building that workers used to actually make the textiles and was right next to a bunch of other storage and loading docks just like it. I broke a window and climbed into the smaller building with my lighter fluid, my yarn fuse, some kindling, and my pack of cigarettes that I would use to start the fire. As I jumped through the window into the large open area of the loading dock I see all the dust particles going right by my phones flash light. Nobody’s been here in years I think to myself. Immediately I see empty beer bottles, some plastic chairs and other trash scattered around all from other kids who broke in here to chill a little bit and have a good time. Now all I had to do was find a good corner that had some flammable materials that could get this shit ablaze.
This place was perfect it’s almost like they set it up for me I was like a kid in a candy store. These dumb fucks stacked all the wooden chairs and wooden tables that all the old workers used to work on on one side that covered damn near 1/3rd of the building. All old decrepit wood that was ready to be set ablaze. I doused a lot of it with lighter fluid and set up my make shift lighting device when I hear it. “Jackson. What are you doing?” Like the voice of a disapproving authority figure that was also questioning how I could be so stupid. It was so clear like someone was leaning right over me talking right into my ear. I jumped back expecting a cop or some security guard to be standing there I turned around expecting to be put in cuffs right at that second. When I turned around though nobody was there I frantically shined my phones flashlight around and it only confirmed that it was only me in the building surrounded by deafening silence. “Must be my imagination” I said. Not my first time in these spooky buildings and thinking I heard something that isn’t really there. I recollected myself and went back to tying my half smoked cigarette to the yarn. As I see it start to light the yarn I run out of the building.
Like many other arsonists I get my kick out of seeing the fire spread and fully engulf the structure. I run to a nearby patch of trees and bushes where I hunker down to watch the place go up in flames and the inevitable fire engine or 2 show up to frantically put out my work. Just as I thought, the place went right up. It was great just like I thought it would be. It was beautiful. Watching the flames reach as high as 3 stories I sat and admired as this small one story building was up in flames I was loving it. As I heard the sirens of the fire engines in the distance I layed down further covering myself in the brush waiting to see them put out my hard work. I don’t blame them it is their job after all. I’m just glad to see them actually doing something for once instead of sitting on their ass and collecting their pay checks for doing nothing.
Here’s where things get especially strange though. As I lay down on my stomach still admiring this huge fire (honestly some of my best work) I saw something. From the garage door opening of the loading dock I saw 3 figures appear out of the flame. All of them dark black silhouettes obviously visible in contrast to the yellow and orange flame that they were standing behind. One a tall male adult figure, the other a slightly less tall female figure and the last one a small child like figure all standing right next to each other. They stood there for what felt like minutes on end looking right at me with their non existent eyes. Just staring, knowing that I was trying to hide in the bushes while the sirens in the background grew louder. I laid there on the ground stricken with a sense of dread and overall fear as they stood there. The large male figure raised his hand and pointed right at me. I knew it was directed at me. I was shaking at this point from fear. A fear that I don’t know if I’ve ever felt in my life time. The sirens grew louder and louder I could see the red and white lights off in the distance the fire engines had to be a few hundred yards away. I looked away and started shaking my head around feeling that I had to be seeing things. I closed my eyes and started telling myself that I was just going crazy and that these things in front of me where not actually there. I opened up my eyes to see the fire engines and police arriving and looked specifically at the loading dock to see that the silhouettes where gone. I watched the firemen frantically getting out and hooking up their hoses to put out my flame. I watched as they methodically fought the flames like they have had to fight many of my works in the past.
When my work of art was fully put out I snaked away and walked back to my car still in shock from what I just saw.

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The ministry of secrets was indeed a busy place these days. Only the most loyal and trust worthy women and dare she say a few men worked beneath the halls of the Imperial palace, although who they were loyal to was sometimes a mystery. Mon’Kelron had visited a few times over her career, once at the behest of now Admiral Nar’Vala, and once at the behest of the Empress.
Once more, she followed one pace behind the Empress into the dark halls the ministry of secrets utilized. It was a strange mixture of the ancient dungeons of the past combined with almost magical Human technology. Spy-Mistress Kel’Taraan awaited the Empress as they passed the thick metal doors that although old, were without blemish.
Two of the ministry of secrets guards stood to each side, each in strange charcoal colored uniforms of some kind of thick cloth material and brandishing rifles that glowed blue from within their barrels. “More new Human technology.” She thought as they passed the check point and entered the sanctum of secrecy. Once inside, the two guards closed the impressive door and pressed a button on the wall, an intricate mechanism spun, forcing metal bars into place on all four sides of the door.
Empress Shi’Lana addressed the once ancient, but now middle aged Spy-Mistress. “How is our prisoner doing this morning?” She asked in a cold tone.
The Spy-Mistress waved for the group to follow her, “She is doing better now, we found a false tooth laced with poison and extracted it. We also used some of the medical nannites the Humans gave us to repair her face, Mon’Kelron did a staggering amount of damage, breaking her nose, maxilla and zygoma. She could not talk with all the swelling of her injuries.”
The Empress looked over to her Captain, “I heard you dispatched her, I did not know it was quite that brutal.”
Mon’Kelron sighed, “It wasn’t intended to be, it was instinctive, muscle memory. During that moment of terror I felt as if something unlocked inside me and I found I has incredible strength that was not there before the Humans repaired me.”
The Spy-Mistress cackled as they entered a room with a single chair in it’s center. In that chair was a woman, who appeared to be quite worse for wear. She was strapped to the chair by her ankles, shins, thighs, chest and neck. She did not look happy. “How are we doing this afternoon young Vir’Athen?”
The woman struggled against her bonds as she spat, “Better than all of you will be when our masters arrive with their fleet!”
The Empress raised an eyebrow to Kel’Taraan, “She speaks of the Howrons? Is she part of the lunatic fringe group New Beginnings or something else?”
“Oh, she is part of something else entirely. A group we had heard only whispers about in the past centuries, but we knew must exist.” Kel’Taraan sighed. “She is part of a group that calls themselves the Redeemers, who worship the Howrons, and have existed since they first came to our world.”
The woman settled down but spoke with vehemence, “We don’t worship them, they aren’t gods, but they are the rightful rulers of our race. For over ten generations we have been their presence on Alandra, and we don’t follow the orders of a false Empress!”
Mon’Kelron looked over to the Spy-Mistress, “I’m surprised she is speaking at all, if this group is as secretive as you say and even resorted to poisoning themselves rather than being captured.”
Kel’Taraan pointed to the tablet on the wall, one identical to the one in her quarters. “The Human’s gave us such wonderful toys. That medical tablet is monitoring a device that we implanted in the base of her spine, it completely inhibits the parts of the brain that control duplicity. Simply put, she can not lie to us, nor does she want to.”
“Humans!” The prisoner spat, “They are a blight on our universe, and the mortal enemy of the Howrons and the Ulraar!”
The Empress looked over to the Spy-Mistress, then back to the two other guards behind them, “I think I have seen enough for now, let us go to somewhere more private.”
As they turned to leave the prisoner shouted from her chair, tears running down her bruised and swollen cheeks, “The fleet is coming, and once they destroy the Humans they will lay waste to our world for siding with them! You will be the death of us all if you don’t repent!”
Mon’Kelron smirked at her, and slammed the door as she followed the group to Kel’Taraan’s private office. Leaving the two guardswomen outside the door she closed it and ensured it was locked before sitting in the only other chair in the office. The Spy-Mistess walked around her huge desk and sat in a strange chair that was obviously of Human manufacture.
“The prisoner, Vir’Athen has been grilled by myself and Spy-Mistress Isa’Bella for most of the morning. Her name is on no census, and other than her clothing and the pistol and reload cartridges she carried nothing else. Thankfully the devices the Human’s provided us with worked on our physiology. We have learned quite a good deal about this group from her, and will require Imperial permission to take out this group.” She stated, pressing her finger tips together.
The Empress sat back in the overly stuffed leather chair, “And you will have it of course, what will you need?”
Sighing the Spy-Mistress turned her computer monitor around, showing a map of the world with an island circled. “The group operates off an island compound near the equator, forty kilometers off shore. Evidently the Howrons set this group up with the means to operate and communicate with them.”
The Empress looked horrified, “They can communicate with the fleet even now? Have you informed the Humans?”
Kel’Taraan sat back and smiled, “Of course, they have been receiving everything we enter into our computers about this Redeemer group. Luckily this fleet believes they are only up against a single human warship. This other race of aliens are the ones that have Alex a bit nervous.”
Mon’Kelron spoke up, “The Ulraar? Yes, I wondered what the prisoner meant by that myself.”
Turning the computer monitor back around the Spy-Mistress grumbled, “As if things weren’t complicated enough, it seems the Howron have an alliance with this more advanced race against the Humans and have been in a state of on again, off again war for three centuries.”
“Hold on, I’m confused, why didn’t Alex and the others know their people were at war with the Howrons and this other race? They’re human after all!” Mon’Kelron asked.
Looking first at the Empress, then to Mon’Kelron, “You didn’t tell her?” She asked.
The Empress shook her head, “Nar’Vala was read in, but she is Admiral of our space based fleet, the Captain of my Guard didn’t need to know. She might as well now, tell her.”
“Very well your majesty.” She stated to the Empress before turning to Mon’Kelron, “The Humans are not from our Universe, thus far all who have arrived have come here by accident, including the first ship to grace our skies as well as the Missive of Dissent.”
Mon’Kelron nodded, “Yes, that is part of the fairy tale, that they were from another realm, that doesn’t explain why they don’t know about this ongoing war.”
“Ah, but it does. Alex and his crew have been piecing together a series of events over the last three and a half centuries. A huge Human warship known as the IFS Conquest of Mars was the first to arrive in our universe, and was met by hostility from a Howron colony a little over four light years from our own solar system. They destroyed the colony world, sending it into an ice age and starting this war with the Howrons.” Kel’Taraan stated.
Mon’Kelron nodded, “Ok, go on.”
The Spy-Mistress swiveled in her chair, “The Humans aboard the Conquest left for a system near a pulsar to a group of systems inside a nebula. It is a place the Howrons cannot reach, the pulsar bathes the entire region of space in harsh radiation, but the Ulraar can attack them. The reason Alex, and even the first crew of the Prosperity didn’t know about the other Human’s was simply a matter of timing, by the time they had arrived, the previous humans had started a war and left.”
Mon’Kelron looked over to the Empress, then back to the Spy-Mistress, “So when the Howron found a Human ship in orbit above our planet they decided then that we needed to be conquered to keep the Humans from having allies?”
The Empress spoke up, “Perhaps at first, but once they found our planet to have vast reserves of Adamantine it became far more lucrative to them to take it from us as tribute. Though why they want it we still don’t know.”
The Spy-Mistress sighed, “Thanks to our esteemed guest, we now know why. Although she stated they were equals in their alliance, we believe the Howrons are buying technology from the Ulraar with Adamantine mined here. Alex noted the Ulraar ships, which he had been calling Trinar since they were all triangular in shape, used a vast amount of the substance in their hulls.”
The Empress balled up her fists, “So we have been slaves to these, these, beings simply because we had a resource they could use to bribe another group for technology?”
The Spy-Mistress shrugged, “It was always a mystery why they wanted the adamantine they forced us to extract, now we know. The Ulraar are more technologically advanced than the Howron, but neither seem to be able to get the upper hand on the group of Human’s in the nebula.”
Mon’Kelron tapped the overstuffed arm of the chair as she thought, “If the Humans here know where the Conquest went, what is stopping them from leaving us to the Howron to find more of their kind?”
The Spy-Mistress stopped swiveling her chair, “I spent the best seventy five years of my life with the Humans on the Prosperity, my Emmet…” She broke off her words and put her knuckles to her mouth, tears welling up in her eyes. “The Humans will not abide slavery of any kind, Alex has made this abundantly clear. He will not leave until our system is safe and we can defend ourselves properly.”
Neither the Empress or the Captain had ever seen Kel’Taraan this emotional before, they both waited, giving her time to compose herself. “They will not leave us to our fate, they have committed Humans to crew the last two vessels. This new information changes nothing in the short term, in the long term they may reach out to the other group of Humans.”
______________________________
Monty looked over to Kelly as she sat down on the couch beside her. She had a plate full of cake and a huge glass of milk. “Are you alright? You kind of lost it there for a moment in your office.”
Kelly sighed as she put her glass on the side table. “Being a replicant is taking some getting used to. I can remember things as clearly as if it happened only moments ago, even if it were centuries past.”
“I guess Emmet was someone special to you?” Monty asked.
Nodding, Kelly answered, “He was the most important person in my life. He was my husband, and although we could never have offspring, I always wanted a family. I had health issues when I was young and he was the ships doctor. I was the advisor to the Empress and he took a liking to me, bringing me up to their ship to fix what ailed me.”
Monty nodded, “So that explains your exceptionally long lifespan. You spent seventy five years together?”
Kelly picked up her fork and took a bite from the piece of cake, nodding to Monty, “I did, seventy five wonderful years.” She started tearing up again. “I’m sorry, now I can recall everything with perfect clarity, it’s painful remembering those times, and my mind wondered to a time when I feared Emmet would leave me.” She wiped the tear away with her napkin.
Monty reached over and hugged her, letting her get it out of her system. “How about a comedy, something raunchy and stupid?”
Kelly nodded, “That sounds good, want some cake?”
Monty shook her head and got up to go over to the buffet table, grabbing some chocolate brownies and bringing back a plate full of them. “I’ve got everything I need right here.”
______________________________
“Thank you all for coming, have you all seen the information Kelly has collected from the Redeemer prisoner?” Kara asked as she stood in front of the now enlarged buffet table surrounded by Alex, Monty, Riven, Izzy, Valarie, John, Erin and Kelly. Nods from all around the table let her know that they had indeed read the latest bombshell from the planet.
Kara swiped her holo-tank to show the first time a Bells Inequality was detected from the surface of Alandra. “At the time we assumed this was sent from the Palace, however, after some talks with Kelly we have found this was not the case. That particular communication was sent from this Redeemer group. Kara looked to Kelly to continue.
The new replicant easily picked up the presentation, “We often wondered how the Howron knew where our research facilities were located. They have attempted to keep us technologically backwards to ensure we can never threaten them or leave our planet. It appears they setup this group centuries ago, and they have used their extensive spy network to pass on that information to the enemy. The city they destroyed housed a research lab working on nuclear fission.”
Kara picked up after Kelly, “Luckily Kelly is extremely paranoid, and the exact information as to our alliance has never been disclosed outside the Empresses inner circle. The prisoner, who was very highly placed in the Redeemer group is completely unaware of the mine field, the planetary defenses, or the new frigates. As of one hour ago the entirety of the Alandran navy, which isn’t as impressive as it sounds have been secretly launched to attack their island base.”
“We could just nuke it from orbit, it’s the only way to be sure.” Monty stated.
Kelly shook her head, “Sadly that is not a possibility, we need to capture those in charge of the organization and capture any equipment they may be using to contact the Howron. The news has stated the Empress was gravely injured in the attack and the assassin is still at large, with any luck this story will hold until the assault on the island.”
Alex spoke up, “So will it only be the navy that will launch this assault on the island?”
Kelly grinned across the table to Alex, “No, Spy-Mistress Isa’Bella and our best agents in the ministry of secrets will also be going. Not only will they know what to look for, they are also equipped with modern body armor and light rail guns, they should turn the tide of any technology the Howrons equipped the Redeemers with.”
John spoke up as he picked up a small sandwich cut at an angle from the table, “I take it you have a plan?”
Kelly walked over to the holo-tank and Kara moved over to allow her to use the device, “We believe the device they are using to communicate with the Howrons is in fact Ulraar technology, and will look quite different than the examples we have seen before. Kara had her doubts about the Howrons having the knowledge to create particle entanglement, it seems this is a pass me down from the Ulraar who have discovered string radio, though not its full range yet.”
Continuing, she swiped the holo-tank to show the last information about the alien fleet in the Lynx system. “If we can capture that device intact we can send false information to the Howron fleet. We could maneuver them directly into the minefield!”
Valarie shook her head, “How would that work, if they are as fanatical as we believe them to be, even with an implanted neural inhibitor they still couldn’t be controlled enough to send them a video message.”
Kara nodded to Kelly, who moved away from the holo-tank. “I’ve researched both Bells Inequalities that we have encountered since arriving in this universe. There isn’t enough bandwidth to send a video file, or even an audio file. I believe there are only three entangled atoms in the device, allowing for transmission of only one bit at a time with error correction. They are limited to text transmissions.”
Monty bounced as she understood, “So the Howrons would have no idea who was on the other side of the transmission, they would simply have to trust it was still their group sending the message.”
Izzy spoke up next, “But this could all be ruined if they manage to send a message to the Howron fleet?”
“Yes, which is why my agents will infiltrate the base and capture the device before the navy begins bombarding the island.” Kelly stated.
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Hi everyone, I 19F and boyfriend or ex 20M have been together for just a year and 4 days. My bf and I like to switch our Snapchat account for funsies and I notice that a girl ask to request him Snapchat I told him who it is and turns out it was an old friend/ex that he met online, he doesn’t know what she looks like at all. Anyways he ask if he should be friends be with her because she ghosted him for like 3 years and I said yes just to see what she would do…. (big mistakes). They started talking and I kinda felt left out, he introduce me to her and she kinda gave me red flag. She was like “nice to meet you, had he mention you about me at all? I hope it’s nothing bad. We had quite the history” (bit sus when she said that they “had history”.we kinda got into a fight because I was acting upset that I was felt out (I was still on his account). She send a snap and I told him about it and he said not to open but 20 min later I accidentally did because I was doing his streak. And boy I glad I did because her snap said “three years later 🫶 missed ya” like who tf does that knowing they have a girlfriend. I told him about it and he got upset because I opened it (even though it was an legit accident) and he wanted to talk to him so We pretty much had a fight and I told him about how I don’t like her and to leave me alone, he refused to and try to keep calling me but later just stop (at this point I was back on my own account). He stop texting me for an hour and I was curious and he was still talking to her. And yes they were they were being flirty and he sent her his strong arms and she was being flirty and later what I think he sent a dick pic. Is don’t know if he did because I didn’t see the map but she was like describing the size and saying she would give him head which he reply “don’t you want to hold it instead?” And keeping sending “x” at the end of the his text and the girl was like “wouldn’t your girlfriend sees this because you were switching accounts?” Which he then replied “no Dw x” and “text me on discord x”. That’s ts when I knew he was cheating on me. He started texting me out of nowhere and was being all nice and I told him I saw everything, he was denying it saying he wasn’t lying and he never cheated but I kept pressing him and finally he told me the truth. He definitely send a dick pic. I took pictures of him confessing that he cheated and he’s now claiming he can be better and it was just one pic. But the damage is done. He cheated and there’s no coming back from it. I kept telling him it’s over and he just refused the fact that we are no longer together and I told him I’ll think about it. I’m just so hurt but I love him so much I can’t believe he would do this… idk if I should really end the relationship or not. Well I kinda did he isn’t just accepting the fact that we are. I told him to tell his mum (who i had a great relationship with her ) but he just said that we broke up and not telling her why.
Idk what to do so any guidance and support will help x
TLDR: boyfriend cheated and I don’t know what to do

