A couple of days ago I met this young man walking his baby dog..They seemed to have a great friendship,which I'm sure will be lifelong :) After reading the moving story Jacii posted below his awesome shot,I thought it could symbolize that friendship... Unfortunately ,if there's nobody at home to help me ,I cannot do even the simplest things such as posting the link of my contacts ..I expect Jacii will help me with that ..or by showing his presence with that beautiful yet sad story he'll make his address known..

Sevgili arkadaşlar,

Bir iki gün önce bu ikilinin arasında ,belli ki hayat boyu sürecek bir dostluğa şahit oldum

Jacii'nin resmi altındaki etkileyici öyküyü okuduktan sonra o dostluğu sembolize edeceğini düşünerek bu kareyi yüklemeye karar verdim...ne yazık ki link yüklemeyi beceremiyorum...jacii'nin bana bu konuda yardımcı olmasını bekliyorum...Ancak öyküyü buraya eklerse de Türkçe'sini bulmam mümkün değil..Çok özür dilerim !

 

The Old Man and the Dog

by

Catherine Moore

 

"Watch out! You nearly broad sided that car!" My father yelled at me.

 

"Can't you do anything right?"

 

Those words hurt worse than blows. I turned my head toward the elderly man in the seat beside me, daring me to challenge him. A lump rose in my throat as I averted my eyes. I wasn't prepared for another battle.

 

"I saw the car, Dad. Please don't yell at me when I'm driving." My voice was measured and steady, sounding far calmer than I really felt.

 

Dad glared at me, then turned away and settled back. At home I left Dad in front of the television and went outside to collect my thoughts. Dark, heavy clouds hung in the air with a promise of rain. The rumble of distant thunder seemed to echo my inner turmoil.

 

What could I do about him?

 

Dad had been a lumberjack in Washington and Oregon. He had enjoyed being outdoors and had reveled in pitting his strength against the forces of nature. He had entered grueling lumberjack

competitions, and had placed often. The shelves in his house were filled with trophies that attested to his prowess.

 

The years marched on relentlessly. The first time he couldn't lift a heavy log, he joked about it;

but later that same day I saw him outside alone, straining to lift it. He became irritable whenever anyone teased him about his advancing age, or when he couldn't do something he had done as a younger man.

 

Four days after his sixty-seventh birthday, he had a heart attack. An ambulance sped him to

the hospital while a paramedic administered CPR to keep blood and oxygen flowing. At the hospital, Dad was rushed into an operating room. He was lucky; he survived.

 

But something inside Dad died. His zest for life was gone. He obstinately refused to follow doctor's orders. Suggestions and offers of help were turned aside with sarcasm and insults. The number of visitors thinned, then finally stopped altogether. Dad was left alone.

 

My husband, Dick, and I asked Dad to come live with us on our small farm. We

hoped the fresh air and rustic atmosphere would help him adjust. Within a week

after he moved in, I regretted the invitation. It seemed nothing was

satisfactory. He criticized everything I did. I became frustrated and moody.

Soon I was taking my pent-up anger out on Dick. We began to bicker and argue.

Alarmed, Dick sought out our pastor and explained the situation. The clergyman

set up weekly counseling appointments for us. At the close of each session he

prayed, asking God to soothe Dad's troubled mind. But the months wore on and

God was silent. Something had to be done and it was up to me to do it

  

The next day I sat down with the phone book and methodically called

each of the mental health clinics listed in the Yellow Pages. I explained my

problem to each of the sympathetic voices that answered. In vain. Just when I

was giving up hope, one of the voices suddenly exclaimed, "I just read

something that might help you! Let me go get the article." I listened as she

read. The article described a remarkable study done at a nursing home All of

the patients were under treatment for chronic depression. Yet their attitudes

had improved dramatically when they were given responsibility for a dog.

  

I drove to the animal shelter that afternoon. After I filled out a

questionnaire, a uniformed officer led me to the kennels. The odor of

disinfectant stung my nostrils as I moved down the row of pens. Each contained

five to seven dogs. Long-haired dogs, curly-haired dogs, black dogs, spotted

dogs all jumped up, trying to reach me. I studied each one but rejected one

after the other for various reasons too big, too small, too much hair. As I

neared the last pen a dog in the shadows of the far corner struggled to his

feet, walked to the front of the run and sat down. It was a pointer, one of

the dog world's aristocrats. But this was a caricature of the breed. Years had

etched his face and muzzle with shades of gray. His hipbones jutted out in

lopsided triangles. But it was his eyes that caught and held my attention.

Calm and clear, they beheld me unwaveringly. I pointed to the dog. "Can

you tell me about him?" The officer looked, then shook his head in puzzlement.

 

"He's a funny one. Appeared out of nowhere and sat in front of the gate. We brought him in, figuring someone would be right down to claim him. That was two weeks ago and we've heard nothing. His time is up tomorrow." He gestured helplessly.

 

As the words sank in I turned to the man in horror. "You mean you're going to kill him?"

 

"Ma'am," he said gently, "that's our policy. We don't have room for every unclaimed dog."

 

I looked at the pointer again. The calm brown eyes awaited my decision. "I'll take him," I said.

 

I drove home with the dog on the front seat beside me. When I reached the house I honked the horn twice. I was helping my prize out of the car when Dad shuffled onto the front porch.

 

"Ta-da! Look what I got for you, Dad!" I said excitedly.

 

Dad looked, then wrinkled his face in disgust. "If I had wanted a dog I would have gotten one. And I would have picked out a better specimen than that bag of bones. Keep it! I

don't want it" Dad waved his arm scornfully and turned back toward the house.

  

Anger rose inside me. It squeezed together my throat muscles and pounded into my temples.

 

"You'd better get used to him, Dad. He's staying!" Dad ignored me. "Did you hear me, Dad?" I screamed. At those words Dad whirled angrily, his hands clenched at his sides, his eyes narrowed and blazing with hate.

 

We stood glaring at each other like duelists, when suddenly the pointer pulled free from my grasp. He wobbled toward my dad and sat down in front of him. Then slowly, carefully, he raised his paw.

 

Dad's lower jaw trembled as he stared at the uplifted paw. Confusion replaced the anger in his eyes. The pointer waited patiently. Then Dad was on his knees hugging the animal.

 

It was the beginning of a warm and intimate friendship. Dad named the pointer Cheyenne. Together he and Cheyenne explored the community. They spent long hours walking down dusty

lanes. They spent reflective moments on the banks of streams, angling for

tasty trout. They even started to attend Sunday services together, Dad sitting

in a pew and Cheyenne lying quietly at his feet.

 

Dad and Cheyenne were inseparable throughout the next three years. Dad's bitterness faded, and he and Cheyenne made many friends. Then late one night I was startled to feel Cheyenne's cold nose burrowing through our bed covers. He had never before come into our bedroom at night. I woke Dick, put on my robe and ran into my father's room. Dad lay in his bed, his face serene. But his spirit had left quietly sometime during the night.

 

Two days later my shock and grief deepened when I discovered Cheyenne lying dead beside Dad's bed. I wrapped his still form in the rag rug he had slept on. As Dick and I buried him near a

favorite fishing hole, I silently thanked the dog for the help he had given me in restoring Dad's peace of mind.

 

The morning of Dad's funeral dawned overcast and dreary. This day looks like the way I feel, I thought, as I walked down the aisle to the pews reserved for family. I was surprised to see

the many friends Dad and Cheyenne had made filling the church. The pastor began his eulogy. It was a tribute to both Dad and the dog who had changed his life. And then the pastor turned to Hebrews 13:2. "Be not forgetful to entertain strangers."

 

"I've often thanked God for sending that angel," he said.

 

For me, the past dropped into place, completing a puzzle that I had not seen before: the sympathetic voice that had just read the right article...

 

Cheyenne's unexpected appearance at the animal shelter... his calm acceptance and complete devotion to my father...and the proximity of their deaths. And suddenly I understood.

 

I knew that God had answered my prayers after all.

 

Life is too short for drama & petty things, so laugh hard, love truly and forgive quickly.

 

Live While You Are Alive.

 

Tell the people you love that you love them, at every opportunity.

 

Forgive now those who made you cry. You might not get a second time.

 

And if you don't send this to at least 4 people - who cares? But do share this with someone.

  

Lost time can never be found .

 

#278 July 22,2008 Thank you all :)

Lanceheads are a genus of venomous pit vipers native to Central and South America, and some islands of the Caribbean. The name “Lancehead” refers to the snakes’ distinctively large triangular head, which resembles an old-style lance or arrow. With over 40 different species recorded, they have adapted to different environments, ranging from rainforests to deserts. They are the most common venomous snake species in the Neotropics, and may often be found close to or living among human habitation. Species are generally irritable and quick to strike. Caution is advised, as their venom is highly potent, which can lead to amputation of a bitten limb or death, unless antivenin is administered. Many species, such as the Common Lancehead (Bothrops atrox) pictured, are masters of camouflage. Their bodies are patterned to mimic their habitat, making them virtually invisible to unsuspecting prey. Heat-sensing pits, located between their eyes and nose, allow them to detect and track warm-blooded prey, even at night or in low light. The combination of their ability to remain undetected while tracking prey using heat and their lightning-fast strikes makes them highly efficient ambush predators.

.

Caption: A Common Lancehead (Bothrops atrox) watches intently from its hiding place along the forest floor in the Northern Range of the island of Trinidad. Individuals may reach a length of 3-5 feet. It is one of only four venomous snakes found on the island. It is locally called "mapipire balsain," which is thought to be derived from the indigenous Arawak word "mapipire," meaning "biting snake." The word "balsain" is likely a reference to the snake's pale chin color.

Eastern Screech - Newburyport, MA

Mercedes now weighs 4.25kg. She is looking well. But she still gets quite irritable and aggressive at times, but her energy is back. Today her medication changes from half to a quarter of a tablet of cortisone every second day. I hope she continues to eat well.

Mercedes was poisoned by the back and side neighbours, along with my other cats, but Mercedes suffered the most effect from it.

==Gotham Morgue==

 

November 5th. 14:50

 

"After four hours, firefighters have finally quelled the blaze at Wayne Manor. The fire, which is suspected to have began at 2:00am this morning, tore up through the west study and burned down the west wing. The cause of the blaze is still unknown, with Bruce Wayne unavailable for comment. His legal team was seen combating the police department outside the estate earlier today-" the television rang out.

 

"Sorry, we weren't sure how to reach you," the mortician said, as he walked Bridget, Ted and a third-wheeling Krill over to a covered body, and removed the sheet from off its' face.

 

"Yeah," Bridget sighed, as she placed her hand on his cheek. "That's him, that's Jacob."

 

The Mortician nodded, and left the room.

 

One hand clasped around a pink cupcake, Krill moved the blanket aside and whistled. "Boy, no wonder they called him Ant Man," he remarked, as he examined the naked body.

 

"They called him Ant Man, because he was five foot four, you unfeeling bastard," Pike replied.

 

Carson shook his head, looking down, glassy eyed at Jumbo's still figure. In his hand, he held a metal scalpel. "Where's Walker now?" he whispered, blood dripping from his hand as his grip tightened.

 

Krill took a bite out of his cupcake. "No idea," he chewed loudly. "A black truck left city limits six hours ago. Could be him, could be a Bat Metal tribute band."

 

Ted slammed the metal table. "Just find him."

 

"OoOoOoh," Krill replied mockingly, as he leapt into an orange portal, leaving the family alone. Ted gripped the scalpel even tighter.

 

"Dad, if you want to be alone, I understand-" Bridget began.

 

Ted shook his head, smiling faintly. "How'd they get to that car, kitten? How, did they get past you?" he asked her; and, without warning, he thrust the scalpel deep into Jumbo's chest- snarling as he did it. Bridget recoiled in fright, a hand placed on her holster.

 

"Stupid. Lazy. Fucking. Idiot," Carson bellowed at him, digging deeper into his flesh with each word, his breath rough and ragged.

 

He tilted his head towards his daughter, his face caked in Jumbo's blood, and hissed. "If you'd just done your fucking job, maybe you'd still have an uncle."

 

==The Iceberg Lounge==

 

November 11th. 20:58

 

Sionis looked up at the ceiling. Hanging from the rafters were a series of pale blue, glitter covered banners, all plastered with the same two words:

 

"Mayor Cobblepot," he read. "Surprised they even let you run again after that last term..."

 

"Well, City Hall is hardly a stranger to controversy," Penguin said smugly, leaning onto his umbrella. "Their golden boy was framed for murder and impeached before his time. And his replacements were a couple of Owl puppets who met rather unfortunate ends... Now a "former" mob boss on the other hand, that is much more palatable, wouldn't you say? There's a reason why they call it "organised" crime. It's manageable."

 

Sionis shrugged irritably, and sat back down beside Oswald. He glanced at Ferris, now poking a straw through the slit in his mask, and White, picking his teeth with a wooden splint, and swiftly downed his glass of scotch. Cobblepot flashed him an amused smile.

 

A guard rapped on the door. "White Mask just pulled up outside, sir," he called out. Li threw an anxious look at his boss.

 

Sionis pulled on his collar, adjusting his tie. "Send him in."

 

The doors flung open: dressed in a pristine white suit and a matching mask was David Franco. To his right, dressed in a blue suit, and a red ascot, was a scarred man Li recognised as Franco's own right hand, the Physician, who grumbled obnoxiously as he pulled a chair in-between White and Ferris, the latter's nose twitching as a faint fishy smell drifted into his mask.

Franco waved at the assembly, and took a seat opposite Roman; Great White struggled to stifle a laugh as the party turned to look at him, confused. "I always wondered what a Spy vs Spy remake would look like," he explained. "Deep cut, I know."

 

"Neutral location, smart!" Franco declared, turning his head back to Sionis, and removing his mask; exposing a mountain of swept back dirty blonde hair, and a pair of thick eyebrows. Ferris shot him an approving look.

 

White muttered under his breath. "Oh, Roman, his mask comes off. Does yours?"

 

"I know it's smart, it was my idea," Sionis replied stiffly, ignoring White's teasing.

 

Franco chuckled, as he pulled his seat closer to Roman's, and presented his fist. "It's great we can be civil like this, eh bro?"

 

Sionis looked at the expectant fist, and shook his head irritably. "Uh-Un."

 

Li cleared his throat, as he lay a printed document onto the table. "Mr Sionis would like you to refrain from using the following terms whilst in his presence: brother, bro, buddy, pal, friend, chum, dude and man."

 

"I can't say man? Man..." Franco sighed.

 

Sionis winced.

 

"He has also requested that all business be conducted through me," Li added.

 

"Is... Is "Mr Sionis" mute or something?" Franco paused.

 

"Mr Sionis was very close to his father. He found his infidelity highly upsetting," Bookworm explained.

 

Franco looked at Sionis then back at Li, eyebrow raised. "Really, because I thought he killed him?"

 

Intent on changing the subject, Penguin ran his fork along his plate loudly. "The Chilean Sea Bass is wonderful, you know," he said.

 

Ferris poked his own fish grumpily. "You got any hamburgers?" he grumbled.

 

"There's a Big Belly Burger down the street," Li replied, in the hope Ferris would simply get up and leave. Instead, Iron-Hat reached into his pocket, and ordered a takeaway on his phone.

 

"I'll take a blubber shake," the Physician said to Cobblepot expectantly.

 

Li noted the peculiar request, and looked at him curiously.

 

"Ah, my staff made some choice changes to our menu following the reconstruction. The blubber shakes were unsustainable. And violated several health codes..." Penguin murmured.

 

"Then, I'll just have water," he growled disappointingly. Cobblepot snapped his fingers, and the waiter disappointed into the kitchen, returning moments later with a small glass.

 

Sionis pushed his chair out, and walked out the room. "I can't do this."

 

"Excuse me," Li said, as he followed him into the cloakroom.

 

Left alone, the remaining mobsters sat idly, listening to them argue through the walls. Their attention diverted, the Physician grabbed the salt shaker, and poured it into his glass of water, stirring it with the end of Ferris' fork.

 

"Sir, please-" Li's voice called out.

 

"David Franco, Li. Dave Franco!" Sionis' voice hissed back angrily.

 

"It's a little confusing, but-"

 

"A little? A little! How can I run a drug empire without a hundred people hounding me on Twitter about a 23rd Jump Street film?"

 

"He's not Dave Franco."

 

"Don't care. Tell him to change his name."

 

"I'm not doing that."

 

"Yes. Do that. Call him... William, or Alex, or Usurper, you're good with names."

 

"Sir, you know what's at stake here."

 

...

 

"Fiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiine."

 

The door creaked open, as Sionis walked back in briskly, and slid into his chair. "I'm... supposed to invite you to a party. Every year, Janus hosts a holiday party, and this year-" Sionis looked at Li for support. "This year, I'd like you to attend."

 

White Mask put a thoughtful hand to his chin. "A party? In this climate? Government guidelines say-"

 

"Just. Say. Yes," Roman said through gritted teeth.

 

"Then yes," Franco replied uneasily. "Don't suppose I could bring a date?" he inquired.

 

"Sure," Sionis laughed suddenly. "And hell, if you can find someone who can stand to look at you- let alone bone you, all power to you."

 

"Finally," Ferris exclaimed, as he grabbed his food from the delivery boy, and poured the greasy mixture over the table. "Oh, I'm sorry, did you lot want anything?"

 

==Jenna Duffy's Apartment==

 

November 12th. 19:38

 

Jenna sat on her sofa, her phone sat beside her on a plump cushion. Every two minutes she'd glance at it longingly, as though she were waiting on something or someone, but she'd always resist. She paused the television- still playing a news report on the Wayne Manor fire, and wondered. 'Was that him?' she thought anxiously.

She let out a deep sigh, and finally, she relented, reaching out to her phone, only to find nothing- No text messages, no missed calls. Disappointed, she tossed it aside, and tucked her legs under again.

 

The doorbell chimed. 'Was it him?' she wondered again. 'Could it be?'

 

As she put her slippers on, she thought about what she'd say- most of it involved calling him a reckless idiot. She took a deep breath, and tugged on the door handle.

 

"Gar-" she began, then took a surprised step back. Dressed in a black overcoat, drenched in rain, and with an enormous box of chocolates tucked under his arm, was the White Mask.

 

"Davey?" she asked.

 

"Hiya, Jelly Bean, you have a moment?"

anger, temper, irritability outbursts.

 

Manual focus

No photoshop used to blur edges

Exposure: 0.02 sec (1/50)

Aperture: f/5

Focal Length: 24 mm

ISO Speed: 200

 

HAPPY FEATHERY FRIDAY...hope your weekend is a hoot!

 

These two were just flying along in my imagination ;-) I wanted to come up with something that was surreal yet real at the same time.

 

A Photoshop creation using a sky background and two shots of the same Snowy Owl!

 

"Hedwig" is the name of Harry Potter's Snowy Owl in the fictional Harry Potter series of books and films. In the Harry Potter movies, Hedwig is played by a male snowy owl.[1]

 

Hedwig is a gift to Harry from Hagrid in the first book of the series, purchased in Diagon Alley while shopping for supplies for Harry's first year at Hogwarts. The name Hedwig is a name Harry found in his school book "A History Of Magic".

 

In the series, owls are used by witches and wizards primarily as message and package couriers, which make owls more useful than the other pets allowed students (rats, toads and cats), so Hedwig is used for messages throughout the series. Keeping Hedwig at home during the summer holiday continues to be just one more area of conflict between Harry and his Muggle guardian aunt and uncle.

 

Harry seems connected to Hedwig, as a usual pet owner would be. In fact, during the fifth book in the series, Harry becomes sorry at being irritable with her, and also is with her when lonely.

 

During the same book, Hedwig is also injured while carrying a message between Harry and Sirius Black. It was never clearly stated as to what exactly was responsible for the attack on Hedwig, but Dolores Umbridge was suspected later in the book when she began inspecting incoming and outgoing letters.

 

Hedwig could be considered an owl with a 'formal' personality, somewhat disdainful of Pigwidgeon's hyperactive bumbling and the flashy tropical birds sent by Sirius Black at one time. She also has a habit of staring/hooting "reproachfully", cuffing Harry with a wing when miffed (which is rather often), and being far more vocal than the average Snowy Owl. Due to her relationship with Harry, she can almost be said to have a maternal instinct towards Harry, despite her being an animal, due to the seeming magic nature of owls in the series, and the fact that she almost seems to be trying to give Harry the kind of support a parent might. Though she also can (and does) act with hurt or anger (such as when Harry was unable to use Hedwig for a time to communicate to the outside world, particularly with Sirius Black, his godfather and he failed to explain the situation properly to her) due to Harry's sometimes innocently thoughtless actions or words. It is implied throughout the books that Hedwig can fully understand Harry and apparently to some extent vice versa.

 

J.K. Rowling has said that she found the name "Hedwig" in a book of medieval saints; Saint Hedwig has become known as a patron saint of orphans and abandoned children.

 

Like Audrey, Erin needs to pray and think this through.

 

"Lord, I thank You for blessing me with such a friend. But, Father, why do I feel so much guilt now? When she died, suddenly, all that I could think of was the ways in which I let her down. My foolish irritabilities... all the times I was selfish with her seemed to flood back on me. I know we were good friends, so close. And I know she would say that. But, Lord, why is it so hard to see the good times now? All I seem to think about now is how I let her down."

 

"For God so loved the world, that He gave His only begotten Son, that whoever believes in Him shall not perish, but have eternal life." *

 

Oh, Lord, of course, You love her more than I ever did. You love us with your perfect, unchanging love. I see my fickleness, how my feelings sway, burn bright and then go dark, but Your love is an unchanging fire. Your love perfects us and sanctifies us. All of our failures to each other, like all of our other failures, are sealed under Jesus' blood, forgiven and perfected as You cause all things to work together to our good and Your glory.**

 

"Who will bring a charge against God’s elect? God is the one who justifies; who is the one who condemns? Christ Jesus is He who died, yes, rather who was raised, who is at the right hand of God, who also intercedes for us. Who will separate us from the love of Christ? Will tribulation, or distress, or persecution, or famine, or nakedness, or peril, or sword? Just as it is written, “For Your sake we are being put to death all day long; We were considered as sheep to be slaughtered.” But in all these things we overwhelmingly conquer through Him who loved us. For I am convinced that neither death, nor life, nor angels, nor principalities, nor things present, nor things to come, nor powers, nor height, nor depth, nor any other created thing, will be able to separate us from the love of God, which is in Christ Jesus our Lord."***

 

Christ Jesus is raised. We are safe. Thank you Lord.

_________________________________________

*John 3:16

** Romans 8:28

*** Romans 8:33-39

How Much God Wants to Bless You “The Lord will again delight in you and make you prosperous.” (Deuteronomy 30:9)

God does not bless us begrudgingly. There is a kind of eagerness about the beneficence of God. He does not wait for us to come to him. He seeks us out, because it is his pleasure to do us good. God is not waiting for us; he is pursuing us. That, in fact, is the literal translation of Psalm 23:6, “Surely your goodness and love will follow me all the days of my life.” God loves to show mercy. Let me say it again. God loves to show mercy. He is not hesitant or indecisive or tentative in his desires to do good to his people. His anger must be released by a stiff safety lock, but his mercy has a hair trigger. That’s what he meant when he came down on Mount Sinai and said to Moses, “The Lord , the Lord , the compassionate and gracious God, slow to anger, abounding in love and faithfulness.” (Exodus 34:6). God is never irritable or edgy. His anger never has a short fuse. Instead he is infinitely energetic with absolutely unbounded and unending enthusiasm for the fulfillment of his delights. This is hard for us to comprehend, because we have to sleep every day just to cope, not to mention thrive. We go up and down in our enjoyments. We get bored and discouraged one day and feel hopeful and excited another. We are like little geysers that gurgle and sputter and pop erratically. But God is like a great Niagara — you look at it and think: Surely this can’t keep going at this force for year after year after year. That’s the way God is about doing us good. He never grows weary of it. It never gets boring to him.

_____

Devotional excerpted from The Pleasures of God, pages 172–174 - John Piper

Thought you may be beautiful to me. But what an irritable character!

Edited with a little hdr. Samsung S20 plus

An handsome Indian kid sitting very moody....

 

« Un enfant peut toujours enseigner trois choses à un adulte :

être content sans raison, s'occuper toujours à quelque-chose

et savoir exiger de toutes ses forces ce qu'il désire. ♥ »

- Paulo Coelho -

 

Nikon D700 with Nikkor 70-300mm f/4-5.6G. Camera Settings : F8,1/250,ISO1600.

 

On the edge of the zone, Sonar paced irritably. It wasn’t fair. It wasn’t his station to be ordered around such as this. He had come from a noble bloodline. A noble house. He did not deserve to be thrust in with this repulsive rabble, and he certainly did not deserve to have his finger blown off, let alone his head.

 

This was Sonar’s mental state, and had been since his first mission. He stopped pacing, and took in the air. In the distance, the humming and crackling of the compound’s generators tried their damndest to disrupt his thoughts.

 

They should be so lucky, he thought.

 

Angle-Man, sitting in the grass: Well, this may be my favorite assignment so far.

 

Sonar: To sit idly while our artificial superiors traverse through their potential doom? Though it disgusts me, I have to agree.

 

Angle-Man: Ah, c’mon, Wladon, you can’t really think you’re all that much better than the rest of us. I mean, today proved that more than anything else.

 

Sonar sneers: Meaning what, exactly?

 

Angle-Man sneers back: Your royal little finger of course.

 

This is all it takes. Sonar leaps towards Angle-Man with the ferocity of starved wolves and begins to beat him mercilessly. Bare knuckle striking open cheek with a wet packing sound, trim, shined boots connecting blows. The blood spitting up from Bend’s mouth mixing with the blood leaking from Sonar’s finger.

 

Waller: What the HELL do you two think you’re doing? Stand down, Sonar, or you know of the consequence.

 

Sonar stands, and backs away a few feet.

 

Sonar: You know, madame, I’ve never actually witnessed one of these so-called detonators in action. Could they be a hoax after all?

 

Waller: Would you like to find out, child?

 

There begins a beeping, soft at first, but soon growing louder, and louder, and quicker. A tiny red light begins to glow in Sonar’s neck. He feels himself begin to sweat. What he can only classify as a migraine is forming.

 

Sonar: very well, VERY WELL! I relent!

 

The beeping ceases.

 

Waller: Good move. Now, if you two aren’t fit to sacrifice yourselves to whatever green hell is in front of you, you can at least do us the favor of not killing each other.

 

Sonar: Of course, Madam.

 

Angle-Man: Yes, ma’am.

 

The line disconnects.

 

Angle-Man coughs, then starts to chuckle: Besides, if you axed me, who’d get you back home safe and sound?

 

Sonar says nothing. He simply scowls, and peers into the green.

--------------------------------------------------------------

It took then what felt like hours to finally reach the Belle Reve monitor room. Or at least, what the monitor room used to be. What once was a dazzling, staggering display of screens, lights and wires, was reduced to a moss-covered wall, vines entangled in the wires, and insects buzzing overhead.

 

The room was nearly pitch-black. A cave like environment, the only real light emanated from fluorescent fungus, marching up the walls.

 

And one glowing power button, a neon orange against the cold green.

 

“Aparo,” says Deadshot quietly, “you’re doorman.”

 

Agent-Orange, twitching slightly, shuffles back to the rooms’ entrance and kneels outside. He drags his finger through the moss and rubs to between his thumb and forefinger.

 

“Dirty, filthy,” he mutters, “all of this simply must be cleansed.”

 

Armageddon heaves his heavy axe to rest it on his shoulder. He wasn’t used to this much activity for so long. Winded, he sits down across from the monitors and leans against the foam-like wall. It’s comfortable, but damp. He gazes at one of the flowers spread across the wall beside him. He thinks of the flowers in Caroline’s garden back home, and their whispers as they crackled into ash.

 

Deadshot rests his hands on the mossy control panel, and begins to fiddle with the buttons. In the center of all the keys, an orchid grows. He considers it a moment, then plucks it, and places it aside.

 

Finally, it catches his eye; the pulsing orange circle in the lowest possible corner. He presses it in, and watches as the few screens without vines through them start to shakily boot up.

 

From the top of one, a small bird, unnoticed by the crew, flits out of the room and down the hall.

 

Had they been given the chance to look carefully, they would have noticed the birds’ eyes were those of Doctor Karin Grace.

 

The first thing about the room Captain Boomerang notices, is the smell.

 

“Strewth!” he cries, “Like someone took a bloody bath in perfume an’ died right after.”

 

Then he catches sight of it. Something that no on else noticed when they entered the room. There’s a body on the far side, spread upwards on the wall, coated in fungus and mold.

 

Deadshot has been examining what little footage he can find. The files are corrupted, twisted and altered, like everything else. There is little playback, and the recordings stop ten minutes after whatever happened, happened. He manages, just barely, to find the point of origin.

 

In the center of Belle Reve, there was an explosion of light, then the cameras went out.

 

“Damn,” He mutters to himself. He fiddles a little further, then realizes it’s fruitlessness. “Well, this was a bust.” He says to his companions. “The files told us nothing, and all we’ve found are a bunch of corpses and Doc Evans’s tags. Pack it up, we’re heading out.”

 

“Don’t Miss Waller wanna know what happened with this place?” asks Armageddon, still seated, a flower twirling in his fingers.

