College Football Picks - Best NCAA Football Predictions Today

Miami Dolphins
AFC East (4th place)
2019 record - 5-11
New coaches -
Josh Boyer - DC
Chan Gailey - OC
Robby Brown - QB coach
Steve Marshall - OL coach
Austin Clark - OLB coach
Curt Kuntz - assistant DB coach.
Coaches gone -
Chad O'Shea - OC
Patrick Graham - DC
Jerry Schuplinski - Assistant QB coach
Dave DeGuglielmo - O-line coach
Free Agency

Player Acquired	Position	Former team
Emmanuel Ogbah	DE	KC
Byron Jones	CB	Dallas
Shaq Lawson	DE	Buffalo
Kyle Van Noy	OLB	NE
Jordan Howard	RB	Philadelphia
Matt Brieda	RB	SF
Ted Karras	C	NE
Ereck Flowers	OG	Wash FT
Clayton Fejedelem	ST	Cincinnati
Kamu Grugier-Hill	LB/ST	Philadelphia
Elandon Roberts	LB	NE
Adrian Colbert	S	Miami

Byron Jones is the big one here. He will start opposite Xavien Howard and will force teams to throw his way more often, which will lead to more picks. Howard is a ballhawk while Jones is more a lockdown guy. They should make a great duo.
Kyle Van Noy brings a lot of versatility and much needed experience to the defense. He should be a do it all type of guy under Brian Flores and should fill the Kyle Van Noy role that dolphins fans have been talking about since 2019 started. Who better?
Shaq Lawson brings much needed pass rush to Miami. They were downright pathetic in that area last season
Emmanuel Ogbah, see Shaq Lawson.
Jordan Howard, speaking of pathetic, Miami's running attack was beyond that last year. Ryan Fitzpatrick led the team in rushing. Yes, you actually read that correctly. 38 year old bearded non running QB Ryan Fitzpatrick led the dolphins in rushing for 2019. He had a very measly 243 yards. I still smh typing that out. Howard will fix that issue.
Matt Brieda is the lightning to Howards' thunder. He will take a few to the house from mid field this season.
Players cut/ lost in free agency

Player	Position	New team
Reshad Jones	S	FA
Taco Charlton	DE	KC
Charles Harris	DE	ATL
Taybor Pepper	LS	FA
Mike Hull	LB	FA

Reshad Jones was one of my favorite dolphins players of all-time so losing him hurts, but it seems it was just his time to move on. A ring of honor player and maybe the best safety to ever play in a Fins uniform. Hard hitter, makes big plays, lots of pick 6's and game sealing interceptions, great tackler, he will be missed.
2020 NFL draft selections
Round 1, pick 5 - Tua Tagovailoa
Grade - A+
After a year or more of speculation, drooling and hoping for Miami to be in position to grab him, they stayed at number 5, avoided trading up and still got the QB that 99% of Dolphins fans had been praying for. Tua Tagovailoa is a top flight quarterback coming out of college injuries or not. His accuracy and ability to hit receivers in stride in incredible. He doesn't have a huge arm but it's definitely adequate and he maintains that accuracy all over the field. He has touch and great instincts to find the open man. He avoids the sack well, which is something he's gonna have to utilize heavily due to the fact the Dolphins haven't been able to put together a respectable offensive line consistently for the past decade. It's unlikely he'll start right away due to the hip injury he suffered last November and since Ryan Fitzpatrick is in position to maintain his starting role. The covid pandemic did not help him in getting experience, but it did give him more time to rehab. Last I checked Tua had the number 1 and 2 selling jersey in the NFL. To say the least, Dolphins fans are very excited about his arrival.
Round 1, pick 18 - Austin Jackson OT USC
Grade - B+
This was a pick that sort of divided the fanbase a little bit. He has high upside but is also so young and raw that a lot of fans were justifiably worried he was a reach and wouldn't live up to being the 18th overall selection. He is very athletic and a very hard worker so that's a good sign for his future. He also gave bone marrow for his sister to save her life and somehow still came back and played college football that same year. Absolutely incredible. Personally just that makes me a huge fan of his, but watching his tape he does have some flaws. He played a bad game going against AJ Epenesa, a fellow first rounder in this year's draft. AJ is a very strong player though and even great players have certain guys that give them trouble. He should man the left tackle spot for at least 3 years. There's a good chance he will see a trial by fire season in 2020.
Round 1, pick 30 - Noah Igbinoghene DB Auburn
Grade - A-
This was the first pick that surprised Dolphins fans. Many believe that the Dolphins were targeting a different player at number 26, their original pick, but that player was gone so they traded back. Igbinoghene is an exciting player though. He is figured to man the slot CB position and seems like he has star potential there. It won't hurt having other great CB's like Xavien Howard and Byron Jones to learn from and play next to. He's fast and plays tough. He loves to jam guys and has great play speed to make pass break ups, but he is still pretty raw since he's only been playing defense for a couple years. Should have all the opportunity to snag a "starter" spot as the nickle corner. Most think Bobby McCain will stay at safety so he only needs to beat out Nik Needham who was an undrafted rookie last year. Though Needham did show promise so it isn't a cakewalk.
Round 2, pick 39 - Robert Hunt OL Louisiana- Lafeyette
Grade - B
Nobody was surprised that the dolphins would draft 2 offensive lineman out of their first four picks, but not many saw that guy being Hunt. He plays aggressively and should be a road grader in the run game, though his pass blocking needs refinement. His strength and playstyle will likely give him a leg up on his competition at either right guard or right tackle since head coach Brian Flores loves toughness on the field. He will be given a shot at beating out Jesse Davis for the right tackle spot but will likely land at right guard since he will probably need time to develop at tackle first. Fellow draftee Soloman Kindley, Danny Isidora and Michael Dieter will be competition for him to start.
Round 2, pick 56 - Raekwon Davis DL Alabama
Grade - B-
Davis is strong and plays with a high motor, but lacks great athleticism so his future is a bit murkier than the first 4 players taken by the dolphins. He has versatility and will probably play both tackle and end, allowing for others to move around.
Round 3, pick 70 - Brandon Jones S Texas
Grade - C+
Jones is projected to be more of a SS than a FS, which makes sense because Reshad Jones is no longer with the dolphins. Brandon Jones has big shoes to fill there. The athleticism and physicality are there, though the ball skills and coverage ability are not. He's gonna have to be kept clean by the coaching staff and his fellow defensive backs if he's going to be able to play a ton of snaps and succeed.
Round 4, pick 111 - Solomon Kindley OG Georgia
Grade - B
Kindley is a destroyer in the run game. He plays to not only win his rep but to shame his opponent. He should be able to find a spot on the line if his pass blocking can even be adequate. Definitely a decent pick at a position of need.
Round 5, pick 154 - Jason Strowbridge DL North Carolina
Grade - B-
Another defensive lineman. I see a theme here this offseason.
Round 5, pick 164 - Curtis Weaver DE Boise St.
Grade - A
Clearly the defensive line was an issue for the dolphins in 2019. Weaver brings some real potential but lacks explosiveness off the edge. Great pickup in the 5th.
Round 6, pick 185 - Blake Ferguson LS (longsnapper) LSU
Grade - D-
I wrote out longsnapper because I'm not sure one has ever been drafted before so maybe some don't know. He will be the only one on the team and has already led to the release of LS Taybor Pepper who was building a gym for his Miami home and posting about it when the news broke. Ouch.
Round 7, pick 246 - Malcolm Perry RB/WR
Grade - A
Perry is a very elusive player that brings a bit of excitement for being drafted so late. He caused an insane amount of missed tackles in 2019 but against bad competition. Obviously it is yet to be seen if he can keep that up against vastly better competition, either way, getting a player with actual potential this late is a steal.
UDFA
Matt Cole - WR
Jonathan Hubbard - T
Kylan Johnson - LB
Benito Jones - DT
Nick Kaltmeyer - OT
Ray Lima - DT
Kirk Merritt -WR
Tyshun Render DE
Donell Stanley - C
Bryce Sterk - TE
Offseason news
This was a blissfully peaceful offseason for Dolphins fans (2020 BS excluded). There was one minor incident with Xavien Howard that looked like it could end with a four game suspension but it did not. All charges were dropped and NFL didn't see enough to give any punishment. Maybe the biggest story was Saints WR Michael Thomas losing his damn mind when DeVante Parker tweeted out "A". It was in response to the question "Which is tougher? A. Make a catch while guarded by Stephon Gilmore, or B. Break up a pass while guarding Michael Thomas." It was a far cry from pretty much every offseason Miami has had for nearly twenty years. Pretty much the rest of the story has been Tua, Tua, Tua.
Projected starting lineup
Offense
QB - Ryan Fitzpatrick
RB - Jordan Howard
RB2 - Matt Brieda
WR1 - DeVante Parker
WR2 - Preston Williams
WR3 - Albert Wilson
TE - Mike Gesicki
LT - Austin Jackson
LG - Erick Flowers
C - Ted Karras
RG - Robert Hunt
RT - Jesse Davis
Defense
CB - Xavien Howard
CB - Byron Jones
FS - Bobby McCain
SS - Eric Rowe
OLB - Jerome Baker
MLB - Raekwon McMillan
OLB/DE - Kyle Van Noy
DE/OLB - Emmanuel Ogbah
DE - Shaq Lawson
DT - Davon Godchaux
DT/NT - Christian Wilkins
Nickle corner - Noah Igbinoghene
Disclaimer - trying to pin down assignments and starters on a defense that tries to have players play multiple positions and schemes is an exercise in futility.
Scheme
Offense - Spread offense
Chan Gailey has typically used the spread offense throughout his career so that's expected to be the case here in Miami. In the spread offense the basic idea is to force the defense to cover a lot of wideouts in order to open up the run game and pass option, or rpo. Here legendary coach Urban Meyer explains it a million times better than I can, which makes sense since he knows it a million times better.
Defense
The defense the dolphins will use is a tricky one. They will likely switch between 3-4 and 4-3 regularly and will use many different formations within each one. OLB's will also get after the QB like a DE, DE's will likely slide inside to the DT position, as well. The idea behind the defense is to always have good matchups on the field and to lockdown the receivers with great man to man coverage, allowing the defensive line to get pressure on the QB. It's quite the opposite of what Miami has done in the past, which was to try and get after the QB ASAP and pray that your DB's didn't allow a quick reception, which they usually did.
In the past Miami had such great ideas as sending the DE's around the edge quickly but playing off coverage and not trying to take the wideouts off the mark, which almost always just ended up in the QB getting rid of the ball quickly to a wide open receiver running across the middle. Most Dolphins fans found it frustrating to say the least. This new scheme is the opposite of that. They want the DB to knock the wideouts off of his route, while the DE's will play a more contain style and keep the play in front of them rather than running upfield and out of the play. I'm far from an expert on this subject though. Hopefully some of the great Dolphin fans will come on here and clear it up better than I can.
2020 schedule
Week 1 - @ New England
Week 2 - Buffalo
Week 3 - @ Jacksonville
Week 4 - Seattle
Week 5 - @ San Francisco
Week 6 - @ Denver
Week 7 - LA Chargers
Week 8 - LA Rams
Week 9 [email protected] Arizona
Week 10 - NYFTJets
Week 11 - Bye week
Week 12 - @ NYFTJets
Week 13 - Cincinnati
Week 14 - Kansas City
Week 15 - New England
Week 16 - @ Las Vegas (ew)
Week 17 - @ Buffalo
Tough schedule for 2020. Starts tough and ends tough. Not a lot of room for error if they want to remain relevant after the bye week. One good thing is there's 3 west coast teams coming to Miami this year and in the past west coast teams have not played well going east and especially going to Miami. It's gonna be tough to make a playoff push, their best bet is to win at home and try and go 4-2 in the division by splitting the Bills and Pats and trying to sweep the Jets. All four teams in the East are looking like they aren't separated by a lot so it's anyone's guess if New England does indeed slip after losing Brady. I'll believe that when I see it.
Big shoutout to guys like Kyle Crabbs and Travis Wingfield for helping teach me a lot of this stuff, I leaned heavily on Crabbs' scouting profiles for the draft section, and Wingfield taught me quite a bit about formations. Hopefully I'm not making his teaching look bad 😂. Another shoutout to all the Dolphins fans in Miami dealing with a big covid breakout in Florida. Stay safe you guys and gals!

