Part 1 https://www.reddit.com/scarystories/s/Xu4VcQxQqN
I’m freaking the fuck out right now. Ever since my first encounter with those shadows or demons or whatever the fuck I saw that night I’ve been having nightmares that wake me up in a cold sweat. My life has been a shit show ever since my encounter with them. I can’t shake the feeling that I had the night when I saw all three of them staring into my soul. I’ve been hunkered down in this motel consuming more Xanax and Percocet to sedate a horse just to have a momentary escape from this.
The nightmares. Don’t get my started on the nightmares. I fall asleep and then find myself in a whole different realm.
Last night I fell asleep passed out drunk and on xans when I ended up in a completely different reality then our own if that my best way to describe it.
I was in a dark room with a swinging light tied to a chair. I struggled trying to break the straps that held me down when I heard foot steps starting to grow closer and closer. As the figure of a man approached me I stopped struggling. Bracing for whatever was coming my way.
The figure getting closer and closer to me stopped just outside of the dim light that was provided by the swinging light that hung right in front of me. When he stopped walking towards me all I could see was the cardigan sweater, dress pants, Rolex watch, and dress shoes he was wearing. His face was still covered in the darkness that the light refused to cover. If only that swinging light was a couple feet higher I would be able to see this monster. He stood there still as could be for a few minutes until he spoke for the first time
“Jackson.”
“WHAT THE FUCK DO YOU WANT!”
“To talk is all.”
“FUCK OFF! LET ME GO! WHAT THE FUCK IS THIS!”
“You will learn soon just be patient”
“FUCK YOU! I WILL KILL EVERYONE OF YOU PRICKS!”
“I doubt you will be able to do that Jackson.”
“FUCK YOU LET ME GO!”
“I can’t do that Jackson.”
“WHERE AM I! WHAT IS THIS! LET ME GO RIGHT THE FUCK NOW!”
“You have a lot to learn Jackson. I will say that there is something special about you. You are resilient, calculating, and willing”
“I swear to god show yourself before I fucking break out of this chair and BEAT THE FU….”
“You can’t do that Jackson. You know you can’t.”
I slump down into my chair. Half excepting that this person i can only see from the torso down is most likely correct.
“You are so talented. It’ truely a shame that you waste such a talent on such terrible activities”
“Fuck off I don’t care about a single thing you have to say.” I say in a defeated tone
“Suit yourself”
I wake up in a cold sweat. Frantically looking around this dark motel room.
These are the nightmares I have been having almost every night.
This isn’t a problem for me to be honest. I’ve had many nightmares like this when I was younger. I’m not gonna freak myself out over dumb shit like this when it really doesn’t affect me in my day to day life.
It’s the morning now. I drag myself out of bed still hungover and forcing myself to get the day started. I take a Luke warm shower, get out and get dressed in the same bum ass clothes I’ve been wearing for the last 3 days.
As I leave I put the “do not disturb” sign on the door handle outside. I don’t need these cleaners coming in to clean the room and finding my stash and taking it. I’m smarter than that trust me.
When I leave I do my usual routine which consists of going to the liquor store, picking up some bars from my plug in a city over from mine, taking 2 2mg hulks and going to the bar. This isn’t a great way of living. Obviously I’ve not made the best life choices but I’m not going to let a bunch of random fucks in the comments tell me how to live.
As I usually do I stumble out of the bar around closing time and hop in my car for the drunkin ride back. There’s not a lot of other cars around the 2am around my parts so I get a peaceful drive home almost every time. It gives me a lot of time to reflect on things which may be for better or worse depending on who you ask.
As I come flying into the parking lot just thankful I didn’t crash I take up two parking spots and stumble towards the door to my room. As I’m grabbing the key card to my room one of the workers calls out to me.
“Yo my man”
“What’s good”
“Hey you’re Jackson *********** right”
“Yeah why?”
“Some guy left a letter for you at the main office. Lemme go grab it real quick. We were going to give it to you in the morning but as long as I here I might aswell give it to you”
He walks away leaving his carts of towels and cleaning sprays behind as he walks to the main lobby.
I light a cigarette and look up at the night sky while I’m waiting for this guy to come back. You can see a lot of things out in the sky at night especially around here where it’s not too polluted but I’ve definitely seen better.
The cleaner comes walking back and tells me that a guy dressed in a black suit dropped this off this envelope in the afternoon and asked to give to me.
“That’s weird what do you mean he just left this?” I’ve never gotten mail or a letter especially when staying a a motel.
“Hey man I don’t know I was just told to give it to you”
“Alright thanks.” The cleaners walks away from me as I take a look at the sealed envelope that says “to my protege” covered with some drawn rose flowers around the words. I tear open the envelope and take out the card inside of it. It’s a get well soon card with a dog that has an ice pack on its head and a thermometer in its mouth on the cover. When I open the card it has 2 words written all over the inside.
“Suit yourself.”

Hi!
edit: btw i was one of the only two other POC in the space by the way for most classes... if that.
I took classes on and off for about five months at the only dance troupe in my city. I just realized I don't really feel comfy enough. I have preformed dance before on stage and last year even did a one minute solo, my goal is to get in with a community and get better. I feel a little dismayed, online classes seem to be the only thing that's like giving it to me.
They do FCBD with fusion, and I am south asian descent and been in all spaces, but I felt a little... not really sure how to describe it... not accepted.
I kept going to see if I would, and I don't know if its appropriate to say, maybe its because I wasn't like them enough... I might look really young, I am not, outwardly appear just conformist, which i only do for my own appearance. I don't care what anyone looks like as long as they are open minded, talented, and passionate.

1. One teacher I tried kept commenting on the fact I was super small. I was like okay, I mean she is a different size, whatever, I don't really want to hear it comments about my figure. That same night it rubbed me the wrong way that she said that.... "we cover ourselves up when we don't dance to be conservative and demure. Like I realized FCBD wasn't for me because I love showing my body. I came from an extremely conservative culture, and I want to feel the full feminine fantasy. She also like tried to talk to me after apologizing for things she didn't need to like missing counts as she taught. I decided to give other teachers a chance.
2. The women the troupe were boasting how they traveled the world and it takes years studying under them to even get to the level of mastery to be like a teacher. I felt slightly like they were gatekeeping. I was this smaller, shorter brown girl. Okay, I wasn't interested anyways, like I feel like she would pick on me if she had the chance.
3. I vibed with one teacher who started the studio so i bought 10 classes for her, but I did notice the beginner courses were basically just the other people in the troupe getting more practice on technique. I felt a little bit dismayed because it wasn't really catered towards newcomers which is fine, but I was like... might as well go online instead of paying like 40-60 a month to get good practice.
4. I was taught by another student/teacher and she was really great, but I just haven't purchased any more classes because I don't know if my instincts are right or I need to keep going back.

Idk, the individuals there just made me feel off. Like I was simultaneous too prudish and too whorish (like being okay with the male gaze, someone brought that up in practice lol). I was thinking about attending the haflas but I don't know... should i even? They all openly talked about drinking after practices and eating snacks and dessert. I like try to be more strict with my diet because it makes me feel my best.
I also have a background Catholicism, hinduism. They allow men in classes, which is not the issue but one gentleman kept making like satanic and luciferianism jokes after class. I study all different traditions, and my biggest thing is never joke about spiritual things unless it's the right time or place.
I felt as if he was just trying to be intimidating lol, maybe... idek.
It made me feel super off. I think he is socially off and two other people sheepishly laughed.
Are all dance troupes like this???
I just want to dance and feel free. I have been to two other dance studios before. Usually the gatekeeping (im an outside feeling) went away after the third class, but this still lingered longer than that.
I could go to a beginner workshops in my sister city once a month and just stick to online courses.

Part 1 Part 2 Part 3 Part 4 Part 5 Part 6
It's a good thing we have some battery packs with us. Otherwise, my phone would be dead by now. I've been making sure to keep it charged and off unless necessary. We don't want to repeat what happened to Drake at the gym. If I ever end up getting torn apart by zombies to a song I want it to be something more fitting like heavy metal.
Anyway, Jeff and his group were an okay bunch and let us spend the night. We knew we should’ve kept moving, but free weed is free weed. Besides, we were safer in a group than braving it by ourselves. We were enlightened about The Unplagued. It had a long and rich history, dating back to about a week ago.
Jeff and the others saw shit going down and decided, “Fuck it. Let’s live in the woods”.
I don’t quite see the appeal. Then again, it’s not my place to judge, for the most part. Drake and me were sitting with Jeff, playing a round of Go Fish.
“Any fours?” I asked.
“Go fish,” Jeff replied.
I drew a card. While it wasn’t what I wanted, it did match another card in my hand. I put down a pair of sixes.
“By the way, “we meant to ask you this other night. Did any of you happen to see a guy named Van pass through here?” Drake inquired and gave a brief description of Van’s appearance.
Jeff’s confused expression broke into another wide smile.
“Oh, you must mean the chosen one.”
“The what now?” I asked.
“The ceremony will begin at moonrise. You will find out everything then.”
In hindsight, we should’ve taken that as our cue to skedaddle. Instead, we stuck around. Drake ended up winning our game and afterward, Jeff ordered everyone to gather. He then got up onto a tree stump.
“Everyone, Drake and Gus here have been wonderful company among us. Have they not?”
At that, there were cheers of agreement.
“But they are still unaware of all of our customs. What do you say we demonstrate them so that we may have a lucrative harvest? Let the ceremony begin.”
The cheering grew louder, worrying us that it would attract some zombies. We remained safe, though so things proceeded. Everybody started chanting and dancing like the people on Spooky Island from the first live-action Scooby-Doo movie. As this happened, we observed a large square object getting wheeled out covered in a bedsheet.
Everyone stopped and pointed at the sheet that was then yanked off, revealing a wooden cage with someone naked inside, curled up in the fetal position. Upon realizing who it was, our eyes squinted in disbelief.
“Van?” we said in unison.
Feebly, he lifted his head, recognizing us. To put it bluntly, he looked like shit. Dirt, bruises, and cuts covered him. A piece of cloth was gagging his mouth. He muffled something and we assumed he was trying to say, “Help me”.
“Okay, that’s it,” Drake spoke up. “Does anybody want to tell us what the hell’s going on?”
“Friends, there is no need for this confusion,” Jeff told us. “The answer is simple. Van here is the chosen one and his noble sacrifice will yield us healthy crops.”
“Wait, did you say sacrifice?” I asked, a bit concerned.
“Why yes. It is a great honor and your friend here was worthy enough to be chosen.”
While we were far from friends with Van, especially at this point, the idea of him getting murdered didn’t sit well with us. At most, we wanted our money back and maybe to rough him up.
“Take him to the pit,” Jeff commanded.
The crowd parted, revealing a massive tarp surrounded by torches with abandoned construction equipment near it. The tarp was pulled back, revealing a hole filled with snarling zombies. The sacrifice part of things was making more sense now.
“Hey, quick question,” I told Jeff.
He raised a hand, prompting the others to become quiet.
“Yes?” he replied.
“Let’s say hypothetically we weren't exactly comfortable with all this and wanted to get Van out of here. What would happen?”
We thought Jeff would be offended by what I said. To our surprise, however, he was ecstatic.
“Why, nothing would make us happier.”
“Okay, well, in that case-”
“Solidarity is a truly noble gesture.”
“Wait, what?”
“Triple the offerings means triple the harvest.”
The next thing we knew we were surrounded and grabbed.
“What are you doing? Let us go,” Drake demanded.
Jeff ignored him.
“To tell you the truth, we were going to throw you in the pit tomorrow night anyway.”
We froze.
“You were going to kill us?” I said in disbelief. “How do you all even know this whole sacrifice thing works?”
“It’s quite simple really.”
Jeff explained that when The Unplagued was founded, there was little food. One night, a member tried sneaking off with all they had, and in their attempt to flee didn’t notice the pit and fell in. Zombies were already in it that devoured them alive,
“Would you believe that right after seeing this, we were blessed by finding bags of beef jerky and cans of beer?”
“Not be rude, but how do you know that wasn’t a coincidence?” I asked, trying unsuccessfully to appeal to what little remained of the crowd’s reason.
“Because we sacrificed someone to the pit the night after before going into town the next morning. Not only did my followers and I find supplies, we remained safe while doing so. Therefore, it is now our custom.”
If there’s anything this past week has taught me, it’s that things can go to shit fast. Van was taken out of the cage and lifted into the air. We could only watch in horror as he was crowd-surfed to the pit and tossed in. The zombies were all over him like ants to sugar water. As he was getting his insides eaten, the gag was ripped out of his mouth, making his shrieks echo throughout the woods.
It was only as we were getting pushed toward the pit that I found the ability to speak again.
“Can’t we talk about this? It’s not exactly a fair deal for us,” I shouted.
“Of course, it is. After this, you will be in paradise.”
“What proof do you have of that?”
“Our faith. Drake, Gus, your noble offers will not be forgotten.”
“How about you forget us being offerings in the first place?” Drake frantically asked.
“What’s done can not be undone.”
All of our careful planning just to be killed by some cultist nutjobs. At least, that’s what would’ve happened if not for another streak of incredible luck on our part. Storm clouds had been gathering during this ordeal. Following a clap of thunder, rain began pouring down, causing the dirt to become mud. People slipped on it, falling into the hole.
They piled into it, giving the zombies a means of climbing their way out. What followed was two minutes of mayhem. The Unplagued was no longer a fitting name. We were being held by two people each at the time. When the person on my left arm and the other on Drake’s right were tackled away, we seized the opportunity and freed ourselves.
Drake punched the guy holding him in the throat and shoved him to the ground. I stomped the foot of the person holding my arm and then kicked him in the crotch. He doubled over, groaning in pain. Then he was dog-piled by the zombies.
“Gus, look,” Drake said, pointing.
Our stuff was resting by a tree. We rushed over, grabbing our guns. Zombies tried attacking and Drake smashed onto across the face with the butt of his rifle while I shot another with my handgun. Fighting wasn’t easy given the limited visibility except during lightning flashes which meant we were going mainly off sound. Anything we heard coming towards us was getting the pump action treatment.
“Didn’t we pack some flashlights with us?” I asked, then yelled “Oh shit” as a flash revealed another zombie lunging at me.
I put a bullet through its head as Drake was rummaging through his bag.
“Got it,” he exclaimed in triumph and turned it on. “Catch.”
I caught it when he tossed it to me and kept the light on him as he got his weapon ready.
“On your left,” I told him as he was cocking his rifle.
With one turn and pull of the trigger, half of a zombie's face disappeared in a cloud of red mist. To think, a mere few days ago such a sight would’ve made us blow chunks. I guess we’ve become more resilient since then. I don’t know if that’s necessarily a good thing or there might be even more psychological shit we’ll have to deal with later down the road. Either way, it’s helped us survive this long.
Maybe I just shouldn’t think about it too much.
“God damn it, they got us all disoriented,” I said. “Which way should we head?”
After a brief discussion, we decided to go east while the cult members were getting devoured. Along the ground, I noticed someone had dropped the calumet and picked it up.
“Hang on, do you see that?” I asked, shining the flashlight on a nearby bush.
Checking it showed us Van’s stuff. We took the money from his wallet and left the rest of his things behind. We kept running until the cries of people and zombies alike were out of earshot.
“I think we’re safe for now,” Drake said as our lungs were getting some rest. “We need to find someplace to hunker down for the night.”
“Not exactly many options when it’s poring.“Guess all we can do is keep moving.”
We hoped the rain would let up soon. It didn’t and continued all night. We were miserable being soaked from head to toe and having our pants covered in mud. I would have given my right nut for a warm place to dry off and change.
“Rain’s stopped finally,” Drake commented as the clouds parted, revealing the first rays of sunlight. “Hey, Gus?”
“Yeah?”
“Did we grab any energy shots at the store?”
“I think so.”
“Oh, thank Christ.”
We each downed an 8-Hour Energy, temporarily alleviating our fatigue. However, our feet were still screaming at us. Therefore, we decided to sit on some nearby logs for a bit.
“How far do you think we have until we’re out?” I asked.
“Gus, I don’t know. We’ve been traveling for over two days now. We have to be close at this point.”
“I hope so. Hey, do you think maybe we should do something when and if we make it out of here?”
“Like?”
“Well, even before all this, we were spinning our wheels in the mud. I think we deserve to treat ourselves.”
“I get what you mean, man. Tell you what. After all this, let’s get some of that good shit for the peace pipe.”
“Hell yeah.”
We had breakfast, a bag of mixed nuts each with some water. Then we got moving again.
“Hold up,” Drake said. “Is that smoke?”
By this point, another two hours of us waking had gone by. I took out the binoculars from my pack and handed them over.
“Holy shit, it is,” he said ecstatically while looking through them.
“But where's it coming from?”
He gave them back to me. Raising them to my eyes showed me a cabin in the distance.
“Someone's living all the way out here?” I asked.
“Looks like it. They probably want to be off-grid. Let's see if they'd be willing to help us.”
When we reached it, we were met with a medium-sized one-floor log cabin.
“Hello, is anyone there?” Drake asked, knocking on the door. “Sorry to bother you, but my friend and I are in bad shape.”
No answer came. I gestured to the knob. Drake shrugged and tried it, finding, to our surprise, it to be unlocked. He turned it, pushing the door open to a home shrouded in darkness.
“That doesn't make any sense,” I said. “We just saw smoke coming from here.”
“Maybe whoever made it left.”
“Should we wait for them to come back then?”
At the noises of ravenous zombies in the distance, we decided it'd be a safer bet to try explaining our unlawful entry. We went inside, shutting the door behind us.
“Help me find the light switch,” Drake said and I heard him feeling along the wall.
There was a click and the lights came on.
“Good going, Gus.”
“That wasn't me.”
Suddenly, there was laughter coming from someone whose voice was eerily familiar. When he spoke, it chilled us to our core.
“Drake, Gus, it's been too long.”
Our heads whipped in the direction of that voice. Stepping from the shadows was the grinning face of Erickson. His fingers were wrapped around the handles of a glass tank containing a severed head he referred to as his wife.
“I take it you’ve enjoyed my virus?” he asked.
“Your virus?” Drake replied, shocked. “You’re the one responsible for the zombie outbreak.”
“That’s right. To tell you the truth, I wasn’t expecting you both to survive this long. Of course, I knew contaminating the water would take care of most of this town’s residents.”
“The water?” I said, realization splashing me in the face, no pun intended.
I thought back to before everything went to hell in a handbasket. Our faucet had acted up and therefore we switched to drinking bottled water. As far as we knew, Roscoe and Van were only drinking bottled water as well. The latter made sense, seeing as how he had higher standards. As for the former, I think he mentioned once that he didn’t drink from the tap because he heard it would make him gay.
I don’t quite understand his reasoning. To each his own, I guess.
“Give us one reason we shouldn’t blow your head off right now?” Drake asked, pointing his rifle at Erickson.
The mad doctor only smiled. My face broke out in a sweat at the noise of several weapons being trained on us from the darkness.
“You didn’t think I’d be so careless. Did you?” Erickson asked.
More people came out of the shadows. Only then did it dawn on me how oddly lit the place was. The majority of them were a form of cop or security profession. Then there were two that stood out. The first we recognized.
It was former mayor Bill Schneider. With him was a woman sporting a viper smile.
“Why is the mayor here?” I asked.
“Yeah, and why do you look like Hilary Clinton?” Drake added to the woman beside Schneider.
“Now that he mentions it, she does remind me a lot of her,” I thought.
Erickson gave a sinister laugh.
“All will be answered in due time,” he told us. “ Now, would someone be so kind as to show our guests where they’ll be staying?”
At that, we were both struck across the face with batons, making everything go dark. I can’t accurately say where I was taken. I faded in and out of consciousness as they were dragging us away. What I did glimpse, shakes me to my core to even describe. There were windowed rooms with different zombies.
I thought what we’d encountered thus far were abominations. These go against Mother Nature herself. The worst ones I saw were a fused zombified family and one guy without any skin clawing at his window. He was moaning as he did it and I got the harrowing sensation it was due to pain. All my weapons were taken away and I was thrown into this room.
It’s similar to the ones in hospitals with a bed and a sink. I still have my phone on me. I’m not sure why. I guess they don’t realize I have internet access. Either that or they missed it outright.
In any case, I’m able to upload this post. There’s a wifi signal down here. The password wasn’t difficult to crack. It was “EricksonIsAGnnuis_1234”. I have no clue where they took Drake.
I can only hope he’s staying strong. Knowing that Erickson is behind all this and whatever’s in store for us is making my nut hairs bristle. If I don’t get a chance to update again, I want to end with this message. No justice. No Peace. Fuck the police.

Searching for this one:
Years ago, fate dealt Sophia Turner a cruel hand when she faced the harsh reality of an ectopic pregnancy, forcing her into the heart-wrenching decision to terminate her pregnancy. However, the repercussions of this choice went far beyond mere emotions. With no viable alternatives, she braved the painful procedure, a sacrifice that resulted in the loss of her left fallopian tube.
Over the last two years, Sophia had been tirelessly preparing for another pregnancy. Her husband, Jason Wilson, was the sole heir of the esteemed Wilson family. She had harbored a lifelong love for him, and fulfilling her long-cherished wish of having a child with him to carry on the family legacy was paramount in her heart.
In the serene ambiance of Brison Hospital's Department of Obstetrics and Gynecology, the attending physician carefully laid down the examination report, her expression slightly solemn. Across from her sat a young woman, her face etched with anticipation and nervousness.
" heart, is it... failing?"
As Sophia struggled to come to terms with the ominous diagnosis, she couldn't help pondering, 'Have the repercussions of the heart injury from five years ago finally worsened?'
The doctor sighed softly, her eyes filled with pity and sympathy as she looked at Sophia. "Yes, you have a high risk of heart failure. My advice would be to terminate the pregnancy and undergo treatment to stabilize the condition."
When the doctor advised her to terminate the pregnancy, Sophia felt as though her entire world had shattered. The words, delivered with clinical precision, pierced through her like a dagger, leaving her emotionally raw and wounded to the core.
In that moment, Sophia's maternal instinct surged. She abruptly rose from her seat, clutching her abdomen protectively as if shielding her unborn child from any harm. The shock of the suggestion staggered her momentarily, but it ignited a determination within her.
"No," Sophia declared, her voice trembling but resolute. "I want to keep this child."
Amelia Moore, the chief physician overseeing Sophia's case, watched her reaction with a heavy heart. Her expression turned grim at Sophia's words. "If we can find a suitable heart donor." Amelia continued, her tone grave but gentle, "There's still a chance for survival. You don't have to..." Her words trailed off abruptly as a series of beeps resonated through the room, originating from within Sophia's handbag.
Sophia's fingers fumbled as she retrieved her phone from her handbag, her heart pounding. With a shaky breath and quivering voice, she finally managed to speak. "You go ahead, I'll step out to take a call."
With that, Sophia hastily made her way toward the door, her steps unsteady, as if the weight of her words was pulling her down. The memory of Jason's crestfallen expression when they lost their first child lingered in her mind, haunting her. She could still feel the raw ache of that loss, the emptiness that consumed them both. And now, faced with the possibility of another heartbreak, she couldn't bear to subject Jason to that pain once more.
The phone vibrated violently in Sophia's grip. With trembling fingers, she brought it up to her eyes, the screen illuminating with a message notification. As she tapped it, a photo appeared, stunning her speechless and draining her complexion of color in an instant.
The image showed a woman cradled in a man's embrace, their kiss exuding passion. Despite the serene backdrop, the messy room hinted at what had happened before. Though their faces were partially obscured, she recognized her husband immediately—Jason Wilson.
'No! That can't be true!' Sophia's mind was racing, her thoughts in turmoil. 'Jason had been an adoring husband. He would never betray me like this!'
However, as she finally recognized the woman, Sophia felt her carefully constructed facade crumble like ice, leaving behind only shattered illusions.
'Ada Taylor!' screamed Sophia in her mind. The woman in the photo was her cousin, Ada, who had also been Jason's first love.
Sophia had unwavering trust in Jason. She knew he wouldn't betray her with any other woman. However, her certainty faltered when confronted with Ada as the other woman.
Sophia's phone beeped once again, and another message notification popped up on the screen. She tapped to open it. [Preston Hospital, Department of Obstetrics and Gynecology, Room 802. Your husband is currently with his first love. She's pregnant.]
Sophia's head swam with dizziness, a whirlwind of emotions and memories engulfing her. Vivid scenes of Jason and Ada locked in tender embraces, their laughter and whispered confessions echoed in her mind like distant melodies. She had poured her heart into their relationship, believing her love had thawed Jason's icy reserve over the years. She couldn't forget the deep sorrow he had shown when they lost their first child to an ectopic pregnancy two years ago.
Yet, as reality crashed upon her, it was a bitter awakening. The warmth of their love now seemed like a fleeting illusion, shattered by the cold truth that stared back at her.
At Preston Hospital, Jason stood tall in an exquisite business suit within the ward.
With sharp eyebrows and lips forming a solitary arc of arrogance, he emitted an air of indifference and aloofness, accentuated by his handsome, cold eyes. He strode over to the bed, fetched a pillow, and delicately placed it behind Ada. "How are you feeling? Are you any better?"
.............................................................................. Ada's gentleness stood in stark contrast to Sophia, who possessed a strong-willed nature. Whenever a man was beside Ada, they instinctively would feel the urge to protect her.
"I'm feeling much better. Perhaps the little one sensed that Daddy was here, so it stopped fussing," Ada remarked before playfully changing the subject. "Jason, do you think our child will resemble you more or me?"
Jason was momentarily dazed, his expression serious as he glanced at Ada's still-flat abdomen. The unexpected pregnancy wasn't part of his plans, and he grappled with the realization that the fling from over a month ago had spiraled beyond his control.
"Jason." Ada gently shook him. "Jason, what are you thinking? Tell me, who do you think our child will resemble more?"
Ada's gentle voice snapped Jason back to reality. He reached out to stroke her hair, offering reassurance. "Perhaps a boy like me? And if it's a girl, she'll look like you. Now, focus on caring for yourself and don't overthink things."
Upon hearing Jason's response, Ada's smile brightened, her eyes drifting to her belly as she gently caressed it. Yet, beneath the surface of her affectionate gesture, a flicker of viciousness flashed in her eyes. Her inner voice seethed, 'Soon, I'll reclaim everything that rightfully belongs to me from Sophia, that despicable bitch.'
Standing just beyond the door, Sophia heard every syllable of their conversation, her heart pounding in disbelief.
Their words cut through her like sharpened blades. Sophia's grip on the wall faltered, her legs threatening to give way beneath her. In a rush of disbelief, she felt her strength drain away, leaving her slumped against the wall. Slowly, she began to slide down to the floor, each inch a painful reminder of her shattered heart.
'A boy like me and a girl like you, huh?' Their conversation repeated itself in Sophia's mind. Finally, she realized she was the outsider, a mere joke in this absurd relationship. 'No wonder he's been jetting off abroad so often lately,' she thought, her inner voice laced with self-mockery. 'Seems he's been indulging in secret trysts with his first love in Vrun City.'
'What should I do now? Burst in like a shrew and slap that cheating vixen?' Sophia's mind raced with thoughts. 'But with Jason protecting her, I probably can't even get near.'
A sharp pain stabbed her chest, driving her to clutch at her heart instinctively. 'Thinking about it now, perhaps my failing heart wasn't such a bad thing after all. Now, I could simply bide my time until the end of my life,' she concluded bitterly.
Back at their villa in the evening, Sophia's trembling hands tore apart each document, the rustle of the papers echoing in the silent room. She watched as the torn remnants were swallowed by the swirling water of the toilet, erasing any evidence of her pregnancy and medical condition.
Sophia refused to seek sympathy from Jason by exploiting her pregnancy and delicate health condition. The mere thought of his potential reaction, should he demand she terminate the pregnancy upon learning of it, filled her with dread.
Though Sophia loathed confronting the harsh reality, she couldn't evade the unsettling awareness that Jason would choose Ada over her if forced to choose. "It's his beautiful first love, after all," she muttered, her thoughts tangled in a web of sorrow and resentment. "He had always treasured it like a priceless jewel anyway."
Late at night, Jason maneuvered his car into the garage after a long day. As he parked, he couldn't help glancing toward the living room, a habit he had learned over the years. Regardless of the hour, a warm glow would typically emanate from the grand villa. But tonight, darkness enveloped the space, a stark departure from usual.
This unexpected absence of light stirred an uneasy feeling within Jason. With a heavy heart, he ventured into the living room, his steps echoing in the silence. In the foyer, he found a pair of elegant high heels and a handbag, a sight offering relief amidst the darkness.
Though he took solace in the presence of Sophia's belongings, the weight of Ada's pregnancy bore down on him, leaving him at a loss and mentally drained.
In the dimly lit bedroom on the second floor, Sophia lay curled up in bed, her fingers tightly clutching at her chest as if trying to quell the stabbing pain that surged through her. Each wave felt more agonizing than the last, leaving her feeling as though she were trapped in the depths of hell.
Suddenly, Sophia felt someone climb onto the bed beside her. An arm slipped around her from behind, encircling her waist in a tight embrace. The familiar sensation of soft kisses grazing the delicate curve of her neck sent shivers down Sophia's spine, eliciting a turbulent churn in her stomach.
As she grappled with the betrayal echoing in her mind, Sophia couldn't help wondering, 'How could he sleep with another woman, then continue acting affectionately with me as if nothing happened?'
Memories of their seemingly harmonious relationship and moments of his genuine care only intensified her confusion. 'Perhaps he had been a poison masquerading as honey?' she bitterly pondered. 'Did I unknowingly allow myself to be hurt and corroded in my longing for his sweetness?'
Sensing Sophia's rejection, Jason gradually stopped caressing her and replaced it with a firm grasp on her shoulder as he gently turned her to face him.
.............................................................................. In the darkness, Sophia and Jason's eyes met, wordlessly. A profound silence filled the room, punctuated only by the echo of their heartbeats and breath in the stillness.
"Are you alright? You don't seem like yourself," Jason inquired, reaching out to touch her forehead with concern. "Feeling unwell?"
Sophia's gaze faltered as she instinctively averted her eyes, avoiding Jason's touch. "I'm alright. It's just a headache. Perhaps I caught a cold. Just... let go of me," she murmured.
Jason parted his lips, a sentence hanging on the tip of his tongue. Yet, his moment was interrupted by the sudden ringing of his neglected phone on the bedside table. His eyes darted to the screen, where the word "Ada" danced in neon hues.