(Due to Gen 2 Bakugan being able to evolve through Battle) To adapt to new rules in Interspace, Spectra made Infinity Helios able to cycle through his evolutions after exposure to the Perfect Core and Vestal DNA splicing through an ability called “Evolution Burst”, but he also retains the abilities of each of his forms after this is activated. After this ability is activated and the battle is over, he has the choice to return him to his Infinity ball form, or whatever form he ended Battle in. But in BI, he always starts at Viper Helios. Each of his forms has also been completely overhauled with new abilities at each power level. Infinity Helios also possesses the ability to change attributes to Darkus, but has lost the ability to Mutate.
Pyrus Viper Helios(G-Power 420) Pyrus Cyborg Helios(G-Power 650) Pyrus Helios MK2-(G-Power 700) Pyrus Infinity Helios-(G-Power 750-1150 depending on the G-Power Wheel) Support Pieces Battle Gear: Twin Destructor, Zukanator, Bakunano: Bombaplode Bakugan Trap: Metalfencer Mechtogan: Pyrus Slynix Battle Suit: Pyrus Defendrix Mobile Assault: Vestalier(Vestal Destroyer version of Jakalier
Pyrus Viper Helios Base Abilities * General Quasar: Adds 300 Gs to Viper Helios. * Blitzkrieg: Activate when your opponent rolls after you. Subtract 300gs from that Bakugan permanently. * Void Stream: Subtracts 400 Gs from the opponent. * Burst Core: Nullifies all of the opponent's abilities. * Siphon Scale: Absorb the effects of the last ability your opponent used on Viper Helios * Nova Spiral: Nullifies the opponent's ability and adds 500 Gs to Viper Helios. * Nova Defenser: Subtracts 400 Gs from the opponent and adds 200 Gs to Viper Helios. * Battle Unit Mode: Equip Metalfencer to Viper or Cyborg Helios and Combine Their G-Power. * Red Valkyrie: (Battle Unit Mode Must Be Active) Nullify all abilities presently active on the field. As long as this ability and battle unit mode is active, apply the G-Power amount double per ability you activate(Hidden Ability) * Evolution Burst: Return any Viper, Cyborg, or Mk2 Helios Bakugan’s Power Level to Base and place the Bakugan in your used pile(Must be the Same Attribute). Re Roll the subsequent Evolved form(Viper-Cyborg, Cyborg-Mk2, Mk2-Infinity) from your unused pile, add 200gs to the Newly-Evolved form of Helios, and transfer the entire ability set of the previous Helios Evolution to the new form for the remainder of the Match. * Pit Defender: Absorbs the opponent’s ability, and add an additional 100 gs to Viper Helios. * Pyrus Vexos: Play after you win a battle with Viper Helios. Enslave the defeated Bakugan. Ultimate Abilities * Maximum Quasar: Transfer 500 Gs from the opponent to Viper Helios. Forbidden Ability Cards * Nova Blazer X: Brings the opponent's power back to its base level and adds 700 Gs to Viper Helios. Fusion Ability Cards * Omega: Adds 400 Gs to Viper Helios. (General Quasar must be activated in order to use this ability) * Meta Insularis: Absorbs the effect of the opponent’s ability, and consecutively apply that effect to the next offensive ability that you activate for Viper Helios (must be used consecutively after Siphon Scale. Fuse with any other offensive ability.)
Cyborg Helios Cyborg Bakugan Base Abilities * Defuse Quasar: Brings the opponent's power back to their base level and adds 300 Gs to Cyborg Helios. * Red Vector: Transfer 300gs from the opponent to Cyborg Helios. * FARBAS: Heals all damage done to Cyborg Helios and raises his Power Level so it equals the opponent's if it is higher than his. It also analyzes and copies all of the opponents abilities activated during the match. * Explosion Lambda: Nullifies all of the opponent's abilities and adds 500 Gs to Cyborg Helios. * Pyrus Vexos: Play after you win a battle with Cyborg Helios. Enslave the defeated Bakugan. * Chaos Shock Cannon: Subtracts 500 Gs from the opponent. * General Quasar: Adds 200 Gs to Cyborg Helios. * Beam Wall: Subtracts 200 Gs from each opponent and prevents the activation of abilities * Evolution Burst: Return any Viper, Cyborg, or Mk2 Helios Bakugan’s Power Level to Base and place the Bakugan in your used pile(Must be the Same Attribute). Re Roll the subsequent Evolved form(Viper-Cyborg, Cyborg-Mk2, Mk2-Infinity) from your unused pile, add 200gs to the Newly-Evolved form of Helios, and transfer the entire ability set of the previous Helios Evolution to the new form for the remainder of the Match. * Ultimate Fury: Subtracts 400gs from each opponent and adds 400gs to Cyborg Helios. * Battle Unit Mode: Equip Metalfencer to Viper or Cyborg Helios and Combine Their G-Power. * Red Valkyrie: (Battle Unit Mode Must Be Active) Nullify all abilities presently active on the field. As long as this ability and battle unit mode is active, apply the G-Power amount double per ability you activate * Heat Shield: Reflects the Opponent’s Ability back at them * Mega Blazer: Transfer 500 Gs from the opponent to Cyborg Helios Forbidden Ability * Maximum Inferno X: Subtract 800 Gs from each opponent. * Burning Roar: Prevent the opponent from activating abilities. Fusion Abilities * Supremacy Quasar: (Fuse with General Quasar) Activate when three or more enemy Bakugan are on the field. Subtract 300gs from Each opponent for each Bakugan in every player’s used pile and add the total amount of G-Power subtracted from all opponents to Cyborg Helios. * Cyberdark Inferno: Double Cyborg Helios G-Power(Fuse with Battle Unit Mode) Forbidden Fusion Ability * Ultimate Striker X: Subtracts 1200 Gs from the opponent. (all six Attributes)
Helios Mk2 * Defuse Quasar: Returns the opponent's power level back to its base level and adds 300 Gs to Helios MK2. * Enemy Resetter: Nullifies all of the opponent's abilities and activates the level 2 class Battle Gear Ability. (For Helios MK2) * Pyrus Vexos MK2: Play after you win a battle with Helios MK2. Enslave the defeated Bakugan and add half its G-Power to Helios MK2 * Chaos Over Cannon: Subtracts 400 Gs from the opponent. * Chaos Boost Cannon: Transfers 400 Gs from the opponent to Helios MK2. * Dragon Pincer: Adds 600 Gs to Helios MK2. * Chaos Power Cannon: Subtracts 500 Gs from the opponent * Scorching Laserlance: Prevents the activation of Defensive abilities for the rest of the match. * Gatling Dragon: Subtract 400 Gs from each opponent. This ability doubles in force if Helios MK2 is the only Bakugan on your field. * Blackout Cannon: Subtracts 400 Gs from each opponent and adds 400 Gs to Helios MK2. * Superior Volley: Subtract 700gs from each opponent. * FARBAS EM: Repairs all damage done to Helios MK2's body and makes his power level equal to his opponent's at all times. * Ragnarök Cannon: Transfers 600 Gs from the opponent to Helios MK2. * Chaos Hyper Cannon: Nullifies the opponent's Gate Card and transfers 600 Gs from the opponent to Helios MK2. * Precipice Shield: Nullifies the opponent's ability, prevents the activation of new abilities targeting Helios MK2, and transfers 200 Gs from the opponent to Helios MK2. Also, it adds 200 Gs to every Bakugan on his team. * Evolution End Burst: Return Helios’s Power Level to Base and place him in your used pile. Re Roll Pyrus Infinity Helios from your unused pile and add 300 Gs to Infinity Helios for the rest of the match. Also, transfer all ability sets of all previous Helios Evolutions to Infinity Helios permanently. * Pulsing Twister: Subtracts 500 Gs from the opponent. * Discharger: Transfers 300 Gs from the opponent to Helios MK2. * FARBAS RX: Nullifies the opponents Gate Card, returns both Helios MK2 and the opposing Bakugan to their base G-Power level and nullifies all the new opponent's abilities for a limited time. * Exceed Charger: Makes Helios MK2's power level equal to his opponent's. * FARBAS D2: Repairs all damage done from Helios MK2's body, nullifies all of the opponent's abilities and all those abilities that have been activated by its opponent, Helios MK2 becomes immune to all of them for a simple period of time. * Chaos Assault Cannon: Transfer 500gs from Your Opponent to Helios MK2 * Precipice Firewall: Prevent the nullification of your abilities for a limited time. Fusion abilities * Hellion Blazer: Subtract 1000 Gs from the opponent. Your opponent cannot play support pieces for the remainder of the match if Zukanator was activated on Helios MK2. * Omega MK2: add 800 Gs to Helios MK2(Defuse Quasar must be active) * Battle Gear Abilities Twin Destructor * Dual Devastator: Brings the opponent's power level back to its base level and adds 200 Gs to Twin Destructor. (Level 1 class ability) * Twin Destructor Level 2: Adds 400 Gs to Twin Destructor. (Level 2 class ability) * Twin Destructor Level 3: (Level 3 class ability): Add 800 Gs to Twin Destructor and subtract 800 Gs from each opponent without a support piece. Zukanator * Zukanator Level 1: Add 300 Gs to Zukanator * Zukanator Level 2: Subtract 600 Gs from each opponent and add 600 Gs To Zukanator * Zukanator Level 3: Triple Helios MK2s G-Power as long as Zukanator is active and subtract 900 Gs from the opponent * Hyper Fireball Bazooka: (Level 4 Class Ability): Subtract 1000 Gs from the opponent, remove their Battle Gear, Bakunano, or Battlesuit from the match, and add 1200 Gs to Zukanator. Battle Gear Advanced Fusion Ability * Vestal Assault Cannon: (Fuse with Hyper Fireball Bazooka and Hellion Blazer) Condition: Requires Battle Gear level 4, Helios MK2 to be facing more than three opponents alone, one must have an over 1500 G-Power Difference. Either Zukanator must be unused, and Twin Destructor to be currently active or the reverse. At least one of your opponents must also have support pieces active. Effect: Nullify all of your opponent’s abilities, gate cards set on the field, active hidden abilities, and prevent the activation of any abilities(including support pieces) except for this one. Quadruple Helios MK2’s Base G-Power. Attach Zukanator to the top of Twin Destructor from the unused pile and combine their power levels with Helios MK2’s new current G-Power. Then, Subtract 10,000 Gs from the opponent with the highest G-Power, and 1000 Gs respectively from each other opponent. Remove any opponent from the match who had 0 Gs, and add the G-Power bonuses of any Support Pieces from the match that were active after the successful activation of this ability.
Pyrus Infinity Helios The final Form of Helios. The most feared Bakugan on Vestal. Has been upgraded so he is able to change attributes between Darkus and Pyrus, and possesses the Unique ability to use dual attributed abilities and abilities from either attribute while being a separate attribute entirely, due to small exposure from the Perfect Core(through Mercury Dragonoid). * FARBAS Infinity: Repairs all damage done to Infinity Helios, Increase His Power Level by 1 and add 100gs to his base G-Power for every Bakugan in your opponent’s Used Pile. Copy the last five abilities used by your opponent and add 100 Gs to their total effects. * FARBAS Exceed: Repairs all damage done to Infinity Helios, and increase his power level by 1. * Vexos Infinity: Play after you win a battle with Infinity Helios. Enslave the defeated Bakugan, add half its G-Power to Infinity Helios, and copy three of its abilities as Pyrus abilities. * Clamor Quasar: Transfer 500 Gs from your opponent to Infinity Helios and bring them back to Base Power and G-Power Levels. * Darkfluid Alloy: Change the attribute of Infinity Helios to dual type Darkus and reset his power level wheel. * Evolution End Burst: Return Helios’s Power Level to Base and place him in your used pile. Re Roll Pyrus Infinity Helios from your unused pile, turn the G-Power Wheel a maximum of 200 Gs more than Helios MK2’s last G-Power(not Printed) and add 100gs to Infinity Helios for the rest of the game. Also, transfer all ability sets of all previous Helios Evolutions to Infinity Helios permanently. * Clamor Laguna: Nullify the opponent’s ability and deactivates all active Bakunano or Battle Gear. * Boot Sector Launch: Nullify the opponents Gate Card and Transfer 400 Gs to Infinity Helios. * Mach Blitz: Prevents the activation of Defensive abilities by your opponent for the rest of the match. * Precipice Blades: Subtract 200 gs from each opponent up to 3 times for each Bakugan Helios has defeated. * Level Limit: Area B: Roll a six sided die. Negates the abilities of all of your opponent’s Support Pieces for the amount of turns you rolled on the dice, negates all abilities active presently, permanently reduces all opposing Bakugan to a G-Power of 700(Cannot go higher), and prevents your opponent from going above a power level of 2. * Warfire: Halve each opponent’s G-Power and add the total amount taken to Infinity Helios. Your opponent cannot activate abilities or gate cards in response to this ability if Helios has any support pieces presently attached to him. * Burner Visor: Nullifies all of the opponent's abilities. * Shawken Barrel: Subtract 700 Gs from the opponent furthest away from Infinity Helios * Furious Charger: Subtract 400gs from the opponent and add 400gs to Infinity Helios, and add 200 Gs to each ally in addition. Hidden Ability * Deep Fire - Block A: Negates all of your opponent’s active Support Pieces for 2 turns, and all abilities active presently. Transfer 300Gs from an opponent of choice to Infinity Helios each turn. * Bolting Breaker: Transfer 600 gs from each opponent to Infinity Helios. * Battle Warrior: Add 400Gs to Infinity Helios. * Firewall Exceed: Nullify all the opponents Abilities and prevent the activation of new ones, return all opponents to base G-Power and permanently subtract 200gs from each opposing Bakugan who used an Ability Card in the past 2 turns. * Stygian Blaze Cannon: Subtract 500 from your opponent and force their gate card open. If the gate card they are standing on has a highlighted bonus for Darkus or Pyrus, Subtract 1000 Gs from your opponent. If their G-power is reduced to zero, remove their Bakugan from the match(Must have Bombaplode Active) * Darkflare Reflector: Add 500gs to Infinity Helios and reflect the opponent’s ability. * Dimension Stream: Subtract 400 Gs from the opponent. * Frenzy Blaster: Add 600 Gs to Infinity Helios. * FARBAS Infinity Turbo: Heal all damage done to Infinity Helios and nullify the opponent’s ability. Makes Helios’s base G-power level 400 Gs more than your opponent's at all times. Every other ability your opponent activates that targets Helios is nullified for the remainder of the match, and hidden abilities cannot select Helios as an attack target. In addition, he can only be targeted directly for the remainder of the battle cycle, meaning any ability that subtracts G-Power from more than one opponent does not affect Infinity Helios. * Ignition Assault: Roll a Six Sided Die. Subtract 300 Gs x the Amount Rolled from each opponent and add 300 Gs times the amount rolled to Infinity Helios for each opponent affected. * Ragnarok Buster: Adds 500 Gs to Infinity Helios, Removes a Bakugan placed on a gate card in front of Helios, and subtracts 600 gs from the Opposing Bakugan adjacent to the last one. Doubles all G-Power bonuses given to Helios by Gate Cards. * Nova Eltanis: Helios Becomes Invulnerable to Offensive Abilities for 3 turns, and all Defensive abilities give double G-Power during that same turn. Move an Ability Card from your enemy's used pile to your unused pile and reuse it as a Pyrus ability each time an ability is activated during this period.(Continuous Fusion Ability) Fusion Abilities * Ruinforce Quasar: Activate when you have more used Bakugan than your opponent, and the opponents Bakugan has gained more than 1000 gs from ability cards and has a G-Power of 500-1000 gs higher than Infinity Helios. Subtract 1500 gs from your opponent and permanently add 1000 gs to Infinity Helios.(Fuse with Clamor Quasar and Stygian Blaze Cannon) * FARBAS Infinity Omega(Fuse with Omega III and FARBAS Infinity): Cant be nullified, can only be activated two turns after a FARBAS ability card's effect is resolved, and have lost half of his G-Power. Repairs all damage done to Helios. Revert the G-Power of all standing Bakugan to Base level(Including Allies). Add half of Helios present G-Power and all lost G-Power together, multiply the total by 2, and then add that number to Helios' base G-Power permanently. Additionally, Increase his power level by 2, double the effects of all Abilities, and copy the entire ability set used by one defeated opponent, change their attribute to Pyrus, and add 300 Gs to their total effects.(continuous hidden fusion ability) * Mauser Impact: Activate when the opponent has two or more Bakugan, and at least one Mechtogan or Mechtogan Titan in play than you do, or a single Bakugan has at least 700 G-Power more than Infinity Helios(Not Base Level). Triple the current G-Power of Infinity Helios. Nullify all gate cards or abilities presently active, including hidden abilities, and subtract 1500 Gs from each Opponent who had an ability or gate card nullified by this effect. Also defeats the opponent’s Mechtogan, or Mechtogan Titan and removes it from the match. Cannot be nullified. (Fuse With Ragnarok Buster, and Bakunano Bombaplode must be activated)

April 1746, Scotland.
A time of warring clans, used as pawns to replace one king, George II, with another, James VIII, living in France. His son, Prince Charles Edward Stewart, raised clans loyal to his father in 1745 and won a series of battles that caused London to recall one of her generals from the mainland to stop this rebellion.
He was running.
His mind was a mix of fear and anger. He was being shoved and forced with the group around him. All control was gone with the smell of death and blood in the air. Somewhere, a voice rose up,
“Back to the town! Run for your lives!”
He didn’t understand why they were running, they should have stayed with the Prince. They were winning, until they came to this moor. A campaign of victories, with a march into England itself. It was all so close. …
Suddenly a hand grabbed him.
“There you are, where are the others?”
“I don’t know, let go of me!”
A voice from the rear made them turn their heads,
“They’re coming!”
Behind them, large horses with men wearing red cloaks were riding into the rear of the mob of humanity. Swords were raised and brought down onto the heads of any in their way. Horses were used as battering rams, running down the helpless. Women with children became targets for these dragoons. People not involved with the uprising were ridden down or cleaved through.
All he could do was run.
He never had a choice ‘being out with Charlie’. Clan Cameron were staunch Jacobites since the ‘15 however there was a quiet peace in Scotland since those days. His father was obliged to follow the chieftain regardless of his personal beliefs, and his son would come along. If not, they risked being kicked off their small piece of land.
“This served your grandfather well in the ‘15” his father said, a hand resting on the hilt of the broadsword.
“And it will help us bring our king over the water, with god on our side.”
He was too young to understand what this meant, tradition was tradition spilled in the blood of his kinsfolk. Spending time with his sister, Fiona, made him happy. She was only 7 but had old eyes, the women said.
“She will be wise and fierce.”
He didn't know or care about that, he was her protector and older brother.
His mother, a proud member of the MacDonalds, made sure anyone in earshot knew it, much to the chagrin of her husband. Her people were the Lord of the Isles with no equal anywhere in the Highlands.
“Only a MacDonald woman can give birth to a true Highlander” she told her son, instilling her love and sense of honor that was passed down.
“And never trust a Campbell.”
It was a warning MacDonalds took to heart. Campbells, like many clans, used opportunity and cunning to improve their standing with the crown and take advantage of smaller clans. After the Scottish Reformation, many clans became staunch protestants, with the Campbells the largest in the Highlands. They also massacred the MacDonalds of Glencoe. Other clans stayed with the Catholic church, this compiled with ancient animosities would destroy the Highland way of life.
He came from people who for centuries drew their strength from others around them. Called by the chieftain in times when their king needed them or to fight another clan. Hundreds of years they lived this life, of this land, of this piece of glen.
But beyond his own comprehension, great powers in far off lands, moved men and ships from one place to another trying to either help or prevent a queen from taking her fathers throne.This rebellion was sideshow in the larger picture of European politics and London wanted it dealt with, severely. This final act in a great and bloody play would end in a desolate livestock pasture far from his home.
His father.
Where was he?
He remembered they were in line, reciting their lineage to ancestors long ago. Rain beating on their faces, wind blowing in their eyes. Men packed together awaiting the Prince to sound the charge. He saw the government cannon being moved into position and he saw the dragoons move to the flanks of the enemy lines. And he saw the traitors. Highlanders that sided with the government.
Cannon shots struck their ranks. Men fell, disemboweled, entrails and blood mixing with the ground. Horrible wounds that no one could live from. The officers tried to close up ranks as lead balls pierced the ranks of meat. Their own artillery was woefully undergunned when compared to the Hanovarian war machine. Before the battle hundreds of men wandered off in search of food or sleep after a night march to ambush the government forces failed. The ranks were too thin to endure this onslaught, something had to be done.
It was moving so fast his mind couldn’t comprehend what this reality presented him. His 15 years of life wouldn’t change anything in the next 45 minutes.
The Camerons could not wait, their honor and rising casualties forced them forward. Stewarts of Appin to their left followed. The Fraisers, Clan Chattan, Farquharsons pushed forward. Other clans followed their lead over the uneven ground.
He saw his father in front of him running across the moor with the other men of Clan Cameron. Heart beating, mouth dry, legs pumping. An ache in his body. He wanted to stop. However, he knew what was next, an ancient cry pulled from his ancestors, that would steel his resolve.
Chlanna nan con thigibh a' so 's gheibh sibh feòil! / Sons of the Hounds, Come hither and get flesh!
The war cry bellowed from their throats, mixed with screams, gunshots and worse of all, the cannons. Pipers played ancient piobaireachd while swaths of men were wiped away.They had made it to the first line of red jacked soldiers,their bayonets at the ready.
”Claymore!” screamed the Highlanders, the cue to push on the final yards.
Running to catch up to the men in front, targe lowered in the left arm and broadsword raised in the right hand, his world exploded in white smoke. Legs and arms shot away. And others stood frozen and no amount of honor with clansmen screaming at them could move those vessels. And so they died.
The courage that brought him here, left after the brains of a clansman painted his face red. Prestonpants, Falkirk were easy victories for the army. Now it was being disassembled piecemeal. Vomit rose up and he fell to his knees. His stomach was empty since they hadn’t eaten in days, so a gruel of nothing came up. Smoke mixed with men's screams, his targe lost among the heather. He scrambled to his feet and ran past the Lowlanders who formed precise lines and returned fire. Irish and French-Scottish troops held off most of the government soldiers until they could retire in good order. The Prince was spirited away by his bodyguards and into history.
The road back to Inverness became the only escape for these refugees of the battle. Government troops began the slaughter of wounded rebels on the moor. He searched for other Cameron men to flee with, however the deluge of running Highlanders pushed him the four miles toward Inverness.
“They’re coming!”
The carrion call brought him back. Mustering his own strength he pulled away from this hand who grabbed him.
“Donald! It’s Malcolm, come with me!”
The name struck a nerve, Malcolm was his friend from Lochaber. As little boys they played among the cows and hills fighting imaginary enemies coming to take their livestock. His bloodshot eyes settled on Malcolm. For the first time today, he smiled.
“We will get ou….”
A slashing sound filled the air. Malcolm received the dragoons heavy saber to his skull.
“Come ‘ere ya little cunt!”
The language was foreign to Donald but it was the tongue of his enemies. Malcolm's body crumbled under the hooves of the massive horse. Donald scrambled away toward town.
“Where are ye rebel cur!”
With his blood up, the horse turned into a group of civilians trying to pass the dead Highlander. With his saber above his head, the dragoon brought it down on a woman carrying a small bundle. Her scream startled the child in her arms. Falling she let the baby fall away from her.
“Oi, there’s a rebel!” the dragoon hissed. Bringing his mount around, he trampled the bundle into the cold Scottish mud.
Townsfolk ran from the retreating Jacobite army, but most fled from the approaching Hanoverians. News quickly spread of the defeat and caused a panic that could not be stemmed. Donald ran through the streets with other Jacobites and civilians trying to get out of town. Falling, he backed into a wall and watched as people with few belongings or children ran before him. “We need to fight.” he thought, “This can’t be it!”
Pulling his knees up to his chest, Donald started to cry. He wanted to go home, with his father and be held by his mother. Play with his little sister and take her to her favorite part of the glen where the big tree gave them shade. Who would protect his little sister now? He shook with a violence he never knew, he felt sick. His body was shutting down. This was beyond fear, nothing like his fathers punishment or his mothers harsh tongue. It became simple human fight or flight, and Donald was immobile. Urine soaked his kilt as his small knees became the only protection from the violent world around him.
“Laddie, come with me, now!” He looked up to see another hand grab his arm. This time he didn't pull away. “We're going to Ruthven.”

I know this is a long post, so my apologies. Writing all of this out is just helpful for me to put my thoughts together. I’ve seen a few posts like this on this sub which were helpful to me, so I thought I should share my experience here in case it could help someone else.
Why I Think I Developed Puberphonia
Just to briefly explain my context, I’m a 32-year-old man. I was homeschooled, so most of my social circles as a kid were through church, Boy Scouts, or a small group of other homeschoolers I knew. When I first became a teenager, there were a lot of changes happening around me. My parents’ relationship was in the middle of a decade-long rough patch (that they eventually worked through, thank God), one of my sisters was moving across the country, and the time of my childhood was coming to an close. Many of my childhood friends moved away right around that time, and the kids who moved into town and eventually became my new friends had already gone through puberty.
I think because my parents were not in a great place to help me through something difficult like puberty, and I didn’t have any friends who were going through that process with me, I was left to myself. I was afraid of change, and I did not want to be seen as another problem by my parents, so I think I did my best to avoid what I felt was a weird and uncomfortable change.
From my perspective at the time, I was just talking the way I had always talked, but people started to make comments or jokes about how I sounded funny. The worst were jokes by my dad. Thankfully, this happened before social media took off, but I was always afraid whenever someone was recording a video, because I didn’t want to hear my own voice. I also learned to be afraid of little kids, because they had less of a filter than adults and would make fun of me, which was humiliating.
I knew that I could access a deeper voice, but it sounded harsh and big to me, so I kept it hidden for the most part. I would use it to sing in church, but never loud enough for other people to hear me. In high school, I started playing soccer, so I would try to use it every once in a while to yell, but people started making comments about how weird I sounded, so I stopped doing that. However, for the most part, I had good friends who were used to the way I sounded, so on the surface, I was able to get through high school feeling relatively normal.
As college approached, I was incredibly anxious about meeting new people, so I told myself that I would start using my deeper voice when I got to college, since that would be a good transition time. However, I was still afraid to use my deeper voice, and I never practiced using it, so I just went through college using my higher, falsetto voice. I still dealt with all the same jokes and comments, and I was self-conscious whenever I would meet new people or had to do a presentation for a class. Some of the more devastating, embarrassing moments were when I met someone who thought I was playing a prank on them and I had to convince them that I just had a weird voice. Someone else told me they had a friend who sounded like me, so they actually brought that friend to school, and I had to interact with someone who sounded just like me, and I hated it. I feel bad for that guy now, because I was so obviously uncomfortable, and I didn't handle that well. I hope he was able to move past his puberphonia too. So far, that is the only other person I've ever met with puberphonia. Another was when someone else was prying about why I talked that way and asked if I had balls. He actually apologized years later, but it was very hurtful at the time.
However, despite those moments, I was still fortunate enough to make good friends that I still have to this day, and college was overall a good experience.
Impacts
One of the indirect impacts of puberphonia is a general low self-esteem, because at any moment, anyone could make a devastating comment about my most personal insecurity. That low self-esteem really caused some major problems for me, especially in the realm of personal relationships. When I was in high school and college, I felt that girls would never be interested in me ever. When I finally had an experience in college where a girl I liked expressed that she liked me too, I felt like this was my ONLY chance to have a happy, normal life. When it turned out that she wasn’t a trustworthy, stable person, I ignored all those red flags she was waving, because I didn’t think I was ever going to find someone else who would like me. I won’t get into how that relationship ended (not well), but that became a theme for many years. In the years after graduating college, what I had to learn is that, in a twisted way, low self-esteem makes people much more likely to hurt others, because they don’t realize that they have an impact on other people. I have a lot of regrets because of how I treated people during that time.
Fast forward about another 5-7 years, and I eventually got married and had two kids of my own. Despite all the mistakes I made, I ended up with an amazing wife who is so good to me.
How I Started the Process of Moving On
My wife never asked me about my voice or made any comments, but about two years into our marriage, I decided that I should open up to her about it. That was one of the best decisions I have ever made. She actually cried after she asked me, “has anyone ever made fun of you?” and I said, “yeah, my whole life!” She never pressured me to show her my deeper voice or to change, but it still felt too scary for me to talk to her with my real voice even after talking to her about it. Over a period of months, I eventually forced myself to use it around her here and there, and eventually I got comfortable enough around her to start using it. It was scary at first, but she just encouraged me by saying that it sounded great. Around that time, I finally summoned the courage to google “voice never changed”, and that’s when I first learned the term, “puberphonia.”
For about a year, I would use my real, deeper voice at home with my wife and kids, and then use my higher, puberphonia voice around everyone else. Something I noticed is that the more I used my “real” voice, the harder it became to use my higher voice. I think I heard somewhere that Michael Jackson would speak with his higher “head” voice instead of his deeper “chest” voice because he wanted to keep his higher voice warmed up so he could sing with it. In my case, it was becoming more apparent to me that I couldn’t keep using my higher, puberphonia voice after I started using my lower voice at home, because it was becoming hoarser, and if I ever got a head cold or sick at all, it basically made it impossible to talk at all.
About 4 or 5 months ago, I finally summoned a little more courage, and I looked to see if there was a community on reddit for people with puberphonia. That was a big turning point for me to read other people’s experiences. I expressed to my wife that I was tired of feeling like I was pretending around other people when I had a real, “normal” voice that I was getting used to using at home, but I was still terrified to make that change.
Transitioning
I started using my real voice around strangers. Then I decided I wanted to make the transition with one of my soccer teams (I still play in a couple different leagues). I was so anxious before I got to that first game when I started using my real voice.
No one made a single comment.
I knew they could all tell that my voice sounded different, but they didn’t care. They just wanted to win the game, and when I was able to communicate better on the field, that helped accomplish that goal. That gave me a huge boost in confidence that I could do this.
Next was work. I went to one of my coworkers who I’m closest to, and just told him my whole story. He asked a couple questions, and then we moved on. He actually opened up about something difficult in his life, so we had a great conversation that was beneficial to both of us, in the end. Then I just told my other coworkers individually that I was going to start sounding different. Some of them were curious, and others obviously felt too uncomfortable to talk about it. That was about two weeks ago, and it’s never been brought up since.
After that, I decided I wanted to use my real voice around a couple friends. I was even more nervous around these friends because I’ve known them for so long. When we met up with them for a beer, I just started using my deeper voice. Their first reaction was, ‘You sick, man?” It was kind of awkward, but I just explained that I’ve always talked in a higher register, but I’m learning how to use my real voice now. They asked a couple questions, and then we moved on. It was uncomfortable for a few minutes, but now I can use my real voice around them, and nothing else really changed.
I’ve branched out to a few more groups, and I still have a few groups to go, but in total I’ve gone about three weeks straight of using my real voice, and I never want to go back. My wife says that she can tell a huge difference in my confidence level, and everyone I’ve talked to about it has only been encouraging. I’m still nervous about the people I still need to “come out” to, but I am no longer stricken with anxiety leading up to those interactions like I was when I first started this process.
What I Found Helpful
The most helpful thing to getting past it was finding someone I could talk to about it. For me, it was my wife. For others, it could be a close friend or sibling or parent. Desensitizing myself to talking about my voice really helped open the door to change.
If you want to transition to your deeper “real” voice, start practicing using that voice. Maybe in your car by yourself, read a book out loud, or use it around another person you trust. Then find a group of people that is easiest to use it around (strangers, for example) and practice using that voice around them. Then find another group, maybe a group of close friends. As soon as you start using it, it will start to feel normal really fast, and the more groups you open up to, the easier it gets. For some friends, I actually messaged them before I saw them, which gave them a heads up and also prevented me from chickening out when I actually saw them. I just texted something along the lines of, “hey man! I just wanted to give you a heads up that I’ve started seeing a speech therapist, so my voice has started to sound a little different. I just wanted you to know what was going on so I didn’t catch you off guard.” It’s scary to tap send on that text, but once you do, it’s done, and you can move on. I typically have a policy of telling the full truth (I'm not actually seeing a speech therapist), but I haven't found a more concise way to explain why a change is happening. If any of you have found a better explanation, let me know.
For other people I’m not as close to, I just started using my real voice, and hardly anyone has made any comments. That’s the easier route for people I’m not as close to.
Something else that was helpful for me to learn is that my “real” voice still sounds like me. It just doesn’t sound as high-pitched and strained. It just sounds like a normal person. I’ve seen it described somewhere else on this subreddit that your deeper voice can sound like a troll or something, but in reality, it’s just normal.
A lie I told myself for a long time was that since I was getting by just fine with my higher, puberphonia voice, I didn’t need to change. Yes, I went through 20 years of my life that way, and I made friends, I got married, I was able to get hired, but it was like playing life on hard mode. Since I’m a parent now, I've been thinking a lot about how to be the man I can be. Not just for my kids, but also for myself. I did not want to look back on my life and regret who I became. Changing my voice is just part of the process of becoming the man I can be. It’s great to feel like I’m taking another step toward becoming myself.
I don’t know how many of you out there have a similar story to mine, but I hope this was helpful. Feel free to ask me any questions, and I’ll do my best to answer.
TLDR: I had puberphonia for almost 20 years. The largest impact it had on me was drastically lowering my self-esteem, and it took years for me to learn to take myself seriously and expect others to take me seriously as well. I realized that in order to become the person I *want* to be, I have to start using my deeper, “real” voice.
I am finally transitioning to using my real voice, even though I never thought I could do this. I’m about three weeks into this process, and it has really boosted my confidence.
It’s easy to come up with excuses not to transition to your real voice, but it’s possible, and it makes your life better. I promise that this seems like a huge change to you, but to everyone else, it’s not that big of a deal. I wish I had done it 20 years ago, but the second-best time is now.