My Friend's Bed Was Haunted by Sexual Energy

I was signing autographs in a downtown Richmond book boutique when Henry came in. I had been there for over four hours, sitting at a folding table scribbling my name on the inside covers of endless copies of Night Terrors, and was exhausted. My arm ached and my head throbbed. Meeting a perpetual flow of fans, many of them gushing, is hell to me. Don’t get me wrong, I love them dearly, but social situations tend to repel me, and actually engaging people I don’t know is an awkward near impossibility.
It was nearing one, dark and nasty without, and I was longing for a nice long nap in my hotel room when Henry’s turn came. I thought that the woman before him, a middle-aged blond in a brown leather jacket, would never leave. But thankfully Mr. Preston, the owner of the shop, ushered her away in his prissy manner.
I smiled at the man whom I did not recognize as Henry. He was tall and pale, his wavy black hair limp and lusterless, the flesh of his face tight and his eyes an unhealthy pink which bespoke sleepless nights. He smiled wearily yet warmly.
Without a word he passed me his copy of Night Terrors. “And how are you today?” I asked as I sat the book down, my blue Sharpie pen, the second one of the day, poised.
“Just peachy,” he croaked, and I at once knew the voice. I looked up, and Henry was still grinning as if through pain.
“Henry!” I cried happily, and extended my hand. He took it, and it was like a block of ice.
I and Henry were like brothers since time out of mind; our parents were high school friends who lived next to each other in the Pickett subdivision on Thomas Street, and from diapers we were always together, on play dates, camping trips, and backyard pool parties. We were inseparable all through our school years, and only parted, tearfully and grudgingly, when I left Picketts Meade to study at UVA in 1997. Since then, we had seen very little of each other, as I lived mostly in New York City and he in the house willed to him by his childless aunt and uncle.
“Hey, man,” he said, “what’s goin on?”
“Not much,” I said, “same old stuff. Working and all that. What about you?”
He shrugged. “Same here, pretty much. Listen, are you free this afternoon?”
“Sure, what’s up?”
“I got a ghost,” he said, as though the words were kidney stones.
“Sure, I’d be happy to come by.”
Henry smiled again. “Thanks. You know where my aunt’s old place is, right?”
“Ahhh, no, I forgot.”
“Okay, here.” Henry pulled out his wallet and opened it. In the translucent slot where preening fathers proudly put pictures of their children, there was a faded Polaroid of two boys, one tall and skinny, the other short and fat, at a lake on a summer day in 1988, mugging it up with their arms thrown around the other’s shoulder. I had the same one in my wallet.
Henry produced a small piece of creased paper and, with my pen, jotted down the directions.
“I’ll be there at around four or so,” I said, sticking the paper into my blazer’s breast pocket.
“Thanks a million, man, I can’t tell you the kinda shit I been goin through.”
“I can imagine.”
“Good book; is it number one?”
I snickered. “Ahead of Glenn Beck? I wish.”
Henry shrugged. “Still a classic. I can’t believe some of the shit. All of it’s real?”
“As you and I,” I replied. I jotted down my name and a small, personal message onto the inside cover, and handed it back to Henry.
“I’ll see you,” he said. “I’ll be there,” I responded with a smile.
***
Almost two hours later I left the bookstore by the back door, emerged into a narrow ally of grimy brick walls, and carefully crept toward busy 5thstreet. Above, the sky was malevolently silent.
Before leaving the relative safety of the alley, I looked both ways along the sidewalk, and found it empty save for several rushing, bundled forms. For a moment I was reminded of those old shots of The Beatles running from mad throngs of screaming women through the streets of London, and smiled.
I stepped into a freezing gust and hurried up the sidewalk, passing drab storefronts darkened by the gloomy afternoon light. A Ford Focus passed by on the street in a splash of puddled rain, its red taillights glowing satanically in the mist.
Ahead, a brave hotdog vendor, possibly a transplanted New Yorker, stood tensely behind his cart, ready to feed the world. He offered me a taste of his wares, and the almost desperate imploring of his voice touched me. Imagining poverty and mounting bills, I bought a small fountain Coke even though I wasn’t thirsty, and almost as soon as I was out of sight I cast the cup into a metal trash bin, the clanking ice cubes within having sapped the heat from my hand.
Slowly the scenery bled into one of the residential. Dirty Brownstone tenements marched dismally into the ashen day, their crumbling stoops guarded by rusted metal sentries overflowing with rank refuse.
I finally came to the small lot where I had left my Jeep in-between a pick-up truck and a hatchback. The latter was gone, replaced by a small red Beetle. I fished the keys from my pocket and opened the driver side door.
Behind the wheel, I started the engine and the radio came to life with one bland Taylor Swift song or another. Before leaving I slipped Krokus’ Change of Address into the CD player, and slowly cruised back the way I had come.
Several minutes later I took a sloping onramp and met the babbling interstate; before I joined the flow I waited for several large Mac trucks to scream by in their shrouds of water mist. The meager Richmond skyline stretched away to the east, interrupted only by the wide river which bisects the city. Maybe it was the mood and light of the afternoon, but the city seemed a deserted necropolis, the buildings bizarre Druid ruins rising black against the sky.
Once on the interstate I noticed that several idiots cars next to mine were busy blabbering into their cell-phones or texting. I’m not the kind of guy who wants to ban this and that, or the kind of asshole who preaches his opinion to everybody, but I know what can happen on a freeway when someone wants to whip out the old Droid and chat.
One girl, with wet black hair and dressed in a loose white t-shirt, flipped me off when I motioned hang up and drive.
Women, I thought with a grin, they taste good…but the heartburn!
I soon took rural Exit 154 and coasted into the parking lot of a small roadside gas station fed by a narrow hillside lane. I pulled under the gas-pump shelter and killed Marc Storace in the middle of Burning up the Night. I searched my hip pocket and checked the directions again. The name of the town was Fairfield, not too far north of the city.
I got out into the damp and filled the jeep up with juice, wincing at the price. With that done, I crossed the open space between the pumps and the store, my hair dampening, and entered.
After waiting for a white man in a mossy oak camo cap to buy a six pack of Bud Ice and a black woman to purchase a pack of condoms and tampons (an ungodly mix, if you ask me), it came my turn. The wispy old man behind the counter, wearing country regulation suspenders over his button up work shirt, studied me for a long moment.
“Hey, you’re that writer fella, aintcha?” he asked with a rough smile, revealing that his teeth were mostly black or tarnished gold.
Despite a swelling of pride in my chest, I wanted desperately to avoid an embarrassing scene.
“No.”
“Hm. You look a lot like ‘im. She loves all that damn ghost huntin’ garbage.”
I paid for the gas, and the old man wished me a good afternoon with a crooked grin.
Once back in my car, I again studied the directions, trying to absorb them so that I wouldn’t have to constantly consult them in transit.
Feeling confident that I could make it on my own, I started up the engine and followed the ascending byway toward Fairfield.
I soon left behind all urban pretense and found myself speeding through low hills and tiny hamlets made up of slanted wood structures decades past their prime. It had begun to rain more steadily. Crossing the murky Roman River, I saw that it had overflowed its banks.
The winding lane took me past yet more hilly farmland enclosed by strands of barbed wire, putting me slightly in mind of northern England. When I came to the outer limits of Fairfield, which sat across another, smaller, swollen river, I was greeted by a white board sign proclaiming it as The Nicest Town in America.
Main Street, lined with gray brick shops dating from the 1920s, sank down into the rest of the town, from which a white church spire rose into the air, and a blue water tower next to a tall brick schoolhouse loomed supernaturally forth from the thick valley mist. The sidewalk boasted fiery trees, the embers of which carpeted the wet concrete.
At the four-way intersection, the only cars that I met were a station wagon going to the east part of town, a minivan heading back the way I had come, and an SUV going down into the heart of the town, which lied spread before the hill like a fog enshrouded dream.
I took the left and followed the street for a time, passing a small doctor’s office and the police station. The big roll-top doors of the local volunteer fire department were open, and I glimpsed several men in the gloom lazily wiping down the sleeping green dragon within. A group of children struggled down the sidewalk with crammed backpacks dragging along the wet pavement. A boy on a ten-speed bike shot past them and hung a sharp right, taking a small dead-end road ending at the foot of the hill. In the rear view mirror a large yellow school grinded to a halt, the red lights on its mounted stop sign blinking rhythmically. Teenagers tumbled out and hurried across.
Lee Street was an odd mix of ranch and Victorian houses, all beautiful and tastefully enclosed by hedges or withering gardens. A few of the larger homes were sectioned off with low stone walls waist high to a man.
The last house on the left was tall and narrow, dating back at least to the latter half of the 1890s. With spires and gingerbread trim it affected a stately air.
I parked along the street and sat for a moment, memories washing over me. I and Henry had come here several summers during our childhood. Being unable to have children, Jo and Oscar doted on us so much it was almost cloying. They were rabid antique collectors, and spent thirty happy years hoarding history together before Flight 93 went down over Pennsylvania on the eleventh of September, 2001.
I killed the engine and got out into a brisk slap of wind. After waiting for a minivan to swoosh past, I crossed the street. The grass along the flagstone walk was encroachingly tall, and I wondered if Henry’s ghost had hidden his lawnmower.
I bounded up the porch and knocked on the door. I waited in the cold for a moment, a wind from the west raking my flesh. Finally, as I cocked my fist to knock again, the door opened, and was filled with Henry, dressed as he had been at the bookstore.
“Hey, man” he greeted and moved aside.
“Long time no see,” I smiled. Stepping across the threshold, I was immediately struck by the heaviness of the atmosphere, crushing down on me like the world upon Atlas’s shoulders. I staggered, and Henry at one grabbed my arm and helped steady me.
“Uh-oh,” he said, “I don’t like that.”
“I’m fine,” I lied, looking suspiciously about myself, “just tired.” I didn’t at once remember what such a black heft meant, but I did know that it wasn’t good. At all.
“Well, if you wanna go back…”
“Nah,” I dismissed, “I’m alright.”
“Okay,” Henry said and led me from the shadowy foyer and into a wide parlor. A large bay window, an ugly modern addition, sat across the room, uncurtained. Save for tall, dusty bookshelves along either wall, the only other furnishings in the room were a couch piled with tangled blankets and a pillow, and two armchairs.
Henry showed me to one of the chairs and took the one across from me.
“So, what’s up? How’s life treating you?”
I sighed. “Alright. I hate the touring, though. I can’t stand being on the road.”
“Ah,” he dismissed me with a wave of the hand, “you always were a little homebody. I love the open road. Nothing like it. You want a drink?”
I nodded.
“Coke,” he warned me.
“Better be.”
He laughed and moved off to the kitchen, leaving me alone in the room. The dark feeling pressed down on me harder than it had been, compressing my chest. I tried to take a deep breath, but was unable. It was like standing on a high butte overlooking a strange plain in a dark world, the air thin and sour.
Henry returned with two Cokes. He handed me one and sat back down. “Sorry they’re not cold. I just bought ‘em on the way back.”
“That’s fine,” I said, opening mine and taking a long drink. Henry sat his between his legs.
“I saw you on Ghost Hunters last month,” he said with something like pride, “I was over at my old girlfriend’s house and when your mug popped out, I about went crazy. “Hey, I know that guy!””
My appearance on the popular SYFY Channel show had been little more than a publicity stunt engineered by my agent. I was against it from the first, but ending up going on anyway. The target was a 13th Century castle on an Irish bluff overlooking the crashing sea. Supposedly, a family of werewolves had lived there in the sixteen hundreds.
“They’re a sham,” I said, glancing around as if expecting a hostile apparition to materialize. Maybe I was.
“Who?”
“Those attention whores,” I said, referring to the ‘ghost hunters’. “There weren’t any ghosts. It was all faked. The noises. The mist. All of it.
“I figured,” Henry said, “they usually are.”
“I guess,” I looked around.
“Yeah.” Henry finished off his Coke and sat the empty can at his foot.
“So, what have you been doing?” I asked, “just hanging out?”
“Yeah,” he said, “aunt Jo and uncle Oscar weren’t rich. They had money, but not much. The way the recession’s going, I’m probably gonna have to go back to work soon.”
“Sometimes I wish I could just stop writing and investigating and all that and just live off my books’ proceeds,” I confided, “live the life without doing the work.”
Henry chuckled. “You’re lucky; you got a kick-ass job. I’m most likely gonna end up at Food-Lion or something.”
“Gotta start somewhere,” I said. “Maybe we can write a novel together.”
Both of us had tried as children to write our own horror stories. Henry’s were mostly better than mine.
“Maybe,” he seemed to taste the idea.
I opened my mouth to reply, but a stiff gust of wind slammed into the house, and I jolted.
Henry laughed. “Scared?”
I shook my head. “No, not really. I just…well, what exactly are we dealing with, here?”
Henry sobered, his face darkening. “I…I been thinking how to word this for a while now.” He paused. “You ever hear that phrase La petite mort?”
I missed a beat. “What?”
“You know, that French metaphor? It refers to a state of euphoria after you “finish.””
“Yeah, I know.”
Henry sat grasping for a moment. “People believe that some kind of spiritual lifeforce is…expelled when you cum. Somehow that’s like dying or something.”
“Uh-huh,” I nodded awkwardly.
“And in Ghosts and Ghouls, you said that some people think a ghost is just…leftover human energy. Right?”
“The atheists and agnostics in the field, yes.”
“Do you think it’s possible that…that release of energy can leave a…a ghostly residue?”
I laughed. “Henry, that’s just a metaphor; it doesn’t mean anything.”
“Are you sure?”
I opened my mouth, but closed it again. I couldn’t honestly say that I was.
“What…what makes you ask that?”
“It’s my bed,” he replied darkly.
“Your bed?”
He nodded. “Remember Sarah Kerns?”
For a moment I drew a blank, and then an angular face framed in raven hair materialized before my mind’s eye.
“Sure,” I said, “your girlfriend in eighth grade. What about her?”
“Remember how she moved over the summer, before we started high school?”
I nodded. Her father was in some kind of business that forced him to relocate often. I can’t remember what it was, though.
“The night before she left, she came over to my house and we did it...”
“Alright,” I urged, and then it dawned on me. “You still have the same bed, don’t you?”
He shrugged. “Never saw a good reason to get rid of it.”
“And you’ve…done a lot in it, huh?”
“A lot,” he admitted.
“And now you think…what, all that combined energy has created a sort of ghost?”
“Look, I know it’s crazy, but just hear me out, okay?”
“Okay.”
Henry took a deep breath and began.
Several weeks before crying out to me for help, he told me, he had been lying awake in bed. It was a windy night and he was as far from sleep as a man can get, so, as he watched the darkened ceiling, he let his mind drift unfettered. He had always had a fertile imagination, and was entertaining himself with undisclosed fantasies when, all of a sudden, the foot of the bed lurched to one side, as though booted by an angry WWE star after an in-ring betrayal.
“Man, that scared the shit outta me,” Henry said. “I froze up and just laid there for a minute. Then it happened again, and this time I got knocked off.”
Frightened, Henry jumped up, fell in the sheets tangled at his feet, and flew down the stairs.
“I sat here in the living room for a little while. After a half hour or so, I decided it was a nightmare and went back up. In the room, I flipped on the light switch and…”
He was quiet for a long moment, looking down at his ashen hands. “And there was a fuckin dead girl spread out on the bed, covered in blood and shit.”
I gasped softly at this, my heart freezing in mid beat.
“You’re sure?” I asked incredulously.
He nodded without looking up. “Yeah. And she looked like Hanna Giles…you remember her, right?”
I did. She was a cheerleader during school, a tall drink of blond perfection. She and Henry spent much of the 11th grade getting hot and heavy together before he grew bored and found another conquest.
“And…and she…sat up, her fuckin eyes were black and she had these long Dracula fangs. She opened up her legs and…fucking blood gushed out.”
He stopped at my hiss of horror. “It looked like…you know, in The Shinning, when that elevator opens up in the beginning?”
I nodded, my mouth slightly agape.
“I saw that shit and lost my mind. I ran out the front door and down the street. Spent the rest of the night in a booth at the diner, too afraid to come home.”
In the morning, Henry stretched out in the parlor.
“I was having dinner the next day. A buffalo chicken Hungry Man. So, I was sitting at the kitchen table eating, when something above my head, in the room, crashed against the floor. And right after, I heard this long, high pitched laugh.”
Stiff with terror, Henry remained unmoving at the table for nearly an hour before packing up and going to a motel for a few days.
“I was starting to think it was a nightmare, but when that shit happened…”
Henry eventually returned, convinced that the “ghosts”, while frightening, were harmless.
“So, one night, I got brave and went back upstairs to see what would happen.”
After several uneventful hours, Henry was on the border of sleep when something, something cold and dry, wrapped around his throat.
“It felt like hands, little…you know, a woman’s hands.”
The world grayed as Henry clawned at the phantom hands to no avail. He nearly collapsed into death before they suddenly and inexplicably spared him.
“That was the other night. I was about to leave, go get a motel or something, but I heard you were coming down, so I thought I’d see if you could help me.”
For a long moment I sat in brooding silence.
In 1999, I left school to work for a noted regional paranormal researcher named John Haggis. I accompanied him on many outings, most of them busts. Only three confirmed cases of the genuinely supernatural came across our desk in the three years I worked with him, one of them being the demonic haunting of a bar in Headwaters, a tiny hamlet nestled in the Shenandoah foothills southwest of Harrisonburg.
I learned several things from our experience there. One: Demons despise the presence of a professional. Two: While ghosts can, on extremely rare occasions, possess human beings, only demons can shapeshift and actually harm someone without the use of a human agent.
“Have…have you ever smelled sulfur here?” I asked, my voice natural, at least to my own ears.
“Rotten eggs? No, why?”
“You’ve been left alone outside the room, right?”
“Yeah. What about the sulfur?” he seemed impatient.
I ignored him and looked from one shadowy corner to another, the house bathed in a sour, uneasy silence. I was shocked to find myself wanting to get as away from the house as I could.
“Henry,” I drew, my eyes darting apprehensively, “there…”
I stopped. How would he take hearing that a demon was in his house? But was it really a demon we were dealing with? I couldn’t be sure; I’m not, after all, a demonologist.
“What?” he asked, his tone low and worried.
If it was, then it appeared to be attached to the bed somehow, like a ghost to a favorite rocking chair…
“…I doubt that your ghost is made of girl goo.” I at length flashed a smile, hoping that it didn’t look too fake. “I’ve heard of similar cases, and they are relatively easy to deal with.”
“Really?” Henry’s face brightened for the first time all day, and his tone was one of a child in the presence of a shyster birthday-party magician.
“Yeah,” I said, “no problem. Tomorrow I’ll call some people and they’ll conduct…sort of an exorcism. It’ll be a breeze.”
Henry sighed, relieved. “Okay.”
I looked again from corner to corner. “Hey, you want to go and get some dinner, my treat?”
Henry smiled again, his dark eyes alight. “Sure.”
We took my car, and drove off into the thickening gloom. Main Street was busier than it had been when I entered town; it was past six, and people were returning home from work in droves.
“Take a left up here,” Henry said as we approached the four-way, “and go for about…five miles. Place called Ryan’s.”
I nodded, lost in thought. I would have to call Tom Youngblood, the only demonologist in the Richmond area, in the morning. And maybe I would have to call the Catholic Church in town, too. Then again, the church has tried in recent years to distance itself from the supernatural.
I took the left, and descended down into the heart of Fairfield. Queerly, about a mile of hillside between the upper and lower sections had been left undeveloped, and was currently a hopeless tangle of dead grass.
“Man, I feel like a weight’s been lifted,” Henry said as we passed the dark shops and rain sluiced sidewalks, empty save for the phantom trees along the edge. “You can really do all of this tomorrow?”
“Yeah,” I said confidently. I took a deep breath, and seemed to blow away all of the mounting worry crushing my chest. I only had to call Tom and a priest, and they would take it from there. They were experts. It might not be an easy break, but it would get done. Demons were actually weak in the presence of religious men; which is why I abandoned my former atheism.
“Good. I can’t wait to get this shit behind me. It’s been a living hell, you know?”
I nodded, and then realized that it was probably too dark for Henry to see. “Yeah, I bet it’ll feel really good.”
“Like a million bucks,” Henry said.
“And…get rid of the damn bed. I don’t think that what we’re dealing with is…what you thought, but just burn it. It’s possible that the ghost is attached to it for some reason.”
“Way ahead of you, man,” Henry said. “I’m gonna go down to Mattress Warehouse and get me a new one tomorrow.”
At the end of town, just before the beginning of the dark, wet woods, I slowed at the traffic light, pulling to a stop alongside a school bus; the small lights affixed to the ceiling within were on against the dark. I saw a few dark silhouettes through the rectangular windows, and ascertained from their distorted shapes that they belonged to the high school’s football team.
“And…don’t have all your fun in one place, okay?” I said as we got back underway, the bus falling behind in the darkness.
“I ain’t gonna have that kinda fun for a long time.”
“Yeah, bullshit,” I jested in hopes of further lightening the mood, “you can’t go a week without having sex with someone…or something.”
Henry chuckled. “Yeah? I once went a month without doin your mom.”
“She needed that long to stop laughing at your…handicap.”
Henry laughed. “Okay. Just wait till we get there; take you in the bathroom and show you what’s up.”
I snorted. “What’s limp.”
“It won’t be limp when I shove it down…”
The restaurant, a sparkling oasis cloaked in primal black, loomed so quickly from the darkness that I nearly missed the turn.
“Alright,” Henry said after I had slid us into a slanted parking spot facing the empty road, his penis forgotten, “let’s get some grub.”
“You look like a German Jew,” I said as we got out of the car, “you need a good meal.”
“Yeah, thanks, mom,” Henry said as we crossed the parking lot. Through the big front windows, we could see happy families sharing joyful meals in the warm brightness.
We came to the double doors, and both held them open for the shuffling passage of an elderly couple. “Thank you,” the old man rasped and nodded as he helped his wife past us and toward a silver Cadillac parked in one of the closest handicap spots. They were immediately followed by two teenage girls in gym shorts and pink tops.
“What is it with kids dressing like that when it’s cold?” I whispered as we entered the restaurant, assaulted at once by the good odors of many steaming, mingling foods.
“If you got it flaunt it,” Henry reckoned.
We walked up to the long lunch counter and took cups, silverware and plastic trays from a hotplate guarded from inconsiderate sneezers by smudged plastic. We waited behind a party of rowdy college students to pay the casher.
We paid the chipper blond behind the register and were shown by a young sleepy eyed man in a red t-shirt and black slacks to a booth along the far wall of the room, mercifully away from the main population. Henry was immediately off to fix himself a plate at the buffet.
I sat at the booth for a moment, looking around the brightly lit room. It was crowded with families, mostly, passing food and laughing over their tables.
After another moment of inventorying how many people I would have to pass to get to the drink machine, I got up and moved to the Coke island. Apart from the dispenser there sat a plain metal canister marked with the picture of a tall, frosty glass of chocolate milk looming forward like a favorite uncle. I considered for a moment, and finally decided to get the milk, the likes of which I haven’t tasted since I was a child.
As I drew the dark liquid into my clear cup, a beefy older man in a brown leather jacket walked unthinkingly up to the machine and filled his cup with Sprite, all the while gasping softly to himself about someone named Mony-Mony.
Sidestepping a yellow WET FLOOR sign at the head of a nasty spill, I went back to the booth where Henry sat, bent protectively over a plate of fried chicken and breaded shrimp. I took my plate and quickly filled it up with French fries, several times nearly colliding with a young boy in small glasses examining each bright pile of food as if he would die if he did not detect the poison on his choices. At the booth I splattered a liberal amount of Tabasco sauce on the golden potatoes and dug in, my chocolate milk standing dutifully by should I need its aid.
“Remember Donny West?” Henry asked around a mouthful of food. I nodded. Donny had been one of our friends as kids before his mother moved the family to West Virginia. A beefy kid with red hair and deep freckles.
“Yeah. How can I forget?”
“He died.”
“What?” I asked, a bit of fry falling from my mouth and landing on the plate.
Henry nodded and swallowed. “I talked to his sister on Facebook, and she said he was drinking and wrecked his car into a tree a couple years ago. Took two of his friends with him.”
“That’s horrible,” I said numbly. Though I had not seen Donny in years, to hear that a once close friend was dead broke my heart.
“You remember what he did on April Fool’s Day that one time?” I asked Henry after a long, respectful moment of silence.
Henry nodded. “He had balls to do that.”
Donny, much more a practical joker than even Henry, had run the Stars and Bars of the Confederacy up the flag pole before school started that day. What made it even funnier were the facts that no one even noticed until lunch, and that the school sat right on the main highway in Picketts Meade.
“Yeah,” I sighed, black, cancerous nostalgia flooding me. “The good old days.”
We then lapsed into a comfortable silence. After savagely stripping the meat from a chicken bone, Henry wandered off to treat himself to a cold dessert. I finished the last of my fries and polished off the chocolate milk, my burning mouth greedily absorbing the cool liquid.
After a return trip to the machine, meeting once again the boy who had been diligently studying for his buffet safety PhD (he wasn’t quiet as conscientious when it came to Coca-Cola), I placed myself in my seat and awaited Henry. He soon returned empty-handed.
“They all sucked,” he declared.
I did not reply, but suddenly realized that the ice cream machine was next to the soda and chocolate milk fountains.
Suddenly, from across the room, there came a loud racket, drawling the puzzled stares of patrons in the gulf between walls. From a door came a line of people dressed in red shirts and black pants. The person at the head of the rank, a rather fetching teen goth with long midnight hair and a generous bosom, held something in her hands, something aflame, for her strong angler face was awash in orange. The Ryan’s troops behind her were clapping.
With mortification I saw them making a B-line toward our table like a personified children’s show choo-choo. Now all of the bemused eaters were looking toward me and Henry.
“You bastard,” I said, turning to Henry. He was smiling and clapping flourishingly. I broke out in my own grin, my cheeks afire. “Oh you son of a bitch; real funny.”
The Ryan’s Birthday Army now surrounded my half of the booth, leering over me like grinning psychos and clapping madly. I hung my head in embarrassment as they sat a flaming birthday cake on the table before me. “Bastard,” I muttered, lowering my head, realizing that now all of the other patrons too were looking at me and clapping.
Then the singing started.
I could just imagine Henry going up to our hostess and stage whispering across the counter, his hand shielding his mouth from prying lip readers, Pissst; it’s his birthday, pointing in my direction.
Bastard.
***
Coming out of the Ryan’s parking lot nearly half an hour later, I took a right on the rain swept street and followed it back to town past several large comfortable southern homes boasting screened in front porches and spotlighted flags. Most of these were protected from the street by rusted chin link fences.
We were silent and content, our stomachs full.
Finally desirous of breaking the silence, but too stuffed with food and lazy to speak, I switched on the radio, picking up a station from southern Maryland. After a “local” newscast about a New York mobster choking to death in a King George pizza joint and the discovery of a well-known radical poet shot dead in a D.C. parking garage, Cyndi Lauper came on with Girls Just Wanna Have Fun.
“Your song,” Henry croaked from the passenger seat.
I changed the station. The Culture Club was singing about a Church of the Poisoned Mind.
“Damn, must be your night,” Henry snickered from the darkness.
“Shut up,” I replied, hitting the scan button; the radio settled for a station playing a Seether song.
Henry laughed. “I meant you like eighties music. I wasn’t trying to say you’re gay…not that there’s anything wrong with that.”
Pulling to the end of Henry’s street, I noticed that we had left none of the lights on when we departed; the thought of waltzing through the door into the pitch black slightly uneased me.
I thought of asking Henry to stay with me at the Marriot in Richmond rather than me staying with him, but quickly decided against it; we’d be safe in the parlor.
Putting down my own childish reluctance, I parked the car at the curb and killed the engine, shutting Kanye West off in mid-rant.
We entered the house and immediately repaired to the parlor, where Henry took care of stoking a warm fire into existence.
That done, he came back to his chair and sank with a pleasured sigh. “So, you gonna write about this?”
To be honest, the thought hadn’t crossed my mind. “Maybe,” I said. Of course I would. Would it make it into my next book? It had a better chance than some of the other cases I had. People love their supernatural when it’s really weird.
“Well…” Henry said, but was interrupted by a terrible crash from overhead, which shook the house and caused us to jerk in surprised fear.
“There it is,” he shivered.
Another long bang sounded upstairs, as if something had thumped to the floor.
I swallowed around a lump in my throat, and opened my mouth, but was forestalled by another loud crash, this one followed by a stomach-piercing moan.
“Maybe we should go,” I stammered, a sudden bubble of stark fear overwhelming my cool rationality.
Henry licked his lips and swallowed hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing.
I looked appraisingly up at the smooth ceiling above my head, partly hidden by the gloom. There was another thump that stopped my heart and froze my blood. A shower of fine plaster rained down upon me like hard snow, and I quickly averted my eyes to avoid it.
“Henry?” I panted breathlessly, wrestling with my own galloping fear.
“Fuck this,” Henry affirmed and moved to stand, “let’s…”
Henry had been whispering, as if worried about disturbing his inconsiderate guest, so I was able to hear the soft, terrible footfall. It was as if an electric shock ran through me, reducing my bones to jelly.
I heard it again, louder this time.
Henry’s eyes were wide. “Was that…?” he whispered superstitiously.
I gulped and nodded. “It sounded like it…
From the dark upstairs hall there came a soft, fugitive creak. Henry was now fully standing, his wiry body tense and rigid.
“Hennnryyyyyy!” drifted a thin and ghostly greeting.
“Jesus Christ!” I exclaimed, and bolted to my feet. I turned to the dark threshold into the rest of the hostile house, and saw nothing but playing shadows.
“Hennnryyyy, baaaabyyyyyyy!”
I spun on my heels. “We have to get the hell out of here!” I whispered incoherently, my mind reeling. There was no hope of using the front door. We would have to pass the stairs…
Henry stood slack in place, his eyes wide and seeming to vibrate with terror.
There was a more confident footfall from halfway down the staircase, and a definite swish like that of a passing priest’s cassock.
“Come on!” I screamed, my fear boiling over. I desperately regarded the window beyond Henry’s chair. It appeared wide enough for both of us to escape side-by-side.
I grabbed Henry’s wrist, but pulling him was like trying to move a wooden post set deeply in the ground.
“Come on, we gotta go, NOW!!” I screamed franticly, hearing the loud moan of the last step. Henry shook his head as if shaking away a dream and looked at me with frightened, pleading eyes. But before a word could pass between us he turned back to the threshold.
And screamed.
Hearing the horrible, damned-soul quality of his voice broke my resolve and nearly my mind. It was the high-pitched shriek of a child on finally seeing the thing under its bed and finding it far worse than imagined; it was the scream of a sinner being shown into his new abode in hell; it was the pitiful cry of a madman.
Fueled by mindless animal terror, I sprang for the window.
Forearms thrown protectively over my face, I crashed through with a cry, and sailed into the damp night in a shower of broken glass, my stomach throbbing in my throat. I hit the grassy ground with an umph and staggered to my feet, my knees watery and quivering.
Behind me, the laughter of madness turned into the orgasm of agony.

