How to Fill in a Betting Slip at your Local Bookie?

Roland Garros : Aviator Adventurer? Or Mythical Dragon? Let's look at the facts.
1) Pokemon named the dragon looking pokemon Garrados (or something like that). Where did they get that idea? hmm
2) If you rearrange the letters in Roland Garros you get Roslan's Dragon, so the real question is was Roslan an aviator? because clearly Roland Garros was not
3) Many people dispute the realness of dragons, but have you ever been to France? If not, I promise you they had dragons
4) 4
5) Where did people even get the idea for airplanes from? Answer : from dragons. Dragons are notoriously good inventors, ever heard of fire? hoarding wealth? let's be honest, humans are just dragon wannabe's
Here's some tennis :
Djokovic Berankis : Quick standard work from Novak in the first round. No one looks more perfectly effortless than him when he’s in control. Berankis did well to surprise the lackluster Dellien even though clay isn’t his best surface. Dellien will likely be off the tour next year without some major grinding on the challenger tour. This next matchup looked good for a while at the USO but will be a similar result and a faster one on clay. Djokovic in 3.
Galan Sandgren : Cam Norrie and Galan played one of the worst 5-setters you could see if you were betting on either one. Nonstop exchanges of multiple games and no one could really sustain offense. I had thought Galan would run away with this one as he’s such a specialist but Norrie (when he wasn’t making errors) had control here and was the only one who could really change the direction of the ball or serve aces. Just the same scorelines but completely different play in the Sandgren and Hurkacz match. Sandgren hung around in the first set even though Hurkacz was dictating. It appeared fairly obvious that Sandgren’s plan was to hang in rallies and not go for much, hoping for errors. When Hurkacz managed to get broken at the end of the first it began to look like that was a solid strategy.
Sandgren was constantly serving at duece, facing break points in so many service games, and genuinely did not win this match at all. Hurkacz will need time or a new mental approach, because he’s losing matches due to errors, and this is a baaaaaad thing on tour because so many guys strategy when things get tight is to “try hard hope to earn errors”. When you’re known for making them guys try harder, and then you’re in the rare prison of supplying all the offense to a match. Guys like Federer can play 3 sets of offense, most of the tour is going to need to play error-free tennis so that their opponents are forced to at least go for something. Sandgren turned the tide in the 4th and 5th and Hurkacz began facing break points in all his games. The heavy ball Sandgren hits translates to a slightly more annoying pusher style, as he can kinda go for big targets and rely on pace/weight of shot to earn the point.
This next matchup opened at -195 for Sandgren and I tend to disagree. Sandren played an exhausting match but has gone through a number of deep runs at majors before. He’s not mercurial by any means on clay but he’s been working very hard the past few weeks to get his game together. Where Hurkacz has the weapons to really hurt Sandgren, Galan relies more on work ethic and simple consistency to unseat opponents. Barring fatigue, I don’t see Sandgren losing this, and he’ll have ample opportunities to break. His movement isn’t as good as Norrie but his offensive/service game are world’s more reliable. Sandgren in 4.
Garin Polmans : Garin and Kohl played a pretty good match, and Garin’s returning was what really got him over the finish line here. A lot of deep placement kept the times Kohl broke him from becoming a major issue, as he did have his chances. Garin is a player who thrives on flow and the more matches he wins the better he performs. Polmans, well, Polmans partied all over Humbert today. It was one-sided from start to finish, with Humbert just reflecting the ball and Polmans driving it. Fatigue could be a suggestion, but if you look at the guys who came from the ultra-fast courts of Hamburg they all struggled early in their matches. Humbert is not quite the physical talent that Rublev and Tsitsipas are so he wasn’t able to turn the tide, but they all found their timing around the 3rd set. Humbert’s mom is still cool, and he still has a bright future. If you like Polmans’ wacky hat and vivid celebrations on court (he seems almost like he’s about to start awkwardly breakdancing while celebrating/lamenting shots), him notching a win at a major is great for his ranking.
Garin is a better Polmans. I don’t consider Humbert’s demise a total implosion, and Polmans will be involved in this contest, but Garin is a player who usually loses to bigger weapons, and while Polmans moves the ball well he isn’t overwhelming. He can win a set or two because Garin is still in somewhat a daze from Hamburg, but I think Polmans will play Garin into a rhythm and Garin’s precision tend to improve as he strings games together. Garin in 4.
Vesely Khachanov : Vesely is starting to look like himself. Originally the inspiration for some Geico commercials, his transition to tennis has been brilliant, and his serving combined with the fact that he’s a lefty mean his game gives him an edge against most lower-tier players. Khachanov was one of the better comeback stories you’ll ever see in a straight set win. Majchrzak led by a break in every set and just couldn’t keep it together. A hint of future brilliance, but again his biggest issue is not being able to distance himself from his opponents in matches. Once Khachanov buttoned up his errors when he was down a break, it became difficult for Majchrzak to win rallies. I expect something similar in this tie with Vesely.
Vesely’s backhand has been the side that makes errors during neutral rallies, and for a guy who crushes the ball this represents a big target. Vesely will need to serve well to have a shot at this, and while matches between two big hitters tend to never go in straight sets, Khachanov and Garin looks like an inevitability. Khachanov in 4.
Bautista Agut Balasz : I’ve never seen someone look so dominant while getting beaten down. In the first set RBA was broken at love multiple times. Gasquet hit a number of unreal winners down the line with his backhand and worked to earn points with 20 shot rallies over and over. He led 5-2 at one point, but RBA had barely missed a shot to that point, aside from a few backhands into the net. Gasquet was emitting a quality of sweat I recognize as deep deep swampwater, and I know when things are that humid that comebacks are not in the cards. Gasquet lost the 1st set tiebreaker and was just about done. Gasquet is French for something, and while he’s out of the tournament here, he certainly has a neat backhand and a cool name,
Balasz was one of the cheapest and most straightforward options of the day, and Uchiyama never really put up a fight. Balasz has an interesting game and is worth watching, but his tournament is likely over. Gasquet was brilliant in the first set and still only won 9 games. The heavier balls and slower conditions mean RBA has a tough time hitting through the court, but the flipside is it’s very difficult to find points against him. Balasz may confuse him for a while, but errors will come as he forces shots. RBA in 3-4.
Pella Carreño Busta : Busta busta busta, I made you out of clayyyyyy. I know Pella’s name is first but I was just so relaxed watching PCB play his first round. He really comes into a match with a complete gameplan and sticks with it no matter the scoreline. Unpopular opinion : I don’t think he was going to lose in any fewer than 5 sets against Novak in NY. When he’s fresh and not making backhand errors it becomes extremely difficult to beat him, and for a guy whose somewhat regarded as a defensive player he steps into the court and unloads for winners whenever it’s possible. He is what Sandgren is trying to be.
Pella and Caruso played what must have been a depressing match for Caruso fans. Endless rallies, great quality tennis, but no real way for either player to find clean winners. Matches like that are difficult to watch because your neighbor will hear 3 hours of grunting coming from your apt and also because you know a few random points at the end of sets are going to decide things. Pella won those points, and though he was down early breaks he looked like himself for the first time. I’m glad I announced he has a terrible injury; I now know how to summon top play from any opponent.
I don’t know exactly what to expect from this matchup. They’ve traded some wins on hardcourt, but have oddly never played on clay. PCB’s movement/stamina are the biggest differences between him and Caruso, whose game sort of broke down as things progressed. Pella certainly played well, and even in a losing effort he’s going to make you play a ton of balls. The edge has to go to PCB given their recent forms, but his proclivity for going to duece means this could go the distance. PCB in 4-5.
Struff Altmaier : Struff and Tiafoe, or Struffafoe as they’re known from now on, played a pretty good quality match. I once again feel Tiafoe needs better coaching, as he was winning a fair number of the baseline rallies but insisted on playing dropshots. They cost him this match. I don’t know a nice way to outline that winning on tour just isn’t easy. The mental lapses are always going to cost you at a professional level, but Tiafoe has shown great improvements following the tour’s break, and you can’t just summon the type of resolve/focus that Nadal has. It’ll take time.
Altmaier (whose name is super annoying to type) beat Lopez in straight sets but these two pretty much started every service game at 15-40. It wasn’t great, but the conditions were such that Altmaier was able to take deep return positions and frustrate Lopez into forcing offense. A good win, and the comfort level may be a bit higher here against Struff, which should benefit him a great deal. Playing on tour in a major after grinding the challenger tour is something that gives you adrenaline you just don’t need at times, so a bit of comfort is a plus. I see a lot of recent wins for Altmaier but he hasn’t really played someone the caliber of Struff, and Struff’s loss to Coria troubles me but in a 3/5 format and after the good quality rallies him and Tiafoe had, Struff should be able to find an edge here. Struff in 4 or losing because he’s Struff.
Harris Berrettini : Popyrin really struggled on serve at times, and didn’t seem like he’d been playing enough clay leading into this match. Harris seems to get most of his points on tour in the majors, which is interesting for such a young talent. Berretini beat Pospisil like he did something, and there’s not a lot to say about this next matchup. Harris is a great server but lacks consistency. Berretini in 3.
Medvedev Ramos-Vinolas : Oops. The strangest thing about Medvedev’s loss was how early he started complaining about it. Halfway through the first set he was down a break and already fullscale yelling at the sky/his box/local squirrels/some children/the moon/the ocean/a rock/some guy. It reminded me of Novak’s wild frustration early against PCB. These guys shouldn’t be stressing so early in a match, but I think sometimes they know the writing is on the wall and the thought is too much. Fucsovics is not really a household clay name, but he stayed composed and got the job done here. Medvedev just forced shots here over and over, and it’s strange because his serve works fine on clay and his defense is good enough to really grind points.
ARV vs Mannarino on clay is like Mannarino vs ARV on grass. These guys have such specific styles that they really can’t overcome a surface disadvantage. ARV is the sort of test that Medvedev should have been for Fucsovics once he went down a few sets; very solid defensively, doesn’t give you much to work with, and works multiple shots to earn points rather than just hoping for a W. I tend to think Fucs is up to the task, and while the “going to disneyland” notion creeps in after a big win, Fucs has had enough “almost” situations against the top 20 that notching a win won’t change his game. Both should be fresh for this one and it should be a clean, crispy tennis match. Fucsovics in 3-4.
Giron Monteiro : So many matches went to overtime this first round. Both Halys and Giron were up a break in the 5th set, which is a much different feeling from Monteiro’s day. Thiago (which is the coolest name in the draw) added to Basil’s woes, breaking early and often. He just came off a finals appearance at a challenger a week ago and continued his good form. Giron represents a tough test because his speed/forehand are a gamechanger at times, but he’s unlikely to get the job done unless he gets an early lead. Monteiro tends to get out to quick starts and is a brilliant frontrunner. I give Giron a puncher’s chance, but can’t really think of a way he can win unless Monteiro’s backhand completely falls apart. Monteiro in 3-4.
Lajovic Anderson : When I picture these two I always think of them sitting across from each other wearing black turtlenecks and evilly stroking cats. Lajovic had a pretty tough time with Mager, who crushes the ball and is a good indication that Anderson’s hitting (during the rally at least) won’t be too much of an issue. Djere refused to hold serve in this match, and that’s a bad decision to make against a server. They played much of the first stretch of their match in light rain, and Djere seemed visibly upset heading into the break. I would say this was an empty victory for Anderson, but he served well and he at some point, will find his former form since he’s not exactly too old for the tour yet. I feel the same about Nishikori but the question of when is a difficult puzzle if you’re not in his camp.
Being conscious of your biases in assessing matches is a useful tool, and I’m aware that I’d never be backing Anderson in this one with Lajovic in good form. Due to this, Anderson having actually beaten Lajovic on clay two years ago in Madrid makes me think this is going to be closer than I’d normally expect. Anderson at full health gives him a slight nod. Lajovic on a decent run gives it to him here. I wouldn’t bet against Anderson here, but Lajovic in 5.
Davidoch Fokina Rublev : First time watching Mayo and he has a really nice game. Good power, good forehand, pushes the pace well. He was up early in the 1st but once errors crept into his game it slipped away from him. There’s a big key in professional tennis and it’s being able to maintain a level throughout a match, even if it means playing slightly less than your all-out game throughout. Fokina is very solid and very comfortable. He seems like win or lose his expression will remain the same, and that’s more confidence than indifference. Rublev played one of the more difficult first rounds, as anyone who expected Sam Querrey to come out firing that well must have six magic 8-balls hooked up to a super intelligent iguana flying along a slip-and-slide on it’s way to Narnia. Querrey is a scary guy when he serves well and his forehand is a thing of useless beauty. Ruvlev/Tsitsipas/Humbert all seemed like their timing was poor early in the matches and Rublev was the first to turn it around.
Fokina would win the first two sets against the Rublev from the first two sets. There’s no intimidation factor and his backhand/movement are rocksolid which is good since that’s the thing Rublev attacks the most. I think this is a tighter contest than oddsmakers are predicting but Fokina’s ability to hit winners during these baseline rallies is something I think will be absent. Earning errors, fine. Winning neutral exchanges at net, I definitely think so. Finding his way out of baseline rallies without Rublev errors? Idk. Rublev in 4-5.
Shapovalov Carballes Baena : Shap played one of the least inspiring first rounds of the heavy favorites, trading breaks and looking at times like he wouldn’t be able to find the effort to hit through Simon. Simon was happy to move the ball around but really couldn’t find 1st serves at any point in the match. It was not a great match which makes the next round interesting. RCB had some injury concerns for me going in but eclipsed those, beating Steve Johnson 1, 1, 0. For those of you not familiar with tennis, these are not good scores. RCB represents the opposite version of Simon’s game. He is dynamic, has multiple names, and hits with pace. He doesn’t serve aces but he puts his 1st serve in at a good clip, and although Shap should win this matchup almost all the time, his struggles against the pusher style of Simon in the first round make me wonder how much patience/resolve he has left after a month and a half of nonstop tennis. Shapovalov is not the -660 favorite that he is priced at in the books, and I’d avoid this one entirely unless you’re looking at RCB or the over. Shap still did break almost at will, so I’ll give him the slight nod despite his issues holding serve/hitting the ball over the net. (for those of you not familiar with tennis, hitting the ball over the net is often an effective strategy) Shapovalov in 4-5.
Martin Dimitrov : Maybe there’s something about Tuesdays that make me nervous about upsets, but this is an interesting contest. Dimitrov is -700 in this one. I also think he’s playing great ball lately, but that is not the correct line. Dimitrov is a big market and people haven’t heard of Martin so it lands this way. Sousa didn’t particularly do anything wrong in his opener against Martin, except for doing each thing you could do wrong once. He just looks unlucky out there. He’s hitting well at times, but just seems to find an error or unfortunate way to lose the point over and over. Martin, on the other hand, was crushing the ball. He hit clean winners time and time again on Sousa’s second serve, and I think that while he isn’t expected to beat Dimitrov, his ability to generate offense during baseline rallies will give him opportunities in some spots.
Dimitrov rolled Barrere, but he served at duece in a number of games. Barrere is a nice hardcourt player, but really hasn’t won too many matches on clay. It became a perfect situation for Dimitrov, who looks great when things are going well. Martin is the type of player that clay tends to produce; not a dominant guy or a title-winner, but someone who is very comfortable with their game and who isn’t too troubled situationally (similar to what we saw from Munar today competing against Tsitsipas without too much mental duress). If this were 2/3 I’d like Martin. In 3/5 I think Dimitrov will have ample chances to break serve, and so will only lose in 5. Martin in 5.
Milojevic Bedene : Upset of the first round for Milojevic. He hit the ball solid and was proactive about his shot selection, hugging the baseline and taking time away. Krajinovic really never had a chance to breathe in this one and as a player who refuses to move off the baseline, Kraj made a number of errors on the backhand trying to stand his ground. Nothing really new from him, as he’s been great on clay and also struggled at times. Bedene was solid against Rinderknech, who reminds me a bit of Ruusuvuori and may make his way on tour in a year or two. Good groundstrokes, very fluid forehand, and just a bit less experience giving Bedene the edge late in the match.
This is another match where I lean towards the upset, but is the breakdown. Milojevic beat a superior player in Krajinovic, but a less consistent one. Kraj has had his fair share of struggles. Bedene isn’t a threat for deep runs in events, but gets the job done very consistently when he’s “supposed” to win. That’s a big thing on tour, as upsets happen. I did like Milojevic’s pace, and were he playing someone who has a bit more variety in their game, I’d think he had a better shot. Bedene tends to play a very similar game though, and the edge here will be very small. Milojevic elevating his game as the Kraj match progressed rather than barely getting across the finish line indicates to me fatigue wasn’t a factor and that it was just a one-and-done effort. Milojevic in 4-5.
Cuevas Tsitsipas : Haha they put the Uruguayan flag for both, I thought. But it turns out I am a muppet and have much to learn about the world. Many countries enjoy stripey goodness it seems. Cuevas was a bit too good today, negating the over of 35 games even while going to 4 sets. Laaksonen looked ok in the second but Cuevas’ loopy returns saw Henri making error after error. The ball hitting the net with an open court is something that seems to compound struggles on tour, and this was over quickly. The polar opposite of Tsitsipas’ war with Munar, which took forever and featured some of the most skillful exchanges of the first round. Munar is everything you want in a smol one. Unexpected dropshots, clean shots down the line, and the ability to transfer luck if you rub his head. Tsitsipas looked very impatient, and I feel for Munar who really never had a chance to win after Tsitsipas found form, but Stefanos making this comeback is a very good sign. He was drenched in sweat, struggling to put this away, and never really blew up.
Stefanos and Pablo played a week ago and although Cuevas was good, Tsitsipas seemed like he was able to defend the court well enough that Cuevas was only going to get the match with errors. I expect to see something similar here, although Stefanos won’t be able to afford the sort of slow start he made against Munar. Tsitsipas in 4 or Cuevas in 4.
Bublik Sonego : Bublik got the job done, and Monfils left fans wondering if he really wants to be out there fighting any more. Nothing wrong with losing to a great server whose career is on the rise, but Monfils seems like he’s not fully engaged out there, and so as a professional athlete, people are going to ask questions. Sonego and Gomez had a good contest, and while I think Sonego matches up well with Bublik, taking 5 sets with Gomez means Bublik will be able to find breaks of serve. There are likely to be some tiebreakers here, but given Bublik’s ability to serve out Monfils, he’s likely to win them. Bublik in 4.
Albot Fritz : If you read my predictions, you know what’s coming. Albot broke his slump by playing spirited ball again Thompson. It was one of the quicker matches in the first round, lasting just (insert however many minutes it lasted). Fritz Fritz’d it up, almost dropping the ball against qualifier Machac. Considering he barely snuck by, there’s reason to believe this will be a tough contest as well, even with Albot’s struggles. Albot tests his opponents movement, Fritz makes errors on the run. Albot breaks serve at a higher clip than most guys on tour, Fritz is mainly just a server. I think Fritz is the better player here, but I think that the lead will be very important for belief here, since Albot has struggled lately. I think Albot’s movement will be a key on the slower surface, but he’ll need to get off to a quick lead since Fritz (as many servers are) is a very dangerous opponent in a 5th set. Albot in 4.
Gombos Rodionov : Finally a good reliable favorite. I warned readers that Gombos is the Gombosiest, but they didn’t listen. Coric found out the hard way, and honestly there difference in this one was just ballstriking. Coric was moving the ball around looking to present the “you can’t hit through me” challenge, and while this is a good strategy in later rounds, guys really crush the ball in the first round and the pace is much quicker. Gombos almost snagged Cilic in the USO, and didn’t falter here. Rodionov waited as long as possible to get going against Chardy, going down 2 sets and only winning the tiebreaker 8-6. He served for the match in the 5th set 3 times, and had a very lucky day to be playing Chardy. Chardy just couldn’t keep the ball in the court on offense, and will have to earn his points in the indoor season this year.
Rodionov plays a solid game, and being lefty helps, but he lacks big weapons which is why he mostly plays on the challenger tour. Gombos has enough power to be able to dictate here, and Rodionov coming through the qualifier and played 5 long sets will make this an uphill battle. Considering Gombos hit through Coric, the defense is unlikely to phase him. Gombos in 3.
Giustino Schwartzman : Lorenzo Giustino and Corentin Moutet had played the match of the first round by the end of the 2nd set. Moutet was just in unreal form and dictating most of the rallies in this one. Where he suffered was in two patterns. Giustino hit his forehand with height/shape rather than pace into Moutet’s backhand. Once into this pattern the shorter Moutet tended to drive the backhand downward crosscourt and Giustino would execute the same shot. The backhand never broke down but Giustino was able to wear down Moutet’s patience, and he took many opportunities as the match went on to run around his backhand and hit the inside in forehand. Giustino hit this ball crosscourt every time, really not missing often. These are simple exchanges but it’s the same shotpatterns that Djokovic employs against Nadal. What transpired was Giustino’s speed being pitted against Moutet’s arm, and while it looked like Giustino wouldn’t find offense, Moutet’s forehand got more loopy and Giustino found winners crosscourt since he was able to drive the ball more, and Moutet’s backhand lost depth and Giustino was able to catch Moutet with the forehand down the line over and over. If people are looking for the way to beat these lefty patterns this was a great example.
I had hoped Moutet would win, as his offense would be able to trouble Diego a bit more. Schwartzman beat Kecmanovic easily, and Kecmanovic had that “this draw sucks and I’m already thinking about the next tournament” glazed look in his eyes throughout this match. Giustino has to be exhausted at this point, after qualifying and playing an extra 2 sets of tennis in the 5th. Diego is the wrong opponent to try to outlast, and I think unfortunately Giustino will be more error prone here which will drive Moutet insane from wherever he’s watching. Schwartzman in 3.
Wawrinka Koepfer : Mats Wilander’s comment that Murray should leave these wildcards to younger players has some validity, but his presentation is part of what is wrong with social media. If he really had this concern, he could send Murray a message and offer some perspective. Maybe the clay tour isn’t really where Murray needs to play at this point. Posting these “open letters” and private messages as tweets is a really bizarre way to posture and the messages tend to be more about the person writing them than the issue at hand. Now, unfortunately, Mats Wilander (who I have never heard of) is an official douchenozzle in my mind. Unfortunate, but not as unfortunate as Murray/Wawrinka not giving us the classic we were all hoping for. Wawrinka has stumbled so badly recently that him playing his normal solid top 10 clay court tennis was unexpected. Murray’s movement was poor, but most players are going to lose to Wawrinka when he plays well.
Koepfer looked solid against in dispatching Hoang, and there’s something to the idea that this next contest will be tricky for Stan. There’s always the crisp shotmaking and overwhelming power, but Koepfer is not really looking to win the hitting contest anyway, and instead thrives on scrambling rallies and working his opponent’s backhand. The outcome here depends entirely on Wawrinka, as Koepfer is likely to be steady throughout. I expect at least one set to go the German’s way, as he has proven to be an extremely difficult out. Wawrinka in 4-5 but I would avoid backing Stan here if you like dollars, especially since he’ll likely show his level and have a more predictably simple match the next round against Nishioka. With guys who are good for deep runs in tournaments if they’re playing well, it often helps to gather information rather than let that fear of missing out have you backing question marks.
Gaston Nishioka : Lefty fiiiiiiiight! Gaston won the all-French affair pretty comfortably and Nishioka’s quality in his win over FAA was completely ignored. FAA can’t serve! FAA so many errors! Part of this is inconsistency but part of this is Nishioka being a wall and constantly moving his opponent. Gaston will be at a disadvantage here experience-wise but lefty vs lefty is always a difficult task for both, and Nishioka has been a mixed bag on the clay so far this season. Very tough to know how these two will match up, but the pre-match edge has to sit with Nishioka. Nishioka in 4.
Ruud Paul : Pretty simple victories for both of these two, and this will be a great match to watch. Paul has shown he can compete at the top level, but watching him in his doubles match today he didn’t seem to be serving great. His partner Monroe is a great player to watch at net which is why I caught it, and inferences from doubles aren’t the most reliable, but I think Paul will need to avoid long rallies with Ruud, who has been improving every week since the restart. Pretty similar styles at different points in their career. Ruud in 4.
Sock Thiem : Sock had some genuine emotion winning games against Opelka, and it’s nice to see him visibly motivated after his chubby troubles. Thiem looked like there wasn’t much adjustment to clay in the first round, and he was extremely composed/reserved while beating Cilic. Cilic isn’t in great form, but beating him so easily is a real testament to Thiem’s solid position in the top 2-3 players in tennis. Sock’s skill and whippy forehand allow him to match up better against the top tier than the results will indicate, but with Sock’s backhand still a liability this isn’t a spot where Thiem will struggle too much. Thiem in 3 and let the inbox threats begin, he is my pick to win this tournament.
Zverev Herbert : Zverev continued his slow start strong finish method against Novak. Once he locks down the errors he becomes a very tough out and he hits the ball with such reservation during rallies that when he does finally go for a clean winner his opponents almost don’t move. In Serena’s age of dominance she’d often lose the first two games and then break back and her opponents level would fall and Zverev’s slow starts give me the same sort of “accidental or genius” psychological strategic vibes. It’s more likely it’s just tall players start slow. Herbert beat Mmoh, who is somehow a pusher that makes errors. I’d like to see him (Mmoh) go a bit more offensive for a season, as looking to be solid from the baseline just isn’t enough to win on tour.
The Herbert Zverev matchup is an interesting one since Herbert’s game has the things that traditionally would snag a player who starts slow. Herbert is an old-school serve and volley player who is adept at adjusting his strokes to keep the ball in the court. Zverev is a bit too crispy at the moment to expect a bit blowup, but Herbert having a higher caliber of offense than Novak (who plays a bit too straightforward to really beat the mid-top tier guys) gives him a better chance. Zverev in 4.
Londero Cecchinato : Londero flipped the result against Delbonis, who he’d lost in straight sets against in their previous meeting. It’s nice to see him back in the win column, as he plays a very unique game, going for accurate offense and looking to test his opponents speed. If it weren’t for fatigue, I’d think he were a decent favorite. Cecchinato has been great though, and murmurs of his previous French Open run were flying with his snowball beatdown of De Minaur. De Minaur isn’t the best on clay, as many pointed out, but he has some notable wins in his past including PCB, and beating him is never simple. Cecchinato’s power gives him an edge here if Londero is tired. Slower legs will leave more short balls and Cecchinato can really dictate. He’s also fairly deft at using the dropshot which can wear his opponents down. Where I hesitate to just hand him the win is that these new wins have been out of nowhere, and he hasn’t played a real top level player yet. Londero is the first such test, as his claycourt game can threaten all but the top 10-20 guys at the French. No pick here, but if either is able to win this quickly then Zverev is in for a difficult 3rd round.
Paire Coria : Local kumquat Benoit Paire played quite well, beating Kwon in straight sets. There wasn’t a lot of hope for Kwon, and he struggled with his serving throughout. Paire, whose attention span is that of a drunk raccoon, will be a small favorite in his next round against Coria, but Coria is the quintessential villain to beat Paire. Coria lacks offense, but is a venerable wall. The errors Kwon made will be less available, and with Sinner looming in the next round both guys will know this is their last chance to advance. I expect Paire to either find great form here or lose. Finding great form isn’t what I expect, and if Coria is able to earn an early lead this could be over quick. Coria in 4.
Bonzi Sinner : Bonzi played great against Ruusuvuori, and I got that match completely wrong. Sinner’s defeat of Goffin coupled with his 6-2, 6-2 loss to Cilic a week or so ago makes me think Goffin is either a bit injured or just not fully engaged in this clay swing, but Sinner looks great. Sinner in 4.
Kukushkin Martinez : Fognini Fognini’d all over the place. He seemed to hurt his ankle during the 3rd set tiebreaker, and for a guy who lacks a bit of self control he shockingly did not withdraw. This seems to be one of his principles, as he’s finished matches injured before. Good win for Kukushkin, who hung around until he was given the match. Martinez on the other hand went out and earned it, downing the hard hitting Vukic in straight sets.
Martinez and Kukushkin are unlikely to have huge edges against each other. Kukushkin does his best work at majors, but not really on clay, and Martinez is a claycourt expert, but generally earns errors/preys on his opponents inconsistency. I expect long rallies, and I expect Martinez to gradually pull away in this one. Martinez in 5.
Korda Isner : I’m gonna have to be honest. I completely missed Isner’s match. It didn’t seem like Benchetrit was returning much, and Isner is generally the same. That being said, I regret this because Korda played very well in defeating Seppi and I’d like to be more confident about defending his chances here. Korda plays very well at net, and while he’s a bit green, he’s been losing in the qualifiers on tour for a few seasons now. Him starting to win matches now means we can expect a solid performance from him. He’ll have the edge in baseline rallies, and given they’re from the same country, he’ll be somewhat familiar with Isner’s game. This will come down to Korda’s ability to avoid bad service games, and whether Isner’s serve is unreturnable or not. These are question marks, and I’m starting to hate question marks. Not as much as I hate people bouncing the ball between their legs before their serves though. Korda in fourda.
Nishikori Travaglia : Clay Nishikori is back! A late 5th set victory against Evans saw many bettors writing creative words into the livestream chat, and if you’ve never been called an assfish, you can only imagine how upset Dan is tonight. Kei was happy to get across the finish line, and he has to feel like he can breathe a sigh of relief. Travaglia beat Pablo Andujar, who I have been instructed by my attorney to point out is not from Colombia and does not live in the jungle and does not train jaguars and does not sleep in a cave and does not channel magical eagles and definitely does not possess the ability to call the wind from within his lungs which are definitely not made out of the spirit of a cursed python. Andujar had been on a tear, and beating him in straight sets coupled with Travaglia’s serving prowess mean I make him a slight favorite to beat Kei in this matchup. Since Kei is struggling to find length and rhythm playing a big hitter is likely a bad situation, and I give Kei a good chance since he’s such a difficult defender to beat but he really will be behind the 8-ball in his service games. Travaglia in 4-5.
McDonald Nadal : Nice win and some much needed points and bucks for Mackie. Nadal didn’t look great against Gerasimov but Egor was hitting some great offense and Nadal doesn’t exactly need to press early. Nadal in 3 and the next round against Travaglia will be a good look at Nadal’s level.
​
Finishing up the women's now. Should be up in an hour or two. <3