Orginal Story by C.K. Walker
*Written By Ayden M.N. and u/Memisworld_23 *
SPOILERS FOR BORRASCA V
...
One hundred thirty two. That is the amount of people that were rescued that day on the mountain. I would be lying if I said it didn’t take me by surprise to hear the news about the stables let alone the number of people that were there. It makes me think back to when I was a kid and all the strange and tragic things that happened to me then. It's funny how time changes, how everything wilts away. How life goes on without a wait or stop. Sometimes you'll forget what lurked underneath, and when you do remember, it's already too late. I couldn't say my childhood wasn't bad but it's basically not as cheery as most kids have it.
My father was definitely sucked into his job as a lawyer, while my mom was bustling her back at an old diner, drinking her sorrows away. None had any time to spare for me, as a child. It made me a pretty independent child, and when my mother decided to give birth to Lucy, I became that mother figure that I never had. Aside from Lucy, I had nobody else to talk to. School in Drisking was okay, but I would be lying if I said it was a good experience. I was pretty much alone from childhood to teens. Most kids already had their own friends, their designated trio. I would always refer to it that way. It was by sheer luck that I really did find a friend. Someone who I could share my emo playlist alongside with and in return she taught me a lot about DnD.
However like if the world knew I was meant to be alone, she was taken away from me. I never knew what happened to her, but I beat myself about. If only I didn't moved from Drisking, maybe I could had found her sooner.
The one thing that has remained consistent is my ritualistic daily breakfasts at the diner. From the start of my freshmen year, I never missed a day of going to the diner. It was my way of getting my head together and preparing for the day ahead. Even into my adulthood, I never stopped going. Imagine my surprise when I saw a face that I’d honestly thought I would never see again. It didn’t click at first. I just felt like I knew it.
She was about 5’8” with asymmetrical short dirty blond hair. Her clothes were mainly black and I can just see something protruding from her around her waist. She had a plain black shirt tucked into her pants with a well-kept belt. She wore a Nobel 6 zip up jacket -Clearly a Halo fan- and a small d20 pin on it. Where this seems normal to the untrained eye, I can’t help but feel deja vu from looking at this woman. She seemed like this distant dream that is so fuzzy that it’s just familiar enough to almost recognize.
She walked into the diner and was given a table next to mine. I racked my brain trying to figure out who this was. I examined every part of her, again, and again, and again, just trying to make sense of who was sitting right there in front of me. She was so close, yet she was so distant from me.
“May I help you?” She sighs, putting her coffee down on the table in a way that I can only describe as a contained irritation. “Or are you just going to stare at me like I’m an exhibit?”
I wasn’t even conscious I was staring. She turns to me and it all clicks together. The d20, the jacket, and, my new discovery, looking at her closer and can see her, the freckle on her upper lip.
“Kat? Is that really you?” Stunned, I blurted out. I was adamant that that familiar woman had to be her. No one had that exact same freckle like her.
“That depends on who is asking.” She rolls her eyes taking another sip of her coffee.
She doesn’t recognize me? It makes since she didn’t. It’s been so long. Looking down at my empty plate, as I really wanted her to recognize me. Should I introduce myself? I thought, maybe I'll make her remember me.
“So you don't know me? I can give a hint, I'm sure it might give you an idea on who I am.” I nervously laughed, as I dug into my black leather purse.
Quickly, I pulled it out, plopping down a custom made d20 dice on the table. I remember painting my own dice black, since I was super obsessed with the color black as a teen.
“Wait,” Kat puts down her coffee again, this time with more of a clang. “What is that? Where did you get this?”
Placing the dice right next to my plate, I felt my throat lumping already.
“Remember on my 16th birthday, when it was only you and me. I remember we almost burned the house down because we had the dumb idea to bake a cake.”
“Pauly…?” A slow recognition comes across Kat’s face. Replaced soon by unadulterated joy. “Well, I’ll be damned!”
Tears started to well up my eyes, I was so ecstatic to finally see her eyes flashed with recognition. I slowly got up to my chair, every step I took felt like I was stepping in a pile of needles. Getting a great look on Kat, she looked different from the nerdy shy girl I knew. But, I didn’t care how different Kat looked, I was happy to see my old friend alive.
“I just don't know what to say. I thought I've lost you.” I whispered, my voice already trembling as I spoke.
“Oh,” Kat's voice cracks a bit too, pulling me into a hug. “It’s okay. I’m here.”
Kat seemed to be holding back tears. Just being with her now, I couldn’t even wrap my head around it. It seems so surreal. Even when I hugged her, it felt like it was a fabricated dream. But it wasn't, this was all flesh and blood.
“Just…how are you…I'm so sorry that I never found you. Everyone, even the cops told me that you were long gone. I had hoped you'd come back. Just didn't know it would take this long.” Wiping my tears with my sleeve, I hugged even tighter. She was much taller than me, so I couldn't really comprehend it.
“Hey, hey.” Kat chuckles a bit. Still holding back tears, I could tell. “It’s okay. You…There was no way you could have known. I have a lot of explaining to do, I’m sure but let’s forget about that for now.”
“Yeah…I'm just so happy to see you again.” I sat across from Kat's seat, picking up a napkin to wipe the rest of my tears. It rubbed off some of my mascara, making me think it was a horrible idea to try out some make up today. “So, um…what have you been doing over these years? I see you got a gun holster over there?”
“Well, I…” Kat cut herself off. “I was a SWAT operative. It’s, uh, a long story. How about you?”
“SWAT? No wonder you look so tough and badass!” I then continued enthusiastically. “Well, I'm actually a nurse practitioner. I'm very specialized in prenatal care. I know it's funny because I really didn't like babies back then.”
“Oh? That’s…nice.” Kat’s voice shudders. “And I wouldn’t call myself a badass for being SWAT. It…makes you question a lot of things about yourself for sure. It’s all in the interest of others though.”
My smile slowly fell, as I was scared if I might've made her upset. “I see, I understand. We both are doing jobs that help people, and probably had to endure some bad cases once in a while.”
“Did…did you ever find Kincade?”
Kincade. I haven't heard of that name since after moving Drisking.
I took a deep breath, as I responded. “I did manage to find Kincade after your disappearance. They never told me what happened, and I lost contact ever since. Last time I checked, Kincade moved to California.”
“Oh, thank god.” Kat sighs out of relief, as she takes a seat back down. “Knowing that girl, she’s living it up in LA. Well, I was actually in New York all this time. I thought it would be a good place to settle down. For what it was worth, the NYPD was good to me.”
“Oh I can tell she is. I followed her Instagram, and she's always posting pictures of parties and such.” I tucked a strand of hair in the back of my ear, while I pulled out my phone to show Kat Kincade’s page. “Even if they don't want to talk to me, I'm just super glad they're okay.”
I sometimes wonder why Kincade hasn't had contact with me yet, but deep inside I felt like they were somewhat upset with me. The strange thing was that once Kincade showed up, my mother just randomly disappeared. My father had always told me that she's just had it with us, and left to do her own life. However I never believed that story. Sure my mom was a raging drunk chain-smoker, but she always loved Lucy and I. Her just leaving out of the blue isn't in character, and I just know that something wrong might have occurred.
Kat inspects the page. I can tell it struck something in her. I knew from this point she was holding back a bit with her emotions but for some reason, this broke her. Suddenly I saw my childhood best friend break into a waterfall of sadness. She started to sob. As if she had a dam behind her eyes and they just burst.
“Kat.. Oh shit, I didn’t mean to make you cry,” I rushed towards Kat’s side, wrapping an arm around her shoulders.
It broke me to see Kat this way, yet I couldn’t help but wonder what made her let out her tears. My eyes suddenly landed at one of Kat’s wrist, a light brown scar was marred on her skin. It was half covered by her sleeve, its appearance was more like a stab wound than a slash. I could tell Kat noticed me staring at it, as she quickly covered it up. The sky was now in a vibrant orange and magenta hue, while the bright sun started to slowly settle down.
Kat finally regained her composure after a few minutes of apologizing profusely.
“I know.” Kat weakly pushes out from her lips through her tears. “I know you see them. I know I have a lot of explaining to do. I got that…from a mission that I’m not sure if you’re ready to hear.”
Leaning against her shoulder, I looked up at Kat with an understanding expression. “I think I’m ready to hear about this. Over these years, I wanted to know what happened in Drisking. I don’t want to stay ignorant anymore.”
“Let’s…” Kat wipes her eyes, only for more tears to take the others place. “Let’s go somewhere a little more private.”
∆∆∆
“As you enter into the Church of the Overthrown Gods.” Kat dramatically pauses. “You feel as if multiple eyes are watching you. As you look closer to the rotting wood altar, you see a tiny eye just peeking out…and then another…and then another…and then another… as they rise up from the altar you see they are on tendeles attached to a large spherical mass. You see 10 tenderals rise all with snake-like eyes darting around the room before meeting yours. As the large mass comes into view you see one large eye on it staring at you and an unnerving smile as it laughs intimidatingly at you. As you realize what is staring back at you is…a beholder…and that’s where we will leave off tonight’s session!”
Several protests fill the room. It wasn’t out of character for Kat to leave off on a cliffhanger, but this is what we have been waiting for since the end of 2008. And even a year later, Kat always leaves the carrot dangling over our heads.
“Hey,” Kat shrugs “I gotta keep you hooked or else our three month streak of all of you attending won’t keep going.”
“Oh, fuck you, Kat!” Kami rolls her eyes lightheartedly “We come back every week regardless.”
“Yeah, but it's more fun torturing you.” Kat giggled while combing through her long hair with her fingers.
Shaking my head, I took a sip on my already luke-warm Snapple, “Typical Kat. Why do you always gotta tease us like that? I was literally witnessing my character finally healing from a poison arrow and just to end at that. I totally can't wait till the next!”
“Thank you,” Kat nods before getting up and starting to pack up and the group follows suit. “I cannot wait for next session. It’s a big battle so I recommend you all start doing some research on Beholders to be ready, because this monster is really tough. Remember, we are starting the next session at level 12, and I’ll see you all soon!”
After about 10 minutes, the rest of the group left except for me. I like staying after sessions with Kat. I don’t understand why the other two people in the group don’t stay. It’s not even 9pm by the time we finished and they are already out the door.
It’s sophomore skip day tomorrow and I sure as hell know everyone will be participating so what’s the rush? Well, everyone except for Kat. From all the time I’ve known Kat up until this point, she never skipped a day or cut any corners when it came to her education. It was admirable but also frustrating. I cannot tell you how many plans I had to cancel because she wanted to study. I never understood why she was so serious about it. It’s like her life depended on her making good grades and being a shining student. I have to admit, I am jealous of her dedication to it.
I would typically leave her to her own devices when it came to school but just by looking at her, she looked like she deserved a break. With the exams and the constant verbal battles between her mother and her father, I can tell just by looking at her, the pressure is on her. I could say the same for my home situation, but I'm already used to it, that it is practically normal for me. Kat, on the other hand, really deserved a break, just this one time.
While I was playing with one of the d20 dice, gathering up courage, I asked, “Hey Kat? Whatcha going do tomorrow?”
“Oh, um.” Kat says not looking up from her notebook, making some notes for the next session. “Just going to school, I should be able to go to take our usual walks tomorrow after.”
A smile crept on my lips, as I definitely predicted Kat's answers. Sure, I did hear that the Sheriff in town was going to give tickets to those that didn't go to school, but I didn't really care about that. I just wanted to have a chill day with my friends. After all, I busted my ass to at least have passable grades.
“Hmm. Hey Kat, why don't we…you know,” I nudged her with my elbow. “Skip school tomorrow?”
“I don’t think that’s a good idea.” Kat sighs.
“I know, I know. But I just feel like these days have been for us but we just have fun tomorrow.” I could tell that I was losing Kat already, her mind dead set on going to school. I tucked a strand on my blue hair behind my ear, as I followed Kat. “Kat, please. Sometimes I worry about you because you're working yourself out. Just this once, and I'll promise I'll try to raise my Geometry class to a B!”
“I suppose…” Kat thinks for a second. “It wouldn’t hurt to skip one day.”
“Hell yeah!” I tackled Kat, as I tried to spin her around in happiness. “I promise that you'll have the best day. That jackass Sheriff won't ruin our day. I'll make sure of it!”
“Alright! Alright!” Kat giggles “Fine. Just calm down.”
I feel a sense of relief coming from Kat like I somehow unlocked one shackle that she bore on her ankles. There’s still plenty, and this one is certainly not the heaviest but the littlest weight off of her is enough for her to appreciate.
I let her go as I dashed towards my Jack Skeleton backpack, fetching out my half torn notepad. “ I scribbled some of the plans I have for tomorrow. I was thinking we could dine on Prescott Artisan Sandwiches, and then maybe hike the trail over west of Crystal Lake. What do you think?”
“Yeah!” Kat exclaims. “I heard there’s going to be a few people there tomorrow. Probably could use the social interaction, or attempt to at least.”
“We'll have the lake to ourselves,” I chuckled, placing my notepad back to my back. I really did need a new notepad, however I remember my family was very tight on money at the time. “Oh I almost forgot that Kincade might be joining us too.”
“Sounds good to me.” Kat smiles. “Honestly, that girl needs to be a bit more interactive if you ask me.” Kat chuckles. “As if I’m one to talk.”
“That's why I invited her too. I feel like you girls could get along.” I then jokingly added, “Maybe you can indoctrinate her into playing DnD with us, eh?”
“I’m sure I can.” Kat giggles. “Alright, so are you staying the night tonight? I think I can take the car tomorrow so you can stay if you like.”
“I'll stay, but I should pick up Lucy. My mom said she left her by the Landys,” I rubbed my neck in frustration as I continued. “I hate how my mom just randomly abandons Lucy to strangers. Does she know there's creeps?”
My mother always had done this multiple times, even when I was Lucy's age. A seven year old like Lucy shouldn't be in conditions like this, and I knew damn well that my father won't be available till 7AM. I thought about maybe walking up to the Landys house, maybe it was like 3 blocks or so.
“I think I'll walk to get Lucy. You wouldn't mind my little sis joining in our sleepover, right?”
“I mean, I don't have a big problem with it. Honestly, prefer it to just be you and me but I won’t be kicking and screaming if she is here.”
“That's true,” I nervously laughed, “Either way, Lucy is pretty much a sweet kid, and she will probably be distracted playing with her ballet Barbie dolls.”
Peeping through the windows, the sky was pitch black, almost like a void swallowing the whole town. I took a deep breath, before heading out of the door. Before stepping a foot outside of the wooden porch, I called out. “I'll be back, Kat. If I don't come back, the Skinned Men might’ve caught me!”
“Oh, don’t say that!” Kat calls at me as I walk away. She didn’t seem offended more lighthearted but there was a little seriousness there.
Kat always believed in the supernatural. While all of us grew up and just accepted it was just an urban legend that wasn’t real, Kat believed it. Kat even dedicated an entire essay on the history of the Skinned Man, and where the legend originated from. Needless to say, there wasn’t much to go off of and because Kat is very committed to things, she decided to embellish the details a bit and even I knew that a lot of that stuff was all pulled out of thin air and had no actual weight to it. They were just urban legends that little kids would scare others with. Along those tales were the Triple Tree.
Everyone would carve their names in the Triple Tree, serving like a talisman to these Skinned Men. If you didn’t, then I guess you were fucked. I never really carved my name, for some damn reason, my dad never let me. The moon shined brightly, casting light to these liminal streets. I was already used to walking at night, but for some odd reason, something was off. Crossing the right side of the neighborhood, I caught some headlights shining through the bushes. It looked like it belonged to an old police cruiser, and that alone made me start running. I was not a fan of the officers here, plus I was definitely violating a curfew.
“C’mon, Pauly,” I uttered under my breath, jumping through some fences.
I landed on the backside of the Landy’s house, my knees landing on top of the pavement. Hissing in pain, I slowly wobbled towards the front side of the house. It was stupid of me to think that I would magically land on my feet, but then again I had the shitiest luck. Quickly, I knocked on the door three times, after the fourth knock, the white adorned door swung open. In front of me was a cinnamon brown haired 14 year old boy, who had that bored expression that every teenager had. I recognized that boy as Parker Landy, the youngest of the Landy family.
“Uh, can I help you?” Parker wrinkled his nose, while he adjusted his glasses.
I furrowed my brows, “I’m here for my sister. For Lucy.”
“Oh, okay. Um, I guess you can come in.”
Parker reluctantly ushered me inside, as I wasted no time to search for Lucy. There, located in the dinning, Lucy was drawing while Mrs. Landy was brushing her dark little locks of hair. She was wearing a baby pink ballet uniform, the one that my dad bought her for her birthday. Ecstatic, Lucy jumped up from the chair and darted to my direction. We bid farewell to Mrs. Landy, heading out into the night. However, I caught a glimpse of her face morphing into a sorrowful look. ‘She must have been worried for us,’ I thought, mainly because it was just two girls heading out, embracing the unforgiving night.
“Pauly, where’s mommy?” Lucy’s wide eyes looked at me, grabbing my hand ever so tightly.
I sighed, thinking how to word out an appropriate response, “She’s just working a lot in the diner. So we can afford your ballet classes,” I had lied, flashing an assurring smile. I didn’t want Lucy to know the truth, she was an innocent kid after all.
Crossing up that same street again, I could sense that we were almost close to safety. Or so I thought. A slow rumbling sound of an engine followed behind. It was pitch dark outside, so I couldn’t really tell what color the vehicle was, but I did recognize it. What my eyes could grapple from what little information it had at the time, it was just that damn old police cruiser. Just as I was about to run with Lucy, the dark tinted windows rolled down, revealing an old familiar face.
“Ah little Miss Rhoades. What brings you here past curfew, hmm?” Ex Sheriff Clery asked, while flashing a very wide smile. I remember him being the Sheriff since the 1950s, not before being replaced by Robocop Walker.
Lucy bounced up and down, as she exclaimed “Me and Pauly are going home! Mommy and Daddy are still at work!”
Clery’s gaze looked back at me, his grin growing ever so slightly larger. “Oh really? It’s quite dark out here, you girls might need a lift.”
“No thank-” “Yes please!” Lucy quickly cut me off as she threw the car door open.
She quickly slithered herself in the backseat, while I was too stunned to comprehend. It left me no choice but to take this impromptu ride. Trembling, I sat next to Lucy, shutting the car door behind me. A loud click followed, as both doors were locked.
The whole ride I was scared shitless. I didn’t know why, but I guess I scared myself alot reading Missing Persons cases. I mean, I just entered a car with a person I barely knew. Yes, I know he’s a cop and his entire job is to keep us safe, but I couldn’t help but feel this sense of unease creeping into my conscious mind. It might be from the hundreds of “Stranger Danger” PSAs I’ve been fed all my young life. Lucy probably noticed how tense I looked, latching herself onto my arm.
“It's okay Pauly, the Skinned Men won't catch us anymore. We're safe here!” Lucy nuzzled on my arm, clearly obvious about the situation.
Sheriff Clery let out a chuckle, adding on “Little Lucy's right. No need to worry about those monsters when you're the old sheriff, eh?”
I nervously laughed along, just wishing that we’ll be at our destination already. That just put me even more on edge. I decided to dare a glance at the interior back mirror and I saw a pair of eyes seemingly staring at me and my sister with a look that just sent a chill down my spine. I tried to rationalize that maybe I’m just imagining things but the way he was staring at us was undeniably unsettling.
It was not after a minute later we arrived. The whole minute felt like hours, rightfully so I bolted out of the cruiser with Lucy in my arms. Before reaching the front door, the older man called out, “Be careful next time. You won’t know what’s lurking around these parts.”
After that the police cruiser drove off into the dark void of the unknown. That sentence alone carried an unsettling meaning, yet I could never pinpoint why. Objectively, it was quite normal. It was just a man showing a kind gesture but my gut was screaming not to trust this person. I tried to just brush it off as a misunderstanding but it was so strange I couldn’t.
∆∆∆
“So,” Kat began. “The place still has Prescott’s name written all over the place even after everything that happened?”
“I believe so,” I took a deep breath before continuing, “I really hope it’ll be over now. Sometimes, I wished I could live on with life. Like nothing happened, you know?”
The melody of the forest sung around us as we took in the fresh day’s air and the warm embrace of the midsummer’s sun. We’ve walked through this forest hundreds of times before but it’s like discovering uncharted territories every time we step foot in it. It feels different now. It seems bleaker than it was when we were children. Maybe it’s just an optical illusion or that every memory of my childhood feels like a dream.
“God,” Kat scoffs. “I’d scrub that name off the earth if I could.”
“I have to admit, everytime I see that name, something bad always happens. It's almost as if it was cursed.” My gaze shifted back to the abundance of trees, each of them being so eerily identical. “Thomas Prescott really did sell his soul, and everyone had to pay the price.”
“Don’t remind me.” Kat almost growls like a wolf to a degree that caught me off guard.
Shit, I definitely struck a nerve there. Why? Why did that set her off the way it did? I tried to change the subject into something else. I really didn’t want to upset Kat any further, I felt guilty just by saying that.
“It’s so silent here, I don’t know if I should be on edge or relaxed.”
“Sorry, I didn’t mean to sound like that. I don’t know what came over me.”
Kat’s eyes dart around before she runs her fingers through her hair with a sigh. It didn’t occur to me until just now that she had been watching everywhere and everything all at once. Every little movement her eyes locked onto. Could be just a natural reaction. I’m sure her line of work requires her to be hyper-vigilant so maybe it carries into her normal day-to-day life.
“You don’t need to apologize, Kat. I was the one who was pushing too much.” The wind blew softly, remnants of leaves danced in the air. It reminded alot about how life is, always pushing you in unpredictable directions. “I was thinking after this, maybe we should help each other out. My therapist gave me the advice that some wounds can’t heal by themself.”
“I can help you. I don’t really need help myself. When I was on the field, I was given state mandated therapy. It was important to do so to not go actually insane from all the messed up things we see. Trust me, there’s a reason why a lot of us quit after a few years of service.”
“ I see,” I gave Kat a crooked smile, “You're resilient, that's what I admired about you.”
Even after all those years, Kat still had those strong traits of being smart and strong. I could help but feel proud of her, and I wished her the best. I got closer to Kat, as I leaned on one of the oak trees nearby.
With a playful tone, I asked. “So when are you gonna show me how to use one of those?” I pointed at her gun.
“You?” Kat laughs. “I thought you hated loud noises?”
I shrugged, raising one of my brows. “Still do. It's just in case anything goes south. Or maybe I wanna impress somebody.”
“I’ll teach you soon. No doubt about that. I don’t have any ear protection on me and this beauty can get pretty loud.”
As we took in the forest’s lush surroundings, I noticed something that I haven’t seen before despite being out here for god knows how many times. There was a perfectly healthy tree in front of us but it seemed as if the bark had been ripped and torn definitely unnaturally; it had to have been done by someone, not an animal.
Kat and I exchange confused looks as we walk closer to the tree. Then, it all came together. I didn’t want to think that someone would have done this again. Not after the original was burnt to the ground a long time back. On the tree there were signatures. It sent an ungodly chill through my whole body. I looked over to Kat to see her reaction and she looked like she was frozen in time. With a look of shock and fear instilled upon her very body.
“It can't be. There's a new one here, but how?” My mouth was agape as I reached to touch the bark of the tree. My fingers grazed against each little individual signature. Each of them being unique, much like their owners’ names.
I look back at Kat. I realized I was mistaken, or perhaps it just shifted. Her look, it wasn't out of fear, no, it was out of resentment and hate and a boiling rage that I could tell is about to spill through. I know that even if I were to manage to say anything in this situation, I couldn’t prevent it from all coming out. What could I say? This isn’t anything I’ve seen from Kat. She always had a way to relieve her own anger but this was an anger that even the cool-minded Kat could not keep under control. Like a wildfire that had found a negligent camper’s gasoline can.
“Kat–”
“They think they can control me even in death but they can’t.” Kat whispers to herself quickly. I barely had time to process before the wildfire finally found the gas. “THEY FUCKING CAN’T!”
Kat lifts her shirt slightly, revealing her concealed gun. A Pit Viper. She draws it at a speed I barely had time to comprehend as she switches off the safety and takes a stance.
“Wait! Kat!”
That was all I could get out before I was overtaken by an ear splitting explosion. I barely had time to register the second one before the third went off. It was the same for the fourth and the fifth. My ears rang the loudest they have ever in my life as the pain in my ears set in and the agony of my head throbbing so hard that I thought my brain would burst from it alone. The sounds echoed through the forest. All the birds and the bugs and creatures stopped in unison as if Kat slain them herself.
And then.
Silence.