I Read It So You Don't Have To: Secrets of the Southern Belle (by Phaedra Parks)

I hope the past few days have been restful and rejuvenating for you all, but -- as I'm sure you must have learned by this point -- the journey to personal betterment is an eternal endeavor. We haven't got a moment to waste, so let's bid adieu to the sunny serenity of the California coast and settle in down South with Real Housewives of Atlanta's Phaedra Parks, as she descends from her ivory porch swing and illuminates the esoteric in Secrets of the Southern Belle: How to Be Nice, Work Hard, Look Pretty, Have Fun, and Never Have an Off Moment.
True to the title's descriptive and straightforward sentiments, Phaedra begins the book with a concise synthesis of the worldview she hopes to present:

I believe every woman should be a Southern Belle or minimally aspire to being more ladylike, charming, and intelligent, because we should all be treated well.

As she continues, we get our first glimpse of the deep well of compassion that underlies Phaedra's mission to improve the lives of those around her.

Honestly, I sometimes feel sorry for women of northern persuasion. There they are rushing around in their baggy, drab clothes, doing everything for themselves and looking like they just rolled out of bed. They don't seem to understand there's a better way.

Thankfully, I no longer have to count myself among that witless horde. I feel like, until this fateful moment, I have been living like one of those people from the black-and-white "before" footage of an infomercial -- haphazardly bumbling through the most menial of daily tasks with no way of knowing how much brighter my world could be. Phaedra has freed me from Plato's Cave, and I have no choice but to follow her instruction and strive to shape myself in her image.
A true Southern Belle is known -- first and foremost -- for her fundamental kindness and compassion towards others, so it is only appropriate that the book's first section is succinctly titled, "Be Nice." However, even this simple directive has been trampled by the corrupting influence of the modern world. As Phaedra laments,

Unfortunately, as we see more migration from other parts of the world, we also see an increase of poor manners and rude behavior.

She elaborates, providing specific examples of the personal injuries incurred as a result of these unmannered interlopers.

I find it particularly odd in business, when the salespeople or tellers don't speak or thank you for your patronage. Don't they realize that without customers they would not have a job?

I, too, find it offensive when minimum-wage workers have the nerve to act like actual human beings rather than automatons at the mercy of my personal whims, and I appreciate that Phaedra is bold enough to ask the question that has undoubtedly been on the tip of our collective tongue. Yet somehow, she still remains humble enough to freely admit where she has room to learn; here, she lets the reader in on "something I've never quite understood about non-southerners:"

They're suspicious of basic southern warmth because they're worried it's insincere. But at the same time, they will tell you the most inappropriate things! They tell you stuff about their health that you don't want to know. They launch into crazy stories about their terrible childhoods and how misunderstood they are. They complain about what happened long ago, and they fret openly about the future. Then they tell you what they paid for things and you want to crawl under the table.
Frankly, that's not very attractive.

What is attractive, then, you may ask? Effusive compliments, for one thing -- "I don't know why some people are so concerned with being sincere, when being nice is so much more effective." We also learn to "never contradict anyone, even if you know they are wrong." Phaedra illustrates this particular lesson with the following example:

If someone tells you that your taxes are due on April 30 instead of April 15, you look puzzled and say, "Goodness, I had no idea. Did they change the date?"

And what happens after that? Either the person says yes and you're forced to play along with whatever bizarre delusion and/or power-play your companion is currently indulging, or they say no and you say -- what? "Right, of course, I knew that the whole time!" Or, "Gotcha! It's April 15th, you incompetent fraud!" Or maybe, "I don't even know what taxes are -- money is for menfolk!" I just can't imagine any of those scenarios playing out with less discomfort than a simple correction, but after four years living in New England, I can only assume that's just northern negativity clouding my vision.
We are next presented with a list of "compliments that come in handy," a few of which I've transcribed below for immediate incorporation into your own phrasal repertoire.

What an interesting way to think about it. (Good for a point on which you disagree with someone.)

You thought of every little detail; I love a meticulous lady!

Wow! That is so original. I would never have put it together like that. (In this South this might mean, "I hate it," but in a polite way.)

Boss Babe is out -- Meticulous Lady is in! Phaedra reminds us to keep health concerns -- "especially female issues" -- far from polite conversation, then shifts gears to a much-needed lesson in verbal comportment. It's not just their "attractive regional accents" that distinguish Southern Belles from their less-attractive northern counterparts; they also devote great attention to evoking grace through their cadence and tone.

Sometimes northern women can sound awfully abrupt. It's just a habit they have, poor things.

If you'd like to take your place amongst esteemed gentility, however, I urge you to change your ways! For one thing, when speaking, "slip in something affectionate so that a very harsh reality doesn't come across as rude or abrupt." For example, see how much unpleasant confrontation is avoided with the following turn of phrase:

Darling, don't you know you're too smart and pretty to be the town drunk?

Silly girl, haven't you heard? Addiction is for ugly people! You should also feel free to use these compliments liberally throughout conversation -- "You don't have to mean it, you know." As an example:

If you can tell that someone has put a lot of effort into a particular aspect of her outfit, just draw attention to it. Sparkly stars-and-stripes high heels could be terribly tacky, but you bet they're supposed to be noticed, so go ahead and do it. "Those are certainly patriotic shoes!"

Let me take a crack at it -- This book certainly has a lot of words in it! Writing a book is such an impressive achievement -- I'm sure it feels so rewarding to finally see it In print! And I love the way you occasionally use infinity signs as bullet points -- it's so evocative! I think I'm getting the hang of this!
"Another southern difference?" As Phaedra informs us, "we try not to make direct requests. It just sounds so forward and frankly unpleasant if someone comes right out and says what they want from you." Phaedra's Starbucks barista must really despise her -- If it isn't too much trouble, could I bother you for something to drink? No, anything's fine -- I wouldn't want to impose.
Almost like a modern-day Rosetta Stone, the next passage introduces us to the nuanced connotations that pervade a true Belle's vocabulary. For example, Phaedra tells the reader that "if I tell someone 'Goodness, you must have spent all day on your hair. I am so impressed!' it really means I hate it." Before I manage to convey how impressed I am by the book before me, I read on to learn that "when you're discussing a homely girl, you generally say, 'She's so smart!' The general thought is you can't be both ugly and dumb. God wouldn't be that cruel." Please excuse me while I take a few hours to re-analyze every compliment I've ever been given in my entire life.
Now that that's done, here are a few more translations to help you decipher the Belles in your life.

Belle-Speak: She's a nurse-in-training.
Unvarnished Truth: She dates only old men.

Belle-Speak: She's a butter face.
Unvarnished Truth: Everything looks good but her face.

Belle-Speak: Hope he's got money.
Unvarnished Truth: He's unattractive and pays for affection.

The second one is not even really a euphemism so much as Phaedra trying to demonstrate her knowledge of hip modern slang, but I digress. We transition into advice for conversation starters -- "don't throw them complicated or controversial subjects like politics, animal rights, or local zoning." Truly, I can't tell you how many times I've been approached at a party with an opener about municipal ordinances, and it just kills the mood like nothing else. Worried about how you'll ever find something to talk about under these restrictions?

Don't worry about sounding interesting. "Interesting" is an overrated notion. Just fill the empty air.

That…explains a lot, actually.
Our next lesson is in reference to dinner parties -- "don't make a fuss, unless you're complimenting the cook." In case you're confused as to how this guidance should be interpreted, Phaedra clarifies with some examples -- "'Is there meat in here? I'm a vegetarian' is the wrong kind of fuss." Since I typically ask this question while flailing my arms wildly and making intermittent whooping noises, I completely understand how it could be disruptive amongst refined company. Although I'm starting to get a bit nervous that I won't be able to keep track of these seemingly countless rules, Phaedra's next assurance puts my mind at ease: "If all else fails, remember the secret weapon of the Southern Belle is delicate helplessness."
In the next passage, we learn that, "if there's any characteristic that defines a Southern Belle, it's her habit of firing off little notes on any occasion." Just as with verbal compliments, these notes require little to no basis in factual reality -- "obviously it's perfectly all right to exaggerate." But while truthfulness is more or less dispensable, your choice of writing implement could have grave repercussions. As Phaedra exhorts, "Never, ever write a letter in pencil. You might as well not bother at all." Within the realm of pens, however, "blue and black are perfectly acceptable, even if they do lack panache."
We return once again to the topic of appropriate subjects for conversation, and are cautioned against asking anyone their age. Of course, wild speculation is encouraged, "as long as you're out of earshot." In the next tip, Phaedra declares: "Don't discuss the cost of anything. Any discussion of cost is just in poor taste." I just can't help picture how much of a nightmare this woman must be at a fast-food drive-through. Our final instruction?

Don't discuss hair color. Men always pretend they don't dye their hair, so you just have to go with it.

At first glance, this seems reasonable enough, especially in the context of the social graces espoused by the book so far. However, Phaedra's attempt at further explanation quickly begins to careen off-course.

For women, it's a little bit more complicated because you have the question of whether the drapes match the carpet, so to speak. And I do know some who dye the carpet to match -- that was the big thing in high school. Now with all this weird waxing, you don't have to do as much dyeing, but that's another thing you don't talk about either!

Let's see if I've got this straight: I should always believe a man about his purported hair color no matter what, but if a woman tries to lie about hers, she'll get caught…because I will inevitably be forced to confront the realities of her pubic hair? An intimate partner, sure, but I just can't imagine this situation arises with enough frequency to merit even the few lines its given in this text. And honestly, at this point, I don't even think I want to know what Phaedra means by "weird waxing."
This section of the book concludes with a final catalog of "the 'She did what?' mistakes." The list starts off strong with "wearing white to another woman's wedding." However, by the time we end on the most unimaginable of atrocities -- "drinking beer from a bottle" -- I'm beginning to wonder if this list was actually supposed to have been titled "things the sexy homewrecker does in a bro-country music video."
The following section is titled, "Work Hard," and I am immediately inspired to do exactly so by the implicit challenge thrown down in Phaedra's opening lines, in which she coquettishly asks, "Who always delivers a presentation on time, with the printed materials perfectly written and proofread?" I'm usually quite good at taming my most pedantic impulses, but contrarian passions I never knew I had are foaming at the mouth to find an upcoming typo and self-righteously call her bluff. Although perhaps I should find a more feminine way to phrase that; as Phaedra cautions, "we don't like to think of ourselves as driven, because that sounds so neurotic and unpleasant."
We next learn that "you cannot be a Southern Belle unless you understand what it is to be ladylike." But unfortunately, it is all too easy to be caught up in the ways of the world and lose sight of this primary calling.

A lot of women today enjoy being the feisty, brassy, foul-mouthed kind of gal who drinks with men and shows a lot of flesh. They think it's cool.