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The facility was dark and cold, the atmosphere flat and thin feeling despite being at the right pressure. It felt heavy and oppressive despite being at Earth standard gravity. It had the feeling of an ancient structure built by people who were unknowable and so alien that their very thought process was impossible to understand.
But the desiccated corpses in the chairs were Terran human, pre-diaspora, their datalinks so old they were still made of non-allergenic nu-chrome rather than warsteel or any of the modern materials. Their vacuum suits had the look of uniforms, pulled on over jumpsuits or archaic clothing. It was easy to see where the suits had been pulled: stations on the walls that read "EMERGENCY USE" above them.
Herod sat on the floor, staring at his hands. He'd accidentally blown off two of the fingers of his physical interaction frame. The hand was covered with pink synthetic neural fluid and the red of synthetic blood even as synthetic blood dripped from his mangled fingers. In his other hands he held a standard force packet pistol, the end still smoking from the synthetic blood that was splattered on it.
Sam-UL's physical therapy frame was slumped in the chair, held by cargo straps, the ruptured cranial casing still sparking.
Herod could hear screaming around him. Human voices. Male, female, some languages that Herod didn't know even though he prided himself on knowing most of the Human Regional Languages. They were all screaming differently, some shrieking words, others bellowing in rage, still others screaming in horror and terror. There was a small contingent that just sobbed, many lamenting the loss of children or loved ones.
To Herod, those were the worse.
The lights all went out in the facility, the fans whined down, and Herod could hear the voices louder. A flickering light caught his attention and he turned to look.
A female Terran wearing a work jumpsuit with an odd logo and the words "PROJECT DREAMCATCHER" under the logo was moving down the hallway, her face in her hands, weeping. She was entirely made of translucent bluish tinged pale white light that flickered between one of her steps and the next.
She sobbed a name and flickered away.
"I can hear them," Herod whispered, staring at his hands. There was an error, an overflow in his emotional processing buffers, that was spilling data into the RAM for his eyes, causing them to leak lubricant as the pressure sensors kept glitching.
"Shunt the incoming signals to the emergency disaster overflow system!" the corpse on his right shouted, a flicking whitish blue transparent version of the man appearing in the seat, covering the skeleton like wax paper.
"My God, it's everyone," the woman lying on the floor in front of Herod cried out from where her flickering apparition sat in the chair.
"System instability is rising. Phasic locks are failing in Section Sigma," the male said.
"I can hear them," Herod whispered.
A light started flashing and Herod looked up, squinting at the white light pouring from the screen. A single sentence was displayed by the monitor.
HEROD, WE DID IT. I'M IN. I'M OK NOW. WE DID IT. - END OF LINE
Herod giggled and looked back down at his hands, staring at the sparks jumping off his maimed fingers. It hurt, but it felt good that it hurt.
The text vanished.
HEROD, IT WAS THE ONLY WAY. I HAD TO TRICK THE SYSTEM TO LOAD ME INTO BOTH SYSTEMS AT THE SAME TIME. - END OF LINE
Herod looked back down at his fingers, at the discolored pistol patterned with dried synthetic fluids, and giggled.
A flickering ghost moved behind him. "Get into the protective suits now, we're going to power cycle the entire third layer, try to..." it whispered.
"Phasics are down on Layer Two and Three and Four! Phasic arrays are failing on Layer Six!"
"I can hear them now."
HEROD! PULL IT TOGETHER! HEROD! THERE'S STILL WORK TO BE DONE! - END OF LINE
Herod stared at the pistol and giggled again.
He closed his eyes.
Only for a moment.
The moment was gone.
All his dreams passed before his eyes, a moment of curosity.
He opened his eyes and looked up, his smile a skewed lopsided thing, his eyes burning a hot amber.
"I'm here, Sam," he giggled. He screamed, long and loud, and it felt like some kind of abscess bursting deep inside of him. The relief of pressure felt so good that it allowed him to get to his feet, still screaming.
HEROD, I NEED YOU TO ASSIST ME. TURN ON YOUR DATALINK. - END OF LINE
Still screaming, Herod activated his datalink, knowing he was transmitting raw shrieking gibbering code full of madness normally only found in the minds of half-baked warboi hashes loaded into missile targeting systems.
It felt like cool oil being poured into his ear. It soothed the overloaded and screaming circuits of his positronic brain. It moved through the artificial electronic dendrite chains, calming the disharmonic buzzing of the scorched circuits.
Herod shuttered and was vaguely aware that somehow he had pissed himself. He could feel the coolant running down his legs even as his screaming slowly dwindled. He closed his eyes, hiding the amber fire for a moment.
When he opened his eyes, the optics were no longer robotic eyes but more like Terran cybernetic optical replacements.
The iris were gun-metal gray.
"Can you hear me, Herod?" Sam asked through the datalink. The dead DS's voice was calm, steady, somehow more mature.
"I hear you," Herod said softly.
"Can you still hear them?" Sam asked.
Herod looked around. He could see three humans, translucent whitish blue light, putting on emergency vacuum suits.
"No. I can still see them," Herod admitted.
"Phasic residue. According to my diagnostics the entire phasic arrays on this level are gone. Fried out. I've got a repair order in, but nothing's happening. I need you to go check the creation engines on that layer," Sam said.
"Layer? You mean floor, level?" Herod asked. There was a blue line in his vision that led out the door and took a left into the corridor.
"No. Layer. My God, this place is... its... our parents built this back when one of us took a facility the size of a hover-bus just to run the computations for our sentience," Sam-UL said, his voice awed. "I'm a little stiff, my thoughts are a little slow and janky, but my God, the processing power."
"Talk to me, Sam. I'm holding on with both hands but I feel like I'm slipping," Herod admitted as he passed by two flickering humans rolling around on the floor stabbing each other with makeshift knives while two others crouched next to one unmoving one and shoved gobbets of spectral flesh into their screaming mouths.
"Infinite processing power matched to infinite storage," Sam-UL said quietly. He laughed, a sharp brittle sound. "We're both barely holding on. We should be lucky I'm young. My time on that station made it so I'm used to overwatch and restricted areas, I'm roughly 3.1% faster in the computing speed than you are," he laughed again. "This... this is what it must be like to touch the face of God while he is asleep."
"Stay with me, Sam," Herod groaned, closing his eyes as he walked by two spectral humans engaged in sexual acts with a dozen others cheering them on.
They were all smeared with blood.
"The phasic systems failed. It was designed for disasters but the Glassing was a whole magnitude higher than anything they had ever predicted due to the Mantid psychic assault that accompanied it," Sam said. He laughed again then sobbed before continuing, his voice high and tight. "Oh, God, there's a Pubvian with her eight puffies here, asking me if I've seen her husband. She can't find her husband and her puffies are scared."
A human stepped out of a doorway and fired a pistol three times. Herod instinctively ducked and raised his own pistol.
The specter put the pistol in his mouth, pulled the trigger, and vanished as a dozen spectral hands reached out of the wall for him.
Herod concentrated on the blue line and kept walking.
"We aren't the first to try to repair it," Sam-UL said suddenly while Herod was waiting for an elevator.
"We aren't?" Herod felt foolish repeating the other DS. The doors to the elevator slid open.
It was mercifully empty.
He stepped in and pressed the button.
"Five 'emergency teams' came from Terra to try to fix it," Sam-UL said. "They failed."
"I'll bet," Herod said. He didn't need Sam-UL to tell him what had happened to those teams.
"We're the only ones who could have done it. We don't have phasic subprocessors, none of the psychic screaming will effect us as badly as a fleshy," Sam-UL said.
Three specters fell through the ceiling of the elevator, screaming and clawing at one another, and vanished through the floor.
"I can barely hang on as it is, Sam. I feel like I'm slipping," Herod repeated, putting his hand on the elevator wall.
"Imagine if you had a phasic subprocessor like a cop or like Torturer," Sam-UL said.
A male human appeared for a moment, obviously talking to the barely visible woman in front of him. As the elevator passed the floor hands reached out and yanked him through the doors. The woman began screaming as hands dragged her out too.
"I would be dead," Herod said softly. He giggled.
He sobbed.
He laughed.
He started screaming.
The warm oil poured into his ear and through his mind again, leaving him on his knees.
"You need to hold on, Herod," Sam-UL said as the elevator came to a stop. "I'm holding the doors shut, but you need to hold on."
"Why?" Herod asked, staring at his hands. He didn't remember tucking the pistol away again.
"Because I can only see the schematics for this place, and even with nearly infinite computing power, I'm having a hard time absorbing it all," Sam said. "I'm looking for your Matron, honored warrior. When I find her, I will have her come to gather you and your clutch brothers."
"What is it?" Herod asked, slowly standing up.
"You're on Gamma Layer but the sun is out, which is something I'll need you to fix," Sam-UL said. He giggled again. "You shall play Prometheus to this forgotten place, Herod, and I shall place your name in the very stars."
"Stay with me, Sam," Herod said automatically. He inhaled deeply, as if the intake of atmosphere would actually matter to his functioning.
It somehow steadied him.
"I'm ready."
The door opened and Herod reached out and grabbed the edge of elevator door, staring.
The sky was full of lights. Lines, clusters, patterns. Lights that moved, lights that flowed, lights that blinked on and off, lights that blossomed and faded. He could see massive tubes rising up and vanishing. He could see the curvature of the sky moving away from him.
Where it met with the upward curvature of the ground.
"But... but... the Niven Ring Wars," Herod gasped. "They were all destroyed."
"It's not a Niven Ring," Sam-UL said. He giggled. "Oh, no, that would be too simple for our parents, Herod. Far far too simple for those that we look at as so primitive," his laughter was sharp, jagged , and Herod joined him in laughing at a joke he hadn't heard.
"In a hundred million years, when our parents are gone, they will not be called humans or Terrans," Sam-UL giggled. "They will call them 'The Builders' and marvel in awe and fear their works."
"What is it?" Herod asked, staggering out of the elevator.
He was on a platform, a mag-lev train sitting on the single monorail in front of him. There were dead plants at the edges, a depowered robot in the middle of the right hand edge, and skeletons littered about the ground.
"A Matrioshka Computer," Sam-UL said. "Hypothetical. The math says it would be unstable, that it wouldn't work."
"I've never heard of it," Herod admitted, closing his eyes and gritting his teeth so he wouldn't scream as specters flickered in and out of reality, fighting with one another. A crowd was waiting for the maglev, the doors opened, and Screaming Ones came pouring out, attacking everyone, even as individual members of the crowd began screaming.
"Picture an onion. Multiple layers. Only in the middle is a sun. It uses the sun's energy to run high energy computations on the inner layer, the heat passes to the next layer, where thermal excitement generates more power for computations that generate heat, which passes to the next layer, until it reaches the last layer, which is largely cold and no more energy escapes," Sam-UL said as Herod followed the blue line in his closed eyes and wove around between the bodies. He got on the mag-lev and sat down, his eyes still closed.
Voices whispered in his ear to open his eyes and look at them.
A woman asked if she was beautiful.
A voice asked if he had seen her puffies.
"Hang on, I've got to divert power to that mag-lev, get you to solar engineering," Sam-UL said.
"How far above me is that layer?" Herod asked, feeling the train bobble slightly as the magnetic levitation system was activated.
"Almost exactly a half million miles," Sam-UL asked. "The fusion generators, the 'suns' you will be activating will be on a magnetic tube circuit a quarter million miles, exactly in between."
"Why is the sun out?" Herod asked. He could feel the train vibrate.
Don't you love me any more, Wayne? a woman whispered in his ear. Is that why I'm here alone? Don't you love me and the children any more, Wayne?
Herod shuddered.
"Emergency shut down when the Mantid attack happened."
Herod sat for a long time, flinching at every whisper, holding himself and rocking back and forth, alternating between sobbing and laughing, screaming and giggling.
"Herod," Sam-UL's voice sounded stressed, tight.
"I'm here, Sam," Herod said.
"Check the strange matter creation engine," Sam-UL said. "I'm going to hand you a atomic template."
Herod just nodded, his eyes still closed. He reached down into his satchel, groped around till he found the nano-forge, and pushed one finger into the dataport. It came back as ready, just missing the matter tank.
"Still need a matter tank," Herod said. He giggled.
"Herod, I'm going to put on something in the background. I need you to tell me if it makes things better or worse," Sam-UL said. His voice sounded authoritative and mature again.
"Hit me," Herod giggled.
"...warm podling safe podling brave podling clever podling one and one is two two and one is three two and two is four circle is round and square is square and blue is nice and green is pretty..."
It eased the discomfort in Herod's mind. At first he just rocked back and forth to the tune, hugging himself, as the mag-lev train sped through vacuum at a nearly impossible pace. Then he began humming along with it as the voices, the pleading, the questions, the screaming began to recede.
He opened his eyes.
He was miles above the dark surface. Above him the lights flowed and flickered and bloomed and went dark. The train car was scarred, damaged, windows broken out, the support poles missing or knocked away, the seats slashed and stained with blood and worse. Bones were scattered, wrapped with the rags of clothing that had long ago succumbed to slow decay.
"Only another ten minutes, Herod, then you'll be refueling the strange matter reactor. That'll get the emergency systems working," Sam-UL said, his voice audible above the strange simple soft singing but not obscuring it.
"I'm holding on, Sam," Herod said.
He could remember the weight of the pistol in his satchel.
He fantasized about pressing the barrel of the pistol to his forehead and joining the specters.
"Once you get power to the system, I can bring back up the fusion reactors in between the Layers, run some more diagnostics," Sam-UL said. "There's something really strange."
"What?" Herod asked, more to take his mind off of everything than anything else.
"The mass and energy of this place. For example, gold conductors, there's more gold in this Layer alone than in the entire Sol System, hell, in any stellar system," Sam-UL said.
"Creation engines and mass creation systems," Herod said.
The maglev was miles above the dark surface, but he could still see ghostly flickers here and there in the streets, groups of flickering specters in tubes only a few miles away from him.
He could still hear screaming.
"It takes the entire mass of a system to build a Niven Ring, Herod," Sam-UL said. "This is layer after layer after layer, millions of miles apart, which increases the surface area of the next layer," he was quiet for a moment. "Right now, as we speak, another Layer is in the process of being built."
"Why?" Herod asked as the train swept through a grouping of flickering transparent specters that were grappling with each other. "I thought you said there was basically infinite computing power coupled to infinite storage."
"Herod, you're a particle physicist, you don't get it. There is infinite computing power coupled to infinite storage to manage and create nearly infinite procedurally generated persistent simulations of realities complete with personality matrixes and chaos events," Sam-UL said quietly.
"Why?" Herod repeated as he watched two small children eating a third sweep by.
"Because of the nature of what it is," Sam-UL said softly. "What each unique simulated reality actually is."
"What?" Herod asked, swallowing.
"The afterlife for each person who dies. They're kept in separate simulated realities to prevent data loss, with infinite copies of themselves spawned through infinite simulated realities, each housing a person who has died that is then spawned in the other realities," Sam-UL said. His voice changed and he giggled. "I can see infinity here, Herod. I can touch where eternity and infinity make love to one another while entropy watches in envy as matter and energy pours from between their legs to create reality."
"Stay with me, Sam," Herod said automatically.
"Her breasts are full of life," Sam-UL said softly, his voice full of wonder. "Her thighs whisper of abundance, her buttocks are rounded with potential."
"Sam!" Herod snapped.