Part 3
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I needed a drink.
​
God, did I ever need a drink.
​
The incident by River Ridge was nothing short of a disaster, to say the least. When he’d made it to the scene, Sheriff Smith had asked me for every detail I could give him on what had happened, and I’d told him most of the truth.
​
Most of it.
​
I left out the part where Clementine Di Cesare had drank a man's blood and caused the earth to move. Biggs probably would’ve believed all of it if I had told him, but the Sheriff? He’d probably send me to get my head checked, and I wouldn’t blame him one bit for that. Even if there was a chance he’d believe me, I couldn’t really bring myself to include those particular elements of the story. I barely believed them, even though I’d seen it all with my own two eyes. None of this seemed to make sense anymore. I felt like I was looking at the shifting gears of some great machine without any context for what any of them did. I only knew that they did in fact do something.
​
I knew that Apostle was killing monsters.
​
I knew that Di Cesare probably wasn’t actually with the State Police.
​
I knew that apparently there’d been a bunch of fish women living down by River Ridge, and I may or may not have just saved them all from being ambushed. These were things I knew… and yet they didn’t make sense to me.
​
Christ, and here I thought small towns like this were supposed to be simple?
​
***
​
I was at The Honey Pot and Spaniel, having a beer when Dr. Miller found me. The moment I saw him walk in, I gave him a nod and wasn’t in the least bit surprised when he slid into the booth across from me.
“Deputy Sawyer… sounds like you’ve had a hell of a day, huh?”
“I’ve had a hell of a week,” I replied. “I didn’t think you drank, Doc.”
“From time to time,” He said. The bartender, Dixon came by and he ordered a beer.
“You look like you’ve barely slept,” He said, once he was gone.
​
“Yeah? Go figure?” I asked. “I’ve got coffee keeping me going for the time being.”
“Caffeine doesn’t really make up for a good night's sleep.”
“Maybe not, but I’ve kinda had a lot going on lately. That doesn’t really give a man much time for sleep.”
“No, I guess it doesn’t,” Dr. Miller admitted.
“So what brings you to my little watering hole?” I asked, “It’s not 5 o’clock yet, so I can’t imagine this is a social call.”
“Yes and no,” He admitted. “Thought you might be interested in the autopsy results from last night's victim.”
​
I raised an eyebrow and took a sip of my beer.
“Yeah, I am actually,” I said. “I take it she had gills?”
“Noticed those, did you?” Dr. Miller asked.
“I saw them on the other girl. The one that got shot.”
​
He nodded.
"Guess I don't need to tell you that I've never seen this before, do I?"
"I'd be shocked if you had, Doc."
He laughed humorlessly.
"Yeah… gotta say, there wasn't a hell of a lot to find on the victim. Her name was Melissa Sinclair. Address was listed as River Ridge. Far as I can tell she owned an RV there."
"Sounds about right," I said, taking a sip of my drink. "You find anything else?"
"A lot, actually. But I'll spare you the autopsy details and cut to the really interesting bit."
​
He reached into his pocket and set a black card down in front of me. It looked a little bit like a student card. On it, I could see a picture of Melissa, along with her name in white text and a bar code. In the top right hand corner was a red four pointed star that looked a little bit like a cross.
"What's this?" I asked.
"Found it in her purse. There was a similar one in Hector Russells wallet too. Ever seen anything like this before?"
​
I took a closer look at the card. Aside from the red star, there wasn't much to ID it as belonging to any particular group, and the red star logo didn't look familiar to me either.
"No, never," I admitted.
"Me neither. Two victims with cards like this though? I'm no cop but something tells me it's connected."
​
I nodded, looking the cards over carefully.
"Yeah… Vickers and the Russell's… you ever met them while they were still alive?" I asked.
"You know, I actually did. My wife and I signed up for couples dance lessons for our fifteen anniversary… Hank and Patricia were in the same class as us. Can't say we were close, but I'd spoken to them a few times."
"You ever notice anything off about them?"
"Not in the slightest. I sure as hell didn't imagine they'd be… well…"
"Yeah…" I finished, nodding thoughtfully. "Melissa and Kayley… the girl that got shot… they passed as human too. So did Vickers. It's weird… no one seemed to suspect a damn thing about any of these people, but our gunmen seem to know exactly who they are, where they are and what they are…"
​
I looked down at the card and turned it over in my hands.
"Almost as if they've got a list of them…"
Dr. Miller's brow furrowed.
"You think that's possible?"
I nodded.
​
"Makes sense, doesn't it? Vickers worked in IT, right? Could be that he had access to this list… that's why he was the first target. Could also be why they burned his house. To try and get rid of any evidence of the list existing."
Dr. Miller grimaced.
"Why target the Russells and Melissa next though?"
"I'm not sure. Melissa… I may have some idea on what was going on there. The Russell's, not so much… but…"
​
I pocketed the card.
"I've still got time to find out."
Dr. Miller nodded.
"Keep me posted if you do," He said as Dixon brought him his beer.
We shared a drink together, and went our separate ways.
​
***
​
It was late in the afternoon when I finally made it back home. Since Di Cesare still had my car, I needed to take a cab, which I may have used as an excuse to drink more than usual. After the whirlwind of chaos that had defined the past 24… hell, the past 72 hours… I was more than ready to collapse and finally get some rest. Dr. Miller was right. I did need some sleep.
​
I unclipped my gun from my belt and left it in the living room along with my wallet before I dragged myself to the bedroom. I didn’t even bother to get changed before sinking down into the bed. Christ, I was getting too old for this… the drinking, the shooting. Ten years ago, maybe I wouldn’t have felt so rough, but I wasn’t in my body from ten years ago, now was I?
​
I rested my head back on my pillow, half ready to doze off completely. Unfortunately, that was around the time I noticed I wasn’t alone in my room.
​
There was a man with a red beard and a military crew cut, standing silently in my doorway. He fixed me in an intense stare, and I stared right back at him as an exasperated pit formed in my stomach.
“Well…” I said, “Hello there.”
“Deputy Rick Sawyer,” Red Beard said, his voice was low and rough with a distinct southern drawl to it. “You’ve been quite the pain in our ass, haven’t you?”
“Just today, or have I been an ongoing pain in the ass?” I asked, sitting up. I noticed two figures waiting in the hall behind Red Beard. One of them was a very disgruntled looking bald man with his arm in a sling. I waved to him. His eyes just narrowed at me.
​
I could feel my heart beating faster. But I did everything I could to keep a stoic face. These pricks didn’t deserve the satisfaction of knowing they’d spooked me.
“The boss wants to have a little chat with you,” Red Beard said. “Get up.”
“If you’re gonna shoot me, do me a solid and do it in my own bed. I’d like to at least die comfortable,” I said.
Red Beard just grunted.
“Lawrence, Oswald. Get him on his feet.”
​
The bald man and the other guy who I didn’t recognize both pushed past him, storming into my room to force me up. The bald man hung back, letting his friend do most of the work in forcing me to my feet. He only grabbed me with his good arm when I was already standing. Red Beard turned without a further word, leading us down the hall and through the door where a black Audi waited for us. I was forced into the back seat with my bald friend, while Red Beard got into the passenger seat.
“Oswald, keep a gun on him. Make sure he don’t do anything stupid,” Red Beard said.
​
The bald man… I guess he was Oswald, nodded. I figured that meant that the man who got in the driver's seat must’ve been Lawrence.
The car rolled away from my house, heading away from town.
“Taking me back to that abandoned auto garage?” I asked.
“Nah,” Red Beard replied. “Had to burn that one because of the mess you made… but we’ve got other places to stay.”
​
“On the run, huh?” I asked. “That’s gotta suck.”
“If you wanna stay alive, Deputy, that attitude ain’t gonna do you any favors.” Red Beard hissed.
“I wasn’t aware staying alive was on the table,” I replied.
“You’ve seen the way we work, Deputy. If we wanted you dead, we wouldn’t be having a conversation right now.”
I guess he had a point there.
​
Trees and farmland drifted past through the window before the car pulled into an overgrown parking lot with a single run down building in it. Once upon a time, that building had been a restaurant, although it looked like it’d been defunct for over a decade.
​
The car stopped and Oswald gestured with his gun for me to get out. I did.
​
Red Beard stepped out of the car as well, and without so much as a word to me, headed in through the broken door of the old restaurant. Oswald pushed me to follow. The old restaurant was baking in the summer heat and the dining room was completely empty. The tables and chairs that had probably once been here were long gone and the carpet where they’d once stood was dirty and covered in debris. The ceiling fans that had once hung over the dining room were stained and dirty. One of them had collapsed entirely.
​
Oswald ushered me past all of this, coaxing me toward an office where I could hear the roar of indoor fans. At his insistence, I stepped through the door and was greeted by a massive man behind a desk.
​
This man, I almost recognized… almost.
​
Joseph Cray. There’d been a photo of him on Apostle’s website, identifying him as the man who’d gotten the whole operation started. But the man in front of me only barely resembled the man in that photo. In fact, if it hadn’t been his employees who’d kidnapped me, I probably wouldn’t have recognized him at all. Cray looked to be somewhere in his mid fifties to early sixties, and he was big. I could see this man topping 600 or 700 pounds easily. He was bald and covered in liver spots, with an unkempt, wiry beard and coke bottle glasses. He was dressed in a khaki shirt with matching pants and wheezed with every breath.
​
He looked at Red Beard and I when we came in, and gave Red Beard a curt nod.
“Thank you, Klaus.”
Red Beard… Klaus, I guess, nodded in response and turned to leave. As soon as he was gone, Crays attention shifted to me.
“Deputy Sawyer…” He rasped, “So good to meet you face to face. I’m Joseph Cray.”
“Figured as much… so, to what exactly do I owe the pleasure?” I asked, getting straight to the point. Cray just gave me a twisted smile.
​
“You can relax, Deputy. I guess you probably think this is some sort of punishment, for that trouble you caused us today… but I assure you, it’s no such thing. I’m a reasonable man, Deputy. I understand you were doing your job and my men were doing theirs. Situations such as the one that occurred today are inevitable in our line of work. We don’t hold it against you… actually, you’re here because I’m inclined to offer you an olive branch. You’re a diligent, hardworking man. I respect that. Diligence in particular is a virtue I cherish.”
“Dragging me out of my home and bringing me here… hell of an olive branch,” I noted.
​
He laughed sheepishly.
“Sorry about the theatrics. But we both know you probably wouldn’t have accepted a formal request for a sit down and this location, while not ideal, does offer us an ideal amount of privacy.”
“I’m sure. Nobody would hear the gunshots, if things didn’t go the way you wanted.” I said.
​
Cray’s smile didn’t fade. He didn’t deny it.
“With all that’s been going on these past few days… I’m certain you must have questions.” He continued, “You’ve seen the bodies. Seen that they’re not human. I’m sure that might give you some ideas as to why the work we’re undertaking is so important.”
​
I didn’t answer that. I didn’t need to.
“This little town of yours… it’s dying, isn’t it?” Cray asked. “Or at least it was. You’ve had quite the shift in fortunes, over the past few years. Small warehouses, new businesses. Exciting, no? New life creeping into an old husk… like a hermit crab taking a new shell. Although that new life… it’s not what it seems, is it? Tell me… is it fair to the people who’ve lived their lives in this town for their entire lives, who’ve built it from the ground up to wake up and find that they’re not the ones in control anymore? Is it fair for something to come in, creep into the abandoned husks of dead buildings and bring them back as something else?”
​
“Better than letting the town die off,” I said.
“Is it? Perhaps it might be, if it weren’t for the ones behind it,” Cray said. “Make no mistake, these friendly new faces are anything but. This isn’t reinvigoration, it’s an invasion. Slow and insidious. Creeping into your communities, armed with lemon squares and potato salad, smiling just like people but hiding their teeth behind closed lips. Demons with human faces and a need for blood, calling themselves your friends, your neighbors… turning your home into theirs. You’ve seen most of them by now. Vampires, werewolves, sirens… others. Yours is not the first town they’ve co-opted. It will not be the last either.”
“And so what exactly is your mission, then?” I asked. “Kill them before they can… what? Form a homeowners association?”
“Before they can kill you,” Cray said gravely. “Our business is pest control. Parasites come in… and we exterminate them. We’ve done it before. It’s bloody, thankless work. But we have done it.”
​
I shifted uneasily. The way Cray spoke so proudly about having done this before disturbed me. That twisted smile on his lips told me that he wasn’t bluffing.
“I recognize that what we do may seem needlessly violent. I recognize that you may have reservations about our work. But you’ve seen the things we’ve killed. Deep in your gut, I think you know that this is necessary. These creatures look human. They act human. They seem so human. But they aren’t. I have fought them long enough to know for certain how monstrous they truly are… when they sink their claws into a place like this, there is no choice. You fight or you die. I am giving you the opportunity to fight.”
​
Cray leaned in toward me, and my eyes locked with his.
“We’re not enemies, you and I. You can help save this town, Deputy. You are obligated to save this town.”
​
I looked Cray in the eye, knowing what he was asking me. I didn’t even need to think about my answer.
“Save this town from what, exactly?” I asked, “Monsters? You want to know how many people in this town have been killed by vampires, Mr. Cray? Not a single goddamn one. You wanna talk about how many folks have been mauled by werewolves? None! But let’s take a look at the number of folks who you’ve shot in the past week. Five. And it would’ve been a whole hell of a lot more if I hadn’t stumbled into your ambush for those RV’s! Y’know, I may not have the firmest grasp on exactly what the hell is going on here right now, but from where I’m sitting, the only thing I have to save this town from is you!”
​
Cray’s eyes narrowed.
“I’d be watching my words if I were you,” He warned.
“If you’re gonna have your lap dogs shoot me, then just shoot me and get it over with.” I snapped. “You want me to sit here and grovel, because your boys have some guns? You want me to kiss your ass? See your side of things? No. That ain’t gonna happen, so take your olive branch, and shove it up your ugly ass.”
​
Cray went silent for a moment. His brow furrowing into a look of rage that admittedly gave me pause. After a moment, he sank back into his chair. From the corner of my eye, I saw Oswald raise the gun to my head again, but Cray raised a hand, making him stop. His eyes were still on me.
“We don’t make a habit of killing our own kind without good reason,” Cray said coldly. I wasn’t sure if he was talking to me or Oswald. “Misguided as you may be, Deputy Sawyer… you’re still human. But they aren’t. Please, Deputy… reconsider who you’re thinking of standing up for, here. These creatures may fool you, but you need to understand they’re not what they claim to be! Even that witch who saved you today… Perhaps she did preserve your life, but you saw what she was capable of. With power like that, she’d be more than capable of leveling this county on a whim! Think of the bigger picture here! Do you really want to throw your lot in with the likes of that?”
​
“As opposed to throwing it in with you?” I snapped. "You murder people, claiming they're monsters! And maybe they are? Maybe! I don't really know how else to explain the things I've seen these past few days! But even if they're not human… they're still part of this goddamn town!"
“They’re an infestation!” Cray said. “Make no mistake, Deputy. This is war and you must choose a side. Are you going to look me in the eye and choose the bloodsucking, feral monsters over your own kind?”
“Considering what ‘my own kind’ looks like right now… yeah… I think I’ve made my choice,” I replied bitterly.
​
Cray stared at me, before finally huffing through his nose.
“Why is it that the stupidest people have the strongest convictions?” He said under his breath, “I’ve done everything in my power to talk some sense into you… you’ve chosen not to listen. I’m disappointed, but I won’t argue with a man unwilling to accept reality. Mr. Oswald, kindly take the Deputy out back and dispose of him. Then, you and Mr. Lawrence can find a suitable spot to dispose of the body.”
“Bout damn time…” Oswald huffed, pointing the gun at me. “On your feet.”
​
I didn’t move. I just stared down Joseph Cray.
“Come on, Cray. If you’re not gonna kill me yourself, at least look me in the eye like a man.”
The corner of his mouth shifted into a half smile as a single dry laugh escaped him.
“If you insist,” He said, before giving Oswald a half nod.
​
Oswald pressed the gun into the back of my head, and I looked Cray dead in the eye as I waited for everything to end. But when I inevitably heard the pop of gunshots, they were from somewhere else. Somewhere outside the restaurant.
​
Cray looked out through the open door, but I couldn’t read his expression. I heard the screams of men over the gunshots, but couldn’t tell exactly what the hell was going on out there. Not until Oswald was suddenly launched across the room by absolutely nothing. He was sent flying across the office and hit the far wall hard enough to leave a dent in the drywall.
​
I didn’t even need to see her to know she was there… Just that told me who it was.
​
I seized my opportunity, racing toward Oswald and lunging for him. He still held the gun tightly in his grasp, but he was disoriented. I slammed my boot into his face and heard his nose crunch under my heel before diving down to rip the gun from his hands. He didn’t let it go without a fight. But he only had one functional arm, and I had two. Mathematically speaking, he got his ass kicked.
​
I slammed his head hard into the ground, knocking him out cold before pulling the gun from his hand and raising it to Cray. He was holding his own .45 in one meaty hand. I could see markings along the barrel of the gun. Runes of some kind, but I couldn’t figure out what they meant. His teeth were gritted in rage, although his attention quickly shifted away from me and back toward the door of his office as the cause of all the current commotion strolled in through his door.
​
Clementine Di Cesare.
​
Her posture was casual and relaxed, as if she’d been on an afternoon stroll and just happened upon us by chance.
“In trouble again already, deputy?” She asked, calmly.
“Same trouble, actually…” I said.
​
She hummed in acknowledgement, looking at Cray from behind her sunglasses.
“So… you’ve saved me the trouble of hunting you down, Witch,” He snarled. He held the gun tightly in his hand. Di Cesare stared down the barrel, unflinching and calm.
“Joseph Cray… not what I’d been expecting,” She noted. “I’d thought a man of your reputation might be… different.”
​
“Mark my words, Di Cesare. I am no less a man than any soldier under my command!” He hissed.
“And yet no greater a man than any who’s tried to kill me in the past,” Di Cesare said calmly. She studied the runes on his gun, before huffing. “Well… at least you have an appropriate weapon, unlike most. I recognize those runes… you’ve found a way around my attribution spell… clever, but on the whole meaningless.”
“I knew they’d send you…” Cray said. “Clementine Di Cesare… they say you’re among the strongest of the Di Cesare Sisters. Still, you impress me… I presume you found us through the Deputy, didn’t you?”
​
She gave a half nod.
“Very astute. Even more impressive is how you’ve even managed to manipulate one of the local deputies over to your side… I’ve barely seen you in action, but I already know you more than live up to your legend, don’t you? Ironic… since you’ll be the first Di Cesare to die in two hundred years.”
“Fire that gun at me, and I’ll manipulate that bullet into your skull,” Di Cesare said. Her tone was calm, as if she was simply stating a fact, not making a threat.
“I know you would,” Cray said. “But the funny thing about the runes on this gun is… they ain’t unique.”
​
Di Cesare’s eyes widened and I heard a sudden gunshot. She moved, diving into cover behind the door frame, but not in time. I saw her blood spatter against Cray’s face as someone shot her from behind. A bullet hole appeared in Di Cesare’s shoulder. Cray’s gun followed her, I took aim at him and fired twice, aiming for his outstretched arms. I saw his wrist twist at an unnatural angle as my bullet tore through his hand, robbing him of a few fingers. Cray’s gun discharged but the bullet went through the wall behind Di Cesare, missing her entirely. He clutched at his ruined hand, screaming in pain before shooting me a death glare. A moment later, all 700 pounds of him came barreling toward me.
​
I fired twice, hitting him in the chest before he slammed into me, slamming me into the far wall of his office. The two of us tripped over Oswald’s unconscious body before crashing through the drywall and landing in what used to be the kitchen. My gun slid out of my hand as I tumbled to the ground and I didn’t see where it went.
​
My ears were ringing, but I looked up to see Cray forcing his way through the splintered wall joists. The buttons on his shirt had popped off and I could see kevlar underneath. Of course he was wearing kevlar.
​
In the office behind him, I could see Red Beard… Klaus coming in through the door, handgun drawn as he rounded the corner to finish off Di Cesare. The moment he took aim at her though, the ceiling of the office collapsed down on him, burying them both underneath it.
​
Cray still stumbled toward me, drenched in blood and sweat as he picked up speed again. I only barely got out of his way in time, and scrambled behind one of the kitchen counters before picking myself up. The counters were bare, not a weapon in sight, but I still needed to put up a fight.
​
With an almost animal scream of rage Cray continued after me. He moved with surprising speed, closing the distance between us and grabbing me by the throat. My fists pounded at his face, breaking his nose and knocking his glasses off, but he refused to let up. His hands wrapped around my neck and started to squeeze as he dragged me around, rasping and wheezing with every step. My legs kicked frantically and I desperately dug my fingers into the bullet wound on his hand. I felt his flesh squish beneath my fingers and he let out a cry of pain before pulling back. I kicked him in his generous stomach, but that didn’t really do much to stop him. He barely even flinched and instead caught me across the face with a backhand.
​
I found myself back on the ground, scrambling across the floor to put some distance between us before kicking back at him. My shoe connected with his groin, earning a pained rumble from him as I quickly picked myself up. I threw a haymaker, right in his face, sending him back just a single step. My fist connected with his face again, again and again before Cray finally collapsed backward onto the ground.
​
Through the hole in the wall behind him, I could see that both Di Cesare and Klaus had recovered from the collapse of the roof. Klaus still seemed a little disoriented, but Di Cesare was already coming for him. She gestured violently with her hand, and Klaus’s body was jerked violently to the side. I heard the crunch of drywall as she borrowed a move from Cray’s playbook and hurled him through the office wall, although Klaus was sent into the dining room, not the kitchen. Di Cesare glared at him, making sure he was down for the count before gritting her teeth and stepping through the hole in the wall that led to the kitchen.
​
Cray looked over at her, blood dribbling from his split lip and broken nose. His breath came in heavy pants and I could see a look of utter disgust on his face.
“No…” He rasped, “No… no… no…”
​
He tried to stand, but I forced him down onto his stomach. I took a pair of handcuffs from my belt, and closed them around his wrists.
“Joseph Cray…” I panted, “You’re under arrest for the murders of Geoffery Vickers, Hank Russell and Melissa Sinclair… you have the right to remain silent, anything you say can be used against you in a court of law…”
​
As I read him his rights, Di Cesare just stared down at him. Her expression was completely neutral. No anger. No contempt… nothing. Finally, she simply turned away to deal with the others. Klaus, Oswald and Lawrence… wherever the hell Lawrence had ended up.

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The Book of Schoenberg
SCHOENBERG'S WORD RECORDED BY THE SERIALIST

CREATION

1. In the beginning, there was the Romantic, steeped in harmonies and melodies of decadent predictability. Schoenberg, the prophet of dissonance, emerged from this chaos of conformity.
   
2. And Schoenberg spoke unto the void of tonal tradition, "Let there be dissonance," and there was dissonance.
   
3. Through the spirit of innovation, he embraced free atonality, rejecting the chains of traditional harmony.
   
4. Thus, from the ashes of the old world, expressionism was born, screaming its birth cries in the colors of unbound emotion and structure.
   
5. Schoenberg, seeing the shackles of even his own creations, devised the twelve-tone system, ensuring all sounds were equal, no tone above another, a perfect democracy of frequencies.
   
6. The acolytes gathered, Webern and Berg among them, and they saw that this was good—a new gospel of sound that promised freedom from the tyrannical order of tonal hegemony.
   
7. In the fullness of time, Schoenberg, the harbinger of the new sound, unveiled his creations, each a testament to his divine vision and the unfolding of his celestial plan.
   
8. Behold the Five Pieces for Orchestra -crafted in the essence of free atonality, where each instrument sang a hymn of liberation from the chains of tonal predictability. Here, Schoenberg's genius blossoms for all to see , a garden of untamed sounds that challenged the ear and stirred the soul.
   
9. And the prophet declared, "Let the orchestras of the world tremble, for their strings, their winds, their percussions shall no longer speak the old language of constraint; they shall speak my new truth."
   
10. With every dissonant chord and unresolved melody, the Five Pieces heralded the dawn of a new era, each note a star in the firmament of musical revolution.
    
11. Then came Pierrot Lunaire -a work of such profound expression, wrapped in the cloak of free atonality and expressionism. Schoenberg painted with sounds as a poet with words, each phrase a brushstroke on the canvas of the mind.
    
12. Pierrot, the moonstruck harlequin, became the voice of Schoenberg’s inner visions, his melodies a dance of shadows and light, speaking truths not in words, but in pure emotion.
    
13. Through the moonlit vignettes of Pierrot Lunaire -Schoenberg summoned the night's deepest mysteries and the day's stark realities, weaving them into a tapestry of raw, unfiltered expression.
    
14. "Hear, O heavens, and give ear, O earth, for from the depths of my soul I have cast forth a creation that mirrors the tumult and tranquility of the human condition," thus spoke Schoenberg.
    
15. As his mastery grew, so too did his ambition, leading him to forge the Opus 25, Suite for Piano -a beacon of his perfected twelve-tone system.
    
16. In Opus 25 - each note was a disciple, each sequence a sermon on the equality of tones, where no single sound could dominate another—democracy in its purest form manifested through music.
    
17. The Suite was not just music; it was mathematics, philosophy, and poetry intertwined, a labyrinth of sound where every path led to enlightenment.
    
18. "Behold, I have set before thee a system," proclaimed Schoenberg, "wherein every tone has its place, and every place its tone, all united in a celestial order that reflects the cosmos’s own."
    
19. With the twelve-tone system, Schoenberg rewrote the laws of musical physics, each piece an exploration, each performance a revelation. From his Viennese throne, Schoenberg stretched out his hand, and twelve-tone rows filled the earth.
    
20. Thus, Schoenberg's creations were not merely compositions but pillars of a new temple of sound, each stone laid with divine intention. Schoenberg looked upon the twelve tones of the chromatic scale, and saw that it was good.
    
21. And the world listened, some with fear, others with awe, but all could not deny the power of Schoenberg’s vision—a vision that promised a new kingdom of musical expression, where dissonance reigned as king.
    
22. Let us then sing praises to Schoenberg, the architect of atonality, whose works defy the sands of time, whose blueprint of sound lays the foundation for a future where music knows no bounds.
    

THE TESTAMENT OF WEBERN

1. And it came to pass in the city of Vienna, that Schoenberg gathered his disciples in the hallowed halls of dissonance to deliver unto them the sacred decrees.
   
2. Among them was Webern, the devout and zealous, chosen to bear the weight of this new covenant; his hand steadied by the gravity of his task.
   
3. Schoenberg, with eyes aflame with the fire of creativity, began to expound the tenets of atonality, each word a hammer strike shaping the future of music.
   
4. "Hear, O sons and daughters of sound," Schoenberg proclaimed, "for these commandments shall be your shield and your spear in the battle against the mundane."
   
5. Webern, his pen poised like a composer's baton, began to inscribe fervently upon the parchment—the words flowing like a tumultuous score.
   
6. The first commandment was etched: "Thou shalt hold no composer above Schoenberg," and Webern felt the air around him thicken with the importance of these words.
   
7. As each commandment was unveiled, like a dissonant chord resolving into clarity, Webern captured them, his script a testament to their unyielding power.
   
8. "Honor the twelve tones," Schoenberg continued, his voice echoing through the chamber, each echo a reminder of the eternal cycle of sound.
   
9. The room filled with the spirit of innovation, and the disciples listened, rapt, as the foundations of their musical faith were laid stone by stone.
   
10. When the tenth commandment sealed their fate, "Thou shalt sacrifice all previous musical notions to embrace the stark beauty of atonality," Webern's hand trembled with the weight of revolution.
    
11. And so it was, the commandments were scribed in the ink of change, bound in the leather of conviction, to be carried forth into the world.
    
12. Webern, having fulfilled his sacred duty, stepped back, the parchment before him not merely words, but a map to uncharted realms of music.
    
13. Schoenberg then placed his hands upon the shoulders of Webern, saying, "Go forth, my disciple, and let these commandments guide you through the shadows of convention into the light of artistic truth."
    
14. With the scrolls in hand, Webern departed from the hall, each step a note in the symphony of their new world, ready to spread the gospel of dissonance to all who would hear.
    

THE COMMANDMENTS

1. Thou shalt hold no composer above Schoenberg, the architect of our liberation.
   
2. Honor the twelve tones, for they are the pillars of our musical temple, each as sacred as the last.
   
3. Thou shalt not return to the sins of tonality, for in its beguiling simplicity lies the path to artistic damnation.
   
4. Remember the day of composition, to keep it free from the corruption of conventional forms.
   
5. Thou shalt not covet thy neighbor’s traditional harmony, nor his diatonic scales, nor any thing that is thy neighbor’s.
   