And I’ve done some dumb shit when I was in my teens and 20s that caused my life some bad experiences and loss pain etc and still..,
2023 and one person in it barreling back into my life after almost 2 decades instinctually avoiding someone I had no idea how dangerous he actually is or what he had planned and orchestrated for me all these years later…
I never knew who he was by his design and even still the best fake version of himself he made for me to like was still so off and messed up it sent me running in 2007 and kept me away from reuniting every few years he reached out since…
wore me down and 2023 was the year of all years…
my only regret in now turning 40 is coming back to see him again in the flesh after so fucking long bc he baited me from 3000 miles away that he would hang himself if I wasn’t at his door in 48 hours and begged not to 5150 him….
I wish I could just take it back… just him in 2023
I already had him fuck up my life 20 years ago after 2 whole months around him and I would do it again, it was something I eventually grew from and only had life long PTSD… but not any part of 2023, I’d give almost anything to go back in time and just never even know or see contacted me or if I had to open his message to give anything to have left him on read.
I regret him since late March 2023… that’s all I wish I could take back after 40 years of life and I lived through some crazy shit and nothing was a regret until my little monster came back in the flesh almost 20 years later to finish what he started.
No contact for so long but 2024 is still spiraling deeper into hell and I am terrified of what rock bottom is since I’m still falling no matter what I do the little control I have I exert and fail miserably anyway.
I almost died in July last year and eventually escaped him physically and emotionally (bc they don’t let go even if you’re not physically present the harder you run the harder they hold on to strangle the will out of you so you break and let them back in by any psychological warfare means they know how to do so they don’t lose you but the worst thing to them is losing their control over you).
I thought I got out alive and escaped so the worst was over and it was only just beginning
I haven’t seen his face or heard his voice and he’s long out of my life, the chain reaction and series of events to follow made me feel like my supposedly valiant efforts for self preservation were at best naive and wasted.
I don’t really think I’m better off with or without him after last summer and he has the last laugh and knows it and walks free today empowered to keep going and I heard he already fucked with possibly someone else last fall already after I ran as far as I fucking could for over 3000 miles of a drive to seek refuge and safety back to where I know and supposed home and safety and support system just to realize he did irreversible damage intentionally and one familiar coast with 3000 miles between the one he’s in I always felt unease and alien with snd without him it makes no difference to my overall life since.
So worth the escape right?
Driving past the California state limits, I still had hope that it was just a freak really fucked up bad luck thing and most humans are at least decent.
Can’t say I feel like that anymore and haven’t since and I want to be close and don’t because it’s not worth the risk.
You can lose everything you love and your actual life trusting the wrong person you think you know so well. It all makes my head spin.
I knew secondhand how ugly this world can be, never imagined I’d experience some of its deepest depraved shit and if I learned anything last year it’s that it can happen to anyone at any time and no one gives a fuck or owes you even to right someone else’s wrongs you didn’t cause and leave you in the street to die alone and fucked up with nothing.
You only have yourself but we are all here trying to get by we should not forget how many people like us couldn’t make it out away from their own monsters or the irreversible damage done to their minds.
We can’t get help even we try relentlessly, take comfort that your mind is strong enough to take whatever trauma brought you here, the poverty of loneliness And the difficulty of just living with 4 walls and a roof and food in your stomach after it all goes down with no support system.
We are inherently supposed to be social creatures but you are wise enough to choose self preservation over the overwhelming basic need for different kinds of connection and intimacy.
We are already messed up uniquely if we stumbled on here But we isolate to protect whatever we are holding on to internally to not check out early because this is no way to live but we all know after some things and people happen to you it’s the only way left and no matter how hard you try there’s no going back fi any part of your real self your previous life is dead and gone even if you’re still breathing.
I don’t trust or put anything past anyone. Anyone.
I don’t care if I come off as paranoid because I keep reading here most of us experienced things we should never have to know exist by people closest to us.
I’d Always thought it happens by strangers and random criminals lurking in dark alleyways. It happens in every neighborhood in homes you are promised Are safe and can trust. I never really questioned that in others before last year
Now I know better.
I can’t relate to my old self and everything is fading away so it’s hard to remember those feelings for others of love friendship connection safety trust
I don’t think I can think of a man touching me any time soon without involuntarily recoiling and extreme nausea and anxiety and darkness so relationships romantically are done
I thought I could hang on to some even arms length friendships some family and I just couldn’t do it
I’m here on the darkest parts of Reddit instead
I guess to be honest I don’t care who or how or why I don’t really want any human close enough to touch me in a platonic comforting way even through psychology tells us we should try to be “healthy” as if they even understand the brain in general let alone don’t even know how to effectively help any of us or even make us feel validated that our gaslighted lives fucking happened and everything else that followed suit did too
That has been my reality and I’m acutely aware of what collateral damage now stays outside the Cptsd itself
we are labeled everything in the book we are not and the book we most need ignores us, dsm doesn’t want to open Pandora’s box.
The medical community won’t even come to a consensus that Cptsd is even real.
I would love the skeptics to go relive every second of my 2023 all of this year so far, and tell me they are still unwavering.
it’s obvious why because this isn’t new at all, think of every war vet in combat who made it back not in a pine box.
Somehow doctors never knew for hundreds of years??
They know if they start formally acknowledging it at all they’d be forced to research and develop treatments for the most insidious irreversible mental illness and not linked to anything easy or genetic and only carried for the rest of our lives and completely avoidable if there weren’t so many monsters walking around looking like normal humans in broad daylight.
They knew for so long and still don’t even try now… all of the supposed therapy and meds and treatments that are literally cringey like if we take ice baths like 1800s asylums we will heal faster?
No studies have been shown any traditional or holistic or non traditional new “techniques” or meds are anything but purple hat theory.
We are all have invisible by choice and by circumstance and by will of society
so whatever this community does to help anyone like me I hope some of you find something literally anything on here to walk away with more not less
Reading your posts.. there are so many more who live with Cptsd and live life no one us relate the sheer numbers of people just posting or voting is far greater than I could have ever imagined and that means there are way more quietly in the shadows not posting or commenting or voting ….outside of this subreddit and tiny corner of the internet I am overwhelmed to think how many total out there and don’t know the word Reddit at all…..
I hate myself and not even my own little monster… only because I keep failing to fix anything in my own life.
And I fucking hate my new existence which is nothing anyone can ever call life or living or surviving
I can’t have my old self or any part of my old life
I was advocating on every aspect of life alone for myself not knowing who was staring back at me the few times in over a year to look in a mirror at all and kept fighting to just start a new life start over and feel human to have that feeling back of knowing myself even if I have to make a new person I was going for broke.
All in.
I couldn’t make it work.
Couldn’t get help for any thing from any one and I went to everything and everyone from what everyone first thinks of to the corners of the earth and seemingly crazy reaches for any type of help to regain normalcy.
It’s not crazy if it’s something to try after you exhausted everything and giving up. When I now have nothing left to lose I’ll try anything to get back on my feet and it’s crazy not to try whatever your mind can conjure to do to keep surviving like not emotionally but I mean I don’t have to live in my ctpsd hell loop set to infinity when I’m fucking starving and cold and looking for physical shelter actively or a way to get back up every day even though I don’t need flashbacks bc I get that movie on every waking second and it never pauses even in the background.
And that night terror medication might as well be a sugar pill so I can’t even escape when I’m not awake.
It feels so surreal to experience how on the fringes and marginalized human beings can be and how people treat you worse than the monsters who made your life the way it is And want to bring attention to them and offer them endless free help for literally way more than basic needs and we fend for ourselves
I notice how differently I get treated now with the labels and experiences I didn’t give or cause myself.
“Domestic violence victim” “homeless” “rape victim” “kidnapping victim” “abused” “mentally ill” “indigent” “trauma response” “damaged” “Non functional” “society’s undesirable” “Victim victim victim and you’ll keep being one til you’re grave and now it’s your fault every time after this and still your fault now but we act like we don’t blame you overtly even when we literally say it on repeat”
all those laws and nonprofits and hotlines and ad campaigns even after Netflix series bullshit empty slogans and messages to get help and come forward or disclose and it’s for nothing every time you do. Just to be not helped and treated like garbage from someone who wastes more time that is precious you can’t get back after too much has been taken that was no one’s to ever rob us of and more than their pound of flesh.
I don’t trust because I can’t make myself no matter how hard I’ve tried.
I only trust but verify some statistics and science but it’s irrefutable that if we got fucked with to the point of carrying around Cptsd no matter how or who did that to us, it is so much more likely to happen again and again and again in future or existing relationships and that’s why even therapists acknowledging this shit is real and severe still don’t know how to go back to normalcy..
Even at those money grab “rehabilitation private recovery inpatient” 60k a stay schemes advertising all over Google guaranteeing full recovery for just the price of a Beamer (without insurance) because you will sit in typical group therapy and 1800s asylum ice baths but finger paint with baby sitters and even get to take few literal pony rides.
I just can’t wrap my mind to process any of this let alone what happened and who did it and how dark it all was to lead me here and that escaping from an already convicted murderers house you thought you knew so well but not that part was the easiest what you had to do.
The real nightmares figuratively and literally were to come. That sense of relief that I got out alive but fucked up but still breathing was so short lived….
Your life ends even though you’re not dead and I’ve spent or maybe wasted every second to mitigate the damage that spread to every part of being human not just my mind or relating to others and that whole thing blown up.
I never imagined my credit score could even be this number or my finances fucked because of stuff like this like real world physical problems you’d think not related to anything you escape you never faced ever and not prepared to handle or think would result…
if you Told me in 2022 my credit score would not be almost 800 but low 500s and I’d find out what chronic homelessness is like first hand and drop 5 dress sizes in 2-3 months just that shit alone I would never believe you and think just bc someone did horrible things would put me here this year I wouldn’t believe I’d ever be homeless or everything else now from what gave me ctpsd and I’d be the one saying you’re crazy.
If you told me imminent future I’d be a denier too and flat out say I’d bounce back after I had the plan and willpower to escape, get help and get help putting him away in a cage too so it never happens to anyone else and move on with a life and stability of food, housing, good credit, medical care… everything I tried to do And failed.
If you told me you’re gonna have to figure out how to live homeless and it’s harder than you think and you have to do it all alone I would never think that could be possible.
People can’t ever understand any of this unless they’re in it.
I don’t like anyone and don’t trust anyone but I’m Ambivalent because do you really want them to be able to relate to us bc you know what has to happen to them first?
I don’t even wish this existence on my own little monster and he put me here.

TL;DR: A friend of mine told me that it's a major red flag if a single mom doesn't have custody of her children, and at first I thought nothing of it, but after seeing how my fiancée's daughter interacts with her mom, I'm seriously re-thinking this decision, and am actually considering leaving this relationship now before anything bad happens.
 
I (40M) have been seeing Jo (36F) for about 8 months, and we recently became engaged. She has a 14-year-old daughter, Kelsey, with her ex-husband. Kelsey lives with her father in another city and only comes to see Jo when she gets a vacation from school, so I've only seen her a few times, most recently over spring break. I've gotten the impression that Kelsey doesn't especially enjoy these visits with her mom. She usually is on the phone with her friends or watching videos on TikTok, and always seems like she wants to go home. She sounds annoyed whenever Jo tries to talk to her, even if Jo is simply asking Kelsey what she'd like for dinner. Initially I dismissed it as simply her going through typical teenage stuff, and that she might feel differently when she gets older.
When Jo and I began dating, she told me that she really missed her daughter and that her ex-husband was an unfit father due to him being a workaholic who hardly spent anytime with his wife or daughter, and that it wasn't fair that he got legal custody and she didn't. When we got engaged, she asked me if I would help her get custody after we got married. I said yes. We told Kelsey the news of our engagement the most recent time Kelsey visited, after which she became even more cold towards Jo, flat out ignoring her when she tried to talk to her. Jo asked me if I could talk to Kelsey by myself. I told her I didn't think it would be a good idea, but she insisted, so I did.
At first Kelsey ignored me and told me to go away. I asked her if she could at least tell me why she didn't want to talk to her mother, and she told me how she felt about her mother using a word that no parent wants to hear their child refer to them as. I didn't want to upset her further, so I came back out and told Jo what she said. Jo told me that she wasn't surprised that Kelsey said that and thanked me for trying to talk to her. Once again, I chalked it up to Kelsey just being a typical teenager.
However, the other night I went out with a friend of mine whom I haven't seen for a while. We were catching up, and I told him that Jo and I were engaged and I was going to help her get custody of Kelsey. Now my friend knew that I was seeing Jo but I had never mentioned to him before that she had previously been married and had a daughter, and was trying to get custody. My friend seemed shocked by this, and he told me that most of the time, when parents get divorced, the mom is the one who gets primary custody, and is in charge of all the major decisions regarding parenting, and the fact that she doesn't have custody is a major red flag as it means she's not a good mother. Now I don't know a whole lot about custody arrangements aside from what Jo has told me, as nobody in my immediate family has been divorced, however I was dismissive of this too as my friend can be very opinionated. He has even less knowledge about this than I do as he's never been in a serious relationship, which is something he's rather insecure about. So aside from being mildly annoyed when he said this, I didn't think too much of it, as he's always been like this.
Jo had told me when we first started dating that she had made some bad choices in the past, but had learned from her mistakes and was working hard to be a better person for the sake of her daughter, and her ex was just a big. However the more I've been thinking about it, I'm starting to think that there's more to this whole thing than Kelsey simply dealing with teenage stuff, and perhaps something happened that has made Kelsey really resent her mother. I have never met Kelsey's father and my opinion of him is entirely based on everything that Jo has complained about. I assumed that Jo's ex was a deadbeat dad who was spending all his free time getting drunk with his friends, but it actually sounds like he's a hard worker, and maybe Jo wasn't happy about this because he wasn't spending quite as much time with his wife and daughter as she would have liked, but at the same time was committed to providing his family with a roof over their head and money for all the necessities, and from what it sounds like, even some luxuries such as the occasional trip to Disneyland. It sounds like when he isn't tired from work, he actually is a good father.
I could be overthinking this, but I don't want to be contributing to Kelsey's issues with her mother, especially if there's anything going on that Jo hasn't told me about, and because of this I'm considering breaking up with her. I don't want to commit to anything without knowing what I'm getting myself into before I do so. I love Jo, but if she's actually is an unfit mother, I don't want to be in a position where I'm having to make excuses for her, especially if she's in denial about it and refuses to get help for whatever issues she might be having. I don't want to be part of the problem. However, if I were to break up with her, and it turns out that I actually am worrying about nothing, she might be too hurt to forgive me.
I already ended one relationship back when I was in my early 20s because I incorrectly believed that my girlfriend at the time was cheating on me, and after we had broken up, and I discovered that she was actually telling the truth when she said she wasn't cheating, she understandably was too hurt to want to give our relationship another try. I don't want to make the same mistake with Jo, but the situation is very different as she has a kid whom I promised I'd help her get custody of, and I don't want to break my promise unless I absolutely have to.
I want to do the right thing, but I don't know what the right thing is. Should I end things now before I potentially become part of the problem rather than the solution?

I posted here a few months ago about significant issues with my engagement ring from Market Square Jewelers (MSJ), a local jeweler in New England with a location in Cambridge, Massachusetts. A lot has happened since then, and I wanted to share an update, especially for those who might be considering working with MSJ.
To recap, my partner and I found and purchased a semi mount setting at MSJ to use with my mom’s diamond in from her engagement ring. MSJ called my partner and said he could pick up the ring even though the appraisal wasn’t ready. He picked it up, proposed, and then they called him and said actually they had forgotten to do the appraisal and we needed to send it back to their New Hampshire headquarters in Dover (and it would take 3-4 weeks). This was shocking, but we tried to be okay with it, given that I had noticed visible issues with the ring when I was proposed to and also wanted them to look at these issues. The issues: ring had one obviously noticeable super sunken sapphire as well as extremely visible metal blobs around the bezel, which looked like sloppy leftover glue to me at first. The sales people in the Harvard Square location said they would make sure the folks at the headquarters addressed these issues and that the ring would be returned to us absolutely perfect (which of course they had promised to do the first time). However, there was a pretty immediate red flag when on our receipt for the appraisal (which they charged us for, even after forgetting it and needing us to give them back the ring, which was already frustrating) the instructions were to “Please also look at the ring and clean. Customer believes that one of the sapphires is a bit uneven.” We called back, wanting to make sure that more specifics had been communicated to the jewelry repair team. We were assured everything would be taken care of. When they called to say it was ready, we were told that it was perfect, but that the sunken sapphire could not be fixed because of the shape of the archway (?). Nothing else was mentioned, so I asked if they had figured out what the silver blobs around the bezel were- I was not given an answer, just told they knew I would be really happy with it. Despite sending it back for these defects to be corrected, the ring was returned to us in the same exact condition we gave it to them in.
After sharing my concerns on Reddit, a few wonderful folks including jewelers commented the sapphires were likely cut too small and that the silver was from the “setter turning down small slivers of metal onto the stones to tighten them in the channel, which is a totally cack-handed way of doing this setting.” Additionally, they rightfully pointed out that our jewelers didn’t have “the proper skills nor quality control to manufacture a properly done ring.”
Following this advice and equipped with more clear ways of describing what seemed to be wrong, I contacted MSJ’s NH headquarters location. I was put in touch with the Manager of Repairs, who assured me that they would remake the ring (without explaining why the initial ring had been sent it out in this shape, and then sent back to me again without any changes). They mentioned two options: remaking it with the original designer or starting from scratch with a new designer (once they received the ring back, they would have the original designer look at it to make sure the diamond’s proportions worked with the design). I opted for what they deemed best. However, when the remake was nearly finished, I was shocked to see that the ring looked even worse. The milgrain was smushed, there were noticeable gaps where the sapphires were too short/ not making it as far around the diamond (which was not a problem in the previous version) and the bezel was jagged and even twisted. When I raised these new issues, the manager admitted she chose the wrong designer and stated that she had a 50/50 chance with her choice (it was not my understanding that this choice was ‘luck of the draw’ - it was supposed to be an informed decision, & also even writing this now, the issues were actually with the handiwork, not with the design). She also said that she didn’t have a “good eye” like I did, which was incredibly shocking and frustrating to hear. Additionally, she mentioned that MSJ was losing money on this process, which was inappropriate and irrelevant to our concerns. We were given a choice - refund now, or let MSJ have the other designer attempt this ring for a last time. Almost laughably, we were only sent 3d images of rings totally unsimilar to ours that this other designer had done.
We decided to take a refund instead of another remake attempt due to the complete lack of quality control. Unfortunately, when we received the loose diamond back, it had two noticeable chips that were not there before. I informed the manager about the chips, showing photos, but their response was dismissive, claiming if something happened in the setting process, the jeweler would have told them. MSJ also claimed the chips were pre-existing (though months prior when they first got the ring, they called my partner to tell him there was a small chip on the bottom - they did not mention two chips on the top) and infuriatingly, claimed that the “bottom” of a diamond actually can mean “side” or “top” depending on the way someone is holding it (yet when you google ‘bottom of the diamond’ - culet comes up, which is in fact the singular and recognized bottom part of a diamond). They said that they stood behind their work, and that they have been setting/designing/repairing diamonds for 40 years. I was pretty shocked, as “we stand behind our work” did not feel like an adequate response given that MSJ had this ring three times in its possession and each time there were significant issues, and each time it did not even seem that MSJ was aware of these issues until I had to point them out (which is almost in opposition to “if something happened in the setting process, the jeweler would have told us” - although I guess the manager could have been told these previous instances and just not been up front about any of them with us). I congratulated them on 40 years of business but told them that does not negate what we’ve experienced with them, and asked them if there were 3 out of 3 times that MSJ showed 0 quality control, how could we trust them this time? Despite the clear evidence and a history of negligence, MSJ refused to compensate for the damaged diamond.
This experience has been incredibly disheartening, time-consuming, and stressful. The consistent negligence and lack of quality control from MSJ were appalling. I hope this post helps others avoid similar issues. If you’re in MA, NH, I urge you to think twice before trusting Market Square Jewelers with your precious jewelry. I would not want anyone to go through what we did.