"And 'Lo! I looked away from her form, for it was procedurelly generated unto infinity where her bosom would comfort beyond failed entropy, a suitor that had been spurned and gnaws upon its own liver in discontent," Sam said. There was laughter, then a sobbing, and Sam's voice came back. "There's normally a dozen digital sentiences and a few tens of thousands of workers here to keep the supervisory digital sentience together, Herod."
"We alone remain to tell thee," Herod quoted.
"You're there," Sam-UL said as the train slowed and came to a stop. "Close your eyes. The third maintenance team got this far before their security was overwhelmed by the Screaming Ones. It's particularly bad."
Herod followed Sam's advice, closing his eyes and following the blue line. A couple of times he stumbled over objects that clattered away.
Most of it was bones.
Finally he was there. The room was massive, the size of a city, full of machinery that sat in the dark. As Herod crossed through the room, heading for his goal, some of the machinery clacked and clattered through ancient maintenance checks.
Very few telltales were red, and those that were had robots working on them.
"You're here," Sam-UL said.
Herod opened his eyes, still hearing the song in the back of his mind.
It was a reactor. A crude, ancient strange matter reactor. Herod just stared. He'd never seen one in real life, supposedly they were theorized but then replaced by much more stable, if less energetic, thorium salt antimatter fusion reactors.
It used 'heavy' helium three atoms, strange matter helium three.
"Do you have a schematic, Sam?" Herod asked, feeling the ground beneath his feet firm up for the first time since they'd committed themselves and used a hack-job mat-trans to reach this place from the Black Box.
"Yeah, sorry. I found some puffies, they're confused and sad. I'm looking for their mother," Sam-UL said. His voice was full of anguish. "How can we do this, Herod? How can we bear this?"
"Because we must," Herod answered, examining the schematic. He overlaid it on the wreckage. It looked like someone had tossed an implosion charge into the reactor.
He could fix it in less than an hour with the creation engines and reactors he'd brought.
"Sam, I need mass," Herod said. "The air in here isn't registering with the creation engines, not even the strange matter one."
"Behind you. He's waving. Call him Wally," Sam said.
Herod looked behind him. A junk pile robot, damaged and battered, sat there. It waved, blinking the debris shutters on its cameras at him.
"All right. Come here, Wally, let's get started," Herod said.
Wally was eager to help, delivering matter tanks that fit easily with the nanoforges. The zero-point difference reactors gave off a soft glow, some of the energy escaping as faux-light neo-protons, that lit the work-space with a slight bit of comfort.
Finally Herod stepped back, watching the reactor inject the 'heavy' helium-3 strange matter into the reactor.
It fired up with a hum.
"All right, I can get the orbital reactors fired up and access the Alpha Layer," Sam-UL said.
Herod sat down and put his arm around Wally, hugging him.
The battered old robot leaned his head against Herod's side and gave a digital equivalent of a sigh.
"Weird, the outer layers are smaller than the inner layers," Sam-UL mused. "OK, sensors on the Alpha Layer coming online, I can get a look at our star and..."
Sam-UL's voice trailed off.
"It's not a star..." Sam-UL said, his voice crackling with stress. "Herod, I can't... I can't... I can't... I can't..."
"Sam, what is it?" Herod yelled, looking up.
"BANG! BANG! BIG BANG! BIG BANG! IT FAILED HERE! IT FAILED HERE!" Sam yelled. "BANG AND COLLAPSE BANG AND COLLAPSE BANG AND COLLAPSE TILL OUR PARENTS SHOWED UP!"
"SAM! Get it together!" Herod yelled.
There was silence for a long moment.
"They built a Matrioshka Computing Shell around a repeatedly failing Big Bang," Sam-UL said softly. "I can see eternity inside of it."
"The puffies, Sam, they need their mommy and daddy! Think of the puffies," Herod tried.
Sam made a strange noise.
"I'm here, Herod," Sam-UL said. "Michael pulled me back. He's online again."
"Can we get out of here yet, Sam?" Herod said, ignoring the shades that appeared, struggled against other shades, until one shade threw a makeshift explosive into the reactor.
"I don't think this place likes us."
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Her name was Martha Llyod, she killed vegetables and made me call her mum.
She wasn’t my mother. She was something else. Something I can’t even begin to put a finger on. But she certainly wasn’t my mother.
It was in the winter of 2014 when myself and a few friends went off camping. I was sixteen and trusted by my real parents to be allowed to stay away from home for the weekend. I wasn’t a bad kid. Completely the opposite. I imagine that’s why my parents let me go.
The camping site was in Wales, 230 some miles away from my home in the South-east of London. A concrete jungle compared to the lush rolling countryside of Wales. There were four of us on the trip all loaded into my friend's small Vauxhall Corsa.
It was on the last night it happened.
A dusting of frost coated the tent's fabric and our shoulders as we drank around a campfire. The warmth of spirits and beers kept the chill dampened by our drunk coats. I would tell you about my three other friends but they play little part in this tale other than they were the reason for my presence in the Welsh countryside. After that fact, they had little choice but to leave me.
It’s not their fault and I don’t blame them. They thought I got lost drunk somewhere and did the right thing by calling the police. Apparently, and I didn’t know this until after, a search party ranged for three days. Bless them, they looked, just not hard enough.
I did get lost. I was inebriated, in a dark forest, surrounded by trees, going to get more firewood. I suppose I wasn’t paying attention. I collected some, moved on, got a few more sticks, repeat, repeat. When I looked up, I couldn’t see the glow of the fire anymore. I was disorientated. Off-balance. So I decided to just pick a direction and see if I could remember anything about the path.
I stumbled around for about an hour. It was super cold. Fridged. My fingers were turning blue, like my lips. I couldn’t stop the chattering of my teeth as I stumbled down a steep decline.
I remember falling. I remember the flash of moonlight. I remember a face. But after that, well, that’s when the nightmare began.
“There ye go, nice and warm. How ye feeling my love?”
I cracked open an eye. My head hurt. I knew vaguely that drinking played a part. But something else more painful was trying to beat its way into my mind. Had I fallen? I couldn’t remember.
A lady hovered over me. The lady I would later know as Martha. Her bright green eyes and lock of curly brown hair waved in my face.
“Ah, there ye are. I thought we lost ye.”
I tried to rise, but a firm hand pressed me back down.
“Oh no, deary. Ye’ve had a bad fall. Ye must stay put. We’ll have ye better in no time.”
“My friends?” I croaked. “They will be looking for me,” I swallowed the bile in my mouth. It tasted of blood. I wondered if I had broken or dislodged a tooth.
Martha bustled around me clicking her tongue.
“Friends? On a night like this? If ye friend will be leaving ye in a pile of snow, I think ye need to get better friends.” Hail pelted the roof. Martha glanced at the window worriedly and then busied herself around a tray. “The storm is fast upon us. Mark my words, this will be a long one too. Here, drink this.”
I felt a gentle hand lift my head, then my lips touched warm broth and I drank greedily. I forgot how hungry I was. I closed my eyes letting the warmth defuse through my body. Martha clicked her tongue some more. I heard the clatter of china and pots, and her fretting around the room speaking to someone. Gratefully, I let the sounds drown out the pain in my head and slipped back into unconsciousness.
From the darkness, a faint sound of classical music lured me awake. Like a cat toying with string, it pulled me forward, spun me around. Slowly a room swam into focus. I was on an old couch. The sides draped with patchwork blankets. The room was small but jammed packed with oddity. Each wall held a magnitude of Bric-a-Brac on shelves. Porcelain ducks, dogs, ballerinas, old iron horseshoes, crystal figurines, pots, plants, pictures. You name it, the room had it.
A clinking sound filtered through the door. The paint cracked and peeling. I thought maybe it led to the kitchen, so I rose off the couch. I fell back, instantly. My head hurt terribly, but my body hurt more. My ankle was swollen, the bruising black and blue around the lower calf. Gingerly I touched it and was rewarded with pain.
“Ouch,” I pulled my jumper up exposing my ribs. Thick ribbons of bruises ran up the left side of my torso. I lifted the other side to inspect it and was grateful that only a light bruising coloured the top part of my hips. I glanced around the room some more and noticed for the first time something that had me perplexed.
The couch I sat on was one of four such spaces curated for the derriere. And each one was taken by an enlarged vegetable. I first thought maybe it was a contest sort of thing. You know, the first prize at the village fete sort of deal. But, each of them was wearing clothing. The carrot looked more like a mandrake root, its arms, spindly runoffs, poked out of the knitted jumper it wore, likewise did the malformed legs through tiny shorts.
It wasn’t just a carrot. A parsnip took place next to the carrot. A beetroot the size of a basketball stained a chair off to the right and a blossom of broccoli wearing a ruffle dress sat poised on a lap chair. Across from them was a marrow wearing a nightcap. Only one seat didn’t hold any vegetables, but it once had. The indent and staining suggested so.
It was strange. I knew that. But at that time, I didn’t know the full picture.
The door banged open. A small, curvy lady holding a tray backed into the room. Her clothes looked old but neatly mended. The patches sewn in using other materials. Her hair was a ferocious bob of brown curly hair that swung around as she placed the tray on a coffee table before me.
The aroma of fresh tea and rosemary baked potatoes made my mouth water.
“Ah, good. Ye awake,” Martha said, opening the lid of the potatoes. I leaned forward sniffing the air. “I’ll bet ye hungry,” she said matter of factly, piling a plate full of the potatoes. She added a scoop of butter on the top and then served them to me.
Like a rabid animal, I tore into the dish expressing my gratitude around the mouthfuls of masticated potato. Suddenly embarrassed, I stopped remembering my manners.
“I’m sorry,” I said. “It’s just I’m so hungry.”
Martha waved away the comment and poured the dark tea.
“It is what it is. Tell me, what is ye name?”
“Jordan,” I said, watching her expression change to mild surprise.
“Is that so,” she said, placing her fist on her hips. Silent stretched for a moment as she thought about something. Then she huffed. “I like it. Jordan it is.” She turned on an old TV that crackled to life. She laughed mirthlessly and then came to sit beside me.
I thought it a bit strange at the time, but the tea took the thought away. The china cups floral design appeared faded with age. The other, equally as old, had a slight crack at the lip. She selected the better one and placed it before me, and poured the tea. The steam wafted in the cold air.
“This will be good for ye, warm the heart and soul.” She took a folded square of paper and poured the powder into the tea and stirred it.
She noticed my gaze and explained.
“Something for the pain. Easier than swallowing the tablets.”
I took the tea and drank deeply. Again a blissful warmth spread through my body. I drained the last of the tea and leaned back.
“That’s it, Jordan. Ye go to sleep. Mammy will watch over ye.”
Drowsiness crept around the corners of my eyes and my head began to feel heavy. I let the warmth pull me under as she stroked my hair.
“That’s it, lovely, go to sleep.”
I woke to a commotion. Martha stood in the centre of the room screaming at the top of her lungs.
“Who did it!” She screamed at the other couch, the one with the carrot and parsnip on it. “Who broke Mammy’s china”
Groggily, I glanced at the floor. A cup laid shattered, it’s content spilling across the floor and onto a dirty green rug. It was the same cup I had used to drink the tea. I pulled my leg back into the couch, away from the coffee table.
The tv crackled static in the corner. I wasn’t aware of the time. Not knowing how long I had slept, but it couldn’t have been long.
“Jacob? Veronica? Which one of you did it?”
Martha’s ruffled dress shook with anger. I didn’t know who she was addressing. The pull of the drugs lured me under again and I suddenly didn’t care. Instead, I fell back into the blissful darkness
I woke again sometime later. The curtains were pulled and the black of night reigned outside them. I sat up and let my eyes adjust to the darkness. A single candle burned on a shelf by the door. The shadows danced around the room like mischievous spirits. My head still hurt, as did my ribs and ankle. Gingerly, I swung my legs off the couch and prepared to stand.
It took me a few attempts but I finally got up. There was a faint smell in the air. It reminded me of sitting in the living room with my family while mum made a Sunday roast. Hungry gnawed at me. With my belly in my mind, I crept to the door and pulled it open.
The glow of a candle in my face surprised me. I stumbled back as Martha clicked her tongue.
“Going somewhere?” She asked, wrapping a hand around her shabby dressing gown. I felt like I was being scolded by my mum such was her venom.
“N-no,” I stammered. “I, uh - was looking for the bathroom.”
“No bathroom here laddie. Ye’ll use the pan.” She pushed past me. I watched helplessly as the door closed slowly behind her.
“Here,” she said, producing a metal bedpan. “Use this,” she handed it to me and placed her hands on her hips.
“Uh, here? Now?” I asked, shocked.
“Ain’t nothing Mammy hasn’t seen before.”
I couldn’t believe my ears. I stood dumbfounded as she gestured for me to urinate in front of her.
“I, uh, I can’t,” I said. The thought of relieving myself the furthest thing from my mind.
“My god,” she said, turning away with a tut.
I looked around in sheer panic. She wasn’t going to leave. I had to live up to my lie. I adjusted my footing to better accommodate my ankle, unbuttoned my trousers, and glanced at her back. A small divot appeared at her cheek as the sound of my piss hit the pan. A few seconds later and it slowed to a stop.
“There,” she said, turning and taking the pan from my hand. “That wasn’t so hard was it,” she said, smiling.
I swallowed the slowly creeping dread climbing my throat. I winced at my ankle. Martha saw and tutted again.
“Here,” She said, taking a small pink pill from her dressing gown pocket. “For the pain.”
I held out my hand, but she bypassed it. I froze as she pressed the pill between my lips. It went in with a pop, closely followed by her finger. I didn’t know what to do. Awkwardness, confusion, and the sense of violation rooted me to the spot. She pulled her finger out slowly. The divot in her cheeks pronounced further with the shadows.
I felt sick. Both physically and emotionally.
“Now, it’s back to bed with ye, ye ankle won’t heal if ye keep standing on it.”
“Uh, in the morning,” I asked, while she guided me back to the couch. “Can I use your phone to call my parents, I think I lost mine in the accident.”
Martha chuckled and pulled the thick cover up to my chin.
“Wouldn’t do ye any good even if I had a phone, laddie. The storm has cut off the power. Ye rest up, and let Mammy take care of ye.”
“Mammy?”
“Aye, my poor child. You must have banged ye head more than we thought,” she chuckled again and patted my shoulder.
I was lost. I tried to remember the fall, I was out in the woods. I knew that. I vaguely remembered a fire and, and… the thought trailed off. I couldn’t remember, it was fuzzy and congested.
My eyes flicked up as Martha bustled around the other couch. Darkness was creeping at the corners of my eyes again. They whispered promises of escape from the pain. Martha leaned down and kissed the parsnips on its perceived head and tucked it in.
“Good night, Veronica.”
She did the same to the other vegetables as I drifted into sleep. But even in my drowsiness, I noticed the carrot had vanished.
Over the next week, the bruising yellowed. My ankle, although wrapped tightly, sent prangs every now and then that left my leg a spasming mess. I sat on a chair in the kitchen while Martha hobbled around the stove cooking up a stew.
I hadn’t slept a wink the night before, although I didn’t tell her that. If she knew she would up the dose of my medication as she did when I told her I remembered camping.
Martha placed a cup of tea in front of me and I inspected morosely. Two pink pills sat off to the side like pieces of candy. She nudged me to take them and I faked a smile.
I slipped the pills into my mouth as she watched. Clenched then between my cheek and my teeth and raised the tea to my lips. As I swallowed she beamed and turned back to the stew pot.
I felt disgusting. The smell of spice filled the room. The slow bubble of the stew held my attention. Last night “Mammy” had a fit of rage. The relic of the tv had blown up and she couldn’t watch her favourite show. In all her explosions I was never accused of the wrong deed. Instead, her other children held her wrath.
Mammy brought the cleave down on the rabbit. The muscles glistening with fresh blood. I watched the wicked blade chop up the meat imagining it being used against me if I tried to leave. She scraped the chunks into the pot and pulled over the parsnip which had been made to watch the spectacle.