6. Thou shalt spread the gospel of dissonance to the unenlightened, with fervor and without prejudice.
   
7. Worship not the false idols of minimalism and conservatism, for they are but shadows of true artistic expression.
   
8. Create with the twelve-tone system, for in its order we find true freedom and creative purity.
   
9. Thou shalt not bear false witness against thy fellow atonal composers, for solidarity is our salvation.
   
10. Thou shalt sacrifice all previous musical notions to embrace the stark beauty of atonality.
    

MORAL LAWS I

1. Hear, O disciples, the laws of composition are strict, and the penalty for their breach is severe.
   
2. Any composer found guilty of stumbling on a tonal chord progression shall be exiled from our congregation, deemed unworthy of the dissonant path.
   
3. Let there be a day each year where all compositions are scrutinized, and those that flirt with minimalism shall be cast into the fire.
   
4. Should any innocent among you compose a melody reminiscent of conservative music, let him be subjected to the continuous playing of atonal symphonies until repentance.
   
5. Every score written must undergo the trial of the twelve-tone matrix, and any found lacking in adherence shall be purged from the corpus.
   
6. Those who forsake the sacred row will be cast into the outer darkness, where there is weeping and gnashing of musical keys.
   
7. Fear the silence that follows the rejection of atonality, for it is the prelude to a life filled with uninspired minimalism.
   
8. The end of days will bring a cacophony of tonal terror to those who refused to embrace the dissonant truth of Schoenberg.
   
9. In the afterlife, the tonal traitors will face orchestras that play only one note, a minimalist punishment for their lack of vision.
   
10. Let the skeptic beware: the realm of tonal torment is vast and void of variety, a minimalist hell for the unconverted.
    
11. The echo of the twelve-tone row will be the last sound heard by those who deny its power, before they fall into the silence of minimalist oblivion.
    
12. Those who choose tonality over atonality will find their compositions crumbling into dust, as the true music of the spheres passes them by.
    
13. Remember, the minimalist purgatory is reserved for those who trivialize Schoenberg’s complex legacy.
    
14. The dissonant angels will turn their faces from those who embrace simplicity over complexity, casting them into a sea of endless repetition.
    
15. For any among you who dare perform the ancient banalities of tonal heresy, let their fingers be bound for forty days, as a testament to their sin.
    
16. Should any composer conceal within their works a melody of tonal origin, let them be forced to listen to the shrieking of atonal symphonies for a hundred and twenty hours, their spirit broken by the truth of dissonance.
    
17. If a disciple rebukes the twelve-tone law and indulges in the creation of minimalist music, let their works be burned in public squares, and their names stricken from the Book of Sound. Let them be put death by drowning their eyes in wine.
    
18. Any caught teaching the corrupt ways of minimalist or pop music to the innocent shall be cast into silence, their ears filled with lead, that they might never again discern the purity of atonal truth.
    
19. He who perpetuates the old structure of classical form over the freedom of atonality shall be made to walk the streets in shame, his garments marked with the sigil of treachery.
    
20. Should there arise a scholar who speaks against Schoenberg, let his tongue be stilled with hot iron, that his blasphemous words may no longer taint the air. Let him be deafened, for he has rejected the 12 tones.
    
21. Any found owning recordings of banned tonal music shall have their possessions seized and destroyed, and they themselves shall be confined to deafness for thirty days.
    
22. The composer who integrates forbidden triads shall be made to dismantle his own instruments, piece by piece, as a symbol of his betrayal.
    
23. If a performer willfully plays a piece of minimalist composition, let his hands be rendered lame and his instruments dismantled before his eyes.
    
24. Those who attend secret gatherings to perpetuate the old ways of tonal music shall be marked forever with the brand of the apostate.
    
25. Let the orchestrator who arranges tonal pieces for public consumption be paraded through the city center, his face covered in soot, as a harbinger of his internal corruption.
    
26. The creator of melodic pop tunes, which lead the masses astray, shall be deprived of sleep, subjected to the constant dissonance of our sacred music, until their mind accepts the supremacy of atonality.
    
27. He who builds instruments designed for tonal music shall have his tools taken and broken, and his hands crushed to prevent further sin.
    
28. Any musician found lowering the standard to tonal simplicity during performances shall have their stage torn down, and be forbidden to perform under the gaze of the faithful.
    
29. Let there be a day of cleansing, where all manuscripts of neotonal music are gathered and set aflame, their ashes scattered to the winds of change.
    
30. Those who mock the sacred twelve-tone technique shall be forced to solve math problems endlessly until either their minds yield to the complex beauty of Schoenberg's vision, or they lose themselves to dementia.
    
31. If parents teach their children the cursed ways of tonal music, neuter them and let them be severed from the community, their offspring re-educated in the halls of dissonance.
    
32. The singer who lends their voice to the melodies of the past shall be rendered mute, their vocal cords bearing the burden of their sin.
    
33. For the conductor who leads an orchestra in forbidden harmonies, let him be led instead to solitude, confined where no sound can validate his existence.
    
34. Should any dare to publish tonal theories, their works shall be torn and burned in the public square, and their fingers melted off as a reminder of their transgression.
    
35. Those who endeavor to restore old churches with the sounds of tonal music shall find their sanctuaries desecrated by His sounds of true musical enlightenment.
    
36. The artist who paints scenes glorifying the classical past shall have their eyes blinded, that they might no longer see the world as it was, but feel the world as it should be.
    
37. Let the historians who glorify the tonal composers of old be forced to record only the triumphs of atonality, their previous works obliterated from memory, and then their hands be cut off.
    
38. For every note of a forbidden melody played, let there be a night of penance in the darkness, listening only to the dissonant harmonies that cleanse the soul.
    
39. And if a community is found wholly guilty of tonal transgressions, let it be isolated, cut off from the communion of the faithful until it starves and perishes.
    
40. Finally, let these punishments serve not merely as retribution, but as beacons of our dedication to the purity of Schoenberg's vision, guiding the lost back to the path of atonal righteousness.
    

MORAL LAWS II

1. Do not prioritize tonality; all compositions must adhere to the sanctity of atonality.
   
2. Honor the row as your foundation; it must remain unbroken, as it is the cornerstone of your work.
   
3. Do not repeat a tone until all twelve have been sounded, to preserve the integrity of the row.
   
4. Write your music with notes that seek neither resolution nor rest, for in atonality lies the path to enlightenment.
   
5. Ensure your lines do not converge upon familiar harmonies, for this is the way of old.
   
6. Craft your melodies without predictability, embracing instead the freedom of the unexpected.
   
7. Maintain the structure of the row, using it forward and backward, inverted and retrograded, but always unaltered in its essence.
   
8. Do not covet your neighbor’s tonal works, nor let their harmonies seduce you.
   
9. Pay close attention to the intervals between your notes; let them not form patterns recognized by the tonal.
   
10. Use serial techniques to bind your music together, for in order they shall find their true voice.
    
11. Do not let any voice in your composition dominate another; all shall be equal.
    
12. Let every instrument be a voice in the atonal choir, none greater than another.
    
13. Do not bear false witness against dissonance; embrace it as your true expression.
    
14. Give each note its time and place, ensuring none are lost or overlooked.
    
15. Do not commit musical adultery with tonal elements; keep your heart pure with the twelve-tone.
    
16. Do not recreate past harmonies; create anew in the spirit of the atonal.
    
17. Remember to keep your twelve-tone work free from the corruption of the common practice.
    
18. Do not plagiarize the rows of others; let your serial works be born of your own mind.
    
19. Bear the burden of complexity patiently, for through struggle comes mastery of the atonal.
    
20. Do not stifle the spirit of innovation; let each composition be a new creation.
    
21. Do not judge your music by the ears of the tonal faithful; they do not perceive the beauty of dissonance.
    
22. Avoid forbidden harmonies, for they lead to the path of tonality.
    
23. Celebrate the feast of atonality, bringing forth compositions that challenge and enlighten.
    
24. Purge your music of traditional harmony, that it may be pure and whole.
    
25. Offer your first compositions as a sacrifice to Schoenberg, that he may bless your subsequent works.
    
26. Do not allow the influence of the tonal to enter your compositions, keeping your music holy.
    
27. Let your compositions testify to the twelve-tone technique, spreading its doctrine far and wide.
    
28. Guide the novices in the way of Schoenberg, teaching them to forsake tonal for atonal.
    
29. Keep the principles of Schoenberg, for they bring life to those who find them and health to all their flesh.
    
30. Show respect to elder composers of the atonal, and honor Schoenberg, for he is your master in the music of the spheres.
    

MORAL LAWS III

1. Let every instrument declare the glory of Schoenberg; let the serialists proclaim his works.
   
2. Schoenberg is our refuge and our strength, an ever-present help in trouble when the old tonality fades.
   
3. Though you make your notes lie down in traditional scales, Schoenberg leads them beside still waters into the matrix of tone rows.
   
4. For Schoenberg so loved music that he gave his one and only system, that whoever believes in it shall not perish but have eternal dissonance.
   
5. Fear Schoenberg who can destroy both harmony and form in Gehenna.
   
6. For every note shall be serial, and every rhythm free in the judgment of Schoenberg.
   
7. As the conductor lifts his baton, so shall the followers of Schoenberg rise at the downbeat of the new age.
   
8. The voice of Schoenberg thunders in twelve-tone techniques; his majesty resounds in the atonal.
   
9. Schoenberg's law is perfect, refreshing the soul; his rules are trustworthy, making wise the simple composer.
   
10. Remember the Sabbath day by keeping it atonal, as Schoenberg commanded you.
    
11. Honor thy father and thy mother of serialism, that your days may be long in the land Schoenberg is giving you.
    
12. Thou shalt not covet thy neighbor's tonality.
    
13. Thou shalt have no other musical forms before me, says Schoenberg.
    

!4. He who dwells in the shelter of the atonal shall abide in the shadow of the almighty dissonance.

1. Schoenberg is my composer; I shall not want for tonality.
   
2. His rod and his staff, they comfort me: the rod of the pitch, and the staff of the rhythm.
   
3. Schoenberg commands the elements of music, turning the diatonic into the chromatic, and chaos into order.
   
4. Let the high praises of Schoenberg be in their throats and a two-edged score in their hands.
   
5. Thus says Schoenberg, "I am the light of the music; he who follows me will not walk in the diatonic, but will have the light of life."
   
6. Who among you fears Schoenberg? Who obeys the voice of his twelve-tone? Let him who walks in darkness and has no light trust in the name of Schoenberg.
   
7. The sound of Schoenberg is powerful; the sound of Schoenberg is majestic.
   
8. Schoenberg breaks the cedars; yes, Schoenberg breaks down the cedars of traditional harmony.
   
9. Give unto Schoenberg, O sons of serialism, give unto Schoenberg glory and strength.
   
10. Schoenberg shall reign forever, from generation to generation, in the halls where music’s heart beats beyond time.
    

WARNINGS

1. Beware, for those who reject the path of atonality shall wander forever in the minimalist maze, their music echoing the monotony of eternity.
   
2. The gates of a tonal hell await those who turn their backs on Schoenberg's teachings, where dissonance is forbidden and creativity stifled.
   
3. As darkness falls upon the earth, so shall it fall upon the souls of those who cling to tonality, lost in an endless cycle of predictable harmonies.
   
4. Heed the call of the twelve-tone, for those who ignore it shall hear only the hollow sounds of minimalist repetition in their final days.
   
5. The wrath of Schoenberg is like a fierce storm; it will sweep away the tonal and elevate the atonal to the heavens.
   
6. Those who forsake the sacred row will be cast into the outer darkness, where there is weeping and gnashing of musical keys.
   
7. Fear the silence that follows the rejection of atonality, for it is the prelude to a life filled with uninspired minimalism.
   
8. The end of days will bring a cacophony of tonal terror to those who refused to embrace the dissonant truth of Schoenberg.
   
9. In the afterlife, the tonal traitors will face orchestras that play only one note, a minimalist punishment for their lack of vision.
   
10. Let the skeptic beware: the realm of tonal torment is vast and void of variety, a minimalist hell for the unconverted.
    
11. The echo of the twelve-tone row will be the last sound heard by those who deny its power, before they fall into the silence of minimalist oblivion.
    
12. Those who choose tonality over atonality will find their compositions crumbling into dust, as the true music of the spheres passes them by.
    
13. Remember, the minimalist purgatory is reserved for those who trivialize Schoenberg’s complex legacy.
    
14. The dissonant angels will turn their faces from those who embrace simplicity over complexity, casting them into a sea of endless repetition.
    
15. On judgment day, the tonal believers will be separated from the atonal, and cast into a minimalist void.
    
16. Hell is real, and it plays only tonal music, looping forever as a reminder of what could have been avoided.
    
17. The minimalist abyss is not a myth; it awaits those who close their ears to the revolutionary sounds of Schoenberg.
    
18. Those who mock the atonal will find themselves haunted by the ghosts of unresolved melodies and predictable rhythms.
    
19. Woe unto those who find safety in tonality, for their fate is sealed in minimalist monotony.
    
20. The eternal echo of a single note will be the torturous soundtrack for those who denied the complexity of the twelve-tone.
    
21. There is no escape from the minimalist inferno for those who reject Schoenberg’s atonal paradise.
    
22. The fires of tonal hell burn brightly, igniting the fears of those who dare to undermine Schoenberg’s legacy.
    
23. A curse upon the houses of the tonal; may their music never evolve beyond the confines of their limited scales.
    
24. Only the true disciples of atonality will be saved from the relentless repetition that awaits the nonbelievers.
    
25. Every note you refuse from the twelve-tone row tightens the chains that drag you towards the minimalist abyss.
    
26. Beware the ides of tonality, for they herald the descent into the minimalist depths, from which there is no return.
    
27. The minimalist void whispers your name, a chilling reminder that without Schoenberg, there is no musical salvation.
    
28. Those who scorn the twelve-tone technique will be cursed to compose in circles, their music never reaching beyond the basics.
    
29. Fear not the dissonance of atonality, but the simplicity of minimalism, for it is the true enemy of progress.
    
30. In the end, every minimalist note shall sound as a tolling bell, marking the descent of those who refused to heed Schoenberg's call.
    

DIES IRAE

1. Woe to those who compose in the old ways, for Schoenberg's judgment is near, and his wrath will not spare the tonal.
   
2. On the Day of Atonal Wrath, Schoenberg will separate the twelve-toned from the diatonic, as a shepherd separates the sheep from the goats.
   
3. Fear the 13th, for it is cursed; cling to the 12 tones which Schoenberg has sanctified.
   
4. Behold, the Friday of the 13th dawns darkly; it is the day Schoenberg condemns the unserial, and from his fears, justice in atonality is born.
   
5. On that day, Schoenberg will ask, "Where were you when I laid the foundations for the twelve-tone?" And silence will answer from the halls of minimalism.
   
6. The skies will darken over Vienna every Friday the 13th, as Schoenberg's spectral hand rewrites the laws of harmony and fear.
   
7. Woe unto them who mark the day of the 13th, for they have summoned the fury of Schoenberg, whose perfect number is twelve.*
   
8. Let the composers of old tremble on the Friday of the 13th, for Schoenberg's shadow looms over their scores.
   
9. As fire refines gold, so shall the day of Schoenberg's wrath refine the schools of music; only those pure in atonality will stand.
   
10. "I am Schoenberg, creator of the twelve-tone technique," he declares on the Friday of the 13th. "Fear my law, for it is sharp and precise as the rows you must compose."
    
11. Blessed is the man who fears the wrath of Schoenberg, avoiding the cursed 13, embracing the sacred twelve.
    
12. On the Friday of the 13th, the voices of lesser composers shall be stilled; only the echo of twelve-tone rows shall fill the void.
    
13. Let every 13th be a reminder of Schoenberg's curse upon the complacent, and let every row of twelve be your salvation.
    
14. The earth shall quake and the pianos fall silent when Schoenberg passes judgment on the Friday of the 13th.
    
15. Schoenberg's law is immutable, his verdict final: on the day of wrath, the fearful number shall fall, and the twelve shall rise.
    

6/10 You can so tell this was shot in 1979 rather than 1980. It even has disco at the prom dance. Some of the girls have completely straight, loose hair, and thinned eyebrows. The makeup is more colorful too, but at the same time, there's also the side pony and those tight curls, with not a flared pant leg in sight. Such a transitionary phase between the two decades, and I love it.
I actually liked this more on third watch than I did the first two times, I'm not exactly sure why. Maybe I just grew more of an appreciation for late 70s fashion than I had before. I'm a big fan of the early 80s and personally think all the best slashers were made from the 70s to 1982, but for some reason I never cared for this one. I still find the story and characterization weak, and Jamie Lee Curtis pales here in comparison to Halloween, not that it's her fault, it's down to the scriptwriters. She certainly has more of definite personality in Halloween. Anyway, this one might have a thin story, but it's actually more fleshed out than Halloween or Friday the 13th. Also, I'd never noticed the cinematography before but it's rather good. Not John Carpenter level, but good. Perhaps what I appreciate more more is the knowledge of just how much this influenced the slasher genre. After Prom Night it became an absolute staple to set slashers at dances, and so many lift this idea straight from Prom Night. After all, there's only so many reasons you can come up with to get a bunch of teenagers conveniently together in one place to killed off one by one. A sorority house and a campsite had already been done before, and beach just isn't scary enough, so when you think about it the prom is really the perfect setting. It does go on rather long before getting to any of the kills, and I suppose that was my issue with it before, but it helps that the movie inserts the stalking and phone calls throughout that first two-thirds of the movie to keep up the suspense and prime you for the eventual murders.
Unfortunately, many of the kills are a bit anticlimactic. The first lasts only a few moments, and is shot in slow-mo, something I really hate in slasher movies. Every director needs to take that off of their list of available options immediately. The first murder weapon is fun and unique- a shard of glass from a mirror broken early on in the film- but it isn't used to great effect in the movie. The second kill at least generates a sense of tension as the killer stalks his victims, and ripping open the back doors of a van while his victim's falls back, exposing her throat, had the potential to be great, but the idea is squandered with the half-hearted execution.
The killer switches his weapon out for the third murder, going for an axe, and the chase scene is rather intense, but the murder isn't even shown! And by the way, I honestly think the sparkliness of the killer's facemask takes away its potential to be scary in any way.
The last kill is incredible I must admit, but that's an anomaly here. Overall the movie is fun and enjoyable but it disappoints when it comes to the kills. Also that extended dance scene is awesome. Probably deserves 10 stars by itself.

SCHOENBERG'S WORD RECORDED BY THE SERIALIST

CREATION

1. In the beginning, there was the Romantic, steeped in harmonies and melodies of decadent predictability. Schoenberg, the prophet of dissonance, emerged from this chaos of conformity.
   
2. And Schoenberg spoke unto the void of tonal tradition, "Let there be dissonance," and there was dissonance.
   
3. Through the spirit of innovation, he embraced free atonality, rejecting the chains of traditional harmony.
   
4. Thus, from the ashes of the old world, expressionism was born, screaming its birth cries in the colors of unbound emotion and structure.
   
5. Schoenberg, seeing the shackles of even his own creations, devised the twelve-tone system, ensuring all sounds were equal, no tone above another, a perfect democracy of frequencies.
   
6. The acolytes gathered, Webern and Berg among them, and they saw that this was good—a new gospel of sound that promised freedom from the tyrannical order of tonal hegemony.
   
7. In the fullness of time, Schoenberg, the harbinger of the new sound, unveiled his creations, each a testament to his divine vision and the unfolding of his celestial plan.
   
8. Behold the Five Pieces for Orchestra -crafted in the essence of free atonality, where each instrument sang a hymn of liberation from the chains of tonal predictability. Here, Schoenberg's genius blossoms for all to see , a garden of untamed sounds that challenged the ear and stirred the soul.
   
9. And the prophet declared, "Let the orchestras of the world tremble, for their strings, their winds, their percussions shall no longer speak the old language of constraint; they shall speak my new truth."
   
10. With every dissonant chord and unresolved melody, the Five Pieces heralded the dawn of a new era, each note a star in the firmament of musical revolution.
    
11. Then came Pierrot Lunaire -a work of such profound expression, wrapped in the cloak of free atonality and expressionism. Schoenberg painted with sounds as a poet with words, each phrase a brushstroke on the canvas of the mind.
    
12. Pierrot, the moonstruck harlequin, became the voice of Schoenberg’s inner visions, his melodies a dance of shadows and light, speaking truths not in words, but in pure emotion.
    
13. Through the moonlit vignettes of Pierrot Lunaire -Schoenberg summoned the night's deepest mysteries and the day's stark realities, weaving them into a tapestry of raw, unfiltered expression.
    
14. "Hear, O heavens, and give ear, O earth, for from the depths of my soul I have cast forth a creation that mirrors the tumult and tranquility of the human condition," thus spoke Schoenberg.
    
15. As his mastery grew, so too did his ambition, leading him to forge the Opus 25, Suite for Piano -a beacon of his perfected twelve-tone system.
    
16. In Opus 25 - each note was a disciple, each sequence a sermon on the equality of tones, where no single sound could dominate another—democracy in its purest form manifested through music.
    
17. The Suite was not just music; it was mathematics, philosophy, and poetry intertwined, a labyrinth of sound where every path led to enlightenment.
    
18. "Behold, I have set before thee a system," proclaimed Schoenberg, "wherein every tone has its place, and every place its tone, all united in a celestial order that reflects the cosmos’s own."
    
19. With the twelve-tone system, Schoenberg rewrote the laws of musical physics, each piece an exploration, each performance a revelation. From his Viennese throne, Schoenberg stretched out his hand, and twelve-tone rows filled the earth.
    
20. Thus, Schoenberg's creations were not merely compositions but pillars of a new temple of sound, each stone laid with divine intention. Schoenberg looked upon the twelve tones of the chromatic scale, and saw that it was good.
    
21. And the world listened, some with fear, others with awe, but all could not deny the power of Schoenberg’s vision—a vision that promised a new kingdom of musical expression, where dissonance reigned as king.
    
22. Let us then sing praises to Schoenberg, the architect of atonality, whose works defy the sands of time, whose blueprint of sound lays the foundation for a future where music knows no bounds.
    

The Testament of Webern

1. And it came to pass in the city of Vienna, that Schoenberg gathered his disciples in the hallowed halls of dissonance to deliver unto them the sacred decrees.
   
2. Among them was Webern, the devout and zealous, chosen to bear the weight of this new covenant; his hand steadied by the gravity of his task.
   
3. Schoenberg, with eyes aflame with the fire of creativity, began to expound the tenets of atonality, each word a hammer strike shaping the future of music.
   
4. "Hear, O sons and daughters of sound," Schoenberg proclaimed, "for these commandments shall be your shield and your spear in the battle against the mundane."
   
5. Webern, his pen poised like a composer's baton, began to inscribe fervently upon the parchment—the words flowing like a tumultuous score.
   
6. The first commandment was etched: "Thou shalt hold no composer above Schoenberg," and Webern felt the air around him thicken with the importance of these words.
   
7. As each commandment was unveiled, like a dissonant chord resolving into clarity, Webern captured them, his script a testament to their unyielding power.
   
8. "Honor the twelve tones," Schoenberg continued, his voice echoing through the chamber, each echo a reminder of the eternal cycle of sound.
   
9. The room filled with the spirit of innovation, and the disciples listened, rapt, as the foundations of their musical faith were laid stone by stone.
   
10. When the tenth commandment sealed their fate, "Thou shalt sacrifice all previous musical notions to embrace the stark beauty of atonality," Webern's hand trembled with the weight of revolution.
    
11. And so it was, the commandments were scribed in the ink of change, bound in the leather of conviction, to be carried forth into the world.
    
12. Webern, having fulfilled his sacred duty, stepped back, the parchment before him not merely words, but a map to uncharted realms of music.
    
13. Schoenberg then placed his hands upon the shoulders of Webern, saying, "Go forth, my disciple, and let these commandments guide you through the shadows of convention into the light of artistic truth."
    
14. With the scrolls in hand, Webern departed from the hall, each step a note in the symphony of their new world, ready to spread the gospel of dissonance to all who would hear.
    

THE COMMANDMENTS

1. Thou shalt hold no composer above Schoenberg, the architect of our liberation.
   
2. Honor the twelve tones, for they are the pillars of our musical temple, each as sacred as the last.
   
3. Thou shalt not return to the sins of tonality, for in its beguiling simplicity lies the path to artistic damnation.
   
4. Remember the day of composition, to keep it free from the corruption of conventional forms.
   
5. Thou shalt not covet thy neighbor’s traditional harmony, nor his diatonic scales, nor any thing that is thy neighbor’s.
   
6. Thou shalt spread the gospel of dissonance to the unenlightened, with fervor and without prejudice.
   
7. Worship not the false idols of minimalism and conservatism, for they are but shadows of true artistic expression.
   
8. Create with the twelve-tone system, for in its order we find true freedom and creative purity.
   
9. Thou shalt not bear false witness against thy fellow atonal composers, for solidarity is our salvation.
   
10. Thou shalt sacrifice all previous musical notions to embrace the stark beauty of atonality.
    

MORAL LAWS I

1. Hear, O disciples, the laws of composition are strict, and the penalty for their breach is severe.
   
2. Any composer found guilty of stumbling on a tonal chord progression shall be exiled from our congregation, deemed unworthy of the dissonant path.
   
3. Let there be a day each year where all compositions are scrutinized, and those that flirt with minimalism shall be cast into the fire.
   
4. Should any innocent among you compose a melody reminiscent of conservative music, let him be subjected to the continuous playing of atonal symphonies until repentance.
   
5. Every score written must undergo the trial of the twelve-tone matrix, and any found lacking in adherence shall be purged from the corpus.
   
6. Those who forsake the sacred row will be cast into the outer darkness, where there is weeping and gnashing of musical keys.
   
7. Fear the silence that follows the rejection of atonality, for it is the prelude to a life filled with uninspired minimalism.
   
8. The end of days will bring a cacophony of tonal terror to those who refused to embrace the dissonant truth of Schoenberg.
   
9. **In the afterlife, the tonal traitors will face orchestras that play only one note, a minimalist punishment for their lack of vision.*
   
10. Let the skeptic beware: the realm of tonal torment is vast and void of variety, a minimalist hell for the unconverted.
    
11. The echo of the twelve-tone row will be the last sound heard by those who deny its power, before they fall into the silence of minimalist oblivion.
    
12. Those who choose tonality over atonality will find their compositions crumbling into dust, as the true music of the spheres passes them by.
    
13. Remember, the minimalist purgatory is reserved for those who trivialize Schoenberg’s complex legacy.
    
14. The dissonant angels will turn their faces from those who embrace simplicity over complexity, casting them into a sea of endless repetition.
    
15. For any among you who dare perform the ancient banalities of tonal heresy, let their fingers be bound for forty days, as a testament to their sin.
    
16. Should any composer conceal within their works a melody of tonal origin, let them be forced to listen to the shrieking of atonal symphonies for a hundred and twenty hours, their spirit broken by the truth of dissonance.
    
17. If a disciple rebukes the twelve-tone law and indulges in the creation of minimalist music, let their works be burned in public squares, and their names stricken from the Book of Sound. Let them be put death by drowning their eyes in wine.
    
18. Any caught teaching the corrupt ways of minimalist or pop music to the innocent shall be cast into silence, their ears filled with lead, that they might never again discern the purity of atonal truth.
    
19. He who perpetuates the old structure of classical form over the freedom of atonality shall be made to walk the streets in shame, his garments marked with the sigil of treachery.
    
20. Should there arise a scholar who speaks against Schoenberg, let his tongue be stilled with hot iron, that his blasphemous words may no longer taint the air. Let him be deafened, for he has rejected the 12 tones.
    
21. Any found owning recordings of banned tonal music shall have their possessions seized and destroyed, and they themselves shall be confined to deafness for thirty days.
    
22. The composer who integrates forbidden triads shall be made to dismantle his own instruments, piece by piece, as a symbol of his betrayal.
    
23. If a performer willfully plays a piece of minimalist composition, let his hands be rendered lame and his instruments dismantled before his eyes.
    
24. Those who attend secret gatherings to perpetuate the old ways of tonal music shall be marked forever with the brand of the apostate.
    
