#I know jimmy is tall but doc is just very very tall so he can pick his children up easily | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

bramblepeltao3 · 3 years

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Woooaaaahhhhh Part 4!

After a very long hot shower (And the water here smelled different. Not bad just...different) Del was slightly less full of jumpy angry anxiety. She did as she was asked. She kept quiet about what happened, went with Aranea’s story, and kept herself from screaming at every person who she saw between the crownsguard station and the shower.

At least she had her own room. Right next to Prompto of course, in case he needed her. It was large, and had a lovely bed with soft blankets, and everything smelled like lavender. So at least she had this, she thought, as she wrapped herself in the very plush fancy towel and opened the door, walking into her room through a cloud of steam.

“P...Princess…”

“LOQI!” Del screamed, noticing the man standing right in the middle of her room. “What the FUCK are y- I AM NOT A PRINCESS!”

“This came for you, I only wanted to make sure it was delivered dire-”

“I’m naked, get out!”

“And I wanted to apologize for the trouble you experienced this afternoon. If I were there-”

“We’d be dead if you were there, now please, GET OUT!” She took the package from him and retreated back into the bathroom.

She waited for the sound of the door to open and close again, but it never came. She was going to amass a body count before this trip was over, she could just feel it.

“Lady Delphia. I wanted you to know...His Highness showed me the photos he took on the train. And, well, with both of you so close together...I don’t know why no one else seems to notice.”

And then there was that blessed door clicking sound.

Just breathe. Inhale. Exhale. Inhale! It’s easy. Just. Breathe.

She didn’t know which was worse: that Tumult was observant enough to see the obvious or that he was taking the completely wrong point from it.

She walked back into the sleeping area and, satisfied no perverted shitheads were hanging out, opened the package. It was exactly what she expected: the dress promised by Marigold. There was a small handwritten note on top of the blue, floral print dress.

‘You seem like the practical type. This one has pockets!’ She pulled out the dress which had a bit more flair to it than she would’ve liked. But the blue was pretty, and the floral print was subtle, and fuck if it didn’t indeed have pockets.

Del carefully got dressed, but found herself unable to really get that zipper up, and resigned herself to asking someone for their assistance. This was a palace. There were people here to do that. That was fine, right? Like, it was their job to pull the zippers up on idiot doctor’s dresses for them.

“Knock knock!” She heard a voice call from the door accompanied by an actual door knock.

“What is it, Aranea?” Del asked as the woman helped herself into the room anyway.

It appeared she also received her new dress. A very lovely, very glittery black gown that hugged all of her curves. Paired with matching opera length gloves, her hair tied back in a very elegant bun, and incredible chandelier earrings, Aranea looked like she belonged in this world. She looked beautiful.

She whistled. “Now that is more your style, Doc. Here, turn around.”

Del pulled her hair over her shoulder while Aranea zipped and clasped the dress. “A-line definitely works for you, especially with this sweetheart neckline. You look like an adorable college co-ed looking for the perfect Jimmy or Henry to dance three feet apart from and have you home by eight.”

“I really don't get you.” Del sighed. “Like, was that a compliment? Was it an insult? What-” She turned around, arms dropping heavily at her side. “Can you just say you think I look stupid?”

Aranea blinked, placing her hands on her hips. “Why would I say that? I think you look cute.”

Del immediately shot her eyes to the floor, crossing her arms in front of her chest.

“Hey. We went through some rough shit back there. And I know the last thing a grumpy introvert like you wants to do is get back out there and put herself on display. But I need every pair of eyes I can get tonight.” Aranea said before taking a lock of Del’s hair in her hand. “You weren’t seriously planning to go with wet hair, were you?”

“I-” Del grabbed her hair, hands clamping it all against her neck. “It’ll air dry. It’s fine.”

“Yeah, I’ve seen how your hair looks normally. Come on, Lemon Tart, let’s have a few minutes of girl time.” Aranea took her by the hand and led her out of her room, down the hall, and into her own. Del let her, reluctantly.

And that’s how she found herself sitting in the other woman’s bathroom, letting her meaneuver her hair into a braid and put some weird smelling lotion on her face.

“Alright, what color do you usually wear?” She asked, opening a small bag packed full of cosmetics.

“I...I don’t kno-...I don’t wear makeup and frankly I think it looks...really stupid. On me. It looks bad-”

“You’ve never had someone who knows what she’s doing before. Here.” She fished out a few small bottles and brushes and placed her ungloved hand gently under Del’s chin. “This will make those green eyes pop.”

Del closed her eyes and hoped this would be over quickly. She hated makeup. She hated jewelry. She hated putting things in her hair. She hated anything that caused the act of getting ready to take longer than absolutely necessary.

But there was something so...gentle about the way Aranea ran that brush over her eyelids. The absolute trust she had to put in her when she applied that liquid eyeliner, and the blush. She rubbed it in with her thumb and it felt...intimate. Weirdly, comfortably intimate.

“Alright, now the final touch. Too much red would flush your skin, so let’s do something a little more pink.”

She placed a small brush into a glass container and started to slowly, purposely paint Del’s lips. Finally, she placed everything back in the bag and grabbed a hand mirror.

“Look at you, you’re going to have those Lucian boys flocking to your side.”

“I can’t think of a worse scenario.” Del sighed. But damn...she did look kinda hot. Aranea was right, she just needed someone who knew what the fuck they were doing.

“Let me put this into a better perspective. We both need to be attracting attention in there. The Marshal assured me they were taking the highest precautions at this thing, and I believe he believes that. But we need to have our own guards up. So while we’ve got all eyes on us, our eyes are on Shortcake.”

Del frowned. “So we’re...drawing the focus away from him?”

“Less people hanging around him and keeping attention on him, the easier it’ll be for me to spot if anyone is a little too interested in him. Make sense?” Aranea asked with a smirk.

Right. Draw the attention of people who otherwise wouldn’t care about Prompto save for social climbing or networking. Make it easier for the shield to keep tabs on who really wanted to be within his circle.

“Yeah. Alright I guess I can...be...this,” she gestured at herself, “for one night. For Prompto.”

“Knew you’d say that.” Aranea stood up straight, pulling Del to her feet as well. “I’ll be the sultry seductress dream girl, you play the girl next door fantasy, we’ll have plenty of tall dark and rich hanging around.”

They made their way into the sleeping area, where Del caught a glimpse of herself in the full length mirror. Funny. She’d always hated the idea of herself looking like this. Painted up, dressed up, it felt too much like the life she was almost doomed to live a long time ago. But this...this felt kinda...nice?

“One more thing.” Aranea took her hand and slipped something onto her wrist. “Pretty, right? There’s a tracking device in it. Shortcake’s got one too. They let me keep track of you two wherever you are.”

Del frowned at it. “Ok, Prompto I get. But why me?”

“Those gunmen were after you. That was made very clear based on where they were aiming. That’s another reason I want you surrounded by hungry suitors all night. Less opportunity for someone to pull something. But don’t worry, between myself, the Marshal, and poor little love struck Loqi I think you’ll be safe.”

“Eugh.” Del shuddered. “Can we maybe not acknowledge that weirdness going on?”

Aranea let out a laugh as they crossed to leave the room. “Not exactly returning those affections, I guess?”

“I have known that dipshit for a very long time. His delusions of self grandeur are only surpassed by his creepy level of nationalism. I’m good, thanks.”

“Hm.” Aranea hummed as she began to open the door. “So what I’m hearing is I still have a shot?”

Del’s eyes went wide.

Aranea made a gun shape with her hand, finger barrel pointing at Del’s head, and made a mock motion of pulling the trigger. She smirked and walked out into the hallway.

Why. Don't. People. Just. Say. What. They. Mean?!

“Prompto! Time to head out, are you ready?” Aranea asked, standing in front of the door next to hers. She frowned when there was no response.

“Are you sure he didn’t already leave?” Del asked, a little hopefully.

“The tracker says he’s in there. Bet he’s having trouble getting all those buttons done right. Prompto! Doc and I are coming in.” She announced before opening the door.

Inside, there was no one.

“Shit.” Aranea whispered, walking to the nightstand where a matching bracelet to Del’s was sitting.

Del felt her throat begin to close up as she looked out towards the balcony door, wide open, and no one in sight.