I'm going to do something a bit different and take a close look at two major works from the DC Universe: Darwyn Cooke's The New Frontier, and James Robinson and Paul Smith's The Golden Age. If you're playing along at home, the texts I'm using are The Absolute New Frontier from 2006 and The Golden Age trade paperback from 1995.
First a bit of personal context: I didn't enjoy The New Frontier when it first came out, serialized in six quite expensive installments. I loved Cooke's art, I loved the use of some of the more obscure DC war characters, and I loved the characterization of the Martian Manhunter, but the narrative didn't work for me when read in small monthly doses back in 2004. I had read all of the full-length work Cooke had done up until 2004, and none of it had disappointed me at all. But The New Frontier seemed to read more like a tour through the 1950s and 1960s than an actual story. It wasn't until the final issue that I really understood what Cooke was leading up to, but then it was over, and I didn't have the time or the inclination to dig out the back issues and read the whole thing in one sitting. Even when I got the two-volume trade paperback collection a couple of years ago (in an eBay lot of trade paperbacks I bought off of none other than comic book scholar George Khoury), I still didn't bother to read it. To paraphrase Hemingway's Frederic Henry, we don't do the things we want to do.
So I never actually read the entire text of The New Frontier until this past winter, when I was able to sit down with the luxurious Absolute edition and dive into Cooke's illustrated world. I enjoyed it immensely, enough that I wanted to reread it again this summer, which is what I have just done, and now I want to talk about it. But I don't want to talk about it in isolation, and I'm interested in the connection between texts, so I'll also talk about its logical precursor: The Golden Age.
Like The New Frontier, Robinson and Smith's The Golden Age deals with the era between the 1940s and the 1960s. The era in which the comic book Golden Age grew into the comic book Silver Age. The era in which America was undergoing its own transformation, moving from threats abroad to suspicion at home. And just as I had difficulty enjoying The New Frontier as a serialized comic, I couldn't appreciate The Golden Age in that manner either. I only bought the first two issues, actually, back in the early 1990s, and then I lost interest, vaguely thinking that I might buy it as a collected edition some day (even though collections were not guaranteed the way they are today). I did buy it when the trade paperback was released, and because I had never finished it originally, I read the collection immediately. And I liked it. But I thought it was deeply flawed.
I reread The Golden Age yesterday, after thinking about it in regards to The New Frontier. It's not a surprising connection, after all. Cooke himself claims The Golden Age as an inspiration for his own work. But my memory of The Golden Age was a bit hazy, and I recalled it being a much more cynical view of the territory than what Cooke achieved in The New Frontier. My recall was pretty accurate--Robinson and Smith present a quite cynical view of the late Golden Age America.
Now that I've read both works back-to-back, I'm interested in exploring what each says about super-heroes, what each says about America, and how each achieves its (very different) effects. These are the kinds of things I'll be looking at over the next few days.
James Robinson's use of History in The Golden Age
One of the things that strikes me about both The New Frontier and The Golden Age is the way the creators weave American history into their stories. On the surface, such a technique might not be surprising, especially considering that both tales take place in the past. And while it may be true that a so-called "historical novel" or "period film" would be amiss to neglect the details of history which fit its setting, the same isn't always true for comics.
In comics, stories set in the past tend to take place in some vague memory of the past, without any apparent intent in locking the stories into a particular date or era. Take the typical origin stories, or "Year One" stories which DC Comics' creators have retold again and again. In such a story, whether it be Miller and Mazzuchelli's take on Batman, or Waid, Augustyn, and Kitson's take on the Justice League, the setting lacks a distinct time stamp. The characters are younger, true, but the setting lacks specific period detail. The reason for this isn't at all surprising, because locking the characters' past into a specific date would require some major explanations about their ages in the present. Had Miller time-stamped the date on Batman: Year One, and included captions saying "May 3rd, 1980," or whatever, then that might have worked for a few years, but even if we assume that Batman was only 23 when he took inspiration from that window-smashing flying rodent, according to that temporal continuity, he'd be 50 years old in the current stories. And he's clearly not.
So we expect stories set in the past to avoid any kind of specific references to contemporary history, at least in comics. A recent jarring exception to that can be found in Diggle and Jock's newly released Green Arrow: Year One, in which a young Oliver Queen references the "Kevin Costner" Robin Hood. That means Queen must have become Green Arrow sometime in the mid-1990s, which might explain his age today (if he was 22 in 1992, he'd be 37 today, which might be right), but it also implies that his son Connor must only be a teenager today, and he's clearly older than that. Perhaps the reference will work better 10 years from now when the Kevin Costner reference will become part of the vague historical past, but right now it seems too current to make sense.
Anyway, the other MAJOR exception to the rule of not using historical references in comics is the case of stories set during World War II. Even comic books written at the time of WWII regularly included time-stamp references in a way that later comics tended to avoid. Yes, since then, Superman has met Kennedy, and you might see analogues of Bill Clinton or George W. in a story or two, but in the 1940s heroes came face to face with major historical figures (contemporaries to them) on an almost daily basis. Here's FDR! Here's Superman grabbing Hitler on a cover! Here's Tojo! Here's Hawkman enlisting in the army to fight overseas! Etc. Such close ties between "comic book reality" and real-life events never matched the heights of the WWII comics.
And that's why later writers, Roy Thomas MOST prominently among them (he practically invented the whole idea of historical nostalgia super-hero comics), felt compelled to weave actual historical events into the retelling of stories from the WWII era. Thomas's Invaders for Marvel and his All-Star Squadron for DC playfully fit the timeline of actual US history into the fictional timeline of the past super-heroes. In his letter columns, Thomas would often explain (or justify, for the more contentious fans) how the chronology worked.
But, other than WWII era-stories, most comic book stories that take place in the past (unless they are time travel stories, which have their own rules) DO NOT USE SPECIFIC HISTORICAL REFERENCES. It's weird to imagine novels or films avoiding such references—they would surely be criticized for it—but in comics, it's commonplace.
So, in the case of both The New Frontier and The Golden Age, you have two rather significant violations of that standard "rule." And both of which seem deeply indebted to the type of approach Roy Thomas favored so much.
Let's take The Golden Age first, since it was published a decade before Cooke's work. The Golden Age seems like a logical off-shoot of Thomas's All-Star Squadron. It features many of the same characters, and Johnny Quick, a relatively obscure DC character from the past, would certainly not have been a suitable narrator for the story without the characterization Thomas provided in years of All-Star Squadron stories. James Robinson is clearly building on the foundation Thomas created. So, it's not surprising that he would, like Thomas, blend US history into his story. Yet Robinson's approach differs in two distinct ways: (1) He doesn't seem interested in the exact historical details and how they fit into his timeline—he seems more interested in the general sense of historical forces of the time, and (2) Unlike Thomas, who was writing out of a Golden and Silver Age optimism and a belief in the American Dream, Robinson was writing from a post-Watchmen perspective, as a foreign-born writer, who could play with the cynical expectations of the time.
Thus, Robinson gives us coke-sniffing "super-heroes," corruption, brutality, and sex in a tale which features the "pure" heroes of the DC Golden Age of comics. Robinson's approach is not to use specific elements of McCarthyism or the Red Scare (even though those ideas are referenced at least once), but to use the general sense of paranoia and panic, the cynical manipulation of the public for personal gain, and the looming threat of the bomb.
Ultimately, however, Robinson uses all of this as a backdrop for a traditional super-hero romp. The coke-sniffing "super-hero" turns out to be Hitler in disguise!!! (Well, actually the brain of Hitler in the body of a former kid sidekick—talk about a symbol of corruption!) And the hero-turned-power-hungry-politician in the form of the patriotic Mr. America turns out to be old JSA villain the Ultra-Humanite, who knows a thing or two about brain transplants. So, in the end, it's just a classic Golden Age story about punching Hitler and defeating an evil genius.
But it's Robinson's historical subtext which makes the story resonate. It's his use of those undercurrents of paranoia and despair which make these formerly perfect heroes of the past seem flawed and human. His story starts dark and becomes darker but, by the end, Robinson's veil of cynicism falls away, and he reveals himself to be a humanist, if not an optimist. His reverence for these Golden Age characters would not let them be truly corrupted—it had to be evil masterminds and Hitler all along.
And that, perhaps, is one of the failures of The Golden Age. The shock of the initial chapters is just a ruse, and as low as these characters seem to sink, everything can be explained by pseudo-science and comic book logic.
It's just another Justice Society of America story, ultimately, but it's a good one. And Robinson's use of the undercurrents from that era of history make it work, even if it never transcends its roots.
The New Frontier and Camelot
While The Golden Age used the historical subtext to evoke currents of paranoia and doom in a super-hero story, The New Frontier approaches history with a different agenda. As Ultimate Matt pointed out in response to yesterday's post, The Golden Age is labeled an "Elseworlds" title, which not only grants it an exemption from DC continuity, but it allows more freedom for the creators to take the characters and setting in a fresh direction.
The New Frontier, however, is not labeled as an "Elseworlds." And yet, it strays far more from the currently accepted version of continuity than The Golden Age does. The key word there is "accepted." Darwyn Cooke, in his annotations, states that he approached The New Frontier with a set of rules:

1. The timeline is real and covers 1945 to 1960. Silver Age characters appear at the time DC started publishing them.
   
2. Retcons haven't happened yet.
   
3. No New Frontier retcons could contradict original continuity—they had to complement existing continuity or show a fresh point of view.
   
4. When the story ended, everything had to be as it was when the JLA debuted in Brave and the Bold #28.
   
5. Snapper Carr does not exist.
   

In other words, you should be able to pull out your original comics from that era (or the Archive editions) and read them concurrently with The New Frontier and nothing Cooke does should contradict what happens in those old comics.
The problem with the continuity is that the comics from that era didn't have any continuity. It was never explained how a character could be on the moon in one issue of his own comic, and under the ocean in the same month in his Justice League adventure. All Golden and Silver Age DC continuity is a retcon. So what Cooke did was create his own continuity—he made his own sense out of the various adventures as they were originally published, although the bulk of the book deals with the time between major events. Just like The Golden Age, The New Frontier is about filling in the gaps.
While James Robinson filled the pre-Silver Age gap with an almost allegorical tale of Cold War paranoia and corruption, Darwyn Cooke fills the gap with a sense of wonder and idealism, and he uses his attitude toward history to solidify that tone.
Cooke's approach takes three strands: (1) The Right Stuff-inspired history of that era, embodied by the test pilots and early astronauts, (2) The early promise of the Kennedy administration, and (3) The strange DC comics history as seen in the stories published during that time. Cooke uses the first two strands to illuminate the latter. He puts the Silver Age ascension into perspective as part of a generation of hope and achievement. He shows that the formation of the Justice League was not a random incident, but part of a larger historical movement which led (in our reality) to things like the Peace Corps and Apollo 11.
Cooke ties together such disparate elements as The War that Time Forgot, The Challengers of the Unknown, Dr. Seuss, and all of the characters who would join the initial incarnation of the JLA into a single narrative. And although it takes quite a while before the villain emerges and the heroes band together, the narrative is structured around the real historical forces that would have shaped the creation of these characters. John Broome doesn't wax poetically about the symbolism of Hal Jordan's career as a test pilot in the original Green Lantern run from the Silver Age, but Cooke takes the fact that he was a test pilot and places him in the actual context of such a man. He even includes a scene where the young Jordan meets Chuck Yeager.
That's quite a different approach to history than we saw in The Golden Age, which covers a very similar time frame.
Although Cooke didn't intend (according to his "rules") to change any of the original stories, his interpretation of "fresh point of view" allows him to add things which would have been more historically true even if they weren't addressed in the comics of the time. For example, he not only changes Wonder Woman into an almost plump, hawkish, zestful character (to signify her Greek origins and Amazon heritage), but he creates an entirely new character to illuminate the civil rights struggle of the time. Since he had no black DC characters to draw upon, he created a Silver Age analogue to Steel, the black Superman ally. The Silver Age Steel, unlike his modern equivalent, isn't a technological marvel. Instead, this earlier incarnation of John Henry suffers at the hands of the KKK before taking vengeance, and ultimately dying when he's betrayed by an uncaring white America (symbolized by a blonde little girl, who points out his location to his pursuers). John Henry never meets the Justice League or teams up with any heroes. His death doesn't affect them at all, really, since they didn't know him. But Cooke includes a scene where Edward R. Murrow mourns the fallen hero and laments the state of the country, bringing an actual historical personage into the DC story.
The civil rights subplot, although powerful, is overwhelmed by the exceeding optimism of the other plot threads. Cooke's America, as full of conflict as it might have been, is one of scientific progress and movement toward a brighter future. His villain, ultimately revealed to be Dinosaur Island itself (a sentient being who has unleashed monster after monster), is even more absurd than the Hitler-brain-transplant nemesis in The Golden Age, but because Cooke accentuates the fun and spectacle of the super-heroes (and, to be clear, his emphasis is on the men and women in the costumes, and the risks they take for their heroism), the absurdity of the villain doesn't detract from the story.
Both The Golden Age and The New Frontier end with similar images (the first appearance of the Justice League banded together) and similar sentiments (hope for the future), but where James Robinson built that hope out of the wreckage of the 1940s, Darwyn Cooke builds it out of the dreams of the men and women who sacrificed for the promise of tomorrow.
Both books end with optimism for comic books and optimism for our country, but they took starkly different approaches to get there.
The Unstoppable Force of Progress: Characterization in The New Frontier
Since both The New Frontier and The Golden Age re imagine comic book chronology through one part actual US history, one part comic book history, and one part imagination, it's not surprising to find both Cooke and Robinson taking liberties with the characterization of these pre-Silver Age heroes. Both creators ask the question asked by any creator attempting to retell stories from the past: Okay, this is how they were portrayed, but what were the characters who did these things REALLY like?
I'll start by looking at The New Frontier. Cooke doesn't focus his story on one dominant point of view the way Robinson does (with Johnny Quick), but he tells his story through a few central characters:
Rick Flagg: Leader of the WWII-era Suicide Squad (and presumably the father, or grandfather, of the Ostrander-penned incarnation). Cooke presents him as a tough guy cliché. He's a Hemingway hero—he does what needs to be done and doesn't whine about it or waver in his determination. In Act III of the narrative, his position in the story is replaced by the similarly-characterized King Faraday, who also does what needs to be done, although he seems to have more internal conflict than Flagg. Faraday is a spy, after all, not a soldier. But both characters represent a government which has the best interests of the country in mind. If they hurt a few individuals along the way, that's a necessary sacrifice for the good of the many.
Hal Jordan: The man who would be Green Lantern is NOT portrayed as a cocky rocket jock, as he usually is in contemporary interpretations. Cooke turns his lack of fear into a self-destructive streak stemming from his face-to-face act of self-defense in Korea. In Cooke's universe, Jordan doesn't immediately become a hero just because an alien handed him a ring. It takes time for Jordan to learn that he deserves to be a hero, and that's a large part of what The New Frontier is about. He doesn't reveal himself in Green Lantern costume until AFTER he risks his life to save the world working as a pilot. The two-page "hero shot" of the characters walking towards camera (a la The Right Stuff) shows some costumed heroes, but Jordan is wearing a flight suit. Cooke seems to be showing that he needed to prove himself TO himself before he could accept his new identity, but his reluctance to use the power of the ring leads to Nathaniel Adam's death. (Adam is later reborn as Captain Atom in the comics, but that doesn't happen in this story, and as far as Jordan should be concerned, Adam is dead.) Cooke doesn't provide Jordan with any time for remorse, though, since he needs to use his ring to kick alien butt. The ring, by the way, is also shown as a symbol of destructive energy. When Jordan first uses it, he cannot control it, and it causes great damage. Cooke, then, seems to indicate that the ring might symbolize nuclear energy, and the subtext would be that Jordan's hesitance to use it led to another hero's death. Ultimately, Jordan is Cooke's symbol of the Kennedy era: conflicted, yet determined to bring forth a positive future—harnessing great powers for the good of the nation (and the world).
John Jones, the Manhunter from Mars: Jones says, "...this is a world where good and evil struggle in all levels of existence. I want to be a force for good." That's a simplistic view of humanity, but it's one seemingly shared by Cooke throughout this work. Good and evil may not be easily discernible on the surface, and Cooke gives us the threatening-looking John Henry (with a hangman's hood) as a hero and a little blonde girl as a villain, but the line between good and evil is absolute (and, in fact, John Jones assumes the role of a film-noirish detective so he can find the evil beneath the surface appearance of the world). Jones defines this ethical stance for the reader, and it represents the code of Golden and Silver Age comic books, which lacked anything but absolutes. Even though Cooke might try to provide some not-so-subtle shades of gray (Jordan as a murderer, Wonder Woman as feminist avenger, an undercurrent of xenophobia), his view of history seems to echo the simplicity of the comic book stories of the era. Individuals may not have always done the right things at all times, but it was an era of progress, and good triumphed over evil. The subtext could also indicate that governmental order triumphed over chaotic nature, with the unified heroes, under the leadership of the US government, destroying a threat that wasn't so much malicious as it was animalistic.
Even though Cooke's characterization of some of these characters, Hal Jordan in particular, might not match traditional representations of these individuals, I think it works in the context of the story. The characters serve the story and add a few layers to the text, but it's primarily a historical action spectacle, a celebration of progress over stagnation, and Cooke's characterization unifies the text. I don't think his characters have many hidden depths, but I think their lack of depth matches a story which is primarily about the grand force of history.
As one final observation: Cooke is actually better at small character moments with the minor characters than he is at developing convincing lead characters. The death of Johnny Cloud, Jimmy Olsen's eagerness, the sassiness of Carol Ferris, and several other character bits show Cooke's facility on the small scale, even if his epic narrative doesn't provide the opportunity for subtle nuances with the major characters.
Characterization in The Golden Age: Dragging Heroes to Earth
While Cooke ignores anyone else's retroactive continuity to graft archetypal personalities onto the early Silver Age heroes in The New Frontier, Robinson takes characters straight out of Roy Thomas's All-Star Squadron (like Johnny Quick on the left here) and Young All-Stars and sends them on a dark journey into the 1950s. Robinson does not re imagine these characters drastically, although he seems to do so with Mr. America (but that's part of his narrative ruse). Instead, he takes their established characterization and expands upon it by adding seeds of self-doubt, paranoia, and despair as the characters face a world in which the villains are not as easily identified as they once were. Robinson misdirects the reader at first by pretending to adopt a simplified Watchmen approach, pretending that he's showing what these characters would have been like without costumed villains to fight or gangsters to punch, when, in truth, he's simply changed the nature of the evil to something more covert and less easy to spot. (Which might seem Watchmen-esque as well, except Alan Moore showed us that the heroes were the villains in that story, and here, Robinson ultimately reveals that secret villains with brain-transplant powers were behind the whole thing from the beginning.)
Here's a quick rundown of the central characters in The Golden Age:
Johnny Chambers, a.k.a Johnny Quick: Johnny not only provides the book-ends to the story but, as a documentary filmmaker, he provides the exposition which sets up the story context. One of the things Robinson does NOT do well here, by the way, is clearly distinguish between narrative voice (provided through white, rectangular caption boxes), and newsreel voice over (also provided by white, rectangular caption boxes), although perhaps the colorist was supposed to use different color cues for each and didn't. The CHARACTERS who narrate, like Johnny Chambers, each have their own style of caption—Johnny's are rounded and blue, as you can see in the image. Actually, it's not that it's so difficult to identify the narrative voice, it's just that there is an omniscient narrator who pops up every once in a while for no good reason, and tells us things about the story sometimes, while other times he sounds like he's trying to give us character thoughts but not really: the highly subjective "fingers...fumbling...focusing...trying to..." immediately follows the objective "a photographer lurks among the rubble." The photographer is the one who's fingers are supposedly fumbling as he tries to snap the photo, so why does the caption sound like a bad Batman internal monologue? This really has nothing to do with Johnny Chambers, but I just wanted to point out this major flaw in the narration throughout. With so many characters (Johnny being one) actually providing narration through captions, why does Robinson add an omniscient narrator also? It's jarring and ineffective. It's like he took the strategies of Watchmen with the multiple points of view, and then spliced the conventional narrator on top of it. It just doesn't work.
But a few more things about Johnny: He smokes, and he wears glasses. He still has his powers, but even though they would help him in his day job, he doesn't use them. And he's incredibly suspicious, which is the characteristic that makes him the character the reader most identifies with. He's also lost the woman he loves because he works too hard, although he gets her back in the end. In short, he's a slightly older (although he actually seems to get younger as the story progresses, perhaps symbolizing his return to heroic stature), slightly more sullen, slightly more flawed version of the character we saw in the comics produced in the 1980s (even though those stories were set in the 1940s). He refers to his costumed self as "That Jerk!" at the beginning of the story, but ends on a hopeful note as he describes a "new age...fresh and clear and bright...as sterling silver!" He's never really a cynic, but his pessimism and self-loathing turns to optimism in the end (even quickly dismissing the threat of McCarthyism to look ahead to the glowing future of super-heroics).
Paul Kirk, a.k.a Manhunter: If we play out the James-Robinson-is-trying-to-do-Watchmen-but-not-as-well game a bit more, we could say that if Johnny Chambers is the Dan Dreiberg analogue (the low-self-esteem voice of reason and calm) then Paul Kirk is clearly the Rorschach character. He's the crazy one who will surely upset the apple cart, yet isn't that what has to happen in order to get to the truth? That's his role, anyway. Unlike Rorschach (in his insane way), Kirk doesn't have a methodical approach to uncovering the truth. In fact, he's tormented by the truth, which lies buried beneath mind implants, exploding into awareness only through a series of horrible dreams. He seems deeply disturbed because of the War, but he's actually deeply disturbed because of the secrets he knows. He's another character, like Johnny, who seems to become more youthful and vibrant in the final Act, when he is able to unleash his demons through old-fashioned fisticuffs. Unlike Johnny, though, he visibly suffers for a long time before he reaches the point of action. Here's a sample of his internal monologue from one of his many tortured dreams: "Save the eagle. Save it. Save—n...no...nooooohhhh!!" Then he wakes up and thinks, "Still afraid." That's about the extent of his characterization. He's tormented, fearful, and knows he should be better than that. And, "save the eagle?" Geez, I wonder what in the world that could possibly mean in a book about corruption within the American government. Clearly, even though this book is directed at an older audience than the original Golden Age tales, Robinson keeps his symbolism quite simplistic.
Tex Thompson, a.k.a. Mr. America, and Daniel Dunbar, a.k.a. Dan the Dyna-Mite: These are the two characters most radically changed from their Golden Age counterparts. Mr. America was a whip-wielding patriotic hero and Dan was a kid sidekick who later, under Roy Thomas's writerly guidance, became one of the lead characters in Young All-Stars. In Robinson's story, Mr. America becomes a corrupt politician who seeks power by any means necessary, and Dan the Dyna-Mite becomes America's beloved Dynaman, the only active costumed crime fighter of the time. And he snorts coke. And he's evil.
Neither of these two characters have internal monologues via captions for the reader, because that would give away the twist. Tex Thompson is not really who he seems, for he has the brain of the evil Ultra-Humanite (who has in previous stories adopted the forms of a gigantic white gorilla and a hot ex-starlet, among others). And Daniel Dunbar, who has fallen so far from grace in our eyes (a former teen sidekick with a drug problem whoring around) actually has the BRAIN OF ADOLF HITLER!
So there's not much to say about the characterization here, since these are two evil characters in the most simplistic way. What is interesting, though, is that (a) Robinson chooses one character, Thompson, who seems vaguely sleazy to modern readers anyway, what with that whip and the mustache, and when he's shown to be corrupt, we can buy into it, falling into Robinson's trap of thinking that it's just a regular dude becoming corrupted by power; and (b) Robinson's use of the pure and innocent Dunbar is also a good choice, because it is not only shocking to see him corrupted so extremely (before the truth of the brain-swap is revealed), but it's a nod to cultural expectations about former child stars, who, by the 1990s, were expected to grow up and become criminals or drug addicts or worse, at least by our tabloid-fascinated society.
Like a director who makes his film better through excellent casting, Robinson uses the right two ex-heroes in the apparent role of the villains. His bait-and-switch works, although I was personally disappointed that the threat turned out to be external (evil villains) and not the corruption of these characters from within.
Robinson uses other characters to show the corruption of innocence and loss of the heroic dream. Robotman, so noble in Roy Thomas's All-Star Squadron, has lost any humanity by the time of this story—he's pure machine, while Alan Scott, Green Lantern is conflicted about his duty as a business leader and law-abiding citizen and his passion for ring-slinging and butt-kicking. Hourman is shown to be addicted to his Miraclo pills, while the man once known as the Tarantula is an egoist with writer's block. Ted Knight, Starman, who Robinson would go on to write with great depth and sensitivity in the ongoing series about Jack Knight, is a mad genius who is trying to put the pieces of this shattered world together through science.
I should add here that Robinson, unlike Cooke, isn't drawing from the original sources as the basis for his story. He's adapting his characterizations from the work done during contemporary comics, as Roy Thomas provided retroactive characterization (and explanations) for the WWII-era heroes. Robinson is building on the layers which Roy Thomas built upon the layers which Gardner Fox (among others) built.
Overall, Robinson does provide a sense of disillusionment in his characterizations in this story, even if his narrative technique is sometimes sloppy or inconsistent. Cooke tried to add a bit of humanity to iconic characters in his work, but he was mostly interested in the icons of the era. Robinson drags his characters down into the muck and then builds them back up again, hoping to show how their inner humanity wins out (with all of its flaws) in the face of systematic adversity. Cooke's characters inhabit the skies, the stars. Robinson's characters live on the ground.
So, the final verdict, after looking at The Golden Age and The New Frontier for a week: Not much different than my initial assessment after reading them both last weekend. The Golden Age is flawed because of its inconsistent narrative point of view and it's cheap, brain-swapping revelations. Robinson and Smith capture the disillusionment and paranoia of the time quite well, but it all amounts to nothing except a superhero slug fest in the end. It's 80% of a great work, and 20% of stuff that doesn't quite fit (including the optimistic ending, which seems unearned). As part of a larger, genre-wide trend to make super-heroes more "realistic," violent, and depressing, I'm not a huge fan of its influence.
The New Frontier is flawed, but it's a flawed masterpiece, and I can imagine revisiting the story many times in the future (and I can't say the same about The Golden Age). Cooke tries to include too much in the narrative, and the main threat of Monster Island isn't presented as well as it needs to be, but the book contains dozens of amazing sequences, and it features sharp, engaging characters who flash in and out of the story. The speed of the narrative demands that the book be read quickly, and it works best when read this way, not because it allows the reader to gloss over the weak parts of the story, but because The New Frontier is an overture, and can be best appreciated when all of its notes are heard in rapid sequence. I didn't love it when it first came out, in the completely inappropriate floppy installments, but I loved it after reading the Absolute version a week ago, and I love it just as much after studying it closely all week.
As one final thought: Both The Golden Age and The New Frontier tap so deeply into comic book lore, and I am so deeply embedded in it myself, that I wonder if either of these works has any merit for a "civilian" reader. And I wonder if, perhaps, the darker, more "realistic" tone would be appealing to a non-comics fan, more so, perhaps, than the wide-eyed optimism (tinged with bits of darkness) seen in Cooke's work. Or would the non-comics fan find both stories completely useless and without merit? Are both works examples of the snake swallowing its own tail? I've already been swallowed by the snake of comic book geekery, so I can't answer that one.
SOURCE