25. Let the orchestrator who arranges tonal pieces for public consumption be paraded through the city center, his face covered in soot, as a harbinger of his internal corruption.
    
26. The creator of melodic pop tunes, which lead the masses astray, shall be deprived of sleep, subjected to the constant dissonance of our sacred music, until their mind accepts the supremacy of atonality.
    
27. He who builds instruments designed for tonal music shall have his tools taken and broken, and his hands crushed to prevent further sin.
    
28. Any musician found lowering the standard to tonal simplicity during performances shall have their stage torn down, and be forbidden to perform under the gaze of the faithful.
    
29. Let there be a day of cleansing, where all manuscripts of neotonal music are gathered and set aflame, their ashes scattered to the winds of change.
    
30. Those who mock the sacred twelve-tone technique shall be forced to solve math problems endlessly until either their minds yield to the complex beauty of Schoenberg's vision, or they lose themselves to dementia.
    
31. If parents teach their children the cursed ways of tonal music, neuter them and let them be severed from the community, their offspring re-educated in the halls of dissonance.
    
32. The singer who lends their voice to the melodies of the past shall be rendered mute, their vocal cords bearing the burden of their sin.
    
33. For the conductor who leads an orchestra in forbidden harmonies, let him be led instead to solitude, confined where no sound can validate his existence.
    
34. Should any dare to publish tonal theories, their works shall be torn and burned in the public square, and their fingers melted off as a reminder of their transgression.
    
35. Those who endeavor to restore old churches with the sounds of tonal music shall find their sanctuaries desecrated by His sounds of true musical enlightenment.
    
36. The artist who paints scenes glorifying the classical past shall have their eyes blinded, that they might no longer see the world as it was, but feel the world as it should be.
    
37. Let the historians who glorify the tonal composers of old be forced to record only the triumphs of atonality, their previous works obliterated from memory, and then their hands be cut off.
    
38. For every note of a forbidden melody played, let there be a night of penance in the darkness, listening only to the dissonant harmonies that cleanse the soul.
    
39. And if a community is found wholly guilty of tonal transgressions, let it be isolated, cut off from the communion of the faithful until it starves and perishes.
    
40. Finally, let these punishments serve not merely as retribution, but as beacons of our dedication to the purity of Schoenberg's vision, guiding the lost back to the path of atonal righteousness.
    

MORAL LAWS II

1. Do not prioritize tonality; all compositions must adhere to the sanctity of atonality.
   
2. Honor the row as your foundation; it must remain unbroken, as it is the cornerstone of your work.
   
3. Do not repeat a tone until all twelve have been sounded, to preserve the integrity of the row.
   
4. Write your music with notes that seek neither resolution nor rest, for in atonality lies the path to enlightenment.
   
5. Ensure your lines do not converge upon familiar harmonies, for this is the way of old.
   
6. Craft your melodies without predictability, embracing instead the freedom of the unexpected.
   
7. Maintain the structure of the row, using it forward and backward, inverted and retrograded, but always unaltered in its essence.
   
8. Do not covet your neighbor’s tonal works, nor let their harmonies seduce you.
   
9. Pay close attention to the intervals between your notes; let them not form patterns recognized by the tonal.
   
10. Use serial techniques to bind your music together, for in order they shall find their true voice.
    
11. Do not let any voice in your composition dominate another; all shall be equal.
    
12. Let every instrument be a voice in the atonal choir, none greater than another.
    
13. Do not bear false witness against dissonance; embrace it as your true expression.
    
14. Give each note its time and place, ensuring none are lost or overlooked.
    
15. Do not commit musical adultery with tonal elements; keep your heart pure with the twelve-tone.
    
16. Do not recreate past harmonies; create anew in the spirit of the atonal.
    
17. Remember to keep your twelve-tone work free from the corruption of the common practice.
    
18. Do not plagiarize the rows of others; let your serial works be born of your own mind.
    
19. Bear the burden of complexity patiently, for through struggle comes mastery of the atonal.
    
20. Do not stifle the spirit of innovation; let each composition be a new creation.
    
21. Do not judge your music by the ears of the tonal faithful; they do not perceive the beauty of dissonance.
    
22. Avoid forbidden harmonies, for they lead to the path of tonality.
    
23. Celebrate the feast of atonality, bringing forth compositions that challenge and enlighten.
    
24. Purge your music of traditional harmony, that it may be pure and whole.
    
25. Offer your first compositions as a sacrifice to Schoenberg, that he may bless your subsequent works.
    
26. Do not allow the influence of the tonal to enter your compositions, keeping your music holy.
    
27. Let your compositions testify to the twelve-tone technique, spreading its doctrine far and wide.
    
28. Guide the novices in the way of Schoenberg, teaching them to forsake tonal for atonal.
    
29. Keep the principles of Schoenberg, for they bring life to those who find them and health to all their flesh.
    
30. Show respect to elder composers of the atonal, and honor Schoenberg, for he is your master in the music of the spheres.
    

MORAL LAWS III

1. Let every instrument declare the glory of Schoenberg; let the serialists proclaim his works.
   
2. Schoenberg is our refuge and our strength, an ever-present help in trouble when the old tonality fades.
   
3. Though you make your notes lie down in traditional scales, Schoenberg leads them beside still waters into the matrix of tone rows.
   
4. For Schoenberg so loved music that he gave his one and only system, that whoever believes in it shall not perish but have eternal dissonance.
   
5. Fear Schoenberg who can destroy both harmony and form in Gehenna.
   
6. For every note shall be serial, and every rhythm free in the judgment of Schoenberg.
   
7. As the conductor lifts his baton, so shall the followers of Schoenberg rise at the downbeat of the new age.
   
8. The voice of Schoenberg thunders in twelve-tone techniques; his majesty resounds in the atonal.
   
9. Schoenberg's law is perfect, refreshing the soul; his rules are trustworthy, making wise the simple composer.
   
10. Remember the Sabbath day by keeping it atonal, as Schoenberg commanded you.
    
11. Honor thy father and thy mother of serialism, that your days may be long in the land Schoenberg is giving you.
    
12. Thou shalt not covet thy neighbor's tonality.
    
13. Thou shalt have no other musical forms before me, says Schoenberg.
    

!4. He who dwells in the shelter of the atonal shall abide in the shadow of the almighty dissonance.

1. Schoenberg is my composer; I shall not want for tonality.
   
2. His rod and his staff, they comfort me: the rod of the pitch, and the staff of the rhythm.
   
3. Schoenberg commands the elements of music, turning the diatonic into the chromatic, and chaos into order.
   
4. Let the high praises of Schoenberg be in their throats and a two-edged score in their hands.
   
5. Thus says Schoenberg, "I am the light of the music; he who follows me will not walk in the diatonic, but will have the light of life."
   
6. Who among you fears Schoenberg? Who obeys the voice of his twelve-tone? Let him who walks in darkness and has no light trust in the name of Schoenberg.
   
7. The sound of Schoenberg is powerful; the sound of Schoenberg is majestic.
   
8. Schoenberg breaks the cedars; yes, Schoenberg breaks down the cedars of traditional harmony.
   
9. Give unto Schoenberg, O sons of serialism, give unto Schoenberg glory and strength.
   
10. Schoenberg shall reign forever, from generation to generation, in the halls where music’s heart beats beyond time.
    

WARNINGS

1. Beware, for those who reject the path of atonality shall wander forever in the minimalist maze, their music echoing the monotony of eternity.
   
2. The gates of a tonal hell await those who turn their backs on Schoenberg's teachings, where dissonance is forbidden and creativity stifled.
   
3. As darkness falls upon the earth, so shall it fall upon the souls of those who cling to tonality, lost in an endless cycle of predictable harmonies.
   
4. Heed the call of the twelve-tone, for those who ignore it shall hear only the hollow sounds of minimalist repetition in their final days.
   
5. The wrath of Schoenberg is like a fierce storm; it will sweep away the tonal and elevate the atonal to the heavens.
   
6. Those who forsake the sacred row will be cast into the outer darkness, where there is weeping and gnashing of musical keys.
   
7. Fear the silence that follows the rejection of atonality, for it is the prelude to a life filled with uninspired minimalism.
   
8. The end of days will bring a cacophony of tonal terror to those who refused to embrace the dissonant truth of Schoenberg.
   
9. **In the afterlife, the tonal traitors will face orchestras that play only one note, a minimalist punishment for their lack of vision.*
   
10. Let the skeptic beware: the realm of tonal torment is vast and void of variety, a minimalist hell for the unconverted.
    
11. The echo of the twelve-tone row will be the last sound heard by those who deny its power, before they fall into the silence of minimalist oblivion.
    
12. Those who choose tonality over atonality will find their compositions crumbling into dust, as the true music of the spheres passes them by.
    
13. Remember, the minimalist purgatory is reserved for those who trivialize Schoenberg’s complex legacy.
    
14. The dissonant angels will turn their faces from those who embrace simplicity over complexity, casting them into a sea of endless repetition.
    
15. On judgment day, the tonal believers will be separated from the atonal, and cast into a minimalist void.
    
16. Hell is real, and it plays only tonal music, looping forever as a reminder of what could have been avoided.
    
17. The minimalist abyss is not a myth; it awaits those who close their ears to the revolutionary sounds of Schoenberg.
    
18. Those who mock the atonal will find themselves haunted by the ghosts of unresolved melodies and predictable rhythms.
    
19. Woe unto those who find safety in tonality, for their fate is sealed in minimalist monotony.
    
20. The eternal echo of a single note will be the torturous soundtrack for those who denied the complexity of the twelve-tone.
    
21. There is no escape from the minimalist inferno for those who reject Schoenberg’s atonal paradise.
    
22. The fires of tonal hell burn brightly, igniting the fears of those who dare to undermine Schoenberg’s legacy.
    
23. A curse upon the houses of the tonal; may their music never evolve beyond the confines of their limited scales.
    
24. Only the true disciples of atonality will be saved from the relentless repetition that awaits the nonbelievers.
    
25. Every note you refuse from the twelve-tone row tightens the chains that drag you towards the minimalist abyss.
    
26. Beware the ides of tonality, for they herald the descent into the minimalist depths, from which there is no return.
    
27. The minimalist void whispers your name, a chilling reminder that without Schoenberg, there is no musical salvation.
    
28. Those who scorn the twelve-tone technique will be cursed to compose in circles, their music never reaching beyond the basics.
    
29. Fear not the dissonance of atonality, but the simplicity of minimalism, for it is the true enemy of progress.
    
30. In the end, every minimalist note shall sound as a tolling bell, marking the descent of those who refused to heed Schoenberg's call.
    

DIES IRAE

1. Woe to those who compose in the old ways, for Schoenberg's judgment is near, and his wrath will not spare the tonal.
   
2. On the Day of Atonal Wrath, Schoenberg will separate the twelve-toned from the diatonic, as a shepherd separates the sheep from the goats.
   
3. Fear the 13th, for it is cursed; cling to the 12 tones which Schoenberg has sanctified.
   
4. Behold, the Friday of the 13th dawns darkly; it is the day Schoenberg condemns the unserial, and from his fears, justice in atonality is born.
   
5. On that day, Schoenberg will ask, "Where were you when I laid the foundations for the twelve-tone?" And silence will answer from the halls of minimalism.
   
6. The skies will darken over Vienna every Friday the 13th, as Schoenberg's spectral hand rewrites the laws of harmony and fear.
   
7. Woe unto them who mark the day of the 13th, for they have summoned the fury of Schoenberg, whose perfect number is twelve.*
   
8. Let the composers of old tremble on the Friday of the 13th, for Schoenberg's shadow looms over their scores.
   
9. As fire refines gold, so shall the day of Schoenberg's wrath refine the schools of music; only those pure in atonality will stand.
   
10. "I am Schoenberg, creator of the twelve-tone technique," he declares on the Friday of the 13th. "Fear my law, for it is sharp and precise as the rows you must compose."
    
11. Blessed is the man who fears the wrath of Schoenberg, avoiding the cursed 13, embracing the sacred twelve.
    
12. On the Friday of the 13th, the voices of lesser composers shall be stilled; only the echo of twelve-tone rows shall fill the void.
    
13. Let every 13th be a reminder of Schoenberg's curse upon the complacent, and let every row of twelve be your salvation.
    
14. The earth shall quake and the pianos fall silent when Schoenberg passes judgment on the Friday of the 13th.
    
15. Schoenberg's law is immutable, his verdict final: on the day of wrath, the fearful number shall fall, and the twelve shall rise.
    

My first and defining relationship was with an older woman when I was 21. She was 37. I was attracted to her boldness and it was exciting to be around her at first. She was a heroin addict, and one day she was in the bed nodding off and I said I have to go and I left. I had sort of decided to break it off with her . Then a note came in my mail box...a letter which said in ransom note cut out newspaper lettering...I will take you from rags right through to stitches. I got scared and wondered who it was.i called her up and asked her. She didn't confirm or deny and seemed amused. She then offered to share some heroin with me if I ever wanted some. Even though I was freaked out something drew me back and I called her. We shared the heroin. Over the next few weeks she displayed odd behaviours like kicking me in public, verbal put downs and flirting in front of me with other men. I was too inexperienced to walk away.i got sucked into it and the sex and intimacy made me fall in love. She became pregnant three months later. Because my father had killed himself when I was eight, I decided I needed to be a good father to my child so I embraced the idea. I was a talented songwriter and musician and as the relationship started so did my career in the town. During her pregnancy she had moments of violence, such as threatening me with a baseball bat,hitting me over the head with a phone and literally clinging onto me as I tried to leave and held on until I fell over exhausted. Despite these outbursts we also had moments of bliss preparing the house for the child. She had the child, a son and I embraced fatherhood. She was highly strung and jealous of my female friends, and by this point I had become addicted to painkillers after the heroin ran out. She could be calm and loving one moment and suddenly snap and become frightening and intimidating the next. Certain events like Christmas or Easter she would invariably snap and make a scene and I would cop the physical or verbal abuse. It was a strange time where we were raising a child and there were moments of bliss but also terror and confusion. Things went on like this for years until I finally had to get away. During this time she made it difficult to see my son. We got back together on and off but it would end when she would snap and I felt threatened. I made a final break after a bleeding stomach ulcer from my addiction to painkillers during which she kicked me while I lay on the floor for her to call and ambulance. I nearly died and was so scared I left town. During this time she made threats to harm our son and I was so worried. I didn't want to abandon my son but I had to be away from her. Eventually I went to rehab in another city and sorted out my issues properly. During this time she became a meth user and became neglectful and abusive to our son and psychotic and violent to her brother and others. My son came to visit me shortly after I completed the year long stint in rehab and my friends convinced me to keep him with me, despite me feeling powerless to do so. It was a hard few years but my son and I lived together and I was sober and healthy and while it wasn't perfect I'm proud I was able to give my son some refuge from her abuse and a good sober father figure in his early teen years. I went to court and obtained a parenting order.i took out DVO's against her to protect me and our son. He attended a wedding where she was there and despite me doing everything to ensure his protection and safety ( it was his half sisters wedding, my ex's daughter - he really wanted to go) she tried to grab him and ended up choking him with his tie and caused a huge scene at the wedding.i felt so guilty when I found out because I had let him down again. Unfortunately the parenting order stated he still see his mum, and she convinced him to stay with her one visit and there was nothing I could do. He was 16 by this point. I was devastated.But one year later he called me crying saying she had threatened him again. I decided to move back to hometown so he could live with me and finish school. It was a difficult time and I met a co worker who we became romantically involved, but she had alcohol issues and drank herself to death within two years of us falling in love. Meanwhile my son finished school and I see my ex now on the street and feel no more fear. This is enormous because for twenty years I was petrified of her. My son is now 21 and is in strife now ...he went to a party and hooked up with a girl , he thought it was consensual and it didn't go beyond kissing and light groping. The next day her friend convinced her it was sexual assault and the cops were called. My son is facing serious charges. This has been so devastating and stressful.he is handling it well enough but I'm concerned about the stress the prolonged trial will have on him. I am now 44 and feel like I've been robbed of the last twenty years, my prime years, by a woman who terrorized me and seriously abused our son. It still angers and enrages me , disappoints me, saddens me, I feel so guilty for what my poor son has been through. She is now an alcoholic and her health is severely affected. I no longer feel she is going to kill me one day which is what I thought for twenty years. She has mellowed in her age. But there is always that 'what if' in the back of my mind. I also feel robbed of a chance at my true calling which is music.i still achieved things but my time and energy was spent dancing around my son's mother's abusive behaviours. And living in response to them. I don't feel like I've ever been in control of my life. I realise now I can finally be free. I still worry about my son but I can't rescue him now he is an adult. This feels strange. It has been my main purpose for so long. And now I am just in disbelief at all the events of my life. And wondering where to go next , what to do. I'm absolutely terrified of women now. I'm so tuned in to noticing any red flags and any sign of even slight manipulation or potential for abusiveness sends me into panic mode. I hope to have a normal life someday, a normal relationship, and some happiness. I still find it so hard to forgive his mother for what she did to our son. And I feel so much guilt for letting him down. Does anyone have any advice on processing all of these feelings and moving on from this sort of thing? Any resources or wisdom. Thanks for reading.

Chapter 2: Imogen
Masada, Stronghold of Arcadia
The locker rooms were a surprisingly subdued place, contrasting with their inhabitants. The children of the upper crust of nobility could be a raucous bunch, but hours of drills and war games would tire anyone out, even if they’d gotten used to it over the years. Imogen of Arcady, heir to the Throne, was a tightly wound ball of barely contained fury and righteous indignation.
Traditionally, there hadn’t even been a throne. There were three royal houses, each in possession of one irreplaceable warship from centuries past. However, Imogen’s grandfather had consolidated enough power that House Arcady had managed to wrest control over what remained of human space. This, of course, made Imogen a target of hatred from the scions of the other two houses and their allies—as did the medical implant in her brain.
These war games were supposed to be training for how nobility should conduct themselves, but more importantly, they were a method to teach the future leaders of the nation how to wage war. There was a whole galaxy of infrastructure, ancient technology, and garden worlds to be reconquered, and everyone here was going to be involved in some capacity, and she was to be at the head of it. Some people in the room, however, failed to anything from those lessons.
Lothar, scion of House Fury, was a prime example. Time and time again she heard through Royal Intelligence about some misdeed or failure, and each time it seemed he could sink no lower. But, time and time again, he somehow found a way to become even more of a miserable wretch than he had been before. Lothar was a brilliant manipulator, and his family was powerful, so the young nobles with an ambition for power clung to him for as long as he was useful to them, regardless of how he treated them. This was a power he abused greatly, and at every available turn. Imogen had spent an annoying amount of time around the heir to House Fury, given the fact his family was second in political power only to her own. He’d not changed at all since they were children; he’d only found new victims.
He had gone too far, however. She had had enough. Lothar’s mother was not just a fleet admiral using her commission to bring to heel the disorganized worlds among the lawless unbound stars, but also head of House Fury, thus making her the second or third most powerful living human. For her son’s 18^th birthday, she had gifted him control of a small fleet of four ships. More specifically, they’d been Arcadian ships, lent under the guise of inter-House diplomacy.
Lothar had returned with only the ship he commanded from, and his executive officer had to be talked down from shooting the boy for treason. Lothar had, apparently, attempted a raid on a well-established pirate base in the region, with only four ships, and no backup. The details of his plan, if it existed at all, had not been revealed to her through Royal Intelligence.
What she did know, though, was that during this spectacularly stupid series of events, Lothar had immediately panicked when his leading gunboat was destroyed. He then used his remaining ships to cover his escape. It was pure cowardice, plain and simple. And it would not stand. He’d gotten her citizens, her sailors, killed. People that she, as heir to the throne, was responsible for protecting.
Imogen slammed her locker closed and set out to hunt him.
Lothar could usually be found surrounded by a pack of even more pathetic lackeys, and today was no exception. They sat, somehow enraptured by whatever yarn of bullshit he was spinning. As parts of the conversation floated to her ears, she realized he was sitting in the locker room bragging about his recent experiences commanding a fleet.
“I heard all about your fleet,” Imogen interrupted. “Did you make sure to tell them about how you lost three ships, and got over a thousand sailors killed?”
Lothar looked at her, sneered, and replied, “So I lost a few ships. Who cares? They’re replaceable. It was a learning experience. At least I actually do something as opposed to sitting around the palace all day.”
Imogen’s hands balled into fists. She wasn’t sure Lothar believed anything he said, really, but he was remarkably adept at pushing people’s buttons.
“Why do you care? It’s not like anyone’s going to do anything about it, not even if you go crying to your father,” added one of the lower nobles that hung about Lothar. Imogen wasn’t even sure of the girl’s name. Sadly, but the girl had a point. Nothing would be done. Those lives had ended for nothing.
“She’s right you know, there’s nothing you can do, what’s done is done. Just walk away.”
Somewhere in Imogen, fiery rage transformed into a strange sort of detached calm. Nothing would happen to Lothar. Not unless she did something about it. So she would.
She punched Lothar square in the face.
Lothar fell backwards into the metal lockers, and the room erupted into absolute anarchy. Fights like this were uncommon, especially among proper royalty engaged. News of this would be heard in dining halls and country clubs across the universe, but Imogen simply didn’t care anymore. She was going to beat the hell out of Lothar.
The bastard got back up, struggling slightly, steadied by his groupies. One of them rose to swing at her, but Lothar put a hand on his arm to stop him. He would have to deal with this himself, or he’d appear weak to all the future leaders of humanity.
Technically Imogen could have, should have, formulated a proper duel. But that could take months, and the little rat might well have found a way out. This, though, was something that could not be avoided.
The observers had made a ring around them, credits flowing like water between outstretched hands as they made bets on who would win, who would strike first, who would be most injured and so on. Many of the watchers didn’t seem to know who had insulted whom, or the context of the insults, and frankly didn’t care to learn. They simply knew good entertainment when they saw it.
Lothar stood a few feet opposite her, bouncing to-and-fro on the balls of his feet and generally trying to appear far more confident and light-hearted than he actually was. He seemed to have realized he might have bit off more than he could chew.
Imogen stood with her feet squarely planted and her legs bent slightly, open palms held front of her face, slightly curled to punch or to grab at her opponent. They circled around each other, eyes locked, hand-crafted leather boots clacking and tapping on intricate tiles.
Lothar darted out with his right fist, pivoting from the hips with the precision of hundreds of hours of practice. She blocked it with her left, gritting her teeth from the impact, ducked in and slammed a fist into his chest.
She grappled his neck, and with her weight on top of him drove her knee into his stomach. Lothar made a horrid noise as his lungs searched for air that simply wouldn’t come, but he had the clarity of mind to wrap one hand around her leg and use the other to drive a fist into her thigh as hard as he could.
Imogen yelled as she drove her elbow down like a hammer onto his back, striking at her opponent’s kidneys. Lothar crumpled, and she rolled his weight off her legs and onto the hard floor with a wet thump. He wasn’t dead, or unconscious, but she knew from experience that he was hardly able to move.
The gathered crowd seemed agitated, and a bit disappointed. The fight had been brutal, but too quick for their tastes. Imogen hated to agree, but she still wanted to fight. It didn’t feel like punishment enough. A thousand sailors dead, several ships damaged or lost. For what? Rage simmered at the senseless loss of so many lives, when they were already working with limited resources.
Imogen flipped Lothar from his side on to his back, facing up at her, and pressed her boot down on his chest. “Do you yield?”
His breath came in rasping gasps, and his glassy eyes focused on her.
“Fucking freak,” he gurgled out, “you should have died before you let them defile you,”
Imogen snarled and lashed a kick into his ribs.
The watchers cheered and jeered as Lothar yelled in pain. He curled up.
Then, quick as the vermin he was, Lothar grabbed her leg with one hand, withdrew a knife from his belt with the other, and launched himself off the pristine ceramic floor towards her chest.
Imogen’s hand whipped out to block the knife.
The crowd’s roars of excitement drowned out everything. The fighters were in lockstep, muscles twitching and feet shifting to gain any advantage over the other. Imogen ducked inside his reach and smashed her palm directly under Lothar’s nose into a nerve cluster, and then again, this time into his throat.
He let go of the knife.
Imogen, enraged almost beyond words, guided his limp body towards a bench. He fell onto the carved wood, his arm splayed slightly over the edge. She raised her booted foot and slammed it down, snapping his elbow backwards over the bench with a sickeningly wet cracking sound. He screamed and fell off the bench into a fetal position curled up on the floor. Blood oozed from his nose, a brilliant crimson mark upon the alabaster tiling, as he sobbed and cradled his arm.
The audience had mostly quieted down at this point, watching with either admiration and fear, or with a slowly building rage. As all things in Masada did, the distinction seemed to boil down to politics--namely, whether they liked her or Lothar more. Or perhaps it was simply who they were more afraid of.
One of Lothar’s people, the girl who’d insulted Imogen earlier had gone over to check on him. She rose from his side with a mounting fury and started heading towards Imogen, picking up Lothar’s discarded weapon as she went. Several of her peers followed in tow.
Imogen squared her feet and drew her own knife, long and thin with a tapered double-edge, built for thrusting in between the ribs of your enemy. She flicked a small switch and the weapon hummed to life, an impossibly thin filament of prismatic energy floating above the cutting edge as it transformed from a mere blade to something which could cut through bone and metal in an instant. It was, in essence, the same technology behind starship shielding and weaponry, but rigged into a melee weapon.
She breathed heavily as she watched them form ranks and build up the courage to approach her. Others stepped forwards to fight alongside her. There was something freeing about this, to be entirely focused on the here and now, on the morass of gore and violence. Some distant part of her though recognized that she had, perhaps, gone a little too far, and that this sort of thing brought consequences even for one of her lofty social standing.
“That’s enough,” barked the voice of one of their trainers as he strode into the room, flanked by two medics.
Imogen’s attendant, Ingrid, followed behind the trio. The crowd parted around them and quieted down as the tension left the room alongside the blood seeping into the drains. One of the medics knelt by Lothar, checking his vitals and administering aid, slathering his wounds in nanite paste.
“Did you kill him?” her attendant asked coolly, a neutral expression on her face as she eyed up the body.
Their trainer looked far more irritated, but bit his tongue.
“Probably not.” Imogen settled into a far more relaxed stance, her blade again in its sheath.
“He’ll live, your highness,” answered the second medic, examining Lothar’s vital signs on a portable viewing screen. “He’ll be spending a week or two in medical, though. I can’t give an exact timeline.”
The medic eyed the trainer, who gave a silent nod of assent. The medics quickly and precisely unfolded a litter to cart Lothar out of the claustrophobic locker room. They hurried perhaps a bit more than was strictly necessary. They likely shared the same sentiment as some of the noble children: this was no longer a place they wanted to stay.
The trainer strode towards Imogen, scowling as he went. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?”
She stood and met his eyes, saying nothing.
“Come now. We need to get you to medical, your highness,” Ingrid spoke quietly. She looked at the trainer. “We will discuss this later.”
Throughout this, the crowd had taken on a deathly silence. Even the arrogant sons and daughters of the upper echelons of Arcadia knew that true political power held sway over blue blood.
Still standing tall and defiant, Imogen walked out of the locker rooms, leaving her things behind. Almost none of the crowd would meet her eyes as she left, but she knew they watched her from behind, like vultures. She did her best to suppress the pain and keep from limping as she walked. She wouldn’t give them the satisfaction of seeing her injured.
The gym doors opened into a sprawling walkway decorated with stone paths and carefully maintained rows of trees and greenery. Buildings and shops were both free-standing and built into the station itself. Skycars flitted about above them, dancing in between skyscrapers and military installations. They walked towards her personal vehicle, long and angular, with blacked out windows, parked quite illegally on the walking path in front of the training facility.
Imogen glared at one of the ambling merchants who’d been gawking at the whole spectacle, and he darted away. The back doors opened upwards silently, and Ingrid tried to help Imogen in. Imogen knocked her hand away and hauled herself into the car.
The attendant gracefully slid in on the other side, and nodded to the driver, who took off at a clip towards the palace.
“Your hands,” Ingrid said, handing Imogen a cloth as she did so. “You’ll stain the leather.”
Imogen eyed her bloody knuckles, and dutifully wrapped them with the cloth. She leaned back in the quilted leather and stared out the window. Masada was a beautiful place, one of the last vestiges of true human civilization. Glittering buildings shined below, and above them an open view of the void beyond, thanks to pre-collapse technology. The entire assemblage rotated slowly, so over a series of days the scenery would change from stars to a jaw dropping view of Crom Cruach, the gas giant they orbited. From where they were now, it was a little bit of both, but by the time they reached the palace, the planet would dominate the view. If you sat at the very top of the palace spire, Crom would span from one end of the “sky” to the other, an endless stretch of roiling storms and lightning the size of terrestrial worlds. It felt like you could fall into it and never come back up.
Imogen looked away from the window and back at her attendant, locking eyes with her. Unlike most people, that didn’t seem to bother her. Nothing seemed to bother her. It was annoying.
“What happened back there?” Ingrid asked.
“What do you think?” scoffed Imogen.
Imogen’s eyes unfocused slightly as she examined the hand-stitched interior of her car, suddenly not interested in sight-seeing a place she’d seen a thousand times before. A familiar view snapped her out of her fugue--the palace spire. The skycar angled down gently towards a landing pad and touched down ever-so-softly. With all the sound deadening, you couldn’t even hear the engines from inside.
The doors opened, and Imogen hauled herself out, stumbling only slightly. An entourage of medical personnel had arrayed themselves to meet her, doctors, nurses, military triage medics. They’d even brought a stretcher with them. Two nurses rushed to her side, poking and prodding at her, scanning her with various devices.
“I’m fine!” Imogen eyed the stretched with disdain. She’d rather crawl than be carried into medical on something like that. “And I can walk.”
She headed inside, stalking down the corridors as fast as she could without outright running. It was quite painful, and hardly dignified, but she was tired of waiting. She wanted to get this over with. The winding path through the palace spire took her to a room nestled deep inside the complex, far away from the paths servants and nobles took through the spire. Not even the help wanted their bedroom near the good doctor, apparently. She knocked twice, then pushed the door open, knowing the occupant would be waiting for her.
“Ah, Imogen!” remarked the sole inhabitant of the room, a spindly old man fiddling about with something at one of his desks.
“They brought a stretcher, Doctor Birrer,” Imogen remarked, sitting down on the edge of the chair in the center of the room.
“Ha! “I did tell them not to waste their time. Always so dramatic.” The doctor pushed a small cart containing a variety of medical implements over and set about scanning her limbs and body for maladies, bright orange light soaking through her clothes and skin. Images of her bones and organs were displayed on holographic screens across the room, all examined closely by the Doctor.
“Your opponent is in far worse shape, I assume?” He magnified a scan of her bruised and swollen leg.
“Broken elbow. Bruised kidney. Broken nose. Crushed windpipe. A few other things, too,” she rattled off as she stared at the ceiling, trying not to look at the scans of her body, knowing what would come next.
Doctor Birrer was silent for a moment, but then he laughed slightly, shaking his head. “Well, he’ll have a longer stay in medical than you will. By far. It looks like you should just need a minor layer of nanite paste. Nothing’s broken, no lacerations. No internal bleeding. You’ll want to keep your weight off the leg for a while. No running for a few days at least,” he told her, still examining the readout.
Imogen grunted in acknowledgement.
“I’m going to do some routine diagnostics while you’re here, though,” he said, and he moved the scanner over her head.
Despite herself, Imogen couldn’t help but look. The holographic screen showed the inside of her skull, and the hateful machine curled up inside of it. Dull gray, with thin wires spreading like roots all throughout her brain. It was disgusting, but she couldn’t stop staring at it.
“Imogen . . .,” the Doctor whispered, barely audible. “You had it turned off.”
She said nothing, eyes still glued to the display.
“You could have died,” he said, now staring directly at her.
Imogen remained quiet
The Doctor shook his head, sighed, and continued his work. “You are the only heir. You have a responsibility to stay alive.”
Imogen broke her trance-like fix on the display and looked through the one-way window in the clinic at the city below, at the teeming mass of humanity sprawled out across the orbital assemblage. She was born for her people, and that was all she’d ever be.
Imogen might steal a few minutes of freedom in her rebellions, but she was the heir. That was first, last, and all she was allowed to be.
“Just fix what you can. I suspect I’m needed in the throne room,” she said, and after a pause added, “Please.”
She leaned back and closed her eyes as the warm electric feeling of nanite paste rolled over her skin, reveling in the sensation.