Phaedra continues and reflects that, "I've heard the argument that this is progress, from the feminist point of view, but I don't necessarily agree." I can never remember -- which wave of feminism was the one with all the feisty gals? But clearly, their agenda has gone too far! How, in contrast, does a delicate Southern Belle behave?

She looks as if she's heard of sex, probably has had sex, but has no plans to have sex with anybody in the immediate surroundings.

I'm not sure exactly how to convey this highly specific sentiment in any other way than purchasing a t-shirt custom-printed with the phrase, "I have heard of sex, have probably had sex, but have no plans to have sex with anybody in the immediate surroundings," so I hope that approach will suffice for now. Phaedra follows up by cautioning us that,

A lady never puts in the shop window what isn't for sale.

Personally, I like to think of myself as more of a museum than a gift shop, but to each their own! We next learn more about the delicate balance a Southern Belle must achieve in order to maintain her esteemed position. For example, while "she doesn't cuss and doesn't talk dirty," frigidity is similarly unbecoming -- "if somebody tells a good dirty joke in her vicinity, she'll laugh." I'm barely a third of the way through this book, and I'm already exhausted at the prospect of having to remember all of these hyper-specific edicts. It's no surprise that the Southern Belle has to remain consistently vigilant; as Phaedra intones, "coming from a Pentecostal family, I hate to see a woman down more than two drinks." It seems to me like the simplest way to avoid such emotional turmoil would be to simply refrain from compulsively tallying the beverage intake of strangers, but I soon learn there are far more perilous hazards lurking around every corner. Phaedra shares her personal strategy for avoiding the very implication of incivility in the following excerpt:

I don't ever go to the bar at a party; I think that just looks terrible. If I must have a glass of wine or crave a fruity adult libation, I'll ask a nearby man to procure it for me.

Sir! Procure me a fruity adult libation -- tout de suite! But I would hate to diminish the male gender by implying that they're only good for the acquisition of potables; no -- men can be leveraged in an increasingly broad array of day-to-day tasks. As Phaedra shares:

I have friends who have never in their lives pumped gas for their own cars. They will ask a complete stranger to do it for them. One of my besties from New Orleans will flag down a man, give him her credit card, and have him pump and pay for her gas.

Honestly, I can't help but wonder if this might actually be some kind of avantgarde performance art, in the tradition of Marina Abramović's Rhythm 0. Because the idea that this gambit has never gone horribly, horribly awry truly strains credulity. As I read on, however, I learn that my current train of thinking is sorely misguided.

Sometimes when I'm at a grocery store the fellow bagging the groceries will ask if he can take them out to my car. Why would you say no to this? But sometimes women do. And I look at them and sigh and think, "Poor thing. She has a lot to learn."

Thankfully for my personal development, the next chapter — titled "A Crash Course in Being (Selectively) Helpless" — promises exactly the sort of content that I so desperately need to understand. As Phaedra explains, a Southern Belle is "never intimidating, because some things she just can't do on her own." She goes on to offer concrete examples of how to incorporate this ethos into your life on beginner, intermediate, and expert levels.

Experts: assume help will arrive. Flat tire? Pull over to the curb, and don't sweat it. Can't figure out which wrench to buy at Home Depot? Or how to program your DVR? This is what former boyfriends and other gentlemen are for. Believe me, the age of chivalry is not dead.

Rent due? Don't sweat it -- a gallant gentleman likely already has a check in the mail. House burning to the ground around you? You should know a Belle doesn't walk down the hallway on her own two feet! Bear attack? I'm sure a male bear is just around the corner, ready to jump in and defend your honor!
Without a hint of irony, we transition to Phaedra's advice for the workplace. We learn that the quintessential gentlewoman is savvy, competent, and always at the top of her game. For instance, at her workplace, "she figures out how to work the coffee machine and the copy machine." With that kind of go-getting attitude, the Southern Belle will be bound for the C-suite in no time! Provided, of course,

She never does that thing I hear of in the North sometimes of telling you how little she paid for something. Why would you brag about bargains?

I can't hear the phrase that thing I hear of in the North in anything other than the voice of Tinsley's mother, Dale. Except she would probably use it in reference to something like "giving compliments to your daughter" or "weight gain." Regardless, a more appropriate question at this juncture might be, "Are you sure this book was proofread quite as judiciously as you claimed?" As I scan the page, my eyes happen upon the line:

10 percent for tithing, if your religion encourages tithing, which mines [sic] does.

Of course, it would be entirely uncouth for me to brag about my typographical superiority in this context, so now seems as good a time as any to exercise some of my newly acquired techniques. Oh, Phaedra -- bless her heart! I suppose we can't all be detail-oriented, can we? It must be nice to be so casual and carefree when you express yourself!
Without further ado, however, we move along to our next lesson -- "People don't know when you're hungry, because they can't hear your stomach growling, but they definitely know when you're homeless." To be honest, the more I think about this statement , the less sense it makes to me (people…can hear your stomach growling?). Luckily, with the jam-packed schedule of a Southern Belle, I simply don't have time to dwell on the issue for a moment longer!
Our next tutorial? "If you have one fabulous pair of shoes, you will wear them to church. It is the very least you can do for Jesus." As we all know, Jesus appreciates sweet kicks, so he loves nothing more than to see you rock the newest styles when you drop by on Sunday. And besides -- the higher the heel, the closer to heaven! Phaedra summarizes the Southern Belle's can-do attitude with the line: "We all may not be sitting around big ugly Formica boardroom tables, but we get things done." As someone who has only ever attended meetings held around moderately sized tables, I find this to be a validating sentiment.
When it comes to extracurricular pursuits, "beauty pageants are important." However, "as much as she loves performing, the Belle will not take to the stage: some of those theater people are just too peculiar, bless their hearts." Honestly, Phaedra and I come down on the same side on this one. But I will have to heartily disagree with her next passage -- with respect to traditions of stepping within Black Greek Life -- in which she states,

The traditionally white organizations don't have anything comparable.

Um, excuse me? Have you never seen this iconic video?! However, Phaedra does reassure us that she's far from ignorant in the ways of the world. As she states, "I have read about hookup culture and known a few easy women." Of course, easy men don't exist -- or at least, that's what I've read in all the most prominent textbooks regarding hookup culture. But don't mistake Phaedra's awareness for acceptance -- "that doesn't mean I like any of it." However, this sentiment is belied just a few paragraphs later, when our author recalls:

I offended the mother of one of my best friends once by booking some exotic entertainment at this friend's birthday party. My friend loved the anatomically exceptional dancer, but her mother was livid.

I'm sure that it was only your friend who loved the "anatomically exceptional" dancer, and I assume this must have been one of your aforementioned token "easy" friends, besides. A Southern Belle, in contrast, is interested in serious, long-term relationships. And for this purpose, "it would be much better to marry a young man that you can train. I have always said that I would rather be a babysitter than a geriatric nurse." Yet even these kinds of discrepancies seem trivial in comparison to the boundless passions of eternal love. As Phaedra shares,

I want Apollo and me to celebrate our fiftieth anniversary, so I try to overlook momentary annoyances.

That aged well. Bless her heart.
We're soon treated to a cheeky list of "what her husband doesn't know," which echoes several key themes from earlier in the book -- most notably in its bizarre fixation with pubic grooming.

He doesn't know what her true hair color is, because the curtains always match the carpet.

He doesn't know how often she waxes, or exactly what waxing entails.

He doesn't know that she has her own credit card, her own savings account, and a safe-deposit box.

I've got to say, that last one hits just a little bit different with hindsight. Always timely, however, are Phaedra's views on the importance of the homemaking arts. In this evocative passage, she describes the primal horror of an encounter with a woman tainted by an unimaginable curse:

A nice lady from another part of the country recently confessed to me that she doesn't know how to do any crafts. In fact, she said, she gets all nervous and antsy in crafts stores, because they're so full of things she doesn't understand. I laughed like I thought she was joking, but really, I felt bad for her. Imagine not knowing how to make all those cute objects that brighten up lives in the South! I shudder to think what the inside of her house looks like!

With that fable still ringing in my ears, we transition to the next section of the book: "Look Pretty." Phaedra reflects, "I am always shocked when I leave the South and encounter the enormous number of women who don't seem to understand how their clothes should fit." Now feels like an appropriate time to draw attention to the book's back cover, in which an open-mouthed Phaedra swivels her torso in such a way as to create a bulging protuberance across one half of her chest. In awe of her commitment to inclusivity, I now realize this could only have been an intentional choice to make herself seem more approachable to us northern oafs, and for that I am eternally grateful.
Phaedra goes on to inform us that, "personally, I prefer skirts and dresses over pants." However, although "high-waisted pants and pants with visible hem cuffs are quite elegant and ladylike," one should take care never to forget that "minimalism and menswear looks are just puzzling and not appealing to a Belle." I, too, must admit that I find menswear looks puzzling -- a girl? in boy clothes? I just can't make heads or tails of it! And this is far from the only contemporary fad that baffles the true Southern Belle. As Phaedra continues:

I've never understood the appeal of the natural look. It's so easy to improve your appearance; why wouldn't you take advantage of the many beauty aids available to you?

In a frankly unexpected dig against the ceramic arts, Phaedra notes that "unless you are a professional potter (and I don't think Southern Belles generally are), your nails need to be clean and filed." More generally, your physical proportions should remain mild and inobtrusive:

Ever since voluminous behinds became fashionable, I often see these lumpy, huge derrieres on women with legs as thin as a chicken's, and I think God would never put a rump roast on toothpicks, so why did you do that?

That's why I always caution my friends to pair their butt implants with a battery of leg implants, in order to really round out the overall contour of the body and mimic that structurally stable, God-given look. After all, as Phaedra quips: "'Knowledge is power' -- that's my motto." But this knowledge doesn’t come without a price; being as world-wise as Phaedra often requires direct confrontation with the atrocities of today's world. As she recounts, for example: "I was astonished to find out that not every woman possesses a lint roller." It's truly a tragedy to learn how the other half lives!
We are next informed that, "you have to have your ears pierced, but only one hole in each ear." The consequences for an infraction of this critical edict are left unvoiced, from which I can only assume that they are swift and merciless. Any self-respecting Southern Belle has a taste for the finer things in life, and Phaedra is no exception. As she remarks:

I love diamonds; I'd have a diamond duvet if I could afford it.

Because I am less fiscally endowed, I have had to settle for stuffing my duvet with assorted Swarovski crystals, at least for the time being. However, I'm eager to upgrade -- I can only imagine that the extra hardness of the diamonds will add a satisfying acupuncture affect to my nighttime regimen!
Phaedra moves on to fashion advice, and cautions the well-heeled Belle to remain conservative in her fashion choices. But don't worry -- there is a time and a place to let loose and express your more artistic side. Or, as Phaedra says, "something a little funky or ethnic may even be appropriate from time to time." To further illustrate this principle, she explains: "If I were going out West, for example, I might wear some turquoise bracelets."
But some things are a bridge too far! Any woman with a modicum of dignity would know never to be caught dead in "polar fleece," "a naughty-nurse costume," or "footed pajamas." We are also encouraged to carry around a hand fan -- "the elegant way to stay cool" -- as well as a "small leather-bound notebook for jotting down inspirations." I lose my train of thought for a moment, caught up in a daydream about the ingenious wonderings that must be contained within Phaedra's hallowed journal. But I'm brought back to reality by a declaration of "what's not in my purse," beginning with the stern pronouncement: "any kind of contraband substance."
Our pilgrimage to polite society continues with a comprehensive exploration of the monogram's social gravitas. As Phaedra intones, "I've even seen cars with a very discreet monogram on the driver's door." But with light must come darkness, and the next chapter bravely confronts an issue many others would fear to face: "Looking Like a Tramp" ("There, I came right out and said it," Phaedra breathlessly gasps below the harsh text of the passage's title). She gathers herself together and courageously reports, "some women look downright sleazy."
Alas -- even more tragically -- couture catastrophes are not restricted to those of legal majority. Phaedra heroically pulls back the curtain on a nationwide epidemic of wardrobe misconduct being perpetrated against society's most vulnerable:

I saw a picture not long ago of some hippies or hipsters or whatever you call them from some remote city. The parents looked the way you'd expect them to look, a little bit bedraggled, but the worst thing was they had this adorable little baby all done up in a black onesie. And as far as I could tell, it wasn't even Halloween!

How to combat this terrifying trend? Phaedra offers words of wisdom: "Little Southern Belles always look sweet and appropriately girlish." Specifically, we are encouraged to incorporate design elements like "tasteful, conservative rickrack." By way of further explanation, she clarifies that, "what they don't do is dress like Lady Gaga in dresses made of butchers' best cuts of beef." I'm disappointed to learn that my idea for an Etsy store selling bespoke meat-based children's clothing might be a nonstarter, but I suppose I appreciate our author giving it to me straight.
Another childcare commandment?

No costumes outside the house. Of course every little girl loves to play dress-up. But I truly dislike seeing Snow White or a fairy princess trailing along behind her mother at the Piggly Wiggly.

As she sits in her living room, most likely waiting for a man to come to her aid for some reason or another, Phaedra is struck by a sharp, blazing pain. As the flash of blinding torment subsides, she catches her breath and shakes her head wearily -- another costumed child has gone into a grocery store. Forgive their guardians, for they know not the harm their actions have caused to our author's delicate and genteel sensibilities.
But it does us no good to dwell on the darker side of life! Rather, we'll move right along into the book's final section, "Have Fun." However, this does not seem to be exactly the same kind of "fun" colloquially mentioned in mainstream circles. Rather, the Southern Belle defines fun with the principle, "everybody needs to know that you made an effort." For example, "if you're pouring punch into paper cups for a gaggle of seven-year-olds, put a spring of mint in it." My previous experiences in the general vicinity of children lead me to believe that at least 75% of the seven-year-olds in this group would respond to this elegant enhancement by dumping the punch out on the ground because it has a gross plant in it. Maybe that's part of the fun?
No analysis of Southern culture would be complete without a discussion of that most hallowed of pastimes -- college football. And although "only a really unusual woman watches football alone," it is imperative that a Southern Belle attend the social events associated with the on-season. What's more, she should take care to do with impeccable style. As Phaedra laments:

Sometimes I see pictures of women in store-bought football jerseys and I feel sorry. A store-bought jersey does nothing to flatter the feminine body.

As for the game itself, minimal understanding is required -- "Naturally a Belle knows how much men enjoy telling her things, so she isn't shy about asking questions." True to her generous spirit, however, Phaedra nevertheless provides a basic primer in the rudiments of the sport:

Basically each team is trying to get the ball through the tall H-shaped goalposts at the end of the field. […] The problem is that the ball can look awfully little from pretty much anywhere in the stands. There's no shame in watching the video replay to see what really just happened.

As a final tip, Phaedra suggests that "belles whose husbands have season tickets might even invest in matching linens and china." Our next unit of instruction concerns the arrival of a newborn bundle of joy; as we learn, "the birth of a baby is a big deal in a southern family." It's so interesting to learn all of these unique cultural details! I don't know if I've ever heard of another culture that places such importance on birth -- I'd love to get an anthropologist's take! There are also strict guidelines to which one must adhere regarding the naming of a debutante-in-training:

A Southern Belle's name:
-- is obviously feminine.
-- is two syllables or more (names like Ann or Joan seem abrupt, like so many Yankees).
-- is a real name, not a geographic feature like Sierra.
-- means something. Preferably something nice.

Once born and appropriately christened, children should be painstakingly shielded from the contaminating influences of the world at large. Phaedra explains that "pop culture is full of children behaving disrespectfully." Without the slightest suggestion of self-reflection, she goes on to declare that "besides, we think TV characters are basically tacky."
Phaedra reiterates a few of the courtship commandments mentioned previously, most concisely in the adage, "Belles don't date losers." And, as any suitor worth his salt should know, "a date with a Belle is no time for a boy to experiment with 'alternative' clothes or grooming either." Instead, a Southern Gentleman takes care to keep his language clean from distasteful or offensive language -- "For instance, why say 'liquor' when you can say 'adult refreshment'?"
As we near the end of the book, it seems only fitting that we take a few pages to cover the traditions and rituals associated with life coming to a close. Buttressed by her extensive knowledge of mortuary science, Phaedra instructs us:

Postmortem is no time to experiment with cosmetics. No one wants their sweet aunt Gertrude looking like some ashy Jezebel when she meets Jesus.

The passage concludes with the brassy observation, "we don't usually cremate in the South; we figure if we wanted to burn we'd just live recklessly and go to hell."
Before the book closes in earnest, Phaedra shares a few of her special, meticulously developed recipes. The most evocative of her culinary optimizations is a recipe for sweet tea, in which she thoughtfully informs us, "sweetness can be personalized by adding more water or ice to the tea."
The book's final pages contain an instrument designed to measure the effect of the preceding 252 pages on one's essential courtesies, charmingly titled "The Belle-O-Meter Quiz." As Phaedra explains:

So, ladies, how are you doing? I'm sure you've all been very attentive to my suggestions and are amazed by the results. You're probably totally used to a steady diet of compliments and flirtation and invitations. But here's a little quiz in case you feel the need to measure how far you've come.

If you'd like to take the full quiz, you can do so here. But if your busy Belle schedule doesn't permit you to devote that much time to something so self-indulgent, a few example questions are provided below:

Your routine greeting when you meet a new person is:
a. A surly glare.
b. "Hi."
c. "Well, hello! How are you today?"

If your gentleman friend brought you a corsage to wear on a date you would:
a. Put it in the refrigerator. Nobody wears corsages nowadays!
b. Pin it to your coat collar and check your coat.
c. Pin it in an unusual spot like your waist or behind your ear, after extracting one little blossom to put in his lapel.

The answer key informs us that answering mostly C's means that "you are a genuine Southern Belle." As Phaedra goes on to suggest, "maybe it's time to share your new skills with a friend and pass along this book. I hope it's been helpful to you." As a book hoarder of the highest order, I will have to skip that suggestion, but I am nevertheless thankful to move one step closer to self-actualization with the help of another Real Housewife. Until next time!
Upcoming plans in comment below!