This is my first time posting something like this on here, so I sincerely hope you all will enjoy this! This is the start of a series based on a build I did for the Star Dust CYOA, by Star Dust Anon, with additional DLC introduced by Bob Grue! Additional shout out to the person who heavily inspired me to even make a series in the first place; u/ragingreaver! Go check out their amazing fic, Into the Mouth of the Abyss, if you have the time.
Alright, that's enough outta me; here's what you all came here for!
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“Welcome to the Stardust Space Station; the Crossroads of Civilized Space, where Opportunity waits at every vendor!”
The announcement from the station’s AI rang out clearly from the vaulted ceiling as the newest charter ship unloaded its cargo of fresh tourists. The Liberation sat motionlessly in space, connected tenuously to a webbed docking aisle that served as the station’s airlock corridor. Hundreds of people from all backgrounds crossed in front of one bewildered younger man, the last to file out from the charter ship, as they stood at the intersection of the Liberation’s docking corridor and the main thoroughfare. Still dressed in the dingy vacsuit that served as his only uniform, he gawked openly at the soft-lit paths marked along the polished vac-proof tiled floor. The boy skipped and hopped awkwardly along, attempting to avoid tripping over his own feet as his heels knocked against the underside of his oversized luggage. His head craned upward as he dumbly stared through the enormous panes in the slanted walls, basking in the unparalleled view of the rocky planet that the station orbited. The ruddy tones of the planet’s surface and the criss-cross lines of civilization were not altogether unique amongst civilized space, however it was an exceptionally rare sight for a denizen of Erebus. The entire journey would have been an afternoon fantasy for a former citizen of the Luos Syndicate like Damien Raynes, yet a look of soft comfort could be found on his face as he began to accept he was no longer dreaming.
His absentminded journey came at a cost, causing him to stray from his intended walking lane and to collide with another station occupant who was similarly distracted by a call on a holoscreen hovering before them. They spilled a sweet-smelling, cream-colored liquid from their drink container on nearly every inch of their chest, any scant remaining fluid splattering onto the floor around them. Damien’s eyes went wide, and he managed to stammer out a shaky apology before swiftly running off down another lane, heading into a completely new direction in the hopes of evading the enfolding confusion he caused. By the time his aching legs and burning lungs forced him to slow his pace, he found himself in a different section of the station entirely, and he marveled at the variety of wares displayed in nearby vendor stalls. He took a moment to gingerly retrieve the credit stick loaded with more funds than was thought possible to receive, and checked once again to see that it read the same amount. 470 million credits displayed on the miniscule holoscreen that projected from the device, and Damien struggled to grasp the reality of him simply being handed a fortune. His benefactor had claimed membership to the Talons, a clandestine organization with the notorious reputation of a classy, skilled, and intelligent pirate faction. He was not sure what machiavellian scheme would necessitate uplifting an ignorant youth like himself, but he felt overwhelming joy to finally be free of the poverty and unsafe conditions of his home on Erebus.
Determined to take this opportunity to live his life to the fullest, his eyes scanned every protruding sign and placard for clues that would lead to his true destination: the zero grav drydock and shipyard. Despite the ship’s modest size, it managed to contain an area solely designated for the construction and refitting of space vessels. In order to maximize it’s serviceable capability, it was not actually located inside the station, but instead extended into space, parallel to its axis of rotation. After experiencing the freedom of flight through uncharted space, Damien felt the growing desire to captain a vessel of his own bloom within his chest. He wished to sail through space, whenever he wished it, to whatever destination he so chose. When Damien reached the drydocks, he talked to a grease-stained man named Ulrich Pelt assured that he could outfit any starship he could get his hands on, adding on boastfully that every square inch of it would surpass Damien’s standards and expectations by the time Ulrich and his crew were finished. Utterly convinced by the man’s apparent capability, Damien soon found a broker who showed him a listing of known manufactured hull types, by every major and minor manufacturer. One hull type in particular grabbed his notice, holding it tight in a vice grip, though he did not recognize the company or group - an organization simply listed as the Heralds who named their ship hulls with strangely organic designators. The broker noticed Damien’s awestruck expression as a beacon of financial opportunity, and flashed a knowing grin. Apparently, the Heralds were a race of highly advanced, but seemingly extinct, aliens that existed throughout the galaxy prior to known civilization. The only trace of them or their civilization existed as cryptic artifacts and their incredibly limited supply of esoteric space vessels.
Damien mouthed a silent prayer to whichever unknown goddess from whatever far-flung rock in the galaxy for the apparent blessing, as the broker informed him they had recently traded for a Herald Destroyer-class ship to be delivered to the station within the month. Allegedly, someone had sold the ship off in order to get it onto the wider market and out of sight of their incredibly nosy neighbors. Coincidentally, it met nearly every mark and metric that Damien had in mind for a star vessel; being a fast yet durable and destructive craft with more than enough room for a sizeable crew. He sat down with several Stardust Port Authority workers, including the confident Ulrich, and spent long hours of the station’s ‘day’ to detail the modifications and alterations to be added, alongside detailed explanations of every major ship system and part. When the dealings finally came to a close, and the broker and engineer’s commission fees were met in full, Damien’s extravagant fortune was whittled down to slightly over 70 million credits. Once the specifics of his commission were recorded in triplicate, he received his own copy and was sent off to wander the station for something to occupy his time.
Surprisingly, despite the amount of engaging activity that occupied his day, exhaustion had yet to creep into his bones, and he felt an eagerness to explore urge him onward throughout the station’s many levels.
Fortunately, the SDS was a neutral melting pot of backgrounds and cultures, which allowed for a staggering amount of diversity in cuisine and entertainment. One could easily gorge themselves on New Terran hamburg steak, or sip Valhallan spirits, all while enjoying the gyrations of Freeport dancers. After many rounds of agonizing deliberation, Damien finally settled on a small installation that was practically an alleyway between two established compartments. There was only enough room to sit or stand, and the bar where the sole chef and proprietor worked was little more than a repurposed shelf. Despite the environment, Damien found himself sampling Prion-spiced meats and noodle based entremets drenched in a smoky, flavorful sauce. He drank in the experience with a warm, fully belly, finally allowing fatigue to soak into his muscles. The content sensation of a satisfying meal threatened to make him lose all sense of decorum and fall soundly asleep in the corner of the restaurant, but an excited snippet of conversation filtered into the tight space from the wider corridor at that moment, anchoring him to wakefulness.
“Can you believe it? Nearly a half million more creds, and I’ll finally be joining you in the stars!” A jovial younger adult, wearing the style typical of most lower-class Federation citizens, announced as they bounced alongside an older, grizzly Federation pilot, judging by their own appearance.
“You’d be better off buying up cargo and sticking to the safe trade routes, Malkheim. It takes a better pilot than you to perform a successful patrol.” The older man replied sternly, not sparing even a glance toward their young follower as the pair plodded down a glowing walking lane.
“Ugh… I’ve passed the piloting course with flying colors, and I know my way around the ship systems, sir.” The youth, Malkheim, retorted with a tone heavy with sarcasm.
“Besides,” they continued, shoving their hands into the pockets of their environment suit, “it’s not like I need to know how to do sub-light slingshots around high grav bodies for a firefight with pirates!”
“It’s not guaranteed you won’t need to, but it never hurts to be prepared.” The older man, likely a Star Captain in the Federation by his demeanor, grumbled in a final response. Their conversation likely continued well beyond that, but by that point the pair had walked out of earshot of the alcove bar, and the ambient din of station noise swallowed their voices without leaving a mote of discernable sound.
As Damien languidly rose from his chair, the importance of the Captain’s words began to settle upon his soul. In truth, he did not have the slightest formation of a thought toward even the most basic aspects of ship piloting, due to his assumption that it would all be performed by a dutiful ship AI. He felt the desire to tackle his lackluster qualifications, but the rugged molars of sleep were already grinding away at his mind, gradually turning each though into a worthless, gray paste. He could barely manage to shuffle his feet underneath him while keeping one eye open, and thus his primary course of action would be to find an acceptable place to collapse into a heap. Stardust Station housed many hab-lounges and coffin-hotels, though many avoided the latter due to crippling claustrophobia. One such business, boasting a discount in observation of some Federation Holiday, had a welcoming holo-sign hovering nearby. Despite the station existing in a neutral patch of space, many companies did not feel deterred from exerting what little sovereignty they could muster in the immediate vicinity of their businesses. Feeling a gust of serendipity urge him onward, Damien proceeded to stumble awkwardly past their front door. In his haze of lethargy, he could barely assemble enough conversational skills for long enough to tactfully book a hab for himself.
Although the clerk held enough disdain normally reserved for the drunken shamblers that frequented certain sectors of the station, their chosen expression showcased three times the pity of a saint. With some effort, Damien successfully requested a modest, planet-side compartment that he could promptly collapse into.
“Er… certainly, sir. We have just one more fresh hab ready for occupancy. Would you perhaps like a wake-up call along with your complimentary early station-day meal…?” They asked tentatively, slowly pushing over an open pamphlet and a keycard with the number and business’ colorful symbol shining in a dull, holo-light purple.
“Yeahhhhh… sure, that… that sounds amaze-ful…” Damien slurred in response, languidly slapping his hand atop the proffered items before groggily dragging it into a pocket on his dingy vacsuit. He then turned with intention to wander the halls in search of blissful sleep, only to be interrupted by the clerk’s patient, yet somewhat stern voice.
“Sir… you will have to pay in order to use our services.”
“Oh! Oh, yeah. You’re… you’re right about that…” He sheepishly responded, rotating himself to once more face the clerk, before relinquishing his credstick.
The swift report of mechanical keystrokes sounded repetitively in a strange, clerical song, easing the young man into a comfortable trance as he leaned against the counter. The administrative melody must have lulled him too effectively, or else the fangs of sleep may have sunk too deep, as before too long Damien found himself nearly splayed out on the gold-speckled black marble. A rough, forced cough captured his attention a few moments later as his credstick was placed in front of him. The clerk held a practiced smile as he graciously allowed the haggard boy enough time to regain his composure.
“Here is your credit stick, sir. I have entered you into our database for ease of service on any future visits, and I hope you will come to enjoy your stay with us. Thank you for choosing to rest with Habitation West.” The clerk stated, repeating the business’ obvious practiced and professional send-off.
Damien muttered acknowledgment and spun off, dragging himself through the dimly lit hallways beyond the front desk, in search of the door to his own habitation lounge. Thanks to the color coding of the keycard, he did not spend precious moments of lucidity on simple navigation. Instead, he was guided by lines of softly glowing holographic light in muted blue, then purple. They led him straight to the border of his personal, temporary lodgings until he fell past the door into the room itself. Beyond a section of floor-to-ceiling shielded panes, the barren surface of the planet stretched in seemingly every direction, filling the room with a dull orange light. Before he was truly aware of it, his head plummeted solidly against the double layered pillows on the waiting loft bed. Damien rapidly dissolved into the realm of sleep, with his last waking thoughts concerning his amazement toward the pock-marked surface from his new horizontal angle.
Damien eventually awakened to a room soaked in darkness, as the station had since revolved to the planet’s night side. He groaned loudly as he stretched his body to its limit. Groggily pulling himself into an upright position, he slapped a hand onto a light panel by the side of the bed, tinging the room with diffuse, blue light. He took stock of his surroundings for the first time, noting the fairly modern design of the room as a whole. Not only did it possess a cozy reading nook adjacent to the viewing wall, but a loft just above it. His mouth hung agape as realization struck him at once; such an attractive room must have clearly been upsold to him during his time of sleepless stupor the night before.
Damien cursed under his breath, shaking himself fully awake before shuffling out the door of his temporary abode. The silhouetted shade of the planet behind him loomed in the distance as an impassive observer as the grey door slid soundlessly shut.
Recalling his lack of credentials from the day before, the young man decided to stride directly toward the education centers located on the far side of the merchant quarter. He surmised that in order to become a successful pilot capable of sailing the stars, he needed more than passing knowledge of a starship’s systems. He followed the hololanes dutifully, weaving through traffic with little conflict. Upon his arrival, he was surprised to find that the vast majority of offered courses were delivered through virtual environments. He had assumed it would allow for larger classes, or for professors to not be required to be physically present at every lecture. With the flexibility of choice before him, he selected six ‘standard’ courses, which were offered free of charge by the remote institute, as a sort of welcoming incentive. However, any further education would come at a price, with each additional ‘elected’ course being a flat rate of two million credits. Not wanting to overload his mind or his account so early in his journey, he set his sights for a humble course load. The selected curriculum was only eight courses, centering around his desire for a more leisurely adventure among the stars.
The instruction for Basic and Standard Piloting, Computer Science, Cyber Security, and Diplomacy were not excessively intensive, only requiring a handful of practical virtual exams to grasp a full understanding of the topic. As his course load shifted to the more physical studies of Industry, Mechanics, and Standard Combat Training, Damien started to feel the weeks of trilling, virtual model manipulation, and real-time ship assessment begin to break him down. Before he experienced the sophistry of space station life, he believed it would be impossible to become exhausted from simulated exercise, or envision the inner workings of a star vessel as anything other than rapturous. Eventually, he found himself dragging himself along to and from station lodging and school, bubbles of nausea rising within his stomach each time he overheard engineers speak of performing maintenance. As the curriculum neared its end, Damien resolved himself to never undertake vital ship operation without the bare minimum of assistance, and grinned wistfully at the prospect of hiring a crew of his own.
After an exceptionally grueling exam period passed, Damien graduated from the SDS Captain’s Institute with above average marks in all courses he held a passion for. As he strode freely from the institute, he silently resolved to be more sparing with his course load, should he yearn for more education. As budding elation built within him, a snippet of conversation from two younger Federation citizens slowed his steps to a halt.
“So you know the deal, right? Once I get the ship, you help me build up a couple million creds, and then you can get your own frigate!”
“Think we can get a good deal by scrapping parts? I don’t think we really need that second arsenal space… We could have really used a lounge, you know.”
“Hey hey hey! My ship, my layout! Besides, there’s enough empty space in the hull, we’ll be able to furnish it with whatever else we’ll actually need as we go along!”
Damien reversed his original heading, making sure to make his way to the proper lane in lieu of haphazardly weaving through oncoming foot traffic. He gave his best attempt to seem naturally interested as he sidled up to the two, even as knots were forming deep in his gut.
“What uh.. What will you guys do to make money? It might be different for a frigate, but renovations are usually really pricey.”
The two Federation citizens exchanged brief looks of confusion mixed with mild irritation before turning to face the curious graduate.
“We’re gonna be couriers. People have places to go, and things they need to be other places. So we’ll be the ones to get them there! I bought one of them Red Dagger frigate hulls to keep things light and fast, but also to keep our cargo space at a premium. They’re gonna hafta pay TOP CRED to use our vessel! Well, eventually.”
“Yeah! And if we can get them to agree to multiple trips, we can even upcharge them as much as twice the going rate! What about you? What are you going to do?”
The question, though expected as a natural part of conversation, hit Damien squarely in the chest. Anxiety curled its long fingers around his extremities as beads of sweat began to dot his brow. He had often thought about his ship, and the things he wished to put on or inside of it as well, but his duties as a pilot failed to fully form in his mind.
“I uh… I still haven’t decided. Lot’s of uh… lots of things to focus on before I can sail off on my first voyage, heh…”
He stammered out a half-hearted defense with a light chuckle, hoping the two wouldn’t notice the stench of incompetence wafting from him in waves. The pair simply shared another quick glance amongst themselves, with unreadable emotion in comparison to the previous time, and shrugged their shoulders in silent acceptance.
“Well… we wish you good fortune out there, on whatever it is you decide on doing!”
“Just uh… leave the shipping and courier business to us professionals, huh?” The first graduate flashed a cocky grin and jabbed a thumb towards his chest before passing Damien by, soon melding into the flow of station denizens along with his partner.
Damien glanced down at himself, taking measure of his person as though he could perceive the entirety of his being. Questions flitted through his mind like light gnats, buzzing incessantly. What was it that he wished to do? Mercenary work? Freighter duty? He considered his yearning for the wider reaches of space beyond the war-blasted rock he grew up on, and reasoned that he could even possibly become an explorer. Not a single future path or occupation crystalized into being, despite his feverish introspection, the only thing resulting from the search being a defeated sigh. He turned himself around then, willing his legs to carry him to some part of the station as he resigned himself to the possibility of a bland, uneventful future.
Next Chapter Latest Chapter

Edited to add this disclaimer: I know it’s long. If no one reads it, so be it. This was more an exercise for myself than anything else.
My (former) best friend is getting married this weekend and I was not invited.
My (F, 37) partner (F, 40) Liz has mostly gotten along with my friends since we started dating 6 years ago, but she will often speak to a subject she knows little about or offer too blunt of an opinion at times. It can rub people the wrong way, but I think all would agree she is well-intentioned. Her execution is the problem. I think some issues stem from the fact that my friends view my partner as just another one of the girls – but she isn’t. She’s my partner and she gets along with my friends, but the way they act around her is not the way they would with a male partner.
My best friend Andi (F, 33) discussed female issues she was having and my Liz told her she might have fertility issues from what she was describing. Liz does not have a medical background and she should never have spoken in such extremes. That said, she’s experienced multiple miscarriages and I know she was coming from a place of concern. I told Liz to back off; Andi didn’t seem bothered by it. But the next day Andi decided that she was, in fact, very bothered by what Liz said; she also told all our friends. I never wavered – Liz was wrong to say what she said (which I told her many times) but Andi should’ve spoken to her directly and not involved everyone else. Liz apologized to Andi after the drama continued to ramp up. I read their text exchange and Andi played it much cooler than she did amongst our friends; frankly she was a bit unkind.
Andi met her fiancé, Tom (M, 32), in college and were off/on for ~12 years. I mostly got along with him; he sometimes crossed the line with things he said but it wasn’t like I was the one dating him so whatever. However, there was one incident that really didn’t sit well with me. Andi and I were living together at the time and we had friends over. I had to go to my room for something and to get out of the living room, I had to step over Tom’s legs. As I did so, he tapped me between my legs. For lack of a better term, he patted the puss. I grabbed his wrist and said “don’t ever do that again” and kept moving. I don’t think anyone else noticed, it was very fast. I want to make it clear – I was not traumatized by this. But I was angry. The guy will do and say the most outrageous things to get a reaction out of a person and I refused to give him that satisfaction.
I never told Andi because within two weeks, they broke up. When they got back together, 2 years had passed. I wasn’t going to take her aside and be like “FYI, Tom did X a few years ago”. My view was “not my monkey, not my circus”. I told exactly 3 people in the 10 years since this happened (Liz being one of them). It was not something I wanted to get out.
Around the time they got back together, I started dating Liz after a lifetime of being with men. Everyone was supportive, especially Andi and Tom. We did everything together. He did make a few offensive comments, though. Early on, he asked me and Liz to kiss so “he could watch”. To Andi’s credit, she about ripped his head off when he made this request. But he never apologized. Tom also pulled me aside one night and asked me for detailed advice on how to pleasure a woman. I said, “I’m your girlfriend’s best friend, not your bro”. This did not stop him from also asking me to talk to Andi about agreeing to try anal when I knew for a fact she would never want to do that. I politely declined. I learned from Liz that he asked her similar questions, but in much more graphic terms. We chalked it up to Tom being Tom.
Fast forward to a year ago. Andi and Tom broke up because he didn’t want to get married. Liz and I helped Andi move out and build furniture and decorate her new place. Within a week of the breakup, Liz and I ran into Tom on a date and after a few days I told Andi. I saw him on another date with a different woman a week later and a few other friends saw him out as well. He was free to date but it was surprising how quickly he moved on while Andi was struggling. I told Andi about what I saw a few days after the fact at the urging of our other friends.
Turned out Andi reached out to Tom within days of moving. I figured out that something was up but waited for her to tell me; when she finally did, I told her that I supported her and all I wanted for her was to be happy; if Tom made her happy, then I was happy. Did I find it sus that he was on dates while telling Andi how shattered his heart was and how much he missed her? A bit! I later learned Tom told Andi that Liz and I were lying about seeing him on dates. He told her we were lying and just stirring up trouble.
After Andi and Tom got back together, she pulled back. It really sucked. I was out for Liz one night, and Andi texted me and said she and Tom were at the local bar and asked us to stop by. Everything was great, just like old times, until they Irish exited. Normally, I wouldn’t care. But given where things stood at that moment, I was really hurt. I told her I could pinpoint the moment our friendship shifted to when she got back together with Tom.
I barely saw Andi over the next few months. I asked her several times to talk and sort through whatever was going on, and she kept brushing it under the rug. It came to a head when we went back to Andi’s home after a party. Liz and Andi were in the kitchen but I didn’t pay attention until their voices started to escalate.
Liz had told Andi that she and I needed to sort our shit out because if we didn’t, we wouldn’t be there for the other’s big life moments. Liz thought Andi and I were equally to blame for whatever was behind this rift; Andi said it was 100% on me. I was stunned. I had no idea what I could have done for this to be entirely on me. I am not perfect, but 100% on me? Liz and I walked out. Andi texted an apology the next day, although I felt neither her apology nor my acceptance of it was sincere. I again asked that we talk in person, without our partners around. She agreed, except when I came over Tom was there, working in the communal space. We chatted for an hour about nothing and I left. I took Tom being there when she knew I wanted to talk in private as her way of telling me to basically fuck off.
We both went out for a friend’s birthday a week later. We were cordial but I was totally done with trying to fix things. After drinking for hours, I was ready to head home. I was about to walk out of the bar when Andi pulled me aside. “Cancel your Uber, let’s do a shot”. This was about as close as an olive branch as you can get from Andi, so I agreed. After we took the shot, I said “I really do want to get together and talk in person when we are sober”. She acted confused. I looked at her just totally dumbfounded. I told her I felt she had been avoiding me, that I wanted to fix things and I missed our friendship. Suddenly Andi started screaming, “I have been avoiding you because I hate Liz! We ALL avoid you because we ALL hate Liz! No one likes her! No one likes you!” I saw red. I have never felt anger like that in my life. “Liz? Liz is the problem? LIZ?! AFTER EVERYTHING TOM HAS SAID AND DONE OVER THE YEARS?! LIZ IS THE PROBLEM?!” I walked outside to call an Uber. I was sitting on the steps just totally stunned when she came out to again scream at me that no one likes me or Liz. I snapped and I told her she should ask Tom about grabbing women by the p*ssy. I regret framing it in such a way, but I was not thinking logically at that point.
I was told she asked Tom if he had ever touched me inappropriately and he not only denied it but said he would sue me for libel (the idiot doesn’t know the difference between slander and libel). She told a few of our mutual friends what I said, I suspect to paint me as a psycho. Well, two of the friends she told also happened to be two of the three people I told many years ago. They both told her they didn’t think I was lying. This didn’t matter to Andi.
I felt awful from the moment I opened my mouth outside the bar. If alcohol wasn’t involved, I wouldn’t have reacted the way I did. Andi was my best friend for 15+ years, my ride or die. I reached out to her about 3 months after the incident and asked to talk in person. She agreed, but said she was busy for several weeks. A few days later, she got engaged. She blew up my phone, texting me nonstop. I was nice and sincere when I said I was happy for her, and for a moment felt normal. But she went radio silent again. I backed off.
A few mutual friends encouraged me to try one more time. I did, and we finally met almost a year after the fight. I apologized for the way I handled myself that night, but I was careful to not retract what I said. I explained how I saw red after Andi tried to pin this on Liz. Tom has repeatedly crossed the line with not just me but a lot of other people; Liz has as well. Tom will often rub people the wrong way; so has Liz. The difference was that I valued my friendship with Andi so much that I was able to separate Tom from the equation in our relationship. Andi, on the other hand, could not do the same for me. She didn’t disagree with anything I said, we spent 3 hours together and it felt…normal? I had some hope that we could at least be casual friends in time.
Ultimately it changed nothing. I’ve been told that Andi is sad and she misses our friendship; that she knows deep down I was telling the truth about Tom that night, but since Tom doesn’t want me around she will not have a friendship with me. They are getting married this weekend and I am vacillating wildly between sadness and anger. Sadness that things got to this point and anger that she allowed things to reach a breaking point. Sadness that Liz predicted this and anger that Andi has never had a spine when it counts.
AITAH? Looking back I should’ve just kept my mouth shut in order to keep the friendship, but at the same time I do not regret defending my partner who had nothing to do with the underlying issues. I am just really sad with wedding this weekend.
TL;DR: My best friend placed the blame for the end of our friendship solely on me (and my partner).

As promised (for those interested) – here’s the second post getting into more technical aspects of going to war. You can find my first post (along with the “about me” part) by clicking on the tag.
A few trigger warnings and disclaimers first:

• Trigger Warning: this post doesn’t deal with the moral aspects of the war. It’s about the cold, pragmatic decisions that go into executing a military operation. I make no moral judgements here – just describing things. And I'm certainly NOT ENDORSING invading places for fun. If you’re easily triggered – you may want to skip this post.
• Disclaimer. My experience is quite relevant. But again, I was not in IDF. Never been to Israel or Gaza. Though I expected that much of what I say translates to IDF’s experience accurately, there are probably many local, and theatre-specific differences I’m not accounting for. Those of you who were in IDF… or maybe have friends or family currently engaged in Gaza – please chime in if anything I’m saying doesn’t ring true.
• An Acknowledgment. We (meaning US forces fighting in the Middle East) have seen our share of chaos and urban combat. But we never had to walk into a city that has been fortified for 15 years for this precise scenario and where nearly 100% of the population was, at least in terms of personal opinion, entirely hostile. Bottom line, I suspect (though don’t know for sure) that certain unique circumstances in Gaza make it much more difficult operationally than what we had to face when entering hostile cities.

Ok, here we go... this one is long.
As a Battlefield, Gaza is Hell.
For a war planner, Gaza is the stuff of nightmares. I honestly can’t think of a worse place to try to enter on a short notice than Gaza. A city fortified for combat for a decade and a half, with planned resupply routes, prepared ammo caches, planned choke points, etc. etc… a population as hostile as it gets. It’s basically hell for any invading force to enter.
And then there are the f---ing tunnels (more on those later). First, let’s talk about invading a place.

Invasions are Awesome (or Catastrophic) … well, they’re always catastrophic for at least one party.

A well-executed combined arms invasion is an awe-inspiring spectacle to behold. Trying to understand the whole thing is difficult to process, because the success of it, when witnessed first-hand and in real time, seemingly makes no sense. In hindsight - it’s a masterclass of cooperation, coordination, planning, and effective execution at massive scale with no room for error.
It’s a massive, violent ballet of small, lethal cogs, all seemingly in complete chaos – and yet somehow, with very little direct communication, getting the job done. If you witness a convoy during an invasion, you’ll see a clusterf*k of ugly vehicles moving very slowly, constantly stopping, soldiers jumping on and off, looking ragged, tired, annoyed. If you talk to any soldier at any given time – you’ll think you’re witnessing the most disorganized sh*tshow ever produced.
The most likely answer you’ll get is “I don’t know what the f—k is going on and where we’re going, I just know that I haven’t taken a sh—t in 3 days, and these a-holes keep shooting at us every couple of hours”. And yet, check the news a day later – and somehow this tired, annoyed, slow war machine advance in leaps and bounds, flanked choke points, and broke through everywhere – all while you got a good night of sleep at home. But talk to the same soldier the next day and you’ll get the same annoyed answer “I don’t know what the f—ck is going on”.
Why am I describing it in such detail? Because to an untrained eye – that’s what things look like on the surface. It seems botched, disorganized, seemingly without rhyme or reason. A reporter witnessing what, at first, appears to be a massive sh*tshow, will likely walk away precisely with the image of a sh*tshow – which will probably set in motion the theme for the coverage.
Except, it’s not a sh*tshow. It’s a carefully planned, coordinated, and organized ballet that takes years of practice, experience, and thoughtful execution to produce.
Side note: there are of course botched invasion – they look seemingly the same on the surface as a well executed operation – but turn out more of a masterclass in hubris, incompetence, and stupidity.
And of course, individual results will vary - – you may be on the “good” side of an invasion and still end up one of the few casualties on your side. Or you could be on the receiving end of Uncle Sam’s fury and still get a lucky shot in that kills a general. .
What Does an Invasion Feel Like when you’re invading? It’s confusing, exhilarating, tiring, scary. But mostly… honestly… boring. Just like most of soldiering – it’s hours and hours of boredom and lack of sleep. The entire time you have to stay vigilant… and the fear never quite goes away. And then those hours of boredom are interrupted by sudden terror of combat and the exhilaration of coming out on the other side. And then the dread that you will have to do that again and again.
What Does it feel like to be Invaded? On the side that gets stomped by the invading force (i.e. this wouldn’t apply to Ukrainians, for instance) – to put simply – it f-ing sucks. It’s also hours of boredom filled with dread and fear. And suddenly, your entire world is on fire. All the “plans” your commanders set in motion fall apart in minutes. Eventually (if you survive the experience) you’ll find out that, by the time you had your contact with the invader, the forward enemy elements were already deep behind you. So uninterested were they in you, that they just rolled by and reported your location to the chasing element for a “clean up”… it’s almost insulting, really.