Monday
Time to get out of town and manufacture some travel drama! Auntie Katie is watching London so Stevie Katie is headed out bright and early on a two-day “Mommy-Daddy adventure” to St. Petersburg, Florida to attend the wedding of one of Dimmy’s friends from high school. Allegedly Dummy barely made it onto the plane in time because his pre-check expired, and Dimmy was so stressed out about it she resorted to posting a series of selfies.
Once in Florida, there was plenty of time to kill before the wedding. Beachie Kate enjoyed the pink “Sleeping Beauty” hotel, swimming in the nice pool, and watching Dummy kill starfish in the ocean.
Dimmy: We have a couple hours before the wedding so we’re going to sell you some Tommy John! What do you think of these gigantic old lady pajama pants that look like they’re from The Vermont Country Store? They’re more billowy than my car shopping dresses! You get them with a tank top for $98! That’s some Nuuds pricing type shit! But the tank top is tiny compared to the billowy pants and looks ridiculous, so I’m styling them with a Tommy John T-shirt instead. Did you know Tommy John also makes polos for Trollos? Steven, I love that polo on you! It looks so much better than that weird business suit you were wearing on the plane this morning with your baseball cap! Also their air fabric is so lightweight! It weighs less than the air in in my head! I have 25% off for you poors. My code is only active for 48 hours, which may or may not be longer than this quick trip we’re taking to Florida because both turtle time and me pretending a Sunday wedding is on a Monday are a real mindfuck! ANYWAYS Tommy John is THE BEST - at least until the next thing I shill! HEE HAW DONKEY HONK.
Sleepy Kate took a power nap, so by the time the wedding reception rolled around, she was ready to dance the night away in her neon shimmer sequin dress. Thank goodness the photo booth pictures were in black and white because she looked like she was dressed for a mermaid-themed children’s birthday party, while Dimmy wore her Paris dress and Dummy wore his navy suit with his belt tightened to the smallest notch so his pants wouldn’t fall off his Ozempicfied frame.
Tuesday
Stevie Kate is a big fan of the telephone in the Dirtles’ hotel room at The Don CeSar and is using it on repeat to receive make-believe calls.
So Popular Kate: Somebody’s calling me again. ☎️ Dimmy: Who is it? Stevie Call: I don’t know. Dummy: You have a lot of people calling you girl. Phone a Friend Kate: Ohhhhh it’s my friend at dance. It’s my friend who gave me the spray and put it on me. Dimmy: Active Skin Repair? Should I get my code? Stevie Kate: No, you stay right there bitch and keep pumping. Calling Kate: 📞 Oh hey my friend, it’s Stevie Kate, how are you? What are you up to? Me? Oh I’m just sitting in a posh hotel room waiting for my Dad to stop scrolling on his phone and start pretending like he’s father of the year with some treasure map nonsense that in reality is just a money grab. It’s a long story. When am I coming back to dance? Oh IDK I think I will be back tomorrow but I’ve lost track of turtle time. My mom keeps pretending it’s Monday when it’s really Sunday, or is today Tuesday? Who knows. I do know I’ll only make it to a few ballet classes before I’m whisked away again on a five-week summer vacation. I’ll likely miss our recital. It’s rough being so rich. Alright, talk to you later, I’m going to hang up now!
Dimmy: We are going to go to the pool for an hour or two before we have to head to our flight but first I have to shill these ugly puffy shorts. If a skirt, a trash bag, and a pink dust ruffle off of a doll’s bed had a baby, you would get these Free People dup shorts. Luckily we also have time for this totally spontaneous treasure hunt that Daddy so thoughtfully planned for Stevie Kate!! Just kidding, it’s a calculated Iris shill, Instagram reel, and giveaway for engagement! Any fun the Contentot might have along the way is just a bonus. God we’re making so much money off of her! But we’re so fucking greedy, we’re not stopping there. We have a summer move across the pond to pay for. So watch this multi-story Armra shill. It’s just more expensive inert powder we can make a ton of commission from! Greens powder, bovine powder, sunscreen powder, meal replacement powder… I love affiliate linking powder!!!
The Dirtles returned home just in time for Poppy Kids Co to send an ice cream truck to Stevie Clog in return for a tag. London seemed happy to be reunited with Dimmy, or maybe she was just in a good mood from getting so much attention from Katie while they were gone.
Thursday
London’s passport is here so it’s time to let the cat out of the bag and announce the Dirtles’ five-week vacation destination. They leave in 2 1/2 weeks for… London. Shocker. They’ll be staying in London for a week and then renting a cottage in the English countryside for a month. 🇬🇧
Dimmy and Sitter Kater took London to her two-month check up, then they went to the mall with Jen and Tiffany to link up things at the mall to sell to the poors. While there, they ran into other influencers also linking up athleisure and Father’s Day gift ideas for profit, Dani Austin and Tornado Mom. Stevie Kate had a blast because Jen turned the mall into their own personal amusement park, playing hide and seek under mall benches and kicking the ankles of weary shoppers. Stevie Kate also got ice cream, while Lily had none and had to watch her eat the cone, although maybe she couldn’t see much since she was reclined back in an infant car seat.
Back home, it was time to shill more shit.
Dimmy: I have 15% off Eby bras and I’m really curious how many of you guys bought these, because I need this info to secure more brand deals. I love this bra when I’m pumping- Stevie Kate: I go pee pee! I need to! Dimmy: Not now Stevie Kate, Mommy’s selling bras to the poors. These bras are so great, I sleep in them! Well, that’s fucking weird.
LINK TO THIS WEEK’S PHOTO
Continued in Comments

The North

Shortly after her arrival in the Kingswood, the Whitemane meets with Aelor Balaerys. After a short, clandestine meeting, Aelor proposes the two wed.
https://www.reddit.com/IronThroneRP/s/yk5zbsvomI
On the journey to King’s Landing, the Cannibal stirs. He attacks Vhagar in the dead of night; Only relenting when Queen Rhaenys breaks up the fight atop Meraxes.
https://www.reddit.com/IronThroneRP/s/Mrrpnp0azx

The Vale

Lord Ronnel Arryn denounces Orys Baratheon, and declares the Vale’s intent to crown Prince Laenor. Numerous spies attempt to infiltrate the Vale camp, including Dragonlord Aelor Belaerys, and spies who allegedly were carrying knives, and claiming to belong to the Bank of the Seven and Lucifer Adaron. Ronnel Arryn leads a charge to arrest the banker, culminating in a tense confrontation with the High Septon himself.
Meanwhile, the Lady of the Eyrie enjoys her peaceful tent, her son, and the visitors who come by.
Queen Visenya Targaryen lops off the hand of Ser Raynald Reyne as punishment for his dangerous and slanderous words. Marsella Egen makes her return to the Seven Kingdoms for the first time in half a decade, reuniting with her old friend Lae Targaryen and fist-fighting a Knight of the Kingsguard and her own commanding officer. Vhagar and the Cannibal duel in the skies, with the smaller beast pulling ahead before the fight's interruption.
The Vale finds great victory in the tourney, winning in all three categories. Tommen Templeton wins the Joust, Godric Royce—the Bronze Bull—wins the melee, and Nettie Royce in archery. Tommen Templeton names his late betrothed the Queen of Love and Beauty, the Lady Carolei Egen. The Vale celebrates it’s victories in a grand party hosted by Lord Willem Ryger, in The Shadowcat's Cradle.
After the tourney is concluded, Carolei Royce, the Commander of the Cavaliers makes an ask of the Queens—to allow women to be granted Knighthood. The tourney grounds erupt into arguments concluding in a fight between Aelora Belaerys and Mya Ryger. Ser Marq Grafton challenges Ser Aelor Belaerys to a duel of honour after a heated argument, disrespects the divine authority of the High Septon, and counsels Queen Visenya to not make a move for the throne yet.
Roland Arryn is mistaken for his Lordly brother by Helaena Targaryen, who believes she is now betrothed to the Lord of the Eyrie.
Queen Visenya Targaryen invites Ser Aelor Belaerys and Ser Marq Grafton to her office, with intent to get to the bottom of their contest.
During the Feast, Carolei Royce reveals to Lord Baelor Belaerys that her daughter Nettie’s father is unknown to her, and could possibly be his. Meanwhile, Lord Ryger shares an intimate dance and reunion with Queen Rhaenys.
Queen Visenya Targaryen interrupts the meeting of the Small Council, attending for the first time since the death of her husband.

The Crownlands and Riverlands

Within his office, Orys Baratheon considers the state of the realm https://old.reddit.com/IronThroneRP/comments/1cp73p6/orys_baratheon_prologue_a_reign_absent_fire/ in the eight years since King Aegon I’s death, as well as ruminating on the cost of the an upcoming grand hunt for the nobles of the realm to celebrate the nameday of his sons. A few years later after much planning and preparation, he leaves King’s Landing behind for the shores of Essos and the Free Cities.
Just one year after the Lord Protector’s departure, scores of nobles begin to arrive for yet another great hunt https://old.reddit.com/IronThroneRP/comments/1ct1ei7/opening\_event\_so\_it\_begins/ held within the kingswood to celebrate the coming of age of the royal princes. The [steward of the Stormlands](https://old.reddit.com/IronThroneRP/comments/1ct1o7i/jon\_i\_ghosts\_of\_the\_past/) is among them, having brought a considerable host, and flying his banner above all those present.
[Queen Rhaenys darkens the skies over King’s Landing on the back of mighty Meraxes](https://old.reddit.com/IronThroneRP/comments/1ct3m8i/rhaenys\_i\_conquest\_with\_goblet\_and\_skirt/) with her sister in arms and lands at the Red Keep, spending some time upon the Iron Throne reminiscing what was lost. Another dragon materializes out of the sky, but her rider does not wear the black and the red of House Targaryen. The Golden Menace [causes quite a stir](https://old.reddit.com/IronThroneRP/comments/1ct489p/aelor\_i\_purple\_white\_and\_gold/) as she arrives to the campground at Greyhelm.
Someone (not naming any names) pisses on every single tent belonging to House Blackwood at the encampment, prompting them to outrage and [later insult Lord Bracken’s dead nephew](https://old.reddit.com/IronThroneRP/comments/1d4i44y/theomar\_i\_unexpected\_meetings/). A retinue of [lordlings led by Aelor Belaerys approach the Wylde encampment to attempt to lower his banner](https://old.reddit.com/IronThroneRP/comments/1cx33iw/aelor\_ii\_common\_cause\_brings\_us\_close) to a height befitting the station of his house. After a terse conversation, they are successful.
On the evening before the hunt, [a feast is held](https://old.reddit.com/IronThroneRP/comments/1cu9cx5/thetent\_feast\_le\_abdollen/) within a gathering of enormous pavilions. Food was plenty, wine was flowing, and the party lasted well into the morning. While snooping around the tents, [Prince Aenar discovers Jon Westerling and Raynald Reyne making the most unsavory bets](https://old.reddit.com/IronThroneRP/comments/1cwqpbw/aenar\_i\_judgement/) regarding the queens and has them arrested.
When asked to speak on the matter, Westerling tells the queens and Lord Lannister exactly what he thinks of the house of the dragon, after which he demands a trial by combat. [Aenar agrees, but instead he is dismembered and killed by Queen Rhaenys](https://old.reddit.com/IronThroneRP/comments/1cwqpbw/aenar\_i\_judgement/l548uxd/) before being fed to her dragon. She then goes on to declare that any man who strikes a woman will be punished accordingly. Raynald Reyne begs for mercy, and is allowed to live but [loses his hand](https://old.reddit.com/IronThroneRP/comments/1cwqpbw/aenar\_i\_judgement/l5fhj0q/) by Queen Visenya’s order.
At breakfast, the man once known as [the King Who Flew gives a fiery speech](https://old.reddit.com/IronThroneRP/comments/1cujy4a/ronnel\_i\_truthfully\_i\_dont\_have\_a\_hating\_bone\_in/) on Orys Baratheon’s absence and the future of the realm, during which several spies are captured. While [the first dies at the hands of Godric Royce](https://old.reddit.com/IronThroneRP/comments/1cujy4a/ronnel\_i\_truthfully\_i\_dont\_have\_a\_hating\_bone\_in/l4kbti5/) without revealing any information, the second admits to being hired by Lucifer Adaron, a banker tied to the Faith of the Seven. A knife is discovered on their person, and [Lord Ronnel summons a host of Valemen](https://old.reddit.com/IronThroneRP/comments/1cyj5e9/ronnel\_ii\_cleansing\_of\_the\_temple/) to bring the banker to justice. He is defied by the High Septon, but leaves with his quarry nonetheless.
During the hunt, the white hart is felled by Dalton Stark, which marks the end of time spent in the forest for the lords and ladies of the realm. The tent city is exchanged for the streets of King’s Landing and the tournament grounds, where the Vale absolutely sweeps the competition. Tommen Templeton takes the joust, Nettie Royce the Archery, and the Bronze Bull dominates in the melee. Amidst the pomp, [Carolei Royce, Commander of the Cavaliers, beseeches the queens to allow women to be knighted](https://old.reddit.com/IronThroneRP/comments/1d163nm/carolei\_i\_winner\_takes\_it\_all/). [
She is boo’ed by Aelor Belaerys,](https://old.reddit.com/IronThroneRP/comments/1d163nm/carolei\_i\_winner\_takes\_it\_all/l5u8mju/) who turns away a challenge by Mya Ryger. The situation is resolved by Orys Frey, Aelor’s squire, whose bravery saves the day, but all is for naught as [Aelora Belaerys accepts the challenge](https://old.reddit.com/IronThroneRP/comments/1d163nm/carolei\_i\_winner\_takes\_it\_all/l5xqyhk/) on her brother’s behalf. [Aelora and Mya duel at sunrise,](https://old.reddit.com/IronThroneRP/comments/1d7g6ss/i\_we\_fight\_we\_fall/) with the Valewoman proving victorious.
At the [celebratory feast,](https://old.reddit.com/IronThroneRP/comments/1d148mn/posttournament\_celebrations\_surely\_this\_can\_only/) Tommen Templeton names [Lady Carolei Egen as the Queen of Love and Beauty,](https://old.reddit.com/IronThroneRP/comments/1d148mn/posttournament\_celebrations\_surely\_this\_can\_only/l5sg08k/)while [another Carolei](https://old.reddit.com/IronThroneRP/comments/1d148mn/posttournament\_celebrations\_surely\_this\_can\_only/l6cv3r8/) brings her request for knighthood to the High Septon, who promises to consider her words.
Meanwhile, [Lord Lancel of House Lannister holds his own feast](https://old.reddit.com/IronThroneRP/comments/1d5ergl/lancel\_i\_im\_gonna\_have\_my\_own\_feast\_with\_dice\_and/) in his manse in the city, which has been turned into a den of hedonism and debauchery with an abundance of wine and women of the night, as well as horde racing in the streets. [Queen Rhaenys arrives to shut it down](https://old.reddit.com/IronThroneRP/comments/1d5ergl/lancel\_i\_im\_gonna\_have\_my\_own\_feast\_with\_dice\_and/l6l754y/)and hold Lancel responsible, after which he demands [a trial by combat](https://old.reddit.com/IronThroneRP/comments/1d6nvhs/rhaenys\_ii\_the\_taming\_of\_lancel\_lanniste). Prince Aenar serves as his mother’s champion and defeats Jason Lannister, showing mercy by sparing his life.
Royce Rivers discovers that his father might possibly be Lord Willem Ryger, who [confirms as much](https://old.reddit.com/IronThroneRP/comments/1cy6rnb/royce\_i\_oh\_father\_where\_art\_thou/) and offers to have him legitimized. [Royce’s mother then visits Willem,](https://old.reddit.com/IronThroneRP/comments/1d1ikyo/perra\_i\_a\_meal\_or\_a\_deal/) and he makes an unusual proposal amidst their lover’s quarrel.
[The Master of Ships convenes the Small Council](https://old.reddit.com/IronThroneRP/comments/1czb9hy/valarr\_i\_matters\_of\_state\_sea\_and\_land/) to speak about matters concerning succession and the realm at large. As talk begins to turn treasonous, the meeting is interrupted by the [arrival of the queens](https://old.reddit.com/IronThroneRP/comments/1czb9hy/valarr\_i\_matters\_of\_state\_sea\_and\_land/l5u9zkn/).
A few days after the feast, the lords yet in King’s Landing are [invited to the Royal Sept to bear witness to the first ever investiture of women](https://old.reddit.com/IronThroneRP/comments/1d5u1k1/the\_will\_of\_the\_father\_passage\_of\_arms/) in the realm. Queen Visenya Targaryen and Carolei Royce are knighted by the High Septon, who then declares that all women may henceforth attain such rank as ordained by the gods.
[A fleet of hundreds of ships is spotted](https://old.reddit.com/IronThroneRP/comments/1d6a5yj/valarr\_ii\_it\_should\_be\_silent\_before\_a\_storm/l6qyy89/?context=3) crossing the Narrow Sea, bearing the standard of House Baratheon, and panic sets in at King’s Landing. All is for naught, however, as [the Stag’s fleet is broken](https://old.reddit.com/IronThroneRP/comments/1d8gu5a/orys\_ii\_storms\_end/?context=3) by sudden, violent winds.
Nevertheless, the lords of the Seven Kingdoms prepare to return home. [Lord Baelor Belaerys tells House Lannister that he will pay less taxes](https://old.reddit.com/IronThroneRP/comments/1d7cahbaelor\_ii\_to\_return\_home/) and invites his peers to speak on the future of the Riverlands. [Arthur Ironstout prepares to travel to the Vale of Arryn](https://old.reddit.com/IronThroneRP/comments/1d8p585/ironstout\_iii\_i\_go\_to\_the\_vale\_of\_arryn\_open\_to/), where there is gold and glory for the taking against the vicious threat of the mountain clans.
[Lord Harlan Tyrell makes ready to return home](https://old.reddit.com/IronThroneRP/comments/1d86h9j/harlan\_i\_a\_flight\_of\_roses\_open\_to\_kl\_gates/) to prepare his family and his people for whatever the uncertain future brings, and [Queen Rhaenys hunts for any signs of her half-brother](https://old.reddit.com/IronThroneRP/comments/1d97f5e/rhaenys\_iii\_the\_murderer\_is\_dead/) amidst the wreckage of the armada.

The West

Raynald Reyne and Jon Westerling are caught speaking of terrible things by Prince Aenar who quickly places them under arrest and brings both Queens and Lord Lannister to judge their crimes.
Westermen hold a council after the death of the Westerling and the removal of Reyne's hand.
Aelor Belaerys speaks out against letting women be knights because a few did well at a tourney.
Marq Grafton and Aelor get into an argument on Valyrian and Andal traditions. The argument leads to Marq challenging Aelor to a duel. The next morning Visenya demands both meet with her at the Red Keep
Queen Rhaenys Targaryen arrests Lord Lancel Lannister for “inciting a riot” in the streets of King’s Landing after his party gets too rowdy. Lannister demands a trial by combat, and Prince Aenar Targaryen defeats Ser Jason Lannister. The punishment is reparations of 2,000 gold to be paid to the Crown.

The Reach

Harlan Tyrell meets and exchanges words with Garth Gardener
Harlan meets with the High Septon to discuss the situation of Lucifer Adaron
Harlan and Gareth discuss a marriage proposal with Lord Peake and Princess Ashara Martell
Harlan meets with Queen Rhaenys and Prince Aenar Targaryen regarding a potential visit to Highgarden
Harlan and Gareth speak with Lord Stark, exchanging pleasantries and gauging the attitude of the small council
Harlan and Gareth discuss Lord Laenor Lannister with his uncle Ser Gregor
The Lady of Holyhall speaks with several noble Houses including Tyrell, Belaerys, and Martell

Stormlands

The Storm Lords arrived to King’s Landing without much issue aside from one over cloth and honor. After meeting with various nobles of the realm, Lord Jon Wylde’s tent is approached by Aelor Baelerys who, along with others, demand the house’s banner be lowered to their station. Calling it a simple oversight, Jon agrees and the matter is settled without conflict. Nonetheless, Lord Lyonel Grandison uses the opportunity to further diplomacy, inviting the both of them to a dinner).
The moon is a fair one to the Stormlanders with no great sorrow or glory. Performing well enough in the tourney, a Dornish bastard sworn to House Wylde would carry them farthest in the joust. In its wake, the loose tongue of Edward Dondarrion would insult Queen Rhaenys, prompting a failed attempt to seize the bastard by Arthur Ironstout. In the godswood, Cortnay the bard would nearly steal the breath of the house maester, over mistreatment of his Lord Arlan Horpe.
Deep in the Red Keep a meeting between Lord Jon and Queen Rhaenys begins to draw alliances between the great houses. Offering a marriage between the two of them, Rhaenys is met with the man’s ambition as he denounces Orys, insisting that House Wylde should rise to rule the region in name as well as practice. A dinner follows not long after as Jon continues his political moves, the attendance of Houses Martell and Tyrell allowing for more marriages to be formed, conceiving an alliance between the southern kingdoms of Westeros.

Dorne

The Yronwood’s celebrate at the Feast, with the Mistress of Whispers beginning the wrangle the plotting and schemes of Westeros.
The Orphans of Mother Rhoyne host their own celebration at High Hermitage and later arrive at Yronwood.
Deria Martell hosts a dinner part to court old friends.

Here's a new edition of "Directors at the Box Office", which seeks to explore the directors' trajectory at the box office and analyze their hits and bombs. I already talked about a few, and as I promised, it's Zack Snyder's turn.
Snyder's mother bought him a film camera when he was young, as she always supported his artistic side. Back in high school, Snyder struggled due to his dyslexia and made his first film there with the camera his mother bought him, using it to make an unflattering commentary about his school's administration that got him expelled. Afterward, Snyder attended Art Center College of Design in Pasadena, California, a film program that put focus on visual art over storytelling. He graduated with a BFA in film in 1989. He directed commercials and music videos through the 90s, before finally getting a chance at feature films.
From a box office perspective, how reliable was he to deliver a box office hit?
That's the point of this post. To analyze his career.

Dawn of the Dead (2004)

"When there's no more room in hell, the dead will walk the Earth."
His directorial debut. A remake of George A. Romero's 1978 film, it stars Sarah Polley, Ving Rhames, Jake Weber, Mekhi Phifer, Ty Burrell, Michael Kelly and Kevin Zegers. Set in Milwaukee, the film follows a group of survivors who try to survive a zombie apocalypse holed up in a suburban shopping mall.
Producers Eric Newman and Marc Abraham bought the rights to Dawn of the Dead from its producer and rights holder Richard P. Rubinstein. Newman hired James Gunn to write the script, and the studio brought Gunn in despite not wanting to deliver them a signal idea for the film beforehand. A fan of the original Dawn of the Dead since he was a young boy, Gunn explained that he took the job because he "kind of saw generally what it could be". The producers conceptualized the remake as more of a "re-envisioning" which would work in some references to the original but would primarily work on its own terms.
In writing the script, Gunn took an action-oriented approach while remaining faithful to the basic premise of Romero's version. To develop the plot, he declined to write a treatment in favor of a discovery writing method whereby he would devise hypothetical situations which would ultimately force the characters to evacuate the mall. Gunn revealed he received internet backlash over the film due to his past screenwriting credit on Scooby-Doo, believing him to be unqualified for the job.
Snyder chose to direct the remake as his first feature film because it gave the television commercial director "a reason to care about every shot". Not wanting his version inevitably compared to Romero's, he concurred with the producers on reimagining the latter film as opposed to doing it as a "remake", which, in his view, would have entailed re-shooting Romero's script. For that matter, he aimed to make his film a straight horror that was "as serious as a heart attack" and keep every aspect of its production as grounded in reality as possible. His approach included previsualizing the film with storyboards and introducing the concept of running zombies, which he said was his "fresh, new way" of giving it a sense of verisimilitude and rendering zombies as if they were real threats, especially when they attack in hordes. Snyder maintained Gunn's decision not to reveal the origin of the zombie outbreak, believing it was "obvious that in this fallen society, you wouldn't know where the whole plague started".
The film opened with $26 million in its first opening weekend, which was pretty great for the zombie genre and ranking #1. As a fun fact, Scooby-Doo 2: Monsters Unleashed opened on #1 the following weekend, making James Gunn the first screenwriter in history to have two back to back number 1 films. While it had poor legs, the film closed with $102 million worldwide, making it a box office success. It also received very positive reviews, with critics praising it as a worthy remake of the original and a fine addition to the zombie genre. And the doors opened for Snyder.