---

Prompto was sure something was very, very wrong with him. Maybe he was having some kind of reaction to his medication or the water here had something weird in it. That had to be the explanation for why he agreed to just climb on to the back of the Prince of Lucis and fly.

Like, actually fly. The Prince of Lucis could fly, in a weird indirect way.

He’d just shown up on the balcony outside his room, seven stories up, like it wasn’t a big deal at all, sparkling with the remnants of magic.

“Wanted to say hi, you know, outside of the whole ceremony and everything.” He’d said. And Prompto, completely not used to being alone with people his own age, just kind of stumbled out to stand with him.

“How did you-”

“I warped.” He said with a smile, like it was obvious.

So they stood there, in the warm afternoon air, talking about magic and warping and -somehow- the conversation turned to his favorite topic.

“No way, you like Assassin’s Creed too?” Noctis asked, eyebrows raised.

“Yeah! It’s only like the best franchise in modern gaming!” Prompto couldn’t believe his luck. He’d never met anyone else who played video games. It was his favorite hobby, and not just because for a handful of years it was the only thing he could bring himself to do. “It would be so cool to be an assassin. Uh, not like, a really real one. Heh. Just like, getting to climb or jump or glide anywhere you want? So cool.” Prompto said wistfully. To sneak out of his room back home and see anything he wanted was an ongoing dream of his.

And this trip was the closest thing he had to fulfilling it so far.

“So why don’t you?” Noctis asked, leaning against the balcony railing.

“Well, for starters, I can’t exactly zip through the air like you can.” Prompto laughed.

He straightened back up. “Do you want to?”

And that was how Prince Prompto, heir to the vast Empire of Niflheim, found himself losing his lunch in the bushes outside the Lucian Citadel.

“Shit, sorry Prompto. Guess I should’ve warned you it takes some getting used to.” Noctis said, stifling a laugh.

“No way! That was so much fun!” He smiled despite how green his face must have been. “Should probably just take the elevator on the way back, though.” As much as he wanted to do that again he wasn’t sure his stomach would approve. Or his doctor.

Noct pulled out his phone and made a distressed sound. “Well, we’re both about to be late. Ignis is going to kill me.” He held his hand out to Prompto to help him back up. “I’m sure if we stroll in together it’ll be no big deal.”

Prompto took it, and after making sure his evening attire did not betray their activity, agreed with Noct’s plan.

“So…” Prompto started as they began their walk through the courtyard. “Who’s Ignis?”

“My advisor. I’ve known him since I can remember. He means well, and I know he’s just looking out for me and my future but his nagging can get really annoying.” Noctis huffed, stretching his arms behind his head.

“Oh, I totally get that. My doctor is super overprotective. At first it was really nice having someone care that much, but sometimes it’s like I breathe a little wrong and she wants to run a whole diagnostic to make sure I’m not dying!”

Noctis laughed, and it sounded so nice to Prompto’s ears.

“What about your shield? She looks pretty tough. She come from a family line?” Noct asked.

“Nah. She’s been in the military since she was super young, and then one day she just told my father, ‘I’m Prompto’s shield.’ Like, no question! She just made that claim and that was it! I’m really glad though, she’s always been like a sister to me.”

“Sounds nice. Mine is a huge ass who can’t seem to keep a shirt on.”

Prompto snort laughed.

“His whole family has been my family’s shields going way back. So, not much of a choice for any of us. He’s cool, though.” Noct’s face fell into something more neutral as they approached the stairs leading back into the palace. “Man. This is going to be so boring. Wanna ditch and go play video games?”

He did, more than anything else ever in his life he wanted to hang out alone with Prince Noctis. But slightly more than that, he wanted to not be the cause of an issue that might lead to all out war between their dads.

“We should probably at least make an appearance.” Prompto said carefully.

“Yeah…” Noctis sighed. “Bet we can find a way to make it more interesting, at least.” He said with a wicked little gleam in his eyes.

Prompto was completely out of his element. And it felt so cool!

---

“What do you mean, Prince Noctis is missing?” Cor said, actually feeling a few more years being cut from his lifespan.

“As I said, he simply left his room without alerting or informing anyone of his intentions. This isn’t the first time he’s done this but it’s certainly the worst possible time that he could.” Ignis, poor long suffering Ignis, rubbed his eyes under his glasses.

“Has Gladiolus been informed?” Cor asked, hoping beyond hope that at least his very responsible student might have a handle on this.

“Indeed, and his response was, ‘I told you so’.” Ignis punctuated the statement with little quotation marks by his head. “I had hoped beyond all hope he would actually take these proceedings seriously.”

Amazing. After everything that already happened that day, now Noct decided whatever arcade cabinet or fishing pond he felt most like visiting was more important than ensuring a lifelong peace with their biggest enemy.

“He’s probably just asleep in a tree somewhere.” The Prince could seemingly sleep anywhere, at any time. It was a life skill that Cor envied. “Inform the Glaive we have a code Stray Cat. Level Calico for now, unless we have evidence it’s something more serious.” Calico stray cat: Noctis is missing but he’s probably just dicking around somewhere. Find him but don’t panic. Black stray cat: Noct is missing and assumed in danger. Orange stray cat: Noct is most definitely in danger.

Again. Regis’ idea.

“I will do so at once, Marshal.” Ignis gave a slight bow and ran off to deliver the message. He was a good kid, both him and Gladio. Wonderfully dedicated crownsguards and the exact sort of responsible needed to ensure Noctis made it to his reign alive. And still, still he managed to get himself into trouble.

“Gladio.” Cor said into his switched on ear piece.

“I’ve got the crownsguard sweeping the perimeter. Glaive are searching outside the Citadel. We’ll catch that cat, Sir.”

“Nice choice of words. I’m going to check in with our guests.” No one else should have to deal with that headache. Cor made his way to the seventh floor, right where he left them. Prince Prompto’s door was ajar, with no one inside, but the balcony door was also wide open.

Not good.

“Gladio, bad news-”

“Good news Sir, the cat’s in the bag. And he brought a little yellow puppy with him.”

Cor laughed, shaking his head with his hands on his hips.

Teenagers. Of course they’d sneak off to get into trouble together. At least it implied they were getting along, which really was the whole point of this thing. He could only be so mad about it all. He turned to head back to the ballroom, ready to take his post for the evening.

Until he was struck with the realization that Prompto’s attendants probably realized he had gone missing. And they didn’t have the benefit of knowing he was okay.

“...shit.”

---

“This place is a FUCKING maze!” Del screamed as the two made their way down yet another hallway. Everywhere they walked service staff seemed to flee from their presence. Of course they did. Everyone here hated their guts and everything about them so why would anyone try and help?

Fine! She had thought. We’ll just find Cor. Whatever. This is his problem now. Her ego meant nothing compared to Prompto’s safety. So off they went, ready to find the Marshal and make sure her brother was safe. There was only one problem.

Neither of them understood enough of the Lucian language.

They all spoke the same common language, sure, but each Kingdom still had their own stupid written language because neither wanted to go through the hassle of changing out hundreds of years’ worth of fixtures and Del hadn’t thought to stick that piece of academia into her mind because in what world would she have to know the difference between a bathroom and a library in the Lucian Ciatdel?

Well...apparently this one!

“You know what’s a universal language? Pictures. Just...put a little picture of a toilet on the sign. Then there’s no confusion! What’s in there? Oh! A bathroom! OBVIOUSLY!” Del was quickly losing her mind, and Aranea’s silence was just making it worse.

“Doc.” She finally said, grabbing her arm. She turned to Del, put a finger to her lips, and carefully walked them both through a door and into...the kitchen. After a quick scan of the perimeter she set her sights on a supply closet and somehow, maneuvered both of them into it, closing the door behind them.

“What-” Del tried to ask but Aranea put a hand over her mouth.

“Listen.” She whispered.

After a few very quiet minutes passed, Del was ready to tell the shield exactly what she thought about being shoved in a closet while Prompto was still missing, when they heard a door open., and several pairs of footsteps.

“I can’t hear shit in there, so what the fuck is with this?”

“You tell him what you told me.”