 

“Sure,” says Deadshot, “Problem is there’s no way to find out. Best thing t’do is just set fire to the whole building probably.

 

Agent Orange, by the door, calls “Or we could journey to the center. Get right to the nucleus and remove it’s heart.”

 

Deadshot leans against the console and stares into the wall for a minute. His hand fiddles with the picture on his belt. He could really use a cigarette.

 

“Alright,” He says, “Why not. We’ve made it this far, may as well go all the way. Everybody, fall in, we’re gone.”

 

He begins to move towards the door, Armageddon in tow. Agent Orange stands to meet them. The get halfway down the hall before Deadshot realizes their one short.

 

“Double back,” he mutters, frustrated.

 

At the far-side of the monitor room, where the fungi creep up the wall, obscuring the form of a well-hidden body, Captain Boomerang has found something of interest.

 

“Harkness?” Says Deadshot, guns trained instinctively until he sees Boomerang is fine.

 

“Lawton ole chum,” greets Boomerang. There’s dread in his voice, “You’ll never guess what I just dredged up.”

 

“And I don’t want to. What is it?”

 

Boomerang holds aloft a small leather book, worn with apparent age.

 

“Seems this bloke on the wall here that you all moseyed on by, is an old mate of ours, and this, just so happens to be his writing. Gentlemen, I give ya the journal of Rick Flag.”

 

It has many healing properties. Best known to heal wounds. Great on skin blemishes and scars.

Manuka honey also has antibacterial, antiviral, and anti-inflammatory properties that may help treat numerous ailments, including irritable bowel syndrome, gastric ulcers, periodontal disease, and upper respiratory infections. It's also regarded as "super food"

We go to see these guys every year. This time they didn't have much luck with the babies with only one surviving.

Cute as a button these guys.

Radjah shelduck. Tadorna radjah.

The radjah shelduck forms long-term pair-bonds, and is usually encountered in lone pairs or small flocks. During the wet season the males commonly become very irritable, and have been observed attacking their mates

The radjah shelduck does not use nesting materials except for some self-supplied down feathers. The clutches range from 6 to 12 eggs. Incubation time is about 30 days.

If you enjoy my photos. Please take the time to like my page.

==Arkham Asylum==

 

"Is it done?" Crane pried, leaning forward to examine the collection of monitors on the wall.

 

"Juuuust finishing rendering, I'm setting it to run on auto. If you think you can handle that," Billings teased Cobb, as he inputted a final command into his keyboard.

 

"I can handle it," Cobb crackled back irritably, clearly insulted by Billings' insinuation.

 

Billings shrugged dispassionately, and took a glug from his flask, beer dripping down his chin. Since Thawne returned, he was drinking even more than usual. "Hey, I never asked!" he burped out suddenly. "What's the one thing you guys want most?"

 

The response was a resounding groan from the rest of the room.

 

"C'mon, it's topical. You, Zoom?"

 

Zolomon, looked off into the distance; he would keep his fantasy to himself, yet even so, Crane could discern a slight change in his demeanour.

 

"Forget it," a less perceptive Billings groaned. "Hayden?"

 

"Ooh!” Hayden clapped his hands together with delight. “A world to conquer! Billions of playthings to control!" he jumped up and down giddily. "Just like the Monitor promised. He promised, you know! Oh, so long ago... But he's gone. He's gone and I'm still waiting."

 

"Well, I don't know about any monitor, but it's a strong start," Billings smiled. "Crane?"

 

Scarecrow paused. "What do I want most?" he repeated, a thin, nostalgic smile breaking across his scarred face. "Leek and potato soup."

 

"What?" Billings frowned, his excitement dissipating like the steam from one of Crane’s broths.

 

"A warm bowl of leek and potato soup," Crane whispered longingly, practically salivating. "Funny where the mind wanders, no? I am not a sentimental person by any measure, and yet... I find myself fantasising not of a world torn apart by terror, nor of a working body... But of my mother's humble, homemade broth, a slight comfort from the wretched hell that was my childhood. And what of yourself?"

 

Billings chuckled. "Easy. I want my leg back. I want to walk without limping. I... I want Best Picture. Sims: you and I could partner up, do some real arthouse shit, A24, the works; tits, gore, close ups of flowers... And when those accolades come flooding in, I want someone to share it with. I want... I want a mouth around my cock. One of those pretty broads, from Hollywood. But the classy kind, not those new-age sl-ts. Now, Walker's wife, she was a knockout."

 

"Oh, yes, we liked Mrs Moth..." the King giggled, his tail wriggling between his legs. "But what of Selina Kyle?" the creature pried.

 

"Wayne's girl? I guess. Nice ass, but the short hair's a turn-off. I like my women to look like women, you know?"

 

The King didn't like that; a quiet hiss escaped his saliva-drenched lips, but went unnoticed by Billings.

 

"How about you, Sims?" Billings pressed on.

 

Sims laced his hands together as he contemplated his response. "Do you remember the day Superman died?" he asked at last.

 

"Well, of course, everyone fucking does."

 

Sims’ glass-like eyes narrowed. "Exactly. When that Doomsday monster murdered Superman one of the photographers from the Planet, Olsen, snuck in quick, got the money shot. And what a shot it was; a tattered cape hanging from a piece of twisted metal like a flag; Lane, tear stricken, clutching his battered body. I don't think there's a single person on the planet who hasn't seen that photo.

 

And it was taken by a child.

 

It was everywhere. On every paper, on every website. That is what I want. I want to be there when Batman dies. Someone else can shoot him. Stab him. Choke him. But I want to be the one to take that picture."

 

"Cobb?"

 

The hologram flickered. "Aside from the obvious? I want you to stop downloading porn on my servers. Tall ask."

 

==Butchinsky's==

 

While the rest of The Misfits drowned their sorrows in unrefrigerated spirits, Chuck, Ten, Bridget, Kuttler and Needham had set up shop in Len’s office. While Ten finished unfurrowing blueprints of Arkham Island, Needham wandered off, distracted by a framed class photo hanging above a metal safe. He wiped the dust-covered glass with his thumb and frowned. "Huh. Didn't know Fiasco went to middle school with Bruce Wayne," he spoke, noticing a skinny blond boy shooting daggers at a dark-haired student two rows in front of him.

 

"Are you kidding? He never shut up about it," Chuck smiled nostalgically.

 

"Really?" Ten frowned. "He always struck me as pretty reserved. Closed off, even."

 

"Then you never saw him with a shotgun," Needham turned his head back.

 

"Len's a good man, honest. He just... holds a few grudges. Anyway, it was just for a year or two, before Wayne left for soul searching or whatever he did abroad."

 

"A man like that, I can hazard a guess," Bridget shivered.

 

“Wayne isn't so bad," Ten vouched for him. "He gave me a job at Wayne Enterprises once I got out of Blackgate, gave me these prosthetics… He even donated money to Joey and I's start-up."

 

Kuttler shot Needham a glance. "They don't know?" he whispered.

 

"No, and he'd rather we kept it that way."

 

Kuttler rolled his eyes, slumping back in his chair in annoyed resignation.

 

"Eric, you were on Arkham Island, did you learn anything when you were down there?" Chuck asked, unaware of the duo’s hushed exchange.

 

"Nothing of value," Needham replied discouragingly, gesturing to the forest on the maps. "They have King of Cats on patrol, cameras everywhere… Bats figured Spellbinder has cast an illusion across the entire island. We'd be going in blind. Can't say I like our odds,” he spoke candidly.

 

"Yes, I recognise the energy signature… Hmm, he’s not been capable of something on this scale before; that must be Cobb’s doing. It’s going to be tricky to disable, I know of only one other who could…” Kuttler presumed. “I should be able to access the bunker, that uses Lexcorp security, it was always cheaper than Luthor let on… Do you have any idea how to access the Asylum?”

 

"Well, full-frontal would-be suicide," Bridget stated. "What about the beach?"

 

“S’possible, if we had someone drawing their fire,” Needham answered.

 

"Well, I could maybe get onto the rooftop, access Intensive Treatment from there. Assuming that's where they're keeping them. Otis can take a team into the sewers… Just need them focused on the courtyards. Draw them out. Knock them out," Chuck smirked.

 

“Hah,” Ten laughed dryly, twirling a lock of greying hair. “You make it sound easy.”

 

~-~

 

"What're you doing back there?" Blake inquired, sipping from a warm bottle of beer, and peering over the counter.

 

Joey turned off the blow torch and lowered his goggles. "Back at Gotham General, Carson took down Suit with some kind of Fire-Sword-"

 

"It was a lightsaber, Rig. Let's call it as it is," Gar interrupted, taking time away from watching the door as he waited for Jenna.

 

"Lightsaber, fine," Joey smiled slightly. "Carson might not be going anywhere, but with what we know about the other Outcasts, we need every advantage we can get. I'm just trying to see if I can reverse engineer a fire- uh, lightsaber of my own," he explained to the pair, as he continued to weld together his weapon.

 

"Keep working at it," Gar nodded curtly, as he patted him on the back, then turned his attention back to the bar floor; The front door opened with a creak and Jenna entered the bar. And, to Gar's surprise (and his chagrin), she was not alone:

 

"What’s she doing here?" Gar frowned, watching as Volcana entered, a child-filled papoose around her chest.

 

"She insisted," Jenna rolled her eyes, as the two embraced in a hug that was all too short.

 

Clair raised baby Josie above her head and planted her in Gar's arms, a delighted "Dada" escaping the child's lips, as she wriggled around and cooed.

 

"Dude... is that baby fucking flammable?" Sharpe asked, as a fiery snot bubble escaped Josie's chubby nose.

 

"Most are," Flannegan responded dryly; he was standing by a dusty pool table; breaking up the neat triangle of pool balls with the chalked-up base of his staff for dramatic effect.

 

"Jenna, dear, listen. I make a margarita that is to die for," Clair declared to a bewildered Duffy, as she parted the saloon doors and disappeared behind the bar, unearthing two cocktail glasses and a metal shaker. Blake's eyes followed her as she bent over, a sudden flash in his brown eyes.

 

"Really?" Gar growled disapprovingly at him.

 

"Hey, it's been a hot minute. Don't be greedy, Lynns," he lectured him on dubious moral grounds.

 

Gar rolled his eyes, swallowing his retort. "Clair, this is serious-" he called out over the distracting sound of bottles clinking against one another as his ex searched the cupboards for garnishes, but it was no use.

 

"So am I," she replied airily. "Now where does that Pencil keep the salt?" she scowled.

 

Gar let out an exasperated sigh, his eyes meeting Jenna's as he sought understanding. “Beside the rat poison," he relented tiredly.

 

"Fuckin’ savage," Flannegan muttered disdainfully, moving his staff away from the pool table so that Mayo could have a turn. The Condiment King eagerly jabbed the cue forwards; the white ball shot off the table and, gaining momentum, crashed through the window.

 

“WHO FUCKING THREW THAT?”

 

The front door swung open for the second time in five minutes, as Doctor Gaige stormed forward, a white pool ball in his hand; he was joined by a dour looking Axel, a tearful Kitten, and Simon, who was holding Cammy on his shoulders; the youngest of the Gaige-Walkers playfully tugging on the antennae on his purple helmet.

 

"Heyo, Doc, you sure you can bring them in here? Aren't they a little young?" Sharpe teased.

 

Gaige and Axel stuck their middle fingers out in unison.

 

“Funny,” Axel scowled.

 

“Your balls drop yet?” Gaige queried.

 

"Josie!" Cammy pointed excitedly from atop Simon's shoulders. Simon smiled, and lowered his younger brother to the ground, letting him toddle along the wooden floor towards Gar’s child.

 

"Cam-Cam!" Josie squealed back as she tried to wrestle herself from her father’s grip, clapping her chubby fists together.

 

"Well? Where is he? Where is that self-righteous, self-serious Furry-Fetish Fuckwit?" Gaige demanded.

 

"He's gone."

 

Gaige tilted his head towards Needham; the meeting in Len’s office now adjourned. "What?"

 

"He took a hit in the precinct, and he's out of action."

 

"That inconsiderate bastard!" Gaige roared, throwing the pool ball out the other window.

 

“Wait, we’re not doing this without the Bat, are we?” Blake gasped, flecks of beer foam in his orange beard.

 

“We’ve done plenty without the Bat,” Gar responded.

 

“Yeah, heists. And guess what, he managed to kick our asses every time!” Blake panicked. "Look, it doesn't matter if we beat the clown, if we even can. If we lose Killer, it's a phallic victory at best," he declared despondently.

 

"You're doing that intentionally," Kuttler spoke, massaging his temples.

 

"Doing what?"

 

Sharpe chugged his fifth pint and beamed. The Misfits, the Gaige-Walkers, Jenna, and Needham all groaned, fearing the worst. "I'm with Lynns. Listen, y'all know I'm no big fan of Moth's. He hung me out to dry while you all went scouting for college chicks-"

 

"That's not what happened-" Ten protested.

 

"That's exactly what happened," Blake testified.

 

"Doesn't matter! Look, we all have our talents; Ten, you provide sagely wisdom, Gar sets things on fire and is sad about it; Rigger sets things on fire with impressive enthusiasm. Blake is a stellar one-on-one combatant, (and a less than stellar ladies' man, let's be honest, Tom) while I literally have plot on my side. Now, Moth, Moth is a born leader, that’s why we need him! And Chuck was born to lead whenever he falls into a depressive state. You, Calculator, you do something with computers, right? Bridget gave us a lovely marketable redemption arc. And Needham? Oh, Needham knows where to get all the best drugs; downside is, he's also killed most of the suppliers. Jenna is a woman, and that's great! We need more of those! Speaking of more of those, Volcana-"

 

"Leave me out of this, Texas Toast,” Clair warned, her margarita glass burning in her grip.

 

"Kay! Otis has a bunch of skills that I don't really wanna look into, but they exist! Doc, you make animal cruelty a loveable quirk! We are all valuable, and there isn't anything that can stop us if we can put our minds to it."

 

"Oh, and Mayo. Forgot about him," Sharpe added apologetically.

 

"So did I!" Mitch replied, toasting Sharpe's speech with a can of Cream Soda.

 

“Still, it’s not going to be easy. We’ll need nothing short of an army to storm Arkham,” Chuck declared.

 

“Hhn. Is that all? I can get you an army,” Gaige growled assertively.

 

"Ooh, and I could ask Fang!" Kitten squealed delightedly.

 

The Misfits stared back blankly. Chuck looked at their resident database, Kuttler, who shrugged.

 

"Uh... My boyfriend? Fang?" Kitten twirled a lock of long blonde hair.

 

"I, uh, appreciate the enthusiasm, Kitten. But we can't ask a boy to fight for us... We need powerhouses,” Chuck replied.

 

"But he-"

 

"-Deserves to spend the rest of his life with you, I'm sure,” he smiled, placing a supportive, if not a little dismissive, hand on her shoulder.

 

"Which for him is one to two years," Axel muttered.

 

"Are we really doing this?" Joey asked. "Fighting a speedster, the Psycho Pirate, Joker?"

 

Chuck looked around the room, at the faces waiting expectantly. "Hell yeah."

 

~-~

 

Simon entered the bathroom; he flicked water into his dry eyes, he rubbed his eyelids, he looked up at the mirror, and then-?

 

And then he jumped back.

 

In his reflection, was a man dressed in yellow, red eyes boring through Simon’s petrified figure. Simon spun around, praying it was the sleep deprivation.

 

It wasn’t.

 

"If you try to tell anyone I'm here, I'll slaughter all of them before you can finish the first syllable. Do you understand?"

 

"How- How are you-?" the boy choked.

 

"Don't speak. Just nod."

 

It took everything in Simon’s power not to run. To scream. To hide. But he was restrained by the thought of what Eobard Thawne might do to his family if he refused him. So, he swallowed his fear and met his request with a rigid nod.

 

"Good,” Thawne smiled with that sadistic, condescending smile that had haunted Simon for over five years. “You have questions, naturally, that's understandable. Let me catch you up to speed: The last time you saw me, you were going back in time, to undo Chronos and the Pike girl's little 'mess.' Well done, by the way, I see things are mostly back to normal... Now, the last time I saw you, you were choking to death on your own blood.”

 

Simon stared back with unblinking eyes and Thawne yawned.

 

“Time Travel; it's a difficult concept to wrap your head around, if you're a novice... Oh, what's the matter, Simon? Life flashing before your eyes?"

 

"You're- You're with the Outcasts?” he spoke at last, each word a challenge as they fought their way past the lump in his throat. “This- this was all you?"

 

Thawne let out a cold, mirthless chuckle as he approached. His hand lingered on Simon’s chest, mere inches from where he’d once plunged his hand, his smile growing broader as he felt the boy tremble. "Oh, please, I'm not responsible for every bad day in your life. You're not The Flash. The clown has his agenda, I have mine. Consider this a... ‘notice’ on the eve of war."

 

His hand retreated from Simon’s person, as his body coursed with red lightning.

 

"Wait!" Simon pleaded. He couldn’t let him go, not without asking him.

 

Thawne tried to hide his annoyance. Poorly. "Yes?" he asked.

 

"Where you come from, whatever that original timeline was... Was this always supposed to happen?"

 

Thawne exhaled. "Why should it matter?"

 

"Because... I need to know if..."

 

"If your stepmother was always fated to die?"

 

Thawne zoomed behind him, and Simon's stomach lurched. "No, more than that..." he smiled, piecing together Simon's motives. "You want to know if it's your fault."

 

Simon nodded, avoiding eye contact.

 

He chuckled coldly. "Well, I'm sorry to say you severely overestimate my knowledge of your family, and my interest… But I shall tell you this, in my timeline? Before Chronos shattered it, and you tried to patch it up with sticky tape and chewing gum?

 

The Arkham Project never got off the ground."

 

A flash of lightning and Thawne was gone, but not without leaving a lingering, grinning afterimage in his wake. A final taunt to the boy he’d killed.

 

==Gotham Warehouse District==

 

The site of Drury’s first Mothcave

 

Joey christened his new firesword by using its blade to melt through the lock to the warehouse, leading the group into an abandoned loading bay. Jenna took point, kneeling beside a metal hatch and opening her toolbox. She retrieved her favourite power drill and unscrewed the set of four bolts. Next, Gar leaned in, helping her lift the heavy hatch aside. Taking the lead, Chuck grasped the end of his torch and walked down the steps, uncovering a sparse basement below. He ripped a sheet down and revealed a large mirror. He looked to Axel for confirmation, then chapped rhythmically on the glass. At first, nothing happened, then a dishevelled looking man with scruffy orange hair stuck his head out of the mirror. "Aye?" he slurred, evidently hungover.

 

"Drury's been taken."

 

"Well dinnae just stand there!" the Scottish man commanded, pulling Chuck through the portal, and re-emerging in a bar in Keystone City. As the Misfits took turns stepping through the mirror, Chuck caught the bar’s costumed inhabitants up to speed.

 

“Yeah, Zoom’s a tough bastard,” Mick Rory nodded, downing a shot of whiskey. “So, unless you lot are carrying secret speedster powers, you’ve no chance.”

 

"Not alone no, but that’s why we're assembling a crack team," Joey proclaimed, his cheeks red.

 

"Och, did somebody say crack?" McCulloch asked, rubbing his running nose.

 

The Misfits stared back uncomfortably.

 

"Ach, ahm just joshing ya,” McCulloch chortled. “But seriously, if ya do ha' any crack, best ye keep it ta yerselves. Ahm tryna get clean."

 

Before the Misfits could offer their support of his sobriety, a blonde woman entered the room, pausing as her amber eyes met Chuck’s. Rory growled protectively.

 

McCulloch grinned. "Och, aye. Lis', this is Chuckie Broon. He's one a' Axel’s dad's pals. Fae tha Misfits"

 

The blonde woman, Lisa, waved back politely, then left the way she came. Rory rose from his stool and followed her out.

 

"You'll have ta forgive Rory,” McCulloch apologised. “He thinks yer aw fookin’ mental. No' me? I ken yer aw fookin' mental. Wit do yous have in mind?"

 

Jenna smirked. "We know a couple guys."

 

~-~

 

"Fame, and fortune?" Paul Booker asked, lowering his pint, wiping away the thick layer of beer foam with the back of his hand. "Sure! Why not!"

 

"But Big Sir has lots of fame and fortune, Mr Major,” the enormous man beside him cooed.

 

"And some of us have a triple mortgage and a boat to pay off!” Booker snapped back.

 

"Big Sir told you that was a bad investment,” Ratchett replied sternly.

 

"Like I'm gonna take financial advice from a gopher that can't count to ten! This- This pays, don't it?" Booker’s eyes squinted at Jenna.

 

==The Broken Arrow. Star City==

 

“-And that’s why we’ll beat Green Arrow once and for all!” the Pinball Wizard proclaimed, making his speech from atop an overturned wine crate.

 

William Tockman sighed as his back pocket began vibrating; he removed his clock-like helmet and picked up his phone. "Clocko, it's Maj. Got another job for you," a familiar voice called out.

 

Clock King looked over at Scimitar, now picking his nose, and Rainbow Archer, in a perpetual state of swallowing saliva and, putting the phone away from his mouth, muttered quietly "Thank God."

There is a superhighway between the brain and GI system that holds great sway over humans

"There is a muscle that encircles the gut like a lasso when we are sitting… creating a kink in the tube," Giulia Enders explains in Gut: The Inside Story of Our Body's Most Underrated Organ. She calls the mechanism "an extra insurance policy, in addition to our old friends, the sphincters" (you have two sphincters – keep reading) and cites studies showing that squatters, with their unkinked guts, are less susceptible to haemorrhoids and constipation.Enders, a 25-year-old student at the Institute for Microbiology in Frankfurt, inside an underground public lavatory in central London. "Is there a toilet in this toilet?" she asks when she arrives. There is not, a barista tells her. The Victorian urinals, abandoned in the 1960s, have been converted into cafe with booths and stools, and no room for anything else.After a dash to a pub loo above ground, Enders talks with infectious energy about the wonder of the gut. She has been delighted to discover how many people share her fascination with a subject that can suffer for being taboo. "Even today in the taxi, I told the driver what I was doing and within about two minutes he was telling me about his constipation," she says in perfect English, which she owes to a year of study in the US. "And it's not just him. It's ladies with chic hair at big gala dinners, too. Everyone wants to talk about it."Enders first got noticed after a self-assured turn at a science slam in Berlin three years ago. Her 10-minute lecture went viral on YouTube, and now, weeks after completing her final exams as a doctoral student, she is a publishing sensation. Her book, called Darm Mit Charme ("Charming Bowels") in Germany, has sold more than 1.3 million copies since it came out last year. Rights have been sold to dozens of countries.

 

Her way into the gut is a lightness that some reviewers have found too childish or lacking in scientific rigour to be taken seriously. But there is something compelling and refreshing about her curiosity and popular approach. "When I read the research, I think, why don't people know about this – why am I reading about it in some paper or specialist magazine? It's ridiculous because everyone has to deal with it on a daily basis." After she explains the inspiration for her fixation (the suicide of an acquaintance who had had severe halitosis, and her own teenage skin condition, which turned out to have been caused by a wheat intolerance) Enders starts at the end of the digestive tract with what she calls the "masterly performance" that is defecation. "There is so much about the anus that we don't know," she says, reaching for a gluten-free chocolate chip cookie. "The first surprise is the sophistication of our sphincters… you know about the outer one because you can control it, but the inner one nobody knows about."

This inner opening is beyond our conscious control, releasing waste material into a sort of anal vestibule where, in Enders words, "a small taster" hits sensor cells that tell the body what it's dealing with and how to respond using the outer sphincter. This opening, and our mouths, are the recognisable and controllable ends of a system that, stretched out, would be almost as long as a bus. But it's the bits in between, and their link with the rest of our bodies, including our brains and emotions, that really interest Enders.

 

"Medical diagrams show the small intestine as a sausage thing chaotically going through our belly," she says. "But it is an extraordinary work of architecture that moves so harmonically when you see it during surgery. It's clean and smooth, like soft fabric, and moves like this." She performs a wavy, pulsating motion with her hands. Enders believes that if we could think differently about the gut, we might more readily understand its role beyond basic digestion – and be kinder to it. The great extent to which the gut can influence health and mood is a growing field in medicine. We speak of it all the time, whether we describe "gut feelings", "butterflies in our stomachs", or "pooing our pants" in fear, but popular understanding of this gut-brain axis remains low.

 

A primal connection exists between our brain and our gut. We often talk about a “gut feeling” when we meet someone for the first time. We’re told to “trust our gut instinct” when making a difficult decision or that it’s “gut check time” when faced with a situation that tests our nerve and determination. This mind-gut connection is not just metaphorical. Our brain and gut are connected by an extensive network of neurons and a highway of chemicals and hormones that constantly provide feedback about how hungry we are, whether or not we’re experiencing stress, or if we’ve ingested a disease-causing microbe. This information superhighway is called the brain-gut axis and it provides constant updates on the state of affairs at your two ends. That sinking feeling in the pit of your stomach after looking at your postholiday credit card bill is a vivid example of the brain-gut connection at work. You’re stressed and your gut knows it—immediately.

 

The enteric nervous system is often referred to as our body’s second brain. There are hundreds of million of neurons connecting the brain to the enteric nervous system, the part of the nervous system that is tasked with controlling the gastrointestinal system. This vast web of connections monitors the entire digestive tract from the esophagus to the anus. The enteric nervous system is so extensive that it can operate as an independent entity without input from our central nervous system, although they are in regular communication. While our “second” brain cannot compose a symphony or paint a masterpiece the way the brain in our skull can, it does perform an important role in managing the workings of our inner tube. The network of neurons in the gut is as plentiful and complex as the network of neurons in our spinal cord, which may seem overly complex just to keep track of digestion. Why is our gut the only organ in our body that needs its own “brain”? Is it just to manage the process of digestion? Or could it be that one job of our second brain is to listen in on the trillions of microbes residing in the gut?

 

Operations of the enteric nervous system are overseen by the brain and central nervous system. The central nervous system is in communication with the gut via the sympathetic and parasympathetic branches of the autonomic nervous system, the involuntary arm of the nervous system that controls heart rate, breathing, and digestion. The autonomic nervous system is tasked with the job of regulating the speed at which food transits through the gut, the secretion of acid in our stomach, and the production of mucus on the intestinal lining. The hypothalamic-pituitary-adrenal axis, or HPA axis, is another mechanism by which the brain can communicate with the gut to help control digestion through the action of hormones.

 

This circuitry of neurons, hormones, and chemical neurotransmitters not only sends messages to the brain about the status of our gut, it allows for the brain to directly impact the gut environment. The rate at which food is being moved and how much mucus is lining the gut—both of which can be controlled by the central nervous system—have a direct impact on the environmental conditions the microbiota experiences.

 

Like any ecosystem inhabited by competing species, the environment within the gut dictates which inhabitants thrive. Just as creatures adapted to a moist rain forest would struggle in the desert, microbes relying on the mucus layer will struggle in a gut where mucus is exceedingly sparse and thin. Bulk up the mucus, and the mucus-adapted microbes can stage a comeback. The nervous system, through its ability to affect gut transit time and mucus secretion, can help dictate which microbes inhabit the gut. In this case, even if the decisions are not conscious, it’s mind over microbes.

 

What about the microbial side? When the microbiota adjusts to a change in diet or to a stress-induced decrease in gut transit time, is the brain made aware of this modification? Does the brain-gut axis run in one direction only, with all signals going from brain to gut, or are some signals going the other way? Is that voice in your head that is asking for a snack coming from your mind or is it emanating from the insatiable masses in your bowels? Recent evidence indicates that not only is our brain “aware” of our gut microbes, but these bacteria can influence our perception of the world and alter our behavior. It is becoming clear that the influence of our microbiota reaches far beyond the gut to affect an aspect of our biology few would have predicted—our mind.

 

For example, the gut microbiota influences the body’s level of the potent neurotransmitter serotonin, which regulates feelings of happiness. Some of the most prescribed drugs in the U.S. for treating anxiety and depression, like Prozac, Zoloft, and Paxil, work by modulating levels of serotonin. And serotonin is likely just one of a numerous biochemical messengers dictating our mood and behavior that the microbiota impacts.

 

Most of us can relate to the experience of having butterflies in our stomach, or to a visceral gut-wrenching feeling, and how often are we told not to ignore our “gut-instinct” or “gut-feeling” when making a decision.

 

Even from our simple slang, it’s clear just how symbolically connected the gut is to our emotions. Now, there’s tangible proof to support these popular metaphors.

 

We all have a microbiome, and they are as unique as our neural pathways

Research has shown that the body is actually composed of more bacteria than cells. We are more bug than human! Collectively, these trillions of bacteria are called the microbiome. Most of those bacteria reside in our gut, sometimes referred to as the gut microbiota, and they play multiple roles in our overall health.

 

The gut is no longer seen as an entity with the sole purpose of helping with all aspects of digestion. It’s also being considered as a key player in regulating inflammation and immunity.

 

A healthy gut consists of different iterations of bacteria for different people, and this diversity maintains wellness. A shift away from “normal” gut microbiota diversity is called dysbiosis, and dysbiosis may contribute to disease. In light of this, the microbiome has become the focus of much research attention as a new way of understanding autoimmune, gastrointestinal, and even brain disorders.