Hunter's Moon (Part 2)

I was awakened by a movement beneath me, and sat up groggily, looking around at the room as I did. I realized, gradually, that I must have fallen asleep across the end of the bed and had woken up when Maggie pulled her feet out from under my body.
“How are you feeling?” I asked.
“Fine, I guess.” Maggie muttered, her eyes were rimmed with red and her expression was hollow and empty. Maggie turned her head listlessly towards the floor, as if summoning the energy to get out of bed was a Herculean task.
“What was that Mags?” I asked cautiously. “I’ve seen you lose it before, but that was something else.”
Maggie’s eyes snapped up boring into mine, the old fire rekindling behind them. “They were goblins.” She said, as if that explained it, and then seeing my questioning look she continued. “That’s right, they wouldn’t have touched you. Goblins were the overseers down in the pit.”
{Goblins are somewhat odd among Wild-Fae, kinda like Quislings really. They’re collaborators, they willingly serve the High-Fae. I remember seeing them around the place, always chasing after anyone higher up the food chain than they were, doing the few dirty jobs the Gentry couldn’t use slaves for. Mostly, I thought they were weak and pathetic little toadies. I guess Maggie saw a different side of them.}
“They hated the ones like you. They weren’t allowed to touch the house-pets. They used to talk on duty about the things they’d do if they ever got their hands on one.” Maggie used the term unconsciously, her eyes staring blankly ahead at the past.
{“House-Pet” is one of the more polite terms for household slaves used by those who were stuck in the pit. Most of the Pit Slaves thought household slaves had an easy, pampered life, which compared to them we did. There are things living under rocks that have it easy compared to an Unseelie’s Pit Slaves. As for the Goblins? I sincerely doubt they have fouler imaginations than their bosses.}
“The Goblins could do just about anything they wanted to us, and no one would care. I saw them beat a man to death because he won a match and cost the watch captain a bottle of liquor he had wagered.” Maggie said it without rancor, without any emotion at all, as if stating an interesting fact. “There is nothing on Earth worse than a goblin.” Maggie’s voice was suddenly hard, the rage creeping back in. “I want them to burn.”
“We’ll get them Mags.” I promised.
In a few more moments we had shaken off the last of our sleep and gone in search of food. We ended up at a diner during the last gasp of its breakfast service.
“How much time do we have?” Maggie asked as our eggs and pancakes arrived.
“The other abductions happened in the late afternoon, so we still have some time.” I replied, gratefully nursing a cup of tar-like coffee.
“Goblins,” Maggie mused, drenching syrup over her pancakes. “I didn’t think there were any outside of the Unseelie Court.”
“Me neither.” I added before digging into my eggs.
“So, either we’ve got the only rogue Goblins in existence, inexplicably nabbing people in preparation for a holiday that has no significance to them…”
“Unlikely.” I interjected.
“Right. The other option is, we have the loyal servants of the Unseelie nabbing people in preparation for their biggest whoop-de-do of the whole damn year.”
“Somehow, Door Number 1 doesn’t look likely to me.” I said.
“Agreed,” Replied Maggie. “Eat up, we’ve got to stop them from getting that last girl.”
Maggie and I moved with a greater sense of urgency now, we knew why those people had been grabbed, and what it meant for them if we couldn’t find them by the 31st. We had eaten, paid, and gotten back on the road within 20 minutes of our conversation. Unfortunately, we had been too late the moment we sat down at our table. Maggie drives like a woman possessed and before long we had returned to the park that we had left earlier that morning. This time however, it wasn’t nearly so abandoned. Uniformed policemen swarmed around the park, and a van from the local news affiliate was already setting up to give an onsite report.
“We’re too late.” I breathed.
“Come-on, let’s find out what happened.” Maggie said brusquely, wrenching open her car door, and walking over to mingle with the small crowd of spectators that jostled for a better view behind the yellow police tape. I followed and spent 10 minutes jostling and questioning the other looky-loos.
When I had gotten all that I could, I jogged over to the car to wait for Maggie, who wasn’t far behind me.
“What did you get?” Maggie asked, as soon as she was within hearing range.
“Amber Jones, 12 years-old, snatched on her way to school about 7:00 this morning. From what I heard she stopped to tie her shoe, and her friends went on without her, when they looked back, she was gone.”
“I heard the same thing.” Maggie said, pensively, chewing on her lip. “Why break pattern?” She asked. “They snatch 3 college kids in the late afternoon and now they’re nabbing a 12-year-old first thing in the morning? Why?”
I felt a cold rush come over me as the answer dawned. “Five of them are dead Mags.” I whispered, horrified. “They grabbed the first girl they found and went to ground; they’re not going to surface again until the Festival.”
Maggie looked stricken as she realized what we had inadvertently done. Our best chance at finding all the hostages was gone, we wouldn’t be able to stop the fourth abduction, or trail the abductors back to the rest of their hostages.
“Come on.” Maggie said, her voice raw, and her expression grim. “We’ve got work to do.”
Over the next two days Maggie and I tore that town apart. I think we ransacked every barn, woodshed, and thicket in West Virginia. We killed goblins alright, but we couldn’t find a trace of the missing kids. The goblins fought like demons too, leaving us no choice but to slaughter them all. It wasn’t until a dawn raid on a goblin camp in an abandoned barn, on the morning of the 31st, that we managed to take a captive.
I’d like to claim that it was my superior combat ability and tactical acumen that caused me to knock him out rather than just shooting him on sight, but the truth is we bumped into each other while I was still getting into position and I lashed out in panic with the gun I happened to be holding, which knocked him unconscious.
{The nice, solid steel frame of the Colt m1911 makes pistol whipping Wild-Fae an absolute pleasure. Say what you will about modern handguns, some classics are classic for a reason.}
Luckily for the good-guy side, the little toad was still out, once the rest of them were dead. We were hoping this guy would be able to tell us something useful. Granted, he seemed to be at the bottom of the pecking order.
{Judging by the pair of dead housecats he’d had slung over his shoulders when we surprised each other, I’m guessing he’d been sent on the goblin version of a doughnut run.}
We bound the goblin hand and foot and hung him from one of the beams in the old barn. Maggie went to work on him for a few hours. We didn’t get much information from it, but there was definitely some catharsis involved for Maggie.
{Let’s just say, it’s convenient that Wild-Fae aren’t included in the Geneva Convention, and leave it at that.}
After Maggie had her fun it was my turn at the wheel. I scrounged a cooking pot and a rag from somewhere and, filling the pot with water from a nearby stream, I set about washing the mud and blood from the goblin’s skin with soft, gentle movements of my hands, making low soothing noises as I did.
{Sure, Good Cop – Bad Cop might not be the most original interrogation strategy, but we were on a tight schedule, and like I said some classics are classic for a reason.}
The goblin watched me as I worked, sponging what seemed like years of caked on grime off his dry, grey-green hide. The skin was disgustingly loose and shifted revoltingly beneath my hands as I worked, but I kept an expression of sorrowful concern on my face the entire time. {With great difficulty, I might add.} Leaning close to the goblin I whispered in his ear in a halting, breathy voice.
“I’m so sorry.” My eyes filled with unshed tears as I undid the belt holding in the bundle of rags we had stuffed into his mouth in place of a gag.
The goblin looked up at me, “Why would you do this, human?” He wondered in amazement.
{Why was he willing to believe that the guy who’d beat him over the head with a pistol and tied him up for High-Inquisitor Maggie’s cutty-stabby-fun-times now wanted to kiss and make up? I’d like to think I’m just that good – which I am – but it helps that goblins aren’t exactly Nobel Laureate material.}
“Y-you were so brave, the way you stood up to… to that woman.” I shuddered delicately and turned away. Out of the corner of my eye I could see the scrawny, green chest inflate with pride.
{Laugh all you want; it took me weeks to get that admiring simper down, it works every time.}
“What do you want, human?” The goblin snarled, doing his best impression of disdainful hauteur. I almost laughed.
I leaned forward again, so close I could feel the heat of his skin and smell his foul odor. “You serve the Masters?” I whispered, making sure he could feel my breath on his skin.
The goblin swallowed and nodded.
I stepped back and lifted up the hem of my shirt, slowly, to reveal the brand on my chest.
{Whatever Maggie says there’s more to a good strip tease than mere nudity. Anyone can just yank their clothes off but to do it right you have to suggest more than you show and let the sucker’s imagination do the work for you. Some of my former “colleagues” preferred to be brazen and outrageous, but I’ve found that acting demure and shy while being nearly naked makes the audience way more eager. But, to each their own.}
I let my shirt slip back down over my torso and fell on my knees at the goblin’s feet like a supplicant. “I want to go home.” I all but moaned the words, ending in a forlorn little whimper.
The massive pupils of the goblin’s bulging eyes dilated as he looked down on me, I could hear his breath hitch as he panted with lust.
{Damn I’m good. Okay, it’s not just me. The Lords and Ladies change their slaves when they grab them. Who wants to look at some ugly human, after all? Am I right? Harem slaves get a little something extra, damned if I know what, but it drives Wild-Fae… Well… wild, under the right conditions. Even so. Damn I’m good.}
“Tell me where to find the others,” I begged, managing a few tears, “We can go back together.” That clinched it.
{You almost have to feel sorry for the stupid thing, almost.}
Maggie returned while I was washing the blood off my hands. “And the Oscar goes to…” She joked, chuckling as I glared at her.
“I feel dirty.” I complained, giving my hands an extra scrub.
“You are shameless.” Maggie assumed a look of tragicomic grief, “I just want to go home.” She warbled in a falsetto whimper.
“Shut-up.” I laughed, throwing the damp rag at Maggie, who dodged easily. My normal voice, a light tenor, sounded gruff and bass after the meek, child-like falsetto I had adopted when talking to the goblin.
Maggie looked at the smoldering remains of the goblin. “You don’t kiss and tell, do you?” She said approvingly.
“Hilarious.” I said in a monotone. “Please stop, my sides are splitting.”
Maggie grinned and said, “An old orchard, right? About 10 miles west?
“That’s what he said.” I replied.
“Let’s hope we’re right and they’ve got the kids at the site they’ll be using tonight.” Maggie said as we jogged down the lane to the car.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
“Fuck.” Maggie said matter-of-factly.
I concurred.
The old orchard was an ancient, overgrown tangle of trees, thorns, and brambles, long given back to the forest, so closely enmeshed that the center of the thicket was wholly obscured.
“How in the hell are we supposed to get in there?” Maggie asked the air, her fingers drumming a pensive tattoo on the wheel as we completed our second pass by the old orchard.
{The problem wasn’t getting in, no mass of trees was going to make up the difference between us and a crew of frogspawn. Normally, we’d charge in guns blazing, trust to speed, surprise and raw ferocity to carry us through, and damn the consequences. The problem was getting in without the goblins cutting the hostages’ throats and running. Besides there was the thorny problem of how to plan an all-out assault around hostages that could be stashed just about anywhere in the thicket. The last thing we needed was to deal with was goblins using human shields.}
“We’ll have to split up, one of us should create a distraction while the other one frees the hostages and gets away.” I said, reluctantly.
“No.” Maggie objected immediately.
“You got a better idea, spill.” I said.
Maggie chewed her lip in silence for a moment. “No,” she admitted, “but I still don’t like it.” Lapsing back into silence for another couple of miles. “I’ll be the decoy.” She said finally.
“Shouldn’t you be the one getting the hostages?” I asked in surprise.
“No,” Maggie said, confident as ever when it came to tactical problems. “If this works the decoy will have the whole pack of them right on her ass, after our activities they’re probably expecting a full-frontal attack, so they’ll commit most of their force to a counter-attack. There’s a dirt road running alongside that orchard, they’ll have sentries posted along it. I’ll kill a few, and let some get away to raise the alarm, I should be able to keep ahead of them easily over the flat. After we get far enough away, I’ll get rid of the goblins and circle back to meet you, there should only be one or two left to guard the prisoners, go in with your knife first, don’t risk shooting until you have all of the hostages accounted for.”
I stared in amazement. I liked this side of Maggie, she was relaxed, confident, the analysis had turned into a stream of orders given in precise, clear tones, that left no room for argument.
“Get them all, Jim and get the hostages out quick.” Maggie continued, “No survivors, I don’t want to spend the next month mopping up nests of these damn things. This ends tonight.”
I felt like saluting, and I wondered idly how many times she had given the same calm order to annihilate the foe.
It was easier said than done of course, there were a hundred logistical issues to work out. Thumbing through one of our many road atlases Maggie and I chose two rendezvous points.
{Low-tech I know, but cellphones and staying off the radar don’t exactly go hand in hand.}
The first rendezvous point was where we would leave the car. It would be closer to my line of escape than Maggie’s so that I could get the hostages out quick if necessary. If we got out clean, and Maggie hadn’t met up with us within 10 minutes of the agreed meeting time, I was to fall back to the motel, and Maggie would meet us there.
It was a horrible plan, for the initial approach alone I had to drop Maggie off, ditch the car, get into position before she started her diversion, assuming she hadn’t already been found and ambushed, and avoid detection until the distraction started, and that’s just to get into the enemy base. There was no way this would work the way we had planned. Unfortunately, with only two of us and, the clock running down to sunset, when whatever the goblins had planned for the hostages would start, it was our best bet.
I dropped Maggie a mile south from the dirt road that would be her line of attack, she would hang back long enough for me to drop off the car and get into position. I left the car on the north side of the orchard, less than a quarter of a mile from where I would go in. Some of the hostages had been missing for over a week, I didn’t know what condition they’d be in and I didn’t want to have to drag injured or possibly unconscious people farther than I had to.
The approach went as planned.
{Thank heaven for small mercies because nothing else did.}
I edged my way as quietly as I could through the trees, avoiding fallen branches and twigs wherever possible. I had jogged east through a field that bordered the northern tree-line of the orchard, making my approach about 500 yards in I turned and started along a track that was roughly parallel to the road. The terrain was rough, it was easy to see why attempts at agriculture had ceased in this bit of real estate; scrubby trees clung precariously onto the sides of granite boulders the size of Buicks, 10 yards of ground could have three or four gullies each half the height of a man, what little soil the plot could boast was choked with thick thorny brush. It would be madness to try to turn that ground into arable land. I waited, crouched behind a boulder until my watch struck the agreed upon time for Maggie to begin her diversion. There was no change to the surrounding wilderness, the trees seemed to creep in closer and I was horribly aware that every second brought us closer to sundown. I gave Maggie 10 minutes for her distraction to work, but still there was no change. Steeling my nerves, I crept forwards.
{If you absolutely have to trust your life to someone purely on faith, there’s worse people than Maggie to have on the other end of that deal, that’s for damn sure.}
The camp looked deserted from the outside, but I moved cautiously as I stepped over the broken remnants of a stone wall that must have marked the boundary of the original orchard. Crouching low, I moved from tree to tree, approaching the small campfire I saw flickering in the center of the thicket. Three small figures huddled around it, I was fairly confident they wouldn’t see my dark clothes in the late afternoon gloom, not with their night vision ruined by the fire. They were a sorry sight, two of them were young, they looked about half-sized, the third was ancient, and wizened.
{Garrison troops, the ones too young, too old, too sick, or wounded to join in the actual fighting, so they get the boring jobs, like latrine digging, K.P. duty, or babysitting the prisoners.}
The prisoners were bound and gagged all together in a huddle at the base of an ancient gnarled apple tree, just out of the circle of firelight. Thankfully, they were out of the way. I briefly contemplated just shooting the goblins, and having done, but ultimately rejected the idea.
{I couldn’t possibly have missed. They let me get close enough, the dozy idiots, that I could have thrown the gun and killed one, but I was worried about the sound, I didn’t want to draw back the pack chasing Maggie too soon.}
Luck, as they say, favors the prepared, and I had taken special precautions today, knowing that my gun would be a weapon of last resort. I slipped the short axe out of the loop on my belt, readied my grip upon it, and charged out of the forest’s gloom. Two quick strides, and I was across the clearing, the axe swinging low like a golf club to come up under the chin of one of the smaller goblins who had turned to look as I charged. I carried the strike through, halted it at the top of its arc and brought the blunt back of the blade down on the head of the old goblin, splitting it like a melon, a quick spin of my wrist and the axe turned a full circle in the air to thud solidly into the head of the last remaining goblin. The prisoners were watching me, eyes wide, their faces caught between horror and hope.
{Understandable. If a blood-spattered apparition storms out of the dark forest, wielding a bloody axe like a figure from a campfire story, and murders his way through the fairytale creatures that had kept you hostage for the last week, you’ll probably be wondering “Am I saved, or am I next.”}
I fumbled the axe back into the loop on my belt and dashed over to the hostages, using my pocket-knife to cut their bonds and letting them undo the gags.
“My name is Jim.” I said as I worked, attempting to project, calm professionalism as I did so. “I have a partner named Maggie, we’ve been looking for you for the past few days. I don’t know when the others are going to come back so if you can walk, we have to go NOW.” I added extra force to the last word hoping to shock some life into the dazed men and women, who were absently rubbing at their freed wrists. One of the men, a burly guy who looked like a linebacker seemed more awake than the others.
{I assumed he was the one taken right before Amber, so he was the adult who had been with the Goblins the shortest time. Whatever the case he was damned helpful.}
“Vicky, Jack,” He said, dragging the two other adults to their feet, “You go with axe guy, I’ll follow up with the kid.”
{Honestly, I’ve been called worse, but I still don’t like “axe guy.” It was one little massacre, it’s not like it’s a habit or anything.}
We half-staggered, half-ran through the woods, I didn’t bother about sneaking this time, speed was what counted now. The others followed as best they could, as I helped Jack and Vicky over the treacherous terrain.
{Props to the collegiate football programs of West Virginia, by the way. Burly guy, kept up easier than the other two despite carrying a 12-year-old over one shoulder.}
We had just broken through the tree-line out onto the field where I had left the car, when the shit hit the fan. A scream rent the dusky, air of early evening.
“Maggie.” I breathed, suddenly cold. Turning to the closest one of the college kids {The girl Vicky, as it happens.} I thrust my car key and the motel key into her shaking hands. “The car is there,” I shouted wildly, pointing in the general direction, “Go to the motel, lock yourselves in, don’t open the door for anyone or anything until dawn tomorrow. Do you understand?”
{I’m pretty sure she nodded; I was more than a little frantic at that point. All I could think about was Maggie back in the hands of those things.}
Turning, I plunged back into the woods, just as the sun sank the last few degrees below the horizon. It was a stupid move, a really, stupid move. I was caught before I made it back to the goblin camp.
{He snuck up behind me and hit me on the back of the head, which I would say is cheating if I hadn’t done it more than a few times myself.}
I came to in the camp, the fire had gone out, and it was fully dark now. I was lying on the ground with my hands tied behind my back. I turned my head and saw Maggie’s mane of red hair not two feet away.
“Maggie,” I whispered, “Maggie, are you awake?” My heart seemed to stop beating, until finally she groaned and rolled over.
“Jim is that you?”
“Yeah,” I chuckled in relief, “your rescue party has arrived.”
“My hero.” She muttered.
“What happened Mags? How did they get you?” I asked
“Just finished the last one off, was going back to the car when I heard you scream, so I came back to get you. Must’ve hit me on the back of the head.” Maggie mumbled groggily.
{The only explanation I can figure out is there must have been a third group that broke away from the pack hunting Maggie, made it back to camp, saw my little display of practical lumberjacking, and set up that little trick to try to get us back, cunning bastards.}
“You get the kids out?” Maggie asked, looking worried.
“Yeah Mags, they’re safe.” I said. “It’s just us.”
“Good.” Maggie sighed.
{Only Maggie could be comforted by the fact that we were all alone in this situation. Really, the woman is impossible.}
Further conversation was stopped by a pair of high, piercing screams, it took me a minute to realize that it was Maggie and I who were screaming.