“I got strict orders, directly from the kid’s doctor. She said this needs to go in his meal. It’s medicine, you know their Prince is sickly and all. We’re doing it in here so as not to cause a scene. It is absolutely vital he gets it. Understood?”

Del’s eyes went wide. Aranea was narrowing hers in suspicion. Del shook her head. No, she hadn’t told anyone jack shit about medicine. And he certainly didn’t have any medication that needed to be dropped into his dinner.

This was poison. They were trying to poison Prompto.

“Alright. I’ll mark it special, make sure it gets to the right seat.”

After some shuffling and footsteps, the two carefully left the closet and quietly made their way out to the hallway.

“Listen, Doc-”

“I didn’t tell anyone shit about putting medicine in food.”

“I know. So either you’re being set up, or Insomnia is. Either way, the search for Shortcake just got a lot more urgent.”

A quiet ding grabbed their attention, and the two realized there was an elevator around the corner. Finally. They took off sprinting to catch it, barely managing to do so, and simply selecting the ground floor.

“How big of a scene do we need, here? Who are we going to tell?” Del asked. Aranea seemed to know exactly how to approach every scenario, and Del was about to mentally collapse so she was more than happy to let her take control.

“Tumult will see it as the Lucians attempting an assassination. If we call out the kitchen workers they’re going to set you up for the fall, and no one here has any reason to trust you wouldn’t.” Aranea said carefully.

“Cor knows, he’d vouch for me. He knows I’d never do anything to hurt Prompto.” Del said, trying to resist the urge to bite at her still nicely painted lip.

“Why?” Aranea snapped.

“Huh?” Del looked at her frustrated features.

“Why does the Marshal know that?” She asked.

Shit. SHIT. “Because...well like, I’m a doctor! Come on, I’m a doctor and a great one, I’d never hurt any of my patients!”

Aranea opened her mouth to respond but before she could make a sound, the elevator doors opened and there he was. Standing next to the Lucian Prince.

“Oh thank the Gods.” Del sighed, abandoning any amount of professionalism and rushing over to hug the Prince. “Don’t scare us like that, dude, we thought something terrible happened!”

“Sorry, I didn’t mean- Wow you guys look really pretty.” Prompto nervously said with a smile.

“I’m guessing you're the shield?” Aranea stated, looking up and down the teenager standing behind the princes.

“That would be me, yeah. And these two thought it’d be great fun to goof off and get every glaive and guard in the city looking for them.”

Prompto looked at the ground in embarrassment. Noctis seemed pleased.

“Prom here wanted to have some fun. I thought I’d be a good host and show him some.”

Noctis laughed. Prompto’s face turned very red.

“So are we going to this borefest now, or what?” Prince Noctis asked his shield.

“I’ve got something I need to talk to you about.” Aranea nodded her head towards Gladiolus. He nodded back at her.

“That dress looks really good on you, Del!” Prompto said, trying to change the subject from his sudden irresponsible disappearance.

“Thanks,” Del smiled down at him as they began to follow the Lucians, “it has pockets.” She demonstrated by sticking her hands in them. She felt something in the left pocket. A piece of paper. She carefully retrieved it, no bigger than the palm of her hand, and quickly read the message scribbled on it.

‘Del-We need to talk. Meet me at the bar. C.L.’

C.L. Cor Leonis. We need to talk. Yes. Yes they did. And she already had a well practiced script of exactly what she planned to say to his stupid moron face.

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theelkmaiden · 5 years

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Headcannon for the Blood Gulch Crew's heights and how they feel about it.

I don't know why I keep thinking about this, but it won't leave me alone so I'm just leaving it here.

6'5" - Caboose. The fact that he's the tallest really pisses Simmons off, because he is not used to looking up to anyone and it makes hum feel insecure.

Because of his height and his terrible memory, Caboose has a habit of walking into door frames, as a result of which Church and Tucker had to put extra padding in his helmet.

6'2" - Simmons. He was used to being the tallest in Blood Gulch, so when he first spotted Caboose he felt insecure and decided that, if nothing else, he was going to chop his legs off at the knees so he was the tallest again. It never happened and he's still bitter about it.

Because he is taller than Sarge, Grif manages to find ways (usually via blackmail) to convince Simmons to hide food stashes in high places and then get them down again when he wants to eat.

6'0"1/2 - Lopez 2.0. All robot kit bodies are 5'10"1/2 but he wanted to be taller than Sarge so he added two inch platforms to his feet.

6'0" - Doc, Carolina. Carolina is one tall lady. Her height is almost definitely a recessive gene because she grew a lot taller than both her parents. She enjoys using her height to intimidate people into doing as they're told and will loom behind someone until they turn around and shit themselves because she can be silent and terrifying when she wants to be. Doc enjoys his height but for a very different reason. He has been told that he gives the best hugs and will freely give one to anyone who asks. But he has long forgotten the feeling of /receiving/ a hug. When Caboose found out he gave Doc an almost bonecrushing hug that had to come to a halt pretty quickly when Doc started to turn blue from lack of oxygen.

5'11" - Sarge. There is nothing much to say about this. He is comfortable with his height and enjoys mocking Grif for being taller than him, but that doesn't really mean much because it's Grif.

5'10"1/2 - Church, Tex, Lopez. This is the standard size of all robot bodies, so they don't really care. Church is only slightly annoyed about being the same height as Tex, but seeing as his previous body was shorter he refuses to complain.

5'10" - Donut. He takes pride in his height, just as he takes pride in just about everything, and secretly finds it hilarious that he's taller then Grif.

5'9" - Wash. There is nothing much to say about how he feels about his size because he really doesn't care. He will overhear people bickering and using height as an insult and just won't get it. The only time he will bring his height up is when he is trying to convince Carolina to do something and say how she is taller so she obviously has a disadvantage to him, meaning he is automatically better. This works 100% of the time due to her innate competitiveness.

5'8" - "Private Jimmy". There isn't really much to be said about this, apart from the fact that he was shorter than Tex, which she found hilarious and Church most certainly did not.

5'7" - Grif. He hates it. Absolutely despises it. The onky solace he can find is the fact that he is taller then Tucker, though not by much. They would constantly stand back-to-back and have people compare their heights, both trying to cheat. This rivalry has sprung some interesting happenings, such as convincing the "tall" people to give then piggyback rides or finding things to add onto their boots just to be slightly taller than the other. However, due to his natural advantage of an inch, Grif always wins.

5'6" - Tucker. He suffers from a severe case of ducks disease. His arse is too close to the ground. This means that whenever hight is brought into a conversation he is ready to fight. He knows he's shorter than Grif but refuses to admit it. He once bought stilettos and a floor length short just so he could have to illusion of being taller then Grif, but fell over five minutes after putting them on and ripped the skirt down the back. He never tried it again.

5'2" - Sister. Kai really doesn't care. Because if her height she can hide in really bizarre places and eavesdrop without getting caught. This has resulted in thorough sweeps of rooms taking place before anyone wants to have a private conversation. On the off days when she wants to feel tall she always manages to convince Caboose yo let her sit on his shoulders and they will just go about their day like that (though going through doors is dangerous so they usually agree to stay outside until they are told off.....again.) Being shorter than everyone else means that, on the off-chance she needs one, the hugs she receives from people are the best. She gas managed to convince everyone but Tucker and Tex to give her a quick hug at least once because everyone is slightly too scared to say no. You can imagine the shock on Grif's face when he walked into a room to see Kai tucked under Sarge's chin as he awkwardly patted her back, looking about as uncomfortable as she did smug.