 

The benefit of a healthy gut is illustrated most effectively during early development. Research has indicated just how sensitive a fetus is to any changes in a mother’s microbiotic makeup, so much so that it can alter the way a baby’s brain develops. If a baby is born via cesarean section, it misses an opportunity to ingest the mother’s bacteria as it travels down the vaginal canal. Studies show that those born via c-section have to work to regain the same diversity in their microbiome as those born vaginally. Throughout our lives, our microbiome continues to be a vulnerable entity, and as we are exposed to stress, toxins, chemicals, certain diets, and even exercise, our microbiome fluctuates for better or worse.

 

The gut as second brain

Our gut microbiota play a vital role in our physical and psychological health via its own neural network: the enteric nervous system (ENS), a complex system of about 100 million nerves found in the lining of the gut.

 

The ENS is sometimes called the “second brain,” and it actually arises from the same tissues as our central nervous system (CNS) during fetal development. Therefore, it has many structural and chemical parallels to the brain.

 

Our ENS doesn’t wax philosophical or make executive decisions like the gray shiny mound in our skulls. Yet, in a miraculously orchestrated symphony of hormones, neurotransmitters, and electrical impulses through a pathway of nerves, both “brains” communicate back and forth. These pathways include and involve endocrine, immune, and neural pathways.

 

At this point in time, even though the research is inchoate and complex, it is clear that the brain and gut are so intimately connected that it sometimes seems like one system, not two.

 

Our emotions play a big role in functional gastrointestinal disorders

Given how closely the gut and brain interact, it has become clear that emotional and psychosocial factors can trigger symptoms in the gut. This is especially true in cases when the gut is acting up and there’s no obvious physical cause.

 

The functional gastrointestinal disorders (FGIDs) are a group of more than 20 chronic and hard to treat medical conditions of the gastrointestinal tract that constitute a large proportion of the presenting problems seen in clinical gastroenterology.

 

While FGID’s were once thought to be partly “in one’s head,” a more precise conceptualization of these difficulties posits that psychosocial factors influence the actual physiology of the gut, as well as the modulation of symptoms. In other words, psychological factors can literally impact upon physical factors, like the movement and contractions of the GI tract, causing, inflammation, pain, and other bowel symptoms.

 

Mental health impacts gut wellness

In light of this new understanding, it might be impossible to heal FGID’s without considering the impact of stress and emotion. Studies have shown that patients who tried psychologically based approaches had greater improvement in their symptoms compared with patients who received conventional medical treatment.

 

Along those lines, a new pilot study from Harvard University affiliates Benson-Henry Institute for Mind Body Medicine at Massachusetts General Hospital and Beth Israel Deaconess Medical Center found that meditation could have a significant impact for those with irritable bowel syndrome and inflammatory bowel disease. Forty-eight patients with either IBS or IBD took a 9-week session that included meditation training, and the results showed reduced pain, improved symptoms, stress reduction, and the change in expression of genes that contribute to inflammation.

 

Poor gut health can lead to neurological and neuropsychiatric disorders

Vice-versa, poor gut health has been implicated in neurological and neuropsychiatric disorders. Disturbances in gut health have been linked to multiple sclerosis, autistic spectrum disorders, and Parkinson’s disease. This is potentially related to pro-inflammatory states elicited by gut dysbiosis-microbial imbalance on or inside the body. Additional connections between age-related gut changes and Alzheimer’s disease have also been made.

 

Further, there is now research that is dubbing depression as an inflammatory disorder mediated by poor gut health. In fact, multiple animal studies have shown that manipulating the gut microbiota in some way can produce behaviors related to anxiety and depression. (Maes, Kubera, Leunis, Berk, J. Affective Disorders, 2012 and Berk, Williams, Jacka, BMC Med, 2013).

 

Our brain’s health, which will be discussed in more depth in a later blog post, is dependent on many lifestyle choices that mediate gut health; including most notably diet (i.e., reduction of excess sugar and refined carbohydrates) and pre and probiotic intake.

 

The brain-gut connection has treatment implications

We are now faced with the possibility of both prevention and treatment of neurological/neuropsychiatric difficulties via proper gut health. On the flip side, stress-reduction and other psychological treatments can help prevent and treat gastrointestinal disorders. This discovery can potentially lead to reduced morbidity, impairment, and chronic dependency on health care resources.

 

The most empowering aspect to the gut-brain connection is the understanding that many of our daily lifestyle choices play a role in mediating our overall wellness. This whole-body approach to healthcare and wellness continues to show its value in our longevity, well-being, and quality of life: that both physical and mental health go hand-in-hand.

 

www.mindful.org/meet-your-second-brain-the-gut/

Cavendish Mews is a smart set of flats in Mayfair where flapper and modern woman, the Honourable Lettice Chetwynd has set up home after coming of age and gaining her allowance. To supplement her already generous allowance, and to break away from dependence upon her family, Lettice has established herself as a society interior designer, so her flat is decorated with a mixture of elegant antique Georgian pieces and modern Art Deco furnishings, using it as a showroom for what she can offer to her well heeled clients.

 

Tonight however, we are following Lettice’s childhood chum Gerald, also a member of the aristocracy who has gained some independence from his impecunious family by designing gowns from a shop in Grosvenor Street, a business which, after promotion from Lettice and several commissions from high profile and influential society ladies, is beginning to turn a profit. We trail Gerald’s little Morris Cowley four-seat tourer* as he heads south-west through the London streets away from his small Soho flat. Taking the Brompton Road, he drives through Belgravia and then Chelsea as Brompton Road becomes Fulham Road. He drives past the Brompton Cemetery and through the historic centre of Walham Green before going on through Fulham, finally turning south along the Fulham High Street. Passing the Hurlingham Club along the banks of the Thames he continues to go south over the river along Putney Bridge. He turns off the Putney High Street and into the tree lined avenue of Hazlewell Road. He drives along past double storey Edwardian villa after double storey Edwardian villa made of red brick with bay windows, set in neat gardens behind privet hedges or low brick fences, their windows aglow with the warmth of electric lights. Gerald’s Morris finally pulls up in front of one such Edwardian villa. It looks exactly the same as all the others on that side of the street: red brick with crenelled bay windows upstairs and down to either side of a porticoed door. In fact, the portico is one of the few differences that distinguish it from its neighbours either side. It has an arched portico which matches the arch in the lunette above the white painted front door, whereas its neighbours have square porticos with crenelling that matches that along the tops of the bay windows. Two banks of chimneypots at either side of the villa rise from the steeply hipped roof of shingles and a central attic balconette with French doors is flanked by oriel windows.

 

The villa belongs to Gerald’s friend, Harriet Milford, the orphaned daughter with little formal education of a middle-class family solicitor. Gerald met Harriet by chance at a haberdashery one day and they have formed a strong bond of friendship, of which Lettice was initially rather jealous. Since being orphaned, Harriet has taken in theatrical lodgers to earn a living, and millinery semi-professionally to give her some pin money**, but like Gerald’s fashion house, Harriet’s business has taken off substantially thanks to Lettice introducing her to a couple of her friends, who have spread the word about Harriet’s skill. Amongst Harriet’s lodgers she has a handsome young West End oboist named Cyril, who like all of Harriet’s tenants, is a homosexual. Since befriending Harriet and being invited to the Hazelwell Road villa and meeting him, Cyril and Gerald have become lovers, and both of them are pleased to have the protective closed doors of Harriet’s Putney villa as a place where they do not have to keep their illegal homosexual relationship*** secret and can be free and open like any couple. Tonight, Gerald is joining Cyril, Harriet and several of her other lodgers for a special dinner in honour of his and Cyril’s third anniversary, and will stay the night, sharing the bed in the small room with the oriel window up under the eaves of Harriet’s house with his lover.

 

Gerald smiles as he alights from his tourer, snatching up a bunch of pretty pink roses from the front passenger seat that he bought earlier in the day to grace the dinner table as a thank you to his gracious hostess. He pats his breast pocket and feels the small box concealed within it. He steps up to the black painted wrought iron gate flanked by two capped red brick pillars and opens the gate before walking up the garden path snaking across Harriet’s well clipped lawn. Standing beneath the arched portico, Gerald slips his latchkey****, given to him happily by Harriet so that he might come and go and visit Cyril and her as he pleases, into the shiny brass lock and turns it. Letting himself into the villa he steps across the threshold into the electric illuminated black and white tiled hallway stuffed full of Edwardian vestibule furniture.

 

“Hullo Hattie! Cyril?” he calls out cheerfully. “It’s only me!”

 

He can smell the delicious aroma of roast meat cooking in the kitchen towards the back of the house, yet he immediately ascertains that something is wrong as he hears the muffled sound of anxious voices and a strangulated moan from behind the closed dining room directly to his right. Opening the door slightly, Gerald pops his head around the jamb and observes a chaotic scene.

 

Harriet’s villa’s dining room with its heavy and dark Victorian era furniture, busy wallpaper, potted palms and aspidistras*****, and framed stern Milford family photographs is usually a neat and tidy space, as it is used by all of Harriet’s paying lodgers for their meals taken in. However tonight, rather than being laid with a freshly laundered snowy white linen tablecloth, Harriet’s mother’s gilt edged Edwardian patterned Royal Doulton dinner set and her parents’ wedding cutlery, the long mahogany stained dining table is covered in mess of books, scrap books, postcard albums and loose carte de visites****** all of famous London actresses from the late Victorian and pre-war Edwardian years. In one of the upright Queen Anne style dining chairs with red velvet upholstered seats sits Harriet, still dressed in her outdoor cream coloured Burberry macintosh*******, one of her fashionable cloche hats in a matching shade of cream with a tan grosgrain band upon her head, her imitation crocodile skin handbag on the table in front of her, consoling the other occupant seated at the table – Mr. Charles Dunnage. In his fifties, Charles is more mature than most of Harriet’s other borders who are in their twenties and thirties. He has white hair and an impressive, expertly waxed handlebar moustache, and is a regular Shakespearean actor at the Old Vic******** in Lambeth with a grand and dramatic personality to match. Usually a snappy dresser, tonight he looks dishevelled and his suit is visibly crumpled with dirt and grime marks marring the worsted wool. Glancing at one of Harriet’s teacups sitting before Charles with a soda syphon of tonic water nearly full and a bottle of Gordon’s Dry Gin********* sitting half empty next to it, Gerald quicky ascertains that Charles has probably been drinking heavily since about three in the afternoon. At the foot of the table, Cyril stands in his trousers and a white shirt undone at the collar, his suspenders showing since he lacks his usual vest, and the sleeves of his shirt rolled up past his elbows, exposing his delicately haired arms. He stands with his weight spread more heavily on his left side, his arms akimbo, a look of irritation on his handsome young, clean-shaven face.

 

“Come on Aunt Sally!” Cyril says peevishly, referring to Charles using his female nickname**********. “You can’t just sit there all night looking maudlin into your G and T, duckie!”

 

“Why not, silly Cilla?” Charles slurs back using Cyril’s female alias in return, looking up at Cyril with rheumy red eyes as tears spill down his chubby, florid cheeks. “My life,” He raises a hand dramatically to his forehead. “Is over!”

 

“Oh it’s not over, Charles darling!” Harriet insists. “It’s just a little setback.”

 

He hunches forward again as if the effort of lifting his head and hand was too much, and he takes a swig from his teacup. “Over I tell you!”

 

“You can’t just sit there feeling sorry for yourself, Aunt Sally, because Gerry’s coming to dinner!” Cyril replies thinly. “And I can’t be setting a nice table with you, and Edith Evans*********** and god knows who else spread across it like… like…” He gesticulates dramatically with his right hand, unable to articulate the word to describe the mess before him. “Can I?”

 

“Cyril!” Harriet chides mildly, giving him a hurt look with her soft brown doe eyes************.

 

“Who cares who is coming to dinner when my life is over?” Charles splutters.

 

“I do!” Cyril spits back. “I’ve been making the perfect Beef Wellington************* all afternoon, just so we can all celebrate Gerry’s and my three year anniversary, you ungrateful old queen!” He throws his hands in the air in exasperation. “Just because you are having your latest existential crisis, doesn’t mean the rest of us have to stop our lives for you!”

 

“Cyril!” Harriet says more firmly, giving him a more serious look, shaking her head slightly as she does.

 

“There, there, Charles darling!” Harriet coos, rubbing the older man’s back and right shoulder consolingly. “Cyril didn’t mean to be so thoughtless to your feelings. Did you Cyril?” When Cyril doesn’t reply, even though Charles is too self-absorbed in his own woes to notice, Harriet goes on. “He has been slaving over our oven all afternoon, and he’s spent a pretty penny buying beef fillets from the butchers. We don’t often get a treat like that, do we?” She gently continues to rub his back. “And since Gerry is rather a special guest… and this is rather a special occasion… if you would consent to clearing the table,” she cajoles. “We can help you.”

 

“In a hurry if you don’t mind, Aunt Sally!” Cyril quips. “Gerry will be here any minute!”

 

“Gerry is already here.” Gerald says, announcing his presence as he steps through the door and across the threshold of the dining room.

 

“Gerry darling!” Harriet says, glancing over and smiling across the room at him.

 

“Gerry my darling!” Cyril jumps with surprise, and then quickly recovering himself, flings his arms around Gerald’s neck with joy and kisses him on the lips passionately, a kiss which is returned with equal love and passion. “You’re here already!” Breaking their kiss, he spies the roses in Gerald’s hands, pink and fat. “Roses? For me, Gerry darling?” He releases his hands from about his lover’s neck. “You shouldn’t have… but I’m glad you did.” He goes to reach for them.

 

“Well…” Gerald says with an awkward clearing of his throat. “They’re really for Hattie for allowing us to have this little soirée for our anniversary this evening.”

 

“Oh Gerry!” Harriet gasps as Gerald steps forward and presents them to her with a flourish. “You’re so sweet! Thank you!” Accepting them, she buries her head into the bouquet, savouring the blooms’ sweet and light fragrance.

 

“What?” Cyril exclaims irascibly, dramatically, folding his arms again and giving Gerald a black look. “You buy flowers for Hattie, yet you don’t buy your own beloved Cyril a gift for our anniversary?”

 

“I’ll have you know, Cyril, I have something else for you in a small velvet jeweller’s box, for later,” Gerald replies in a cautionary way, patting his breast pocket. “But only if you are good, and not irascible and snappish!”

 

“Oh Gerry, darling!” Cyril exclaims again, flinging his arms around Gerald again and planting a barrage of kisses on his right cheek. “I’m sorry! It’s just been such a trying afternoon.” He stops kissing his lover and looks accusingly over at the older man sitting at the dining table.

 

“The flowers can be for you and me, Cyril darling.” Harriet ventures. “After all, I’m just the provider of the venue. You’re really the one whose been working so hard today as cook for this evening.”

 

“Yes, and our Beef Wellington will be spoiled if we can’t set the table, Aunt Sally!” Cyril puts emphasis on Charle’s nickname to try and get his attention. “I’m not having us eat such a fine repast at the table in the kitchen.”

 

“Oh, I don’t mind eating at the kitchen table, Cyril darling.” Gerald remarks lightly, thinking about his own small and piteously impoverished Soho flat with the curtain that he uses to conceal the tiny gas ring and trough sink that serves as a kitchenette – a flat too small to even have a dining table and chairs in – but all he can afford to rent at the moment with most profits from his couturier going back into the business to manage it. “After all, we’ve eaten off our laps on the sofa at my flat plenty of times, so any table, kitchen or otherwise, is a luxury for me.”

 

“No!” Cyril replies adamantly. “This is our anniversary dinner and I’m not having us eat it in the kitchen! I want it to be nice. I want it to be special!”

 

“What’s wrong with Charles?” Gerald nods in the older actor’s general direction.

 

“Oh, he’s just channelling his inner Ellen Terry************** again,” Cyril says in an offhand fashion, flailing a hand in Charles’ direction flippantly. “With his usual gravitas and melodrama, whilst our lovely dinner slowly overcooks, dries out and shrivels in the oven whilst he does.”

 

“What happened?” Gerald asks with concern, looking to Harriet, from whom he knows he will get a kinder and more straight forward answer from than his evidently frustrated lover.

 

“He didn’t get the part he was hoping for at the Old Vic.” Harriet hisses back quietly.

 

“Yes, Lady Macbeth!” Cyril adds spitefully.

 

When Charles releases an anguished moan, Harriet glares at Cyril. “Not helpful, Cilla!”

 

“Cyril,” Gerald gasps in offended tones. “Don’t be beastly. It’s most unbecoming.” he chides. “I’m sure you wanted this dinner to be perfect, but it isn’t Charles’ fault that today was the day he was denied a part that he really wanted.”

 

“King Lear***************!” Charles bemoans loudly, lifting himself up again, half stumbling up out of his seat before collapsing back into it again. “It should have been me, not that damnable Eric Adeney****************!”

 

“He started drinking this afternoon in here after he came back from the Old Vic, whilst I was preparing the Beef Wellington in the kitchen.” Cyril explains. “Hattie was out shopping. Then after a while, I’m not sure what time exactly, he slipped off and went to the Albany***************** in search of his beloved Edith Evans, but the porters wouldn’t let him in.”

 

“Damnable cheek, those porters!” Charles opines slurringly, raising his teacup before draining its remnants. “They dirtied up my nice Saville Row****************** suit I picked up second-hand from the Portobello Road*******************! I was wearing it especially for her.”

 

“He must have been a bit tight******************** by that stage, but not enough for the porters to call the constabulary thankfully.” Cyril whispers to Gerald, before turning his attention to Charles. “You’re lucky they just roughed you and your suit up a bit and didn’t break your nose or give you a split lip, Aunt Sally. That would be more damaging for your career as an actor. No amount of greasepaint can cover a broken nose.”

 

“How many times must you be told, silly Cilla,” Charles huffs irritably. “I’m a th… th… thespian, not a mere actor.” His usually deep and sonorous voice and clearly enunciated words are dulled by the gin he has consumed.

 

“Thespian or otherwise, Cyril is right, Charles,” Harriet says with concern. “They could have broken your nose,” She shudders as she thinks. “Or far worse.”

 

“After the Albany,” Cyril goes on quietly to Gerald. “He somehow managed to buy a box of Bassett’s Liquorice All-Sorts********************* from somewhere down Piccadilly and hailed an unwitting taxi driver to bring him home. I accepted him on the doorstep like a heavy parcel from the driver, Liquorice All-Sorts and all, and paid him out of Charles’ billfold, caught unexpectedly as I was, wearing Hattie’s apron the whole time.”

 

“We’re already known as the house of ill repute in Hazelwell Road,” Harriet giggles girlishly. “Without you wearing my apron on the doorstep, Cyril.”

 

“Now don’t you start, Hattie!” Cyril waves a finger admonishingly at his pretty landlady.

 

“Fear not, dear lady!” Charles sits up and stares determinedly at Harriet, his whole upper body swaying as he does. “I survived to tell the tale.”

 

“I ended up getting him in here,” Cyril concludes. “Which I now realise was a mistake.”

 

“How much has he drunk?” Gerald asks Cyril in a whisper.

 

“I’d say that’s the second bottle,” Cyril replies, shaking his head slowly. “I haven’t checked the cocktail cabinet, but I wouldn’t be at all surprised.”

 

“And the Liquorice All-Sorts?” Gerald goes on.

 

“About half the box I’d reckon.” Cyril raises his slender eyebrows.

 

“Oh dear!” Gerald exclaims. “Well, we know what that can do to even the most recalcitrant of a chap’s bowels**********************. I think we’d best get them off Charles, Hattie, and get him up to bed with a bucket and a chamber pot.”

 

“Yes,” Harriet sighs resignedly. “I think you’re right, Gerry darling.” Turning her attentions back to Charles she goes on. “Best give me those Liquorice All-Sorts, Charles darling.”

 

“But they’re mine!” Charles retorts sluggishly, his tired eyes widening and his hands reaching protectively for the box of colourful liquorice pieces.

 

“That’s rather ungentlemanly, Aunt Sally.” Gerald pipes up. “You usually share your treats with Hattie and the rest of us. Isn’t she deserving of a Liquorice All-Sort or two?”

 

“Or me?” adds Cyril. “After all, I’m the one who’s been slaving over the oven, whilst you’ve been galivanting up the West End without me!”

 

“Alright,” Charles agrees begrudgingly. “You can have some Hattie.” He pushes the box clumsily back across the photograph covered tabletop towards Harriet’s waiting hands. “Because you’ve been nice… and you Gerry… but… but not her.” He points at Cyril. “Silly Cilla! She’s been a mean and beastly old queen, and therefore doesn’t deserve any.”

 

Cyril rolls his eyes but does not reply.

 

“Come on then Hattie.” Gerald says. “Let’s get Charles upstairs to his bed.”

 

“Yes, come on Charles,” Harriet says, sliding the box as far away from the older man as she can manage across the cluttered table. “I think it’s high time you were in bed.”

 

“But I haven’t had my Beef Wellington yet.” Charles mumbles.

 

“Never mind, Aunt Sally.” Gerald says cheerfully. “Cilla will make sure that she saves you a big serving for tomorrow.”

 

“Will she now?” Cyril mutters under his breath.

 

“Yes, she will,” Gerald replies with purpose, turning his attention to his lover. “Or you won’t get your pretty jeweller’s box.”

 

“Bribery will get you everywhere, Gerry darling.” Cyril replies, leaning forward and kissing Gerald’s puckered lips lovingly.

 

“And since we may be a little while getting him to his bed, could you tidy up all of Charles’ theatrical memorabilia nicely and lay the table?”

 

“I’ve a right mind to sweep all that rubbish into the dustbin.” Cyril eyes all the photographs, books and memorabilia critically.

 

“Ahh, but you won’t, will you Cyril my darling?”

 

Cyril sighs. “No Gerry darling,” He sighs a second time, more deeply, and then, leaning forward to try and get Charles’ straying attention he adds, “Because in spite of him being a melodramatic old thespian, and a lousy old soak***********************, I cannot help but love him as my dear old friend.”

 

“Thank you.” Gerald says gratefully. Then he adds, “Oh, and if you do a really good job of tidying up and setting the table, I’ll permit you to accompany me on the invitation you’ve been dying for.”

 

“Don’t flatter yourself, Gerry darling!” Cyril teases. “Your Soho flat isn’t that salubrious.”

 

Gerald laughs. “I’ve just come from Lettice’s, where I just happened to run into Sylvia Fordyce.”

 

“You didn’t!” Cyril squeals.

 

“The Sylvia Fordyce?” Harriet gasps, catching her breath. “As in the famous concert pianist?”

 

“The very one, Hattie.” Gerald smiles like the cat who ate the cream. “Remember that Lettice decorated a wall for her at her country cottage a few weeks ago, and I accompanied her.”

 

“Oh yes!” Harriet replies. “Of course you did, Gerry darling.”

 

“She’s a lovely pian… pian… o player.” Charles manages to stammer before slumping back down again over his now empty teacup.

 

“I say!” Cyril pouts. “That’s jolly unfair! First you get to see Miss Fordyce’s secret country house and then you get to meet her in person, and yet I’m a bigger fan of her than you are!”

 

“Well, as I was chatting and having afternoon tea with Miss Fordyce this afternoon, charming her with my wit and sparkling personality.” Gerald goes on, making Cyril roll his eyes again. “She came up with had the most marvellous idea! She is planning to throw a small soirée at ‘The Nest’ with a few like-minded friends to celebrate the completion of Lettice’s wall and show it off. She’s asking some fellow musicians, artists and the like, and she thought that you and I might like to go along.”

 

The room falls into stunned silence, except for a few drunken snorts from Charles, as Harriet and Cyril gawp wide eyed and open mouthed at Gerald.

 

“You… and me?” Cyril manages to ask, the syllables catching on his breath as he speaks, barely daring to hope.

 

“Yes,” Gerald says with a broad smile. “After I mentioned that you are not only a great admirer or hers, and that you were insanely jealous of my going to ‘The Nest’ with Lettice...”

 

“I was not insanely jealous!” Cyril retorts in outrage, blushing crimson as he speaks.

 

“Yes you were.” Harriet corrects with another giggle.

 

“Damn right she was.” Charles mumbles into his own cup, his remark unheard by any of the other three.

 

“I may have been a little put out that you were able to go and stay there with Miss Chetwynd at Miss Fordyce’s pleasure,” Cyril pouts, holding his head aloft and giving Gerald as haughty a look as he can muster down his nose. “But I wouldn’t say I was ‘insanely jealous’. It wasn’t like she was actually there when you were.”

 

“Well, I would, Cyril.” Harriet chuckles. “You could barely talk about anything that weekend when you were my earshot, wondering what Gerry was doing and seeing at her house, even if she wasn’t there. You were seething!”

 

“Well, Cyril darling,” Gerald goes on. “When I told Miss Fordyce that you were also an oboist, it was the icing on the cake for her. She was thrilled and said you must come, as you will be in good company.”

 

“She didn’t?” Cyril gasps, his fingers rushing to his mouth where a broad smile quickly lightens his handsome young features.

 

“She did.” Gerald affirms. “In fact, she was insistent that you come. So not only will you get to see and stay at ‘The Nest’, you will get to have a whole weekend with Miss Fordyce.”

 

“Oh Gerry!” Cyril cries, throwing his arms around Gerald again and lavishing his face in kisses. “Oh, you really are a darling! Thank you. Thank you. Thank you!”

 

Charles snorts again as he starts to nod off over this teacup.

 

“Come on Aunt Sally.” Gerlad says resignedly. “If you’re going to sleep, I think it’s better that you do it in your own bed, don’t you? It will be more comfortable than an upright dining chair.”

 

He moves around the dining table and bends down. He carefully drapes Charles’ left arm around his neck and grasps it with his left hand whilst slipping his right arm around Charles’ waist. Harriet does the same on the opposite side of Charles to Gerald.

 

“Right Hattie.” Gerald says. “On the count of three. One… two… three!”

 

With a combined groan from all three of them, Gerald and Harriet manage to get the bulky Charles shakily to his feet with some coaxing and slowly they start to manoeuvre him around the dining room furniture and towards the open dining room door.

 

“Not quite how I think either of us imagined starting off our anniversary dinner, Cyril darling.” Gerald says between laboured breaths as they go. “But I daresay Miss Fordyce’s invitation will make up for any difficulties this incident has created.” He winks and smiles lovingly at his younger lover before turning away and helping Harriet get the drunken older actor through the doorway and into the hallway of the villa outside.

 

*Morris Motors Limited was a privately owned British motor vehicle manufacturing company established in 1919. With a reputation for producing high-quality cars and a policy of cutting prices, Morris's business continued to grow and increase its share of the British market. By 1926 its production represented forty-two per cent of British car manufacturing. Amongst their more popular range was the Morris Cowley which included a four-seat tourer which was first released in 1920.

 

**Originating in Seventeenth Century England, the term pin money first meant “an allowance of money given by a husband to his wife for her personal expenditures. Married women, who typically lacked other sources of spending money, tended to view an allowance as something quite desirable. By the Twentieth Century, the term had come to mean a small sum of money, whether an allowance or earned, for spending on inessentials, separate and in addition to the housekeeping money a wife might have to spend.

 

***Prior to 1967 with the introduction of the Sexual Offences Act which decriminalised private homosexual acts between men aged over twenty-one, homosexuality in England was illegal, and in the 1920s when this story is set, carried heavy penalties including prison sentences with hard labour. The law was not changed for Scotland until 1980, or for Northern Ireland until 1982.

 

****A latchkey is the key of an outer door of a house.

 

*****Aspidistras are a flowering plant native to eastern and southeastern Asia, particularly China and Vietnam. They grow well in shade and prefer protected places, which made them the ideal indoor house plant for dark Victorian and Edwardian houses which often only had diffused light seeing in through window treatments of venetian blinds, curtains, lace scrim or a combination of all three.

 

******The carte de visite (which translates from the French as 'visiting card') was a format of small photograph which was patented in Paris by photographer André Adolphe Eugène Disdéri in 1854, although first used by Louis Dodero in 1851.

 

*******Thomas Burberry established Burberry in Basingstoke in 1856 at just twenty-one years old, founded on the principle that clothing should be designed to protect people from the British weather. A few years later in 1879 he invented gaberdine, a breathable wearable and hardwearing fabric that revolutionised rainwear. The Burberry trench coat was invented during the First World War with epaulettes used to suspend military equipment, but in the inter-war years, with the Burberry check registered as a trademark and introduced as lining to their rainwear, it became a luxury brand for the wealthy.

 

********The Old Vic theatre in the London borough of Lambeth was formerly the home of a theatre company that became the nucleus of the National Theatre. The company’s theatre building opened in 1818 as the Royal Coburg and produced mostly popular melodramas. In 1833 it was redecorated and renamed the Royal Victoria and became popularly known as the Old Vic. Between 1880 and 1912, under the management of Emma Cons, a social reformer, the Old Vic was transformed into a temperance amusement hall known as the Royal Victoria Hall and Coffee Tavern, where musical concerts and scenes from Shakespeare and opera were performed. Lilian Baylis, Emma Cons’s niece, assumed management of the theatre in 1912 and two years later presented the initial regular Shakespeare season. By 1918 the Old Vic was established as the only permanent Shakespearean theatre in London, and by 1923 all of Shakespeare’s plays had been performed there. The Old Vic grew in stature during the 1920s and ’30s under directors such as Andrew Leigh, Harcourt Williams, and Tyrone Guthrie.