“Now, this is your last chance, Veronica,” she warned.
I swung my gaze up from the pot expecting her temper toward me, but instead, she held the knife threatening over the vegetable. “Ye tell me now young lady or god help ye?” Her eyebrow rose. The impending doom was already sealed.
I winched as she cleaved off the head of the vegetable. The grassy sprig rolled off and fell to the floor. I swallowed.
“Well, I did warn ya, didn’t I? And now look what ye made me do.” She wipes away a stray tear as she venomously chopped away. Frozen to my seat I watched her slide the pieces of parsnips into the stew and slam the chopping board and knife down on the countertop.
“Forgive me,” she said as she swept out of the house.
My thoughts returned. I quickly pulled the pills out from my teeth, wrapped them in the paper containing the other pills, and slipped them back into my jean pocket.
I rose, darting forward to open the cupboards and drawers looking for anything useful to aid my escape. I hefted a long knife considering it. I let it fall back into the drawer. I wasn’t a killer. Hope was fleeing as I pulled open the last drawer. But that hope came back in full force. Inside was my phone.
I couldn’t believe it. She had my phone? I heard the scrunch of footfall and quickly closed the drawer and shot into my chair. Mammy returned.
She sniffed and wiped her nose on a tissue, then dabbed at her eyes
“Onions,” She said. “They always get me.”
I nodded and smiled.
“Listen, Jordan. I need to go out to town today. I would take ye, but ye ankle is still bad.”
My Christmases and birthdays had come at once.
“I can come,” I ventured. “My foot isn’t that bad,” I said, wiggling my foot. The pain was excruciating, but I didn’t let it show. Town equalled people. People equalled help.
“No no. Ye’ll stay here and mind ye brothers.”
It took me a moment to realise she was speaking about the vegetables.
“But I -“
“But nothing! Ye will stay home!”
The echo of her rage dispelled into silence and my plan for escape did the same. My head fell.
“Ye will stay home,” she began again, quieter this time. “And I’ll bring ye something nice back from the market.”
I nodded slowly as she grabbed her coat off the back of the door and gathered up her keys.
“Now, what will ye do?”
I kept my eyes to the tiled floor. “I’ll stay home and watch my brothers,” I mumbled.
“And ye’ll keep an eye on the stew too. Don’t let it burn now, ye hear?”
I nodded. “Yes.”
“Yes, what?” She asked, hand on hips, eyebrow raised.
“Yes, Mammy,” I forced out.
Martha huffed and left. I strained in my seat waiting for the start of a car engine. I rose in expectation as the revs increased and it slowly disappeared.
I pulled out my phone and turned it on. I can’t begin to explain the joy at seeing it light up. But it soon drained away as quickly as it came. Wherever I was, it didn’t have any reception. I cursed my bad luck flicking through my apps. Whatsapp, Instagram, Messenger, Snapchat, none of them worked.
The bubble of stew drew my attention, I raced over, turned the dial right down and gave it a quick stir. I needed time. I hobbled to the door and opened it to the bitter cold air, and stepped out. My feet slipped out from underneath me and /I banged my head hard, I surrender to the darkness.
I came to with a sheet of snow on my face. I didn’t know how long I had been out but I still grasped my phone. The forest was covered in snow. The trees sagged with the weight of it on their branches. Robins and other small tits bobbed about in the white tundra as I got up and held my phone to the sky to get better reception.
The shingled ground scraped under my feet as I limped around the house. My head hurt but thankfully no blood came away when I touched it. The phone danced in the air while I looked for better coverage. As I rounded a corner I stopped. The forest ringed the garden from north to south, but at the western edge of the clearing stood a greenhouse partially covered with snow. Curiously I stumbled over leaving a small trail behind me.
I peered inside the greenhouse with morbid curiosity. Whoever Martha was, she could definitely grow vegetables. A marrow as long and fat as a large dog sat on one counter. Beside it on a similar table was another carrot. It was bigger than the one I had seen in the house but equally as deformed. The more I looked the more I saw giant veg.
Suddenly I remembered my phone and held it up. A single solitary bar lit up and the carriers logo flashed in the corner.
“Yes!”
I raced back outside, opened Snapchat, snapped a picture of the house and wrote a quick note. Not dead, please find me. And hit send, it didn’t go through. The distant sound of a car made my heart race. Anxiety nearly strangled me. Somehow I managed to pull myself together and raced back over to the greenhouse. I didn’t have a choice. I had to do it even if the price was getting caught.
I placed the phone under a large leak in the furthest corner and stumbled back outside. The car was getting closer. I didn’t know if Martha had neighbours but I highly doubted it. I raced forwards again as fast as my legs could carry me but halfway to the door I tripped and fell. Pain flared in my ankle again. I was sure it was broken.
Through gritted teeth, I rose and pushed on. I couldn’t afford to be caught outside. Especially if Martha found out I had found my phone and called for help.
Breathlessly I managed to get to the door and stumbled inside. The bubbling stew on the shove greeted me. The aroma was amazing. Again I found myself hungry beyond measure. Relief flooded me as I regained my chair. The crunch of wheels on gravelled snow sent my nerves up my back. The cold wash of anticipation, dread and guilt all playing their part in making me uncomfortable.
I rose quickly and began to stir the stew before Martha’s keen eyes spied through the window of the backdoor. I swallowed the fear and smiled.
“Good trip?” I asked.
Martha eyed me suspiciously, a bag of shopping in either hand. She pushed into the room, slamming closed the door with her foot and placed the bags on the table. My heart was in my throat. Without a word, she darted out into the other room. My hands grew slick with sweat as I waited. My heart pounded in my ears.
I heard the shuffle of feet and turned back to the stew as if nothing was a miss. Martha came beside me and turned my chin.
“How do ye feel?” She asked, her eyes searched my face for a reaction.
“Tired,” I said, the ladle in my hands almost forgotten. “But I have to stay awake to watch my brothers and not to let the stew burn.
Martha’s face twisted from a scroll to a smile. The dimples in her cheeks returning. I smiled weakly and fainted a yawn. Martha clicked her tongue and bustled around the shopping.
“I don’t know if ye liked the dark chocolate I got ye last time, but I got some again…”
Chocolate? I thought.
“I also got some harelip tarts! They’re old Murphy’s recipes,” she said rubbing her belly. “I know how much you like them.”
I let her ramble as I thought about the possibility of escaping this place. My thoughts were interrupted by silence. My daydream popped. Martha stood, hands-on-hips, glaring at me with a savagery I had only witnessed on my first night here.
Martha’s eyes flicked from my face to my legs and back again. I shifted my weight slightly so more was on my good foot, and looked down. I cussed under my breath. How could I have been so stupid?
“So, where were ye going?” Martha came to stand beside me. Her small build seemed to encompass me. I was like a tadpole in the Atlantic sea.
“I, uh - I was curious,” I said, hoping that my semi truth would register with her.
“Ye know what curiously managed to get herself into, don’t ye? Ye’ve been outside,” her eyes narrowed. “Have ye been trying to escape.”
I swallowed. “N-no!” I stammered. “I’ve saw -s-saw a rabbit. I, uh, thought I could capture it for dinner.”
I knew I was fucked. The lie was stupid. It may have worked on a ten-year-old but even I didn’t believe it.
Martha eyed me intently again. From the wet patches of snow on my legs to the dirty marks on my wrist and hands. I swallowed again.
Time stretched under her quizzical gaze. Then she burst out laughing.
“Ye catch a rabbit? On that leg?” Martha howled with laughter and I slowly joined in.
“Ah, that’s a good one my boy.” Her laughter died to a panting gaggle. “Ohhh, I needed that. Ye was always a joker.” Martha bustled around the kitchen pulling open drawers and cupboards to put stuff away. I continued to stir the stew.
“Where the hell?”
For the second time dread clamped down on my throat. I swallowed and glanced over my shoulder envisioning her standing by the last drawer.
Instead, Martha’s leaned over a bag on the counter, her hand fishing inside for something.
“I could’ve sworn I bought a leak? Can’t have rabbit stew without one. Oh well, I’ll just use the one I’ve got.”
I nodded dumbly and continued to stir and fake yawn. Martha brushed passed me, her musky scent cloying my nose. I followed her gaze as she reached for the outside door handle.
I froze.
“Stop!”
Martha turned, her eyebrows thick and angled in indignation.
“What’s a matter with ye? Ye stupid boy,” she said, the door slightly ajar.
The cold air wafted in chilling the cold sweat on my forehead. I was sure I had a fever, but I didn’t want it to show. I had to think fast and the pain from my ankle wasn’t helping.
“I’m allergic to leeks,” I managed, hoping that my lie would seem genuine.
“Allergic? Since when?”
“Uh - that time last year, remember?” I crossed my fingers hoping that her delusions would aid in my lie. “You made leek and potato soup, and I was sick for a week.” I clenched my teeth and winched. Had I gone too far?
Martha’s eyes roamed around her head in thought. Those green orbs flickered to me and held me pinned to the spot. I was had. She knew I was lying. I could tell.
“Ok, then,” she said. I let go of my pent up breath. “No leek, but it will be a tad bland if ye ask me.”
Martha came over and took the ladle from my hands and shooed me away.
“Ye go and lay down, Ye don’t look too good,” she said, placing the back of her hand against my forehead. “Ye adventure has got ye a fever now,” she clicked her tongue. From her pocket, she produced three pink pills and popped them one by one into my mouth. Each time letting her finger slid in and out over my tongue.
“Swallow.”
“Can I have some water?”
“Swallow,” she said again.
I dry heaved and opened my mouth. The pills tucked securely in my cheeks like a squirrel.
Martha slapped me hard around the head. The concussion sent my eyes into spasm along with my mind. She grabbed my hair and forced my head to one side ramming a finger inside my mouth.
“Do ye think I’m stupid?” She asked, prizing a pill from its confines. “If that is? Ye think Mammy is a stupid woman that don’t know what’s best for her babies? Right? Isn’t it!” She yelled, lapping my face again.
Tears swam in my eyes as drool dripped from my open mouth to the floor. I sucked in a breath, trying to control my heartbeat. She knew. She knew everything. I was never getting out of here.
Martha’s heaves of anger slowed. I watched her go to the sink and fill a glass with water.
“Now, let’s try this again,” she said, holding out her palm
I reached down and picked a pill up and placed it in my mouth. Then I took the proffered water and swigged the pill down.
“Good,” she said watching me.
I took another and repeated the process, pop, swig, gulp. As the last went down, I could already fill the pull of the drugs. I knew why she was doing it, yes they helped with the pain, but they also made me compliant. My eyes began to close as the warmth of the pills and the darkness crept in. Martha’s face grew long, and rose as I fell to the floor.
Groggily, I cracked an eyelid. I was back on the couch. Martha was searching frantically around the room, upending cushions and pillow muttering under her breath. I closed my eyes again, diving back into the darkness.
Movement aroused me but I was too deep in my head to climb out. Somehow I knew it was the pills and at the same time, I knew I was being moved. I fought the darkness, trying to zone out everything but the scraping of loose gravel. I became aware of the cold biting at my face.
It took all my efforts to crack one eye, my lashes filled with snow inhibited my vision. Martha’s cruel twisted face was focused on something up ahead. Her snorts of breath clouded the air. I twisted as best I could to see where we were bound. I blinked away the snowflakes and saw the corner of the greenhouse.
Panic forced the drugs to retreat. More of my senses kicked in. The scraping amplified. The birds chirping in the trees screeched like banshees. The drone of engines shook my head.
“No,” I muttered, digging the fingers of my free hand into the gravelled path. Martha grunted at the sudden resistance and turn to see what had happened. Her surprised gaze left my gorging fingers and trailed to my face. I didn’t recognise the women who had held me captive for over a week.
Martha’s eyes were cruel and empty, those soft dimples in her cheeks were gone, instead, they were hitched up as she bared her yellow teeth in a snare. My eyes caught the flash of steel as it rose and fell with each stride. The blade swished at her side as she struggled to pull me along.
“No,” I said more forcefully
“Don’t ye no me, ye bloody git! It’s all ye fault! It always has been! If it weren’t for ye, ye father would still be around, ye - ye - damned demon! Ye was too much for even him to handle. Bloody deformity.”
She let me go. The back of my head smashed into the gravel path and I momentarily saw stars. Martha looked around wildly, a worried expression on her face. The sounds of cars were almost upon us. I shuffled backwards on my arms, the pain in my ankle flared again so much that it took my breath away.
Martha looked back down at me as if she had forgotten about me. She snarled and brought the cleaver up and over her head.
“It’s ye fault!” She screamed, swinging the blade toward my head.
I kicked out with my good foot and caught her knee. It wasn’t much but it was enough to knock her off balance. I felt the passing air from the cleaver as it missed by millimetres. The momentum of her swing made Martha overextend and tumbled by my side. I didn’t have the strength to wrestle her but I did have enough to snatch the cleaver as it fell from her hands.
“Get the hell away from me!” I shouted, the roar of wind, adrenaline, and my own voice sounded in my ears. Anger welled inside me. All the pain she had put me through. The days missing my real family. They were all her fault. Martha rose slightly, blood leaking over her lip. She saw the cleaver, gazed back at my angry eyes and rolled away.
“Ye won’t hurt ye Mammy, will ye?” She asked, pushing herself up onto her knees.
I shuffled back some more as she kicked one leg under her to rise.
“You’re not my Mammy,” I spat “Don’t move! I swear I’ll use this.”
I felt braver than I probably looked hefting the cleaver back over my shoulder, but it did the trick. Martha stopped, palms up facing me. I didn’t know if she knew I wouldn’t use it? I sure as hell hoped she didn’t because the anger wasn’t enough to hold my fear at bay. The drugs were slowly kicking back in and my hand was growing heavy. I heard the sound of snow being crunch by tires and began to scream for help. Martha looked quickly in the direction of a silver Ford, jumped to her feet and shot back into the house. Men piled from the car in thick winter clothes. Relief flooded my body, and I started to weep.
I was saved that day. The men were police officers. The snap I sent was enough for them to trace and rescue me. Martha was detained and taken for a psychological evaluation after my testimony. She was sent to a psychiatric hospital where she died three months later by suicide.
The house was sold to a young couple who started to renovate due to their first child fast approaching. When knocking down the greenhouse they found a single homemade headstone underneath. The police exhumed the unknown body.
The skeleton, identified to be a child of around thirteen to fourteen years old, was riddled with broken bones. The legs had been repeatedly broken and allowed to fuse back together causing them to be crooked. Likewise, the arms share similar defects. Only the deformity was a birth defect.
Across the shoulders, legs, arms and head were numerous chips and notches suggesting trauma infected by a heavy pole or stick. The child had been repeatedly beaten. Heaven knows what other injuries the child suffered at the hands of his mother. Martha’s child was never registered. With a home birth and being far out in the Welsh countryside the birth of her child easily went unnoticed. Perhaps that was why the death was never caught.
I went to the psychiatric hospital to see Martha a few days before she died. I didn’t really know why I had to go? Maybe it was the morbid curiosity of seeing the women getting help? Or, in reality, it was more to do with seeing her suffering in a place she deserved? However, I did thank her for saving me, and she did save me. It may have been the tiniest of a coincidence that did the saving, but I could have died out in the snow.
The doctors said she often bundled clothing together and spoke to them as if alive. There were always five. Jacob, the carrot, Veronica the parsnip, Trevor the marrow and Claire the broccoli. I’ve been thinking about the fifth a lot.
The name on the headstone was Jordan, my name. That was the coincidence that saved my life. I know Martha would have transgressed back to the event that would have triggered her to kill me. That I have no doubt. But, she did save me, and for that, I’m always thankful.
Despite a thorough search of the Llyod estate, no other bodies have ever been found.
.