If I forgot anyone please let me know ;)

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iknewiwouldregretthis · 5 years

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okay here’s a bunch of information i know on dudes in the wild west for melissa @cwtchpup so it doesn’t clog up the chat and also for anyone else i guess. it is Long because it’s basically everything i could come up with off the top of my head

so doc holliday is some dude who got a degree in dentistry in the 1860s or so and then about immediately found out that he had tuberculosis so he moved to the southwest where the air was dry and was like “wow i’m good at cards” so he became a gambler which was an actual profession and he was very good at it. i’m sure he probably did some dentsiting on the side still because it was a lot less “see you in six months for your next cleaning” and a lot more “tooth hurts? drink this whiskey and i’ll go get my pliers.” then in maybe texas? he met the earps (virgil, morgan, wyatt) who were lawmen and became like an assistant deputy lawman? i think you pretty much just had to be assigned the role of deputy or lawman and didn’t need any qualifications BUT doc was really good at shooting so he had that going for him and if i remember right one of the earps was a sheriff or marshal or something and did the deputizing. he was with wyatt earp at the ok corral which is a very famous shootout but all i remember is that either virgil or morgan died and so wyatt and doc and the remaining earp brother went rogue and hunted down and killed the dudes who did it and then had a price on their heads. wyatt and doc got a divorce because wyatt went back to being the law and doc went back to having a severe disease and then he went to glenwood springs colorado where he died in his hotel and was buried in linwood pioneer cemetery because he died a pauper. he was in like his early to mid 30s. about 50 years later, there was some break in and some of the cemetery records were stolen and so now, we don’t know exactly where doc is buried in the cemetery (there wasn’t a marker because he was already buried at taxpayer expense and they sure weren’t gonna cough up the 30 cents or however much it took to make a headstone). there is a memorial where they’ve fenced off a grave-sized area and put a marker, and people have left playing cards and empty shot-sized alcohol bottles and small amounts of money like dollar bills and coins and a few casino chips in kind of the same vein as people kissing oscar wilde’s grave which i think is super cool.

a fun side note here is that glenwood springs was a frontier town originally made up of brothels, gambling halls, and mining supply shops (just like every other frontier town) called Defiance which was a crazy cool name except that one of the town founders was like “hmmmm my sweet gentle wife from iowa is having trouble adjusting to the harsh realities of frontier life what if we changed the name of our town defiance to glenwood springs, after her hometown of glenwood iowa?” and apparently everyone else at the town founders meeting was like “hey jimmy nobody cares about your kind gentle iowan wife but if it’ll shut you up we will name this town glenwood springs”

anyway, also buried in the linwood cemetery is kid curry (not to be confused with kid cudi, the sundance kid, anyone else with kid or curry in their name including george flat nose curry who kid got his name from). kid curry was part of the wild bunch but was like kind of a disaster compared to his more gentleman thief-esque colleagues. he was a that-guy-who-wrote-les-mis-whose-name-i-forgot of the old west to the point that when prostitutes had kids and they didn’t know who the dad was or didn’t want to say, they’d call them curry kids. anyway he got shot trying to pull a train robbery outside of parachute with some guys (they might’ve been from black jack ketchum’s gang? which kid curry ran with before he joined the wild bunch) after the wild bunch broke up. he was still a badass though because he told the other dudes to leave him behind and then shot himself rather than let the cops take him alive. the cops found the dead criminal and then presumably went “uhhh i guess we bury him now” and stuck him in the pauper’s cemetery. not too long after, a pinkerton detective who was an expert in the wild bunch was like “hey i think that dude you guys buried is kid curry based on the description do you mind digging him up so i can see?” and the super chill town cops were like “hell yeah let’s go” and they dug up harvey and the pinkerton was like “that’s sure him” and the cops went “oh sweet let’s give him a marker” and then put him back. that’s mostly all i know about kid curry except his name is harvey logan which i don’t think i mentioned earlier.

the wild bunch was super late in the wild west, hitting the height of their outlawing around 1899. butch cassidy, aka robert leroy parker, who looks kind of like matt damon, was the leader and was a brilliant tactical mind. the wild bunch robbed tons of banks and trains and always escaped basically unscathed thanks to butch’s planning. they also bragged a lot about not killing people every but kid curry was super gun happy and killed like 9 people on record so kid curry lets everyone down as usual. (it’s not just his fault, i’m pretty sure the sundance kid aka harry longabaugh something also killed some people that we know of also). anyway, the gang would do a robbery and then lay low for a while. most of the laying low happened in an area that was called brown’s hole but is now mostly called brown’s park (a park is a geographical area that’s like a valley but like in the mountains? i don’t totally remember the definition but it’s a big flat that’s high up.) brown’s hole is in the unita mountains, a range in the rockies that runs east/west instead of north/south. it’s in that bit of utah right where it borders both colorado and wyoming. the wild bunch worked there as ranch hands and would give money to the local community and so the community loved and sheltered them. they also went out of their way to not commit crimes in utah or colorado because they didn’t want the law in those states after them. they spent a lot of time and brothels and would take their favorite ladies on huge lavish vacations and buy them all kinds of fancy things. basically the whole life was do a big robbery, live a glamorous dramatic lavish life until the money runs out, repeat.

when they hung out in brown’s hole, a bunch of the gang fell in love with locals, which were all good morman girls because that’s who lived on the ranches in brown’s hole at the turn of the century. it was kind of a disaster love story for all of them because it’s hard to be a good morman girl and marry a dude who only knows how to be an outlaw but they tried and some of them made a good go of it, before the former wild bunch men went back to outlawing and/or got themselves killed. elza ley, who doesn’t have a cool nickname as far as i remember, is one of the dudes who got married to a local girl, and i think the first one who did. i think the tall texan (ben kilpatrick or ben kirkpatrick or ben something-patrick) did also. as far as i can remember right now, none of the marriages ended after a long and happy life, usually because the dude got himself killed. they were just too used to their lavish lifestyle circle to actually settle down and be ranch boys. also it didn’t help that the whole lot of them thought it’d be a fun time to get a group photo taken in texas at a studio several years back and all the pinkerton detectives started carrying it around with them to show people.

butch and sundance went down to i think peru? and tried to do some robberies down there because the whole rest of the gang was getting married and getting shot. the two of them were killed by the local militia in a robbery gone wrong. (as seen in the movie butch cassidy and the sundance kid with robert redford and some other man). interestingly, a lady named etta place was there with them. etta was the sundance kid’s girl (tbh historians are kind of iffy about it because there’s letters saying she’s butch’s girl, stuff saying they shared her, and stuff that says she’s butch’s cousin and stuff saying she and butch grew up and were childhood sweethearts but as adults she only dated the sundance kid which is one of the more accepted theories) and the interesting thing about etta is that she pretty much shows up in history when she starts hanging around the wild bunch and then disappears almost immediately before butch and sundance get themselves killed. i think they picked etta up because she worked at fanny porter’s brothel in texas and the boys went there a lot, and there’s some sources saying she caught a boat from peru to nyc but like there’s no confirmation? she just shows up, does some robbing, gets treated to the good life, and then disappears. anyway there’s a famous picture of her and sundance where she’s wearing a pocket watch from tiffany’s that cost like $50 which was A Lot.

there were also a bunch of ladies who were not necessarily IN the wild bunch, but were safe havens or hangers-on (i think etta and queen ann basset were the only two who did crimes with them but they don’t get to be included in most accounts because they were 1. not in the famous photo and 2. women). however, there was one family that the boys sheltered with a bunch to the point that elizabeth basset, the matriarch, was basically also their mom? she adopted them and it’s very sweet. one of her daughters, josie, apparently was butch’s girl for a little bit when she was younger and i think also elza’s? josie eventually married (5 times if i remember right, none of which were to the wild bunch. there was at least one husband she was accused of poisoning) and built herself a ranch using some box canyons as corrals, and built the entire 5 room ranch house herself by hand. it had one fireplace, the walls were papered in newsprint, and there was no electricity (even after it got invented). the only running water was from underground streams, because of complicated water rights. josie hunted deer, raised cattle, farmed, made her own whiskey, sewed her own clothes, lasted through prohibition and the great depression and eventually slipped on ice and broke her hip, forcing her to go to a hospital. she died there, at age 90, in 1963. her ranch is currently in the bounds of dinosaur national monument (the utah part) and is open to visitors.

that’s all i can think of at present. also i know it’s weird and possessive to refer to women as “dude’s girl” but there’s not quite any other way to get across what i mean? like saying they were going steady is too 1950s and nothing else really describes the relationship. it wasn’t dating. that’s just what you called it? anyway here’s some pictures of josie’s house

#old west info #mine #there's those posts about how everyone has one area of history that they were super into #the old west is one of mine

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unsettlingshortstories · 3 years

Text

Quitters, Inc.

Stephen King (1978)

Morrison was waiting for someone who was hung up in the air traffic jam over Kennedy International when he saw a familiar face at the end of the bar and walked down.