 

*********Gordon's London Dry Gin was developed by Alexander Gordon, a Londoner of Scots descent. He opened a distillery in the Southwark area in 1769, later moving in 1786 to Clerkenwell. The Special London Dry Gin he developed proved successful, and its recipe remains unchanged to this day. The top markets for Gordon's are (in descending order) the United Kingdom, the United States and Greece. Gordon's has been the United Kingdom’s number one gin since the late Nineteenth Century. It is the world's best-selling London dry gin.

 

**********Historically, queer slang emerged as a way for queer people to communicate discreetly, forming a sense of community and shared identity. Using female names or terms could be a way to signal belonging within this coded language. It was also used for protection, allowing homosexual men to talk about one another discreetly in public without the implication of homosexuality and the repercussions that came with it as a criminal act.

 

***********Dame Edith Mary Evans was an English actress. She was best known for her work on the West End stage, but also appeared in films at the beginning and towards the end of her career. Between 1964 and 1968, she was nominated for three Academy Awards. Born in 1888, Evans' stage career spanned sixty years, during which she played more than one hundred roles, in classics by Shakespeare, Congreve, Goldsmith, Sheridan and Wilde, and plays by contemporary writers including Bernard Shaw, Enid Bagnold, Christopher Fry and Noël Coward. She created roles in two of Shaw's plays: Orinthia in The Apple Cart (1929), and Epifania in The Millionairess (1940) and was in the British premières of two others: Heartbreak House (1921) and Back to Methuselah (1923). Evans became widely known for portraying haughty aristocratic women, as in two of her most famous roles as Lady Bracknell in The Importance of Being Earnest, and Miss Western in the 1963 film of Tom Jones. During her performance as Lady Bracknell, her elongated delivery of the line “A handbag” has become synonymous with the Oscar Wilde play. By contrast, she played a downtrodden maid in The Late Christopher Bean (1933), an eccentric, impoverished old woman in The Whisperers (1967) and – one of her most celebrated roles – Nurse in Romeo and Juliet, which she played in four productions between 1926 and 1961. When she was eighty-seven, she played the Dowager Queen in The Slipper and the Rose (1976), in which she sang and danced. Evans died at her home in Cranbrook, Kent, in October 1976, aged 88.

 

************Doe eyes typically refers to eyes that are large, round, and soft, often perceived as innocent and alluring, similar to the eyes of a female deer (a doe). The term is used to describe eyes that convey a sense of naivety, gentleness, and sometimes even vulnerability.

 

*************Beef Wellington, a dish of beef fillet coated with pâté and duxelles (a finely chopped mushroom mixture), then wrapped in pastry, is believed to be named after Arthur Wellesley, the first Duke of Wellington, likely in commemoration of his victory at the Battle of Waterloo in 1815. While the exact origin story is debated, it's generally accepted that the dish is of English or French origin, possibly evolving from the French dish "filet de boeuf en croute".

 

**************Dame Alice Ellen Terry was a leading English actress of the late Nineteenth and early Twentieth Centuries. Born in 1847, into a family of actors, Ellen Terry began performing as a child, acting in Shakespeare plays in London, and toured throughout the British provinces in her teens. After a failed marriage to the 46-year-old artist George Frederic Watts when she was sixteen and a six year retirement during which she had a relationship with the architect Edward William Godwin, she returned to the stage in 1874 and was immediately acclaimed for her portrayal of roles in Shakespeare and other classics. In 1878 she joined Henry Irving's company as his leading lady, and for more than the next two decades she was considered the leading Shakespearean and comic actress in Britain. Two of her most famous roles were Portia in The Merchant of Venice and Beatrice in Much Ado About Nothing. She and Irving also toured with great success in America and Britain. In 1903 Terry took over management of London's Imperial Theatre, focusing on the plays of George Bernard Shaw and Henrik Ibsen. The venture was a financial failure, and Terry turned to touring and lecturing. She continued to find success on stage until 1920, while also appearing in films from 1916 to 1922. Her career lasted nearly seven decades. She died of a cerebral haemorrhage at her home at Smallhythe Place, near Tenterden, Kent, aged eighty-one in 1928.

 

***************The Shakespearean play The Tragedy of King Lear, often shortened to King Lear, is a tragedy written by William Shakespeare. It is loosely based on the mythological Leir of Britain. King Lear, in preparation for his old age, divides his power and land between his daughters Goneril and Regan, who pay homage to gain favour, feigning love. It was regularly performed at the Old Vic theatre in London throughout the 1920s, with seasons in 1920, 1921, 1922 and 1925 to 1928.

 

****************Eric Adeney was an English actor born in 1888 in Tunbridge Wells, Kent. He was an actor, known for playing significant parts in Hamlet, The Merry Men of Sherwood and Heroes of the Mine. He died in 1953 in Trethevy, Cornwall, England, UK. Although I do not know what part he played in the 1925 production of King Lear, as a well regarded Shakespearian actor at the age of thirty-six in that year, I could imagine him playing the part of King Lear, having stamina enough to perform the demanding part.

 

*****************Albany, sometimes referred to as the Albany, is an English apartment complex in Piccadilly, near Piccadilly Circus. The three-storey mansion was built in the 1770s and divided into apartments in 1802. Resembling Oxford/Cambridge college living quarters, it has stone stairs, long stone corridors, a massive front door, but elegantly proportioned large rooms. Uniformed porters used to guard the front doors back before the Second World War. Amongst its many famous tenants, English poet and major figure of the Romantic Movement Lord Byron, former Prime Ministers of the United Kingdom William Gladstone and Edward Heath, English novelist Graham Greene and actress Edith Evans, lived there. During the Second World War, one of the buildings received significant damage from a German bomb, but was reconstructed after the war to appear as an exact replica. Still an exclusive apartment building today, it has the rather quirky rule that no child under the age of fourteen is permitted to live there.

 

******************Savile Row in London is a world-renowned street famous for its bespoke tailoring, particularly for men's suits. It's a destination for those seeking high-quality, hand-made clothing with a focus on craftsmanship and tradition. While the area is known for expensive bespoke suits, there are also ready-to-wear and made-to-measure options available.

 

*******************Portobello Road Market in Notting Hill, London, is a world-famous street market known for its antiques, vintage clothing, and diverse food stalls. It's one of London's oldest markets, dating back to the 19th century. The market stretches along Portobello Road, from Westbourne Grove to Golborne Road, and is particularly vibrant on Saturdays.

 

********************To get tight is an old fashioned term used to describe getting drunk.

 

*********************George Bassett & Co., known simply as Bassett's, was an English confectionery company and brand. The company was founded in Sheffield by George Bassett in 1842. The Sheffield Directory of 1842 records George Bassett as being "wholesale confectioner, lozenge maker and British wine trader". In 1851, Bassett took on an apprentice called Samuel Meggitt Johnson, who later became Bassett's son-in-law. His descendants ran the company until Gordon Johnson retired as chairman in the 1970s. Bassett's was first listed on the London Stock Exchange in 1929. They opened up a factory in Broad Street, Sheffield in 1852. The site moved in 1933 to Owlerton in another district of the city and remains there today. Unclaimed Babies were being produced during the Nineteenth Century, especially in the North West of England. In 1918, Bassetts launched their own range of the soft sweets which they called Peace Babies. They were re-launched as Jelly Babies in the 1950s and were allegedly thrown at the Beatles during concerts as they were a favourite of George Harrison. The Liquorice All-Sorts variety was created by accident when Bassett salesman Charlie Thompson dropped the samples of several different products in front of a prospective client. The client was taken by the idea of selling the sweets all mixed up and in return for the success, the company allowed the client to name the new brand. Barratt & Co. Ltd. was acquired in a friendly takeover by Bassett's in 1966. In 1989, the combined firms were acquired by the then-united Cadbury-Schweppes company in a deal brokered for ninety-one million pounds. In 2016, all the products were re-marketed under the Maynards Bassett dual branding.

 

**********************Liquorice is very soothing on the gut and it has, apparently, fairly significant anti-inflammatory powers. Also, liquorice is a very effective laxative.

 

***********************In slang, “soak” refers to drinking excessively, particularly alcohol.

 

This rather cluttered and chaotic scene of a dining room may look real to you, but believe it or not, it is made up entirely with pieces from my 1:12 miniatures collection, including pieces from my own childhood.

 

Fun things to look for in this tableau include:

 

The open book on the table as well as the closed one to the far right of the photograph are both books about the London actress Elen Terry, whilst the open postcard album featuring photographic postcards of famous Edwardian actors and actresses, including Ellen Terry, are all 1:12 size miniatures made by the British miniature artisan Ken Blythe. Most of the books I own that he has made may be opened to reveal authentic printed interiors. In some cases, you can even read the words, depending upon the size of the print! I have quite a large representation of Ken Blythe’s work in my collection, but so little of his real artistry is seen because the books that he specialised in making are usually closed, sitting on shelves or closed on desks and table surfaces. What might amaze you is that all Ken Blythe’s opening books are authentically replicated 1:12 scale miniatures of real volumes. To create something so authentic to the original in such detail and so clearly, really does make them all miniature artisan pieces. Not only did Ken Blythe create books, he also created other 1:12 miniatures with paper and that includes the wonderfully detailed floral lidded box which is full of letters, cards and postcards which have each been produced with extreme authentic attention to detail. Ken Blythe’s work is highly sought after by miniaturists around the world today and command high prices at auction for such tiny pieces, particularly now that he is no longer alive. I was fortunate enough to acquire pieces from Ken Blythe prior to his death about four years ago, as well as through his estate via his daughter and son-in-law. His legacy will live on with me and in my photography which I hope will please his daughter.

 

Also on the table, are scattered some small photographs of famous Edwardian actresses, including both Edith Evans and Ellen Terry. They are all real photos, produced to high standards in 1:12 size on photographic paper by Little Things Dollhouse Miniatures in Lancashire. The box of hand made chocolates and Bassett’s liquorice all sorts (all of which are removable) were also made by Little Things Dollhouse Miniatures with close attention paid to their packaging to make them as authentic as possible.

 

The larger carte de visites of famous Edwardian actresses including the likes of Sarah Bernhardt I acquired from a seller on E-Bay.

 

Harriet’s snakeskin handbag lying on the chaise, with its gold clasp and chain comes from Doreen Jeffries’ Small Wonders Miniature Shop in the United Kingdom.

 

The soda syphon on the table to the right of the photo was made by Beautifully Handmade Miniatures in Kettering. The bottle of Gordon’s Dry Gin is a 1:12 artisan miniature made of real glass. It came from a specialist stockist in Sydney.

 

Harriet’s beautiful Edwardian dinner and tea sets come from Kathleen Knight’s Doll House Shop in the United Kingdom, as do the Milford family photographs on the wall, the plant stand in the background and the aspidistra in the jardiniere. The red and gilded jardiniere itself is a hand painted example of miniature artisan, Rachel Munday, whose work is highly sought after.

 

The Queen Anne dining table, chairs were given to me as birthday and Christmas presents when I was a child.

 

The Welsh dresser in the background holding Harriet’s crockery comes from Babette’s Miniatures, who have been making miniature dolls’ furnishings since the late Eighteenth Century. The dresser has plate grooves in it, just like a real dresser would.

The Doctor grows ever more irritable as he once again tries to shush with his newly discovered robot companion - the TARDIS scanners said this place was deserted; certainly no aliens or mutants here!

 

A bit of retro toy fun :) Big Chief's 1st Doctor, Sideshow's Metaluna Mutant and Moebius Model's B9 Robot (from Lost in Space) kit.

  

==Butchinsky's==

 

"You know why they called me the Eraser?" a voice rasped.

 

Jumbo shook his head nervously. He was tied to a wooden chair, thick rope binding his arms and legs.

 

"It's quite simple really," Fiasco explained, as he ran his hand along his tool rack, before settling on a red crowbar. "I fix mistakes, dispose of problems. I can clean a crime scene in minutes, kill a moron in seconds, and you best believe me when I say I know all the best spots to hide a body."

 

The crowbar cracked against Jumbo's ribs. He let out a high pitched, muffled shriek of pain. "So, Ned Carson. Tall guy, bit dim. You're what, his brother?"

 

Jumbo nodded frantically.

 

"Figures then, that you know where he is," Fiasco grumbled, as he struck him across the face. "Yes?"

 

Jumbo nodded again, blood dribbling from his chin.

 

As Fiasco raised the crowbar again, a gloved hand caught it, and kicked it to the ground. "That's enough, Len."

 

Sharpe jumped to his feet, wiping a smile from off his face.

"You following me now, Chuck?" Len spat.

 

"You're not hard to find. It was either here, or Gar's place," Chuck said, kneeling beside Jumbo, and removing the tape from his mouth. "He's one of the Outcasts, huh?" he asked. "Is this how we treat people, now?"

 

"It's ok," Fiasco grumbled, striking Jumbo again. "He's a racist."

 

"Oh, come on, he's not a racist, you just made that up!" Chuck snapped back defiantly.

 

"No, it's true, I am a racist," Jumbo whimpered.

 

"Shut up Ant Man, you have brain damage," Chuck muttered.

 

"- I hate the NBA, they're all so much taller than me."

 

Len turned his head, satisfied.

 

"Len, stop he doesn't know anything," Chuck said firmly.

 

"Oh, Bullshit. He's sat in my bar, day after day, drinking, listening, talking. Bet he's been supplying Ned info from the start."

 

'Ted,' Chuck said under his breath.

 

"He made me, I swea-"

 

"Shut it," Fiasco snarled. "The way I see it, this is a public service. They hurt one of us, we hurt them back, it's the way things have always been. You think Lynns hasn't torched someone who didn't talk? Or are we gonna ignore what Walker did to Ra's or Blaze?"

 

"That's different and you know it."

 

"It's not that different," Sharpe shrugged passively.

 

"Drury has a plan," Chuck said desperately.

 

"Walker's plan, is a cross country jaunt of self discovery. Forgive me if I'm not wholly confident," Fiasco said irritably, kicking Jumbo's chair. "If you don't want to help, fine. But don't come down here with some self righteous bull."

 

"He can't say shit with his skull caved in," a deep voice called out. The Misfits spun around: Walking down the stairs, was Eric Needham. Seeing his chance, Sharpe slinked out the basement, taking a wary glance at the trio.

 

"A confession under duress ain't no confession," Spider began. "People will say anything to make the torture stop," he said softly, resting a hand on Chuck's shoulder. "Go."

 

==Gotham International Airport==

 

November 4th. 16:56

 

Henry "Iron-Hat" Ferris walked through the airport briskly, a large box tucked under his arm. Mounted around his head was a rusted iron mask, welded to him as a form of atonement. As he walked, he could hear them; the common people whispering, giggling at his attire. 'Inferiors,' he thought. 'Screw them all.'

 

"What you got there, sir?" a voice called out.

 

Ferris swore under his breath. The guard, a large, Arabic man in a turban, approached him and placed a cautious hand around his bag.

 

Iron-Hat shrugged nonchalantly. "Oh, that's just a bomb."

 

The guard scowled, and spoke into his radio, another hand rested on his gun.

 

Unperturbed, Ferris rolled his eyes nonchalantly. "Right, I forgot explosives are a touchy subject with you people. TSAs, I mean," he added unconvincingly.

 

"Now, can you give me a hand? The metal detector's a bitch."

 

=Sionis' Penthouse. Diamond District=

 

November 6th. 13:32

 

"Mr Ferris, thank you for coming. Please, sit," Li instructed. Ferris glanced at him suspiciously, and walked over to Sionis, a grimace hidden under his iron mask.

 

"Roman," he said, adjusting his collar.

 

"Henry," Roman grinned back, shaking his hand. "How was Sarajevo?"

 

Ferris looked around the room, grimacing at a collection of shrunken heads posed along the wall. "Dirty," he said firmly.

 

"This is David Li, my assistant. David, this is Henry Ferris. Had him stationed in the East End a few years back... One of our biggest markets, you know."

 

"A pleasure," Li smiled, offering his hand. Ferris looked at it, then turned back to Sionis. "Yes... no surprise there. Those people knew exactly what they wanted... 'Course then, an itsy bitsy spider started to cause all sorts of trouble. Buyers remorse, I reckon."

 

Li glanced at him warily. "This, is why we called you, he said, placing a dosier onto the desk. Iron-Hat wiped the edges, and slid out a photograph of a young man. "Our esteemed Mr Franco, I presume?" he asked Roman, taking no notice of Li.

 

"That, was taken in 2004. Kid was something of a street urchin, friend of Ms Kyle's- Catwoman, if memory serves. He broke into our estate, quite by chance actually. Normally, Dad'd take intruders out back- bang, but not him..." Sionis reminisced. "No, Dad took a real shine to Franco: had him shine his shoes, cook him breakfast- even took him on jobs, once or twice, which is more than I can say for me. Course, I just assumed he was bent," Sionis added unenthusiastically. "What do you suggest?"

 

"Blonde," Ferris noted, an air of approval in his tone, as he examined a later photo. "The white mask is a nice touch also... We got lucky," he concluded.

 

"Lucky?" Sionis asked indignantly.

 

"Well, one can only imagine the kind of filth your father lay with... Who knows what sort of creatures he might've spawned." Ferris said.

"You should meet with him. Keep communication channels open at the very least... It'll send a clear message to the gangs; that you respect family, regardless of its... origins."

 

"He raises a valid point, sir," Li said. "We'd fare far better with Franco as an ally, than as an adversary."

 

Sionis scoffed. "Franco's unreliable, boyish, irritating... And if he has anything to do with those packages, then he could be equally dangerous."

 

"You'll have to forgive Mr Sionis, he's been a little shaken since-"

 

"Packages?" Ferris interrupted.

 

"Packages," Sionis said, gritting his teeth. "See, the British, have a tradition. Bonfire Night. Five, six hundred years ago, this guy- Guy Fawkes actually, tried to blow up the houses of parliament, but failed. So, now, each year, the Brits put together all the wood they can find, make a straw dummy, modelled off the bastard, and set it alight.

Yesterday, someone threw one of my bodyguards into a furnace, and mailed me their charred hand. The week before, they posted my lawyer's severed head with a candle in his gob."

 

"If I may sir, if Franco has any connection to our calendar killer, then a sit down might be the best way of determining his intentions. If he is, we can quietly, and more importantly, justifiably, dispose of him. And if he isn't, who knows, perhaps this Calendar Man will deal with him for us," Li suggested.

 

"Yeah..." Sionis nodded slowly, a sort of sadistic excitement sweeping over him. "Yeah, we'll make a show of it: The lost Sionis Sibling- Only at The Gotham Royal. That'll draw the Calendar Man and his accomplices out of hiding... And if tragedy strikes, and my dear younger brother happens to get caught in the crossfire, well, that'll just be the icing on the cake."

 

Li reached into his pocket and took out a small notepad. "Shall I set a date?"

 

November 6th. 14:55

 

"I must say, I appreciate you coming in on short notice," Sionis chuckled. "Can't have been easy getting past the TSAs with that Praying Mantis on your shoulders."

 

Ferris pulled his gloves on. "Wolf," he said, lip curled. "And no, no trouble at all," he added, as he placed his hand on the door knob. "Oh, by the way, I love your assistant, very witty."

 

"Yeah, he's great," Sionis nodded.

 

"Absolutely, just goes to show his kind is great at that sorta stuff."

 

Roman's back stiffened. "Huh?"

 

"Oh, you know, book shit. Math and all that," Ferris explained.

 

Sionis stared at him. "Right. Right, yeah."

 

"Franco's good for us, Roman," Ferris elaborated. "He'll bring us back to our roots, to what the mob ought to be. I mean, look at the state of things, look at the midgets and pirates running things- they've let all kinds of freaks in. Falcone, Falcone would be ashamed."

 

Sionis and Ferris locked eyes for a moment, each trying to figure out the other's allegiance, when the door slid open, and an young intern entered the room. Ferris raised an eyebrow.

 

"Your lunch, sir," the kid said, sliding a brown paper bag over to Roman.

 

"Lovely," Sionis replied, handing the boy a small tip. "Burrito?" he offered Ferris.

 

"I don't much care for ethnic food, Roman," Ferris said coldly, as he moved past the boy, and walked down the hall.

 

Ext. Somewhere in the Carpathians of Hungary - Well past sundown

 

*Aerial shot gliding above the towering grey crags of the mountain range. Dense fog ominously crowns each peak. The baying of wolves emanates throughout the creaking evergreens blanketing the landscape. Camera gradually hones in on an ebony castle tucked away in this wilderness, equally dilapidated and imposing. We pass through an arrowslit in the fortress’ stone to arrive at an eerie conference. Six inhabitants of the chamber are seated around an angular stone slab, odd trinkets and items strewn about, as though some type of rite is taking place. One figure, who even in the darkness can be seen cloaked in a crimson friar’s tunic, rises from his seat, legs and arms unnaturally stick-straight. He raises a torch with little more than a dimming ember left inside it.

 

*He reveals a small lighter from within his other sleeve and begins irritably striking the mechanism.*

 

Niccolai Tepes, the Mad Monk: Gaaah, thisss cheap waxss! I shhhould upgrade to fluorescccentsss.

 

*The additional illumination unmasks the remainder of the company; Doctors Death and No-Face. Killer Moth. Eraser. And yours truly.*

 

Drury Walker, Killer Moth: C’mon, let’s have some light here!

 

Karl Hellfern, Doctor Death (To Tepes): Just not sehr close to hem, oder he vill staht droowling again.

 

Walker: Hey, I wanna get on with the game; Ironically, that’s not a crime.

 

*We few are assembled for our annual commemoration of the pioneers of supervillainy in Gotham City, home to the Batman. Tepes insisted on hosting this year, in his remote abode, hence numerous absences. Exclusive to this particular congregation as well, our choice to engage in “dungeon-crawl” boardgames. For devout followers of the endeavors of I, the dreaded Clayface, one might find this a degrading tragedy. I plead for your patience with my schemes.*

 

Myself (looking over the rulebook once more, that which, by its size, could easily be mistaken for the complete documented history of modern filmmaking): Could we not have indulged in poker once again?

 

Lenny Fiasco, the Eraser: If we all wanted you and Mister No-Face to royally trounce us again, we would have. I mean, the guidelines clearly didn’t have supervillains in mind when they failed to mention that having perceptible facial expressions is mandatory to the gameplay.

 

Bartholomew Magan, Doctor No-Face: DGRR NH-FMMS.

 

Fiasco: “DOCTOR”, sorry.

 

Tepes: Let usss not bicker; we shhhould be reveling in our shhhared criminal sssuccesss azzz of late. Sssurely I am not the only one of our allianccce with a recccent victory under my belt?

 

*Magan takes his turn in the game, moving his demigod playing piece to a recently-revealed cave full of treasure and traps.*

 

Hellfern (high and mighty): Curtainly NICHT, mein Blut-sucking Freund! No doubt mein achievements are das beste of diese group.

 

Tepes: Sseee? Immediate hossstility. We shhhould really work on our camaraderie, with the sssurplusss of heroesss nowadaysss.

 

Myself: Be heedful of the notion that Dr. Hellfern is of course our senior member. Perhaps we could all take note of his expertise in the subject of diabolical plots.

 

Walker: Suck-up.

 

Hellfern: Danke, Karlo, aber ich hardly require suppowrt from eine Kartoffelkopf.

 

*Walker fumbles the dice, rolling a hand that allows his hoplite character to wound Hellfern’s druid. Fiasco slowly looks up from his strategizing.*

 

Walker: Huzzah!

 

Hellfern: NEIN!

 

Fiasco: Hang on, back up. What on earth just came out of his mouth?

 

Myself: To my knowledge, he called me a potato-head.

 

Tepes: … You took that sssurprissingly well. I commend you.

 

Myself: Nonsense. When have I been one to be enraged by a harmless jest? It necessitates an earnest insult to my profession if one wishes to make me… testy.

 

*In an instance of luck, I too roll a fruitful hand. My templar summons a wyvern to ward off Walker’s assault on Hellfern.*

 

Hellfern: Eh? Do you realize vas you haff just done?

 

Walker: For real, Basil? I might’ve had him by next round!

 

Myself: It’s all deliberate strategy, I assure you.

 

*Hellfern takes the dice, eyeing me through his monocle as he rolls.*

 

Fiasco: Anyway, back to the topic of our latest and greatest escapades, I made off with a hefty sum JUST from holding up an elementary school! Back to school season; lots of lunch money, you know. Poor Batman never saw THAT coming, boy…

 

Tepes: You really went for the brand-new pencccil kitsss, didn’t you?

 

Fiasco: SO WHAT IF I DI-

 

*Magan begins to stand, to mime out his own recent endeavors.*

 

Walker: Wait, don’t tell me… You busted some statues’ faces off, right?

 

Magan (slumping back down to his seat): Yhg thngk yrr sm smrrt…

 

Myself (laughing): Come now, is this truly the extent of our criminal activity as of late? Hellfern, you can of course redeem us with a sample of your upcoming stratagem…

 

Hellfern (fighting an urge): Ich… shoold nicht say anysing…

 

*Tepes rolls to see if his lycan can revert into a human this round, in order to go unnoticed in a town, but in this instance the game is unforgiving.*

 

Tepes: BAH! That’sss not how my powersss work! I shhhouldn’t have to wait for sssilly phasssesss.

 

Walker: That reminds me, what I’VE been up to is genetically reengineering moths native to Gotham to become stronger and hostile when exposed to moonlight. A good-sized swarm of them might be able to push someone off balance or mess up someone's wardrobe if they g-

 

Hellfern: ICH CANNOT TAKE IT ANYMORE! You simpletohns, fiddling about mit children’s refvenge tactics! Ich habe recently collaboratet mit eine Dr. Herbert West. Togesser ve are unlocking diese secrets of the unDEADT! Top thet!

 

Walker: Well excuse me, we’ve got ourselves a badass over here.

 

Myself: How very interesting. “A Dr. Herbert West”, you said, perfecting the living corpse? What do you say about that, Magan? Oh, that’s right; you don’t say.

 

*Magan throws his arms in the air, then scrambles for Fiasco’s notepad. He furiously scribbles at the paper, and tosses it to my end of the table. Walker instead reads it.*

 

Walker: “Go fill a hole, you plasmic mass of dogsh-“

 

Hellfern (regretful): Ich habe said zu viel; too mahch! It vas all intended to be classifiet…

 

Tepes: No shhhame in sssome gloating, old friend; your sssecret will not leave thisss room. A toassst to your progressssssive villainy!

 

*Fiasco rolls for a chance card.*

 

Fiasco: “Your shaman has died of dysentery.” Dandy.

 

***

 

*An hour later, the gathering is broken, farewells made. Walker was crowned champion of our little game, but I have triumphed at my own task. Dr. Herbert West. That name was all I had needed to ascertain that evening. Rather, all that my accomplice had use for.

 

*Bartholomew Magan, Doctor No-Face, has kept a brisk pace with me on my stroll away from Tepes’ castle, beneath the dismal canopy of the forest. We are a safe distance away now.*

 

The Question (Peeling Magan’s ascot from his neck in exchange for a fedora atop his head): That must've been an odd experience for you, NOT being the one with a disguise for once.

 

Myself: Oh, I too had a disguise, Question. Buttering up that insufferable “Doctor Death”… Do you know he prides himself with being the first supervillain to be DEFEATED by the Bat? What an utter simp.

 

Question: So tell me, did I do the criminal mind justice?

 

Myself: In sincerity, I quite prefer you as a silent villain, too this prattling, prying vigilante.

 

Question (dripping sarcasm): I suppose you would have acquired a taste for more theatrical heroes. Would you like me to start riding a motorcycle and wear a helmet that shoots lasers?

 

Myself (halting my stride): Enough. You have the name, now I must implore; what is its significance?

 

Question (now leading our path): Months of digging, and I only had his reputation and codename to go by: “The Re-Animator”. A newcomer to Hub City.

 

Myself: Yes, and that would be substantial information for hunting him down, were you at all a decent investigator. Therefor, you have other business with West beyond putting him behind bars.

 

Question (deadly serious tone): I have reasonable suspicions that he’s my doppelgänger from another Earth.

 

Myself: Naturally, you jest.

 

Question: I scrounge. I’ve found out just about everything the world doesn’t want found out. In essence, I know enough to never have the NEED to jest.

 

Myself (satisfied): It would indeed explain your desperation. With that, I would not only ask for my payment for assisting you, but additionally, remind you that blackmailing me into betraying fellow criminals, with no intentions of keeping your end of the bargain, is most foolish. Bodies deposited in woods, as you know, can go undiscovered for years.

 

Question (sighing): So untrusting, you and your type. One day I’ll crack that mystery too.

 

*He pulls Fiasco’s swiped notepad out his jacket, jotting down the information I need.*

 

Question (thrusting the pad at me): This is what I uncovered. … This is the location of your son.

 

} Part 2 underway. Inspired by FeelOkayInc, this storyline is intended to conceptualize how Basil Karlo fits into the Lego DC Flickrverse, and his relations, blood or otherwise, with other Clayfaces. {

Bipolar disorder causes dramatic mood swings—from feeling overly “high” and/or irritable to sad and hopeless, and then back again, often with periods of normal mood in between. Severe changes in energy and behavior go along with these episodes. The periods of highs and lows are called episodes of mania and depression. It is often not recognized as an illness, and people may suffer for years before it is properly diagnosed and treated.