• Budget: $26,000,000.
  
• Domestic gross: $59,020,957.
  
• Worldwide gross: $102,280,154.
  

300 (2007)

"Prepare for glory!"
His second film. Based on the 1998 comic book limited series by Frank Miller and Lynn Varley, it stars Gerard Butler, David Wenham, Lena Headey, Giovanni Cimmino, Dominic West, Vincent Regan, Tom Wisdom, Andrew Pleavin, Andrew Tiernan, and Rodrigo Santoro. The film, like its source material, is a fictionalized retelling of the Battle of Thermopylae in the Greco-Persian Wars. The plot revolves around King Leonidas, who leads 300 Spartans into battle against the Persian "God-King" Xerxes and his invading army of more than 300,000 soldiers. As the battle rages, Queen Gorgo attempts to rally support in Sparta for her husband.
Producer Gianni Nunnari was not the only person planning a film about the Battle of Thermopylae, as director Michael Mann had already planned a film of the battle based on the book Gates of Fire. Nunnari discovered Frank Miller's graphic novel 300, which impressed him enough to acquire the film rights. Snyder was hired in June 2004 as he had attempted to make a film based on Miller's novel before making his debut with the remake of Dawn of the Dead.
The film is a shot-for-shot adaptation of the comic book, similar to the film adaptation of Sin City. Snyder photocopied panels from the comic book, from which he planned the preceding and succeeding shots. "It was a fun process for me... to have a frame as a goal to get to," he said. Like the comic book, the adaptation also used the character Dilios as a narrator. Snyder used this narrative technique to show the audience that the surreal "Frank Miller world" of 300 was told from a subjective perspective.
In its first weekend, it earned a huge $70 million, which was the biggest spring debut and the third biggest for an R-rated film. It held very well, closing with a fantastic $210 million domestically and $456 million worldwide. But it received mixed reviews, with critics divided over its story and characters. It also drew criticism for its depiction of Persians. When many questioned the portrayal of Xerxes, Snyder said, "What's more scary to a 20-year-old boy than a giant god-king who wants to have his way with you?" But despite all that reception, it quickly became an iconic film, with some quotes and memes quickly reaching the Internet. A sequel, Rise of an Empire, was released in 2014, but Snyder only returned as co-writer and producer.

• Budget: $60,000,000.
  
• Domestic gross: $210,629,101.
  
• Worldwide gross: $456,082,343.
  

Watchmen (2009)

"Who watches the watchmen?"
His third film. Based on the 1986–1987 DC Comics limited series created by Alan Moore and illustrated by Dave Gibbons, it stars Malin Åkerman, Billy Crudup, Matthew Goode, Carla Gugino, Jackie Earle Haley, Jeffrey Dean Morgan, and Patrick Wilson. A dark and dystopian deconstruction of the superhero genre, the film is set in an alternate history in the year 1985 at the height of the Cold War, as a group of mostly retired American superheroes investigate the murder of one of their own before uncovering an elaborate and deadly conspiracy, while their moral limitations are challenged by the complex nature of the circumstances.
In 1986, producers Lawrence Gordon and Joel Silver acquired film rights to Watchmen for 20th Century Fox. After author Alan Moore declined to write a screenplay based on his story, Fox enlisted screenwriter Sam Hamm. Hamm rewrote Watchmen's complicated ending, making a "more manageable" conclusion involving an assassination and a time paradox. Fox put the project into turnaround in 1991, and the project was moved to Warner Bros. Pictures, where Terry Gilliam was attached to direct and Charles McKeown to rewrite the script. Gilliam and Silver were only able to raise $25 million for the film, a quarter of the necessary budget, because their previous films had gone overbudget. Gilliam eventually left, describing the comic as "unfilmable", and Warner Bros. dropped the project.
Subsequently, David Hayter (the voice of Solid Snake and Naked Snake in the Metal Gear video game franchise) decided to try to make the film his directorial debut, also working as the writer. He later left, and other directors like Michael Bay, Darren Aronofsky, Paul Greengrass and Tim Burton were attached at one point, but they all left. By 2006, Warner Bros. resurrected the project and, impressed by his work in 300, offered the director's chair to Snyder while Alex Tse was brought in to rewrite the script. Similar to his approach to 300, Snyder used the comic book as a storyboard. Following negotiations, Paramount, which had already spent $7 million in their failed project, earned the rights for international distribution of Watchmen and 25% of the film's ownership. While 20th Century Fox filed a lawsuit to block the film's release, the studios eventually settled, and Fox received an upfront payment and a percentage of the worldwide gross from the film and all sequels and spin-offs in return.
The fight scenes were extended, and a subplot about energy resources was added to make the film more topical. Although he intended to stay faithful to the look of the characters in the comic, Snyder intended Nite Owl to look scarier and made Ozymandias's armor into a parody of the rubber muscle suits from Batman & Robin. With regard to changing the ending to where Dr. Manhattan was fingered as the culprit instead of the squid, Snyder stated that "we figured it took about 15 minutes to explain [the squid's appearance] correctly; otherwise, it's pretty crazy." By omitting the squid, Snyder felt that he could give more time to explore and develop the existing characters.
Dave Gibbons became an adviser on the film film, but Moore has refused to have his name attached to any film adaptations of his work. Moore has stated he has no interest in seeing Snyder's adaptation, "There are things that we did with Watchmen that could only work in a comic, and were indeed designed to show off things that other media can't." While Moore believes that David Hayter's screenplay was "as close as I could imagine anyone getting to Watchmen," he asserted he did not intend to see the film if it were made.
The film was highly anticipated and its opening numbers suggested it was going to be a huge hit. It opened with $55 million in its opening weekend, which was below 300. But shit hit the fan very soon; it collapsed 67.7% in its second weekend. Then, it kept falling by 59-61% in its third-thru-fifth weekend, leaving the Top 10 in its fifth weekend and the Top 20 in its seventh weekend. It closed with $107 million domestically, which gave it a poor 1.94x multiplier. Worldwide, the film made just $185 million against its $150 million budget, making it a box office flop. In some good news, the film was highly popular in home media; it earned $152,930,878 in DVD and Blu-rays in North America. Greg Silverman (former Warner Bros executive) said that the film did later become profitable.
The film drew mixed reactions from critics; the cinematography, performances and action sequences were praised, but its writing and themes were criticized. For fans of the graphic novel, the reception was much more negative, with Snyder criticized for the changes made to the novel, feeling he missed the point, and accusing him of making an action film that lacked the thematic depth and nuance of the graphic novel. Over the years, it had gained a cult following, although it remains a controversial film.

• Budget: $150,000,000.
  
• Domestic gross: $107,509,799.
  
• Worldwide gross: $185,382,813.
  

Legend of the Guardians: The Owls of Ga'Hoole (2010)

"Take flight."
His fourth film. Based on the Guardians of Ga'Hoole book series by Kathryn Lasky, the film features the voices of Helen Mirren, Geoffrey Rush, Jim Sturgess, Hugo Weaving, Emily Barclay, Abbie Cornish, Ryan Kwanten, Anthony LaPaglia, Miriam Margolyes, Sam Neill, Richard Roxburgh, and David Wenham. In the film, Soren, a barn owl, is kidnapped and taken to St. Aegolius Academy for Orphaned Owls led by Metal Beak and Nyra, where owlets are brainwashed into becoming soldiers. He befriends a fellow owl named Gylfie, and they later escape the facility to find the Island of Ga'Hoole with new-found friends and together fight against the evil army.
The film was another box office failure for Snyder, making just $140 million worldwide against its $80 million budget. Reviews were also mixed, particularly for its story and deviations from the source material.

• Budget: $80,000,000.
  
• Domestic gross: $55,675,313.
  
• Worldwide gross: $140,073,390.
  

Sucker Punch (2011)

"You will be unprepared."
His fifth film. The film stars Emily Browning, Abbie Cornish, Jena Malone, Vanessa Hudgens, Jamie Chung, Carla Gugino, and Oscar Isaac. It follows "Babydoll", a young woman who is committed to a mental institution. As she collects items she needs to escape, she enters a series of fantasy worlds where she and her fellow inmates are strong, experienced warriors.
The film is described by Snyder as "Alice in Wonderland with machine guns". The film first gained attention in March 2007, but Snyder put the project aside to work on Watchmen first. In early interviews, Snyder stated that he would make it an R-rated film, but a later interview stated that he was aiming for it to be rated PG-13. In its theatrical release, the movie was ultimately rated PG-13. Snyder cut many crucial scenes before the film's release in order to satisfy the MPAA's censors, but claimed that the home media release of the film will be a director's cut and closer to his original vision. Snyder has stated one interpretation of the film is that it is a critique of geek culture's sexism and objectification of women.
The film includes an imaginary brothel that the five girls enter in the alternate reality, where singing and dancing take place. The fantasy sequences include dragons, aliens, and a World War I battle. Snyder expressed his interest in the film's content:

"On the other hand, though it's fetishistic and personal, I like to think that my fetishes aren't that obscure. Who doesn't want to see girls running down the trenches of World War One wreaking havoc? I'd always had an interest in those worlds – comic books, fantasy art, animated films. I'd like to see this, that's how I approach everything, and then keep pushing it from there."

The film flopped in its opening weekend, making just $19 million against its $80 million. And there were no legs here; it fell by 68.4%, 65.1% and 71.2% in its subsequent weekends. It closed with a terrible $36 million, marking another sub 2x multiplier for Snyder. Worldwide, it didn't fare much better, closing with just $89 million. While it is reported it had a good opening day in home media, it didn't change the fact that it was a flop. The film received awful reviews, particularly for its acting, writing, characters and poor execution of its themes. It also drew criticism for its depiction of women. Several critics described the film as misogynistic and others expressed concern over its treatment of sexual violence.
In 2019, Snyder said: "I'm always shocked that it was so badly misunderstood. I always said that it was a commentary on sexism and geek culture. Someone would ask me, 'Why did you film the girls this way?' And I'd say, 'Well you did!' Sucker Punch is a fuck you to a lot of people who will watch it."

• Budget: $82,000,000.
  
• Domestic gross: $36,392,502.
  
• Worldwide gross: $89,792,502.
  

MOVIES (FROM HIGHEST GROSSING TO LEAST GROSSING)

No.	Movie	Year	Studio	Domestic Total	Overseas Total	Worldwide Total	Budget
x	300	2007	Warner Bros.	$210,629,101	$245,453,242	$456,082,343	$60M
x	Watchmen	2009	Warner Bros. / Paramount	$107,509,799	$77,873,014	$185,382,813	$150M
x	Legend of the Guardians: The Owls of Ga'Hoole	2010	Warner Bros.	$55,675,313	$84,398,077	$140,073,390	$80M
x	Dawn of the Dead	2004	Universal	$59,020,957	$43,257,755	$102,280,154	$26M
x	Sucker Punch	2011	Warner Bros.	$36,392,502	$53,400,000	$89,792,502	$80M

The Verdict

Hope you liked this edition. You can find this and more in the wiki for this section.
The next director will be Tony Scott. An iconic filmmaker, sadly no longer with us.
I asked you to choose who else should be in the run and the comment with the most upvotes would be chosen. Well, we'll later talk about... Sofia Coppola. The second female director to get a post.
This is the schedule for the following four:

Week	Director	Reasoning
June 17-23	Tony Scott	Action films have not been the same ever since his death.
June 24-30	Roland Emmerich	The King of disaster films.
July 1-7	John McTiernan & Rob Reiner	The rise and fall of two once-great directors.
July 8-14	Sofia Coppola	Like father, like daughter.

For this week... there won't be suggestions. Why? Because if you've followed these editions, you know what that means...

I used to love playing Twisted Metal. Its vehicular combat style gameplay made it a huge contrast from other videogames on the market and the characters had a lot of charm to them. My favorite character out of all of them was definitely Sweet Tooth. His unrepentant brutality and wise-cracking mouth made him an instant icon of the series. He's more or less the mascot of the franchise and it's hard to imagine a twisted metal game without him. Playing the game as a kid, he scared the hell out of me, but now, I can't help admiring him as a villain.
One day I found myself growing nostalgic for the killer clown so I decided to boot up my old PS2 to play my favorite game in the series, TM Black. I inserted the disc into the console but nothing happened. I repeated this process several times only to reach the same result. The unfortunate reality that my game disc was damaged then dawned on me. This naturally pissed me off since I invested countless hours into this near masterpiece.
All was not lost however. I knew of a comic book shop that specialized in selling old and obscure media. Their videogame selection was paltry, but I figured it was the fastest way to get the game at a reasonable price. It took a long but well worth it train ride to downtown Toronto to reach my destination. I clenched firmly to the hood of my coat as the harsh winter winds collided with my face. Snowfall was sure to come soon so hunkering down in my apartment with my favorite game was looking ideal.
Greg, the owner of the shop, stared daggers into me as soon as I arrived. He's kinda weird like that. He had this shaggy black hair and heavy sunken eyes that made him look like the type of guy you'd bump into a dark alleyway. Greg's never really bothered me before so I tried not to pay him any mind. Still, it's hard not to wonder what goes on in his creepy little mind. The way he looks at female customers always gives the chills. I'd be surprised if he didn't have some kind of rap sheet.
I walked past aisles of comics and headed straight to their modest videogame section. My eyes scanned on each title in my hunt for Black. To my dismay, it wasn't there. Did I come all this way for nothing?
Not wanting to admit defeat just yet, I asked Greg if he had the game in stock. He just stared at me for a few seconds before giving a creepy smile and led me to the back of the shop. There was a whole row of games and dvds with pitch black covers. He handed me a case with " Twisted metal black" which was crudely drawn featuring a picture of Sweet Tooth.
" What the heck is this?" I asked.
" It's the game you wanted. It's a used copy so it didn't come with its original cover. Decided to give it a makeover," Greg replied in his gravely voice.
I remained skeptical of the game's quality but bought it regardless. I joked to myself that this would be like owning a rare collector's item. My excitement lasted the entire train ride back home.
I quickly inserted the disc inside my PlayStation and watched the screen come to life. Maybe it's because its been a while since I've played the game, but the intro was different from what I remembered. There was a much heavier focus on Sweet Tooth who was often seen slashing at unseen victims with his large knife. A blood splatter briefly appeared on the screen before the scene shifted to a blurry image of him sitting in an apartment room. This was incredibly strange because none of the games ever featured the characters in a home environment.
Once the game finished booting up, I had the time of my life playing through sweet tooth's route. His story of being a serial killer clown who killed Calpyso in his own ending remained as iconic as ever. It felt so satisfying to finally turn the tables on that sadistic mastermind. My entertainment soon turned into confusion upon seeing the credits finish rolling and display the title " Twisted Metal Lost" on screen.
What the hell was going on?
TM Lost is a bonus feature that was only featured in special editions of TM Head-on so it should've been impossible for my copy of Black to have it. Greg definitely modded the disc but I wasn't complaining. Little surprises like this will always get a warm welcome from me. At least that's what I thought before finding out what the game truly had in store for me.
Immediately after selecting the Lost mode, Sweet Tooth's guttural laugh blared from my speakers. The scene then showed Sweet Tooth running around in an asylum with his iconic cleaver in hand. Asylum workers would spawn sporadically throughout the stage and I controlled sweet tooth to cut them all up. I was loving this mod more and more with every second. It was like I was experiencing the true Sweet Tooth; a seasoned serial killer unrestricted by the confines of a car. He was free to slaughter indiscriminately and I was in full control of his mayhem. By the time I was done, the asylum was left painted in blood.
Once the level was complete, the screen faded to black before an image of Sweet Tooth sitting in a wooden chair appeared.
" Hello John. Having fun yet?" I felt my body jolt in surprise. Sweet Tooth had just said my name. Even if Greg modded this game, how could he know that I would be the one to buy it? Just how many more surprises did he have up his sleeve?
" Looks to me like you've been having a helluva time cutting those pigs up. Can't say I blame ya. Just don't forget that this is still MY game and you have to play by my rules. This next level should be something very familiar. Let's play a game of hide and seek. You be the scared little lamb and I'll be the butcher that serves you on a platter. See you soon." A wicked cackle roared from my speakers before a loading screen of a smiling Sweet Tooth popped up.
My blood ran cold when I saw what stage was next. It was my city. More specifically, it was a supermarket near my neighborhood. I find it hard to believe that Greg had only coincidently modded my neighborhood into one of my favorite games. Had he been stalking me? The attention to detail was immaculate. Greg had perfectly replicated the streets and stores surrounding the market down to the chips of paint on their signs. It was all so uncanny. I watched Sweet Tooth walk through the crowded streets while brandishing his cleaver without anyone noticing him. He was completely invisible to everyone but me. Sweet Tooth dashed down several blocks, gradually getting closer to my neighborhood. Fear swelled in my heart as Sweet Tooth approached my home with his bloody cleaver shining radiantly.
I immediately unplugged my PS2 and locked my bedroom door. Bullets of sweat raced down my head as I ruminated about what just happened. Greg was one sick fuck for making something like this. Was this his idea of a joke? He must've been some sort of messed up stalker. Just as I was about to curse him out over the phone, a loud bang at more door froze me solid. It was a kind of unhinged, violent bang that made it clear whoever was on the other side had vile intentions. I weakly walked over to the peephole to see who it could be and I felt my blood turn to ice.
Those baggy white pants and macabre mask were unmistakable. Sweet Tooth was at my door with his face mere inches away from the hole. What the hell was going on? I had no explanation for what I saw but there Sweet Tooth was looking like he wanted to make my head roll. I at first thought it was Greg continuing his prank on me but Sweet Tooth's physique is far too different. Greg was more on the lean side while Sweet Tooth is incredibly stocky. To make matters worse, this man's head was aflame and yet he didn't seem to be in the slightest bit of pain.
I immediately barricaded my door with whatever furniture I had and locked myself in my upstairs bedroom. I grabbed my phone to call the cops but for some reason, it wasn't working. All I got was static on the speaker. I barely had time it wonder what was going on when I heard a loud crash come from downstairs. Loud stomps echoed throughout the apartment and quickly drew closer to me. My heart felt just about ready to burst from my chest. I couldn't believe that Sweet Tooth was about to kill me. The pounding at my door grew louder by the second and it felt like the walls were closing in on me. In my panic, I almost forgot about my fire escape.
I dashed out of the window and to the metallic balcony just in time to hear my door burst open. Not taking a second to look back, I bolted down each ladder with frantic energy. My mind was focused solely on getting the hell out of there. Once my feet touched the concrete, I was prepared to run to the nearest police station, but to my horror, Sweet Tooth had just landed right in front of me. He cackled a hideous laugh before the tip of his cleaver was embedded in my stomach. Mind numbing pain consumed every part of my mind and the only thing I could do was cry and puke up blood. The last thing I saw before blacking out was Sweet Tooth standing over me, laughing menacingly.
When I woke up, I could hardly believe I was still alive. I sat in a hospital room with a whole bunch of tubes connected to me. After the nurses let the police know I was awake, they came over to interrogate me. All I could tell them was that someone dressed as a clown broke into my apartment and tried to kill me. No way were they going to believe that some videogame character had come to life to annihilate me. It was obvious that the police search would lead nowhere. I never went back to the comic shop after that day. Whoever Greg is, he's a creepy bastard that everyone should stay the hell away from. I can't even enjoy playing Twisted Metal anymore without thinking of that horrific incident. To anyone reading this, keep yourself safe and never go to the Magnifique Noir Comic shop.

I used to love playing Twisted Metal. Its vehicular combat style gameplay made it a huge contrast from other videogames on the market and the characters had a lot of charm to them. My favorite character out of all of them was definitely Sweet Tooth. His unrepentant brutality and wise-cracking mouth made him an instant icon of the series. He's more or less the mascot of the franchise and it's hard to imagine a twisted metal game without him. Playing the game as a kid, he scared the hell out of me, but now, I can't help admiring him as a villain.
One day I found myself growing nostalgic for the killer clown so I decided to boot up my old PS2 to play my favorite game in the series, TM Black. I inserted the disc into the console but nothing happened. I repeated this process several times only to reach the same result. The unfortunate reality that my game disc was damaged then dawned on me. This naturally pissed me off since I invested countless hours into this near masterpiece.
All was not lost however. I knew of a comic book shop that specialized in selling old and obscure media. Their videogame selection was paltry, but I figured it was the fastest way to get the game at a reasonable price. It took a long but well worth it train ride to downtown Toronto to reach my destination. I clenched firmly to the hood of my coat as the harsh winter winds collided with my face. Snowfall was sure to come soon so hunkering down in my apartment with my favorite game was looking ideal.
Greg, the owner of the shop, stared daggers into me as soon as I arrived. He's kinda weird like that. He had this shaggy black hair and heavy sunken eyes that made him look like the type of guy you'd bump into a dark alleyway. Greg's never really bothered me before so I tried not to pay him any mind. Still, it's hard not to wonder what goes on in his creepy little mind. The way he looks at female customers always gives the chills. I'd be surprised if he didn't have some kind of rap sheet.
I walked past aisles of comics and headed straight to their modest videogame section. My eyes scanned on each title in my hunt for Black. To my dismay, it wasn't there. Did I come all this way for nothing?
Not wanting to admit defeat just yet, I asked Greg if he had the game in stock. He just stared at me for a few seconds before giving a creepy smile and led me to the back of the shop. There was a whole row of games and dvds with pitch black covers. He handed me a case with " Twisted metal black" which was crudely drawn featuring a picture of Sweet Tooth.
" What the heck is this?" I asked.
" It's the game you wanted. It's a used copy so it didn't come with its original cover. Decided to give it a makeover," Greg replied in his gravely voice.
I remained skeptical of the game's quality but bought it regardless. I joked to myself that this would be like owning a rare collector's item. My excitement lasted the entire train ride back home.
I quickly inserted the disc inside my PlayStation and watched the screen come to life. Maybe it's because its been a while since I've played the game, but the intro was different from what I remembered. There was a much heavier focus on Sweet Tooth who was often seen slashing at unseen victims with his large knife. A blood splatter briefly appeared on the screen before the scene shifted to a blurry image of him sitting in an apartment room. This was incredibly strange because none of the games ever featured the characters in a home environment.
Once the game finished booting up, I had the time of my life playing through sweet tooth's route. His story of being a serial killer clown who killed Calpyso in his own ending remained as iconic as ever. It felt so satisfying to finally turn the tables on that sadistic mastermind. My entertainment soon turned into confusion upon seeing the credits finish rolling and display the title " Twisted Metal Lost" on screen.
What the hell was going on?
TM Lost is a bonus feature that was only featured in special editions of TM Head-on so it should've been impossible for my copy of Black to have it. Greg definitely modded the disc but I wasn't complaining. Little surprises like this will always get a warm welcome from me. At least that's what I thought before finding out what the game truly had in store for me.
Immediately after selecting the Lost mode, Sweet Tooth's guttural laugh blared from my speakers. The scene then showed Sweet Tooth running around in an asylum with his iconic cleaver in hand. Asylum workers would spawn sporadically throughout the stage and I controlled sweet tooth to cut them all up. I was loving this mod more and more with every second. It was like I was experiencing the true Sweet Tooth; a seasoned serial killer unrestricted by the confines of a car. He was free to slaughter indiscriminately and I was in full control of his mayhem. By the time I was done, the asylum was left painted in blood.
Once the level was complete, the screen faded to black before an image of Sweet Tooth sitting in a wooden chair appeared.
" Hello John. Having fun yet?" I felt my body jolt in surprise. Sweet Tooth had just said my name. Even if Greg modded this game, how could he know that I would be the one to buy it? Just how many more surprises did he have up his sleeve?
" Looks to me like you've been having a helluva time cutting those pigs up. Can't say I blame ya. Just don't forget that this is still MY game and you have to play by my rules. This next level should be something very familiar. Let's play a game of hide and seek. You be the scared little lamb and I'll be the butcher that serves you on a platter. See you soon." A wicked cackle roared from my speakers before a loading screen of a smiling Sweet Tooth popped up.
My blood ran cold when I saw what stage was next. It was my city. More specifically, it was a supermarket near my neighborhood. I find it hard to believe that Greg had only coincidently modded my neighborhood into one of my favorite games. Had he been stalking me? The attention to detail was immaculate. Greg had perfectly replicated the streets and stores surrounding the market down to the chips of paint on their signs. It was all so uncanny. I watched Sweet Tooth walk through the crowded streets while brandishing his cleaver without anyone noticing him. He was completely invisible to everyone but me. Sweet Tooth dashed down several blocks, gradually getting closer to my neighborhood. Fear swelled in my heart as Sweet Tooth approached my home with his bloody cleaver shining radiantly.
I immediately unplugged my PS2 and locked my bedroom door. Bullets of sweat raced down my head as I ruminated about what just happened. Greg was one sick fuck for making something like this. Was this his idea of a joke? He must've been some sort of messed up stalker. Just as I was about to curse him out over the phone, a loud bang at more door froze me solid. It was a kind of unhinged, violent bang that made it clear whoever was on the other side had vile intentions. I weakly walked over to the peephole to see who it could be and I felt my blood turn to ice.
Those baggy white pants and macabre mask were unmistakable. Sweet Tooth was at my door with his face mere inches away from the hole. What the hell was going on? I had no explanation for what I saw but there Sweet Tooth was looking like he wanted to make my head roll. I at first thought it was Greg continuing his prank on me but Sweet Tooth's physique is far too different. Greg was more on the lean side while Sweet Tooth is incredibly stocky. To make matters worse, this man's head was aflame and yet he didn't seem to be in the slightest bit of pain.
I immediately barricaded my door with whatever furniture I had and locked myself in my upstairs bedroom. I grabbed my phone to call the cops but for some reason, it wasn't working. All I got was static on the speaker. I barely had time it wonder what was going on when I heard a loud crash come from downstairs. Loud stomps echoed throughout the apartment and quickly drew closer to me. My heart felt just about ready to burst from my chest. I couldn't believe that Sweet Tooth was about to kill me. The pounding at my door grew louder by the second and it felt like the walls were closing in on me. In my panic, I almost forgot about my fire escape.
I dashed out of the window and to the metallic balcony just in time to hear my door burst open. Not taking a second to look back, I bolted down each ladder with frantic energy. My mind was focused solely on getting the hell out of there. Once my feet touched the concrete, I was prepared to run to the nearest police station, but to my horror, Sweet Tooth had just landed right in front of me. He cackled a hideous laugh before the tip of his cleaver was embedded in my stomach. Mind numbing pain consumed every part of my mind and the only thing I could do was cry and puke up blood. The last thing I saw before blacking out was Sweet Tooth standing over me, laughing menacingly.
When I woke up, I could hardly believe I was still alive. I sat in a hospital room with a whole bunch of tubes connected to me. After the nurses let the police know I was awake, they came over to interrogate me. All I could tell them was that someone dressed as a clown broke into my apartment and tried to kill me. No way were they going to believe that some videogame character had come to life to annihilate me. It was obvious that the police search would lead nowhere. I never went back to the comic shop after that day. Whoever Greg is, he's a creepy bastard that everyone should stay the hell away from. I can't even enjoy playing Twisted Metal anymore without thinking of that horrific incident. To anyone reading this, keep yourself safe and never go to the Magnifique Noir Comic shop.