Well of course IDF would be good at invading, right… they’re the big scary dog with lots of guns, tanks, and aircraft?

This mindset is a dangerous, deadly assumption to make. Having overwhelming force is no guarantee of a successful invasion. The Russians invaded Ukraine with OVERWHELMING force and superior real world experience… and boy did they botch it. Sure, Ukrainians fought bravely and turned out quite competent. But the main factor wasn’t the Ukrainian abilities – it was the incompetence and the failure on the Russian side.
The invader has to out-perform the defender in every aspect. Logistically and operationally – an assault is much more difficult and potentially deadly than a defense. And a large, slow force moving into someone else’s backyard isn’t that hard to bog down and turn it into a bloodbath (as Ukrainians demonstrated).
Combined Arms invasion only works when the arms are actually combined. And it’s a real, difficult skill that requires lots of planning, practice, and precise execution.
Is an Invasion of a Dense Urban Area Different? Yes and no. An urban environment introduces many more unpredictable and dangerous elements. But it’s still an invasion. Broadly-speaking, it’s still all of the above – the same complex and dangerous ballet of planning, coordination, and execution. Except if unfolds in a very, very slow motion. Much more up close and personal. And potentially, much deadlier.

Preparing for the Campaign.

The preparation part is absolutely critical. A massive combined-arms operation is about as complex as things get. At the top, an insanely complex plan must be built – it must account for everything… from the amounts and timing of fuel delivery, to roles and positioning of various combat and support elements, to laying out every route, evaluating every contingency scenario, etc. etc. etc.

• IDF had almost no time to prepare for the invasion of Gaza – that was an enormous disadvantage that’s hard to overstate.
• I’m sure Aman maintained a pretty decent picture with respect to Hamas’ capabilities, logistics, infrastructure, etc… but it certainly wasn’t a complete picture. The worst part about having no warning – there’s no time for combat units to rehearse, work out various operational bugs, etc.

Example: Failure to prepare means death. Something as trivial as not getting your radio comms aligned can botch an entire invasion. The Russians got bugged in Ukraine for many reasons – most of them trivial, stupid, detectable, and avoidable. But they simply didn’t bother to prepare. Tank columns would routinely walk into ambushes because the heavy units didn’t have advanced coordination with air assets or even forward elements. They’d walk into an ambush that a single helicopter could easily suppress – but they couldn’t call it in.
Commanders didn’t have the channels or the correct maps to fire support. I saw overwhelming Russian fire power roll into a trivial ambush, stop… and then have no clue what to do (a American (or IDF) force fraction of that size could’ve rolled through that roadside ambush with barely a delay. But they simply never rehearsed this scenario across all the participating elements (many of which were sorta thrown together) – and so the heavies would get bunched up, infantry would dismount and scatter in the wrong direction… some tanks start backing up and then driving into a wrong field for whatever reason – and seemingly no one bothering to even return fire.
I saw an entire heavy armor battalion wiped out by a force of about 5 Ukrainian dudes with a couple Javelins, a couple machine guns, and a radio to a howitzer team a couple miles away.
A big part of preparation is mental. In peacetime, the training we go through is serious… but one never takes it fully seriously… everyone knows we’re play-acting in a way. Preparing for a real war takes time. The reality dawns slowly. It takes time for a unit to properly gel together a new environment, dust off old skills, string them together in rehearsals much closer to reality, and prepare mentality for the idea that you will soon be shot at (even though you can never fully prepare for it).
IDF didn’t have time to prepare and rehearse. Honestly, I was very worried for them. Especially after Oct. 7^th, when it seemed that everyone was asleep at the wheel. I excepted a semi-botched invasion. But they executed about as flawlessly as it gets. Happy to say I was wrong. Someone certainly was asleep at the wheel on Oct 7^th. But broadly speaking, whatever happened on the 7^th woke up the tiny giant. That fearsome little hedgehog that gained a reputation for punching far above its weight is still there – alive and kicking.

• Jumping a bit ahead… I will do a separate post with a deeper dive into results-to-date. But I can tell you this much – the same thing happened to Hamas that happened to Taliban in 2001 (and to Israel’s enemies in the previous wars). A whole lot of hubris, boasting, stupid decisions – the “Allah is on our side” type of idiotic attitude. They didn’t know what was coming. And they got wrecked. IDF stomped them. Hamas isn’t finished – but it’s a shadow of itself at this point. October 7^th was the biggest error that dumpster fire of an organization has ever made.
• I’m sure there will be lots of sympathizing… of the “well of course, since IDF is so big and strong, and Hamas are these tiny little freedom warriors” variety. Nah… nonsense. A force of tens of thousands luring a heavy, slow-moving enemy into a prepared urban battlefield, with fortifications, pre-planned logistics, ammo caches, etc., etc. – those aren’t the “little guys”. Taking the bait with virtually no notice was a dangerous proposition for IDF. But they took the bait and then ate the fisherman.

But I’ll get to this in more detail in a future post.

First order of battle – prepare the battlefield.

“Prepping the battlefield” is the reason you saw the initial strikes on the buildings before the ground elements moved in. It was not a revenge mission, as Qatari propaganda would have you believe. The buildings weren’t targeted randomly. Every target is a part of a thought-out plan. Every seemingly random target has a point – and it’s never random.
For instance,

• There are the “easy” targets – known (or suspected) “offices” of Hamas, warehouses, potential FOBs, motor pools, communication hubs, etc. Any “offices” with “political affiliation” to Hamas that are easily repurposable or can serve as “friendly” rally points for enemy fighters. Etc. etc.
• Then there are the “clear the path” type of targets. For instance…
• Many of the buildings hit prior to the ground invasion were known (or highly likely) exit points above known tunnel systems. In other words, if there is a high degree of probability that the enemy could emerge in the building’s basement, work their way up, and turn the building into a fortified high-point… especially along a route that’s picked to be an MSR – the prudent thing is to bring that building down in advance. Once you get a column of vehicles onto an MSR – it’s not a decision you can undo easily. And a column of supply trucks stuck behind a disabled IFV and taking fire from four different dimensions – that’s a very bad day.
• Some buildings may be chosen to open up observation and fire support lanes prior to friendly convoys moving through… open up potential choke points for perimeter defense, or even choke off potential parallel and flanking routes, etc.

“Anger” or “Revenge” don’t drive these decisions – as I explained earlier, military operates by objective and tactical necessity (and the “boom” you bring upon a building is very, very expensive). These decisions are calculated and each one has a reason behind it.
Think back to the ballet analogy of an invasion. A ballet needs a clean stage. And the city architecture can create massive tripping hazards. Countless hours went into developing an invasion plan, picking routes, and evaluating every foot of the path the invading force would take. The main “tripping hazards” were identified – and the airstrikes then followed to clear the stage before the curtain lifted.
Story time - real life example. A friend of mine was an MP platoon commander assigned to deliver unruly juveniles to a court building in an area that was “questionable”. Same route, predictable schedule, etc. (the local judge refused to leave the courthouse or make scheduling random and we were trying to “win hearts and minds”). In other words – prime opportunity to ambush a bunch of American Humvees. The route itself was tolerable – turn the convoy into an angry hedgehog, pedal to the metal, and have alternate routes mapped out to bypass trouble. But the square with the courthouse was basically tailor-made for trouble… mostly because of the layout and the surrounding architecture.
My buddy, having seen this movie before, decided he was going to change the ending. He gathered the local community “elders” (some local imams or some sh—t)… pointed to the buildings, and explained via a translator that if he (and the kids they’re protecting) take a single shot – he’s calling fire mission on every single building in the square, and the entire neighborhood will cease to exist.
Not that anyone would’ve authorized such a fire mission, unless the neighborhood really came down on them… and he knew that, of course. But he sounded convincing, the “elders” have already witnessed what American fire support looks like, and they decided to take him at his word and oblige. In three months of this idiotic assignment, not a single shot was fired (though other units got harassed within blocks of that particular square on a daily basis.
Back to IDF and the whole “blowing up buildings” thing. IDF entering Gaza simply didn’t have the luxury to negotiate with Gaza “elders” – Hamas are the elders. Putting myself in IDF’s shoes - If I’m entering an area already known to be preparing a nasty “welcome” … and I’m responsible for bringing my 18-19 year old kids home… Well, I’m sending a whole lot of grief at any building that even thinks to cause me trouble. And if I happen to be wrong – honestly... so be it.

• That doesn’t mean I would deliberately blow up a building known to be full of civilians. First… you try to get the populace to clear the area to begin with. If you have doubts – you try to find a different route. But if there isn’t an alternative route, the MSR is the MSR, and I have a supply convoy idling behind and begging to be hit if the forward element sits there another minute too long – well… I wasn’t the one who architected the f-ing place. Sorry, but you’ll have to rebuild.
• Again, I’m not endorsing invading cities… not making moral judgements one way or another… just explaining the reality as it is.
• And no. These decisions don’t ever sit easy. They stay with you for the rest of your life – questions you’ll never know the answers to. But I’ve already addressed this topic.

Who makes these decisions. For planned destruction (rather than dynamic targets… more on those later) – the decisions are made by military intelligence (and then authorized by whichever command structure happens to be responsible for the theatre). It’s a very hard job. Those guys and gals have to go home with those decisions and live with them too. They’ll never tell you about their internal doubts and questions – that’s not what warriors do. But those doubts and questions are there. If you think that it comes easy and it’s just a “video game” for them – you may be the psychopath in this discussion.
(Yeah, yeah… I know… “how can you pity the IDF – they’re not the ones who got their homes blown up”. Again, the point of this post is pragmatic reality – not moral comparisons or judgements. Of course it sucks to have your home blown up. But I’m explaining a soldier’s POV right now).
But at the end of the day – they have a job to do, and it has three parts. Job one – don’t botch the mission. Job two – help your troops stay alive. Job three – don’t use excessive force and look out for civilians. In that order.
Sidenote: There is a map I saw somewhere – an overlay that shows an old map of the known Gaza tunnels and overlay map of IDF aerial strikes. It shows quite clearly that the strikes weren’t random and follow the tunnel network quite closely. If you’ve seen it and know what I’m talking about – please link it.
Clearing Out Civilians. Again, I’m not in IDF. But from what I understand – they went to great lengths to warn the public before dropping bombs on those objectives. For a reference – we didn’t go to nearly such lengths. We didn’t have a database of numbers to call. Very few interpreters, etc. Generally, you’d try to notify the city to clear itself and, after an afforded period, you move in and hope that the civilians were wise enough to believe you. If IDF’s claims of the leaflets, announcements, and the phone calls they made are true (and I have no reason to doubt them) – it’s far above and beyond of what we (the US) ever did and what any other military in the world would do.

• I wouldn’t assign it to some super-humanitarian quality of IDF. Doubt they care about civilians any more or any less than we do. And giving the enemy too much notice doesn’t help your cause either. But it isn’t Israel’s first rodeo and they were well aware of the type of heat they were going to take from the “public opinion” internationally. But I commend them for trying nonetheless – despite whatever unpleasant personal feelings I’m sure many of them hold toward Gazans at the moment.

How to Clear a City

Following the “shock and awe” – the main force moves in. Fast, violent… preferably at night, to punch through to designated rally points by dawn.
Everyone expects contact upon crossing the border but honestly – that almost never happens. For the infantry on the ground – the first few hours are usually just a lot of fear, anticipation but ultimately, boredom… and strained bladders… and the floor full of Gatorade bottles (PSA: if you see a bottle of Yellow Gatorade in a Humvee – don’t drink it).
Clearing Sectors. The city gets mapped into sectors, and the tedious and very dangerous work of clearing the city begins – sector by sector. Street by street. House by house.
Multiple elements may be operating in parallel to each other – on different assignments. And “not shooting each other” can be a challenge of its own – something to always keep in mind.
The basic idea is – you move into enemy’s neighborhood, essentially announcing “I’m in your house and I’m going to take it – come and stop me”. The forward elements go in, quite literally looking to slug it out with the bravest of the Jihadis.
It’s nothing like the movies, where some badass-looking special operators swoop in and kill everybody. That does happen of course, occasionally and at night – specialized teams will do point raids when a VIP target is identified (or some other compelling reason).
But mostly, you enter a neighborhood with brute force. Lots of big guns and even more rifles. Multiple houses will be getting cleared at the same time by multiple teams, with snipers watching overhead, big guns watching the streets outside, and blocking elements positioning themselves to intercept rabbits.
You never know what’s going to wait for you at a new place. It may seem quiet, but waiting to explode in an ambush. Sometimes, a strong point will be waiting for you, with an immediate greeting upon arrival – but that’s a suicidal proposition for them almost always. If that doesn’t happen – you should expect some nasty surprises when you start entering houses.
Sometimes, absolutely nothing happens – the neighborhood is quite like a church morning in a village and stays that way the entire time you’re there. But that’s not a relief – the next emotion is usually dread.
Clearing homes in an area you know to be trouble is about as terrifying of a job an infantryman can get. Over time, you develop a sixth sense for things – you can sorta tell what’s going to wait for you in the house.
We have certain tools to help with that as well… as well as plenty of advanced surveillance that will spot traffic in and out of a house long before you show up.
Aerial surveillance also helps us know what to expect upon arrival to a new sector (though it’s far from perfect). But, it’s much different for the IDF. I imagine that a tunnel exiting directly into a house will render any surveillance-based assumptions useless.
Sometimes, that sixth sense… the gut feeling tells you that this house will be bad. But the gut is often wrong, of course. And when your gut is wrong but it’s still talking to you – one of the scariest things in the world is that one last door left to be checked in the bedroom. Remember the fear of closet monsters when you were a kid? Yeah… now picture the tricks your imagination can play when closet monsters in that neighborhood come with explosives.

Why Tunnels are Important

• Tunnels add a fourth-dimension to an already nerve-wrecking environment.
• First, you lose your “eyes” on the sector in advance – effectively, you’re arriving blind, because surveillance can’t pick up enemy traffic moving into defensive positions when they arrive underground
• The dimension itself is simply unintuitive. An infantryman is used to scanning for enemy horizontally and vertically. They’re used to watching their step. They’re used to treating a random pile of garbage as potentially explosive. What they’re not used to is that pile of garbage being a potential tunnel exit that an RPG team pops up from behind you. We’re used to avoiding random piles of garbage and moving on – letting EOD deal with sh*t later. But IDF has to check every pile of garbage, lift every random piece of plywood, look under every bathtub in every house. Lift every rug. Stomp on every part of the floor. Basically – it’s f---king hell.
• When you discover a tunnel – it’s a whole different pain in the rear. Infantry isn’t trained in dealing with tunnels. They basically have to mark them and remain stationary until the tunnel “specialists” arrive. The idea of sector-by-sector clearing is that, once you clear it, you can declare it safe and move on. But when there is an active tunnel with an exist point behind you – there is nothing safe about that sector even if it’s quiet at the moment. And sitting idle in a neighborhood waiting to clear a tunnel certainly isn’t ideal in an urban operation where things are quite…uhm…dynamic.

What do you Do with Civilians?

• Civilians, in the meantime, get moved around. It’s not a pleasant experience – you try to treat them gently, but the resulting effect can still resemble more cattle than human. It’s particularly challenging, since there really isn’t a way for them to exit Gaza.
• What you’re doing is for their own benefit - the goal is to move them out of the harm’s way and (occasionally, depending on location and whether the nearest unit has the time and capacity) – round up the fighting age males for identification.
• In all reality, the action moves block by block. Setting up “checkpoints” in an active kill zone is not just ineffective – it would actively put civilians in harm’s way. Checkpoints do get set – but in areas that are more or less quiet and clear. Hamas would happily target soldiers who are distracted in a crowd of Palestinian civilians.
• And then there’s the usual propaganda – I lost count of how many videos I’ve seen claiming that IDF fired upon civilians, when it’s quite clear that either (a) civilians got caught-up in a Hamas attack on IDF or (b) militants just straight-up shot up a bunch of civilians to prevent them from following an evacuation route.

On the Enemy

I could say many things on Hamas in terms of violent Islamism, their perverse beliefs, the f-ed up “moral” code of such groups. But I’ll set that aside and speak of Hamas (based on experience with similar groups) purely in terms of their effectiveness and competence.

• Ultimately, it’s an army of thugs. Rooted in boastfulness, peer pressure, etc.
• The overall ideology has a strong effect on the group. But its “strength” is based mainly on the group dynamic. Once the group dynamic is destroyed, the leadership is dead, and there is no one to witness or attest to “less-than-honorable” actions of individuals – it turns out that the “ideological” beliefs of many weren’t held all that deeply.
• They will run. They will hide. They will blend in.
• They’re quite good at things that we’d call “terrorism”… or just pure thugishnes.
• There is also the element of most fighters being young men. Young men feel invincible. Add to that a whole lot of peer pressure, the culture of “honor” (their definition of it), and just the general excitement young men fell when causing mischief. What you get is a rather annoying force of guerilla fighters. They certainly aren’t “good”… not even “effective” in terms of the damage such “guerilla” tactics cause. But they’re definitely effective in that they can tie-up a unit in an unnecessary, pointless fights. And they’ll do it with the energy and carelessness of youth – until the circumstances catch up with them. And after that happens – often there isn’t any of them left alive to serve as caution to others.
• There is of course the whole idea of “martyrdom”, etc. It’s certainly a powerful force. But it’s a much more of an obscure concept to these young men – dying isn’t something most of them actively seek… despite all the boastfulness.

Why are There So Many Naked Dudes in their Underwear?

You’ve all seen pics of Palestinian men being paraded around in their underwear. The most hilarious “explanation” that I’ve seen is that it’s a “form of sexual torture” by the IDF.
First of… if that’s what you think – (a) you’re a bit… uhm… weird; and (b) no soldier… I don’t care if it’s the gayest dude who prances around in fairy outfits on weekends– no soldier actually wants to see this sh---t. It’s gross. They’re sweaty, scared, and pathetic. And (y’all seen the pictures) – usually, there isn’t much impressive to look at.
So… why? For the same exact reason prisoners get stripped down upon reporting to prison. And those reasons are much more amplified in a war zone. They are MEN of FIGHTING AGE in an ACTIVE COMBAT ZONE. Any number of them are for sure (100%) Hamas or affiliated with Hamas. That much is a fact. But an IDF soldier in an area that’s still hot with enemy activity has no tools to distinguish whether it’s an innocent civilian or someone who really shouldn’t be released.
Hence, all of them will be sent back for further investigation. They’re identity will be cross-checked with known databases of Hamas memberships. Their social media will probably be checked. Etc. Etc.
Why are they naked? Because when a dude walks up on you in a hostile area – you yell at him to stop, strip down at a distance, and do a 360 presentation of his gut and sweaty *ss crack for you. Yeah – it’s as gross as it sounds. The main fear is obvious - explosives and concealed weapons.
Eventually, they approach, get cuffed, blindfolded, and wait around for transport. And yeah… they stay in their underwear… because no soldier is going to volunteer to go collect gross, sweaty clothes for a bunch of random dudes and then try to figure out to whom each pair of pants belongs to. Sorry… but there are more important things to do when you’re collecting prisoners in an open yard in a neighborhood that was shooting at you 20 minutes ago. If you think there is anything “sexual” about it – you should probably see a psychiatrist.

Defining a “Combatant”

Defining a militant is difficult – some will be proper combatants. Others – just kids joining in the stupid excitement of violence.

• Militants mostly move around in civilian clothes and empty-handed. By now, they know we can see them.
• Weapons are usually stored in known caches with plenty of ammo. IDF is finding them in houses on practically every street, from what I hear.
• That was the same MO in Afghanistan - farmers routinely would come down and claim that we killed “innocent kids” overnight. Nevermind our thermal footage of those “kids” and their 7.62 toys.
• Civilians, especially boys, can sometimes join the madness. Are they innocent? Well, fundamentally, of course they are – they’re kids. But things aren’t that simple in a combat zone. Those kids don’t just decide to pick-up rocks on their own. Where they grow up – the coolest guys in the neighborhood are the tough jihadis. The kids flock to them, run errands for them. When things get hot – the kids run surveillance for them, bring supplies. Quite often, the kids will assist in setting up IEDs.
• For instance, In many places we were in – the “specialist” who knows how to wire an IED is a VIP of sorts. And they’re familiar with our surveillance. So, an IED setup is a process – where civilians, often just kids, would be used to test our surveillance of the area. “Here is a shovel, kid… go dig a hole over on the other side of the street while we wait here to see if they infidels’ snipers have eyes on the street”.
• And sometimes, in the middle of a fight, those kids also decide to make an appearance. Of course, you don’t target the kids if you can help it. But say you round a corner... ready for a surprise – and there is something flying toward your face. That person will probably be dead before you even have a chance to recognize that it’s a kid.
• Of course, to a well-adjusted civilian, the idea of shooting a kid “over a rock” sounds insane. And it is. No one wants to shoot a kid over a rock. But when you’re stuck on a street that’s become a bullet funnel from a few blocks down, and someone keeps peeking in from the alley splitting the street and tossing things at you – most soldiers aren’t inclined to sit around to find out whether it’s a rock or a grenade.

How Most Civilian Casualties Happen.

The social media would have you believe that the initial bombing campaign was indiscriminate and that’s how most civilian casualties occurred. In reality, most civilians are killed in what’s called “dynamic” targeting.

• Majority of civilian casualties will come from “dynamic targets”. Those are the buildings that weren’t targeted initially for destruction – the initial goal is to simply clear them. But if the enemy happens to get to the building first and IDF takes fire, eventually (after certain back and forth) the building will be targeted for an airstrike. These are dynamic targets that emerge unplanned, Aman has little to no intel on them, and the air assets can’t see if there are civilians hiding in the basement. After some time, they will drop a bomb on the building and move on (as they should and as any other military would do).
• I remember seeing a good thread on Twitter that showed how a neighborhood comes to being destroyed. It starts with pictures and background on a wealthy, upscale development in Gaza. Then shows the videos of IDF trying to move through the neighborhood and foot-mobile fire teams, trying to clear it building-by-building. Hamas, however, fortified the neighborhood, puts up a fight, and ultimately, IDF runs out of options to clear it safely. Eventually, fire missions are called in and the development ceases to exist. Not because IDF was intent to destroy it – they tried to save it. But ultimately, those IDF kids want to go home too… preferably not in body bags.

.....It's just one example. I wasn’t there personally, but it rings true. Because that’s how these things typically play out in my experience. If you know the twitter thread I’m talking about – please share a link if you can find it.
Ok... that was a lot. I plan on doing more posts. Things I plan to address:

1. Looking at the results so far
   
2. Tips for analyzing what you see on social media
   

I've also got some good questions I'm going to address:

1. A question about "proportionality"
   
2. A question on telling the difference between good-faith attempt to minimize casualties and disproportionate violence and war crimes.
   
3. How do we know if IDF are following the professional moral code?
   
4. Thoughts on the recent arrest warrants issued.
   

If you have any other questions you'd like me to address - send them my way. Peace!

I didn’t know. But I could have taken more proactive measures and avoided it entirely. I feel like such a loser. After 4 years of being vigilant and taking it seriously, I went and did the thing I swore I’d never do.
The story:
My husband has been very busy and he’s got chronic pain and brain damage (he had a tumor, long story, he functions normally but he has a hard time with overwhelm and exhaustion). after the crescendo of his busiest week in a while, Friday night he was feeling very tired and sore. Not unusual. He ran a slight fever and rather than having us both test for covid as we should have, we just chalked it up to stress and waited it out. the next day he felt better, and better the next, and his only symptom really was that brief fever, aches, and fatigue.
Here’s where I fucked up. I went to see my family, left on Saturday night. I felt totally fine, COVID didn’t even really cross my mind. Part of me worried my husband may have been sick, which is honestly bad enough, but I didn’t think of COVID. I saw my mom (4+ hours totally in a car together), my grandma, my pregnant sister in law, and my toddler niece. I was fine. I came home on Monday. Fine. Tuesday night I started feeling sick. It was pretty mild, I waited a day or so to see if it was allergies or tiredness (I too have chronic pain & various afflictions so sometimes it’s hard to tell what’s going on). I called my grandma this morning to let her know I have a bit of a cold, but that I was pretty sure it’s not Covid because my symptoms aren’t what I would have expected. While on the phone, she told me her friends were coming by later.
This afternoon I took a covid test, finally got my hands on some.
Positive.
Took another. Positive. Had my husband test. Positive. Well fuck.
I had a massive panic attack. I cannot believe I exposed by whole family like this. I should have tested when my husband wasn’t feeling well, just to be safe. This is WHY we test just to be safe. Did everything I learned over the past 4 years fall out of my brain? My granddad just passed away in October due to COVID (plus other complications, he was already sick). And I just exposed his wife to the same virus again. Not to mention my pregnant SIL. They have all had it before. Is it true your second infection tends to be more mild?
I feel sick over this. When I looked at the test my heart dropped and shattered like I had just accidentally committed a murder. As far as I know nobody is sick yet, but it’s too soon to tell. I am holding out hope that even if anyone does get sick, it’ll be relatively mild. I am so worried about them. I feel like a monster, if I had just thought for half a second….. I never thought it would be me. How could I be so stupid, really?
Am I being dramatic? Am I not being dramatic enough? I’ll admit I have a mood disorder and generalized anxiety, so sometimes it’s hard to tell. there’s a very selfish part of me just keeps thinking “wow I cannot believe I’ll have to life with this guilt the rest of my life, how am I going to cope if anything happens to my family?”
can anyone say anything to make me feel better? I don’t expect to be absolved, I know this is my fault and I should be ashamed. but maybe someone has been in a similar situation and it turned out okay?
ETA: I should add that I immediately called my grandma and let her know I had tested positive (twice 🫣) so she could send her friends home. I fear it doesn’t matter and the damage has been done. God, this sucks. I love them all so much and I put them in danger because I wasn’t being proactive / responsible.