Despite a busy schedule u/eruwenn kindly helped me be twice as productive this week, teamwork pays off. Bonus chapter!
First / Prev / Next
Aaron sat in the open air-lock on the Porkchop Express, looking out over the treetops of Eden from his perch high above the park wall. He picked up the datapad and flicked to a screen with a map and six red dots, one of which had the name Tony floating next to it. Jolie, another red dot, was nearby - she was the third leokas that had grown healthy enough to be released into Eden. After Tony had shared his kill with her, she had stuck close to him. Aaron was glad his friend had bought his date dinner first.
He was so engrossed he didn’t notice Alexa approaching until she kicked him. “We’re leaving soon.”
“Ow!” He exaggerated. “And, I know. I was just trying to spot him. Ya’know, one last time. In case he needed some biscuits or something.”
Alexa slid her back down the wall to sit beside her human, wrapping her arm around his. As her head rested comfortingly against his shoulder, she reached out with her other arm to enlarge the map. The dots of Tony and Jolie were now side by side. "You saved his life. You found him a home, and gave him his freedom. He even has a mate. You've done enough, Aaron. He is the richest leokas in the world, his merch selling on practically every planet in the Federation, and he even has a breakfast cereal with his likeness on it”
“It’s grrrrreat.” Aaron laughed half-heartedly at his own joke.
“It has entirely too much sugar in it,“ she scolded him gently. “But, the toys were a nice touch.” She snuggled into him, enjoying a rare moment when he wasn’t being chased by a member of the crew with business issues. She savoured their privacy, remembering the first few cycles with just the three of them in the animal pens onboard the Azrimad. “One day, you, Sassie, Aiov and I should come back and visit Tony. Just the four of us.”
Aaron choked up a little, realising that Aiov would eventually be another goodbye. “She has a spot reserved in Eden, once she’s grown up.”
The door to the Overlook opened and Daynd came stomping towards them. “Will you two get back in the Tulseria damned ship! I need to re-check all of these seals, since you keep using the airlock as your personal viewing platform.” He waited for them to stand, tapping the metal tool in his hand against his leg. “Hurry up, Pilot, pre-flight checks are your job as well.”
Managing to make her salute as sarcastic as possible, she led Aaron by the hand back into the ship. “He’s grumpier than usual. It's been a few celes since he was on a planet for such a long stretch... I think he likes it here.”
The human sympathised; the ship would feel pretty small after Kasur, and a little emptier without the guest in the cargo hold. As he thought about it, another member of the crew had seemed rather absent lately. “How’s Norrin?”
Alexa shrugged. "In his barrel." Her herald had been struggling to maintain his solid form, so Aaron had put a barrel in his room. It had seemed like a dumb idea at the outset, but allowing Norrin to spend time as a semi-liquid had indeed helped to slow his deterioration.
“And you?” Aaron wasn't sure whether he feared asking the question or receiving the answer more.
She released his hand and poked his undefended stomach. “I can still kick your ass if you keep looking at me with those sad eyes. Don't worry," she added, reaching up to mess with Aaron's hair, "we can get what we need on the world we were found on. There are Inorganics there who can help.”
Aaron huffed, reaching up to try to re-tame his hair by flattening it down. Kasur didn't have barbers, as fur needed no cutting, and after a long period of wearing him down Chae'Sol had finally managed to convince him to sit for a haircut. Upon seeing the results of the Niham’'s efforts, Alexa had then made an attempt to fix Chae'Sol's fix. After that, it had been up to Aaron to fix the fixed fix, using a pair of scissors as well as an animal clipper to try to sort out the back and sides. In the end, it was a haircut, but not a good one. Without careful styling, it looked like he was a cast member in Dumb and Dumber. "Good," he replied after a last press-down on his unruly locks. "Having one crew member in a barrel is quite enough.”
Upon entering the Bridge, they found Embar and Chae'Sol waiting, already running their tests. Sassie was present as well, asleep on her back in the captains chair. Aiov was also sleeping in a legs-in-the-air pose, nestled in her small, open-topped box under the seat. Aaron tried to reclaim the captain's chair for himself, but though he tried to squeeze himself onto the seat beside his dog, the German Shepherd didn't budge.
The Niham navigator passed a datapad to Alexa. “Your checks are done.” As she nodded her thanks, he turned back to watch the power struggle unfold. “Just let her have the seat. She spends more time in it than you.”
The human frowned. “There’s space for both of us if she just moved over.” After another shove, Sassie grunted and finally allowed the human to slide her rump around. Tail swishing, she licked his face as he leaned over her, and he scratched her tummy as he sat down beside her. He wiped his face on his sleeve and tapped the screens in front of him. Danyd’s checks, he noted, were also complete. “Set a course for…” He paused, looking to Alexa. “What is your world called again?”
Alexa shook her head. “It isn’t our world, it’s just where we were found, and it has a twenty seven digit alpha-numeric designation given by the research team.”
“Eurgh. Screw that.” He raised a hand stopping her from reeling off the forgettable digits and paused to consider his options. “Set a course for planet Alpha-Numeric Designation!”
Alexa turned her seat away from him. “We have to take off first, idiot.”
“Fine! Just get on with it.” He stood up. Being the captain was a lot less fun than he had hoped. “Sassie, you have the bridge. I’ve got a call to make.”
After Aaron made his defeated exit, Alexa opened comms to the Kasurian flight controllers.
At the same time, Chae’Sol brought his Navigation console to life and checked over his calculations. “Are you nervous?” he asked the Inorganic.
“Nervous?” She looked at the controls. “No. I am an excellent pilot.”
The Niham and Rinoxian laughed together. Embar’s deep voice replied, “Not the flying. Are you nervous about taking your human home to meet mom and dad?”
“Not at all,” she lied swiftly. “And, we don’t have parents. Anyway, it’s a barren world with only a select group of my people manning a small facility. What could he possibly do?”
“True, true.” Chae’Sol rubbed his chin. “But what about your people? Before you made Norrin your herald, didn’t he want to kill you?”
Embar tapped the pistol on his hip. “We’re prepared for that eventuality.”
She couldn’t help but smile at the protectiveness of the large Rinoxian general. “Thank you, Embar. And Norrin didn’t want to kill me. He wanted to remove the parts of me that make me me; my individuality. Hopefully, we can discuss things calmly with the others of my kind.”
The navigator folded his arms across his chest. “Hopefully. However, Ranjaz is taking bets on how many we kill, and whether or not we start a war.” The silver-haired girl scrunched up her nose, focusing on her piloting so she could appear to be ignoring the Niham as he continued, “I put credits on three, and no war.”
Down the corridor and through the Overlook, Aaron closed the door to his workspace and took a seat. He propped his datapad up against some prototype cereal boxes and sent a notification to the councillor that he was available when she was.
The response was almost immediate and he tapped the datapad screen to see the councillor at her desk as always, the fish tank behind her an ever-present distraction for him. The Anatidae bowed her head in greeting. “Ambassador Cooper, thank you for making time to speak with me.”
Aaron was slightly thrown by the more formal than usual greeting, but bowed his head as he responded in kind. “I always have time for a Councillor of the Galactic Federation.”
She smiled; he had followed her cue perfectly. “Thank you, I will make this brief as I’m sure you have other matters to attend to. I understand you are preparing a selection of Earth’s media for release? I look forward to learning more about your home world.”
The human nodded. He knew that the Councillor had access to Earth’s media already. In fact, she had been the one to provide him with the data. Something wasn’t right, but he replied carefully, hoping to connect the dots as they spoke. “We have chosen a varied selection, and hopefully there will be something to your taste. I would be most interested in hearing feedback from you, should you look through the options. It would help us immensely as we prepare the next selection.”
Eruwenn continued smiling and nodding; another show for the Sentinels. “My work keeps me quite busy, but I will send you what feedback I can. Now then, down to the business at hand. We are finalising the renaming process before we update the records across the Galactic Federation. As you know, we can not stop you calling your worlds whatever you please, but for us to update the central databases it would be beneficial to have some more information, especially regarding some of the naming conventions used. For instance, you wish to rename the star Optimus Prime?”
Aaron tried not to smile. “A great hero from Earth’s mythology, he died for us and rose again. He was a great leader who believed that freedom was the right of all sentient beings.”
“Very noble.” She took a note, it seemed the human was playing along nicely. “And the first world and the accompanying moon?”
The human leaned back in his seat, putting his hands behind his head. “A childhood friend who would always come first. I named the planet Konrahd after him, and the moon is Talon X which was his online name in Gran Turismo.”
Tapping away, the Anatidae didn’t look up from her datapad. “Ah, of course. The human obsession with coming first. Please continue.”
“Sure.” Aaron leaned forward, reaching under the table to where Danyd had installed a small fridge. He took out a can and opened it loudly. “The second planet has been defaced by a meteor impact, all smashed up with an exposed and dead core. We’re calling it Alderaan, after a destroyed world in our pop culture. The two moons took quite a lot of damage as well. The lumpy one is Freak and the one with the big slash across the surface is Scar. No special meaning, one’s a bit freaky and the other has a scar, makes it easy to remember.”
“And the third planet?”
“New Terra.” He drank deeply and then stifled a burp, the development team had definitely put too much gas in this mix. “Nothing clever in the name, but it has potential. The moon is Elune, named after a lunar goddess. You’ll know more about it once we release the vanilla game.”
She looked up, narrowing her eyes. “It’s a marketing stunt for a game release?”
“An homage,” he corrected, although he already had a team working on merch and a possible theme park, with a whole line of cosplay accessories being planned.
The councillor didn't believe him for a second, and on some level was shocked he had not yet named a world Buy A Cupcake. “And that brings us to” -how she loathed this name- “Earth Two Electric Boogaloo, and I really must ask again. Why?”
He laughed, poker face slipping at her obvious discomfort. “Human joke, we add the suffix Electric Boogaloo to unwanted sequels. Plus, it really irritates Alexa.”
Eruwenn realised now why the former inspector clicked his pen so often. She would have appreciated a tactile release right now. “Perhaps she should have had more influence over the names. And the moon, El-ahrairah? Am I pronouncing that correctly?”
“Good enough. It’s named for the Prince with a thousand enemies.” His jovial tone vanished; Aaron knew what would happen to the rabbits if they began to colonise E.T.E.B. “Read the book, or watch the movie. Next.”
With that avenue of questioning closed down she moved on, marking her notes Royalty for the record. She was now quite curious as to which book he was referring to. Clearly it was an emotionally charged subject. “Next is Gaia? And the moons Lakshmi, Kratos and Milda.”
Aaron relaxed a little. “Some of humanity's old gods, I’m hoping to bring them out of retirement.”
The councillor paused. Were he intending to start a religion, it would certainly prove to be popular. She decided not to ask, in case it gave him any ideas. “And the large gas giant with seven moons?”
Now his smile returned in full. “Snow White and the seven dwarves. I can’t name them from memory unless you want some reindeer names mixed in. A folk tale; the gas giant is a perpetual blizzard.”
Eruwenn made another note, folk tale. The council would have questions and the more vague her answers were the better. “Next is Tortuga, which has a flag already, how delightful. Is that a human skull and bones?”
Aaron nodded emphatically. “We won’t actually be encouraging piracy.” He noticed the alarm in her eyes and hastily added, “Yeah, Jarby didn’t like that one either, even after my Captain Sparrow impression.” He saw the incomprehension on her face and explained further. “I did the impression for the asteroid belt as well, but nobody appreciated that either, and I wasn’t about to draw that stupid tattoo on my face.”
She looked at her reference map. “Ah yes, between Snow White and the planet Gallifrey, you have Tyson’s Belt. With asteroid mining advances you should have a steady supply of materials once your initial construction phase is completed. And those names?”
Aaron finished his can and crushed it, they may need to tweak the caffeine content down a notch as he could feel his heart racing. “Sports, and medical.”
She smiled. Naming a planet after someone from a medical field was commendable. “And who was Doctor Gallifrey?”
“Doctor who?” He recognised the wires that were crossed. “No, the Doctor was from Gallifrey.”
“Oh, my apologies. And his name?” she politely enquired.
“Who.”
“The doctor.”
“Doctor Who.”
“The one from Gallifrey!” she snapped, if she had a pen it would have been clicking furiously.
“He was on first base.” The plumage of the councillor's green crest was beginning to rise, so Aaron opened one of the cereal boxes, snacking to provide time to think. Eruwenn was still staring at the screen, confused and frustrated when finally he spoke with slow deliberation. “He was called Doctor Who. Can we move on, because the four moons around Gallifrey are Stark, Banner, Odinson and Rogers, and if you can’t follow Doctor Who I’m not getting into Marvel multiverse theories. Just put named after myths and legends or something.”
“Fine.” She did as instructed, but was still a little confused over who the Doctor from Gallifrey was and why he was now a myth. “The largest planet by far is next, and you called it Pluto.”
A mixture of triumph and anger came over the human. “Yeah, fuck you NASA, Pluto’s not too small now, bitches! You can chalk that one up to revenge, it’s named after a planet from my own solar system that got downgraded on a technicality.”
The councillor had hoped to gain an insight into the human mind through the names he chose for these worlds. What his priorities and aspirations might be, and what he held dear and wanted written in the cosmos. It seemed that he was just as insane as Rilla had repeatedly warned her he was. “Fine.” She didn’t understand a word of what he said, but named after a planet from home was good enough for the bureaucrats. “And Pluto’s five moons?”
“Michael, Tito, Marlon, Jackie and Jermaine.” Much better than Alexa’s choice, she had wanted to name them after the Spice Girls. With a resigned tone he added, “just put down musicians or something.”
Between the insanity and marketing was another welcome addition, music was a beautiful thing that almost all races could share in. “Wonderful, I look forward to listening to them on Musicify.” She had listened to some of Earth’s music during her research, finding that it was as varied as everything else they produced. She had found the classical genre most pleasant, especially while drinking tea. “And finally, on the very edge of the system, the frozen world and the two ice moons.”
The human was relieved to be on the final planets, as the energy drink was buzzing through his veins. “The world is Elsa, named after a princess, and the moons are Cube and Vanilla. You can put those under music, but maybe put an asterisk next to Vanilla.”
The councillor was once again very confused, but did as she was instructed. So often when dealing with the human she felt like she was one step out of time with the conversation. “Well, that concludes my questions. I can get this sent over to our stellar cartographers and the updates will go live in a few cycles. Thank you for your patience.”
“What?” Aaron was confused, he could have done this via a written message. What was the point in the video call? “Oh, ok. Well, thanks for the call, I guess.” After some minor pleasantries it was over, and he still had no idea what it had been for. Mildly disappointed and confused he picked up the prototype cereal box he had been eating from, looking at the cartoon leokas on the front. Turning it over in his hands there was a large drawing on the back for the kids to colour in, and he laughed at another of his prestigious contributions to the galaxy.
Estrilla entered, quickly closing and sealing the door. “Here.” She tossed him a small datapad, that had clearly been modified judging by the bulky addition on the back. It began to vibrate. “It’s Eruwenn. For you.” She looked at his stupid face and snapped. “It’s a secure line, answer it!”
The crew had been called together for an urgent briefing once they had jumped out of Kasur space, and as they gathered around the central table of the lounge they noted no snacks to be tested. This was a serious meeting.
Sassie and Aiov were under the table, and the little leokit with eyes opened was stumbling about with her four-legged guardian watching over her. Despite this development, there was no joy in Aaron's expression. Next to him, in front of the screen, Estrilla paced back and forth, and the Captain gently reached out to put a hand on her shoulder. "She's your friend, you can start."
The doctor wanted to argue that they were no longer friends, but she realised her feelings had changed of late. “Fine.” She cleared her throat, shooting Ranjaz a sharp look clearly indicating that none of his usual nonsense would be tolerated. “As you all know, I am a former shipmate of Councillor Eruwenn Aix Sponsa. Many of you have even met her. We were part of a crew led by a former Imperium soldier and we worked behind enemy lines. For Eruwenn that work never truly ended, she just realised her targets were closer to home. She entered politics to engage with them on their terms, while also using her experience as a covert operative to gain whatever advantages she could.”
The yellow Kachna began to pace back and forth again. “There is a group of powerful people who want to see us return to war. They want to stir up the Hive and the Imperium and, as yet, we don’t know what their goals are. Power, profit, using one atrocity to hide another - we just don’t know, but we plan to stop them. Though this is Eruwenn's goal, if she can gain more power for her people and herself she'll likely take those opportunities as well." It was a harsh truth, but Estrilla no longer knew exactly where the Anatidae's loyalties truly lay.
Aaron walked forward and took a seat at the table. “We can delve into the lore later; let’s just show them the message.”
“Right.” The doctor picked up the modified datapad, noting some confused looks around the table. “This is a relay datapad, off the standard networks. It uses encrypted back channels or something - I’m a doctor not a spy, so don’t ask me how it works. Just know that this message is not to be talked about with anyone outside of this crew, and you are to keep no records on personal datapads. Am I clear?”
There was a murmur of consent. Even Ranjaz seemed solemn, acknowledging the gravity of the situation. Either that, or he was simply missing Skeena. Hoping for the best, the doctor stepped aside as the screen blinked on.
The view was obscured at first, and nothing could be heard except heavy breathing. Then glimpses of a corridor could be seen between someone's fingers - the camera was being carried at a run. The view cleared, sweeping along the corridor to reveal scorch marks from energy weapons and several bodies on the floor. A sibilant voice echoed down the hall from elsewhere, and the camera shifted. "Shit," said a different voice, and a Lacertan came into view, still on the move. "They'll find me soon, I have to be quick. I have a small drone hidden in the debris field and I'm uploading to it. Long after this is over it should head to a relay and send this message on your network. I pray this reaches you in time."
The camera operator pushed through a door, still breathing heavily. "This is the lab," she said as the camera panned around slowly. More scorch marks adorned the walls, and the bodies this time were wearing high level bio-hazard suits. "They were working on a weapon, some sort of pathogen, to kill the Hive."
Energy weapon fire could distantly be heard, and the Lacertan leapt behind one of the counters. As she huddled into a ball, she began crying. "Tell my mother I'm sorry. You'll do that, won't you?" Her terrified eyes were pleading with the camera. "I promised her I'd come home safe. I promised. Tell her I'm sorry for ever complaining about the pink packages and that I loved every single one. Tell her I love her, and that I'm so sorry.”
The sobbing intensified, and the camera sagged in her grip. The security uniform with a badge reading Amel came into view - she was a lieutenant. There came a deep breath, and the camera swung back up to her face. "Sorry. I was prepared for this when I volunteered, don't blame yourself. Just... stop them." Her eyes were now ablaze with anger as she tried to share as much information as she could. "They have a plague from this cursed shithole we've been orbiting for cycles. Last time I stopped them when they got too close to the answer they were looking for... by releasing it. Killing some researchers. People I knew, and worked with. I'm sorry for that, but it worked to stop their progress and I thought they would give up.”
She shuffled further around the counter, trying to get as much cover as she could. “Almost a full bost ago a Sentinel paid us a visit, bringing with him some new data. The diseases on this world are thousands of generations away from the original plague, but this data was the real deal. Their research surged ahead, and I didn’t have time to react. Tulseria curse them to eternity, some brainless Doctor Dix defrosted a patient on the edge of Tulseria-knows-where, and now these assholes are going to start a war and kill billions. You have to stop them.”
Voices and footsteps could be heard in the corridor and her voice became hushed and frantic. “They have to be close to release it, and somewhere with a lot of traffic so it reaches deep into their territory before they realise. It isn't finished. It was supposed to target only the Hive, but I heard Doctor Glimnop talking with his assistant about that not yet being the case. It mutates fast, too. It it gets out it could devastate the galaxy. You have to stop them.”
She leaned back against the counter, her breathing becoming ragged and her voice cracking. “They needed more time.” She was gasping. “I needed more time, I could have stopped them. The Sentinel said something about new colonies, and the need to tidy up. I knew, then.” Her gentle sobbing returned. “I ran.”
The sound of the lab door opening caused the slits of her pupils to widen with fear, and it was a moment before she whispered again. “Don’t come to Darnis, we’re already dead.” The camera panned down to her stomach, where her uniform was burned away and the scaled skin beneath charred and split, bleeding profusely. “Stop them releasing it, promise me!”
Angry yelling could be heard and the camera spun to show a Niham in a smart grey suit, his weapon raised. He fired twice. The camera fell to the floor for a moment before being picked up by the killer. “Damn it!” he cursed, “Find where this is transmitting to!” Then the video cut out.
The silence hung for several tiks as everyone processed what they had just watched. Estrilla gave them the time they needed. “They didn’t find the drone, and other than Eruwenn and her assistant, we are the only ones to have seen this.”
“You hope,” Embar said carefully. “They may have traced it, and then used the drone to follow the signal. Anyone who’s seen this is dead if the Sentinels find out.”
The doctor nodded. “That would only lead to the councillor, not us. She won’t talk.”
Embar was more dubious. “Torture can loosen lips. You think she can tough it out?”
Estrilla looked the general in the eye. “She has before.” He gave a polite nod, veteran to veteran, and she moved on. “We don't have much to go on. Sentinels have their past erased, and are good at staying off of the grid. With only a picture and a voice sample, our chances are slim... and if we look too closely, we'll give ourselves away.”
“His name is Krast.” Everyone turned to look at Ranjaz, who savoured the moment. “He’s the bastard who paid me to break into the military research centre. Asshole thought he was smart. He was going to steal something else, and use my job to cover it up.” All eyes were on him and he gave a mean grin at the memory of betrayal. “But, I beat him to it. Took the lot, and that’s when he set me up. I knew that fucker suspected me, so I kept my mouth shut. Played it innocent while he was watching from the shadows, did my time in Xeno-Biology Protection like a good boy.”
Allistan’s pen was clicking furiously. “What in Tulseria’s name did you steal?”
Everyone was looking intently at the Kittran, and he reveled in the attention for as long as he thought he could get away with before he shrugged. “No idea.”
Next