I don't remember how this ended up on my to-read list and I might not have read it if I'd read the blurb beforehand, fearing that it was one of those "feel good" books which generally leave me very irritable because I dislike the genre. BUT... I have to say, I really did like this book, so many references to favorite books of mine and quite a few that I haven't read yet, now added to my always growing to-read list. (Lillet with tonic and lemon peel)

-------Christmas Eve 2012---------

 

===The Gotham Royal===

 

"Remind me why I'm doing this."

 

Li- Marketing thinks it'll help fix your image.

 

Sionis- Marketing... What a joke... What's wrong with my image?

 

...

 

"Aside from that."

 

Li- For one, you're not particularly approachable.

 

Sionis- Good! I don't want calls 24/7!

 

Li- And you have a penchant for killing people. Which wouldn't be an issue if they weren't *our* people

 

Sionis- And this party will fix that?

 

Li- Couldn't hurt. Adjust your bow tie.

 

Sionis- I'm not going to- Happy?

 

Li- Quite.

 

*Li holds the door open, and Sionis walks through into the Ballroom. In one corner, Gaige is laughing about one of his usual fish anedotes, Penguin stands beside him, less than enthused as he slips champagne, wishing he was somewhere else. Tiger Moth smiles weakly, hoping her father will forget about her long enough for her to make her escape.

In another corner, Drury Walker stands beside Gar Lynns, weeping about his impending divorce, as Lynns, unsympathetically, attempts to light a cigarette as discreetly as possible.

Sat by the dance floor, Victor Zsasz tugs on his collar, clearly irritable. It's the first shirt he's worn in a decade. Sat beside him, Edward Nygma attempts to guess the amount of tallies across his body. He's hit by a shrimp appetiser fired by Lawton, who's playing a game of tiddlywinks with his lunch one table over.

The only person who seems content to be here is No-Face, who sits alone, humming Jingle Bells. His lack of lips doesn't seem to bother him that much.

Sionis takes it all in, marvelling at all the vultures he's surrounded by, then pulls Li in close.

 

"Who the fuck invited Killer "Can't hold a conversation" Moth?"

 

Li- Must be Lynns' plus one.

 

Sionis- Right...

 

...

 

Sionis- Who invited Lynns?

 

"Non alcoholic?!"

 

"I'm sorry, Gar," Walker responds. "But I'm just not in the mood... I mean, why couldn't we just go to Lenny's?"

 

Gar- Because Lenny's is *also* a bar!

 

Drury- At least I'm not afraid I'll be murdered there.

 

Gar- Obviously, you ain't heard what they say about you. ... Look, do you know how many times I had to pester Bookworm to get you here? Now shut up, and get some Christmas spirit down you.

 

...

 

"Wait, what do they say about me?"

Walker doesn't receive an answer though, as Lynns is already pushing him through the crowds towards the bar, shoving past a purple clad monstrosity on their way over. The Lightning Bug mumbles a series of expletives their way, while Drury fruitlessly attempts to apologise. "Shoulda just stayed in Drury" he murmurs, as Gar hands him a pint glass of eggnog.

 

--------Christmas Eve 2014---------

 

====My Alibi=====

 

Tonight's showing of "It's a Wonderful Life" is sponsored by Macy's, the newest addition to the Lexcorp family.

 

"The finest silks, the richest velvets. This Christmas, Macy's is launching their Supervillain range. For the bad boy in all of you. Will *you* go two-toned tonight? Will *you* ask your love the greatest riddle? Will you set *your* heart alight with passion? In store Saturday.

 

(Macy's and it's subsidiares don't mean to offend victims of supervillainy. If you or a loved one have suffered at the hands of the villainously-challenged, come in store today for a free! Music Meister pin badge!)"!

 

Ah, commercials... Seems like there's more and more each year. A never-ending barrage of junk... Chuck finishes his eggnog, and nudges Blake's unconscious body.

 

"Shouldn't have done all that cinnamon, Tom"

 

Chuck, who wisely refused to partake in the Misfits' new cinnamon snorting tradition (created by Dekker, naturally) glances at Len, now brushing the last of the powder off of the table.

 

"Merry Christmas, Len."

 

Fiasko grunts something that sounds vaquely like "You too," before taking out his shotgun, and prodding Blake with its barrel. If asked, he would have claimed it was unloaded. "Wake up, hairball."

 

Blake- Watizit?

 

Len- Closing time. There's only so much sentimentality I can take for one day.

 

Blake- It's Christmas Eve, Len-

 

Len- And that's why I didn't just shoot you. Get up already. You too, Bug.

 

Rigger raises his thumb up out from under the counter, and straightens his Santa hat. Blake continues to plead, none of it lands.

 

Len- You think I want to close up? I have to, before Santa Klaus bursts in, demanding we serve him milk and cookies. Again. Lost some good regulars last time he pulled that.

 

-------Christmas Eve, 2016-------

 

====Kringle's Cards and Gifts====

 

Alison- - And lastly, on Supervillain Slip-Ups, Mitchell Mayo- alias the Condiment King "mustard" been *pretty* embarrassed when, during his attempted robbery of a Big Belly Burger, he slipped on his own cranberry sauce, and landed flat on his face. The embarrassment didn't end there- one annoyed patron proceeded to kick him several times for disrupting their lunch. He must've "relished" that, eh Jack? Back to you.

 

Ryder- Thanks Alison, and now, we take you to Dean Synder for the weather. Dean?

 

Dean- Snowstorms are popping up all across Gotham. But these are no ordinary beasts, could it be that the Weather Wizard has expanded his reach as far as Gotham?

 

"Julian, stop staring at the TV, and pass me that stack of New Year's cards, will you?"

 

Day frowned. Once upon a time, he would be outside on Christmas, getting up to all kinds of mischief himself. Alas, not today. He pulled his bobble hat tightly over his forehead, and handed his boss the boxes. Not so much as a thank you. Typical. He returned to the till, where he played with a wind-up Nutcracker, amused with the device, when the doorbell chimed.

 

"Julian!"

 

Julian- I've got it covered, Mr Ramirez. How... How can I help?

 

The Joker placed his reindeer antlers onto the desk.

 

"I'm glad you asked! See, I was on your website, and saw you had a card in stock that read "Sleigh bells Ring," sleigh being spelt S-L-A-Y, love that kinda humour, and I would just *love* to get one sent out to a friend of mine!"

 

Julian gulped, and prayed that they hadn't sold out.

 

"Lovely place! I tell you, the things you miss when you're not out and about..."

 

Fortunately, Day was able to find a box under the desk, and handed him the card. In return, the Joker placed a green and white halibut onto the table, picked up his antlers, and walked out the front door whistling Carol of the Bells. Julian's boss, Mr Ramirez looked at him, and then the counter in disbelief.

 

...

 

"Did that louse pay you in fish?"

 

-------Christmas Eve 2018---------

 

====The Hall of Justice====

 

Recognised. Wonder Woman 001. Flash 004. Green Lantern 005.

 

"Poison Christmas Trees! Poison Christmas Trees! Who does that!"

 

Ivy- There are plenty of synthetic Christmas trees, but no, humans are only content when they are unceremoniously snuffing out plant life.

 

Barry- But... I mean, it's cruel, it's diabolical, it's-

 

Diana- Flash. Focus on the positives. We saved lives tonight.

 

Barry- It's just... On Christmas Eve? With kids all gathered around the tree, wondering what that big present underneath could be?

 

Ivy- I wasn't intending to kill them. Only to... irritate them. Make them think twice about chopping down such a unique life form.

 

Diana- Let us just be thankful we were able to stop anyone from getting hurt.

 

Hal murmurs something in Flash's ear

 

Hal- I'm just thankful there's still a few a hours left before midnight... You know what Carol would do if I were late? God, it must be nice to have superspeed..

 

Barry- It's not as handy as you'd think. Doesn't matter how fast you are, if Abra Kadabra is standing in your way, you're gonna be a couple minutes late, no matter what.

 

They enter into the monitor room.

 

Hal- Oh, Bats, it's another one of your villains!

 

Batman turns around, to greet the new arrivals.

 

Batman- Ivy. I thought you'd reformed.

 

Ivy- Unlike you Batman, I keep my word. No killing.

 

Batman- Hnm. I'm sure you can explain that to Doctor Arkham tonight. I'll make sure she's taken back to Arkham. Securely, this time. Good work, everyone.

 

...

 

Hal- Wow, it *really* must be Christmas.

  

This shot definitely needs the Light Box : )

 

Okay, I admit, I am a hopeless romantic. I love this song : ) It's beautiful and is used in so many weddings. Enjoy!

 

"I WILL BE HERE" ...........written sung by Steve Curtis Chapman

www.youtube.com/watch?v=qWzGmtro7cE&feature=related

Below are the Lyrics : )

 

"Tomorrow mornin' if you wake up~And the sun does not appear~I...I will be here

If in the dark we lose sight of love`Hold my hand and have no fear~'Cause I...I will be here

I will be here...When you feel like bein' quiet~When you need to speak your mind~I will listen

And I will be here~When the laughter turns to cryin'~Through the winnin' and losin' and tryin'

We'll be together~'Cause I will be here

Tomorrow mornin' if you wake up~And the future is unclear~I...I'll be here

Just as sure as seasons are made for change~Our lifetimes are made for years~I...I will be here

I will be here....You can cry on my shoulder~When the mirror tells us we're older~I will hold you

And I will be here~To watch you grow in beauty~And tell you all the things you are to me~I will be here

I will be true~To the promise I have made~To you and to the~One who gave you to me~I...I will be here~And just as sure as seasons are made for change~Our lifetimes are made for years~'Cause I...~I will be here....We'll be together

'Cause I will be here

 

"Love is patient and kind. Love is not jealous or boastful or proud or rude. It does not demand its own way. It is not irritable, and it keeps no record of being wronged. It does not rejoice about injustice but rejoices whenever the truth wins out. Love never gives up, never loses faith, is always hopeful, and endures through every circumstance. 1 Corinthians 13:4-7

  

Hope you have a great week! Enjoy yourself! It's a great option : )

Just Dress! Usually, I like to dress about once a week - I find it keeps irritability at bay. Weirdly, my interest in dressing has *dropped* during all this pandemic sheltering. I tried about two weeks ago, and I quit without taking even one picture,

I decided to give it another try today, and it was just like old times! Thankfully. I do hope that everyone else is taking good care out there, whether pretty or pretty scruffy,

Drowsy Driving Prevention Week

 

Drowsy Driving Prevention Week® is November 1-8, 2020. The National Sleep Foundation holds Drowsy Driving Prevention Week (DDPW) each year the week following the end of Daylight Saving Time.

 

The campaign will raise awareness and education about the dangers of drowsy driving and its prevention. The National Sleep Foundation (NSF) proivides drowsy driving prevention resources on their website at: www.thensf.org.

NSF encourages everyone to spread the word on Drowsy Driving Prevention Week through social media using hashtag #Sleepfirst.

 

Drowsy Driving is Preventable

 

The goal of this annual campaign is to reduce the number of drivers who drive while sleep deprived. Drowsy driving is responsible for more than 6,400 U.S. deaths annually. Fall-asleep crashes are often caused by voluntarily not getting the sleep you need. NSF encourages everyone to prioritize sleep and drive when alert and refreshed.

 

Three key steps before driving can help prevent falling asleep behind the wheel:

 

1.getting the recommended amount of sleep the night before your trip (7-9 hours on average),

2.planning long trips with a companion, and

3.scheduling regular stops every 100 miles or 2 hours.

 

The NSF Drowsy Driving Consensus Working Group’s 2016 report published in Sleep Health Journal concluded that sleep deprivation renders motorists unfit to drive a motor vehicle. Specifically, healthy drivers who have slept for two hours or less in the preceding 24 hours are not fit to operate a motor vehicle. NSF experts further agreed that most healthy drivers would likely be impaired with only 3 to 5 hours of sleep during the prior 24 hours.

 

Being a diligent driver starts with being aware—drowsy driving is preventable.

Sleepiness can slow down your reaction time, decrease awareness, impair judgment, and increase your risk of crashing. Whenever you are getting ready to drive, ask yourself, “Am I alert enough to operate a 3,000-pound moving machine on public roads?”

 

Before getting into the car with someone or driving yourself, ask the following:

1.Are you sleep-deprived or fatigued? Are you suffering regularly from sleep problems? Less than 6 hours of sleep triples your risk of falling asleep while driving!

2.Are you planning to drive long distances without proper rest breaks?

3.Will you be driving through the night, mid-afternoon, or when you would normally be asleep?

4.Are you taking medications that can make you sleepy such as antidepressants, cold tablets, or antihistamines?

5.Have you been working for more than 60 hours a week? A tightly-packed work schedule increases your risk of drowsy driving by 40%.

6.Have you been working more than one job and your main job involves shift work?

7.Did you drink alcohol? Even a small amount of alcohol can have an impact on your body.

 

Be proactive. Plan every short and long trip ahead of time. Ask a friend to join you on long-distance drives, so that your companion can help look for early warning signs of driver fatigue and switch drivers when needed.

 

8 Drowsy Driving Warning Signs to Watch for:

1.Finding it hard to focus on the road, frequent blinking, or heavy eyelids

2.Starting to daydream, wandering eyes, and have disconnected thoughts

3.Having trouble remembering the last few miles driven

4.Missing an exit or ignoring traffic signs

5.Yawning repeatedly or rubbing your eyes

6.Finding it hard to keep your head up or nodding off

7.Drifting from your lane, tailgating, or hitting a shoulder rumble strip

8.Feeling restless and irritable, or becoming aggravated with common annoyances such as sitting in traffic.

If you notice these warning signs for drowsy driving, pull over to a safe place and get some rest, stretch, or drink a caffeinated beverage. Continue driving when you feel alert and refreshed.

  

20201103 308/366

Rainy days gives time for photo processing. Two more images from the recent photo tour trip I took in September/October. This bull elk isn't quite as close as he looks in these images - they were taken with a telephoto and have been cropped. There was a road in between us and him and we were next to the car. Even so, you can see him bugling towards us in one of the images. Definitely an irritable guy.

You know you done me wrong

I'm gonna smile when

You say goodbye

 

I finally did some intense research on my medication and discovered the withdrawals are similar to those of heroin withdrawals. It has been a week and a half of not taking any paxil and it has been hell. I feel dizzy, nauseous, cold and irritable. I almost refilled the prescription after weening for weeks just so the pain will stop. I hope this ends soon because I am losing my mind.

 

WEBSITE.

INSTAGRAM.

TUMBLR.

Tough choice between this and the other one. I thought they both captured today's moods of irritability and fatigue, each in their own way.

One of two white rhinoceroses that we could walk close to, on a hillside of Masai Mara. They are protected by rangers around the clock.

 

This is the calm male, called Kofi Annan. The female, called Queen Elizabeth, was more irritable and we had to keep more distance.

 

(Stumpneshorn/Hvitt neshorn in Norwegian)

 

My album of photos from Africa here.

 

-----------------------------------------------------------------------

Feel free to follow my facebook photo page:

www.facebook.com/ranveigmariephotography/

 

Or my Instagram:

www.instagram.com/ranveigmariephotography/

This was the skyline of Seattle on the evening of Easter Sunday. Qwest Field, home of the Seattle Seahawks football team, is illuminated in green lights to the right.

 

I had not initially planned to go out, but one of my closest friends (who lives in Toronto) encouraged me, via a conversation on Facebook, to get off my derriere and take advantage of the beautiful sunset I had mentioned to him. It was good advice. A few minutes after I reached this location (the aging Alaskan Way Viaduct that will eventually be torn down and replaced by a tunnel) and set up my tripod and camera, a police officer approached me in his squad car -- red, white, and blue lights blazing. I sighed deeply and thought irritably, “There goes my opportunity.” I turned around, expecting a nasty attitude and rude tone from the officer, and asked calmly, “Do you need me to vacate?”

 

Truth be told, where I was situated is only permissible for emergency situations, and this was no emergency. In addition, the viaduct is so doddery, one can feel the structure vibrating when large trucks and buses pass, so it’s not advisable to stay there long, similar to any shoulder of a major highway. To my surprise, the officer’s response was friendly and conciliatory. He said, “Oh no, I just wanted to make sure you were alright.”

 

I told him I was a photographer and just wanted to get some images before it was completely dark. He, too, looked at the skyline, nodded, and said he understood. “As long as you’re alright, then no problem,” he said, and proceeded to switch off those invasive siren lights as he drove down the highway. It then occurred to me, as I tried to put myself in the shoes of the officer and throw out stereotypical scenarios, that perhaps he found it unusual for someone to be parked on the viaduct and was, in fact, concerned for my safety.

 

I have been stopped by the police before while taking photographs, but this was probably one of the most pleasant exchanges I’ve ever had with them. In Philadelphia, some security guards actually escorted me out because they were annoyed that I had walked to the top level of a parking garage instead of driving my car to the place and paying for a space! (That was kind of funny in retrospect. Still got my super-duper photos).

 

I wish all of you a pleasant weekend as the first third of 2011 comes to an end!

 

My thoughts and prayers to the people of Japan, Libya, the southeastern U.S., and congratulations to

Prince William and soon-to-be Princess Kate in the UK.

 

TIA INTERNATIONAL PHOTOGRAPHY / TIA Facebook / TIA Twitter / TIA Local

Love is patient and kind; love does not envy or boast; it is not arrogant

or rude. It does not insist on its own way; it is not irritable or resentful;

it does not rejoice at wrongdoing, but rejoices with the truth.

Love bears all things, believes all things, hopes all things, endures all things.

Love never ends. (1 Corinthians 13)

 

With dark clouds roaring up in the sky, we know its time to welcome the monsoon season! After months of oppressive heat and irritable conditions, monsoon comes as a big boon in our lives. And as the much awaited hush falls our heart dances to the rhythm of the downpour.

When i look at this beauty I am reminded that even amidst all the color in our lives, like this shot resembles, sometimes we can feel like we are in a bit of a "maze". Take heart! Love will find a way! "Love is patient, love is kind, and is not jealous; love does not brag and is not arrogant..." (see tag for the rest if you are interested : )

 

Have a great Wednesday and enjoy every moment...it's a choice : ), and they all count : )

 

You may want to check this out on black ; ) Press L

 

Today's mood:irritable!!!

The Missive Acte F

Rude and Glorious

  

He had quickly strolled back down the path, putting distance between him and the twit of a lady foolishly waiting for him to bring back the wine! ……and hopefully that distance will be getting him closer to further the lining his pockets that evening.

  

He was glad this one ( the twit) had fallen for his letter writing ruse, for her diamonds and jewels he had found to be the most enticing , and felt that she would be the easiest to trick out of said jewels.

She above all the lasses he had paid the lad to deliver handwritten notes of false admiration to…

Though the admiration had not been false, it was simply had been the jewels his chosen marks were wearing, and not them he wanted to lure them out to meet !!

  

He was smirking as he thought over this, it had been fun to have pretended to be trying to seduce the twit, and by doing so, taking advantage of the poor lass’s gullibility in obtaining her valuables…

  

He smacked his lips as he placed a hand into his pocket, as he replayed the events, especially,Totally on the cuff, his coming up with the hidden bottle of wine lie to get smoothly away. This diversion had , in his opinion, been sheer brilliant genius on his part……

  

As he was self-complimenting himself, he turned a corner of the path and stopped dead in his tracks.

  

The moonlight had lit up a small clearing by a stone Garden house just ahead. And it showed a pretty female standing there, alone, and in all her shimmery fine glory……

  

“Ello, what ave we ‘ere?” he whispered, salivating , while looking around for any additional signs of trouble.

  

He thought, as he did so… two out of three then so far… Two birds in a bush he thought, not bothering to heed the sage advice that the rest of the ancient proverb gave….

  

He automatically went into stalking mode, quietly circling around the prettily gowned Lass… Young ,Pretty with long silky hair. Making sure that, indeed she, and sparkling priceless jewels she had worn along out for the occasion, were indeed all alone…

  

The lamb before the wolf…!!

  

Nice of you to wait for me Miss, he smirked thoughtfully to himself under his breath, eyeing her expensive sparklers as he carefully circled in, wishing to approach and ambush from the her back.

 

He saw that she was still clutching his luring letter.

  

As he successfully reached his chosen spot, her sweet backside to him, he stopped, and just before he made his entrance, he deliberately snapped a small twig. Maliciously watching her startled reaction as she heard the noise breaking the dreadfully still silence in the night.

  

He entered the light of the circle, smiling as innocently and shyly as he had done when first looking into the eyes of the hapless, wine waiting, twit he had just left back in the gardens.

  

She turned, her eyes brightening as she recognized him as one of her dance partners, one with dashed brilliant looks. One of the ones she was hoping had been the letter writer who had so boldly asked her to meet him here..

  

“Why Hello”, she twittered, placing a hand to her earlobe and pulling at a rather brilliantly shimmering, long diamonded earring, with a nervous twitch.

  

“Ello.” he said, “fancy meetin you here?”

  

She smiled…” Come now sir, you must admit writing that letter, the one telling me to come out alone on this misty, dark evening to meet a secret admirer!”

  

He smiled,” ah yes the letter, so glad you received it my dear lass, so glad you came here, all alone like I had asked.”

  

“Well” she purred, “Pray to tell one , why was it so important to see me here, alone then .. or will you keep me guessing?”

  

“I like a lass that comes right to the point!” he parried, smiling winningly, as he took a few more steps towards her, no I will not keep you guessing on that account my pretty one.

  

She appeared to be quivering in anticipation, waiting for the words he believed she longed to hear. To be uttered enthusiastically by him, to be wooed by him, as he spoke them to her, and then , having a lovers embrace sweep her from her feet. To all appearances, this is what was playing out in her mind. But, however, decidedly not in his….!

  

He was not surprised at what he read in those green eyes of hers. After all, it was something that he had accurately read countless times before, from his many lured victims….. Whom also found to their woe, that he was not as he appeared to them to be atoll …!!

  

He finally spoke again…

  

“Lovely jewels you are wearing this evening, the good uns I see… “ He stated as he reached a hand inside his pocket and pulled out something dark and metallic.

 

“Wait, what?!” she said… her eyes looking buggered… as she placed a hand to the magnificent necklace dripping down the front of her satin gown in a sparkling flow from her throat….

  

Them jewels you’re wearing luv, I’ll be having them, and quick, im rather in a dash !! He demanded with a wolfish snarl…..

  

He had pulled a rather wicked little derringer from his pocket, and held out his hands, fingers beckoning for her to begin as he pointed its business end towards her gown’s shiny waistline….

  

A sudden noise from the woods caught both their attention, and their heads turned in unison….

  

To see nothing more than a voyeur owl swooping up into a tree for a better look at what was conspiring in the little glen.

  

The man breathed an inward sigh of relief, and turned back to his victim, who also looked back at him, her eyes wide and more than a bit sad as reality of the situation sunk in…She than, heaving a deep sigh, reached up and began the requested process by first removing her Shimmering jewelled Earrings….

 

^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^

 

So, at this point one would suppose the damsel would have been rescued from her plight by a knight in shining armour. But apparently the best I could do was writing in an Owl… !?

 

Hopefully I can find us in an nicer neck of the woods for our next Acte?…

 

or not… depends if the stories tone is interrupted again due to smoggy rain, irritable pub mates, or writers moral block…… or…… look a bloody squirrel !!

  

But, I’m afraid that upon seeing that this current discourse is getting a bit rude, we should probably toddle off and go with an Alfred Hitchcock like ending to this scene, leaving the outcome up to the reader’s imagination shall we? ….

 

……… To Be continued

 

Naps aren’t only for toddlers. Approximately 1 in 3 American adults nap, according to previous Pew Research Center data.

 

Naps come in all shapes and sizes. “Some people take restorative daytime naps in order to compensate for insufficient nighttime sleep,” says Shanon Makekau, MD, chief of pulmonology and sleep medicine director at Kaiser Permanente in Honolulu. “Others may take ‘prophylactic’ naps to prepare for an overnight shift.”

 

And then there’s the power nap.

 

“A power nap is a nap that's short — less than 30 minutes long,” says Safia Khan, MD, a specialist in sleep disorders and an assistant professor in the department of family and community medicine and the department of neurology at UT Southwestern Medical Center in Dallas.

 

It provides the restorative benefits of sleep without adversely affecting one’s ability to fall asleep at night, Dr. Makekau adds.

Is It Healthy to Nap?

Yes, but follow these tips from Alex Dimitriu, MD, a Menlo Park, California–based psychiatrist and sleep medicine physician, so they don’t mess with sleep at night!

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department offers comprehensive services in the diagnosing and treatment of people with sleep disorders, including breathing-related sleep disorders (e.g., obstructive sleep apnea, OSA), insomnia, hypersomnia(e.g., narcolepsy, Kleine-Levine Syndrome), circadian rhythm disorders, parasomnia, and sleep disturbance caused by psychiatric and medical conditions.

 

We provide integrated and multi-discipline medical services comprising of physicians specializing in various disciplines (e.g. Psychiatry, Neurology, ENT, Pulmonary Medicine , Rehabilitation) as well as other health and well-being professionals (e.g. sleep psychologists and nurse practitioners).

   

Conditions We Treat

Insomnia

 

Difficult to fall asleep at night

Nocturnal spontaneous waking

Early morning awakening

Don’t feel refresh after waking in the morning

Feeling tired, fatigue, or sleepiness during the day

Irritable, or depressed during the day

Sleep related breathing disorders

 

Snore loudly.

Have morning headaches.

Snort or choke while asleep.

Have pauses in breathing or irregular breathing while asleep.

Excessive sleepiness during the day (watching TV, work, driving).

Wake up groggy or tired in the morning, no matter how many hours you've slept.

Parasomnia

 

Sleepwalking

Nightmares

Sleep enuresis

Sleep terrors

REM sleep behavior disorder

Bruxism

Services & Treatments

■ Out patient Clinic

 

■ Polysomnography (PSG)

 

■ Continuous Positive Airway Pressure titration (CPAP titration)

 

■ Multiple Sleep Latency Test (MSLT)

 

■ Actigraphy

 

■ Light therapy

 

■ Cognitive behavioral therapy

 

english.tmuh.org.tw/Department/57

 

What Counts as a Power Nap?

 

Some experts say the power nap should be even shorter — 20 minutes max. But all agree it shouldn’t exceed 30 minutes. That’s because the body enters a deep sleep around that time, and waking up from a deep sleep can lead to grogginess, according to the Sleep Foundation.

 

This state of grogginess or drowsiness is also called “sleep inertia.” It’s when your body feels like you need to sleep more because your brain has already started to get into a deeper state of sleep, Dr. Khan explains.

 

Sticking to the shorter time frame keeps the body from dealing with sleep inertia so you wake up feeling recovered rather than sleepy. “With a power nap, you stay in the lighter stages of sleep,” Khan says. “When you’ve been sleeping longer than 30 minutes, it’s more difficult to wake up and you wake up feeling groggy versus when waking up from lighter sleep.”

 

Power naps are the most beneficial type of nap for most adults, according to the American Sleep Association.

 

What Are the Benefits of a Power Nap?

 

The main benefit of a power nap is to help you feel refreshed, so you feel more awake through the rest of the day. “When you take a power nap, it energizes you and makes you more alert for the next four to six hours,” Khan says. “You feel like you can get a lot more accomplished.”

 

According to Mayo Clinic, napping can help you feel relaxed, reduce fatigue, increase alertness, and improve your mood as well as your performance, such as by increasing your reaction time and memory. “Power naps can help people with jobs requiring high vigilance (for example, drivers and pilots) to recharge, thus reducing the risk of accidents and errors due to drowsiness,” Makekau says.

 

Napping can also boost the immune system and reduce stress. A small study published in February 2015 in The Journal of Clinical Endocrinology and Metabolism found short, 30-minute naps had stress relieving and immune benefits for a group of healthy young adult men.

 

And if you needed another excuse for a midday break: Naps may keep your heart healthy. A study published in December 2019 in Heart found that participants who napped once or twice a week had a lower risk of experiencing a cardiovascular event.

 

Just remember that 30-minute limit to ensure the nap doesn’t interfere with nighttime sleep, Khan says. “It's easier to wake up from a power nap, and it does not significantly affect your nighttime sleep,” she says. “A longer nap will affect your ability to fall asleep at night.”

 

RELATED: Are You Sleeping Too Much?

 

Does a Caffeine Nap Actually Work?

 

Some people take the power nap to the next level by consuming coffee (or other source of caffeine) immediately before falling asleep.

 

“By the time coffee gets absorbed into the system, the effect of the caffeine will start working and will help wake you up,” Khan says.

 

A study published in the September–October 2020 issue of Chronobiology International had participants drink 200 milligrams of caffeine right before a 30-minute nap. (For reference, that’s about two cups of coffee, according to Mayo Clinic.) Those individuals tested higher on careful attention and fatigue in the 45 minutes after waking up from the nap compared with those who did not consume caffeine before sleeping.

 

Whether or not it’ll work for you depends on how you respond to caffeine. “There are some people who get wired immediately as they drink their coffee,” Khan says.

 

If you decide to give it a try, do it in the early afternoon. “We don't recommend drinking coffee past 3 or 4 p.m. because it can disrupt your nighttime sleep,” Khan says.