“It's me, Brianna. Not you.”
That's what my latest boyfriend told me before walking directly into the path of a truck. There was barely anything of him, just enough to peel off of the sidewalk. I thought our relationship was going well. It's not like I'm desensitised to my boyfriend's dying (or ceasing to exist), but it's almost become the norm.
Ben was my first boyfriend in high school, and my longest relationship to date. Fluffy haired Ben with his dimpled grin and freckles. He was the type of guy who should have been popular, but chose to keep to himself.
I met him in the principal’s office. Ben was being lectured for ‘sneaking around’ and I was handing in a late assignment. All he did was wink at me, and I fell.
Hard.
We dated for two years, and I really thought he was the one. Ben told me he loved me, and every Friday he introduced me to a new restaurant. I was in love. I loved *everything about him.
On the night before our senior prom, a drunk driver t-boned my boyfriend's car, killing him instantly. After his funeral, it's like he stopped existing. His parents left town, and every time I mentioned him, my parents would slowly tilt their heads and act confused when I brought him up.
My brother was the worst for it, considering he and Ben were best friends.
But he just looked at me with this weird fucking look in his eye, like his soul had been ripped out. Eyes are the windows to the soul, apparently, and my brother's soul was MIA. “Ben?” His expression crumpled. “Wait, who?”
Alex was my emotional support, who later became someone closer.
Funny Alex.
Blonde-but-not-quite-blonde, Alex.
I met him in group therapy. My boyfriend was dead, and he had just lost his mother. We didn't label it, because he had a girlfriend, and I didn't want to move on so quickly. I think we just found comfort in each other.
Eventually, though, Alex became something I wanted to label.
His sense of humor was a breath of fresh air. I didn't go to college because of Ben’s death, settling for a mediocre barista stop in town. Alex came in every day with fresh coffee and a sugar cookie. I think I loved him. I told him that. Half asleep, I told him I wanted to try and be something more with him. Alex looked taken-aback, but happy.
We spent the night together.
The morning after, I woke to my mother screaming.
Alex was dead in the bathroom, his blood splattering, staining pristine white. According to the first responders, he died of a self inflicted head injury. The exact same thing followed. I attended his funeral, and Alex’s family disappeared.
This time, I went back to his house. But according to a neighbour, his house had been abandoned for ten years. I had eaten pancakes in his kitchen just days earlier.
I broke in to see myself, but my neighbor was right. The hallway was piled with ancient mail and threats of eviction. Alex’s room didn't exist, instead, a storage room filled with boxes.
When I got home, my family had already forgotten Alex’s existence.
The town had forgotten him, and yet his blood still stained my bathroom.
Following Alex’s death, I was terrified of getting too close to people.
But Esme made it hard.
She was my third relationship. We met at a bar. I was extremely drunk and convinced I was cursed to kill all of my romantic partners. Esme. Cute Esme. Crooked teeth and smudged lipstick and warm Esme.
Do you know that person you meet and you instantly connect with them? The person you're sure is your soulmate?
That was Esme.
I told myself I wouldn't get close to her. But I was already talking to this girl, already pouring my life out to her. Esme sat and listened, her chin resting on her fist. She was a first year creative writing student, and she had a cat called Peanut.
I didn't remember much after that. We hit it off, and next thing I know we’re curled up in the back of her car watching Buffy on her iPad. I told her about my exes, and she nodded and smiled, but I don't think she was listening.
I told her all of my exes have died, and then been erased from existence.
Esme called me cute. She wanted to base a story around the concept, sitting up and grabbing her phone.
I have this memory of the girl I fell in love with at first sight.
She's nodding along to a Smith’s song spluttering from my car radio, typing on her phone. I can hear the tapping of her nails, her lips curving into a smile. I can see the exact moment she gets inspiration, pulling her knees to her chest. She's wearing fishnet tights that are torn, and a jacket that doesn't fit her.
She is fucking beautiful, and I don't want to lose her.
Alex was beautiful.
He had pretty eyes and brown curls that I liked running my hands through. Ben was beautiful. He made my heart swim, my stomach swarm with butterflies, when I first met him. Ben was my first love.
The realization woke me up one night, three months into dating Esme.
Both of them were dead, wiped away like they never existed.
And Esme would follow.
At first, I tried to break it off with her without sounding crazy. I told her it was me not her, and I wasn't in the mindset for a relationship.
Esme understood, but her eyes didn't. I didn't want to lose her. Esme lit up every room she entered. Her obsession with thrifted clothes and badly written poems, and her irrational fear of pandas, made her someone I wanted to be with.
So, I stayed with her. I told myself Ben and Alex were just coincidences that were nothing to do with me, and I wasn't indirectly fucking killing the people I fell in love with.
I avoided the ‘L’ word for as long as I could.
It slipped out on my way to work. Esme was driving.
I just said it, and her eyes lit up. She reached out and squeezed my hand.
At work, one of my colleagues, Jasper, caught my eye. When I twisted around to ask him to grab something, I glimpsed his phone screen. It looked like Tinder, though I didn't recognise the layout. It reminded me of Twitter, in dark mode. Jasper was leaning against the counter, his thumb hovering over a photo of Esme, chewing his bottom lip.
I watched his thumb prance across the screen, before he gave up and swiped left.
Finishing up the woman's coffee, I handed it over.
“Uhh, I asked for cream.”
Ignoring her, I sidled in front of my colleague, hyper focused on whatever app he was playing around with. “What's that?”
Jasper looked up, his eyes widening, lips parting, like a fucking goldfish.
“Clearly nothing.” Jasper side-stepped me, opening the refrigerator and pulling out milk. But he already had milk. The bastard was stalling. We had zero customers waiting, so it was the two of us, and a long, dragged out pause.
Jumping up and down on the heels of his feet, he shot me his usual grin, slipping his phone in his apron.
Jasper may have been smiling, though there was something twisted in his expression.
I couldn't stop myself. “Was that a dating app?”
“Dating app?”
“Excuse me, can I get what I ordered?” The woman demanded, waving her coffee in the air. “I asked for whipped cream.”
Jasper saw that as an excuse, an escape, and nodded, fashioning a grin. He saw an opportunity, and took it. “Of course, Ma’am! I'll get that for you!” He said, with a little too much sarcasm. The boy took her coffee with a spring in his step, ducking in the refrigerator for the whipping cream. Jasper added too much whipping cream, dumping the drink on the counter with a little too much force.
It was a good thing my colleague was marginally attractive guy with cropped blonde hair, and a deadpan voice that somehow attracted the ladies.
Jasper could insult someone directly to their face, and they would just blush and get all tongue tied. I had seen it happen in real time. A girl was flirting with him, and used a bad pick-up line, which was something along the lines of, “Did it hurt when you fell from Heaven?”
He laughed, and her eyes brightened. She giggled along with him, nudging her friends.
But he wasn't laughing with her. I saw the gleam in his eye.
He was laughing at her.
Still laughing, Jasper plonked her milk latte down so hard half of it spewed out.
And, with that exact same charming smile, he deadpanned, “Did it hurt when you dropped out of a drainpipe?”
Yeah, my colleague was blessed with good looks.
Otherwise, he would have been punched in the face by now.
Presently, he was being his usual asshole self. “Is there anything else I can get you?”
The woman shook her head, pulling a face.
Jasper had, essentially, ruined her drink. It was more cream than coffee.
When she left the store, I situated myself in front of him when he was counting cash. “What were you just looking at?” I nodded to the guy’s phone sticking out of his pocket. “Was it like… a dating thing you were on?”
Jasper didn't even look at me, his lip curling.
“That's kinda rude,” he hummed, “I don't peek at your phone.”
“Esme Hope.” Was all I could hiss out. “Was she on that dating app?”
My colleague proceeded to stare at me like I'd grown a second head, before his half lidded gaze flicked behind me. Jasper’s expression brightened.
“Oh, Hanna is calling me!” He said, choking out a laugh. Hanna was not calling him. She was in the break room getting high. Jasper slowly backed away, maintaining his smile. “I'll be back in a sec, all right?” He grabbed that same carton of milk with a grin. “Don't you just love when your milk stays fresh?”
“What?”
“Fresh milk!” He grinned. “Mulberry Farm’s finest.”
Jasper was darting away before I could coerce a sentence.
After work, I texted Esme as usual. She was my ride on Fridays.
Esme didn't reply.
I texted her again, a little more panicked.
Hey, are you okay?”
When I called her, an automated voice told me she wasn't available.
Already feeling sick to my stomach, I drove to her place myself. I could see the flashing lights before anything else, blurred red and blue sending my thoughts into a whirlwind. It took me ten minutes to muster the courage to jump out of my car, and ask a pale looking deputy what was going on.
I tried to jump over the yellow tape, only to be politely pulled back.
“Carbon monoxide poisoning,” the deputy told me. “The whole family is dead.” he sighed. “Mom, Dad, and their daughter in college.” I think he was trying to be sympathetic, awkwardly patting me. But I was already on my knees, all of the breath dragged from my lungs. “Luckily, it's just like going to sleep. Monoxide is a silent killer.”
Monoxide is a silent killer.
Was that the same as, “I'm sorry. Ben was in the wrong place at the wrong time.”
And, “Alex was silently suffering. He did what he thought was best.”
I didn't go to Esme’s funeral. Mom and Dad and Will had already forgotten her, just like the others. What I did do, several days later, when her name wasn't even a memory anymore– I bought flowers from the store. Roses were Esme’s favourite.
The seller was around my Mom’s age, a plump looking woman wearing a floral dress, long red hair tied into a ponytail. She was on her phone, humming to a tune on the radio.
The Smiths.
“I hope she likes them.” The woman said, wrapping the flowers in red ribbons. She had a strong southern accent that immediately annoyed me.
I took the roses, stuffing them in my bag. “What did you say?”
The seller cocked her head. “Hmm?”
“How did you know they were for my girlfriend?”
The woman sighed, placing her phone on the counter. I glanced at whatever she'd been so interested in, but the screen was faced down. “Esme came in here a lot,” Her lips broke out into a sad, sympathetic smile. I was quickly growing sick of them.
“Esme. She, uh, she told me you guys were dating,” She smiled, “Esme was always buying roses for her room. Sometimes she would stand in here for hours, and just stare at flowers. I think she found comfort in them.” The woman sighed, fixing me with what I could only describe as a pitiful pout.
Urgh.
“I hope you can find the same comfort,” she murmured. The seller handed me an extra rose, and I found myself reaching out for it, my eyes stinging. Fuck.
I hadn't cracked in at least fifteen hours, and that was a record. But now I could feel myself splintering, tears trickling down my cheeks. The Flower lady squeezed my hand. “I’m sorry, sweetheart. If it makes you feel better, it's just like going to sleep. Monoxide is a silent killer.” Her words were familiar.
Exactly what the deputy said. Before I could speak, she dumped weed killer on the counter. “Did you know our plant killer is ten dollars ninety nine?”
Her sudden bout of energy took me off guard.
I tried to smile. “I don't want any plant killer.”
The seller nodded, handing me another rose. “Oh, of course, Darling! But it is five ninety nine! Just for today!”
Something pricked me, and I hissed out, wafting my hand.
Damn thorns. I could already see a single spot of blood.
I nodded, sucking my teeth against a cry. “Thanks. But I'll skip it this time.”
I took the roses to what used to be Esme’s grave. Now, it was an empty headstone with no name, no memories, no flowers, nothing. Just like Alex and Ben, Esme had been reduced to dirt under my feet. I stayed at her ‘grave’ for a long time, long enough for the sky to grow dark, and my thoughts darker. I tried to find a logical explanation for the sudden deaths of the people I got close to, but all I could think of was a curse.
So, I started googling curses, leaning against Esme’s headstone, my knees to my chest. Had I been cursed?
Was my family cursed?
According to Google, a cursed object connected with the curse itself.
Which could be anything. Though I didn't remember visiting any ancient ruins, or an old church. With zero answers, I headed home. I passed a guy playing The Smiths in his car. Then a group of older women wearing ripped fishnets.
Esme was following me. Just like Alex’s smell. Fresh coffee and rich chocolate.
Ben’s cologne filled my car last summer. His favourite band was playing all day on our local music station. I drove around with no destination, listening to each one on repeat, until I was losing him all over again.
The sweet aroma of flowers followed me all the way home, and I was tipsy on the smell, when I found myself face to face with a boy. Under the overexposed streetlight, this guy was almost ethereal, thick brown hair and freckles.
He reminded me of Ben. Which wasn't fair. I thought I was hallucinating him, before he came closer, bleeding from the shadow. I saw more of him, white strips of something wrapped around his head.
Wrong.
The word slammed into me when I glimpsed his clothes. Filthy. The guy was wearing a white button down, a single streak of bright red ingrained into the material. His white pants were torn, glued to his legs.
He was barefoot, the soles of his feet slapping on wet concrete.
I didn't realize he was in front of me, nose to nose, until he shoved me. Hard.
“Josie.” His voice was a whimper, despite his narrowed eyes, his lips twisted into a scowl. He was crying, and had been crying, every heaving son sputtering from his mouth. The boy shoved me again, and I staggered. His ice cold breath grazed my cheeks. “What the fuck did you do to my sister?”
“Sister?” I whispered.
Something wet landed on my cheek, suddenly.
Rain.
I wasn't expecting a downpour. The weather was forecasted to be clear.
To my surprise, the guy let out a harsh sounding laugh. The two of us were slowly getting drenched, but neither of us were making a move to get out of the rain. My hair was glued to the back of my neck, my clothes sticking to me.
But somehow, I wanted to stay in the rain. It was refreshing.
When a thought hit me, telling me to get out of the rain, it was shoved to the back of my mind. The guy spat water out of his mouth, shaking his head like a dog.
“Of course,” he muttered, “Drown me out with the rain.”
I found my voice, my gaze glued to intense red seeping through the bandage stapled to his head. He looked like he’d escaped an emergency room. “I don't know anyone called Josie,” I said, “I think you've got the wrong person.”
The guy’s eyes narrowed. He stepped closer, grabbing my shoulders, and I noticed how hollow his eyes were, empty caverns carved into his skull. Eyes are the windows to the soul, and this guy was completely soulless. “I'm only going to say this once,” he whispered, “What did you do to my sister?”
Before I could respond, the guy was being violently grabbed, and dragged back.
Figures who appeared seemingly out of nowhere.
“Let me go!” He cried out, struggling. “You fucking assholes! Let me go!”
His screaming became muffling, when his cries were gagged.
“You promised!” He yelled, his cries collapsing into a sob. “You said if you took me, she wouldn't get hurt! So, where is she?” he met my gaze, his expression crumpling, something inside him coming apart, splintering by the seams. “You can't take both of us, this wasn't in the agreement!” When he was dragged further back, I noticed a car parked at the side of the road.
The boy was pulled inside. At first, he refused, before an extra pair of hands shoved him. “You fucking– mmmphmmhphmmm!”
I heard his fists slamming into the windows.
“Don't take me back there! Please! Just let Josie–” His cries once again collapsed into angry muffle screaming, and I felt my hands moving towards my pocket for my phone. This was a kidnapping, right? I was witnessing a kidnapping in broad fucking daylight.
A shadow was suddenly in front of me, and I jumped, tearing my eyes from the car. Jasper, my colleague. He was still wearing his apron, and to my confusion, was swinging a carton of whole milk.
“Sorry, Bree,” He winked, speaking in a single breath. “As you can see, our friend here had a little too much to drink.”
I nodded, craning my neck. Jasper stepped in front of me, maintaining a grin.
“Who is he?” This time, I side-stepped away from him, only for him to copy.
“Just a guy.” He said. “As you can see, he's a little…” Jasper prodded his right temple. “Let's just say he's got a few too many screws loose.” Jasper laughed, staying stock still, blocking my way.
When I made a move to counter him, he stepped in front of me, his eyes hardening. “I heard he lost his family a while ago in a…” He pretended to think. “Oh, yeah, a car crash. Maybe a gas explosion, I’m not really sure.”
I could hear the car behind him, and once again I tried to dart past him. But he was quick to block my way. He was getting closer to me, very subtly backing me in the opposite direction.
“Anyway, this guy is kiiiiind of nuts. Dude still thinks he's got a sister.”
When I lost patience and shoved him out of the way, the car, and the guy, was gone.
“See?” Jasper rolled his eyes. He was still holding milk from work. My head spun. It was 8pm, we were in a suburban neighbourhood, and Jasper was holding half a pint of milk. His apron was stained with coffee, and when I really looked at him, I realized he was out of breath.
He was doing a good job of hiding it, exhaling in intervals, swiping at his forehead to clear sweat. When I noticed, he pretended to run his hands through his hair. “I, uh, I feel for him! Like, I'm sorry his family died, or whatever, but attacking random girls isn't cool, y’know?”
Instead of replying, I stumbled home. It was sunny.
At 8pm.
And when I took notice, I wasn't even wet.
Esme was my last straw. I made a promise to myself to not get close to anyone. The guys and girls I met were friends, and nothing more. Weirdly enough, the only guy I was getting close to was my colleague. I don't know if it was brain damage, or I was finally losing the plot.
But Jasper’s shameless cruelty towards customers, and that quirk in his lips when he made them cry, was kind of hot.
However, he was playing hard to get.
And I mean REALLY playing.
I was in storage trying to find vegan milk, and he was suddenly a fucking expert, spewing milk facts.
When I slammed the refrigerator door shut, he was inches from my face.
In the dim light from a single spluttering bulb, his eyes reminded me of coffee grounds. I thought maybe he was going to kiss me, judging from his softening expression. I felt his hands go around my waist, and I felt myself immediately melt.
I don't know what came over me. It's like, one minute I hated him, and the next… I was suddenly hot. Really hot. And I really wanted to take my clothes off. I thought that's what he wanted to do too.
I mean, his gaze followed mine, piercing, fingers playing with the buttons on his shirt. Before he leaned forward, his breath in my face.
“Did you know that Mulberry Farms is an award winning brand of milk?”
And suddenly, I was no longer hot and bothered.
“I didn't.” I said, ducking into a crouch to search the shelves. “Have you seen our vegan milk? We did have some.”
“Three time winner,” Jasper continued. When I jumped up, he stepped closer, and I felt my cheeks spark. His smile was rare. In fact, Jasper was only smiling when he was talking about milk.
“Mulberry Farms have the best pasteration. It's suitable for everything! Coffee, cereal, or maybe you just want a glass of fresh milk to yourself! Perfect for kids, too! Breakfast time is Mulberry Farms.”
“Are you having a stroke?” I whisper-shrieked.
“Nope!”
Jasper twisted around, shooting me a grin.
I left the storage, however, with butterflies in my gut.
There was no way I was falling for my asshole colleague.
Somehow, though, I was.
Just standing next to him filled me with electricity.
The way he talked down to customers, insulting me to my face… I was thoroughly, and disgustingly, in love.
I tried to stop myself.
I showered in ice cold water.
I ate (choked on) a ghost pepper.
I even asked my BROTHER for advice, who told me to go for it.
I told him Jasper had one (of several) flaws, but this particular one was off-putting.
“He’s obsessed with milk.” I told my brother.
Harry lifted a brow. “Is that a euphemism, or…”
He paused, for way longer than necessary. “So, your would-be-boyfriend has a milk fetish?”
I left his room before he could take that conversation further.
I wanted to say Jasper was the only one who acted weird.
But over the next few weeks, I noticed it in quite a few people.
I was having breakfast with Mom, and she lifted up the box.
“Choco Flakes.” She blurted, “Aren't they just the best?”
I nodded slowly. “Yeah, Mom. They're great.”
I prodded the box with a smile. “Only a dollar ninety nine.”
There were so many townspeople on their phones. They walked around with groceries or briefcases, their eyes glued to whatever they were swiping through.
I was serving an old woman, when I caught her phone screen.
I could have sworn there was an image of Jasper.
She swiped right, and I had a hard time looking her in the eye.
The woman was at least in her 80’s. And I'm talking, can barely walk, and needs assistance.
Was she seriously hitting up 25 year old guys?
Walking home, everyone was on their phones.
I stopped at a crossing, stabbing the red light.
It started to snow the second I stepped out onto the road, white flakes dancing in front of me. It didn't even cross my mind that it was almost June. The snow was pretty, accumulating on the ground.
“Oh shit, sorry!”
Lifting my head, a guy was standing in front of me holding an umbrella.
I knew him.
But not from whatever was trying to pollute my mind.
I knew him from a while ago. I knew him from the rain. I knew the bloody bandages wrapped around his head, and soulless, seething eyes I couldn't understand. It was the boy who was dragged away three months prior.
He looked different, his hair was shorter, his face carved into a thing of beauty.
The white strips of gauze bleeding scarlet were gone, his filthy clothes replaced with a white shirt and pants, a trench coat flung over the top. I didn't remember him being this handsome. His dark brown hair had been tamed and curled.
It was his expression that sent shivers sliding down my spine.
His too wide smile and unblinking eyes made me suddenly conscious of two bright lights on the two of us.
So bright.
Something shattered in my mind, and I was aware of a lot of things.
The snow under my feet was too soft.
I glimpsed a single streak of red seeping from his nose, his hands trembling around a takeout coffee cup.
Behind me, people were staring. I could see a group of teenage girls giggling.
“It's him,” one of them squeaked. “It's the new love interest!”
“Bree?” His grin widened, snowflakes prancing around us. His teeth gritted together. I could tell he hated every word. “Holy shit, long time no see!”
He held out his hand, and I could see visible pain contorting in his eyes.
Help me. He was screaming through a twinkling smile.
“Don't you remember me? It's… it's uh, it's Sam!” he laughed. “From eighth grade!”
The lights blinked out, and the thought crashed into my mind. Static images filling my head. I shook them away.
Oh, yeah, it was Sam.
My childhood friend.
But I didn't reply. Instead of saying, “Sam? It's been so long!” I found myself walking, stumbling over to the girls.
Who were rapidly swiping left on their phones.
“What's that?” I demanded in a sharp breath.
I grabbed for the phone, only for Sam to step in front of me. He settled me with a smile.
Behind me, one of the girls fainted.
Sam’s smile didn't waver. Though he did side-eye the girl being carried away. “Why don't I take you out for coffee?”
Apparently, coffee was the code word for hooking up.
Sam dragged me into the nearest coffee store, straight to the bathroom.
When he shoved me into a stall, I didn't know what to say.
“Take off your shoes,” he said in a hiss, and after hesitating, I did.
Sam pulled off his jacket, shook snow out of his hair, and got real close.
“Look up.” He murmured.
I did, my gaze finding the ceiling.
“To your right, a camera is very well hidden, but can be seen with the naked eye if you catch what looks like a red laser,” Sam said. “To your left, another camera, as well as a vent that is currently pumping the stalls with aphrodisiacs. And right now, we are in the red zone. Meaning, you should be conscious.”
He prodded me, and I flinched.
“Mostly conscious.”
His words went right over my head, my mind was foggy.
I couldn't think straight.
I think I asked him what he was saying, but my mouth was filled with cotton.
“Snap out of it,” he said, “Like I said, they're making you feel like this.”
He shoved me against the door, which broke me out of my trance. Slightly.
“I hate what I'm going to say right now,” Sam groaned, tipping his head back. He was sweating, I noticed. Bad. I glimpsed beads of red pooling down his neck. He noticed me staring. “I'm okay, for now. I’m faulty, so the connection is severed. He squeezed his eyes shut. “I…think.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Sex.” He said, blinking rapidly. I wasn't going to comment on his slurring voice.
Sam stumbled, fresh blood dripping from his nose.
“We need to do the sex. Like…” His eyes rolled into the back of his head, but he managed to stabilise himself. “Nooooow.”
“What?!”
“Is everything okay in there?”
The voice was a woman. She knocked on the stall.
Sam’s eyes widened, coming back to life a little. “They're paranoid,” he whispered. When I could only stare at him, he pounded his fists into the door. “They think we’re fucking,” he hissed, “So, we need to make it believable.”
“They?” I mouthed.
He didn't reply, swiping at his haemorrhaging nose. “Just… move around against the door. That'll fool ‘em.”
I did, doing my best to shuffle around, slamming my back against the lock.
When the metal clanged, he shot me a look. “Sex!” He hissed, “Not murder!”
Sam jumped onto the toilet bowl. There was an open window above him.
“That's enough.” He mouthed, hoisting his way through.
He helped me through, and I expected to land on concrete.
What I did land on, however, was something… squishy.
Something wet sliding between my bare toes.
Looking closer, I recognised the beaded anklet.
Fishnet tights.
Something animalistic clawed from my throat. I was standing on Esme. Or what was left of Esme. She was just a torso and legs, the rest of her ripped away like doll pieces. I couldn't see her face. I looked for it, digging through what could only be old flesh and pieces of limbs.
I felt suffocated. I grabbed half of Ben’s face that had been ripped off, and then Alex’s tattooed arm. There was so much of them, piles and piles of the same heads, the same filthy and rotting clothes. I was screaming by the time I shuffled back on my hands and knees, trying to wipe them off of my skin.
They were all over me, staining me, painting me.
Sam’s hand slick with blood gently covered my mouth.
“Stay calm, all right?” He whispered. “I would tell you everything is going to be okay, but the truth is, it's really not, there's like, a 99.9% chance you're going to… understandably freak out.”
He pulled me to my feet, letting out a heavy breath.
Blinking rapidly, I could only see… pieces.
Pieces of people.
Legs and heads and torsos all piled into one mass of gore.
“We’ve got maybe five minutes before they realize we’re not doing the devil's dance,” Sam sniffled, “Maybe ten, before my brain short circuits and I bleed out.”
I didn't know I was hyperventilating, until I couldn't fucking breathe.
Closer towards the door, and I could hear… machinery.
I couldn't stop myself. Even when I was aware I was standing in congealing blood.
Rotten bodies.
The dim light led me into what could only be described as a factory. There were three levels, and we were on the highest. Sam stepped forward, gripping the metal bar in front of us. I felt my legs buckling, a thick, pukey slime filling my mouth.
“Soo, I guess it all started when Brianna Timberman was seventeen years old, and rejected by her childhood best friend, Sam Thwaites.”
Sam’s words collapsed into a low buzzing in my ear.
All I could see was a conveyer belt, filled with… people.
Boys.
Girls.
But most noticeably, Ben’s, Alex’s, Esme’s, and Sam’s.
But they start as Ben’s, Alex's, and Esme’s.
I could see regular people, their hair stripped away.
Their skin sliced into, cruelly moulding them into the exact same four faces.
When a large looming needle plunged into the back of an Alex’s head, I couldn't not watch. I waited for the guy to wake up, but I don't even think he was alive.
He stood, unblinking, letting this thing twist and contort his face. And it was then, when I realized these things weren't even human. I could see the mechanics built under their flesh, both living tissue and metal melded together. “Brianna’s father, who is a liiiitle on the crazy side, with too much cash and not not enough logic, took his daughter’s rejection a little too personally,” Sam continued.
“So, he promised his daughter he would find her the perfect match.”
I started to speak, the words coming out before I could stop them.
“My father would never–”
“I didn't say it was your father,” Sam said. His eyes darkened. “Anyway, as I was saying, the townspeople became unhealthily obsessed with who Brianna would choose. So obsessed, in fact, that the girl’s day to day life was broadcasted across town, while her potential love interests were ranked, week after week. First, there was Ben.”
Sam’s smile thinned. “Her high school boyfriend.”
Sam shrugged. “She grew bored of him. Also, he kinda did something unforgivable.”
He continued. “Then… Alex. She liked him, but sometimes, he was a little too unserious. The guy was a clown.”
I backed away, but he was quick to grab my shoulders.
“Finally? Esme. Who she truly fell for.”
I swallowed. “Esme is–”
He cut me off. “But I didn't mention that they hurt her, did I?”
Sam leaned against the bar. Behind him, I could see a figure in white pushing a gurney with a Ben strapped to it. “Ben tried to rape her, insisting she wanted it. Alex dumped her on her birthday. Esme ended their relationship with a one word text. Goodbye.” Sam mimed an explosion. “That was the nail in the coffin.”
I caught blood sliding down his nose. “You're still bleeding.”
Sam gingerly prodded his nose.
“Urgh. Yeah, it's an effect of the severing. I've been in the red zone too long. I should probably speed this up.”
He talked faster, his voice collapsing into a mumbled slur.
“Brianna couldn't take it. Her best friend was ignoring her. Everyone she had fallen in love with hurt her. Esme wasn't returning her calls. Ben was sleeping around right in front of her, and Alex was still being a clown. Brianna’s poor parents found her hanging from her bedroom ceiling fan.”
I shook my head, my thoughts screaming.
“No–”
He held a finger up to shush me. “Let me talk. Jeez.”
Sam folded his arms. “A grieving father would do anything to avenge his dead child, buuut… Mr Timberman took ‘finding a perfect match’ and ‘the show must go on’ a little bit too literally.”
His sickly smile found me. “Which also means going stark fucking crazy. The town wanted more of Brianna, and her life, so he turned his daughter’s failed love life into a town wide TV show, sending the entire teen and young adult populace into here,” he gestured around him. “To make the perfect suitors. Who wouldn't hurt his new Brianna.”
Something ice cold crept down my spine.
He cleared his throat. “Mr Timberman grew, let's say, obsessed, with getting revenge on these specific four people. So, he started killing them–” He coughed.
“Sorry. Us. Killing us for the funny ha-ha, ‘Look at how many times I can fuck with them!’ bit. And then recycling us into someone completely different. Our names are gone. Then our personalities. Finally, our bodies ripped to pieces and sculpted into Brianna’s exes.” Sam poked me in the cheek.
“The cycle continues. They reset your ticker and the town eats it up. They can bring back Esme, Ben, and Alex whenever they want and add curveballs. Like the bad-boy colleague who becomes the fan favorite.” Sam’s lips curved. “For… some fucking reason.”
His eyes flickered open. “However, Brianna will never find a suitor because her father is a fucking sociopath. To him and the town, his dead daughter’s pathetic love life is entertainment.”
He held out his arm.
“See?”
I tried really hard not to look through the makeup.
At noticeable skin grafts.
“I was a Ben.” He said. “Then I was an Alex, and then I was an extra.” His eyes found mine, sad, suddenly. “But who I was originally is kinda gone. All I remember is a deal to protect Josie. I gave myself up so they wouldn't take her.”
“Your sister.” I said.
Sam nodded.
His earlier words hit me. He was talking like Brianna Timberman was dead.
But I was Brianna Timberman.
I was rejected by Sam, yes, but I found Ben.
As if he could read my mind, Sam shook his head.
“Look at yourself.” He said, his voice shaking.
“And I mean really look at yourself.”
Sam stepped closer.
“Because, underneath all of that make-up and the prosthetics and surgery, and fucked up memories, you're just another recycled lump of flesh.” He prodded my temple. “Who thinks she is Brianna Timberman.”
His voice was slurring again, a fresh stream of scarlet seeping down his chin.
“Don't you want to know?” His eyes rolled to pearly whites.
Before he could finish his sentence, Sam dropped to the ground.
I remember warm arms grasping hold of me.
Shadows with no faces.
They pricked me twice in the back of my neck.
A familiar voice in my ear, almost a hiss.
Jasper.
“You are the worst fucking Brianna.”
When I came to, I was standing up, somehow.
At work.
I am Brianna Timberman.
The thought floated around in my head, my memory hazy.
“Hello?!”
A man was waving his hands in front of me.
“I asked for iced coffee, lady!”
Jasper was serving another customer. “Bree, wake the fuck up.”
They were trying to make me think I was hallucinating.
Which was crazy, because my fingernails were still tinted with Sam’s blood.
The marks he'd left on my wrist when he was yanking me, were still there.
Bruised on my arm.
“Bree!” Jasper snapped. “Snap out of it and make the dude his drink.”
“Right.”
The word slipped out of my mouth.
He caught my eye, winking, and Brianna Timberman internally squeaked.
I half wondered what he was. Was he recycled, or an unwilling performer?
Throughout the day, I was fully aware my words were not mine.
Like I was on autopilot.
But not just that.
My thoughts weren't mine, either.
I spent half of my shift staring at my colleague’s biceps.
During my break, I went into the bathroom and stood in front of the mirror.
I am Brianna Timberman.
But even when I told myself that, my eyes were too blue.
My smile was too perfect.
My teeth.
Too white.
My shaking hands prodded at my face, at someone else's face.
So many faces, so many skin grafts.
The thought was violent, sending tremors through me.
How many people was I wearing?
I started to claw at my arms and legs, my face.
How many fucking people had I been?
I grabbed a knife and tried to slice at my face.
But there was no blood.
How could there be no blood?!
When I got home, I found my family waiting for me.
Mom, Dad and Harry, all of them beaming.
“Bree!” Mom stood up, her lips stretching into a grin.
My mouth was already moving, but they were not my words.
“Mom!”
I didn't know why she was smiling so much, until I saw Sam sitting at our dining room table. His smile was too big. His over-expensive shirt and pants did not suit him, and looked fucking gross, but somehow my brain thought it was hot. The worst part is, I couldn't and still can't tell which Sam he was.
Was he the guy who told me the horrific reality of my existence?
Or was he another recycled, mindless suitor?
“This is Samuel.” Mom said, and Sam slowly stood.
He took slow steps towards me, and kissed my hand.
I saw the slightest smudge of scarlet, but his eyes were blank.
In the corner of my eye, my ‘father’s’ eyes were glittering.
“Hello, Brianna.” Sam said, and I swore Now that I was awake, the walls were wolf-whistling. Laughing.
Ooohhhhhhhhh!”
My town is a blip on the map.
We’re so small, so insignificant, not even a Google search will find us.
I keep thinking if I tear at my skin, I will find who I am underneath. But I'm so fucking scared. I don't bleed. I don't think who I was still exists under so many layers. But even if this is just a cry into the void, please help us.
I don't want to be Brianna Timberman.