'Jimmy? Jimmy McCann?'

It was. A little heavier than when Morrison had seen him at the Atlanta Exhibition the year before, but otherwise he looked awesomely fit. In college he had been a thin, pallid chain smoker buried behind huge horn-rimmed glasses. He had apparently switched to contact lenses.

'Dick Morrison?'

'Yeah. You look great.' He extended his hand and they shook.

'So do you,' McCann said, but Morrison knew it was a lie. He had been overworking, overeating, and smoking too much. 'What are you drinking?'

'Bourbon and bitters,' Morrison said. He hooked his feet around a bar stool and lighted a cigarette. 'Meeting someone, Jimmy?'

'No. Going to Miami for a conference. A heavy client. Bills six million. I'm supposed to hold his hand because we lost out on a big special next spring.'

'Are you still with Crager and Barton?'

'Executive veep now.'

'Fantastic! Congratulations! When did all this happen?' He tried to tell himself that the little worm of jealousy in his stomach was just acid indigestion. He pulled out a roll of antacid pills and crunched one in his mouth.

'Last August. Something happened that changed my life.' He looked speculatively at Morrison and sipped his drink. 'You might be interested.'

My God, Morrison thought with an inner wince. Jimmy McCann's got religion.

'Sure,' he said, and gulped at his drink when it came. 'I wasn't in very good shape,' McCann said. 'Personal problems with Sharon, my.dad died - heart attack - and I'd developed this hacking cough. Bobby Crager dropped by my office one day and gave me a fatherly little pep talk. Do you remember what those are like?'

'Yeah.' He had worked at Crager and Barton for eighteen months before joining the Morton Agency. 'Get your butt in gear or get your butt out.'

McCann laughed. 'You know it. Well, to put the capper on it, the doc told me I had an incipient ulcer. He told me to quit smoking.'

McCann grimaced. 'Might as well tell me to quit breathing.'

Morrison nodded in perfect understanding. Non-smokers could afford to be smug. He looked at his own cigarette with distaste and stubbed it out, knowing he would be lighting another in five minutes.

'Did you quit?' He asked.

'Yes, I did. At first I didn't think I'd be able to - I was cheating like hell. Then I met a guy who told me about an outfit over on

Fortysixth Street. Specialists. I said what do I have to lose and went over. I haven't smoked since.'

Morrison's eyes widened. 'What did they do? Fill you full of some drug?'

'No.' He had taken out his wallet and was rummaging through it. 'Here it is. I knew I had one kicking around.' He laid a plain white business card on the bar between them.

Stop Going Up in Smoke!

237 East 46th Street

Treatments by Appointment

'Keep it, if you want,' McCann said. 'They'll cure you. Guaranteed.'

'How?'

'I can't tell you,' McCann said.

'Huh? Why not?'

'It's part of the contract they make you sign. Anyway, they tell you how it works when they interview you.' 'You signed a contract?' McCann nodded.

'And on the basis of that -'

'Yep.' He smiled at Morrison, who thought: Well, it's happened. Jim McCann has joined the smug bastards.

'Why the great secrecy if this outfit is so fantastic? How come I've never seen any spots on TV, billboards, magazine ads -'

'They get all the clients they can handle by word of mouth.'

'You're an advertising man, Jimmy. You can't believe that.'

'I do,' McCann said. 'They have a ninety-eight per cent cure rate.'

'Wait a second,' Morrison said. He motioned for another drink and lit a cigarette. 'Do these guys strap you down and make you smoke until you throw up?'

'No.'

'Give you something so that you get sick every time you light -'

'No, it's nothing like that. Go and see for yourself.' He gestured at Morrison's cigarette. 'You don't really like that, do you?'

'Nooo, but -'

'Stopping really changed things for me,' McCann said. 'I don't suppose it's the same for everyone, but with me it was just like dominoes falling over. I felt better and my relationship with Sharon improved. I had more energy, and my job performance picked up.'

'Look, you've got my curiosity aroused. Can't you just -' 'I'm sorry, Dick. I really can't talk about it.' His voice was firm.

'Did you put on any weight?'

For a moment he thought Jimmy McCann looked almost grim. 'Yes. A little too much, in fact. But I took it off again. I'm about right now. I was skinny before.'

'Flight 206 now boarding at Gate 9,' the loudspeaker announced.

'That's me,' McCann said, getting up. He tossed a five on the bar. 'Have another, if you like. And think about what I said, Dick.

Really.' And then he was gone, making his way through the crowd to the escalators. Morrison picked up the card, looked at it thoughtfully, then tucked it away in his wallet and forgot it.

The card fell out of his wallet and on to another bar a month later. He had left the office early and had come here to drink the afternoon away. Things had not been going so well at the Morton Agency. In fact, things were bloody horrible.

He gave Henry a ten to pay for his drink, then picked up the small card and reread it - 237 East Forty-sixth Street was only two blocks over; it was a cool, sunny October day outside, and maybe, just for chuckles -When Henry brought his change, he finished his drink and then went for a walk.

Quitters, Inc., was in a new building where the monthly rent on office space was probably close to Morrison's yearly salary. From the directory in the lobby, it looked to him like their offices took up one whole floor, and that spelled money. Lots of it.

He took the elevator up and stepped off into a lushly carpeted foyer and from there into a gracefully appointed reception room with a wide window that looked out on the scurrying bugs below. Three men and one woman sat in the chairs along the walls, reading magazines. Business types, all of them. Morrison went to the desk.

'A friend gave me this,' he said, passing the card to the receptionist. 'I guess you'd say he's an alumnus.'

She smiled and rolled a form into her typewriter. 'What is your name, sir?'

'Richard Morrison.'

Clack-clackety-clack. But very muted clacks; the typewriter was an IBM.

'Your address?'

'Twenty-nine Maple Lane, Clinton, New York.'

'Married?'

'Yes.'

'Children?'

'One.' He thought of Alvin and frowned slightly. 'One' was the wrong word. 'A half' might be better. His son was mentally retarded and lived at a special school in New Jersey.

'Who recommended us to you, Mr Morrison?'

'An old school friend. James McCann.'

'Very good. Will you have a seat? It's been a very busy day.'

'All right.'

He sat between the woman, who was wearing a severe blue suit, and a young executive type wearing a herring-bone jacket and modish sideburns. He took out his pack of cigarettes, looked around, and saw there were no ashtrays.

He put the pack away again. That was all right. He would see this little game through and then light up while he was leaving. He might even tap some ashes on their maroon shag rug if they made him wait long enough. He picked up a copy of Time and began to leaf through it.

He was called a quarter of an hour later, after the woman in the blue suit. His nicotine centre was speaking quite loudly now. A man who had come in after him took out a cigarette case, snapped it open, saw there were no ashtrays, and put it away looking a little guilty, Morrison thought. It made him feel better.

At last the receptionist gave him a sunny smile and said, 'Go right in, Mr Morrison.'

Morrison walked through the door beyond her desk and found himself in an indirectly lit hallway. A heavy-set man with white hair that looked phoney shook his hand, smiled affably, and said, 'Follow me, Mr Morrison.'

He led Morrison past a number of closed, unmarked doors and then opened one of them about halfway down the hall with a key.

Beyond the door was an austere little room walled with drilled white cork panels. The only furnishings were a desk with a chair on either side. There was what appeared to be a small oblong window in the wall behind the desk, but it was covered with a short green curtain. There was a picture on the wall to Morrison's left -a tall man with iron-grey hair. He was holding a sheet of paper in one hand.

He looked vaguely familiar.

'I'm Vic Donatti,' the heavy-set man said. 'If you decide to go ahead with our programme, I'll be in charge of your case.' 'Pleased to know you,' Morrison said. He wanted a cigarette very badly.

'Have a seat.'

Donatti put the receptionist's form on the desk, and then drew another form from the desk drawer. He looked directly into Morrison's eyes. 'Do you want to quit smoking?'

Morrison cleared his throat, crossed his legs, and tried to think of a way to equivocate. He couldn't. 'Yes,' he said.

'Will you sign this?' He gave Morrison the form. He scanned it quickly. The undersigned agrees not to divulge the methods or techniques or et cetera, et cetera.