First: Rainbow's End
Prev: Hunter's Moon Part 1
Next: Hunter's Moon Part 3

[RF] Pale in Comparison

Winter had sucked all the color out of the world.
The prairie in the glory of midsummer had been a surge of green, summer winds sending pulses through the tall grass, causing it to wave like an underwater kelp forest in a strong current. Now, however, it had relinquished its blooming majesty, its former radiance dulled to straw the color of a deerhide. The flowerheads were stripped of their colorful identities, appearing like sepia photographs of themselves; the ghosts of summer past. The sweetclover, which had extended from one horizon to the other back in June, covering the prairie in a blanket of gold, was now skeletonized, its broken-off stems rolling like tumbleweeds in the winter gales.
Trevor was over it. Another South Dakota winter, another four months until the snows would cease and the ice would melt in the creek. In March and April, the spring blizzards would bury the world and on the subsequent sunny days, the combination of blue sky and white land would be startling, like finding oneself living in the center of a bicolored flag.
But for now, a capricious midwinter thaw had left snowdrifts only in the prairie draws, on the north-facing ridges, in the shadows of the ponderosas that speckled the hills. And around the trailer, mud. In a few nights, a deep freeze would turn the sides of the tire ruts into knife edges, testing the suspension of any vehicle that took the approach too fast. Still, that was better than the loamy mud, which could imprison even a 4x4 until freezing cold or drying winds finally freed it.
The view from the front porch could be gorgeous. Back in July, when the church group from Virginia had constructed a wheelchair ramp for the trailer, the evening sun had set the prairie on fire, its light reflected by a thunderstorm hanging in the sky as if by a puppeteer’s strings. “God almighty,” the youth pastor had exclaimed. But now, grays and browns mingled in a decidedly drab palette. Over at the little bird feeder, the goldfinches were no longer yellow-and-black exclamation points, but had acquiesced to dullness, dressed for a time of year when vibrant color seemed to be outlawed by some unseen authority.
Trevor stared at the expanse of mud that spooled out from in front of the trailer and unwound into a ribbon that led over the hill toward the old sundance ground and, eventually, the paved road. He wondered if he would get out today. Always a calculation this time of year. Driving on the muddy channel that was his approach was out of the question; he would set a course across the grass, which would provide enough barrier to keep his tires from sinking in again. Two-tracks radiating out onto the prairie showed how many times he and his family had taken this course of action since the last snow.
It felt ironic that their approach took them by far the long way around – heading north to go south; harder than it needed to be, like so much of life around here. But the way south was blocked by Roanhorse Creek. This wasn’t all bad; the creek provided nice wading in the summer and water for the horses for most of the year. It also gave rise to the only trees on the property, although the cottonwoods whose leaves whispered in the summer breezes now stood dumb and impassive, and resembled skeletal wraiths at nighttime.
A horse would make it, of course. He could saddle up the buckskin, ride cross-country and be in town in twenty minutes. But that would be silly…he snorted at the ludicrousness of this thought. First of all, he had to go way beyond town today. And even if he were just going to his old job at the tribal building, was he supposed to just hitch it up outside for the day? Tie its reins to one of the smokers’ benches by the entrance? What was this, 1895? No, better not to risk TȟatéZi getting stolen or having some gang sign spraypainted on it or some shit. Besides, he needed to pull into his job interview looking halfway decent, not spattered with mud and smelling like horse sweat.
Trevor regarded his truck, sitting smack in the middle of the sloppy mess. Fuck, he thought.
Still, he didn’t really have a choice today. No job interview, no job. No job, no funds. Another calculation, but this one was straightforward. He went back into the trailer and made his way to his bedroom in the back, passing his brothers in the living room. One was sleeping on the couch and the other was crashed out in the recliner, oblivious to the flickering hearth of the muted TV. Let ‘em sleep today, Trevor thought.
In the bedroom, he stepped across piles of clothes – some clean, some dirty – and over the miscellany of his life; a pile of old DVDs, a defunct gaming console, a canister of Bugler and squares of broadcloth for the tobacco ties he was supposed to make for ceremony, a scattering of empty Mountain Dew cans, a 24-pack of ramen, a basketball.
He hunted around in his closet for the dressy clothes that he knew were there. He had worn them once, on the day of his high school graduation, three years before. And there they were; a purple button-down shirt, a solid black tie, and black chinos. Further rummaging found him a pair of brown loafers and a tan braided belt. He would look sharp for this interview – couldn’t hurt.
Trevor took a quick shower. The hot water always took forever to come and once it did, didn’t last long. He got dressed hurriedly, glad the tie that had come as a set with the shirt was a clip-on, and ran a comb through his hair. It wasn’t long enough to do much with other than backcomb it a little with some hair gel, but he figured that looked better than not. He considered putting in big stud earrings to look extra fly, but decided again it; might not be the right look for the occasion.
Now fully dressed and ready, Trevor took stock of his appearance. His summer tan was long gone and his skin was as pale as the white kids he had met during his one semester of college. The same change of season that had desaturated the prairie and garbed the birds in dull colors had undone all those days spent out in the badlands sun – working with the horses, swimming at the dam, helping keep fire at sundance. Too many French fur traders in his lineage. He recalled the book that his eighth grade teacher had assigned them – Part-time Indian or something – and thought, Yup, that’s me. Indian in the summer and wašiču in the winter, like changing plumage.
Trevor envied his brothers their melanin. He had learned that word in one of his college classes and now thought of it nearly every day. Travis was a rich brown complexion even in the dark days of midwinter. Trenton was in between the two but had jet-black Lakota hair and definitely looked “ethnic,” enough to be followed around stores in the border towns. Trevor knew it was his privilege to be exempt from such treatment, but it bugged him nonetheless. He hadn’t asked to be light-skinned. His brothers called him žiží – a reference to his tawny hair. They had gotten into scraps over this, and Trevor even bloodied Travis’ nose in one such altercation. Once one of them had even called Trevor a “half-breed” but Trevor retorted with “Fuck you, boy, you got the same blood as me. Fuckin’ dumbass.” This seemed to put the issue to rest.
Trevor’s brief stint at college had been at an out-of-state school, which now struck him as an ill-advised decision. At least South Dakotans had some experience with Natives. Even the East River kids had at least crossed paths with one at some point, and didn’t think of Indians as something from the pages of a dime novel. Trevor was the first Native in many years – maybe ever – to attend the small-town liberal arts college in a neighboring state. He thought the fact that the college was reasonably selective would mean that the students were smart enough not to ask dumb questions. He was wrong.
The queries were predictable enough, clichéd even; Are you really Indian? (Yes) Do you speak your language? (No) Did you get in because you’re Indian? (Who knows? I’m pretty smart and got good grades.) Does the college have admissions quotas for Indians? (If it did, you’d think more would go here.) What’s it like on the reservation? (I don’t know; different.) Do you prefer “Native American”? (I find the question annoying, to be honest.) Do you like Leslie Marmon Silko? (Who?) Have you seen Dances with Wolves? (Some of it.) Do you know a guy from Pine Ridge named Verdell? He used to work with my dad. (Maybe) His last name was something Horse. Running Horse? (No)
Fielding these questions was exhausting and added another layer of weariness and alienation to his college experience.
He found himself having to answer such inquiries from his roommate, classmates, professors, his R.A…Sometimes they were cloaked in well-meaning concern (I bet you get tired of all these questions, huh?) but they were always there. Most evenings, Trevor would retreat to his room and call his mom. His roommate, Skyler, a cross-country runner who was handsome in an unspectacular way and who monitored his water intake religiously, was hardly ever around. He seemed to have no trouble making friends in college and reveled in the social opportunities around him.
In his phone calls back home, Trevor found himself experiencing a homesickness that inhabited the pit of his stomach like a hunger pang. He had never been gone from home for that long. Really, his only trip away had been the summer before his senior year, to a weeklong STEM camp for Native kids that one of the state colleges had put on. But that had been with a half dozen other students from his high school. Here he was alone.
The subjects of their conversations would leave Trevor feeling a gravitational pull toward home: Trenton got into a fight at school and got suspended. Travis is drinking again. We had sweat for your auntie because they have to amputate her leg after all. Those dogs were back again. Everett hit $200 at the casino on Tuesday night but of course he put it all back in. They’re having a basketball tournament for that boy who got paralyzed in that wreck. Our hot water heater went out but uncle came and fixed it. They still haven’t found that Two Arrows girl that went missing. Travis wants to go up on the hill this spring – maybe that will get him to quit drinking.
Good news, bad news, mundane news…The latter tugged at him the most. Like many who grew up on Pine Ridge, he had a love-hate relationship with the reservation. It was the home of his people after all, and could be so beautiful (“God’s country,” as it was called by even those who had no time for the white man’s God). But the hardships, the tragedies, the death…it all wore away at your spirit, hardened you. Still, the news of day-to-day life going on in his absence; a school powwow, a bingo tournament, tribal council drama, rumors of a Dairy Queen opening. It made him miss home in an ineffable way.
The last vestige of his indecision evaporated after a particular conversation in the lounge of his dorm. He had been sitting on a beanbag chair, discussing random topics with two friends (at least, he considered them friends, in some ill-defined adolescent way). They had all left a dull party that hadn’t livened up even after a couple of drinks, but still felt heady and obligated to prolong the night a little longer. So, they were shooting the shit, in a garishly-lit common space that smelled of burnt popcorn, and Trevor was feeling rather collegiate. An off-campus party, late-night conversation; weren’t these the trappings of university life that he had seen in teen movies, if a much more prosaic version?
Kayleigh, tipsy off Jäger bombs, started the chain of events that would unravel his college experience with a simple, but pointed question: “How Indian are you, anyway?”
Colton snorted at this comment. “Kay, you can’t just ask that!” But he was clearly more amused than disapproving.
“You mean like my blood quantum or what?” Trevor asked.
“Is that what you guys call it?” said Kay, now playing the innocent party. “I just mean, like, you say you’re Indian, I mean like I know you are, like, I know you are on paper…” The alcohol was causing her to trip over her words but she plowed on. “I mean like, okay, if I were to like, run into you on the street…” Kay was now gesturing expansively, as if the meaning of what she was saying wasn’t explicit from words alone. “Like, I wouldn’t be like, ‘Damn, look at that Indian,’ right? I’d just assume you were a white guy. I mean you know what I mean? Ugh, I’m not making sense.”
She was making perfect sense. Colton looked embarrassed, and for a second, Trevor thought he might shut Kay down. But instead, his inhibition similarly worn down by a few shots of German 70-proof, he followed suit. “I think what Kay’s drunk ass is trying to say is, like, your ancestors are Indians, right, like in the history books. Like Geronimo or whatever. But do you consider yourself one of them? Or are you, like, their descendant?”
Trevor could feel the ball of rage growing within him, a sea urchin radiating spikes in his gut. Stop talking, he thought. Just stop talking.
Colton continued, heedlessly. “Okay, so like I’m Irish but I’m not like Irish Irish, like a leprechaun or some shit. Like my ancestors…”
Trevor stood up, his fists balled. He was now stone-cold sober but his anger was its own intoxicant. “It’s none of your fucking business. It’s none of your business what the fuck I am!” He was shouting; he couldn’t help it. He picked up a half-empty can of PBR and threw it at the wall, slamming the door to the lounge on his way out. The sudsy contents of the can leaked onto the ugly orange dorm carpet, as Kayleigh and Colton sat in stunned silence.
“Jesus,” said Colton finally. “Just trying to ask an honest question.”
After that, Trevor had holed up in his room for a few days, skipping classes and avoiding other students. When he told his mom he was dropping out, she hardly sounded surprised. He knew she would be glad to have him back home; the prodigal son returning. Trevor, the one who had his shit together, who had gone to a STEM camp and was almost salutatorian. He knew she thought that once he got back, he could do what she couldn’t; get Travis on a better path, bring another income to the household, fix what needed to be fixed around the trailer, shoot at the stray dogs when they came around. It would all fall to him. His failure was their blessing; they would lean on him as long as he could stand.
So here we fucking go, he now thought, patting his gel-stiffened hair and giving himself one last hazel-eyed glance in the mirror. Gotta get that bread. His brief stint at the tribal building hadn’t panned out. He was a good worker but wet weather made his road too sloppy to get out easily. Too many latenesses had translated into a pink slip. “Shit man we all got bad roads. Gotta leave earlier,” his boss had said.
So, lesson learned, he was giving himself extra time getting ready for this interview. Really, the lady had just told him to come by “around mid-morning,” so he’d probably be okay. The job was off-rez, down at the county livestock auction and sale barn in one of the closest border towns, “white towns,” as Ridgers called it. It was mostly going to be paperwork – inventory and itemizing and that kind of shit – but it was decent pay and Trevor hoped that he could transition over to working with the animals before long. On most days, he preferred their company to dumbass people.
Grabbing his bag, Trevor stuck the loafers inside with his other miscellany. He would need to wear his cowboy boots across the muddy expanse between the bottom step of the porch and the door to his Blazer so he jammed his feet into them. Outside, he walked gingerly so as not to stain his black slacks with muck. Once in the driver’s seat, he figured he would leave the boots on for the drive, since they were already smearing mud on the floor liner, and in case he got stuck and needed to get out. Trevor knew that the people who worked at the sale barn were as countrified as he was and wouldn’t judge muddy boots under most circumstances, but he also knew that being from Pine Ridge meant he had to put his best foot forward, literally in this case.
Trevor fired up the Blazer, put it in four low, and gunned it. His tires found grip and he jerked along, slimy divots of earth spattering his windows and roof like hail. His windshield wipers left a pasty smear that obscured much of his view, but he practically knew the way by feel. As soon as he could, he bumped up onto the grass, gopher holes and clumps of prairie bluestem jolting his ride, testing what was left of his suspension. When he finally hit the pavement, the smoothness was startling as it always was, like a TV being suddenly muted, like silence after a door slamming.
He cruised through town, passing the gas station, the other gas station, the commod building, the quonset hut, the old BIA headquarters…and turned south into Nebraska. He tried to ignore the persistent squeal under the hood that had gotten worse lately. The overcast sky reflected the dullness of the land – as below, so above – and Trevor alternated between zoning out and counting hawks on telephone poles. A handful of miles south of the border, the vehicle gave a jolt and Trevor felt a temporary loss of control. He hit the brakes and steered toward the shoulder, but the Blazer was suddenly steering like an army tank. Fuck, he whispered.
Once he wrestled Blazer off the road, Trevor got out and popped the hood. He already knew what he would find under the rising steam. “Fucking serpentine belt,” he hissed to the universe. Trevor was good with cars but he didn’t have the tools for this fix. Luckily, he thought, out here in the country, somebody who did would be by soon. Lots of Natives on this road, maybe even a cousin would happen by who could at least give him a ride to town. Trevor thought of calling his dad’s brother Everett on his cell, but figured he’d give it a bit. He hated the thought of owing Uncle Ev anything.
Sure enough, in a few minutes, a gunmetal gray truck passed by slowly, hit a u-turn, and pulled up behind him. Trevor felt a twinge of envy over this late-model Dodge Ram MegaCab with duallies. It had county plates on it, so the cowboy-hatted driver was a local guy, and as he got out, his Carhartt overalls and mud-caked boots identified him as a rancher.
“Trouble?” MegaCab asked, giving Trevor an easy smile.
“Serpentine belt busted,” said Trevor, unconsciously smoothing out his rez accent in favor of a more neutral affectation. Code-switching – another term he had learned at college (by the professor who asked him if he prefers “Native American”).
“No shit, huh?” MegaCab considered this information. “I got nothing for that but I could give you a ride somewhere. You call anyone? Someone coming after you?”
“No,” said Trevor. “I’m trying to get down to the sale barn for a job interview.”
MegaCab looked at Trevor as if for the first time. “Oh ok so that’s why you’re all fancied up. Well, hop in if you don’t mind leaving it here.”
Trevor considered this. He was off the rez so there was less of a chance that the Blazer would end up with busted windows or slashed tires. And he was eager to get his interview over and done with.
Before he could answer, MegaCab added “I have to stop in Whiteclay first but then I’ll take you down.”
This was only a few miles out of the way so Trevor assented and climbed into the rancher’s idling behemoth. It still retained some new-truck smell, mixed with a tinge of manure and rich earth. Really, it was almost luxurious.
MegaCab flipped a u-ey again and headed back north toward Whiteclay. Formerly notorious for copious alcohol sales to people from the dry reservation whose border it sat on, Whiteclay’s package stores had been shuttered after the state had revoked their liquor licenses following years of protests over their depredatory business model. Now, it was just a town of a couple small stores and fewer than a dozen permanent residents, its streets empty of vagrants, its ghosts banished.
“So, you from Hot Springs?”
Trevor momentarily wondered where this question had come from, and then remembered that he had 27-plates on the Blazer – Fall River County, a relic of when he bought the car from a white lady over there. He had kept the off-county registration because the plates were far less likely to get you pulled over off-rez than the infamous 65s of Oglala Lakota County.
MegaCab continued without waiting for an answer. “I used to go up to Hot Springs a lot when my dad was in the V.A. hospital up there. Nice town.”
“Yup, it’s pretty nice,” said Trevor, wondering if he would have to sustain this small talk the whole way.
Luckily, MegaCab took it from there, reminiscing about his high school football team dealing Hot Springs a particularly lopsided loss, and then they were at Whiteclay. Trevor played around on his phone while his driver of the moment went into the little grocery store. He looked up his old roommate Skyler on Facebook (why, he didn’t know; certainly not to friend him) and then Googled “Pine Ridge South Dakota Dairy Queen” just to see if there was any truth to that rumor.
MegaCab returned with some mail – Trevor had forgotten that there was a little post office in there – and they turned south toward Rushville.
Two miles and five hawks-on-telephone-poles into their trip, MegaCab got chatty again:
“I still can’t believe that the state revoked the liquor licenses. They had no legal right to do that of course, but just like everyone else these days, they bowed to the pressure from liberal special interest groups. Those store owners – my brother was one of them – followed the damn law to a T but still got their rights taken away. They’re the real victims in all of this.”
Trevor, whose father was found dead in Whiteclay when Trevor was ten years old, didn’t answer.
“You know it’s just going to push the problem down the road. These Indians are gonna get their liquor one way or another. You guys must see that all the time up in Hot Springs.”
These Indians. You guys. Trevor suddenly recognized MegaCab’s presumption, and wondered when if he should correct it.
“If they wanted to buy millions of cans of beer in Whiteclay every year and drink themselves to death, shit, I say let ‘em. It’s a free country, right? Those AIM types are always going on about Native rights and shit, y’know? Well shit, you have the right to drink and die if you want. Not saying that I want that for those people or anything, but the nanny state can’t be protecting everyone from problems of their own making.”
Trevor, whose brother had first gotten jailed for drunk and disorderly at age 14, two years after their father died, said nothing.
MegaCab continued to rhapsodize about “the Indians” and their problems, adopting the tone of an expert, one who knew all about them. Trevor felt the blood rise to his face. Some coloration at least, he thought darkly. In the pit of his stomach, the sea urchin had returned to stab at his insides. What must it be like, he wondered, to live a life in which people aren’t constantly telling you who you are, naming your characteristics like symptoms, trying to trap you like a spirit in a photograph?
The Blazer came in sight on the shoulder ahead. “Can you let me out at my ride?” Trevor asked, his voice hardly recognizable to his own ear, like hearing himself talk underwater.
“Sure, you need to grab something out of it?” said MegaCab, reluctantly pausing his diatribe.
“No it’s okay,” replied Trevor, “I’m gonna call someone to come help me fix this after all.” He fiddled with his phone as if to underscore this intention.
“Well, if you’re sure,” said MegaCab. “And hey,” he added as Trevor stepped down onto the running board. “You be careful around here. One of these rezzers might see you here all by yourself and try to mess you or your car up. And watch out for drunk drivers. You just never know with these Indians.” MegaCab gave a serious nod to accentuate this show of concern. Then he wished Trevor luck and drove off.
Trevor watched the truck recede into the distance until it was merely a gray speck between the monochrome earth and the steely sky. He sat down in the cold front seat of the Blazer and looked into the rearview mirror. Hazel eyes stared back at him under a pale forehead. Fuck it, he thought; people are dumbasses. Let ‘em believe what they want; that he was from Hot Springs, that could be was related to that Apache, Geronimo, that he was only Indian on paper. Trevor saw what they didn’t; the hidden depths beneath the surface, and in their faces, in the spaces between their words, their ignorance displayed like a tattoo.
In another minute or two, he would call Uncle Ev for a ride. In another hour or two, he would be offered a job at the sale barn that would bring another income into his household (and buy him a new serpentine belt). In another day or two, he would finally finish the tobacco ties for ceremony, at which he would pray for Travis’ sobriety and his auntie’s diabetes. In another month or two, the lengthening of the days would be unmistakable.
Spring would come as it always had, first heralded by a single meadowlark piercing the predawn silence with his song. This would be followed by a green sprig on the prairie, pushing up, perhaps, through snow. Then a cluster of pasqueflowers appearing suddenly on a hillside, a skein of geese overhead, sheet lightning on the horizon. Small miracles, one after another. Finally, color would surge back into the world like paint scintillating on a canvas, causing goldfinches to glow like stars and evening thunderheads to stand like towering fires.
The brilliant Dakota sunlight would stoke the melanin in Trevor’s skin, and nobody would mistake who he was. He would go up on the hill for two days and nights with Travis that spring, and Trenton would keep fire for them. He would pray for the coming year, for the survival of his people, for enough blessings to outweigh the hardships. And there, among a sea of undulating green, facing the crimson blaze of sunrise, he would again know himself and find the strength to carry on, in the face of all the peculiar indignities of this world.