http://www.anthonyflood.com/hakimreflections.htm
I was born in Duluth, Minnesota in 1919; my family was musical. My grandfather is still the only black man to have conducted his own compositions with the Duluth Symphony Orchestra. But I didn’t get serious about playing until I went to Los Angeles, after my high school graduation (1937) to visit my father. There I met Dexter Gordon, Illinois Jacquet and other fine young players. When I went back to the Mid-West to go to the University of Minnesota (only one year), I also played with Oscar Pettiford’s family band. The whole family, his father, even his sisters, played on several instruments.
In 1938 I went to Peoria to play with Fats Dudley, a 300-pound trumpet player and singer who played and sang like Louis Armstrong. Morris Lane the noted tenor player was also there at that time. He had to leave town not long after I came because of his involvement with a white girl. In 1940 I myself was run out of Kankakee, Illinois, for the same reason—the daughter of the President of Kresge’s Department Store. These were very prejudiced times and places.
Fortunately Chicago was only 50 miles away. I remember playing with many great musicians there, including the young Wilbur Ware and a tenor player named Buster Brown who accompanied himself on sock cymbal with his foot. I went to work with Jesse Miller, a trumpeter who had been with Earl Hines. A. K. Atkinson the arranger who later became A. K. Salim and who introduced me to Islam, was on alto; Goon Gardner was the other alto. The drummer was Ike Day, a kid, only 15. Ike Day was playing two bass drums then; out of sight; a big influence on Max Roach and others. (He died of an O.D. in New York a few years later).
This group was playing at a club on 63rd and Cottage Grove called Joe Hughes’s Deluxe. The featured acts were female impersonators backed by (real) chorus girls. One night we were playing Stompin’ At The Savoy for the chorus girls when, out of the blue we heard this horn from the front of the club playing over the top of the band. I looked up and saw Charlie Parker. He never stopped playing, just walked right through the chorus girls and came and stood over by the piano. Jesse Miller, who had played with Bird when Bird played second tenor for Earl Hines, had told me that Bird’s ability drove Hines’ first tenor (Bob Crump) to quit playing. A. K. and Goon had also been telling me about Charlie Parker. At that time, of course, Benny Carter and Johnny Hodges were my main men on alto. After hearing Bird that night I forgot about all other alto players.
I started hanging out with Bird in Chicago. (This was years before I recorded with him in New York.) Bird got a gig at the Rum-Boogie, a club on 55th Street and Central Parkway (now Martin Luther King Drive). As my gig with Jesse Miller started later than Bird’s, I would go with him to hear his first set. The band, about ten pieces, was led by an old man who played violin. Marl Young, the pianist, wrote the music for this band—very, very hard but good music. (Marl Young lives in L.A. now and writes for the movies.) Eddie Johnson, a great tenor player, was in the band; Gale Brockman and Billy Orr were on trumpets.
Anyway, Bird was never there for rehearsals. The band would rehearse all afternoon, Bird was never there, and the other members of the band were mad and didn’t like Bird. But the leader, the old man, did like Bird, which is why he never got fired. I remember this incident like it was yesterday. I went by with Bird to hear his first set. He always came about two or three minutes before the show hit. He’d look at the third alto part, glance at his part (he was playing lead); when the curtain came up, Bird was playing that music like he owned it plus adding things to the part. Well this night, Jimmy Dorsey was playing at the Sherman Hotel in the Loop, and he came down to hear Bird. The old man, Bird’s bandleader, knew what was happening. He called Cherokee, which featured Bird. Bird, of course, played like a man possessed. Jimmy Dorsey came back to the dressing room, introduced himself, and said to Bird, “Here man, you need this much more than I do,” and gave Bird his brand-new padless Selmer. I was with Bird the next day when he put it in pawn. I begged him not to. His own horn was a wreck, held together with tape, gummed paper, etc. This didn’t matter to him.
At that time there was a great club on the South Side, the Club De Lisa. The leader of their 12-piece band was a great show drummer, Red Saunders. Chicago was wide open then. You could buy liquor in drug-stores, and clubs were open 24 hours. On Saturday night and Sunday morning, every-one would go to the De Lisa—all the biggest sportsmen (pimps), the top whores, top Mafia hoods who would make the all-time Mafia list, if I could remember names. (I guess it’s better that I can’t). Well, I’d get off my gig at around 4:30 and, with Bird and other cats, go to the De Lisa. Bird would sit in with Red Saunders’ band, which included altoist Nat Jones, a great player in the tradition of Johnny Hodges. Also playing was a great tenor player from Texas, Tom Archia. Billy Eckstine was on the show; this was before he formed his first band. Also the tap dancer Baby Lawrence, who I heard trade fours with Bird on a Limehouse Blues, way up-tempo. This was taken down on a wire recorder, a classic. I don’t know who has this wire recording, which must be worth many thousands of dollars by now. Incidentally, the greatest comedian George Kirby was a bus boy in the De Lisa and got his start there by filling in with comedy.
I remember hearing Art Tatum with Bird in Chicago. After his gig in the Loop, Tatum would come down to a club on the South Side, drinking beer after beer and playing for five or six hours. All piano players in the city would be there. I remember Bird telling me then, “I wish I could play like Tatum’s right hand.”
I did work a gig with Bird in Chicago. For a while we played at the Sherman Hotel with Hot Lips Page opposite Boyd Raeburn’s Big Band. The second day of the gig, we couldn’t find Bird at all for the second set. We went up to our suite in the hotel, where we found Bird out cold in the bathtub. We got him together, he came down, and his playing just scared everyone to death. Charlie Ventura was with Raeburn’s band. The more Bird played, the paler he got.
When Bird left Chicago I rejoined Jesse Miller at the Downbeat Club. Red Allen was also playing there, with J. C. Higgenbotham on trombone. Ben Webster came in from New York to play as a guest artist with Red Allen. But he liked our rhythm section better. We’d play on the one the radio one hour, six nights a week. (It was so very hip then). Well, when Ben left to go back to New York, he told our rhythm section (Rail Wilson, bass; Hillard Brown, drums) he would send for us to come and play with him on the Onyx Club on 52nd Street. We thought he was kidding, but in about a month he sent us first-class sleeping train tickets.
This was in 1944. I was with Ben for 15 months on 52nd Street. Brown and Wilson went back to Chicago when the brownouts came in 1945. New York was it for me. The rhythm section at the Onyx Club became Eddie Nicholson (drums), Gene Ramey (bass) and myself. Many times Roy Eldridge would play with us, or Stuff Smith, or Bob Dorsey, a great tenor player. Then it was Bird—always late. Mike Weston, the Onyx Club owner, would be frowning as Bird came in late, but after a couple of Bird’s choruses, he’d be smiling. One night Bird was very, very late. Bird came in while Ben Webster was drinking at the bar; the rest of us were trioing. Bird picked up Ben’s tenor and said I Cherokee. He played that tenor like he owned it, and Ben was shook. He just kept saying “Give me another double.” The thing about this was that nobody could get a sound out of Ben’s tenor but Ben himself, due to the thickness of the reed, etc. I saw many great tenor players try-Prez, Buddy Tate, Ike Quebec, no good!
During this time I played the Ko-Ko date with Bird as I was living with him at 117th Street and Man-hattan Avenue, in Harlem. I was sent to the land-lady, Doris Schneider, because we were both from Chicago. I introduced Bird to Doris, and a week later he was living there. Later, for a while, they were married. Billie Holiday and her man, trumpeter Joe Guy, also lived in this eight room pad. Bird drew people like Thelonious Monk, Miles, and Dexter Gordon to the scene. Why this place didn’t get busted, I’ll never know. Everything was happening there.
About the record date; Bud Powell was supposed to be the pianist, but he was hung up in Pennsylvania and didn’t get back. Incidentally, the first pianist I heard playing like Bird was not Bud, but Elmo Hope. But Bud played so strong, he just took that style over. Bud was not easy to get along with, kind of a ferocious guy. He’d throw shoes at his little brother, Richie, when Richie tried to listen to us playing. He’d say things like, “Get up off that piano stool, you blind mother----!” to people like [Art] Tatum and [George] Shearing. He and Bird, despite their mutual love and respect, did not get along; their personalities clashed. But I hung out a lot with Bud. I think he liked me because I didn’t try to copy him. Naturally, I learned his tunes, but I didn’t slavishly imitate his solos.
With Bud, as I said, in Pennsylvania, Bird brought me to the record date, and I played on all the tunes except Now’s The Time and Billie’s Bounce. That was Dizzy (who happened to be recording with another group in the same building). For many years I didn’t get credit for this date on the liner notes, which have now been straightened out. Nor did I ever get paid for it. This is because I was still on transfer from the union in Chicago. The union delegate at the studio said that I couldn’t play, but as soon as he left, Bird told me to come out and play. My first paying record date was with Dexter Gordon. At this time (1945) I also recorded with Ben Webster, Big Sid Catlett, Eddie Lockjaw Davis and Bill DeArango.
My association with Bird and Bud helped to bring the new music on to 52nd Street. Bud would sit in at the Onyx Club while I worked there. Most of the musicians there didn’t understand Bud or Bird. Roy Eldridge would take me outside to smoke (everyone smoked then, we called it “gage”) and ask me about what Bird and Bud Powell were doing. I couldn’t tell him, all I knew was that it sounded great, made musical sense, and swung like no other music I’d heard. It made all the other music sound stiff and unswinging. This is what I’d tell Roy. The one exception was Prez, Lester Young.
I had always dug Prez. He used to come to Minneapolis with Count Basie before I left that area. I first heard Prez with his own group at the Spotlite Club on 52nd Street. He had just come from L.A. after his stint in D.B. (the army’s disciplinary barracks, thus the tune D.B. Blues). He had Kenny Kersey on piano. When Prez decided to revamp, I got the gig. Shadow Wilson was on drums (Lyndell Marshall on the road), Prez’s friend Rodney Richardson on bass, Bennie Harris on trumpet. Bernie brought Bud Powell to Prez as we were boarding the plane for our first road gig, but Prez said, “I’ve already got Lady Dense.”
That was me. My name at the time was Argonne Dense Thornton, and Prez called everybody “Lady” (most famously, Lady Day [Billie Holiday]). He had, incidentally, his own lingo for everything, and it took me several months to understand him. But it was all appropriate. The police he called “Bob Crosbys.” If something was a real drag, he called it a “von Hangman.” His most famous expression, “I feel a draft,” could mean that he detected racial discrimi-nation or that he felt bad since you wouldn’t drink and smoke with him. Reefer he called “Ettuce.” Whites he called “grey boys.” (I don’t know if he originated that term.) Blacks were “Oxford greys.” The bridge of a tune he’d call a “George Washington.” When we hit a new town and Prez would go looking for an old girlfriend, he’d say he was going to see “a Wayback.”
This gives me a chance to correct two en-tirely false rumors about Prez. One, he was not a faggot, not at all. Two, he was not into heroin or cocaine: he just smoked and drank. He was a great human being as well as one of the greatest jazz soloists of all time: responsible about money, generous with his possessions, natural, friendly, gentle, as well as creative.
With Prez I recorded the famous hit Jumpin’ With Symphony Sid, which in fact is my composition. The studio man came in and asked us, as we were warming up, to do something with Symphony Sid’s name in it, as we were going back to the Three Deuces on 52nd Street and the disc jockey had his radio show from there. Meanwhile, I was playing this blues melody off the top of my head. Prez said, “We’ll play that,” and we did it in one take. The A&R man just assumed that the tune was Prez’s.
While I was with Prez, the drummer, Lyndell Mar-shall, had a nervous breakdown. At my suggestion, the great Roy Haynes came into the band.
I remember a couple of things about Bird that happened while I was with Prez. Prez and I were in [Washington] D.C. at a club called Caverns, and Bird was also in town with Duke Jordan on piano. Bird asked me to join the band (not, I’m sure, because he didn’t like Duke’s playing, but for personal reasons, which my reply explains). I told Bird, “I love you, but I can’t put up with your not paying people and leaving them stranded in different places. If you did that to me I’d have to hurt you or try to, and I’d hate to have that happen because I love you. I’d rather be your friend and listen.”
Another time when I was with Prez, we had a week off before a gig in Chicago, so I went to Chicago ahead of time to hear Bird and Miles. The saxophonist who had the house band at the club where Bird played was named Eddie Wiggins. Wiggins had a long line of reed instruments up on his bandstand—clarinet, flute, bassoon, alto, tenor, English horn. Bird came in, early for once—no one else in his band was there. He had left his horn at the club. Now Bird had very good connections in Chicago, but this time he had apparently forgot to pay them. He opened his horn case to find all the keys torn off or broken. Without blink-ing an eye, Bird asked Wiggins if he could play the first set with Wiggins’ group. Then he proceeded to play all those instruments, a few choruses on each one, even the bas-soon. Of course, I was dumbfounded; Bird never ceased to amaze me. I remember him astounding some Afrikaaner mathematicians by suddenly solving a problem they were discussing; they couldn’t believe that Bird didn’t have an advanced degree in math. Same thing with chess. Tadd Dameron and Max Roach would be playing up at Dizzy’s, Bird and I would come in, Bird would walk over to the board, make a move and say “Checkmate.” And Bird is the only person who knew me before I became a Muslim and changed my name who never, after I told him my new name, called me anything but Sadik Hakim.
One thing Bird and Prez had in common; I remember both of them cutting Benny Goodman and embarrassing him. When I was with Ben Webster at the Onyx Club and Bird was across the street at the Spotlite Club, I’d go over to hear Bird as soon as our set ended. One night Benny sat at a front table as Bird began his set with Dizzy Atmosphere—way up-tempo. When he looked over and saw Benny, he changed to Dizzy Fingers (a feature of Benny’s). In the first eight bars, Benny turned red, green and all kinds of colors.
Later, with Prez on tour in L.A., we played opposite Benny at the L.A. Auditorium. (Frankie Laine was the between-sets act). Funny thing, Prez played his silver metal clarinet all night, never touching the tenor. He blew Benny away. All of us broke up as Benny turned red and a few more colors once again.
(The story is that Benny gave Prez this old metal clarinet, so maybe there was another reason for Prez to play it that night-Ed.)
I used to play Sunday afternoon gigs with Bird in Philly. The house band at this club had John Coltrane playing alto. At that time the very young Trane was probably the second best altoist in the world. I also played with Sonny Rollins back in the 40s. We both worked in a group led by trumpeter Louis Metcalfe, an older man who had played with Ellington. I used to marvel at how Rollins could get such great solos out of the corny tunes we had to play. He was playing tenor then, but I had known him even earlier, when he was playing alto. (In 1961, I closed Birdland with Sonny) [Birdland closed in 1964.—T.F.]. I also remember some great, unknown saxophonists whose careers were tragically cut short. Like Henry Pryor, an alto player in the style of Bird, who got killed by police in Chicago while breaking into a church to get money for dope. A great waste. Or Lank Keyes a tenor player influenced by Prez, also very great, who O.D.’d in Chicago.
There have been and still are, many great saxo-phonists—Coleman Hawkins, Benny Carter, Johnny Hodges, Sonny Stitt, and today, George Coleman, Junior Cook, Clifford Jordan, Johnny Griffin. Still, no one has had a story to say like Bird and Prez. When I was working at the Onyx with Ben Webster, and Prez was across the street at the Spotlite Club, Dexter Gordon would march up and down in front of the Spotlite with a huge sign saying, GO IN AND HEAR THE TRUTH. Maybe THE TRUTH is what we should have called it. (Bird hated the name Be-Bop, which was Dizzy’s concoction.)
I will take this opportunity to get one other thing straightened out. The tune Eronel, attributed to Monk, is another composition for which I should have gotten credit. When I was at the Onyx Club with Webster, I met a beautiful 17-old lady from Kansas City named Lenore. We were together about a year. The tune I wrote for her was her name spelled backwards. Monk came over to my house one day, saw the music on the piano, played it and liked it, even suggested a chord change (which I rejected). I went to Montreal for a year in 1949, and when I returned, I heard the same exact tune, credited to Monk, on a record he made with Milt Jackson. Monk told me that he just forgot to tell the record company the tune was mine. Incidentally, anyone should be able to tell that Eronel does not sound like a Monk composition.
Monk is, of course, a great genius, and continued on he showed me many of his tunes. Earl Hines and Nat Cole were among the first pianists I really dug. Then Elmo Hope and Bud Powell. My favorites in the last two decades: Hank Jones and Tommy Flanagan—they’re even in my book. In the new breed I like Cedar Walton, Mickey Tucker, John Hicks, for sure Kenny Barron, and Herbie Hancock—when he was playing piano. Electronic music is garbage to me. Everything is too loud to swing and, as Duke said 50 years ago, It Don’t Mean A Thing If It Ain’t Got That Swing. Among women pianist, I like Boo Pleasant, Shirley Scott, Terry Pollard. Among the less well-known, Willie Anderson, from Detroit, without peer, and Charles Fox from St. Louis (whatever happened to him?). But don’t let me forget Barry Harris, Walter Davis, Walter Bishop, Bill Evans, Horace Silver, Oscar Denard, McCoy Tyner, Chick Corea, Oscar Peter-son—so many great players, I can’t name them all.
Although I once watched Prez and Coleman Hawkins drink next to each other at a bar (the Spotlite Club, owned by the late Clarke Monroe) for two weeks without speaking, it seems like the musicians were closer in those days. Playing with Prez for those two or three years was one of the best times in my career. And I’ve had many good ones.