'Sure,' he said, and Donatti put a pen in his hand. He scratched his name, and Donatti signed below it. A moment later the paper disappeared back into the desk drawer. Well, he thought ironically, I've taken the pledge.

He had taken it before. Once it had lasted for two whole days.

'Good,' Donatti said. 'We don't bother with propaganda here, Mr Morrison. Questions of health or expense or social grace. We have no interest in why you want to stop smoking. We are pragmatists.' 'Good,' Morrison said blankly.

'We employ no drugs. We employ no Dale Carnegie people to sermonize you. We recommend no special diet. And we accept no payment until you have stopped smoking for one year.' 'My God,' Morrison said.

'Mr McCann didn't tell you that?'

'No.'

'How is Mr McCann, by the way? Is he well?'

'He's fine.'

'Wonderful. Excellent. Now . . . just a few questions, Mr Morrison. These are somewhat personal, but I assure you that your answers will be held in strictest confidence.'

'Yes?' Morrison asked noncommittally.

'What is your wife's name?'

'Lucinda Morrison. Her maiden name was Ramsey.'

'Do you love her?'

Morrison looked up sharply, but Donatti was looking at him blandly. 'Yes, of course,' he said.

'Have you ever had marital problems? A separation, perhaps?'

'What has that got to do with kicking the habit?' Morrison asked. He sounded a little angrier than he had intended, but he wanted - hell, he needed - a cigarette.

'A great deal,' Donatti said. 'Just bear with me.'

'No. Nothing like that.' Although things had been a little tense just lately.

'You just have the one child?'

'Yes. Alvin. He's in a private school.'

'And which school is it?'

'That,' Morrison said grimly, 'I'm not going to tell you.'

'All right,' Donatti said agreeably. He smiled disarmingly at Morrison. 'All your q~estions will be answered tomorrow at your first treatment.'

'How nice,' Morrison said, and stood.

'One final question,' Donatti said. 'You haven't had a cigarette for over an hour. How do you feel?'

'Fine,' Morrison lied. 'Just fine.'

'Good for you!' Donatti exclaimed. He stepped around the desk and opened the door. 'Enjoy them tonight. After tomorrow, you'll never smoke again.'

'Is that right?'

'Mr Morrison,' Donatti said solemnly, 'we guarantee it.'

He was sitting in the outer office of Quitters, Inc. ,the next day promptly at three. He had spent most of the day swinging between skipping the appointment the receptionist had made for him on the way out and going in a spirit of mulish co-operation - Throw your best pitch at me, buster.

In the end, something Jimmy McCann had said convinced him to keep the appointment - It changed my whole fife. God knew his own life could do with some changing. And then there was his own curiosity. Before going up in the elevator, he smoked a cigarette down to the filter. Too damn bad if it's the last one, he thought. It tasted horrible.

The wait in the outer office was shorter this time. When the receptionist told him to go in, Donatti was waiting. He offered his hand and smiled, and to Morrison the smile looked almost predatory. He began to feel a little tense, and that made him wa~t a

cigarette.

'Come with me,' Donatti said, and led the way down to the small room. He sat behind the desk again, and Morrison took the other chair.

'I'm very glad you came,' Donatti said. 'A great many prospective clients never show up again after the initial interview. They discover they don't want to quit as badly as they thought. It's going to be a pleasure to work with you on this.'

'When does the treatment start?' Hypnosis, he was thinking. It must be hypnosis.

'Oh, it already has. It started when we shook hands in the hall. Do you have cigarettes with you, Mr Morrison?'

'Yes.'

'May I have them, please?'

Shrugging, Morrison handed Donatti his pack. There were only two or three left in it, anyway.

Donatti put the pack on the desk. Then, smiling into Morrison's eyes, he curled his right hand into a fist and began to hammer it down on the pack of cigarettes, which twisted and flattened. A broken cigarette end flew out. Tobacco crumbs spilled. The sound of Donatti's fist was very loud in the closed room. The smile remained on his face in spite of the force of the blows, and Morrison was chilled by it. Probably just the effect they want to inspire, he thought.

At last Donatti ceased pounding. He picked up the pack, a twisted and battered ruin. 'You wouldn't believe the pleasure that gives me,' he said, and dropped the pack into the wastebasket. 'Even after three years in the business, it still pleases me.'

'As a treatment, it leaves something to be desired. Morrison said mildly. 'There's a news-stand in the lobby of this very building.

And they sell all brands.'

'As you say,' Donatti said. He folded his hands. 'Your son, Alvin Dawes Morrison, is in the Paterson School for Handicapped Children. Born with cranial brain damage. Tested IQ of 46. Not quite in the educable retarded category. Your wife -, 'How did you find that out?' Morrison barked. He was startled and angry. 'You've got no goddamn right to go poking around my -' 'We know a lot about you,' Donatti said smoothly. 'But, as I said, it will all be held in strictest confidence.' 'I'm getting out of here,' Morrison said thinly. He stood up.

'Stay a bit longer.'

Morrison looked at him closely. Donatti wasn't upset. In fact, he looked a little amused. The face of a man who has seen this reaction scores of times - maybe hundreds.

'All right. But it better be good.'

'Oh, it is.' Donatti leaned back. 'I told you we were pragmatists here. As pragmatists, we have to start by realizing how difficult it is to cure an addiction to tobacco. The relapse rate is almost eight-five per cent. The relapse rate for heroin addicts is lower than that. It is an extraordinary problem. Extraordinary.'

Morrison glanced into the wastebasket. One of the cigarettes, although twisted, still looked smokeable.

Donatti laughed good-naturedly, reached into the wastebasket, and broke it between his fingers.

'State legislatures sometimes hear a request that the prison systems do away with the weekly cigarette ration. Such proposals are invariably defeated. In a few cases where they have passed, there have been fierce prison riots. Riots, Mr Morrison. Imagine it.' 'I,' Morrison said, 'am not surprised.'

'But consider the implications. When you put a man in prison you take away any normal sex life, you take away his liquor, his politics, his freedom of movement. No riots - or few in comparison to the number of prisons. But when you take away his cigarettes - wham! bam!' He slammed his fist on the desk for emphasis.

'During World War I, when no one on the German home front could get cigarettes, the sight of German aristocrats picking butts out of the gutter was a common one. During World War II, many American women turned to pipes when they were unable to obtain cigarettes. A fascinating problem for the true pragmatist, Mr Morrison.'

'Could we get to the treatment?'

'Momentarily. Step over here, please.' Donatti had risen and was standing by the green curtains Morrison had noticed yesterday.

Donatti drew the curtains, discovering a rectangular window that looked into a bare room. No, not quite bare. There was a rabbit on the floor, eating pellets out of a dish.

'Pretty bunny,' Morrison commented.

'Indeed. Watch him.' Donatti pressed a button by the window-sill. The rabbit stopped eating and began to hop about crazily. It seemed to leap higher each time its feet struck the floor. Its fur stood out spikily in all directions. Its eyes were wild.

'Stop that! You're electrocuting him!'

Donatti released the button. 'Far from it. There's a very low-yield charge in the floor. Watch the rabbit, Mr Morrison!'

The rabbit was crouched about ten feet away from the dish of pellets. His nose wriggled. All at once he hopped away into a corner.

'If the rabbit gets a jolt often enough while he's eating,' Donatti said, 'he makes the association very quickly. Eating causes pain. Therefore, he won't eat. A few more shocks, and the rabbit will starve to death in front of his food. It's called aversion training.' Light dawned in Morrison's head.

'No, thanks.' He started for the door.

'Wait, please, Morrison.'

Morrison didn't pause. He grasped the doorknob . and felt it slip solidly through his hand. 'Unlock this.' 'Mr Morrison, if you'll just sit down -'

'Unlock this door or I'll have the cops on you before you can say Marlboro Man.' 'Sit down.' The voice was as cold as shaved ice.

Morrison looked at Donatti. His brown eyes were muddy and frightening. My God, he thought, I'm locked in here with a psycho. He licked his lips. He wanted a cigarette more than he ever had in his life.

'Let me explain the treatment in more detail,' Donatti said.

'You don't understand,' Morrison said with counterfeit patience. 'I don't want the treatment. I've decided against it.'