Fanduel College Football Teaser Issue

Love? Give it six months

Warning: this story will contain mentions of unhealthy relationships and adult themes. The main character also has some character traits that may differs from your own, please do keep that in mind.
Review and comments will be appreciated
(Customisation)
There once was a dashing bachelor
(That looked like )(uses the OH male feces)
Face 1
Face 2
Face 3
Face 4
(Hairstyles)
James Bond (black slick backed)
Don Diego Vega (dark brown wavy hair slicked back long neck)
Steve Rogers (Short blonde side swept hair)
Agent J (Short kinky curls)
Is this him?
Yes
No (go back to customisation)
What is his name?
(Default: George)
(Surname)
(Default: Bishop)
There he meets
A beautiful woman
A handsome man
A beautiful woman
Face 1 (Asian; has pale skin, dark almond eyes, straight black mid-back hair with a mid-part)
Face 2 (Hispanic: has tan skin, deep brown eye and over shoulder-length volumes wavy hair with side bangs.)
Face 3 (Afro-American: dark skin, expressive brown eyes with long blackish brown chest-length kinky curly hair.)
Face 4 (Caucassian: pinkish skin with freckles, clear blue round eyes, collarbone length layered dirty blonde hair)
A handsome man
Face 1 (Asian: pale skin, dark almond eyes, straight black hair put up in a pompadour style)
Face 2 (Hispanic: tan skin, with slicked back wavy hair that always looks like it is coming undone.)
Face 3 (Afro-American: dark skin, expressive brown eyes, with a crewcut with tight natural curls.)
Face 4 (Caucasian: pinkish skin with freckles, clear blue eyes, dirty blonde hair in a Taper haircut.)
As the two peoples eyes lock across the room. The sensation of a pull drives them to get closer to one another.
As the dashing bachelor offered his hand his partner gladly accepted it. Leading into a dance that lasted the rest of the night.
The whole world faded away to the sound of the Jazz band, their breathing and their dancing.
As their lips moved to meet...
???: “Oh come now Joanna, you know that is no way that would ever happen.”

(Record Scratch)
Joanna: “Oh for craps sake, George I was getting to the best part.”
George: “Forgive me for finding it uncomfortable that you have decide how my love life is going to go.”
Lance: “He does have a point there sis.”
Joanna: “Way to stand up for your sister Lance.”
Lance “Look I’m all for love conquers and all that jazz but it is kind of difficult to make a love life for someone else.”
George: “Thank you.”
Lance: “I mean he isn’t a completely lost cause. I’m sure some desperate soul will take him.”
Lance: “I mean he’s got dads looks, and he managed to get with mom when they were young.”
Lance: “That might make up for his zero tact.”
George: “Your faith in me is awe inspiring.”
Lance: “Oh cheer up. With your upcoming trip to Vegas, maybe you’ll have luck in love and not just on the poker table.”
Joanna: “Maybe you’ll meet someone special!”
You snort, finding the idea silly.
George: “I wouldn’t bet on it.”
Chapter 1: One night in Vegas
In an underground speakeasy decked out in old decor from the 20th centuries first half. You sit there nursing your drink. After a long day at the office you love nothing more than when you can enjoy your secret fancy. Dressed up in an old-fashioned pinstripe suit and a fedora. You feel like a king, this little piece of haven in Chicago that seemed to be frozen in time.
You feel your friend beside you stir, he himself having to relax from work as well as dreading an upcoming event.
After his fifth sight you opt to actually talk about it.
You take a swing of your drink and decide to talk about the elephant in the room.
Or more accurately you decide to talk about the issue in pre 1940’s slang
George: “Your bear cat of a sister still giving you a hard time?”
Jeremy: “Noneofya.”
He mumbled.
George: “Look Pally, I known you since we were scrubs and had squat. What's eating you?”
Jeremy: “That dame will chisel me out of every dime I own.”
George: “Stephie acting like a Big cheese cause she is getting hitched?”
Jeremy: “She wants everything spiffy and I’m quite sure her ankle biters will be paying the bills. My folks are on my case regarding my dame.”
You think for a moment. Jeremy and Katie had been together for four years. They got one another, they lived together.
George: “Stephie’s lucky her guy thinks she’s the Cat's meow.”
You said reflecting on everything you ever heard regarding Darren, he was a good guy. Definitely not the smartest but he loved Stephanie like she was the only woman alive. You just wondered why anyone would want to spend time with that woman.
Jeremy: “Alright, real talk.”
Jeremy said as he dropped ‘the act’, we were no longer hot shots in the prohibition era. We were now just George Bishop and Jeremy Jackson a financial advisor and a computer wizard.
George: “In all do honesty I do not see why you need to go there? Aren’t bachelorette parties strictly female?”
Jeremy: “They used to be, but I am quite sure I am not going with them to be pampered like the bridesmaids.”
George: “Then your function is?”
Jeremy: “If I were to guess, fall guy and pack mule.”
Jeremy: “I think she is also doing it to brag, that ‘she did it first.’ To rub it in Katie’s face.”
George: “You never really care what your sister does. Why now?”
Jeremy: “Because they are pressuring me and Katie. Not just my family but next to everyone we know. ‘When is the wedding? What is the venue? How many guests? Are you going to have it this year?’ Look I love my girl, but none of us is in rush to walk down the aisle.”

Yeah, you know, you were the first one Jeremy told about his plan to propose. You were happy for him but at the end of the day it was up to Katie and Jeremy. Not you or their families. However the rest of the world seemed to think differently.
Mom: “Oh sweetheart, happy valentine’s day! Are you spending it with someone special?”
George: “Mom, you know I am not looking for someone.”
Mom: “Oh, don’t worry, I’m sure you’ll find that certain someone sooner or later.”

Yeah, it isn’t enough your sister is married and your brother is utterly twitterpated with his boyfriend. You need to ensure your oldest is also with someone.

Boss: “Mr. Bishop, I must say. I am impressed with your work ethics, but we have decided to go with Mr. Robinson as the face of the company.”
Never minding the fact that you worked twice as hard as said college.
George: “I understand. May I ask what made you choose him?”
Boss: “We did research and found that your college would be favourable, due to circumstance.”

Translation: we wanted a man that was married and not the workaholic bachelor.

Stranger 1: “You see that guy over there?”
Stranger 2: “You mean the one with the RBF?”
Stranger 1: “Yeah, probably one of those loners, will never find anyone.”
Stranger 2: “I mean who goes to a restaurant like this alone?”

Honestly? You can’t have a meal alone?

George: “Yeah, I know that feeling.”
Jeremy: “Seriously.”
Both of you take a sigh.
Jeremy: “But in all honesty. Thank you for coming along, I really appreciate it. Would probably loose my mind if I went alone.”
George: “Of course.”

It would be a shame to lose my partner in crime.
My boss would be pissed if I didn’t.
Who would turn down free drinks?

Jeremy: “Yeah sounds about right.” *Choice 1*
George: “Remember how we got back at Marcus Thatcher?” *Choice 1*
Jeremy: “Oh, I remember. Too bad he didn’t check the file we sent, it might have saved him some embarrassment.” *Choice 1*
George: “Big tough football star being fooled by ‘two scrawny’ freshmen.” *Choice 1*
Jeremy: “And we were hailed as heroes for a month.” *Choice 1*
Jeremy: “Wait, don’t tell me HR department has been on your case.” *Choice 2*
Geroge: “Yep, too much overtime.” *Choice 2*
Geroge: “Never mind I make sure that everything is quality controlled.” *Choice 2*
Jeremy: “Geesh. Well glad to know I could be of service.” *Choice 2*
Jeremy: “Ah there it is, I knew you had a hidden agenda. *Choice 3*
George: “Jeremy, Jeremy, Jeremy, when have I ever hid something from you?” *Choice 3*
Jeremy: “Alright fair, you are honest to the point of insult.” *Choice 3*
Geroge: “You asked for my opinion, besides those shoes where ugly as sin.” *Choice 3*
Both of you laugh, you had been in each other’s life since kindergarten. You where the odd ducks, most kids and adults always considered you to be cold or judging. Even if neither of you had that intention.
Jeremy raises his glass.
Jeremy: “To intellectual companions.”
George: “To intellectual friends.”
You said as you raised your own drink in a toast.

The weekend finally arrived for the trip. You arrived at O’Hare airport with a good three hours to spare. You crack open the book you brought with you.
It was a supernatural detective story you received as a gift on last birthday a few months back. While you applaud your sister for trying, it was still jarring to follow all the supernatural deus-ex-machinas that discarded real detective work.
So that is how a 31 year old was reading a supernatural book in broad daylight.
George: ‘ with gun drawn, Duskraven made her way down the basement, the surroundings smelled of blood and muck.’
Geroge: ‘Romano’s empire was now in full display in front of her. Fae, lined the walls, eyes hollow and only the movement of their chest indicating they were still alive.’
George: ‘Duskraven took out her polaroid camera, it was a risky but if this would ever have a chance to justice. Her leads and information would need to be solid if she wanted to take down the vampire cartel. She just hoped the light for the camera would be noticed.’
George: ‘With a blinding light the entire basement lit up temporarily blinding her, when she regained her sight again a new horror met her eyes. Multiple pairs of hungry red eyes.’
Jeremy: “George!”
You tear your eyes away from the book in your hand.
There is Jeremy and Katie, hand in hand. Seeing them together was always a happy occasion.
Katie and Jeremy met at your favourite speakeasy a few years back. You didn’t blame your friend for becoming interested in the ICU nurse. Curly red hair and big blue eyes. Even if the courtship had started out rocky due to both of them being so shy. They overcame that hurdle and found something they wanted.
Sometimes however you wished you didn’t feel like you were interrupting them.
George: “Good morning, is Stephanie and her friends also here?”
Katie: “No they had a sleep over at Daria’s house. So they will be carpooling.”
You look at your clock and it was about two hours before the plane would take off, your bags where checked in and you were ready to leave and get to the section where the gates would be. But there was still no sign of Stephanie.
As you though you heard a rumbling sound.
Both you and Katie looked at Jeremy as a sheepish grim grew on his face.
Katie: “Told you, a ham sandwich wouldn’t hold.”
Jeremy: “It will hold till lunch, which is a few hours away.”
George: “You sure that is a good idea?”
Jeremy: “Tell you what, I’ll go if you come with me and Katie.”
Katie: “So what do you say?”
McDermott's
· Sure, I could have a bite. (💎12)
· Perhaps we shouldn’t
Diamond Choice:
George: “Alright, let us have something to eat.”
Jeremy: “Good! Airplane food leaves much to be desired.”
Katie: “You always think with your stomach.”
Jeremy: “Yet you love me.”
Katie: “Yes, odd isn’t it?”
You make your way inside and stay in line.
You look at the menu and order
· Breakfast burrito
· Bacon and scrambled eggs
· Fruit and oatmeal
You order your food along with a big coffee. You all slide into the booth, Katie had her yogurt in hand both of you looked worryingly at Jeremy’s breakfast.
(Tilting tower of pancakes)
(Holy crap!)
You swore for a moment both you and Katie was reading each other’s mind.
‘He is going to puke.’
George: “Hey Jeremy, think you can get some napkins?”
Jeremy: “Sure.”
As he left you plied a few pancakes away, making sure that you saved the top one so he wouldn’t notice. Katie making sure the tower didn’t fall.
She gave a thumbs up, thanking you.
George: “So Katie, how have you been?”
Katie: “There is always a lot of things to do at the ICU, sometime I wonder where humanity is headed.”
George: “Really, that bad?”
Katie: “How would you explain having a locomotive lodge up your rectum?”
George: “How did that happened?”
Katie: “They claim they fell on it, if I had a dollar every time this happened I wouldn’t have any student debts.”
You shake your head, you have been thinking a bit about what Jeremy said at the Speakeasy. You had also noticed that something was up with Katie, she was on edge.
George: “Katie…”
1. “Did you want to go on this trip?”
2. “Has Mr and Mrs Jackson been pressuring you?”
3. “Do you want to get married?”
Katie: “In all honesty no, but Stephanie has made me a bridesmaid. I need to partake in these things. Even if I wish I didn’t.” *Choice 1\*
George: “Why?” *Choice 1\*
Katie: “I wish I could care as little about protocol as you do, but she is Jeremy’s sister, if I say no it might affect my relationship with Jeremy and his family.” *Choice 1\*
Katie: “Yes, I mean no, I mean… it’s complicated.” *Choice 2\*
George: “How come?” *Choice 2\*
Katie: “I’m 30 years old George, time is ticking. They want grandchildren to spoil.” *Choice 2\*
George: “And you have to be married to do that?” *Choice 2\*
Katie: “Of course I love Jeremy.” *Choice 3\*
George: “That wasn’t the question, do you want to get married?” *Choice 3\*
Katie: “It is just so big, all those expectations. I… it scares the crap out of me.” *Choice 3\*
George: “Listen, I will tell you something.”
You said using your stern voice.
George: “Jeremy loves you, he chose you. You chose him. That is the truth at the end of the day.”
Katie looked at you, a shy smile graced her lips. She mouthed a thank you.
Jeremy made his way back to you with a great pile of napkins. You all begin to take part of the meal. During the entire meal Katie and Jeremy’s shoulders touched and they looked as content as they could be.
(‘Loving it’ you had breakfast at McDermott)
None diamond choice:
George: “Let us just sit down and relax, we should be in Las Vegas at 1 am. Knowing Stephanie we will probably eat something there before heading to the hotel.”
Katie: “Maybe, I’ll get some water at least.”
Jeremy: “Good idea.”
(‘Not hungry’ you didn’t have a McDermott breakfast)
As all of you wait for the supposed ‘bride’ you hear commotion.
Sure enough you see a brunette with a close to permanent scowl on her face. Followed but two very flustered women.
“There you are! WHERE have you been?!”
Her tone is as pleasant as you remember, nails on a chalkboard.
Jeremy: “We have been here waiting for you.”
Stephanie: “You aren’t even going to help me with my bags. What type of brother are you?”
Jeremy: “Well we are here, we have about half an hour before the plane leaves. So let’s get to the gate.”
Stephanie just huffed. Storming away.
George: “Wow she is in a good mood.”
You state sarcastically.
Jeremy: “Yeah she gets like that some time.”
Jeremy: “Just try not to set her of, she can be a handful.”
Katie: “I mean how bad could it possibly be?”
You were never the very superstitious type, but you were quite sure that Katie just opened Pandora’s Box.