 

Who Are Power Naps Best for and How Do I Know I’m Doing It Right?

 

If you get the recommended seven to nine hours of sleep at night (per guidelines from National Sleep Foundation published in March 2015 in Sleep Health), wake up feeling rested, and have plenty of energy throughout the day, you probably don’t need to worry about power napping. But, if you tend to feel drowsy in the afternoon or you’ve had a poor night sleep, a power nap could indeed be beneficial, Khan says.

 

Power naps may be especially helpful for shift workers, especially those who need to avoid drowsiness for safety reasons, such as truck drivers or doctors prepping for surgery. “This reduces risks of errors in judgment,” Khan says.

 

Khan says it’s okay to power nap regularly. “However, if you need to take a power nap daily, then you may benefit from increasing total sleep time at night,” she says.

 

RELATED: How Much Sleep You Really Need

 

Here are a few tips from the Sleep Foundation on how to get the most out of your power nap:

 

Don’t nap too close to nighttime sleep. A good rule of thumb is to nap at the midpoint between the time you wake up and the time you go to bed.

Set an alarm for 10 to 20 minutes to ensure you wake up feeling alert instead of groggy.

Find the right spot to rest. The best sleep environment for napping is the same one for nighttime: You want a cool, dark, quiet, and comfortable place. Your bedroom is ideal, and ear plugs and an eye mask may help, Makekau says.

Power naps aren’t for everyone. You may not be able to make it work schedule-wise or you may be the type who wakes up feeling disoriented or even more tired than you were before, regardless of the duration of the nap.

 

But, Khan adds that she’s personally a big fan. “Most people do benefit from taking a power nap,” she says.

 

www.everydayhealth.com/sleep/power-naps-the-benefits-how-...

  

A nap is a short period of sleep that usually occurs during the day. For many adults, naps can help to maintain alertness or overcome daytime fatigue.

Nap needs and the benefits of napping can vary among individuals. Knowing the facts about napping can help determine whether to take naps, and tips for better naps can enable healthier napping habits.Benefits of Naps

 

Naps can deliver a number of benefits. Brief naps can be restorative and reduce fatigue during the day. After a night of insufficient sleep, a nap may counteract daytime drowsiness

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. Naps can be particularly beneficial for shift workers who struggle to get enough sleep and have to be alert at irregular times.

 

A short daytime snooze may also boost workplace performance

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National Heart, Lung, and Blood Institute (NHLBI)

The NHLBI is the nation's leader in the prevention and treatment of heart, lung, blood and sleep disorders.

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. A nap can improve cognitive functions such as memory, logical reasoning, and the ability to complete complex tasks.

 

Some studies have found that physical performance can also improve after napping

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National Center for Biotechnology Information

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. Athletes may experience improved endurance, reaction times, and cognitive performance if they take a daytime nap.

 

Napping may provide other health benefits. One observational study found that napping one or two times a week was associated with a lower risk of cardiovascular problems

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, such as heart attack, stroke, or heart disease. However, more research is needed to understand the complex ways that the frequency and duration of naps affect heart health.

 

Napping may also reduce the impacts of insufficient sleep. For example, a small trial found evidence that naps relieved stress

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and supported the immune system in people whose sleep was limited the night before.

 

Additionally, naps may contribute to the well-being of specific groups of people. For instance, a study of people diagnosed with intracranial aneurysms found that regularly napping was associated with a lowered risk of a rupture

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of the aneurysm.How Sleep Works During Nap Time

 

Whether at night or during the day, sleep unfolds in a series of stages that make up a sleep cycle.

 

Stage 1: Stage 1 is the lightest and briefest stage of sleep, lasting only one to seven minutes.

Stage 2: Stage 2 follows stage 1 and lasts about 10 to 25 minutes. During stage 2 sleep, the muscles relax, and body functions slow. However, sleep in this stage is still relatively light.

Stage 3: Stage 3 is a deeper, more restorative stage of sleep, and it can be difficult to wake up while in this stage. Stage 3 usually lasts between 20 and 40 minutes.

Rapid eye movement (REM): During REM sleep, the body’s muscles are temporarily paralyzed, and the eyes move quickly under closed eyelids. Dreaming tends to take place during REM sleep.

When sleep periods last several hours, the body cycles through these stages several times. During a nap, though, there is not enough time to go through multiple sleep cycles.

 

In fact, during a short nap, a person may not be asleep long enough to spend much, if any, time in stage 3 or REM sleep. This can actually make it easier to wake up refreshed from a quick nap.

 

Longer naps, such as those lasting more than 30 minutes, can cause the sleeper to enter deep sleep, and deep sleep may start even sooner in people who are sleep deprived. Grogginess often results from being woken up during deep sleep.

 

www.sleepfoundation.org/sleep-hygiene/napping

Bridges & Balloons: 'The sight of bridges and balloons....Makes calm canaries irritable.'

  

I had to hold the page down, it tried to fly away.

Location: Dam in the Durbanville suburb of Vierlanden

 

Description: The biggest problem with photographing any of the suburban dams in Durbanville is not so much all the houses and rooftops littering the scene, but the problem of ducks!

 

Although I don’t have anything against ducks as a species, I do have a problem with people feeding them! It sounds like such a cool thing to do with the kids… grab a stale loaf of bread and go and feed the ducks at the local dam. But is it really so cool? In my opinion, this only encourages more and more ducks to come and live at our dams, the more you feed them, the more they breed and multiply, the more you feed them, the more they breed, etc, etc! There is one particularly large dam in Sonstraal that is home to more than a thousand ducks… on average… that’s one heck of a lot of quacking!!

 

Anyway, when I woke to a pink sky on Sunday morning, I immediately realized that I’d missed the best part of the sunrise. I decided to get up anyway, just in case I could still catch some part of it… I wasn’t very hopeful. There was not a breath of wind in the air, so I decided to head for the closest dam… which is about two minutes drive from my house. Amazingly enough there was still some colour in the sky when I arrived at the dam, but as I was getting my camera ready, I noticed a whole bunch of ducks swimming towards me and messing up the perfectly calm water!

 

“Does my camera-bag look like a loaf of bread to you guys?”, I asked them irritably as they arrived at my side of the dam. It was still too early for anyone else to be anywhere near the dam, so I felt quite comfortable talking aloud to the ducks.

 

When they didn’t respond to “go away”, “shoo” and “bugger off”, I suspected that they either didn’t understand English, or they really did think that I had a loaf of bread in my camera-bag! “You’re always messing up the calm water” I grumbled, “I don’t mind you being in my photograph, but then you must all bunch together, turn sideways to the camera… and not move a muscle”!

 

Wow… that’s exactly what they did!!

 

Click here to view this one large.

 

Equipment: Nikon D300 (Sigma 10-20mm)

 

Date: June 2008

 

==Wayne Manor==

 

"Sure hope Bruce Wayne can afford to pay for the damages," Chuck smiled sarcastically, before catching Batman's eye. "How did you get here so fast?" he added curiously.

 

"I was in the area. You?" Batman asked back, looking at Chuck suspiciously. He didn't know, did he?

 

Brown looked back at him, confused. "I... I mean, I have a kite."

 

"Hmm," Batman nodded. That much Drury had kept to himself. "The Justice League and I are currently investigating an altercation at Slabside. In the meantime, I trust you can deal with Karl Kyle?"

 

"Slabside?" Chuck paused. "I don't understand, what's- Karl's a sex demon. Does- Doesn't that take priority?"

 

"Not when it's Drury Walker."

 

...

 

"In Antarctica-?" Chuck's brow furrowed.

 

"An eye witness said that the assailant came out of nowhere, like a ghost, or phantom. And Abner Krill's been off the radar since Arkham. He fits the profile, Brown."

 

"You don't think- Drury wouldn't work with Krill, Drury hates Krill... We all hate Krill," he added hastily.

 

"Then, if not Krill, then it was McCulloch. And if Walker can teleport now, and he's making moves against the people who've hurt him, then it's only a matter of time before he makes his way here."

 

...

 

"You're wrong. He wouldn't go to Slabside, not for revenge," Chuck sighed. "Believe me, there's a lot of people Drury blames for what happened to his wife. Krill, Deathstroke, Strange, the entire League of Assassins; you. But there's no one he blames more than himself."

He noticed Batman's expression shift. "He really did hurt you, huh?"

 

Batman turned his head away. "If he violates the terms of our arrangement in any way- and if I find out you or the Misfits helped him do so, and if he ever- ever steps foot in Gotham again, then I will come down on all of you. Do you understand?"

 

Chuck bowed his head. "I haven't heard from Drury since the desert."

 

"Good," Batman replied, as he stepped off the roof, and into the awaiting cockpit of the Batwing, Selina in the co-pilot chair. "Karl Kyle, Brown," he added. "I want him found."

 

As the jet soared off into the night, Chuck ran his hand through his hair. "And I thought he was angsty before."

 

~

 

Hellhound slid his gloves back on, as he and Rigger walked up towards the group, his dog by their side. Resting against a nearby chimney, Chuck was now nursing Reardon's head wound with an ice pack. "Well?" he asked, before taking note of Rigger's uncharacteristically blank expression. "Wha- What did you do back there?"

 

"Sportsmaster gave up the goods," Hellhound evaded, as he reached into his satchel and fed his dog a large, human-looking shin bone. "They're at the old Waterworks. Narrows territory."

 

Ten sighed. "It's really hard for the economy to recover when you have all these abandoned warehouses and factories... sorry, thinking out loud."

 

"He was going to tell us anyway, you really didn't have to have your dog hump him," Rigger muttered glumly.

 

Reardon's ears pricked up. Chuck's jaw fell open.

 

"What? You don't like Cheadle?" Hellhound asked, petting the dog lovingly.

 

"I think he's gorgeous, I just like him slightly less now I've seen him used as an interrogation tool," Rigger shuddered.

 

"Lord almighty, it was a dry hump, Rigger. Harmless. I thought that, what, Sex Offenders Club of yours would've desensitised you to that."

 

"Squad," Rigger muttered.

 

Reardon pushed Chuck's homemade ice pack aside. "Sorry, Sex Offender Squad?"

 

Rigger sighed. "Zodiac named us. It was a rough year, I was dating Tarantula and-"

 

"Oof, say no more," Reardon nodded.

 

"Really. Say no more," Chuck warned him wearily.

 

==ISA Headquarters==

 

The trio watched the Beast pace in its' cell. It was on all fours, and every now and then, it'd start hissing, manically. At that point, Dragon King would press a button and send a electrical shock to the metal bars containing it.

 

Gambler was staring at it, almost intently. "Doctor Ito, I trust the machine will be completed as scheduled," he drawled.

 

Ito nodded. "You have my word, Stephen."

 

Chancer shivered slightly, as the creature turned its' gaze toward him, licking its' lips. "Machine?"

 

"The neural synthesiser. We intend to study the Beast's brain patterns, and determine the source of its' immortality."

 

Sharpe pondered this. "Neural what, I don't understand-"

 

"I'm dying, Montgomery," Gambler coughed.

 

...

 

Chancer was silent for a second as he eyed up his grandfather. When at last he spoke, it was with a slight hesitance. "Well, it's probably all those cigars you had," he shrugged dismissively.

 

Gambler scoffed, and cane in hand, marched off.

Sharpe shuddered slightly. "You don't want to maybe take a step back?" he asked cautiously, turning to Ito.

 

Dragon King shook his head. "The Beast's primal urges don't worry me... Doctor King always theorised that body swapping was possible, but this? He transfers his very being by praying on the lust, the shame, the desire, of others. Theoretically, Mr Kyle is the answer to immortality in the only way that matters. The mind. He is a wonderful specimen, wouldn't you say?"

 

Sharpe's lip curled. "I guess. It's not really my thing."

 

"He said the same thing about me, but nothing lasts forever, does it daddy?" a voice called from the adjacent cell.

 

Ito turned his head. "Not now, Cynthia, daddy's working. Lovely, isn't she?" he said cheerily.

 

Chancer flashed Ito a smug smile. "I guess. It's not really my thing."

 

"Ah, no matter. You'll have plenty of time to warm to her after the wedding ceremony," Ito said, as he adjusted his apron.

 

"Yeah," Sharpe nodded. "Wait, what?"

 

Ito cocked his head to one side, his eyes gleaming. "Why, you're a fine young man, Montgomery, I would be honoured to have you as a son."

 

Sharpe scratched the back of his scalp awkwardly. "Yeah, uh, ditto, but... I don't really know your daughter, I just know that she scares me."

 

"I imagine that would be part of the appeal, no?

Hmph. Perhaps I could arrange to have your sister wed her instead?" he grimaced.

 

Chancer looked at him indignantly. "Who, Becky? Please, she doesn't even know you! I know you, man! ... Look, listen, maybe if I was drunk enough, I'd pull through it," he said reluctantly.

 

Ito claps his hands together. "Wonderful."

 

Gambler marched back into the room, a silver six shooter in hand. "Ito, Montgomery. We have guests."

 

Ito drew his sword, Chancer grabbed his bat off of the table, and the duo departed, leaving Stephen Sharpe alone with his prize. He pressed a button on the cell door, and the Beast arched its' back as it breathed in the fresh air.

 

Gambler coughed into his hankerchief, and pocketed the bloody tissue. "I need your help, boy."

 

The Beast glared at him for a minute, and flashed him a green eyed smile.

 

~

 

The Misfits were making their way through the tunnels. Leading the charge was Hellhound, his dog sniffing along the ground.

 

"Chuck?" a voice called out.

 

"Chancer?" Chuck asked back.

 

The dog growled at first, before Hellhound stroked it behind the ear. "Easy, boy,"

 

Sharpe made sure he'd shaken free of Ito before approaching, laying his bat on the ground as a kind of peace offering. "Oh, thank god, Chuck, I'm glad you're here. I could really use your help. I thought this was going to be the fun kind of cult, but suddenly Ito's gone all Scientology and has prepared a child bride for me."

 

The Misfits shared a look between each other, before Reardon spoke, nursing his head injury. "Good."

 

"No. Not good, the opposite of good. I can't get married. Blake and I made an agreement to remain bachelors indefinitely. Barring true love. And for me, that means D-cups."

 

"Sorry, not the fact she's underage?" Chuck interrupted.

 

Sharpe frowned. "What, no, she's psychotic!"

 

"You're psychotic," Reardon added.

 

"Yeah, but I've never been bitchy about it. Look, I concede there's been mistakes on both sides-"

 

"No, there hasn't-" Chuck began.

 

"But right now, Blake needs our help, I need our help, and my grandpappy needs our help. So let's grow some balls, and do this shit," Sharpe declared, as he turned around and ran back off towards the laboratory, Hellhound close behind him.

 

"What just happened?" Chuck asked.

 

"Think he just became the new leader," Rigger shrugged.

 

"The hell he did," Chuck frowned, as he chased after him.

 

~

 

Sharpe took a step backwards, slumped on the floor, was Blake's unconscious body. Hellhound pushed him aside as he walked towards it, and placed a gentle hand across its' face.

 

"It's gone, he declared. "The spirit must've moved out before we got here."

 

"Before we got here? Then where did it go-?" Rigger let out a sudden yelp, as a whip cracked against his back, letting out a single whimper of "Racist!" as he fell to the floor. Walking towards them, the King of Cats, reborn.

 

"The fat man was begging for immortality," the Beast hissed, its' voice now Gambler's signature southern drawl. "But these things have a price."

 

Chuck shook his head in disbelief. "That is wrong on so many levels."

 

"So, uh," Rigger groaned in agony, "I guess Gambler just had a Catwoman outfit lying around."

 

"It's Halloween, leave him alone," Sharpe snapped back. "Ok, boomer," he began, as he swung his bat at The Beast, "Let's tango."

 

In an instant, the Beast swung under his legs, and knocked them out from under him. Sharpe landed on the stone floor with an uncomfortable thud. Next, it fired Gambler's pistol at the others; Chuck and Reardon retreated behind a table, but Hellhound let out another whistle, and the dog reached for the Beast's crotch. The creature picked it up by its' collar, and slung it against the wall.

 

"He's an animal abuser too?!" Rigger exclaimed, as Chuck helped him to his feet. "Man, fuck that guy."

 

Hellhound drew his knife, and slashed the Beast around the chest. It dropped the gun, snarled, and in returned, dug its' claws into his face, lapping his splattered blood, then kneeing him in the crotch. "Tit for tat, you might say," it chuckled, as Hellhound staggered backwards, and it picked up the gun. And then- Nothing. The gun fell to the ground. The Beast's laughter trailed off, then- silence.

 

Hellhound opened his eyes; Stuck in the Beast's eye, was his own dagger, thrown there by none other than Thomas Blake. The Beast's eyes contracted for a minute in shock, then, it stumbled backwards towards the ledge, and plunged into the watery depths below with a sickening squelch. Chancer let out a horrified yell, as he scaled the stairs down after it.

 

Chuck smiled, as he and Blake shared a relieved look, which faded as soon as he looked down.

 

"Tom, could you put some pants on please?"

 

"In a minute, Chuck, in a minute."

 

~

 

Chancer rushed towards his grandfather's body, as suddenly, he was punched to the ground. "You lying freak!" a voice rang in his ears.

 

"Cynthia, enough," Ito was rasping, as he sheathed his blade.

 

"He's a creep and a traitor!" Shiv yelled, a blade drawn.

 

"You're the creep, you bitchy little wolverine!" Sharpe retorted angrily, rearing, as he wiped the mud from his face. "The traitor bit however, I, uh, I have no defense."

 

Shiv snarled as she raised her hand to slap him- only for Ito to grab it just as quickly.

 

"Cynthia, we're leaving," Ito commanded, as he led his daughter away. "Your betrayal is noted, Montgomery," he lamented, before walking off. His daughter sulked, but obliged.

 

"Woah, who was that guy?" Rigger asked, as the Misfits arrived downstairs.

 

"The best man I'll ever know," Chancer bowed his head shamefully, as he lay his hand tenderly over Gambler's face, his body impaled on a set of broken pipes, and shut his grandfather's eyelids.

 

"Chancer, are you-" Chuck began.

 

Chancer wiped his eyes with his sleeve. "I'm fine, really," he said. "Oh, damn, I don't do well around blood," he admitted, as he looked down at Gambler's bloodied chest.

 

"Don't do well around blood? You're a supervillian," Reardon said in disbelief.

 

Hellhound looked over to the others, and tutted irritably. "Missed it, it's already passed on."

 

"You mean- You mean it could be here among us right now?" Chuck asked anxiously.

 

Hellhound winked. '"Ah, don't worry, there's still some telltale signs to watch out for. He only goes for sad cases anyhow. Has anyone displayed any recent, sudden urges of arousal?"

 

Chancer rubbed the back of his neck, Rigger looked at the floor. "How recent?"

 

...

 

He shook his head. "Oh god, we could all be next."

 

After a moment's silence, Blake finally spoke up. "So! No more cults?"

 

"Oh, fuck, yeah, no more cults," Rigger agreed.

 

"Unless they're Manson themed!" Blake added.

 

"Yeah! ... What, no," Rigger frowned.

 

"Right. Yeah, I agree," he muttered sheepishly.

 

"Oh, I dunno, I heard Manson had some bitchin' parties," Sharpe said.

 

"Oh, yeah, you'd love them," Dekker smiled, as he refilled his margarita glass.

 

Chuck, Reardon, Blake and Rigger turned their heads toward him. "Seriously. What the hell are you doing here?"

 

Hellhound stroked Gambler's face and monologued privately. "Whenever there is lust or pity, or shame, the King will be there. Wherever loneliness thrives and libidos rise, the King will be there. Always. No matter how small, the king will be there, whispering tainted words, preying on fear, inciting arousal in the hearts of men. Perverting intimacy and love, the King will survive. He always survives," Hellhound lamented softly. "Come along Cheadle."

 

"No, sorry," Reardon began, sticking his arm out. "Why did you call your dog that?"

 

"Now now, don't disrespect the king. Don Cheadle played Iron Man 2: That silver son of a bitch is my favourite Marvel character."

 

Rigger stopped. "No, his name wasn't Iron Man 2, it was a sequel to Iron Man."

 

"For real?"

 

The Misfits looked at each other and nodded.

 

"Won't lie, kinda blowing my mind," Hellhound replied.

 

"Why- Why did you think he kept saying War Machine, then?" Chuck asked.

 

"He's American."

 

...

 

"Sam Rockwell carried that film," Rigger interjected.

 

Reardon nodded. "He really did."

 

=The Walker Residence. Keystone=

 

The door slammed open with a thud as Drury Walker, the Suit at his side, entered the living room, and hurled a suitcase at Axel. "We can't stay in Keystone."

 

The twins looked up in protest. "What, why?" Axel complained.

 

"Because another stinking speedster wants me dead, there, I said it!" Drury grumbled, as he threw several framed pictures into the bag carelessly. The house phone began to buzz, and he swore under his breath. "Yes, Suit, I know it's crazy to have a landline in 2020, but shut up."

 

"Are we going to have to transfer again? How am I supposed to get my degree?" Kitten complained.

 

"I know, and I'm sorry, but- Fucking phone!" he yelled angrily. The siblings took a concerned step back.

 

Drury stared incredulously as, before he could answer it, The Suit grabbed the phone and held it to its' head, nodding along as the caller spoke, before finally handing it back to him.

 

"Drury? Drury Walker?" a panicked female voice called out.

 

Drury's brow furrowed. "Yeah, that's- Who's this?" he asked.

 

"Jenna, Jenna Duffy. Gar and I- Well, you're his emergency contact- I didn't know who else to call."

 

Drury's eyes widened. "Slow down, what-"

 

Her voice was trembling. "He's in the hospital, he's in bad shape. We were walking home from work, and it happened so fast, but-"

 

Drury gripped the phone tightly. "What's wrong with him? What happened to Gar?"

 

Jenna paused, her voice breaking. "H- He was hit by a car."

 

Drury dropped the phone and staggered backwards. "No."

I also thought of the title "A Map Of Anguish"

 

This photograph was the winner of the best overall image in the 2010 "Battle of the Clubs" competition sponsored by Canon.

  

10 warning signs of Alzheimer's:

 

Memory loss that disrupts daily life

One of the most common signs of Alzheimer's is memory loss, especially forgetting recently learned information. Others include forgetting important dates or events; asking for the same information over and over; relying on memory aides (e.g., reminder notes or electronic devices) or family members for things they used to handle on their own.

 

What's a typical age-related change? Sometimes forgetting names or appointments, but remembering them later.

 

Challenges in planning or solving problems

Some people may experience changes in their ability to develop and follow a plan or work with numbers. They may have trouble following a familiar recipe or keeping track of monthly bills. They may have difficulty concentrating and take much longer to do things than they did before.

 

What's a typical age-related change? Making occasional errors when balancing a cheque book.

 

Difficulty completing familiar tasks at home, at work or at leisure

People with Alzheimer's often find it hard to complete daily tasks. Sometimes, people may have trouble driving to a familiar location, managing a budget at work or remembering the rules of a favourite game.

 

What's a typical age-related change? Occasionally needing help to use the settings on a microwave or to record a television show.

 

Confusion with time or place

People with Alzheimer's can lose track of dates, seasons and the passage of time. They may have trouble understanding something if it is not happening immediately. Sometimes they may forget where they are or how they got there.

 

What's a typical age-related change? Getting confused about the day of the week but figuring it out later.

 

Trouble understanding visual images and spatial relationships

For some people, having vision problems is a sign of Alzheimer's. They may have difficulty reading, judging distance and determining color or contrast. In terms of perception, they may pass a mirror and think someone else is in the room. They may not realize they are the person in the mirror.

 

What's a typical age-related change? Vision changes related to cataracts.

 

Problems with words in speaking or writing

People with Alzheimer's may have trouble following or joining a conversation. They may stop in the middle of a conversation and have no idea how to continue or they may repeat themselves. They may struggle with vocabulary, have problems finding the right word or call things by the wrong name (e.g., calling a "watch" a "hand-clock").

 

What's a typical age-related change?Sometimes having trouble finding the right word.

 

Misplacing things and losing the ability to retrace steps

A person with Alzheimer's disease may put things in unusual places. They may lose things and be unable to go back over their steps to find them again. Sometimes, they may accuse others of stealing. This may occur more frequently over time.

  

What's a typical age-related change? Misplacing things from time to time, such as a pair of glasses or the remote control.

 

Decreased or poor judgment

People with Alzheimer's may experience changes in judgment or decision-making. For example, they may use poor judgment when dealing with money, giving large amounts to telemarketers. They may pay less attention to grooming or keeping themselves clean.

 

What's a typical age-related change? Making a bad decision once in a while.

 

Withdrawal from work or social activities

A person with Alzheimer's may start to remove themselves from hobbies, social activities, work projects or sports. They may have trouble keeping up with a favourite sports team or remembering how to complete a favourite hobby. They may also avoid being social because of the changes they have experienced.

 

What's a typical age-related change? Sometimes feeling weary of work, family and social obligations.

 

Changes in mood and personality

The mood and personalities of people with Alzheimer's can change. They can become confused, suspicious, depressed, fearful or anxious. They may be easily upset at home, at work, with friends or in places where they are out of their comfort zone.

 

What's a typical age-related change? Developing very specific ways of doing things and becoming irritable when a routine is disrupted.

 

Alzheimer's is grossly under funded in the UK:

•Over 820,000 people in the UK live with Alzheimer's and other dementia's.

•Dementia costs the UK economy £23 billion per year: more than cancer and heart disease combined.

•Dementia research is severely underfunded, receiving 12 times less support than cancer research.

 

Today was a tough day as my parents house was cleared. A few days ago whilst going through the house for the last time I found some photographs, some of which I had never seen before of my Mother when she was in her twenties. She used to do a lot of acting on the stage often as one of the leads or the glamorous character.

 

In one of the last conversations I had with my Father before he died in April he said to me "When I first met June she was the most beautiful and intelligent woman I had ever met". My Father first met my Mother at a party held by a mutual friend. When he first saw her, even before he had spoken to her he told his friend who was with him at the party "I am going to marry that woman".

 

Alzheimer's series of images www.flickr.com/photos/mark-edwards/sets/72157624460945827/

  

A Noel In Black.

 

The doors to the homeless shelter shut in ten minutes, but Caleb needed another drink. It was Christmas Eve 1970, and he was wandering the streets of Eureka, California in a tattered and filthy Santa suit, crimson hat perched atop his head, dirty beard pulled down around his neck, a streak of vomit running down his left leg.

 

When the Salvation Army gave him the costume, days ago—how many now? Three? Four?—it had been brand new and shiny clean, but he had gone AWOL as soon as he had begged up enough money for a good drunk. He couldn’t believe how easy it was to get money begging in a Santa Suit during the holidays, especially when people thought they were giving to the Salvation Army. Too bad, he thought, that the racket had to end tonight. Fuck it, he was headed to the nearest bar and had a pocket full of money.

 

Bells on bob-tail ring, making spirits bright. Oh what fun it is to sing a sleighing song tonight.

 

Finally managing to make eye contact with the simian faced bartender who was absent-mindedly pushing a dishtowel up and down a pint glass, Caleb waved a fiver in the air, a wry smile of what the fuck? on his face. Red and green Christmas tree lights flickered over the bottles and mirrors and off in the corner the Ghost of Christmas Past grinned its horrid smile. The bartender nodded acknowledgment and strutted over.

 

“Yeah? Whaddya want?”

 

“Beer and a whiskey.”

 

“What kinda beer? What kinda whiskey?”

 

“The cheapest.”

 

The bartender got him his drinks, took the twenty, and left his change in front of him on the bar.

 

Sipping the bitter medicine, Caleb noticed a woman a few stools down trying to draw his attention, a jet of blue smoke issuing from her cherry-red lips as she raised and lowered her thickly-penciled eyebrows. He could tell she had done her best to look good tonight: lots of eye makeup, newer, hipper-looking clothes, but he could see the age in her face, recognized her need like a bad smell. Battered, needy women gave off a stink of desperation he’d learned to recognize over the years. Those years since he’d been back from the war. He’d had his fair share of these types. Always good for a warm bed and a hot meal, but too crazy to spend any real time with.

 

“Hey there, Santa. Buy a girl a drink?”

 

“Sure thing, honey.” Caleb glanced at the barkeep. “Give the lady what she wants.”

 

She slid down next to him as the grim faced bartender mixed a rum and coke, speared a lime with a tiny sword and dropped it in the glass. “I’ve always had a thing for Santa,” she whispered. “Coming in late at night to punish the naughty and reward the nice.”

 

“Yeah, and what are you, darling? Naughty or nice?”

 

“I’ve always thought I was a little of both.”

 

“Ha. What’s your name, baby?”

 

“Sandra. They call me Sandy around here. But I think of myself as Sandra.”

 

“All right, Sandra. What’s your story?”

 

“Just a local girl, been in the same place too long. What about you, Santa? Don’t you gotta lot of work to do tonight?”

 

Caleb laughed, that deep, reassuring laugh he’d mastered over the years, to put people—women especially—at ease. They talked for a while. Then Caleb ordered a pitcher of beer and a couple more shots and they moved to a corner booth. Sandra talked on and on, chain smoking Salems while he drank his beer and sipped his whiskey, watching as the room began to spin in slow, psychedelic and nauseating circles.

 

“You’re awful quiet.”