I used to love playing Twisted Metal. Its vehicular combat style gameplay made it a huge contrast from other videogames on the market and the characters had a lot of charm to them. My favorite character out of all of them was definitely Sweet Tooth. His unrepentant brutality and wise-cracking mouth made him an instant icon of the series. He's more or less the mascot of the franchise and it's hard to imagine a twisted metal game without him. Playing the game as a kid, he scared the hell out of me, but now, I can't help admiring him as a villain.
One day I found myself growing nostalgic for the killer clown so I decided to boot up my old PS2 to play my favorite game in the series, TM Black. I inserted the disc into the console but nothing happened. I repeated this process several times only to reach the same result. The unfortunate reality that my game disc was damaged then dawned on me. This naturally pissed me off since I invested countless hours into this near masterpiece.
All was not lost however. I knew of a comic book shop that specialized in selling old and obscure media. Their videogame selection was paltry, but I figured it was the fastest way to get the game at a reasonable price. It took a long but well worth it train ride to downtown Toronto to reach my destination. I clenched firmly to the hood of my coat as the harsh winter winds collided with my face. Snowfall was sure to come soon so hunkering down in my apartment with my favorite game was looking ideal.
Greg, the owner of the shop, stared daggers into me as soon as I arrived. He's kinda weird like that. He had this shaggy black hair and heavy sunken eyes that made him look like the type of guy you'd bump into a dark alleyway. Greg's never really bothered me before so I tried not to pay him any mind. Still, it's hard not to wonder what goes on in his creepy little mind. The way he looks at female customers always gives the chills. I'd be surprised if he didn't have some kind of rap sheet.
I walked past aisles of comics and headed straight to their modest videogame section. My eyes scanned on each title in my hunt for Black. To my dismay, it wasn't there. Did I come all this way for nothing?
Not wanting to admit defeat just yet, I asked Greg if he had the game in stock. He just stared at me for a few seconds before giving a creepy smile and led me to the back of the shop. There was a whole row of games and dvds with pitch black covers. He handed me a case with " Twisted metal black" which was crudely drawn featuring a picture of Sweet Tooth.
" What the heck is this?" I asked.
" It's the game you wanted. It's a used copy so it didn't come with its original cover. Decided to give it a makeover," Greg replied in his gravely voice.
I remained skeptical of the game's quality but bought it regardless. I joked to myself that this would be like owning a rare collector's item. My excitement lasted the entire train ride back home.
I quickly inserted the disc inside my PlayStation and watched the screen come to life. Maybe it's because its been a while since I've played the game, but the intro was different from what I remembered. There was a much heavier focus on Sweet Tooth who was often seen slashing at unseen victims with his large knife. A blood splatter briefly appeared on the screen before the scene shifted to a blurry image of him sitting in an apartment room. This was incredibly strange because none of the games ever featured the characters in a home environment.
Once the game finished booting up, I had the time of my life playing through sweet tooth's route. His story of being a serial killer clown who killed Calpyso in his own ending remained as iconic as ever. It felt so satisfying to finally turn the tables on that sadistic mastermind. My entertainment soon turned into confusion upon seeing the credits finish rolling and display the title " Twisted Metal Lost" on screen.
What the hell was going on?
TM Lost is a bonus feature that was only featured in special editions of TM Head-on so it should've been impossible for my copy of Black to have it. Greg definitely modded the disc but I wasn't complaining. Little surprises like this will always get a warm welcome from me. At least that's what I thought before finding out what the game truly had in store for me.
Immediately after selecting the Lost mode, Sweet Tooth's guttural laugh blared from my speakers. The scene then showed Sweet Tooth running around in an asylum with his iconic cleaver in hand. Asylum workers would spawn sporadically throughout the stage and I controlled sweet tooth to cut them all up. I was loving this mod more and more with every second. It was like I was experiencing the true Sweet Tooth; a seasoned serial killer unrestricted by the confines of a car. He was free to slaughter indiscriminately and I was in full control of his mayhem. By the time I was done, the asylum was left painted in blood.
Once the level was complete, the screen faded to black before an image of Sweet Tooth sitting in a wooden chair appeared.
" Hello John. Having fun yet?" I felt my body jolt in surprise. Sweet Tooth had just said my name. Even if Greg modded this game, how could he know that I would be the one to buy it? Just how many more surprises did he have up his sleeve?
" Looks to me like you've been having a helluva time cutting those pigs up. Can't say I blame ya. Just don't forget that this is still MY game and you have to play by my rules. This next level should be something very familiar. Let's play a game of hide and seek. You be the scared little lamb and I'll be the butcher that serves you on a platter. See you soon." A wicked cackle roared from my speakers before a loading screen of a smiling Sweet Tooth popped up.
My blood ran cold when I saw what stage was next. It was my city. More specifically, it was a supermarket near my neighborhood. I find it hard to believe that Greg had only coincidently modded my neighborhood into one of my favorite games. Had he been stalking me? The attention to detail was immaculate. Greg had perfectly replicated the streets and stores surrounding the market down to the chips of paint on their signs. It was all so uncanny. I watched Sweet Tooth walk through the crowded streets while brandishing his cleaver without anyone noticing him. He was completely invisible to everyone but me. Sweet Tooth dashed down several blocks, gradually getting closer to my neighborhood. Fear swelled in my heart as Sweet Tooth approached my home with his bloody cleaver shining radiantly.
I immediately unplugged my PS2 and locked my bedroom door. Bullets of sweat raced down my head as I ruminated about what just happened. Greg was one sick fuck for making something like this. Was this his idea of a joke? He must've been some sort of messed up stalker. Just as I was about to curse him out over the phone, a loud bang at more door froze me solid. It was a kind of unhinged, violent bang that made it clear whoever was on the other side had vile intentions. I weakly walked over to the peephole to see who it could be and I felt my blood turn to ice.
Those baggy white pants and macabre mask were unmistakable. Sweet Tooth was at my door with his face mere inches away from the hole. What the hell was going on? I had no explanation for what I saw but there Sweet Tooth was looking like he wanted to make my head roll. I at first thought it was Greg continuing his prank on me but Sweet Tooth's physique is far too different. Greg was more on the lean side while Sweet Tooth is incredibly stocky. To make matters worse, this man's head was aflame and yet he didn't seem to be in the slightest bit of pain.
I immediately barricaded my door with whatever furniture I had and locked myself in my upstairs bedroom. I grabbed my phone to call the cops but for some reason, it wasn't working. All I got was static on the speaker. I barely had time it wonder what was going on when I heard a loud crash come from downstairs. Loud stomps echoed throughout the apartment and quickly drew closer to me. My heart felt just about ready to burst from my chest. I couldn't believe that Sweet Tooth was about to kill me. The pounding at my door grew louder by the second and it felt like the walls were closing in on me. In my panic, I almost forgot about my fire escape.
I dashed out of the window and to the metallic balcony just in time to hear my door burst open. Not taking a second to look back, I bolted down each ladder with frantic energy. My mind was focused solely on getting the hell out of there. Once my feet touched the concrete, I was prepared to run to the nearest police station, but to my horror, Sweet Tooth had just landed right in front of me. He cackled a hideous laugh before the tip of his cleaver was embedded in my stomach. Mind numbing pain consumed every part of my mind and the only thing I could do was cry and puke up blood. The last thing I saw before blacking out was Sweet Tooth standing over me, laughing menacingly.
When I woke up, I could hardly believe I was still alive. I sat in a hospital room with a whole bunch of tubes connected to me. After the nurses let the police know I was awake, they came over to interrogate me. All I could tell them was that someone dressed as a clown broke into my apartment and tried to kill me. No way were they going to believe that some videogame character had come to life to annihilate me. It was obvious that the police search would lead nowhere. I never went back to the comic shop after that day. Whoever Greg is, he's a creepy bastard that everyone should stay the hell away from. I can't even enjoy playing Twisted Metal anymore without thinking of that horrific incident. To anyone reading this, keep yourself safe and never go to the Magnifique Noir Comic shop.

I just wanted to share my personal experience listening to all songs from Clancy. I don't know anyone else who is this much into TOP. This is gonna be a long read. Would love to hear from you all!
P.S. I am not trying to hate on any songs. Also, this is NOT a rating.
​

1. Overcompensate - I was absolutely HYPED when the trailer came out with the movie-like intro. The beat switch was such a pleasant surprise. I LOVE Josh's drums as well as Tyler's sick flow EARNED MY STRAPS THREE HUNDRED TRACKS! Got me hyped for the album.
2. Next Semester - I had such a love-hate relationship with this song. It came out while I was dying with stress finishing up my dissertation, so the lyrics felt too close for comfort. But I slowly got over the denial and got addicted to it! It is currently my most streamed song in 2024.
3. Backslide - Anyone else feel like some songs come out exactly when you need them? This is what Backslide was for me. Also Paul Meany revealing that the outro is a chopped piano was such a mindboggler!
4. The Craving (single version) - I love this song so much! And the music video completely elevated the feelings that this song brings. It has given me a new appreciation for their songs as well as art in general, how so much effort and thought is put into each tiny bit.
5. Midwest Indigo - ALBUM RELEASE DAY! I remember walking back home from the library at 3 AM, putting on Midwest Indigo, and smiling so hard at the "Chill out man" part haha! The outro kinda throws me off making me feel like the song drags a bit.
6. Routine In The Night - Extremely catchy pre-chorus and chorus, I catch myself moving to it every so often!
7. Vignette - CLINGING TOOOOOO..... PROMISESSSSS....... Also, someone pointed out how Tyler can be seen trying to control his laugh during the final "It's for a friend" section, makes me laugh every time!
8. The Craving (Jenna's version) - Similar to the single version, I love this so much! Although the lyrics are the same, the bare instrumental and Tyler's "raw" vocals arouse a completely different set of feelings within me. It's so cute! I think I would appreciate this song even more if I wasn't single lol
9. Lavish - Chill song, although I will admit I do not like this one as much as I do the others. The music video is one of my faves though!
10. Navigating - Okay I know how much everybody in the fanbase loves this song, but this one's not for me :/
11. Snap Back - Another song I had a love-hate relationship with. After the last couple of songs, I went into this one negatively on the first listen and did not particularly like it. But it has grown so much on me, that I cannot stop listening to it now! The "Elasticity" part with Tyler's "Wooooo" in the background, is one of my favourite moments on the album. Also, Tyler doing his dancey-dance in the MV in the end!
12. Oldies Station - I CANNOT tell you how deeply I feel for this song. Every line cuts deep. When the synth lead hits leading into "You don't quite mind....", I get chills every time. Easily one of my favourite TOP songs of all time.
13. ATROFD - I love how the melody gives off a silly vibe and it complements the lyrical content perfectly! I also remember seeing a clip of someone catching the boys during the MV recording, with Josh and his drums on the top and Tyler hanging about under lol
14. Paladin Strait - Love the epic buildup and consequent delivery (in contrast to Leave the City, which is such a cliffhanger instrumental-wise). However, this song feels incomplete without the MV. I think the MV will answer a lot of our questions, including the minute-long break. On the edge of my seat, can't wait for the MV to release!

Special mention - I feel like Josh kills it with the drums across the whole album. The drums stand out on every single song!
My favs: Next Semester The Craving (single and Jenna's version) Snap Back Oldies Station ATROFD

P.S please seek out help to me, or call your loved ones if you notice these early signs.
Marriage with you was my happiness but prison was already the big red flag that I ignored the moment I knew you 8 months ago. I had it wrapped around my finger, mistakes were bound to happen on our journey but going out to go do cheating was never & ever will be on my list. An 18 year old girl and a 22 year old man. I pushed you to do the best but even the ‘your happiness is my happiness’ did not want to align in your mind. For nearly 8 months your inner hidden subconscious led you to believe I was jealous of you. Jealous of your trading currencies, jealous of your looks, jealous of your job, jealous of your successes & passes, jealous of your money. I made mistakes most of these people were my old friends who i left without a word for you but I am not a try to impress girl, i never was & i never will be. All i wanted & asked for were flowers not a daily bags of expenses from you. I only wanted you to be kind and have a nice tone. When you love, you do love hard but your hatred and want to hurt me surpasses your love for me Murad, you never ever wanted to forgive me Murad but I have and I still do. Since i met you i’ve been on fight or flight mode, I fear you but im not scared of you anymore, but this is still your nature from a little baby to a grown man entering his prime years. You will not change or learn Murad. Changing does not mean praying 5 times and reading Quran. You still managed to fit another woman from another country in our marriage, forget the relationship it was haraam. I never done that Murad. I didnt keep a man on my iMessage or WhatsApp in our marriage. You love money, sex & drugs. It’s what you worshipped since young. That is your qismat. The difference is I had my reason not excuses for my mistakes but you had no reason or excuse Mo because that is in your blood it is how you were born and grew up. You became the waste end product of this emerging environment. I was never the way I was last year Murad, when I was 8, I was taking my shoes & clothes off on roads in my country to give to the poor children, I stole biscuits from my grandmother’s corner shop and was smacked just so I could to give to the orphans whereas at 9 you were smoking weed, having intercourse with women & carrying zombie knives in your pants, leaving a gun in higham hills park or St james park. And if i met men before you and wanted to conceal it you rip my throat off and attempt to take my life? Your story does not deserve to be told in schools Murad, your story is not a life lesson but a facade because you have not learned your lesson, you just become more & more proud about your old ways. You know why? Because I know you don’t regret it Murad, a person who regrets their deed does not boast or feels proud, the man who is regretful of his past actions asks for forgiveness, conceals the sin and moves on. The real reason why you boast about your case is because you were controlling the city’s drug supply. You love control & you love power. Do you know what happens to the elite above when they have so much money, do you know what is above money and below Dajjal? Power. You love power & being in control of your family, friends & wife. That’s how you’ve created your trust issues as well as your own fake army. People can’t be honest around you because you’ve pre built a foundation of fear Murad through your tone, words & agression. Control yourself before you control those around you. That’s the dynamics of it. Stop instilling fear in people to get your stomach full. I have the right to diagnose you with this, you have borderline personality with narcissistic personality and a lack of empathy; a result of your traumatic past experiences so Murad prove my point you don’t trust anyone else to handle my mistakes and forgive me or try to understand me unless you handle my mistake the way your revengeful gut wants to hurt and deal with me. I’ve made mistakes but my love was stronger than me hurting you, we always found each other when we needed each other the most. But that fell off when we got married, you chose friends over your wife waiting for you for 5 hours at home, and coming home to find out you have a secret girlfriend from a week in our nikkah. I forgive you Murad. How do I go to my class with other 18 year old girls knowing I married the lover of my life who nearly ended my life nights previously? How do I deal with this ? Im very mature and I don’t feel my age but somewhere in me is still 18.
You moulded me into a liar because of fear & you moulded me into a broken girl because of your past experience and mistakes i did and you did. Murad I didn’t care that you had no money. My vision is slowly settling into my system and I think the women, family and friends around you is okay with you making & spending haraam money but not me Murad. Just like how you did not like some of my ways and I changed even if i stumbled and made silly mistakes half way or when we ended but i did not like some of your ways and you didn’t change. I didn’t meet anyone. In fact Murad you are my worst nightmare. i ignored all your mistakes every one but little i knew, one day shut me down as if i was your biggest mistake. I put you in your place and you have never had that and neither have I been forced in that position, but yet i still cared if i had money just like when you were at work all day I begged my mother to send me money so my husband can have food in his belly from my bed. I went miles for you but then so did you. You crossed the line on 08/06/2024. You suffocated me with a pillow, grabbed my throat so hard I could not breathe, held a knife at my throat and bruised me, smacked me right on my entire left face and nose, attempted to throw me across the balcony in a tightening grip. I tried to hide the bruises from you, but my arm were in so much pain that when you threw me around I had to let the pain escape my mouth. Murad you ruined an 18 year old girl’s life, Murad I didn’t deserve it at all Murad you tainted and left a big stain by destroying me. Murad you are my biggest mistake but was not your biggest mistake & if thats what you believe then one day you will face the consequence of how big of a mistake I was to you like you said because i never physically, intentionally hurt you behind or in front of you. Its okay, I won’t let your mother or your family know what you done to me because God is the one who delivers justice, not me Murad. I bit you and slapped you so hard because you deserved it at that time, but did I deserve what you physically, mentally and intellectually put me through? Murad i was reading my Shahadah that night in your arms. I was really scared, I’ve never felt that scared. I was shaking. My body was shaken. My mind was shaken. My heart was shaken. Murad you gave me PTSD & trauma, you left me neglected and abused many times but I accepted you for you. I now have to go therapy and take medication Murad just because I hid talking to men in my past and you punished me in a way Allah’s mercy wouldn’t do. I did not cheat on you & I payed my truth in blood when I slit my wrist to prove to you that I did not cheat & or sleep with any men, I was a virgin Murad, but you accused me of the worst Murad in front of everybody Murad. You should have shot me in my heart there because thats where I hurt the most, it’s not fair. Murad If you’re reading this and think you are still a good kind man after what you done to me then prove me wrong, find that goodness seed inside of your heart and hold on to it and believe me for once Murad you know that man was lying to destroy us & it worked.
The night that traumatic night occured, my father previously mentioned to my mother ‘ this girl will die in his hands’ my dad predicted this action.
But that was not enough, your end goal was to murder me & you have. I died that night Murad, you broke me into pieces before and tried to kill me but the night on the 08/06/2024 you murdered me & I did not deserve a pinch of it. I constantly pleaded with you softly, I begged you to stop and stop hurting me that night. Murad do you know what hurts me ? Is if my father witnessed with his eyes how much you mashed my body so much with my face into the bed and wall with your hands & weight, you suffocated and tried to kill me with your hands Murad, I would die before i let my father witness you choking his daughter, history has repeated in your family and someone will do this to your daughter Murad and this time i promise you will see it happen in the moment and that is when your world will end. I didn’t meet anyone when we were together. Murad i promised you my time will come one day when i’ll make you face & understand the consequences of your abusive actions forget words. I won’t punish you, what is gone before is long gone & all you have now is the result of your actions. And that will be my last remembrance of you, you won’t see my face anywhere, you wont hear my name anywhere & you won’t find my anywhere. Murad you are not a man, you are not a stay.busy17 man either and you are definitely not a money motivated man. You sit down on your bed more than you get to work. I do not stand for revenge Murad so destiny and god will restore justice for my silence & sufferings that I faced all alone in your house. I had nobody. Nobody Murad. It was just me And God in your house. That night you nearly ended my life, i repeatedly said to myself ‘Papa please help me God please help me Papa please help me God please save me’ Murad when someone is in so much pain God takes away the pain not by ending their life but by taking their soul out of their body for a few seconds to relieve the pain. I did not meet anyone. My ‘revenge’ is not violence nor revenge itself, my revenge is God, only a taste of your medicine Murad, I will disappear out of your life so quietly without notice because you hurt me more than you love me. Life is not a game, but you are the one who chose this game to play so you’ll play it nicely now. The evilness inside of your eyes that night is something I will never forget. All I wanted was for you not to do drugs in our marriage. In the UK, 75% of ex-inmates reoffend within nine years of release, and 39.3% within the first twelve months, If you are reading this and wondered why I have written this there then you have guessed right,
because you a 22 year old man attempted homicide on an 18 year old girl through grievous bodily harm (GBH), strangulation in form of abuse, with evident body bruises on arm, face, inner thigh and chest/neck. Men like you Murad, they call you strangles. You are most likely to become killers in almost every situation & It is scientifically proven that if you strangle me and if i stay you WILL eventually kill me. My parents were right on their conscious prediction. My life never has and can not be trusted in your hands.
This is only 30% of everything. The rest I will keep to myself.

P.S please seek out help to me, or call your loved ones if you notice these early signs.
Marriage with you was my happiness but prison was already the big red flag that I ignored the moment I knew you 8 months ago. I had it wrapped around my finger, mistakes were bound to happen on our journey but going out to go do cheating was never & ever will be on my list. An 18 year old girl and a 22 year old man. I pushed you to do the best but even the ‘your happiness is my happiness’ did not want to align in your mind. For nearly 8 months your inner hidden subconscious led you to believe I was jealous of you. Jealous of your trading currencies, jealous of your looks, jealous of your job, jealous of your successes & passes, jealous of your money. I made mistakes most of these people were my old friends who i left without a word for you but I am not a try to impress girl, i never was & i never will be. All i wanted & asked for were flowers not a daily bags of expenses from you. I only wanted you to be kind and have a nice tone. When you love, you do love hard but your hatred and want to hurt me surpasses your love for me Murad, you never ever wanted to forgive me Murad but I have and I still do. Since i met you i’ve been on fight or flight mode, I fear you but im not scared of you anymore, but this is still your nature from a little baby to a grown man entering his prime years. You will not change or learn Murad. Changing does not mean praying 5 times and reading Quran. You still managed to fit another woman from another country in our marriage, forget the relationship it was haraam. I never done that Murad. I didnt keep a man on my iMessage or WhatsApp in our marriage. You love money, sex & drugs. It’s what you worshipped since young. That is your qismat. The difference is I had my reason not excuses for my mistakes but you had no reason or excuse Mo because that is in your blood it is how you were born and grew up. You became the waste end product of this emerging environment. I was never the way I was last year Murad, when I was 8, I was taking my shoes & clothes off on roads in my country to give to the poor children, I stole biscuits from my grandmother’s corner shop and was smacked just so I could to give to the orphans whereas at 9 you were smoking weed, having intercourse with women & carrying zombie knives in your pants, leaving a gun in higham hills park or St james park. And if i met men before you and wanted to conceal it you rip my throat off and attempt to take my life? Your story does not deserve to be told in schools Murad, your story is not a life lesson but a facade because you have not learned your lesson, you just become more & more proud about your old ways. You know why? Because I know you don’t regret it Murad, a person who regrets their deed does not boast or feels proud, the man who is regretful of his past actions asks for forgiveness, conceals the sin and moves on. The real reason why you boast about your case is because you were controlling the city’s drug supply. You love control & you love power. Do you know what happens to the elite above when they have so much money, do you know what is above money and below Dajjal? Power. You love power & being in control of your family, friends & wife. That’s how you’ve created your trust issues as well as your own fake army. People can’t be honest around you because you’ve pre built a foundation of fear Murad through your tone, words & agression. Control yourself before you control those around you. That’s the dynamics of it. Stop instilling fear in people to get your stomach full. I have the right to diagnose you with this, you have borderline personality with narcissistic personality and a lack of empathy; a result of your traumatic past experiences so Murad prove my point you don’t trust anyone else to handle my mistakes and forgive me or try to understand me unless you handle my mistake the way your revengeful gut wants to hurt and deal with me. I’ve made mistakes but my love was stronger than me hurting you, we always found each other when we needed each other the most. But that fell off when we got married, you chose friends over your wife waiting for you for 5 hours at home, and coming home to find out you have a secret girlfriend from a week in our nikkah. I forgive you Murad. How do I go to my class with other 18 year old girls knowing I married the lover of my life who nearly ended my life nights previously? How do I deal with this ? Im very mature and I don’t feel my age but somewhere in me is still 18.
You moulded me into a liar because of fear & you moulded me into a broken girl because of your past experience and mistakes i did and you did. Murad I didn’t care that you had no money. My vision is slowly settling into my system and I think the women, family and friends around you is okay with you making & spending haraam money but not me Murad. Just like how you did not like some of my ways and I changed even if i stumbled and made silly mistakes half way or when we ended but i did not like some of your ways and you didn’t change. I didn’t meet anyone. In fact Murad you are my worst nightmare. i ignored all your mistakes every one but little i knew, one day shut me down as if i was your biggest mistake. I put you in your place and you have never had that and neither have I been forced in that position, but yet i still cared if i had money just like when you were at work all day I begged my mother to send me money so my husband can have food in his belly from my bed. I went miles for you but then so did you. You crossed the line on 08/06/2024. You suffocated me with a pillow, grabbed my throat so hard I could not breathe, held a knife at my throat and bruised me, smacked me right on my entire left face and nose, attempted to throw me across the balcony in a tightening grip. I tried to hide the bruises from you, but my arm were in so much pain that when you threw me around I had to let the pain escape my mouth. Murad you ruined an 18 year old girl’s life, Murad I didn’t deserve it at all Murad you tainted and left a big stain by destroying me. Murad you are my biggest mistake but was not your biggest mistake & if thats what you believe then one day you will face the consequence of how big of a mistake I was to you like you said because i never physically, intentionally hurt you behind or in front of you. Its okay, I won’t let your mother or your family know what you done to me because God is the one who delivers justice, not me Murad. I bit you and slapped you so hard because you deserved it at that time, but did I deserve what you physically, mentally and intellectually put me through? Murad i was reading my Shahadah that night in your arms. I was really scared, I’ve never felt that scared. I was shaking. My body was shaken. My mind was shaken. My heart was shaken. Murad you gave me PTSD & trauma, you left me neglected and abused many times but I accepted you for you. I now have to go therapy and take medication Murad just because I hid talking to men in my past and you punished me in a way Allah’s mercy wouldn’t do. I did not cheat on you & I payed my truth in blood when I slit my wrist to prove to you that I did not cheat & or sleep with any men, I was a virgin Murad, but you accused me of the worst Murad in front of everybody Murad. You should have shot me in my heart there because thats where I hurt the most, it’s not fair. Murad If you’re reading this and think you are still a good kind man after what you done to me then prove me wrong, find that goodness seed inside of your heart and hold on to it and believe me for once Murad you know that man was lying to destroy us & it worked.
The night that traumatic night occured, my father previously mentioned to my mother ‘ this girl will die in his hands’ my dad predicted this action.
But that was not enough, your end goal was to murder me & you have. I died that night Murad, you broke me into pieces before and tried to kill me but the night on the 08/06/2024 you murdered me & I did not deserve a pinch of it. I constantly pleaded with you softly, I begged you to stop and stop hurting me that night. Murad do you know what hurts me ? Is if my father witnessed with his eyes how much you mashed my body so much with my face into the bed and wall with your hands & weight, you suffocated and tried to kill me with your hands Murad, I would die before i let my father witness you choking his daughter, history has repeated in your family and someone will do this to your daughter Murad and this time i promise you will see it happen in the moment and that is when your world will end. I didn’t meet anyone when we were together. Murad i promised you my time will come one day when i’ll make you face & understand the consequences of your abusive actions forget words. I won’t punish you, what is gone before is long gone & all you have now is the result of your actions. And that will be my last remembrance of you, you won’t see my face anywhere, you wont hear my name anywhere & you won’t find my anywhere. Murad you are not a man, you are not a stay.busy17 man either and you are definitely not a money motivated man. You sit down on your bed more than you get to work. I do not stand for revenge Murad so destiny and god will restore justice for my silence & sufferings that I faced all alone in your house. I had nobody. Nobody Murad. It was just me And God in your house. That night you nearly ended my life, i repeatedly said to myself ‘Papa please help me God please help me Papa please help me God please save me’ Murad when someone is in so much pain God takes away the pain not by ending their life but by taking their soul out of their body for a few seconds to relieve the pain. I did not meet anyone. My ‘revenge’ is not violence nor revenge itself, my revenge is God, only a taste of your medicine Murad, I will disappear out of your life so quietly without notice because you hurt me more than you love me. Life is not a game, but you are the one who chose this game to play so you’ll play it nicely now. The evilness inside of your eyes that night is something I will never forget. All I wanted was for you not to do drugs in our marriage. In the UK, 75% of ex-inmates reoffend within nine years of release, and 39.3% within the first twelve months, If you are reading this and wondered why I have written this there then you have guessed right,
because you a 22 year old man attempted homicide on an 18 year old girl through grievous bodily harm (GBH), strangulation in form of abuse, with evident body bruises on arm, face, inner thigh and chest/neck. Men like you Murad, they call you strangles. You are most likely to become killers in almost every situation & It is scientifically proven that if you strangle me and if i stay you WILL eventually kill me. My parents were right on their conscious prediction. My life never has and can not be trusted in your hands.
This is only 30% of everything. The rest I will keep to myself.