From the time the plane touched ground in Nevada everything that could set of Stephanie did.
Stephanie: “URRGH!!! where is that shuttle! He is LATE!!”
Jeremy: “They told us like five minutes ago there is traffic jam.”
Stephanie: “Then he should have planned it earlier!”
Stephanie: “I will not wait an hour! WE have a schedule to follow!”
George:’ This coming from the woman that almost missed the plane to her own bachelorette party.’
Daria: “They say it is only another 15 minutes.”

Stephanie: “I DON’T CAREEEEE!”
Stephanie: “What do you mean that our suits where not booked?”
Receptionist: “You never sent in the deposit for your stay.”
Stephanie: “THAT WAS GEMMA’S JOB!”
Gemma: “I told you, the suits needed to be paid for by the same person that booked them.”

Stephanie: “You are a bridesmaid, you are supposed to make things work!”
George: ‘Honetly…’
George: “Sigh…”
Stephanie: “THIS ISN’T WHAT I ORDERED!”
Waitress: “Yes it is, you wanted a calamari.”
The poor waitress looked exhausted and probably wanted to be anywhere but here, not that one could blame her.
Stephanie: “NO IT ISN’T! I wanted the pasta with bacon and cheese.”
Katie: “A cabonara?”
Jeremy: “Stephie we are at a seafood restaurant.”

George: ‘IS she ever satisfied?’
All of us where back at the hotel, Stephanie insisting that they ‘needed’ a new set of clothes for the casino and club they were planning on hitting. Jeremy looked ready to just give up.
George: “You know, you could simply say no to her.”
Jeremy threw an exhausted glair at me.
Jeremy: “If it was so simple neither me, you nor Katie would be here right now.”
George: “And you wouldn’t be here doing this Sisyphean task, which obviously brings you missery.”
Jeremy: “Yeah well, I still want my parents in my life, if I didn’t do this, they would never let me live it down.”
What to wear to the casino?
· Tuxedo 007 (💎 15)
· Basic black
Diamond option:
Jeremy: “You look like James Bond.”
George: “I’ll have a martini, shaken not stirred.”
You said and an amused smile spread across Jeremy’s face.
None diamond choice
“I Think I’ll stick with this.”
“Fair enough, I am too exhausted to care anyway.”

Jeremy said with a tired smile. You both left the room, making our way to one of the pulsing centres of the strip.
There in the golden casinos you thought finally your luck would finally turn for the better. That the glamorous atmosphere would rub off on the soon-to-be bride. Causing her to stop doing her impression of a screeching barn owl and let ALL of them enjoy Sin City.
Well it seemed to have worked, for now.
Both you and Jeremy where at the black jack tables, enjoying yourself. While the ladies were back at the slots machines.
Jeremy folded a while ago, it is just you and one more. You looked down at your cards a jack and an ace. You opponent opposite you had this confident smirk on his face. But you saw how the sweat was running down his face. He was bluffing.
George: “Hum…”

Act as if you have a bad hand
Act arrogant and self-assured
Do not react at all and watch the man squirm

You decide to let your brows furrow in what would look like frustration. The man opposite you lets the edge of his mouth turn in a smirk. His confidence boosting with every minute. *Choice 1*
You decide to put on the theatrics, giving a smile like the cat that ate the canary you look at your opponent. That is growing more and more agitated by the minute. *Choice 2*
You keep your face natural, a lot of people often comment that you look angry whenever they see you. You could only assume it was true because your opponent was practically squirming in his seat. *Choice 3*
When he reviles his hand, you pause for a moment before reviling yours.
You won.
George: “I’ll be taking these.”
You said as you dragged them back chips and split them evenly between you and Jeremy. You had started with the same amount of tokens. Even if you did work with money daily, this was one of those occasions you allowed yourself to be a bit more relaxed regarding that subject.
Jeremy: “Nice one.”
George: “All in a day’s work.”
Jeremy: “So what next?”
Before you could answer you hear commotion from the opposite side of the casino. The screeching voice meant that Stephanie was somewhere in the middle of it. Both of you sigh, knowing that your happy hour was over.
Sure enough there at the era leading into one of the shows where Stephanie and her entourage, all of them except Stephanie wearing baby pink dresses and Stephanie herself wearing a sash reading ‘all hail the bride’ along with a tacky tiara probably worth a five dollar bill at most.
She was screaming at a bouncer, while all the others tried in vain to calm the soon-to-be bride.
Stephanie: “You are an idiot! What service is this!?”
When we had arrived there was already an audience forming. Yeah this was common whenever Stephanie was involved. ‘Drama Queen’ had been your nickname for her during high school for a reason.
Jeremy: “What happened?”
Bouncer: “Your friend here slapped one of your dancers, something about them stealing from them.”
Stephanie: “I am the BRIDE! I am not supposed to have to pay for anything during my bachelorette party.”
Jeremy: “Stephanie, what about we get some fresh air, okay?”
Jeremy said as he tried to deescalate the situation. He gently grabbed her arm, but Stephanie was having none of it.
It felt like it all happened in slow motion, Stephanie turned around and a closed fist and rage connected it with Jeremy’s face. Your friend flew back and hit his head on the floor pretty hard. Stephanie didn’t even care to check what state her brother was in. Katie flew to her fiancés side and the sight of your friend’s bleeding face was enough to make you see red.
George: “Alright enough.”

Scold her
Embarrass her
Give her the evil eye

George: “Stephanie, you are way out of line.” *Choice 1*
Stephanie: “No I am not!” *Choice 1*
George: “You have taken no responsibility during this trip, you have been rude to every member of the party, you have caused a scene at every place we have been to. Do I need to keep going?” *Choice 1*
Your voice is like ice, you swear the temperature just dropped a few degrees. As you pointed out everything she has done during the less than 24 hours you been together. *Choice 1*
Stephanie looks angrily at her bridesmaids as is she is waiting for them to defend her. *Choice 1*
They do not, they know you are just stating the truth. *Choice 1*
George: “Your own brother did not want to be on this trip, he begged me to come along. Doesn’t that tell you just how vile you have been acting?” *Choice 1*
Stephanie: “You listen here…”*Choice 1*
George: “No you listen for once in your life!” *Choice 1*
You rarely let your emotions out but Stephanie was a special case. *Choice 1*
George: “If this is how you treat people, do not be surprised when Darren leaves you at the altar. He deserve better than this.” *Choice 1*
With that as a closing line you left, Jeremy might need to get to the hospital. He was worth more than Stephanie would ever be in your eyes. *Choice 1*
As you leave you are quite sure you hear someone applauding. *Choice 1*
With determined steps you made your way to one of the waitresses. *Choice 2*
George: “Excuse me.” *Choice 2*
You hand her a 50 dollar bill as you grab a big jug glass filled with beer and briskly walk back to Stephanie that is still screaming profanities. Because of her back being turned to you she didn’t see you. You saw how people began to take out their cameras and phones. No one made a move to stop you. *Choice 2*
With one quick movement you had poured it over her and a shriek of surprise entered your ears. *Choice 2*
Stephanie: “What the fuck is wrong with you!?” *Choice 2*
George: “Are you done with your little temper tantrum?” *Choice 2*
Stephanie: “What!? How dare you!” *Choice 2*
George: “You have been acting like a spoiled five year old since the moment we landed. I am surprised no one has done anything until now.” *Choice 2*
Stephanie: “You are so not coming to my wedding!” *Choice 2*
George: “It isn’t a loss, I was never here for you. Now excuse me I have more important things to deal with.” *Choice 2*
You left Stephanie to deal with the people that had gathered for the ‘show’ and she began to scream at them and calling them all sorts of names. But no one was intimidated, they found it hilarious. *Choice 2*
You grab hold of Stephanie, until she has no choice but to look at you. She is screeching, calling you every slur and bad name in the book. Your hands are firm on her upper arm, you just hold no squeezing, no pushing. You keep your eyes locked on her, you must have stood there quite a while until finally her defiant stare became weaker and weaker. *Choice 3*
You kept hold of her until she burst out into tears. At that point you let her go. Knowing you had knocked her down a peg. *Choice 3*

But Stephanie wasn’t your main concern, Jeremy was. You moved to stay with Katie and Jeremy, the crowd parted as the red sea as you walked by. All in stunned silence. *Choice 3*

George: “Are you sure you’ll be alright?”
Jeremy grimaced at the questing, blood still trickling down his face from where he had been punched. Luckily the nose would heal, the only question was what colour it would be in time for Stephanie’s wedding.
Jeremy: “I’ll be fine, Katie is here too. She knows what she is doing.”
Katie: “Having your fiancé being a nurse does have its perks huh?”
Jeremy: “Yeah one of many.”
The two of them smile at one another, before Jeremy turn back to you.
Jeremy: “Think you can manage your own?”
George: “I think I can stay out of trouble for one night.”
Jeremy: “Maybe, see you tomorrow George.”
Katie: “Have a nice night.”
With that the two of them made their way up to the hotel rooms.
You decided to check out the hotel bar. Despite being 10 o’clock it was surprisingly empty. Some people where there, some having already had a few to many.
But what caught your eye was a stranger sitting at the end of the bar.
There sitting in a knee-length ocean blue dress was a woman, leaning over resting her elbows at the counter. She had a faraway look in her face as she absentmindedly stirred her drink. *♀*
There sitting a young man, nursing his drink. His blue vest and slacks combo suited him well with the crisp white shirt. His attention seeming being elsewhere. *♂*
You sit down by the bar and is about to call on the bartender when I noticed a man, clearly intoxicated made a move on the man/woman at the end of the bar.
Drunk Idiot: “Hello there, did it hurt when you fell from heaven?”
The person in question just rolled hehis eyes. Clearly not in the mood to be the object of drunk admiration.
Drunk Idiot: “How about you and me go up to my hotel room and get to know each other a bit more.”
Haven seen the man/woman in question do every none-verbal que but slapping the idiot you decide enough was enough. He had disturbed you and the rest of the bar enough.
With the smoothest and coolest tone of voice you could muster you cleared your throat to get the drunk man’s attention. It wasn’t appreciated to say the least.
Drunk idiot: “What the hell do you want prick.”
The smell of alcohol radiating off him, one would think he had bathed in vodka. It was surprising no one had tossed him out from being a nuisance earlier.
George: “I do believe that you are bothering him/her. Please stop.”
George: “Look we are old friends, its noneofya business so bug off.”
George: “Oh really, then what is your friends name?”
Drunk Idiot: ”What?”
George: “What. Is. your. friend’s. name? If you are old friends you should surely know it.”
Drunk Idiot: “It’s ummm… Terry.”
???: “That is not even close.”
With both of you staring straight into him, mentally cornering him.
Drunk idiot: ”Screw this.”
The man declared in frustration and with that the idiot stormed off leaving both of you alone.
After making sure the guy was out of sight you turned back to the stranger.
He/She gave you a grateful smile.
???: “Thanks’ I really appreciate that?”
George: “It was nothing.”
You said making yourself ready to go back to your seat.
???: “Wait!”
The stranger called after you, out of sheer politeness you turned back around.
He/she Seemed a bit nervous, what now?
???: “Can I at least buy you a drink?”
You thought for a moment. You were on your own, Jeremy was probably nursing the bruise with some painkillers and you did not want to risk running into Stephanie or any of the bridesmaids. It also felt wrong to not take the opportunity to experience Vegas however.
So you accepted.
???: “Well What’s your poison?”
He/she asked in a joyous tone.

Matrini
Old Fashioned
Red Wine

With a quick wave they called the bartender over.
???: “So what brings you to Vegas?”
George: “Bachelorette party.”
???: “Did it have anything to do with that brunette that slapped one of the dancers and had security physically lift her out?”
George: “Bingo.”
???: “No one got seriously hurt?”
George: “Thankfully no.”
With that the bartender served the drink and the stranger slipped a 50 dollar bill.
You lift the glass in a gesture for a thank you. And let the beverage slip down your throat. It was nice, it was a good year and the taste was strong but not overpowering.
You noticed that his/her eyes were on you, almost as if they were trying to decipher your character.
George: “What are you doing?”
???: “Trying to get a read on you, some say what you order is often an indication of who you are.”
George: “Really? Then what can you say about me?”
You asked, deciding to humour them.
???: “I can say that that you are a man that know what he wants and how you want them.” *Martini*
???: “You are an old soul, you probably know your liquor well. My guess you have a great library at home.” *Old fashioned*
???: “You are quite classy, and you can find a way to get drunk before noon.” *Red wine*
With that you give an amused chuckle.
George: “Well there is some truth to that statement.”
You take a look at the drink they self are nursing.
(Dark n Stormy)
(Humm...)
George: “If I were to do the same to you, I guess you have a sweet tooth and might have wanted to be a pirate at some point.”
At that comment the stranger began to laugh. It was the infectious kind of laugh that made someone warm form the bottom of their stomach.
???: “Alright you got me there.”
He/she then stuck out their hand.
(My name is..)
(Default name: Skyler)
George: “‘Skyler’ it is a pleasure to meet you.”
You said as you shook it.
You take in Skyler’s look. You had to admit that they were an attractive specimen of a man/woman.
George: “The name is George Bishop.”
Skyler: “George Bishop, how professional sounding.”
He/ she said as if they were tasting your name in their mouth.
George: “Well I do hope so, would be difficult to be an advisor if people believed I was a joker.”
Skyler: “Ah, so you are one of those people that look at you and stamp ‘rejected’ on every paper?”
George: “I believe that I am fair in my judgement.”
George: “How about yourself?”
At that their eyes fell.
Skyler: “Right now, I’m a 30 year old trying to figure out my next move.”
George: “How come?”
Skyler: “Lost my job due to relationship issues between my manager and her boyfriend. Apparently, me being friendly was mistaken for flirting.”
Skyler: “What, they want a grumpy Greeter at the door?”
George: “That is unprofessional.”
Skyler: “Yeah, well relationships are messy.”
George: “Agreed.”
Skyler: “I must say the way you handled that woman, it was surprising.”
Skyler said in a genuinely impressed voice.
George: “You were watching?”
Skyler: “Kind of hard not to, I’m surprised half the hotel didn’t hear her.”
George: “Someone had to show her she isn’t the Queen of Sheba.”
Skyler: “What are your thought on marriage?”
You shoot up a bit, a bit startled by the blunt question.
George: “My thoughts?”
Skyler: “You seem like a guy that know what he thinks. I want to pick that brain a bit.”
It had been a while since someone had so blatantly flirted with you. To be fair you were a bit surprised. Dating had often been a minefield for you.
George: “Marrige…”

It’s an institution
It’s a partnership
It’s indescribable

George: “Historically it was a way to ensure land, money and heirlooms where added into a new household.” *Choice 1*
George: “It was also a safety for children back in the day, since basterds often faced quite a few challenges from being born out of wedlock.” *Choice 1*
George: “It is a symbol of trust, that you do have someone that you can count on.” *Choice 2*
George: “But at the end of the day, if you are unfair to that partner hey might not stay.” *Choice 2*
George: “To describe marriage is like trying to describe oceans and water. Even with similarities we can see, gathering it all in an explanation would probably not give a fair judgement.” *Choice 3*
Skyler: “To me it’s a promise. ‘To have and to hold’ it is silly in this day and age were people divorce left and right for trivial things.”
Skylers eyes became dark, falling into deep thoughts. You had never been the poetic kind, but there was a sweet sentiment in Skyler’s view on things. Your parents where still married over 30 years now. Your sister was due some time in December, your brother was off celebrating a two year dating anniversary and your paternal grandmother still loved her deceased husband dearly.
To you it just never happened, perhaps it wasn’t for you.
George: “That we can agree on, people are so afraid they will settle. At the first sign of trouble they leave.”
Skyler: “So that woman form before… how long do you think her marriage will last?”
George: “If she acts like she did tonight, I wonder if her husband will even stay for the ceremony.”
You looked at your new companion and in an unusual turn of events you called the bartender over.
George: “Can I buy you a drink?”

With that Skyler smiled, deciding to keep you company.
Sometime later you awake to the sound of your alarm clock.
You feel a splitting headache, you drag you hand over your face as you do you feel a cold metal band around your finger. Pulling back as your eyes focus you see that it is a plain sliver coloured band.
(is that?)
· Oh no…
Feeling more sober than ever before you realised just what a mess you got yourself into.
George: ‘I just got married in Vegas.’
Well, you’re screwed.

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