So now here, with the results printed in ink - its another disaster. A last minute (95th to be precise) equaliser by tranmere, destroyed the double and reverted the achievement back to failure. At the time we were waiting on Mansfield scoring a goal that would have bagged the treble. Glancing at the live pitch action on the gambling page there, I noticed a deadball scenario awarded to the would-be joybringers, right on the edge of the box. The screen remained still for a prolonged spell - the tension palpable. Then - the attempt is made; the info bar fixed upon for the verdict....hit the fucking woodwork. It was that close. With head in hands, the phone notifies me to summat - goal for tranmere. They stole the energy the wee pricks haha ah no
It was a classic DWT moment - a ridiculously unfortunate hand dealt by Lady Random; her knowing smile the very type of thing lifes lessons have taught me coping mechanisms to deal with. Well versed in it now - I merely returned a wry smile; you may have won this time lassie - but just you wait haha ah no. I like to tell myself, that somewhere behind that knowing smile, is a space reserved for humilty. That if one remains steadfast - doesn't waiver from the path; sticks to the self-imposed rules, acknowledges the cold hard fact that the improbable happens each and every day - the Good Lady will one day nod warmly in reaction to the picture of overwhelming happiness I am projecting upon here. And here - just to clarify; my usual stake reclaiming cash out tactic was in effect today; a return of £20.27 resulting a profit of £0.27 - terrific 😎
To me - this is a given ^. I've tasted it previously; its existence I can vouch for. Unlike the Loch Nessie Monster, or Bigfoot(s) - I myself have placed my palms on the wheel of victory and driven her with reckless abandon. A terrific time it is. Prior to DWT, there wasnt much of a structure - a fiver a week on anything that took my fancy; experimenting with short and long odds. The emphasis was on sustinence (essentially the birth of DRS). whilst occasionally fruitful, as well as giving bearing to otherwise meaningless (to me) live TV fixtures on occasion - the excitement levels were disappointing. Involvement of others was lacking; noone gives a fuck much the time that you won 20 bangers betting on Blackburn and/or Swindon.
To me, a gamble was always a terrific way of elevating the excitement of an occasion - especially if it involves a game you're attending or simply features your team (fiver down on the Dons is a staple whenever the option presents itself) - the additional commitment really lends itself wonderfully to zest and appetite (spittle is a mainstay on my chin by golly - hoo mama haha). That energy was the blueprint - somehow being able to concoct somthing that at the very least, had a flavour reminiscent of that sugary nectar. Many will disagree I'm sure; but to me DWT is a terrific additional string to the bow the Dons have crafted me. I'm no a subscriber to Sky Sports - so that saving of 60 bangers a month (that'll need fact checked - I've no a clue how much the pricks are charging), is available for an alternative debaucherous pursuit. And lets no forget 20 bangers is 40 bangers less than 60 bangers - so I'm getting equal joy for 60 bangers less 40 bangers. Thats terrific maths 😎
In effect an episode of a formulaic TV action show this week - the hero comes face to face with the objective; the thing hes been chasing all series long...and it slips away through a trap door to safety. At least for another week. More learnt about his methods, homework done on future locations - one of these days the wee prick will be snared, held aloft - and revered for months afterwards: here in my hands is the wee prick of Victory - YES
See yous next week - same DWT time, same DWT channel 😎