 

“I’ve been told that before.”

 

“How’d you get them scars on your neck?”

 

Caleb put his hand to his neck, let it drift down to the dirty fake beard, and pulled the knotted grey and black mess of hair over to cover his throat. And that wicked Ghost of Christmas Past with sunken eyes and yellow teeth whispered, “Tell her.” And so Caleb did.

 

“In the war.”

 

“You were over in ‘Nam, huh?”

 

“Yeah, two tours.”

 

“And then what? You come back to have these damn hippies spiting at you? I feel for you, sweetie. My daddy died in France fighting Nazis. Now my brother is in the Navy while this country goes to shit. You got these bastards like that dirty Abbey Hoffman saying to steal everything. And this Charlie Manson Family killing movie stars.” She laughed, shook her head and sipped her drink. “It’s enough to make you sick.”

 

They grew quiet. “So, you going to tell me about those scars, or what?”

 

“Well, I was a Kootchie Kootie. A tunnel rat. You know what that is?”

 

“Oh, yeah. You were one of those guys that go down in those gook holes?”

 

“Sure was. Infantry. 1st Reconnaissance Squadron.” He sighed, not wanting to get into it, but once he started it was hard to stop. “I was working three clicks west of Duc Pho in the Quang Ngai province. I was down in a tunnel. Just me, my .45 and a flash light. Looking out for booby traps and rats and spiders, and this animal. . . it came out of nowhere. Fucking attacked me. Just latched onto my shoulder and wouldn’t let go.”

 

“Oh, baby. You was attacked by an animal down in one of those tunnels?”

 

“Yeah. But when I killed it, when I shot it . . . ” He couldn’t tell her the rest. He couldn’t tell her how after he had shot that thing, the muzzle blast a blinding light, the report deafening, after he had filled that monster full of holes and watched it drop, it had looked just like a little girl. Just a tiny, raven-haired girl, all shot up and bloody, when moments ago it had been a beast: a mess of lurching fangs and drool.

 

His mouth moved up and down silently. He couldn’t say anything. Then, with an incredible effort, what he had managed to say was, “I think I brought something back with me. I . . . I . . . I don’t know.”

 

“You brought something back with you? You mean like that agent orange stuff, honey?”

 

“No, something different. Something, something. . .”

 

“What? In your head?”

 

He wanted to say, no, something in my blood: I brought back something in my blood that makes me a monster; but instead, he just nodded yes, his face a knot, visibly fighting to not break down in tears.

 

“Oh, baby, oh, baby, I understand.”

 

The room was twirling now at a breakneck speed. He was going to be sick. He pulled away from her and vomited on the floor.

 

“Son of a bitch!” the bartender shouted. “Who’s going to clean that up?”

 

Caleb hung over the edge of the booth, retching and dry heaving.

 

“Fuck you, Sam. He’s a veteran! He fought for this country, got attacked down in one of them gook holes. What the fuck you ever done?”

 

“I don’t care if he was on the beach at Normandy. Get him the fuck out of here!”

 

“You’re a piece of work. A real piece of work, know that, Sam? Where’s your sense of Christmas spirit?”

 

The bartender stomped up to her, eyes bulging, an accusing finger extended. “Get your cheap-whore ass out of here, bitch, and take your Santa Claus friend with you. Got me?” he grabbed her face in his hand and jerked her chin up so that he could look her in the eye. “This bar ain’t no place for you any more, Sandy. You make my customers sick. Everyone who’s wanted to has fucked you, and none of them’s too proud of it either. You'se don’t belong here. Find some other place to haunt, you cheap skank.” With that he tossed her head aside and stormed back behind the bar.

 

We wish you a merry Christmas. We wish you a merry Christmas. We wish you a merry Christmas and a happy New Year.

 

Sandra walked Caleb back to the motel room she rented by the month, holding him up the whole way while he leaned against her mumbling and pointing to ghosts she could not see. Once they were back at her room she helped him out of his Santa outfit and got him into the tub. In the heat of the steamy water he regained a semblance of consciousness, came back to himself. When he looked up he saw her through the mist, leaning in the doorway, staring at him. She had changed and was now wearing nothing but a silk kimono. He had to admit she didn’t look that bad.

 

“How you feeling, Santa?”

 

“Good. I feel . . .” he paused, unsure what to say, how he actually felt. “Good.”

 

She knelt down beside the tub, ran her finger over the surface of the water. “Thirsty?” she asked, holding up a tumbler of Scotch and water.

 

“As a matter of fact, I am.”

 

Taking the glass into his hands, he took a sip. Handing it back to her she gave him a penetrating stare that he found hard to decipher and then leaned in to kiss him. She tasted of whiskey, cigarettes and peppermint. But it was good, the way she gently ran her tongue over his upper lip before she pulled away, and Caleb felt himself growing aroused.

 

“Now that you’re all cleaned up, why don’t we get you to bed.”

 

“Sounds good, baby.”

 

“Dry yourself off. I’ll be waiting.” With that she disappeared out the door.

 

He got up from the tub and dried himself the best he could with the cheap, tiny towels the motel provided. When he entered the room she was already on the bed, prone on her back and naked. She may have had a butter face but her body was to die for, and she knew how to flaunt it. He started towards her but she held up her hand, palm out toward him, and exclaimed, “Stop right there, mister. The Santa suit. Put it on.”

 

He gave her a questioning half grimace and then smiled. “You serious?”

 

“I told you: I gotta thing for Santa.”

 

Smirking, he pulled on the dirty jacket and set the conical hat atop his head. “Better?”

 

“Oh, yeah, baby. I’ve been so naughty. I need to be punished.”

 

With that she burst out in playful laughter, turned over onto all fours, and stuck her ass into the air, whispering over her shoulder, “Come and get it, Santa.”

 

He approached the bed and, still standing, he pulled himself into her. She let out a deep moan and he began to move, slowly. He was still drunk as hell and the room was spinning slightly but he could feel that primal urge within to rock and rotate. He began to lunge faster, and faster, and then, suddenly, it was happening again.

 

Fuck. No. No. No. It was happening again. He could feel himself beginning to change as he thrust against her. A part of him wanted to run away, to bolt through the door and into the night so that he wouldn’t hurt her. But another part of him wanted this. It felt good. It felt so fucking good to let go and let the animal inside him take over. Still pounding, Sandra moaning beneath him, he watched in wonder as his fingers—tightly gripping her bony hips—became claws and a thick mat of fur began to weave itself up his arms. Thrusting against her with all his might he lifted his face and began to howl as his mouth filled with sharp, gleaming fangs.

 

Here comes Santa Claus, here comes Santa Claus, right down Santa Claus lane!

 

Margaret Ashton was the manager of the Lone Pine motel. She had been across the street visiting with her daughter and grandson in their two-story, cookie-cutter house, and she was just walking back to the motel office when she heard the screaming in room 308. It was that cheap-tramp Sandy’s room. Margaret had been waiting for an excuse to evict her and marched up to the door, ready to throw her out, Christmas Eve or not. But as she grew closer and heard the urgency to the screams, the gut-wrenching terror of the squeals, she grew hesitant and stopped. Suddenly, without warning, the window shattered, showering her with glass and splintered wood. She fell back and slipped to the ground, watching in utter disbelief as the craziest thing she had ever seen in her life of fifty-six years came tumbling down atop her. It was a wolf. A huge monster of a wolf, with a snarling mouth of fangs dripping blood and drool. And it was wearing a red coat lined in white fur with a Santa cap perched atop its head.

 

From his bedroom window her grandson Tommy watched the entire thing.

 

Later that night homicide detectives would interview the little boy. Tearfully he would relate how he had seen his grandmother ripped to shreds by some kind of beast in a Santa suit. One of the uniformed officers standing idly in the background would then turn to his partner and whisper under his breath, “Looks like grandma got run over by a werewolf, walking home from his house Christmas Eve.”

 

God, the Easter Bunny, and the Ghost of Christmas Present watched as two-year-old Annabelle toddled out the door of her street-level apartment and onto the sidewalk, a thumb stuck in her mouth and dragging a Barbie doll along by the hair. God looked like the guy from the Dos Equis commercials: an incredibly good looking older gentleman with white hair, perfectly coifed, and a nicely trimmed beard, in a tuxedo. The Ghost of Christmas Present looked extremely bored and kept yawning. The Easter Bunny was an out-of-work writer who needed a shave, dressed in a pink bunny outfit.

 

“Cute kid,” the Easter Bunny commented.

 

“I wouldn’t get too attached,” the Ghost of Christmas Present replied, disinterestedly stifling a yawn.

 

Annabelle’s parents were fighting again and they could all hear their voices echoing out from the apartment.

 

“Just how many Quaaludes did you take? You can’t even look at me. Jesus, wake up, bitch, I’m talking to you.”

 

“Fuck off, Henry. You always were a bore.”

 

“You dumb cunt. I oughta slap the stupid right offa your face.”

 

When the wolf came galloping down the middle of the street in its blood soaked Santa suit the Easter Bunny turned to God and said, “You gotta be putting me on, man.”

 

God rolled his eyes.

 

The wolf grabbed the baby in its mouth and threw the child upward into the night sky where she hung suspended in the moonlight for a moment, tiny arms and legs kicking, and then tumbled down, landing on the street with a thud. The beast leapt at her, sinking its fangs into her neck and thrashing its head side to side until the tiny figure ceased to struggle and lay limp in its mouth.

 

“It’s probably for the best,” the Ghost of Christmas Past said.

 

“What? Why?” the Easter Bunny asked, scratching at the stubble on his face.

 

“You want to tell him, God? Or should I?”

 

God gestured with his hands, as if to say, “Go ahead. It’s all you.”

 

“If Annabelle had lived through this night, after being molested by her stepfather and stepbrother, she would have become a heroin addict by fourteen and a prostitute by fifteen. She then would have gotten picked up by a notorious serial killer who after raping her for days would finally kill her by trying to give her a lobotomy with a cordless drill. Her life taken like this, quickly and mercifully, is a blessing, a thing of joy. A Christmas miracle.”

 

“Is this true?” the Easter Bunny asked God.

 

God grinned and nodded.

 

“You don’t say much, do you?” the Easter Bunny asked God.

 

God just shrugged.

 

Deck the halls with boughs of holly, fa la la la la la la la la. ‘Tis the season to be jolly, fa la la la la la la la la.

 

Father Mulligan was cleaning up after midnight mass when he heard the click-clack of claws on the wooden floor. He paused, chalice in one hand, ciborium in the other, and listened.

 

“Hello?” he called out, his voice echoing throughout the empty chapel. “Who’s there?”

 

Beneath the pounding of blood in his ears he distinctly heard panting, like that of a large animal. “Hello?”

 

Deep in the dark recess of the hall something stirred, moved, and then came slinking out of the shadows: a large creature walking on all fours, its eyes alight and flickering like yellow flames. The beast came forward slowly down the aisle, Santa hat drooping down one side of its head, a dead baby hung limply in its mouth. The wolf approached the altar and came so close that the priest could smell it, a feral odor of blood and musk. It spit the baby to the floor where it landed with a horrible smack.

 

But the priest didn’t run. He stood his ground, murmuring prayers beneath his breath. He knew why the beast was there, why this spawn of evil had come. It was here to punish him. Punish him for the things he had done to all those little boys. So many. First in Ireland when he had just been doing what had been done to him when he was an altar boy. Then, after coming to America, in Philadelphia, where for years the urban darkness of poverty and city life had let him run rampant. Not yet here in California, where he had been sent quickly by the diocese so as not to cause a scandal. But he had his eyes on a few of the boys in his congregation. Some of the poorer ones who he thought wouldn’t tell.

 

Seeing the monster here was a blessing and death would be a mercy. He fell to his knees, kissed his stole, and lifted his neck to the beast. But instead of taking him by the throat, the beast spun him around by the shoulders so that the priest fell face first to the floor. With one quick jerking motion the monster shredded the priest’s pants and mounted him. The priest cried out in pain and surprise as the wolf forcibly entered him and warm blood began to trickle down his leg.

 

God, the Easter Bunny and the Ghost of Christmas Present stood at the back of the chapel watching. The Easter Bunny had taken off his hood of rabbit ears and was puffing on an e-cigarette and furiously tapping away on an iPad mini. “Been blogging about this whole thing, and, yeah, a lot of people see that as offensive. I mean, what the fuck? You got a werewolf dressed like Santa Claus raping a child molesting priest on Christmas Eve?”

 

The Ghost of Christmas Present laughed heartily. “Well, I hate to say I told you so, but . . .”

 

“You got nothing to say about this, God?” the Easter Bunny asked, momentarily looking away from his iPad.

 

God tilted his head to the left, his thin lips bending into a sad frown, and, raising his eyebrows in an, “Oh, well,” manner, shrugged again.

 

Joy to the world, the Lord has come. Let Earth receive her king!

 

Gravy Brain Jane was out of her mind on LSD and had nowhere to go. She had a thousand tabs of purple sunshine on her but the connect had never shown and wasn’t answering the phone. Exasperated and befuddled, her vision a swirling cyclone of light and darkness, she stumbled from the Greyhound Station to a small clearing in a copse of woods. She sat leaning against a tree, the branches dripping and melting around her, the sky a miasma of spiraling stars and galaxies. She giggled and mumbled, “No sense makes sense,” to herself.

 

Charlie had sent a message from prison that she should deliver the acid here. If Charlie said it would work out, it would work out. She was sure of that. She had thought the other passengers on the bus would have been startled and scared by the X that Sandy and Squeaky had helped her burn into her forehead with hot bobby pins, but no one had noticed at all.

 

The Easter Bunny, who wasn’t even wearing his rabbit outfit anymore, and was now just dressed in his usual black jeans and t-shirt, was pacing back and forth irritably. He turned to the Ghost of Christmas Present and asked, slightly argumentatively, “Well, where’s God?”

 

“Oh, he couldn’t make it. Had a concert to catch.”

 

“A concert? What are you talking about?”

 

“Well, it was Skynard and you know how he loves Free Bird.”

 

“Typical.”

 

Gravy Brain Jane giggled when she saw the beast slowly creeping towards her. She had been taught to love coyotes when the family was in the desert of Death Valley. Back on the ranch Charlie had taught them to break down the final walls society imposed on them by having them fellate the stray dogs.

 

“Hey there, beautiful,” she said. The wolf just stared at her with its unblinking yellow eyes.

 

From their glimmer and spark she knew just what the creature wanted. It wanted what all men want and she had been taught the ways of a free love society. Giggling she squirmed from her panties and lifted her skirt with a vacant grin. She knew that in love there is no wrong. That submission is a gift and that you should never learn not to love. Charlie had taught her well.

 

She spread her legs, exposing herself, and the beast crept up to her and lowered its snout to her and began to lap at her in quick, greedy, licks. She gripped his ears tight, her head thrown back, and thought about how groovy and sexy it was to be pleasured by the beast, to have death and life so close, to lay your hands upon the monster and be free in love. As she bucked and lurched and felt herself climax she thought about how the Son of Man had taught her that death is only another orgasm, that everything in the universe is in and out and in and out in a cosmic orgy, babies coming out, galaxies sinking into black holes, knives plunging in, blood pouring out. Wow! Talk about the Big Bang!

 

The beast crawled atop her and slipped itself into her. When it shuddered and released itself inside her she knew within her heart that she would be with child. This was a happy moment. A glorious moment in time. Another Christmas miracle. Oh, joyous night. She would name this child Stewart, Stewart Kirby, after her grandfather.

 

Afterwards, the beast lay against her, spent. She stroked its fur with her nails and gently kissed its blood drenched snout. In this way the beast kept the girl warm through the coldest hours of the night.

 

Silent Night. Holy Night. All is calm. All is bright.

 

Free in the moonlight as snow began to fall, bathed in the stink of congealing human blood, the taste of flesh and woman fresh on its lips and tongue, the lycanthrope ran, the stars above him a smear of spilled milk, the moon a cataract eye aglow in malignancy.

 

On the First Day of Christmas my true love gave to me. . .

 

Caleb awoke in the morning naked and freezing, enveloped in the scent of the Douglas fir and redwood. He shivered and looked about. Snow was falling heavily, blanketing the earth in white. Beside him lay his tattered Santa costume, by some miracle the hat still clung to his head.

 

He glanced above the towering tree tops to the shelter of the sky and saw there a light both majestic and bizarre. Seemingly fake, like a bad special effect from a cheap television show. And in that glaring gleam of white, he saw a black figure descend: The Ghost of Christmas Future who spoke in a deep and sultry voice while extending out a hand, “Do you wish to come with me?”

 

In his mind all he could hear was Bing Crosby crooning I’m Dreaming of a White Christmas, and a million worlds passed before his eyes. Birthday cakes with only a few candles to blow out. His mother’s smile as she tugged on thread, sewing patches on a Cub Scout sash. Playing catch with his dad who bought him that special glove for little league and would oil it with him in the falling sun of the suburban evening. Watching Kennedy’s skull explode on television, Jackie screeching and trying desperately to crawl away. The Howdy Doodie show. Lee Harvey Oswald grimacing in pain and turning as Ruby put a bullet in his side. That gnarled old apple tree in the backyard, how that ancient tree would fill with tiny white blossoms in the spring so that you could not tell how old and bent it really was, its age hidden in its blooming. How those tiny petals fell in early summer, glistening in the amber light, a shimmering rain of flowers cascading down and lying white as snow on the ground. Sweat streaming down his brow as he pushed a lawnmower, that smell of fresh-cut grass, such a vibrant green it made his head hurt. Behind the baseball dugout with Betty Connors on a warm summer night: his first kiss. How she had moved away soon after and he had never seen her again. His draft card: that plain and innocuous envelope of a pale yellow color that they’d all dreaded and all expected. Telling his father, “Guess I’m going to war, pops.” And his father just nodding back stoically. His gal Sally, with her beehive hairdo, who wouldn’t let him fuck her no matter how hard he begged and pleaded, telling her he didn’t want to go to war a virgin. The ancient apple tree in autumn, loaded with ripe fruit. The bumpy ride over the Pacific in a military transport plane. The Vietnamese whore who spread her legs for a single American dollar. Paddy fields burned and incinerated so that no water stood within them and the rice stalks withered. January 1968. Tet: The New Year, a time to worship ancestors. An intricate barrage of hellfire. Medivac choppers stuffed with bloody men and boys. Fire fights, flares illuminating the night, the thunder of mortars and sparks of muzzle flash. A landscape of smoke and exploding ordinances. Those mornings when the bombers flew in and the ground shook like jelly. Seeing men he knew dancing and screaming in flames. Splintered, broken trees, smoke billowing in the distance. The Pickle Switch and canisters of napalm. VC bodies dressed in black lying in horrible piles. A rifle on the ground with a stream of ammunition dripping out of it. “I dare you to pick up that dead man’s gun.” “Yeah, right.” The tunnels. And the idea of winter, just the concept of it in that hot, hot land where all is hidden from you, taken, and there is nothing to believe in or hope for, but you imagine that tree back home nonetheless, barren and without leaves and fruit, draped in snow and frozen. The way the men whispered when they found a dead body, till all you hear is whispers of body, body, body. Then the beast appears who is really only a little girl. How could you have thought that a little girl was a monster? There was no monster, just a little girl, you made everything else up. But now there is a monster, just as sure as there are ghosts, an Easter Bunny and a God. It’s you. You’re the monster. You’re the beast. And you think to yourself, “What have I done? What did I do?” Then, as you face this ultimate truth, the cold takes you. And when would spring come again? Certainly not in this lifetime, and not on this earth. So, “Yes,” you say to the cold and the winter. To the Ghost of Christmas Future who holds nothing forth but death. “Yes. Take me. Just take me away and let me be free.” An affirmation to end the rest of your negations.

 

And you let go of that aching, awful, agonizing pain of being a man of flesh and blood, the cold slowing down your heart, and give in to death.

 

And as you slip away, into the embrace of the Ghost of Christmas Future, you wonder, “Was it real? Was any of it real at all?”

 

And in the heavens a laughing God finally breaks his silence and answers: “There is no such thing as real. It’s all just a dream within a dream.”

 

Story written by: HumboldtLycanthrope

She has chronic irritable bowel syndrome and the vet is running out of things to try to treat it with.

Happy Feathery Friday

 

There seems to be a little feeder frenzy going on here, no need to fight, I have plenty more sunflower seeds.

Old age doesn't come alone.

 

If you're a man over 50, health issues like prostate problems, heart disease and bladder cancer can be of particular concern.

  

Some men develop depression,loss of sex drive, impotence and other physical and emotional problems when they reach their late 40s or early 50s.

 

Other health problems which occur for men in this age group are:

 

hot flushes

mood swings

loss of muscle mass and fat redistribution

tiredness

dry and thin skin

increased sweating

poor concentration and irritability

loss of enthusiasm

 

These symptoms can interfere with everyday life and happiness, so it's important to to work out the underlying cause, and what can be done to resolve these problems. If you are concerned, you should speak to your GP (doctor).

 

www.nidirect.gov.uk/articles/older-mens-health

Many thanks for your visits, faves and comments. Cheers.

 

...from a visit to Buckley's Hole, Bribie Island. The radjah is not a common sight at the Hole. Not the best shot. Very hard to get close to this one and it stayed in the shadows.

 

(Buckley's Hole Conservation Park is situated in the south-west corner of Bribie Island, the northern-most sand island in Moreton Bay, some 50 kilometres north of Brisbane. The park covers an area of 87.7 hectares and contains a freshwater lagoon, woodland, open forest and beach. It is this diversity of habitat that has led to such a large number of bird species being recorded in this small area, the present total standing at 270.)

 

Radjah Shelduck

Scientific Name: Tadorna radjah

The radjah shelduck (Tadorna radjah), is a species of shelduck found mostly in New Guinea and Australia, and also on some of the Moluccas. It is known alternatively as the raja shelduck, black-backed shelduck, or in Australia as the Burdekin duck.

Both the male and female of the species are mostly white, with dark wing-tips and a distinctive "collar" of dark feathers. Seen from above in flight the birds have green bands on the tops of their wings. The female has a harsh rattle and the male has a breathy, sore-throat whistle.

The radjah shelduck inhabits the mangrove forests and coastline of New Guinea and Australia, and some of the Moluccas. In Australia, its primary range is coastal tropical northern Australia, from central Queensland (around Rockhampton) through northern Northern Territory (including Kakadu National Park) to the Kimberley in Western Australia. The radjah shelduck is listed as a protected bird in all states of Australia and penalties exist for harming or disturbing them.

The species prefers the brackish waters of mangrove flats and paperbark tree swamps, but will visit freshwater swamps, lagoons, and billabongs further inland during the wet season.

The radjah shelduck forms long-term pair-bonds, and is usually encountered in lone pairs or small flocks. During the wet season the males commonly become very irritable, and have been observed attacking their mates.

 

The diet consists mainly of mollusks, insects, sedge materials and algae. Pairs start searching for nesting sites during the months of January and February. They nest close to their primary food source, often in the hollow limbs of trees, which makes habitat destruction a particular issue.

The radjah shelduck does not use nesting materials except for some self-supplied down feathers. Egg-laying is usually done by May or June, but depends on the extent of the wet season. The clutches range from 6 to 12 eggs. Incubation time is about 30 days.

(Source: Wikipedia)

 

© Chris Burns 2016

__________________________________________

 

All rights reserved.

 

This image may not be copied, reproduced, distributed, republished, downloaded, displayed, posted or transmitted in any form or by any means, including electronic, mechanical, photocopying and recording without my written consent.

} This is the second installment of what is meant to be a bookend to The Karlo Anthology. Read “Reprise” for the complete narrative up to this point. {

 

Int. Belle Reve Penitentiary - Terrebonne Parish, Louisiana; 6:57 in the morning

 

Jack Kovacs tugged at the knot of his tie, neither interrupting his hurried stride to his office, nor the endless stream of objectives that raced through his mind.

 

*Consult with John before releasing any of the past operatives’ names to the public.*

 

*Two flights of stairs down, at the end of this hall*

 

*If that Lane journalist shows up again, reaffirm that Task Force X is non-functional as of now, but is set to be conceptualized as an entirely legal strike team under the United States government’s management.*

 

*A right at the next corner*

 

*Don’t make suggestions to Waller about improving the inmates’ personal quarters. EVER again.*

 

Kovacs rounds his final doorway, looking to sit down and rest his mind, only to be met by the sight of a maintenance worker situating a large potted fern in the corner of the room opposite his desk. The intruder turns and notices him before Kovacs can question any of it.

 

Worker: Higher-ups wanted some embellishment for when we get visitors. Guess they don’t think your pretty face is enough to convince people anymore, huh?

 

Kovacs (setting his briefcase aside): It looks fine… Eh, I didn’t think we were planning on being in the media’s eye for quite some time still…

 

The worker is already walking to the door. But instead of leaving, he shuts it in front of him.

 

Worker (over the shoulder): Pal, you’ve been live for quite some time already.

 

At the intimidating statement, Kovacs moves back a few steps, only to then regret not pressing the alarm beneath his desk.

 

Worker (walking back into the center of the room): Hey relax, ominous remarks are just an occupational hazard for me. Guess it rubbed off on me from…

 

He nods at the fern in the corner, whose pot is now erratically lurching off the floor. A dull sienna substance spills over the side, slowly molding itself higher and higher, until there stands someone both familiar and alien to Kovacs: yours truly.

 

Kovacs: Basil Karlo. I… really didn’t think you’d come. Hell, I didn’t think my letter would reach you, past all this security.

 

Myself (wearily leaning against the wall): Jack…

 

Kovacs (pointing at the “worker”): Who is this? You didn’t need to bring anyone else into… Actually, you know what, HOW is he here?

 

“Worker”: Harry Sims. I’ve got Karlo’s back. And I’d advise not underestimating my ability to fabricate the identification badges of lower-paying staff.

 

Kovacs (noting the severed cords sticking out of the cameras in the ceiling): Or your ability to dismantle state-of-the-art security monitors, it would seem. We’d already be in cuffs if you hadn’t.

 

Myself: JACK.

 

I catch myself before I instinctively go to grab his shoulder. A dissolved ligament would not do, just now.

 

Myself: Prove to me it’s really her.

 

Kovacs: Basil, I’m a figurehead for scary people in suits that don’t want their shady deals to be seen. I don’t have any real clearance here; I can’t just pull up a database of the prisoners for you to browse. But I recognized her when they brought her in. I know we haven’t exactly stayed pen-pals, but I’ve… been following along with your situation for years. The ups and the downs… I have to know, why on earth did you abandon an alliance with BATMAN and all those kids he trains?

 

Myself: I’m not doing this right now. You have to know where they’re keeping Cassie. Just direct me there and we’ll be on our way…

 

I falter, extending a hand to the desk to keep from collapsing.

 

Sims (to Kovacs): You’ll direct ME to Cassie. He shouldn’t have even come; I told him I could do this myself.

 

Kovacs: What is happening with..?

 

Sims: Scarecrow did a number on him.

 

Myself: I’m unstable. Holding any humanoid form has become… taxing. So tell me where to go, PLEASE.

 

He bows his head, and lets out a harsh sigh.

 

Kovacs: You’re going to find her four levels down from here. Cell B-8. Hand-scan access for the guards stationed there.

 

Myself: Sims can’t make it that far with his credentials. I should be able to hold a disguise for no more than 10 minutes.

 

Sims: Find a sentry to replicate; get in, get her out. I can erase you from footage and navigate your escape, if Kovacs can get me in front of a screen. I’ll slip out after you two are in the clear.

 

Kovacs: Now hold up. I’m well aware that you’re both here because of me, and despite this job being a less-than-fulfilling use of my drama major, I’m not jeopardizing the position I have here. I’m not getting further involved. Your friend Harry is going to have to find the security hub himself.

 

Sims: Thanks for nothing.

 

Kovacs (explaining further): Basil, my ex let me have joint custody of my kid, and full custody of his tuition, if you know what I mean. I had to fall in with creeps like this just to get by. I told you about Cassandra Cain… this “Orphan” vigilante, because I knew you were close. You were always sighted fighting crime together, and well… I think I owe an old friend a piece of his life back. But if this goes south…

 

He looks at me directly.

 

Kovacs: … My family, our livelihood, comes first. You understand? I’ll let you both go down if you get caught.

 

Myself (nodding): I expected nothing less.

 

Kovacs: I don’t understand it. You were only in league with Batman for a few months. These people will keep you under lock and key for the rest of your life if you fail. Is she worth the risk?

 

Myself: They run an off-the-books kill squad, and they have a member of the Bat Family in custody. They won’t stop until they know the identity of the Dark Knight himself, and they’ll torture her within an inch of her life to get it.

 

I limp out the office door.

 

Myself: She believed I wasn’t beyond hope, just as much as you did, Jack. I’m getting her out, if it’s my last act.

 

Kovacs (before Sims leaves too): He doesn’t sound like himself…

 

Sims: You mean, he doesn’t have the vocabulary of a pretentious dandy anymore?

 

Kovacs: The Basil I knew always hated change, as ironic as it sounds.

 

***

 

Sims and I peek around what feels like our hundredth corner. Only one guard had crossed our paths thus far, which was certainly ideal for our plan, but the vacant halls left in their wake foreboding uncertainties. When I had taken the life of the guard to replicate his handprint, it hadn’t felt like all the other times I had performed such grizzly deeds. It twisted my noble crusade into trading one life for another. I may very well have killed another Jack Kovacs; a man getting by, with no true allegiance to this job. Would he have helped us had we explained our purpose for being here? It was like pulling healthy teeth, forcing myself to think this way, after so many years of cruelty and disregard for humanity.