'No, Mr Morrison. You're the one who doesn't understand. You don't have any choice. When I told you the treatment had already begun, I was speaking the literal truth. I would have thought you'd tipped to that by now.' 'You're crazy,' Morrison said wonderingly.

'No. Only a pragmatist. Let me tell you all about the treatment.'

'Sure,' Morrison said. 'As long as you understand that as soon as I get out of here I'm going to buy five packs of cigarettes and smoke them all on the way to the police station.' He suddenly realized he was biting his thumb-nail, sucking on it, and made himself stop.

'As you wish. But I think you'll change your mind when you see the whole picture.' Morrison said nothing. He sat down again and folded his hands.

'For the first month of the treatment, our operatives will have you under constant supervision,' Donatti said. 'You'll be able to spot some of them. Not all. But they'll always be with you. Always. If they see you smoke a cigarette, I get a call.'

'And I suppose you bring me here and do the old rabbit trick,' Morrison said. He tried to sound cold and sarcastic, but he suddenly felt horribly frightened. This was a nightmare.

'Oh, no,' Donatti said. 'Your wife gets the rabbit trick, not you.' Morrison looked at him dumbly.

Donatti smiled. 'You,' he said, 'get to watch.'

After Donatti let him out, Morrison walked for over two hours in a complete daze. It was another fine day, but he didn't notice. The monstrousness of Donatti's smiling face blotted out all else.

'You see,' he had said, 'a pragmatic problem demands pragmatic solutions. You must realize we have your best interests at heart.

Quitters, Inc., according to Donatti, was a sort of foundation - a non-profit organization begun by the man in the wall portrait. The gentleman had been extremely successful in several family businesses - including slot machines, massage parlours, numbers, and a brisk (although clandestine) trade between New York and Turkey. Mort 'Three-Fingers' Minelli had been a heavy smoker - up in the three-pack-a-day range. The paper he was holding in the picture was a doctor's diagnosis: lung cancer. Mort had died in 1970, after endowing Quitters, Inc., with family funds.

'We try to keep as close to breaking even as possible,' Donatti had said. 'But we're more interested in helping our fellow man. And of course, it's a great tax angle.'

The treatment was chillingly simple. A first offence and Cindy would be brought to what Donatti called 'the rabbit room'. A second offence, and Morrison would get the dose. On a third offence, both of them would be brought in together. A fourth offence would show grave co-operation problems and would require sterner measures. An operative would be sent to Alvin's school to work the boy over.

'Imagine,' Donatti said, smiling, 'how horrible it will be for the boy. He wouldn't understand it even jf someone explained. He'll only know someone is hurting him because Daddy was bad. He'll be very frightened.'

'You bastard,' Morrison said helplessly. He felt close to tears. 'You dirty, filthy bastard.'

'Don't misunderstand,' Donatti said. He was smiling sympathetically. 'I'm sure it won't happen. Forty per cent of our clients never have to be disciplined at all - and only ten per cent have more than three falls from grace. Those are reassuring figures, aren't they?'

Morrison didn't find them reassuring. He found them terrifying.

'Of course, if you transgress a fifth time -'

'What do you mean?'

Donatti beamed. 'The room for you and your wife, a second beating for your son, and a beating for your wife.'

Morrison, driven beyond the point of rational consideration, lunged over the desk at Donatti. Donatti moved with amazing speed for a man who had apparently been completely relaxed. He shoved the chair backwards and drove both of his feet over the desk and into Morrison's belly. Gagging and coughing, Morrison staggered backward.

'Sit down, Mr Morrison,' Donatti said benignly. 'Let's talk this over like rational men.'

When he could get his breath, Morrison did as he was told. Nightmares had to end some time, didn't they?

Quitters, Inc., Donatti had explained further, operated on a ten-step punishment scale. Steps six, seven, and eight consisted of further trips to the rabbit room (and increased voltage) and more serious beatings. The ninth step would be the breaking of his son's arms.

'And the tenth?' Morrison asked, his mouth dry.

Donatti shook his head sadly. 'Then we give up, Mr Morrison. You become part of the unregenerate two per cent.'

'You really give up?'

'In a manner of speaking.' He opened one of the desk drawers and laid a silenced .45 on the desk. He smiled into Morrison's eyes. 'But even the unregenerate two per cent never smoke again. We guarantee it.'

The Friday Night Movie was Bullitt, one of Cindy's favourites, but after an hour of Morrison's mutterings and fidgetings, her concentration was broken.

'What's the matter with you?' she asked during station identification.

'Nothing . . . everything,' he growled. 'I'm giving up smoking.'

She laughed. 'Since when? Five minutes ago?'

'Since three o'clock this afternoon.'

'You really haven't had a cigarette since then?'

'No,' he said, and began to gnaw his thumb-nail. It was ragged, down to the quick.

'That's wonderful! What ever made you decide to quit?'

'You,' he said. 'And. . . and Alvin.'

Her eyes widened, and when the movie came back on, she didn't notice. Dick rarely mentioned their retarded son. She came over, looked at the empty ashtray by his right hand, and then into his eyes: 'Are you really trying to quit, Dick?'

'Really.' And if I go to the cops, he added mentally, the local goon squad will be around to rearrange your face, Cindy.

'I'm glad. Even if you don't make it, we both thank you for the thought, Dick.'

'Oh, I think I'll make it,' he said, thinking of the muddy, homicidal look that had come into Donatti's eyes when he kicked him in the stomach.

He slept badly that night, dozing in and out of sleep. Around three o'clock he woke up completely. His craving for a cigarette was like a low-grade fever. He went downstairs and to his study. The room was in the middle of the house. No windows. He slid open the top drawer of his desk and looked in, fascinated by the cigarette box. He looked around and licked his lips.

Constant supervision during the first month, Donatti had said. Eighteen hours a day during the next two - but he would never know which eighteen. During the fourth month, the month when most clients backslid, the 'service' would return to twenty-four hours a day.

Then twelve hours of broken surveillance each day for the rest of the year. After that? Random surveillance for the rest of the client's life.

For the rest of his life.

'We may audit you every other month,' Donatti said. 'Or every other day. Or constantly for one week two years from now. The point is, you won't know. If you smoke, you'll be gambling with loaded dice. Are they watching? Are they picking up my wife or sending a man after my son right now? Beautiful, isn't it? And if you do sneak a smoke, it'll taste awful. It will taste like your son's blood.'

But they couldn't be watching now, in the dead of night, in his own study. The house was grave-quiet.

He looked at the cigarettes in the box for almost two minutes, unable to tear his gaze away. Then he went to the study door, peered out into the empty hall, and went back to look at the cigarettes some more. A horrible picture came: his life stretching before him and not a cigarette to be found. How in the name of God was he ever going to be able to make another tough presentation to a wary client, without that cigarette burning nonchalantly between his fingers as he approached the charts and layouts? How would he be able to endure Cindy's endless garden shows without a cigarette? How could he even get up in the morning and face the day without a cigarette to smoke as he drank his coffee and read the paper?

He cursed himself for getting into this. He cursed Donatti. And most of all, he cursed Jimmy McCann. How could he have done it?

The son of a bitch had known. His hands trembled in their desire to get hold of Jimmy Judas McCann.

Stealthily, he glanced around the study again. He reached into the drawer and brought out a cigarette. He caressed it, fondled it. What was that old slogan? So round, so firm, so fully packed. Truer words had never been spoken. He put the cigarette in his mouth and then paused, cocking his head.

Had there been the slightest noise from the closet? A faint shifting? Surely not. But -Another mental image - that rabbit hopping crazily in the grip of electricity. The thought of Cindy in that room -He listened desperately and heard nothing. He told himself that all he had to do was go to the closet door and yank it open. But he was too afraid of what he might find. He went back to bed but didn't sleep for a long time.

In spite of how lousy he felt in the morning, breakfast tasted good. After a moment's hesitation, he followed his customary bowl of cornflakes with scrambled eggs. He was grumpily washing out the pan when Cindy came downstairs in her robe.

'Richard Morrison! You haven't eaten an egg for break-fast since Hector was a pup.

Morrison grunted. He considered since Hector was a pup to be one of Cindy's stupider sayings, on a par with I should smile and kiss a pig.