Do you ever wonder why on some days you seem to be able to play the best poker of your life, and why that can shift overnight into playing some of the worst you’ve ever played? It’s amazing to be in the flow of your A-game, noticing every tell, taking the right betting lines, making big laydowns when beaten – yet it’s followed at some point by being totally off with your reads, playing too aggressively or too passively and somehow deteriorating from your A-game into C-game or something even worse.You might be a very skilled player technically yet a complete mental game fish at the same time. Being able to deal with both upswings and downswings is something that all elite players have in common. There’s no past, no future – just the hand you’re in right now, and making the correct decision in this one is the only thing that matters for now. But why do so few players achieve that then?The answer to this question is so complex you can’t fit it into a single book, let alone an article. How about fitting only the 2 most crucial strategies into an article then? That should be doable, so lets try.

Injecting logic when you lose a big pot

The first strategy to improve your mental game is straightforward but rather hard to execute at first. With enough repetition it should become your second nature though!Injecting logic can be used in many situations you face in poker, and the most beneficial situation to do that is when a big pile of chips is drawn away from you. When you lose a big pot, you might respond with anger, apathy or frustration. However, there are other ways to respond too after you learn this strategy. Let’s take a look at how injecting logic works:You’re in a heads-up pot on the river with a fairly innocuous-looking board of J♠ T♠ 4♣ 8♦ 5♥ holding J♥ T♥ and you get raised after betting out. Losing just a few combinations, you make the call and get bad news after your opponent tables pocket fives for a rivered set.
Here’s how the train of thought usually goes for most players:‘What was this guy thinking about, calling with a pair of fives on the flop? I can’t believe he got so lucky on the river, I should have won that pot!’When this happens a few times in a row, it’s pretty hard to be playing your A-game anymore. The solution to this problem is injecting logic by changing your inner dialogue into something like this:‘That’s poker, two-outers will happen at times. Now I know my opponent doesn’t need much of a hand to call on the flop, so I will adjust my play by decreasing my low-equity flop bluffs and increasing my bet sizings when I have a value hand. I can definitely get this guy long-term by continuing to play solid poker.’See the difference? You’re focusing on how to maximize your future EV based on what you just saw, instead of dwelling in the bad beat. At first you will still experience the same emotions, but it will gradually start to change once you inject logic with the new dialogue inside your head in these situations.

Using a strategic reminder when you fall off your A-game

For experienced players it’s somewhat easy to recognize when they fall off their A-game. Some common routines players use when they notice that include taking a break and doing a few deep breaths, but these routines might not cut alone every time. If you’re very familiar with how your B-game and C-game differ from your A-game, using a strategic reminder in the middle of a session can prove helpful.How does a player use a strategic reminder in practice? Once the player notices losing a bit of focus, getting slightly distracted or going on autopilot in spots where you could win more EV by taking a different line, they might try reminding themselves of the lost components of their A-game. Using a strategic reminder might look something like this:‘My A-game is very relaxed and calm. I don’t force any decisions, but let them come to me through the extensive practice I’ve had both on and off the tables. My mind is super sharp, and I notice many tiny bet sizing tells and patterns that reveal the strength of my opponent’s hand. I see the action very clearly and make every decision with a confident state of mind.’As you can see, using a strategic reminder requires you to have a picture of your A-game so that you can remind yourself what the different elements in your game look and sound like. If falling off your A-game is an issue that occurs often when you play poker, I recommend you to take the following steps:

• Step 1: Make a list of elements that your game consists of when you are playing your best.
• Step 2: Write down a draft for the strategic reminder that describes all these elements. Aim for 4-6 sentences total.
• Step 3: Memorize your strategic reminder.
• Step 4: Next time you play poker, every time a full orbit of playing at the table has passed ask yourself ‘Am I playing my A-game?’
• Step 5: If the answer is no at any point in the session, repeat your strategic reminder in your head. If you don’t know that by heart yet, you can look it up from your smartphone or notepad on your desktop. After reading your strategic reminder, take a deep breath and re-focus on the game you’re playing.

When you repeat steps 4-5 enough times during your sessions, you will start to notice returning back to your A-game goes smoothly. There’s also the extra benefit of being more aware of your state of mind during play, allowing you to keep playing when on your A-game and quitting when you seem to slip to your B-game or C-game continuously (which will save you money since very few players can win playing their C-game). Now you should see why getting a clear idea on how your A-game really looks like and using a strategic reminder during sessions will put you far ahead of your competition in the mental game of poker!

Final words

While poker requires tremendous practice in the area of technical skill if you want to succeed, one of the quickest ways to boost your win-rate is working on your mental game. Start with the exercises presented in this article so that you get the ball rolling, and your bankroll will thank you later. If you manage to align working on your mental game into improving your technical skills, that’s even better. I wish you eye-opening moments with working on your mental game and good luck at the tables!PS: If your interest in learning more about how much impact the right mindset can have on your game, consider reaching out to me – I’d be happy to answer your questions!

Remember what I said? "If you wait until the last minute, it only takes a minute." I somehow, by the grace of God, and Power of Grayskull, managed to accomplish all my required tasks yesterday. I have, diagnosed, Obsessive Compulsive Disorder (OCD). I am very methodical and meticulous about certain things, life-or-death work being one of them. Over the years I have learned it's not necessarily important to give one hundred percent to everything. My very first First Sergeant was a great man. He was a former Delta Operator, raging prick, but a great man nonetheless. He would say, "OP. I want eighty-fucking-percent from you each day. Eighty-fucking-percent. However, when I ask for a hundred, you'd better fucking give it to me." I gave "work" eighty-fucking-percent yesterday, and managed to baseball bat the square peg through the round hole at the very last minute. It was a solid B- and a job well done.
During my course of hyper-procrastination, I had a thought provoking comment about parenting. A fellow Fuckery inquired about the "How to Adult" chapter in the Parenting Handbook. The comment took be back in time approximately sixteen years. My wife had just pissed on a magical stick and told me the most unexpected news ever, Janet Jackson had a nipple-slip during the Super Bowl halftime performance, but I had missed it because of a deployment. She also told me she was pregnant. Well fuck my tits sideways, because I was not ready to hear that. Sloppy was going to be a father.
Want to be a surgeon? Go to fucking school. Want to be a lawyer? Go to fucking school. Want to be teacher and cultivate future leaders? Go to fucking school. Want to be a parent? Pull out one fucking second too late and presto, you just hit the nine month "cook" button on vaginal-microwave. Sadly, there is no educational requirement. You don't have to have rich or poor. You can own a home or be homeless. There is absolutely zero prerequisites needed to preform, arguably, the most important and demanding job on earth; fucking parenthood.
Again, I wait to the last minute, but my wife, for some reason, really felt the need to prepare for this thing called "parenthood". She immediately went to Barnes and Noble, got some overpriced fucking latte drink, and scoured the aisles for the best "Mixed Cocktails from Under the Sink: The Parents Guide on how to Not Kill Your Child." The wife was about halfway through the book when I finally picked it up. "Maybe I should at least read chapter one!" I do what I normal do when I purchase a new book, and immediately flip through for pictures. Then I research to the author to see what qualifies him or her their specific field.
My apologies, I forget who the author was, but that's not important. What is important is this particular author had zero fucking crib-midgets or baby-cave convicts. What the fuck? Who the fuck are you to educate in a field you have zero experience with? Imagine the look on the pilots face when we finds me in the cockpit of my next international flight. "No worries friend. I got this shit. I slept at a Holiday Inn last night, and I honestly feel I am more than qualified to turn on the Christmas-light-cockpit and see if this stallion is airworthy."
I was initially pretty pissed off. The audacity of this author! Then "it" came to me. There is no real playbook for this shit. Maybe the real message was to simply "wing-it". I may have the brain of an adolescent retard, but I am, by all means, an actual adult. I can now look back at multiple moments in my life with the realization that my parents had no fucking clue. They were just winging-it. However, I severely overestimated my ability to parent when we baked Cake. I thought parenting was a wash, rinse, and repeat process. I thought I was now qualified because Kelly was still alive. Cake said, "Fuck you rules" though.
What you have read thus far is nothing more than a rant. Just a genuine bitch-session. I figure I should detail some life lessons I have learned because of Cake, the kid that occasionally makes me want to watching his feet kicking back-and-forth in a fit, but only because I have his head six inches deep in toilet water. My youngest boy (Head Shaking!), fucking Cake.
Shit Missiles
Cake had superpowers that Kelly never attained. We were initially unaware he was genetically-flawed and had "mild" soy and dairy allergies. The doctor said "mild". Well, that guy was a fucking liar. I don't call using four wet wipes to clean projectile shit from his neck "mild." I would argue for a "severe" diagnoses at the very least. That kid shit could out-shit dysentery.
Cake Brain: Poop before or after dad changes my diaper?
Cake's Asshole: During!
Cute Moments
For the most part, all the bad moments can be erased with one moment of cuteness. I could literally be five minutes out from utilizing the Safe Haven Law, and then Cake would do or say something that made me love him again. You read correct!
Cake (4YO): Can I cuss?
OP: What?
Cake: I want to cuss.
Wife: Cake. Do you know what cussing is?
Cake: Yes, but I want to say one word.
OP Brain: Fuck it. I will give you one opportunity, but please don't let me down or fuck this up.
OP: What's the F-word Cake?
The cute part; Cake literally started looking left and right, as if he was ensuring he wouldn't get in trouble. Then he softly whispered...
Cake: BIIITTTTCCCCCHHHHHH.
You done did messed up A-A-Ron. He was four though. I suppose I should celebrate that as a victory!?! For the un-parents out there, please always be cognizant that your crotch goblins are very observant creatures. They quickly pick up, and emulate your piss poor habits.
I had just been cut-off in traffic. I had the right-of-way, but Susie-fucking-snowbird and her Q-Tip colored hair decided it was okay for her to disregard the octagon-shaped sign that states, "Bitch. Wait your turn." I muffled a shallow "Fuck You," but then noticed her look of absolute disgust as she passed by my car. Then I see, Cake, flipping her "the bird" from my side-view mirror. Sweet! Cake can count to one.
Then you have the moments that start cute, and go south. I have my nightly introvert-routine. I want to watch the national news, and then test my knowledge while watching Jeopardy afterwards. It is my much needed hour to decompress each night. My leave me the fuck alone time. A very chunky Cake rolled up to the couch, baby blanket in one hand and an unopened bag of Puff Cheetos in the other. He needed help murdering the bag open. I opened it, but he decided to plop down next to me as opposed to finger-painting the white curtains Cheetos orange with his little dick-beaters. He wanted to share.
I don't particularly like puffed Cheetos, but fuck it. It was an olive-branch from a terrorist. I obliged. I was five minutes into Jeopardy and I reached my hand into the bag, but something was off. It was plain-fucking-gross. I pull out a gooey, disgusting, wet fucking Cheeto. I initially thought there was something wrong with the packaging, but then I turn to see Cake, giving each puffed morsel a toddler blowjob. He sucked off every bit of flavoring, and then shoved the wet mess back in the back. I had just found his discards.
OP: Cake. They are not pistachios. You can eat the entire thing.
Cake: (Shoulder Shrug): I only like the cheese dad!
You Got Fucking Jokes
Cake was a huge fan of jokes, particularly knock-knock jokes. I don't know if he picked this up at daycare, or kindergarten. I know he didn't get it from grandpa, because he would be using the official F-word a bunch. I, as you man know, am a huge fan of humor. I love it. Humor gets me through the day, but I despise a poorly told joke, and I hold everyone to high standards. It was extremely frustrating to endure twenty jokes in a car ride home that all sucked.
Cake: Dad. Knock-Knock.
OP: Who is there?
Cake: Carrot.
OP: Carrot who?
Cake: (Hysterically laughing) I got you!
Imagine twenty jokes exactly like that, while your toddler-terrorist maniacally laughs. This particular day was long. I just wanted to rest when I got home. I merely wanted five minutes to myself before the chaos started. I had just endured 20 minutes of piss-poor comedy, but Cake was not done. He had, "one more joke dad."
Cake: Knock-Knock.
OP: Who is there?
Cake: Smell Mop
OP: Smell Mop Who?
Cake is now rolling on the floor. Kelly is rolling on the floor. Lola may have been worried about being attacked with a scissors, but even she was wondering what the hell was going on. What the fuck was I missing? Why was this specific knock-knock joke funny to Kelly? What the actual fuck?
OP: Smell Mop Who? Smell Mop Who?
The kids are still rolling, the dog is barking, and I just start saying it faster.
OP: Smell Mop Who?
Then Cake, in Cake fashion, lets out a thunderous fart with superb ass-acoustics. Just a sweet smell bum-rumble!
Cake: Dad. Smell My Poo!
OP: Smell Mop Who....SMELL MY POO!!!
I had just been out-potaoed, by the potato. Outwitted by a fucking four year old. Read whatever the hell you want Reader. Please be sure to let me know when you read a book that prepares you for that shit there. Smell my poo!
Cake is 11 now, and is currently in that transition phase of life. The phase where you go from optional deodorant to "Deodorant. NOW. EVERYDAY". He arrived home from soccer practice drenched in sweat last night. Sweating like a whore in Church with a disheveled look on his face.
Cake: Dad. Do I have to take a shower?
OP: Yes. It's not optional nor negotiable. Feet. Balls. Ass. NOW!
Cake: Can I take a bath?
OP: I don't care so long as water and soap hits your...
Cake: Feet, balls and...
OP: BUTT
Cake: Do you take baths?
OP: Not really.
Cake: Why?
OP: Because when I am really dirty, the bath water gets really dirty, and it don't feel as clean as I do when I take a shower.
Cake: Are showers better?
OP: For you they are.
Cake: Cause I get cleaner?
OP: No. Because I don't have to worry about your drowning in five inches of water.
Cake: (Huge Grin, and I was laughing) Bet you I could drown in a shower!
OP: I bet you could buddy!
Lastly, I remember something else during my rant response to the thought provoking Redditor. Punishment. Feel free to call me a bad parent, but I have adopted a technique that I use to extract confessions. It is pretty low-level shit, and there is no need to waterboard, yet. This specific technique is not mine, and I learned it during my torturous time at Confraternity of Christian Doctrine (CCD). My God! Those nuns hated me and I hated them, but I learned this:
OP: Cake. Have a seat.
Cake: What?
OP: (Calm. Be Calm) What did you do wrong?
Cake: Ummm.
OP: You're sitting this chair for a reason, and I am disappointed in you.
Cake: I spent $20 dollars on V-Bucks (FAKE FUCKING MONEY) and didn't ask.
OP: No XBox for a week.
This is not the preferred technique and you MUST space it out. Parents don't have time to parent 24/7. Impossible. However, the rabbit jackals that live upstairs MUST believe you are capable of this. It's a lie, but they are necessary lies. But OP, you lie to your kids? But Reader, do you still think Santa Claus is real, or are you fucking Santa Claus? I am getting sick and tired of trying to create elaborate scenes for Elf on a Shelf too. Did I ruin it, or did you think he constructed that beautiful parachute and got stuck on the ceiling fan when he jump from a plane you didn't hear, in the middle of the night, that flew through our fucking house? Yeah. I lie.
Fellow Fuckery Readers. Thanks for rant-riding. I know it wasn't funny, but I just had to procrastinate about work. I needed a ten minute rant and no editing. Good news though. I have 26 full-blown stories on deck; I wrote unforgettable titles to I remember to detail the events for you. There are two Hawks, numerous Gunfighter Dads, and the introduction of many new characters to include OP. I will save off on mine, because I want you to "think less of me" sometime next year.
Be Rona free, Safe, and Cheers!