 

My accomplice had not been fazed in the slightest. I had taught him long ago to feel nothing for innocent bystanders. Even in a building as secure as this, Sims evades and disables the cameras for us with the ease of drawing curtains. After a few seconds of surveying the hall, he bobs his head and grunts with approval.

 

Sims: Alright, I have a guess as to where the control room is, based on the wiring of our little friends in the ceiling. You can make it the rest of the way to her cell. But listen, don’t let her out into the hall until I’ve deactivated facial recognition on these suckers. That’s the white light in the bottom corner of the lens. Wait for that to blink out. If you don’t and she’s out of her cell… Well, they’ll be able to hear the alarms from here to Gotham.

 

Myself (before I steal away to Cassie’s cell): … You should know that I haven’t taken all that you’ve done for granted. You’ve stepped away from your criminal legacy to help right my wrongs. I can’t begin to repay you.

 

Sims (refusing to look me in the eye): We had a good run. Times change. … Now get lost, will you?

 

I had to suppress a chuckle, as he had stuttered over his final words, trying to sound callous. With every job we had ever pulled, Sims had only refined his skill to expertly compose each moment of a heist. In all that time, however, he had not picked up any of my innate abilities as an actor.

 

We parted, and I took the form of my most recent victim. It was agonizing at this point, but it didn’t matter. It briefly crossed my mind that, upon entering Cassie’s cell, she may be lying in wait for whomsoever dared to try and collect her. This didn’t matter either. I used my “borrowed” handprint on the scanner, hastily skirted by the fortified door, and found myself beholding another prison within the first; this one was transparent, not fit to confine even a large dog, and along the furthest edge, there was Cassie. No longer the alert and ardent crimefighter I had once known, she sat cross-legged, sagged in defeat. She was still geared up as Orphan, though the ensemble had numerous lacerations that revealed not-yet-healed injuries.

 

Damn them. Damn them all. She’s still a child.

 

Myself: Cassie. Get up. It’s Basil.

 

Cassie (almost unsurprised): Basil? You found this place?

 

Myself (moving to the second scanner without hesitation): We need to act quickly.

 

Cassie (blinking away moisture in her eyes): They… got me at my house. They had pictures of ME, not Orphan! How did they… is Batman here too? Are you helping him?

 

Myself (irritably): I’m helping you, Cassie, not him. If he even notices you’re gone, assume he’s already tried finding your replacement.

 

I expected her to berate me, tell me I, not the Dark Knight, had been at fault for our alliance failing. He was the one thing we never could see eye to eye on. She said nothing now.

 

Myself (throwing open her enclosure): Get up.

 

Cassie: Basil, I’ve been in here for twelve days. I haven’t been passing them by holding out on someone else to come and get me. I’ve been thinking things through.

 

Myself: What are you talking about? Come out of there now. I have a partner shutting down the facial recognition cameras, and then we can get you-

 

Cassie: What’s with you? You don’t even sound like Basil. Shouldn’t you be saying, “Young lady, were ’The Batman’ at all aware of your nonappearance, he would be busying himself with attaining your locum, not seeing to your retrieval”?

 

She follows this with a choked snicker at her own mockery, then turns her back again. I’m stupefied by her bitter tone. Her life had been harsh, and she had grown up too quickly, but she had never been a defeatist.

 

Cassie (still seated): I wouldn’t tell these creeps about Batman or the rest, not in a million years. But I’m not going to make-believe he’s even trying to find me, either. Whatever they’re up to in this hellhole, they’re putting together a death squad… and I want in.

 

Myself: Are you… are you listening to what you’re saying? Don’t be absurd.

 

Cassie: My parents didn’t raise me to be a clean-cut do-gooder. I’ll be more at home here than in some city infested with clowns. Get out of here, Basil. Believe you me, I keep can make a mess of my life without your help.

 

Myself (beyond patience): Foolish- … who put such nonsense in your head?

 

Cassie: YOU did, Basil. God help me, you, with your contempt for anything hopeful or redeemable, are probably as right about the world as you think you are.

 

The words pierce me like a blade. I stagger a few steps back, racked with unbearable guilt; a worthy companion to the pounding in my head and the fire shooting through my limbs. I’ve held this form for far too long. In fact, it’s time I disassembled more than just one of my guises. Up in the corner outside Cassie’s cell, the indicator on the security camera is still showing facial recognition is operational. I still have chance.

 

Myself (still laboring intensely just to make it to the door): Resent me. Renounce… me. But you’re… leaving this place today, Cassie. On my life, I’m… going to do something that’s right with… whatever time I have remaining.

 

With the final surge of strength I can extract from within, I mold myself into the perfect image of Cassie, and throw myself into view of the camera before Harry can terminate it. Just as he had warned, the siren is intolerably head-splitting, which I find myself actually thankful for; the blare drowns out my pitiful screams. Blacking out for only a moment, I find that I’m in my own form again, but with every last ounce of water in me sapped. For the first time in over a decade, I can’t feel other voices and characters swirling inside me.

 

Myself (Aloud or in my head, I know not): I can… hear… me.

 

Cassie stands over me, insistently offering the end of her cape for me to pull myself up with. She looks anxiously on, either watching for the opposition undoubtedly converging on our spot, or perhaps just hiding the redness in her eyes from me.

 

“… Alright, old man. Just like old times, then.”

 

} Part 2 of 7 {

Gotham Cemetery, Two Hours Until Christmas

 

Bridget Pike stood over a gravestone, holding a wreath decorated with beautiful red and yellow flowers. She knelt beside the marble slab, and ran her hand across the engraving:

 

CARMEN PIKE

 

BELOVED WIFE AND MOTHER

 

GONE TOO SOON

 

Bridget shot a cursory, almost fearful, glance at the second grave stone, and sighed, a stream of warm air escaping her lips.

 

A man's voice broke the silence. "You want to visit him, don't you?" they asked.

 

Bridget didn't turn around, but she recognised the speaker: Philip Reardon. She paused before answering, her hand never leaving her mother's gravestone. "He's been back before, you know. After the car crash, the wedding, the bug demon. I kept track of all of them. But he never came back for me, did he? While he was chasing Walker, he let me and my mom grieve. Tore us apart waiting for him to return... By the time he did, mom was dead."

 

"Do you think I should see him?" she asked, turning to face him.

 

Ten contemplated her question, running his prosthetic hand through his greying hair. He was wearing a thick scarf, and was holding an umbrella in his other prosthesis to keep the snow at bay. "I don't know," he said at last, an answer that was perhaps unsatisfying. "My dad... My dad was so angry when I told him I'd enlisted. He fought in Vietnam, you see. Lost a leg in a snare trap... But I was young. I thought I knew differently. Knew better. And when I left to 'fight for my country,' my head full of patriotic notions and falsehoods, I had no idea how much harder I should've fought for my family instead... I got on a plane and we never spoke again. Not when I was injured, nor when I was imprisoned either. He died while I was in Blackgate, lung complications. Another 'gift' from the jungles. He's buried nearby, Frank Reardon," he added, making a sweeping gesture across the graveyard.

 

"Mom died when I was in Blackgate too..." Bridget said softly.

 

"She wanted to be buried beside him. It was in her will, the one thing she wanted most. But, his body kept moving, resurrecting... disappearing. Best they could do was put her headstone beside his. We had it erected a few months after the car accident, mom and me... But, he's back. He's been caught. And with more people dying every day, there's talk of taking his down. But I... I don't know if the dad I lost was the one that came back. I don't -"

 

As Ten held the umbrella over her head, the floodgates opened; Bridget crumpled at the gesture, and buried her face in his chest. Ten was surprised at first, but put a fatherly arm around her. "It's going to be alright," he promised her, although again, he spoke with uncertainty. And as he repeated himself, it was as though he was reassuring himself as well.

 

~-~

 

The Batwing tore through the air; bursts of purple flames blasted from its’ rear engines, propelling it through the night sky. Batman sat in the cockpit, his hands grasping the control yokes tightly. The flight path was set: In four minutes time, he’d be back in Gotham. He pressed a flashing green button on the dashboard and spoke into the receiver on its’ left.

 

“Oracle, I have the location for the Cloudburst. It’s in Walker’s Cave, I’m headed there now,” he spoke calmly.

 

“You got a location? How did you- Never mind. Batman, listen, I need to patch you through. You were radio-silent for a while there; we’ve run into a few problems.”

 

“Bats, your Renaissance guy has gone AWOL,” Eric Needham’s voice called out. “He’s trying to cut my damn head off!”

 

Bruce’s eyes narrowed, taking note of Needham’s panting. “Spider? Report.”

 

“Your man, Azrael. Must’ve got whammied by the Pirate or something, started taking shots at me, bemoaning my ‘zeolotry.’ I’ve managed to shake him for now, but-“

 

“You’ve got a call from Nightwing on line 2.” Oracle interjected.

 

“For now, stay out of sight. Backup’s inbound, Spider,” Bruce assured the man, before turning his attention back to Barbara. “Put him through. Nightwing, Hayden’s at Arkham, Azrael’s compromised. I need you and Red Hood to-“

 

“No go, Batman, Jason’s down. I’m sorry… Hayden got to us too, dredged up old wounds,” Dick sighed regretfully.

 

Bruce nodded. “Understood, hold on, Dick, I’ll send someone over.”

 

“Batman, call from GCPD.” Barbara chimed in again.

 

“Jim? What’s wrong?”

 

“He’s here, Batman.”

 

“What? Who?” Bruce asked, dreading Gordon's answer.

 

“God help me, Batman. The Joker’s at the station.”

 

“I’ll be there ASAP. Don’t do anything," Bruce swore.

 

“No. If you have a location for this Cloudburst, find it. Gotham’s the priority.” Jim urged him.

 

“Understood, Jim. Stand by, I’ll keep you in the loop.”

 

==GCPD==

 

Two joybuzzers. One for each hand.

 

Four knives. One in each sock, each with collapsible blades. Two tucked inside his jacket, one with a rubber blade, the other without.

 

A Cabbage Patch Doll that vomits when you squeeze its' stomach.

 

Two packs of 50 razor-edged playing cards, hidden up his sleeves.

 

An acid-spewing lapel flower.

 

Two pairs of rubber hands. One splayed, one pair of fists.

 

A packet of 'Itching Powder.' Filled with fire ants.

 

Two badges: One plastic sheriff badge, one "Mayor of Motham" pin, each with poisoned tips.

 

A halibut. Dyed green and white. Lips contorted into a smile. Deceased. For quite a while, judging by the smell.

 

One revolver with one 'Bang' flag and five bullets.

 

A silk magician's handkerchief with a hidden garrote wire running through it.

 

A set of purple car keys.

 

Numerous sets of wind-up false teeth. Metal jaws.

 

A stick of gum, believed to be a sort of plastic explosive. Strawberry scented.

 

A firecracker. Stuffed in the waistband of his underpants.

 

Three colouring pencils. Recently sharpened.

 

Two tickets to Cabaret. Expired.

 

A Bob the Builder colouring book.

 

A Whoopie Cushion.

 

Gordon took a step back to take in the full picture: A tabletop overflowing with tools of death. The CSIs were in the midst of bagging and tagging the lot of it. It’d take them hours that they didn’t have.

 

Joker sat opposite them in the holding cell, dressing in nothing but a vest, long striped socks and a pair of white underpants dotted with red hearts. Gordon shot a disgusted look at him, and murmured to Montoya:

 

"Tell him he can put his clothes back on."

 

===ISA Headquarters===

 

The Misfits were gathered in the kitchen; Joey, dressed in a crimson Christmas jumper, was fiddling with Ito’s ancient television, a screwdriver in one hand, an HMDI cable in the other, chuckling delightedly once the device hummed into life. The Shadow Man Chuck had encountered weeks prior, was sat at the table, stirring his cup of tea with a plate of warm, buttered scones by his side. Between sips and bites, he was reading a copy of The Strand magazine from 1893, paying particular interest to the Holmes story within, titled "The Final Problem." Sharpe was under the tree, shaking his presents one by one and speculating to Blake what might be inside them. Mayo was simmering a pot of cranberry sauce over the stove, finishing the last of his preparations for tomorrow's Christmas Dinner. Chuck, who was stroking a plant by the sink rather absent-mindedly, broke out of his trance-like state suddenly, as a door upstairs swung open, and a pair of footsteps thundered their way down the stone steps.

 

"Garfield, it is impolite to enter without knocking," Ito’s cool voice was saying, as it called after the intruder.

 

"Get the hell out of my way-" Gar's own voice replied gruffly, as a faint shuffling was heard.

 

"That is-"

 

"I'll fill your fucking jar, just you wait-" Gar yelled back irritably, finally arriving at the kitchen.

 

"Gar? Thought you were with the family tonight-" Joey's brow furrowed, emerging from behind a nest of wires.

 

"You see it? You fucking see it?" Gar asked, his head bobbing back and forth. He was wearing his Firefly suit; that boded poorly.

 

"I don't know what you mean-" Joey stammered.

 

"Gar, what is it?" Chuck stepped forward slowly.

 

"The TV, have you seen it?" Gar's head swung back, looking at each of the Misfits faces and finding nothing but confusion in their expressions.

 

"No, I- I just got Netflix set up, we were about to-" Joey started.

 

"Change it over! Now!" Gar demanded.

 

Joey looked up for Chuck's approval, who nodded slowly, and with a shaking hand, switched the TV back to its' default setting, and when he did, he was met with the Joker's pale white face and grinning mouth. Mayo's hand shoogled the pot slightly, the voice taking him by surprise: "And if you want to stop it, Batsy, 'cause I know you're watching, you little TV addict, then you'd better grab your Batreindeers and Batsled and get your Bat-Ass moving! Heh.

 

After all, I'm a Ryde or Dye kinda clown, so you can be absolutely sure I'm not bluffing. Of course, I also have a reputation as a general mirthster and prankmaster extraordinaire, so perhaps I am! What do you have to lose? Oh, right, the city. Heh. Toodles!"

 

"That message was broadcast twenty minutes ago. So far, The GCPD and City Hall have refused to comment on this shocking threat. We'll bring you more news on this story as we-"

 

Sharpe's jaw dropped. "Hole. Lee. Shit."

 

The Shadow Man, kept reading.

 

"You got your gear?" Gar turned to Joey.

 

Face white, Joey scratched the base of his head. "It's downstairs, I didn't think we-"

 

"Grab it. You and Blake, with me. We can grab Otis and Needham on the way, they probably already know. Let's fucking go."

 

"Go-? Go where? We don't even know where Joker is!" Chuck countered.

 

"Then we go to the Cop House. We get Drury and we take him somewhere they can't get him!"

 

"And do what, exactly? Roast chestnuts? You're not thinking straight!"

 

Just then, something caught Gar's eye; The candles on the table were extinguished by a gust of wind. But there were no windows down here. No ventilation. The entire labyrinth had been designed to suit the Dragon King's cold blooded veins, so where did the cold air come from? Gar backed towards the entrance and found his past blocked. As soon as they saw it, the Misfits jumped back: It was a man, features blurred, followed by crackling lightning, dressed in yellow.

 

"Leaaaaaaaaaaave?" the figure cocked its head to one side. "Youregoing to leeeeeeeeeaaaaaaaave?"

 

"But weeeeeeeeeee haven'teveeeeeeeen beenproperly introduced."

 

Sharpe, dropped his present, and fled down the hall. A crease on Zoom's blurred features could almost be mistaken for a smile.

 

"Hhhhhn. Calendaaaaaaaar Maaaaaaan saidhewould run."

 

The first to make a move, Blake dived forwards, grabbing a kitchen knife from the counter, making two jabs at Zoom in quick succession. But not quick enough. On his third swipe, Zoom caught the knife and plunged it into his thigh, slashing downwards. His leg cut open, Blake fell forwards. A punch to the skull kept him down. Mayo tried next, bless him: reaching for the pot of cranberry sauce, he sloshed the hot mixture in Zoom's direction; another misfire; Zoom slapped the base of the pot, splattering Mayo's face with scalding cranberries. As he yelped out in pain, Zoom caught the pot, and cracked it across his head.

 

Gar reached for his flamethrower, but Chuck clutched his arm. 'Don't.' The last thing they needed was him to miss and hit a flammable elixir or twelve.

 

And therein lay the problem; any manoeuvre, any tactic, any offensive attack or last-ditch defence they could think of, Zoom was watching play out in slow motion, and already concocting a cruel counter. He could anticipate anything they threw at him, but the Misfits had never faced anything like him. Gar and Joey had worked with Thawne in the Society, sure; Chuck had even shared an awkward plane ride with him, but they'd never had to fight a speedster themselves. And while no one could ever say Gotham had made them soft, it had left them unprepared for the kinds of metas and monsters that lurked outside its' borders. And in recent weeks, they'd been so caught up with the 'native' threats and their old scores, that they'd underestimated the real power behind The Outcasts.

 

===Downtown Gotham===

 

"Conflicting reports after this chilling message was broadcast-"

 

Roman Sionis was watching Joker's broadcast in his office, a half empty glass of scotch beside him, his hand shaking slightly as the clown's maniacal laughter filled the penthouse. He was dressed in a maroon smoking jacket, a phone pressed against his deformed, blackened ear. Beside him, sat a collection of three newly acquired masks; a copper wolf-like faceplate, a charred, ivory skull, and a cloth mask decorated with a red "webbing" pattern. He muted the TV momentarily, as the dial tone was replaced by a low grumble on the other end.

 

"What time is it?" the voice snarled.

 

"Back of ten, I think. You watching this?" Sionis asked, his own eyes locked with the clown's green glare on the screen.

 

"Yeah," Gaige's voice growled. "Are you using a burner?"

 

Sionis rolled his eyes. "Obviously."

 

Halfway across the city, Gaige strolled out to the balcony, taking a deep breath of the salty sea air. "We have people handling this?" he frowned.

 

"Our guys on the take say the cops have him. Just sauntered right in." Sionis answered.

 

Gaige's knuckles whitened, as he gripped the balcony's railing. "Thought the Bat had people posted outside?"

 

Sionis scoffed. "Guess they got distracted. Oh, Penguin called. The Old Bird wants this dealt with. Quietly, of course."

 

Gaige chuckled at the notion. "I thought the clown's good for business? Gets people panic buying. Guns, ammo, toilet roll... his bread and butter."

 

"That's not the issue. It's the legit biz. Our esteemed mayor doesn't want a crisis in his first month in office."

 

"Then, tell him to get over it. Grange had Blackgate. Walker had the Society. It's a rite of passage."

 

"Hm," Sionis murmured with indifference, amused by the implied challenge to Penguin's authority.

 

Gaige swallowed. "We have a list of demands, yet?"

 

"Just one," Sionis smirked, leaning back in his chair, picking a piece of dried blood off of the scalp of the cracked, white mask.

 

"And?" Gaige asked impatiently.

 

Sionis was quiet, savouring the moment. "He wants Walker."

 

"What?" Gaige snapped.

 

Sionis rolled the scotch around in his glass, repeating himself with an even wider grin. "He wants Drury Walker."

 

Gaige's knuckles turned whiter still.

 

~-~

 

Sharpe turned a corner and burst through the door of Noah Kuttler’s temporary laboratory (located within the ISA's archives), holding the left side of his chest in pain. He grabbed an unguarded glass of scotch and, before Kuttler could intervene, gulped it down. Already in poor spirits, Kuttler lowered his purple spectacles and exhaled through his nose. “Chancer, you’re perspiring all over my workbench.”

 

“Fuck… you… too,” Sharpe panted, looking for something else to drink and settling on a beaker filled with clear liquid.

 

“That’s lighter fluid.”

 

Sharpe set it back down, battling his dehydration to clue Kuttler in: “Zoom… Zoom’s here… dickhead.”

 

Kuttler shot up from his seat, and without a spoken word, grabbed a grey remote from his desk, and pressed a red button. The door behind Sharpe slammed shut, then a second set of metal blast doors closed behind them, then a thin blue forcefield activated, completing the lockdown.

 

“What are you-?”

 

“That’s a meta-dampening shield, adapted from Dominator technology. He can’t get through here.”

 

“I’m a meta! What’s gonna happen to me?!” Sharpe panicked.

 

“Nothing,” Kuttler said coolly. “Unless you try to headbutt it. Now open that cupboard, hand me the tray marked “Clariss.”

 

Sharpe rummaged through the drawers, sifting through a coterie of names; King, Bowin, Savage, Degaton, before finally finding the one Kuttler requested. “This is the best you’ve got? There’s a dustbin lid in here!” he exclaimed with crushing disappointment.

 

“That’s a helmet,” Kuttler sighed, snatching the tray from Sharpe’s hand.

 

~-~

 

'No weapons. Fine then.' Gar charged at Zoom. Recklessly. Big mistake; Zoom caught his fist, and using his momentum, threw him against the kitchen table. Shade, continued to sip his tea, even as Gar, several saucers and half a table cloth careered off the edge of the table. Chuck tried to sneak up on Zoom while he was examining his handiwork with Lynns; but Zoom was onto him, turning his arm like a windmill, a gust of wind sent Chuck flying against the wall.

 

"Look atthe Rooooooyaaaaal," Zoom hissed. "Lookatwhat you wereableto dooooo. Nobodies. Misfits. You couldbeso stroooooooong. But nooooooow youwillonlybe lessons. A cautionary taaaaaale.”

 

~-~

 

"Stay here," Kuttler warned Sharpe, attaching a white harness to his own chest. "Don't touch anything."

 

~-~

 

Joey, grabbed the base of the TV and with great exertion, hurled it at Zoom; by the time it'd left his hands, Zoom was already on the other side of the room. "Youuuuuuuuu know traaaaaaaaageeeeeeedy, don't you, Firebuuuuuuug?" he taunted him. "I wooooooooonder how much mooooooooooore youcantake."

 

"Leave him alone!"

 

With a gesture that could be mistaken for amusement, Zoom turned towards his opponent. "Aaaaand whatofyou, Kite-Maaaaaaaan?"

 

Wounded, but not finished, Chuck had picked himself up, and was raising his fists out in front of him. Admirable, but futile.

 

In an instant, Zoom was behind him; seconds later and Chuck was against a wall again, feeling the cartilage in his nose break. Zoom let him drop, and Chuck gurgled blood on the floor. "Why... Why are you doing this?"

 

Zoom knelt beside him and, with a voice like a whistling kettle, whispered in his ear. "Ihavea message fromthe Jooooooooooker. Anda lesson from meeeeeee."

 

Just as he was just about to impart his knowledge, a silver dart struck Zoom's throat. His beady red eyes looked up; Noah Kuttler, in his white and violet livery, was holding a small dartgun, the sights trained on him. Zoom ran his hand along his throat and removed the tiny dart from his neck.

 

"A speeeeeed dampener," he realised. "Designedto seveeeer myconnectionto The Speeeeeeedforce."

 

"Butiam not poweeeeeered by The Speeeeeeedforce, Mr Kuttleeeeeer."

 

Kuttler's pupils dilated. "What? No, my files-"

 

Zoom rose to his feet, his body crackling with red lightning. "Youmadea mistaaaaaaaaake."

 

And in a second, his hand was around Kuttler’s throat. "Imadea mistake once too."

 

"Todaaaaaaaaaaay's lesson?"

 

"Cheateeeeersssssss never prosssssspeeeeeeeeer."

 

"Oh, for Heaven's Sake," the Shadow Man tutted, lifting his black cane with the flick of his wrist; His eyes blackened, the air around him turned into a black mist, Zoom dropped Kuttler in shock and then-

 

Darkness. Pitch black. Impenetrable.

 

Or so it had seemed.

 

Though Chuck's head was spinning, he could hear something reaching out from the shadows. A voice, lurking in the fog.

 

-your fault, you and your damn profiling!

 

- My father's dead, Hunter, he's dead, because of a call you made!

 

- You said... You said he wouldn't have a gun!

 

And then another voice, this time the Shadow Man's, but deeper; raw power dripped off of each word as he issued his warning.

 

"You and your masters are not welcome here, speedster. You would do well to remember that."

 

The shadows lifted, and Zoom was gone. Whatever nightmare he saw in that abyss was enough to frighten him off.

For good? Unlikely. Chuck knew that they'd see him again, just as he knew they couldn't count on any more last minute saves to bail them out.

 

The Shade, collapsed into his chintz armchair. "Oh, bother. Now I'll need to find a new, weekly haunt for tea and scones," the man muttered to himself. "Do give Shiro my regards," the man disappeared behind a cloud of black smoke.

 

===The Mothcave===

 

Batman's eyes glowed white. He came to a stop at one of the trophy cases and frowned. The scanners were picking up a piece of paper stuffed underneath. An envelope. A clue, perhaps? Worth a look, surely. He pushed the case aside and unstuck the letter from the wall. His eyes widened. A date was written on the front. And it was addressed to Drury Walker. He tucked it inside the belt and returned to the matter at hand, his heads-up display signalling high levels of energy coming from a battered purple and orange car.

 

He stepped forward and removed the hood of the Mothmobile; The engine had been torn out, and in its' place sat the familiar metallic drum. The Cloudburst. One hour and thirty minutes left on the timer. Set to go off at Midnight. Purple wires ran down the side of the device, and it was firmly rooted in the car. Any attempt to remove it would surely result in its’ immediate detonation. So, he turned to the interface and sighed. It needed a password. He put his hand to the comms link in his ear and a sigh of resignation escaped his lips. “Jim… There’s been a complication.”

 

~-~

 

Gordon entered the interrogation room, his head heavy. "We found the Cloudburst," he announced to the jackal on the other side of the table.

 

"'We' meaning Batsy, I assume? So he found Cobby Wobby, after all... Heh. Sly as a Flying Fox, that one!" Joker leaned forwards, his grin widening.

 

Gordon removed his glasses, wiping the lenses with a white cloth. "However..." he spoke slowly. "The mechanism requires a code."

 

Joker put on a mocking show of askance surprise. "Oh! Oh dear. I'm afraid I'm awfully scatter-brained these days... The consequences of regular head trauma!” he clicked his tongue for effect. "Now, Jim, Jimbo, James, you know my respect for you is undying, unlike Captain Essen's. Heh. But you know my price! I have something you want; you have something I want!"

 

~-~

 

"We can't just hand him over," Bruce was saying over the comms device he'd left the Commissioner.

 

“What choice do we have?” Gordon asked regrettably, lingering outside the cell block, squishing a loose piece of gum in his pocket.

 

Batman didn’t reply. His silence, damning.

 

Drury, looked up through the bars. "Why? What's happening?"

 

Gordon swallowed. "Mr Walker... Drury. There's an ongoing situation-"

 

He never heard him finish. Two words overtook Drury's thoughts, flooding out everything else; Gordon's words of reassurance, his proposed strategy, all drowned out by two single words. "It's Joker."

 

"Listen. I don't envy you. Yes, if there's a chance he'll talk, it's in our best interests to cooperate... but if you're not comfortable, we don't have to go through with this. We can put you in another room, we bargain with something else. We'll find another way."

 

"No."

 

Gordon looked up, a quizzical expression on his face.

 

“I’ll do it.”

 

~-~

 

Gordon sighed, his regret immediate. "Five minutes with Walker. Cameras on. Full restraints. Armed guards stationed outside."

 

If his hands weren't bolted together, Joker would have showered Gordon with a condescending round of applause. "Now, we're talking!"

 

"Give him a pen," Gordon nodded to the nearest officer. The guard uncuffed one of the clown's hands (keeping the other restrained) and placed down a notepad and a piece of paper.

 

"Write it down."

 

Joker's eyes crinkled. "I'm left-handed."

 

~-~

 

With an exasperated sigh, Bruce inputted the password into the console, grimacing. "SMELL U L8R."

 

Then, something peculiar occurred; The device kicked into life, beeping loudly. He'd booby trapped it! The minutes quickly turned into seconds. No time to halt it. Not now. Batman shielded his face with his cape, then boom! The gas filled the room, and it smelt ghastly. Like rotten eggs and spoilt milk, its putrid scent was perhaps the worst thing Bruce had inhaled. But it wasn't lethal. It never had been.

 

A tray opened between the console, and within it was a small box. Bruce pulled the lid back and frowned. Gingerbread Men. But not just any cut-cookie confectionery, these had been decorated to resemble himself, the Joker and one Killer Moth. A greasy note attached to them, written in frankly beautiful calligraphy, read “Sharing the Knight together xoxo.”

It's a circle for 365:2013. :)

 

Is Flickr slow today? It's driving me nuts! I'm already irritable after being unable to download Paintshop... stinkin' computers. :(

Oh dear, this is going to sound very melancholy, but I have been feeling quite down in the dumps and lonely of late. I don't think the long and never ending Winter has helped and even though I had that amazing trip down South it was somewhat marred by the health issues I had when I returned. Couple this with the fact I have given up smoking for a sum total of 6 weeks and 3 days which has made me pretty irritable and completely paranoid. When I feel bleak thoughts turn to old Blighty, and my family and friends back there. I have little reminders of the UK around the home, my best friend Sarah made sure of that by sending my little Union Jack themed items. This being one of them.