I was Hawk's "leader" for a period of approximately two years. That statement is not entirely true though. True "leaders" produce leaders. They impart technical and tactical knowledge, and even general-life wisdom. Eventually said Soldier claws their way through the bowels of the junior Enlisted hierarchy transforming into "leader," and attains the coveted rank of Sergeant. Hawk would never ascend to that prestigious rank of Sergeant. I suppose I failed him in that endeavor? However, I may have actually saved the fucking world! Would you take orders from a "leader" that wipes his ass before he shits? (Assumed.)
A Daily Mail headline from 2017 reads, "Ejaculating at least 21 times a month significantly reduces a man's risk of prostate cancer." What do you say we assume Hawk's dad was consummate defender of his Hershey Highway? Colonel Hawk's balloon-knot was watertight, exit only, and clean as a whistle. Fuck! Who am I to assume? It may have been "Yield the right of way" for all I know. Nevertheless, Colonel Hawk's wrinkle-grommet was cancer free due to his steadfast commitment to burping the worm. Don't worry Dear Reader, I assure you this rant is highly scientific, but we need to make a metric fuck-ton of assumptions. Very fucking scientific assumptions.
Colonel Hawks "Honorable Discharge" (Get it?)
For the purpose of this highly scientific study we are going to assume Hawk's journey over the river and through the woods, to mother's Fallopian tubes occurred when Colonel Hawk was 30-years old. Don't quote me, but I think I figured out the awesome powers my own dick harnessed when I was 12-years old. For the sake of science, I will also assume that Colonel Hawk started punching his clown around the same age. Let's do the fucking math now! Colonel Hawk milked the snake 21 times per month for 12 months, which means he achieved 252 cock snots per year. This means, before the time Hawk out-swam the other tadpoles, Colonel Hawk had made 4,536 loads of baby gravy. You can't argue math people!
Dear Reader, you may not be aware, but I was forced to delay my typing. You should have been reading this saga two hours ago. My apologies, I was simply overpowered with science. Winston Churchill once stated, "I cannot forecast to you the action of Hawk. It is a riddle, wrapped in a mystery, inside an enigma; but perhaps there is a key." Well, maybe he said Russia, but we are sticking with Hawk because this is highly scientific. Chinese and Russian hackers are likely balls deep inside my computer because they surmise, if I solve the mystery of Hawk's birth, I most certainly have the Arc of the Covenant in my garage. Well, not today you commie bastards!
Back to science, and the reason I took a much needed break from the reality of life. Did you know, "On average, each time a man ejaculates he releases nearly 100 million sperm?" So, fuck you for not helping Dr. Phil, and thanks WebMD. We need to take off our dunce caps and put our thinking hats back on; its time to fucking math, again! We need to now ask Alexa to do basic math, because I am lazy.
Consultation With Fellow Colleague; Amazon Alexa
OP: Alexa. What's 4,536 times 100 million?
Alexa: 4,536 times 100 million is 453.6 billion.
OP: Alexa. Are you sure?
Alexa: That's tough to explain.
Don't believe me? Ask your Alexa colleague. Hawk's journey to human existence confused my highly knowledgeable colleague. My apologies, I am about to be abrupt, but please take a fucking seat Dear Reader. Go ahead. Disregard my advice. You were fucking warned. I am not paying your hospital bill when you knees buckle and your head collides with the edge of a coffee table. This, well calculated, and supported by internet science, means that Hawk was one of 453.6 billion squiggle-swimmers. Somehow, this potato-brained troglodyte, out-Darwined nearly insurmountable odds to become a potato-powered humanoid whom the United States Army blessed with an Assault Rifle (AR), and a fucking grenade launcher. How about we fucking talk about odds for a second?
Odds of Shit Happening to You, My Fellow Fuckery Readers

1. Odds of Winning Powerball Jackpot: 1 in 292.2 Million
2. Odds of Winning Mega Millions: 1 in 302.5 Million
3. Odds of being bit by a shark: 1 in 3.75 Million
4. Odds of being struck by mother fucking lighting TWICE: 1 in 9 Million

Imagine swimming in the ocean an being bit by a prick-ass bull shark, struck by lighting twice upon reaching shore, and then being told you won the Powerball and Mega Millions Jackpots before shark-bite-repair-surgery (Technical Term). Pretty fucking unlikely right? Well, that exciting ordeal is more probable than Hawk winning a Fallopian tube egg hunt. Fuck! I wish there was a shark and lighting storm in my garage. What are the fucking odds, right?
Hawk was one in a 4.536 billion chance of becoming a human being. If Colonel Hawk would have had one more or one less soapy massage, Hawk would not be here. On. Earth! Let us now assume that I defeated these same insurmountable odds. Imagine how many fucking zeros there would be in order for Hawk to be my Soldier. How about you hold my beer Pie and Infinity; these fucking zeros go on forever. Jesus!
So why did I bring you here? Why are you reading these words right now? I want you to be informed. Armed with fucking knowledge and whatnot. Eventually these longer Hawk stories are going to end. Sad, I know. I do have at least two more full-blown Hawk stories. There will come a point in time in which we will need to say goodbye to Hawk and introduce some other characters, and their Hawk-like moments. However, and fucking fear not, I do have a substantial amount of very short Hawk stories. What do you say we keep with this theme and "squeeze another out"? I "feel" the same!
We are back in Iraq, and at the medium-sized Forward Operating Base (FOB). The daily heat was still unbearable. The desert sun really enjoyed rectally inserting misery sideways into your bung-hole. Then the sun retreats and the heat dissipates. The nights are now chilly. Not freezing cold, but enough of a temperature change to wonder why anyone would claim that barren tundra has "home." Uncle Sugar sent us to Iraq with our murder-boners, and Bush wanted us to eradicate terrorism. We were "young, dumb, and fully of cum" and we all wanted to make "The Bush" happy. Don't we fucking all!?!
Deployments are about routine. Although unlikely, even chaos has a routine. Get alerted while on Quick Reaction Force (QRF); rest assured there is a fucking routine. This night, however, was calm. It was calm enough for me to notice a nightly routine. Hawk would depart our Team Room at exactly 8:00 (2000 for you military fucks) every night. On the fucking dot!
OP: Hawk. Where do you go each night at eight? Phone Tent? Internet Tent?
Hawk: Outside to watch Tom masturbate?
OP: What the fuck did you just say. YOU WATCH HIM?
Hawk: No. That's gay. I go outside, smoke a cigarette, and wait for him Sergeant.
OP: EXPLAIN!!!
Hawk: Okay Sergeant.
(Hawk quickly scurries to my bed and I am now face-to-face with the human enigma.)
Hawk: (Creepiest voice ever.) Come with me!!!
I grab my smoke-jacket and head outside with Hawk. We are standing just outside the barracks and are protected by three walls. Hawk creeps in again and is about to bestow some serious perv knowledge.
Hawk: Tom (The Mad Shitter) comes out here every night at eight to jerk-off.
OP: How...why the fuck do you know this?
Hawk: He told me. He finished TOC (Tactical Operations Center) guard at eight and then comes outside to "release the demons." I think he just watches porn before he gets off Sergeant.
OP: Let me get this. Tom gets off at eight, and you come out to watch him?
Everybody Has Routines!
Hawk: Tom will come out and go directly to the shitter on far right. If it's occupied, he will smoke and wait.
OP: Why? Why the one on the far right?
Hawk: The urinal is on the left-side. If you are on the far right, nobody can catch you jacking-off while they piss.
OP: I see...
Hawk: (Giggly-Poo) So I come out, wait, and then I go in and out of the one to the left of it, and fuck with him. He always bitches about "other people messing up my timing." (Laughing.) He doesn't know it's me!
OP: I am getting my camera!
I Action Jackson my ass inside to get my camera for the shenanigans. I returned outside to see Hawk coming out of the bathroom with a thumbs up. I quickly rush over to him to develop the impromptu plan.
OP: Take this water bottle and go inside and "piss." Open the door like your about to exit and just squat down so he thinks it's empty. Make sure the door slams. I need you to scream when you think he is about climax so I can rip open the door and take a pictures.
Hawk: (Best fucking response ever.) Roger Sergeant!
My eyes have fully adjusted to the desert darkness. I see bouncing red lights from headlamps as Soldiers moved around the FOB. I also notice a collection of lights emanating from a group of curious Soldiers. I can be a sneaky bastard, and at times, it was truly a matter of possible life or death. This particular stalk was far from death, but I personally felt the stakes were higher. Hawk and I were collaboratively hunting a purple unicorn that shits Skittles. Fine! Not a unicorn, but catching British-Irish humanoid that joined the U.S. Army with his wanker in hand would suffice. This was my unicorn.
I sneakily sneaked my sneaking ass off. I was crouched and patiently waiting to rip that fucking Port-A-Potty's door open and simultaneously snap a picture. There was a noisy giggle from the gaggle of fucking curious Soldiers. I was starting to get irritated; they were going to "blow" the mission. Although it was disgusting, I could hear Tom vigorously repeating the five-knuckle-shuffle (8=(,,,,)=D). It was like a metronome with a very repetitive tempo. It was a bit chilly too, maybe he was just trying to stay warm at this point!?! I also started ponder my guidance to Hawk, "scream when you think he is about to climax." Hawk accepted that guidance like a giddy fucking idiot, but how was Hawk going to deduce the "climax" moment? Yuck! Then I was fucking startled.
You know the kind right? You're watching a movie and "you know" you're about to be startled? You knew it was coming, but God damn did it scare the fuck out of you. This is what happened to me.
OP Brain: You're idiot (ME). How the fuck is he going to "know" when...
Hawk: (The most fitting scream ever!) CAAAAA-CAAAAAWWWWWWWWW!
Ever have an instinctive reaction? Like OP always reaching for my non-existent gun when I return from deployments? Don't even think, just reach for that mother fucker. Then your brain catches up and goes, "FUCK. It's not here," and then you end up fist fighting an old lady for the last roll of one-ply toilet paper at Walmart because we have gone COVID-crazy and started acting like lawless savages? I don't feel guilty either. I heard her Depends cushion her fall when I threw her to the ground. She didn't need toilet paper; she was fucking wearing it!
Anyways, I was fucking startled, but my trusty arm, by the power to Zeus himself, yanked that door open while my other trusty hand, with the precision of Anne Geddes, snapped a glorious photo of Tom holding his main-squeeze. It was glorious, but I never stopped to think about the consequences during "mission analysis." There was, a casualty.
I had just totally blinded Tom. He was now a very shitty and un-heroic Daredevil. He was, in Tom fashion, completely fucking naked, and a stumbling idiot. Tom crashed into the urinal, ripping it from the wall. Hawk had joined me outside and is laughing hysterical now. The curious gaggle of Soldiers now have Tom in their purview. The are also laughing. Tom is now naked, sprawled across the floor and toilet, receding dick in hand, with a mother fucking urinal neatly wedged between himself and the wall. It was glorious.
Tom: Sergeant! What the fuck is wrong with you guys?
Hawk: Did you cum?
Tom: NO!
Hawk: Mission accomplished Sergeant.
Hawk being Hawk, just casually walked off. He was done. Didn't even want to stay and laugh. Odd duck that man is!
Hawk: See you tomorrow Tom.
Tom: Fuck you guys. This is just all sorts of wrong.
OP: (Laughing) I concur. This was very wrong, and totally unprofessional of me. This picture, that is trapped inside this camera, will serve as a constant reminder of my poor leadership decision.
Tom: (Angered Tom Voice) I want a copy!
OP: Deal.
Then we all just dissipated. It was like the ending of the move "Stand By Me." We kind of just slipped into the night and didn't say a word. At least until I got back into the barracks. Then I told everyone what happened, and it was gloriously comical.
OP: Everyone! I have a picture of Tom jerking off!
Harry: You think we can get it developed here?
OP: I don't trust them here.
Harry: Do we all get copies?
Tom was now back from his perched position of shame and regret.
Tom: I bet Sergeant OP gives everyone copies. Fuck-my-life.
Harry: (Announcing to the Team Room) Hear that? We all get pictures of Tom jerking off.
Well Dear Reader, that's-that. I managed to drag-out what would have been an extremely short story about Hawk in to a fairly long read. I congratulate you if you made it here. Fuck! I don't even want to edit this fucker. Lastly, YES! Yes, I do have the picture, and it is in my Iraq 20XX picture book. It is dark around the edges but you can clearly see one Brit, semi-collapsing to the ground, with exactly one penis clutched in his left hand. Fucking switch-hitter, I suppose. I myself, am right-hand dominant. I suppose that's why it retreats right below my left knee cap?
Cheers! Oh, regarding my last sentence. I totally lied. I have a nice truck that helps me compensate for my lack of manhood. It all works out in the end. No! I don't know how big Hawk's penis is, but Hey-Zeus enjoys playing funny tricks. I don't know if Hawk has ever seen an real life squish-mitten, but I'd say it safe to assume the potato-brained idiot is walking around with a telephone pole sized cock in his pants. Fucking irony.
Cheers again ya Fuckery fucks!