'Have you smoked yet?' she asked, pouring orange juice.

'No.'

'You'll be back on them by noon,' she proclaimed airily. 'Lot of goddamn help you are!' he rasped, rounding on her. 'You and anyone else who doesn't smoke, you all think ah, never mind.'

He expected her to be angry, but she was looking at him F with something like wonder. 'You're really serious,' she said. 'You really are.'

'You bet I am.' You'll never know how serious. I hope.

'Poor baby,' she said, going to him. 'You look like death warmed over. But I'm very proud.' Morrison held her tightly.

Scenes from the life of Richard Morrison, October-November:

Morrison and a crony from Larkin Studios at Jack Dempsey's bar. Crony offers a cigarette. Morrison grips his glass a little more tightly and says: I'm quitting. Crony laughs and says: I give you a week.

Morrison waiting for the morning train, looking over the top of the Times at a young man in a blue suit. He sees the young man almost every morning now, and sometimes at other places. At Onde's, where he is meeting a client. Looking at 45s in Sam Goody's, where Morrison is looking for a Sam Cooke album. Once in a foursome behind Morrison's group at the local golf course.

Morrison getting drunk at a party, wanting a cigarette -but not quite drunk enough to take one.

Morrison visiting his son, bringing him a large ball that squeaked when you squeezed it. His son's slobbering, delighted kiss.

Somehow not as repulsive as before. Hugging his son tightly, realizing what Donatti and his colleagues had so cynically realized before him: love is the most pernicious drug of all. Let the romantics debate its existence. Pragmatists accept it and use it.

Morrison losing the physical compulsion to smoke little by little, but never quite losing the psychological craving, or the need to have something in his mouth - cough drops, Life Savers, a tooth-pick. Poor substitutes, all of them.

And finally, Morrison hung up in a colossal traffic jam in the Midtown Tunnel. Darkness. Horns blaring. Air stinking. Traffic hopelessly snarled. And suddenly, thumbing open the glove compartment and seeing the half-open pack of cigarettes in there. He looked at them for a moment, then snatched one and lit it with the dashboard lighter. If anything happens, it's Cindy's fault, he told himself defiantly. I told her to get rid of all the damn cigarettes.

The first drag made him cough smoke out furiously. The second made his eyes water. The third made him feel light-headed and swoony. It tastes awful, he thought.

And on the heels of that: My God, what am I doing?

Horns blatted impatiently behind him. Ahead, the traffic had begun to move again. He stubbed the cigarette out in the ashtray, opened both front windows, opened the vents, and then fanned the air helplessly like a kid who has just flushed his first butt down the john.

He joined the traffic flow jerkily and. drove home.

'Cindy?' he called. 'I'm home.' No answer.

'Cindy? Where are you, hon?'

The phone rang, and he pounced on it. 'Hello? Cindy?'

'Hello, Mr Morrison,' Donatti said. He sounded pleasantly brisk and businesslike. 'It seems we have a small business matter to attend to. Would five o'clock be convenient?'

'Have you got my wife?'

'Yes, indeed.' Donatti chuckled indulgently.

'Look, let her go,' Morrison babbled. 'It won't happen again. It was a slip, just a slip, that's all. I only had three drags and for God's sake it didn't even taste good!'

'That's a shame. I'll count on you for five then, shall I?'

'Please,' Morrison said, close to tears. 'Please -He was speaking to a dead line.

At 5p.m. the reception room was empty except for the secretary, who gave him a twinkly smile that ignored Morrison's pallor and dishevelled appearance. 'Mr Donatti?' she said into the intercom. 'Mr Morrison to see you.' She nodded to Morrison. 'Go right in.'

Donatti was waiting outside the unmarked room with a man who was wearing a SMILE sweatshirt and carrying a .38. He was built like an ape.

'Listen,' Morrison said to Donatti. 'We can work something out, can't we? I'll pay you. I'll-' 'Shaddap,' the man in the SMILE sweatshirt said.

'It's good to see you,' Donatti said. 'Sorry it has to be under such adverse circumstances. Will you come with me? We'll make this as brief as possible. I can assure you your wife won't be hurt. . . this time.' Morrison tensed himself to leap at Donatti.

'Come, come,' Donatti said, looking annoyed. 'If you do that, Junk here is going to pistol-whip you and your wife is still going to get it. Now where's the percentage in that?'

'I hope you rot in hell,' he told Donatti.

Donatti sighed. 'If I had a nickel for every time someone expressed a similar sentiment, I could retire. Let it be a lesson to you, Mr Morrison. When a romantic tries to do a good thing and fails, they give him a medal. When a pragmatist succeeds, they wish him in hell. Shall we go?'

Junk motioned with the pistol.

Morrison preceded them into the room. He felt numb.

The small green curtain had been pulled. Junk prodded him with the gun. This is what being a witness at the gas chamber must have been like, he thought.

He looked in. Cindy was there, looking around bewilderedly.

'Cindy!' Morrison called miserably. 'Cindy, they -'

'She can't hear or see you,' Donatti said. 'One-way glass. Well, let's get it over with. It really was a very small slip. I believe thirty seconds should be enough. Junk?'

Junk pressed the button with one hand and kept the pistol jammed firmly into Morrison's back with the other.

It was the longest thirty seconds of his life.

When it was over, Donatti put a hand on Morrison's shoulder and said, 'Are you going to throw up?'

'No,' Morrison said weakly. His forehead was against the glass. His legs were jelly. 'I don't think so.' He turned around and saw that

Junk was gone.

'Come with me,' Donatti said.

'Where?' Morrison asked apathetically.

'I think you have a few things to explain, don't you?'

'How can I face her? How can I tell her that I. . .I . . 'I think you're going to be surprised,' Donatti said.

The room was empty except for a sofa. Cindy was on it, sobbing helplessly.

'Cindy?' he said gently.

She looked up, her eyes magnified by tears. 'Dick?' she whispered. 'Dick? Oh . . . Oh God . . .' He held her tightly. 'Two men,' she said against his chest. 'In the house and at first I thought they were burglars and then I thought they were going to rape me and then they took me someplace with a blindfold over my eyes and. . . and. . . oh it was h-horrible -' 'Shhh,' he said. 'Shhh.'

'But why?' she asked, looking up at him. 'Why would they -'

'Because of me,' he said 'I have to tell you a story, Cindy -'

When he had finished he was silent a moment and then said, 'I suppose you hate me. I wouldn't blame you.'

He was looking at the floor, and she took his face in both hands and turned it to hers. 'No,' she said. 'I don't hate you.' He looked at her in mute surprise.

'It was worth it,' she said. 'God bless these people. They've let you out of prison.'

'Do you mean that?'

'Yes,' she said, and kissed him. 'Can we go home now? I feel much better. Ever so much.'

The phone rang one evening a week later, and when Morrison recognized Donatti's voice, he said, 'Your boys have got it wrong. I haven't even been near a cigarette.'

'We know that. We have a final matter to talk over. Can you stop by tomorrow afternoon?'

'Is it -,

'No, nothing serious. Book-keeping really. By the way, congratulations on your promotion.'

'How did you know about that?'

'We're keeping tabs,' Donatti said noncommittally, and hungup.

When they entered the small room, Donatti said, 'Don't look so nervous. No one's going to bite you. Step over here, please.'

Morrison saw an ordinary bathroom scale. 'Listen, I've gained a little weight, but -'

'Yes, seventy-three per cent of our clients do. Step up, please.' Morrison did, and tipped the scales at one seventy-four.

'Okay, fine. You can step off. How tall are you, Mr Morrison?'

'Five-eleven.'

'Okay, let's see.' He pulled a small card laminated in plastic from his breast pocket. 'Well, that's not too bad. I'm going to write you a prescrip for some highly illegal diet pills. Use them sparingly and according to directions. And I'm going to set your maximum weight at. . . let's see . .

He consulted the card again. 'One eighty-two, how does that sound? And since this is December first, I'll expect you the first of every month for a weigh-in. No problem if you can't make it, as long as you call in advance.'

'And what happens if I go over one-eighty-two?'

Donatti smiled. 'We'll send someone out to your house to cut off your wife's little finger,' he said. 'You can leave through this door, Mr Morrison. Have a nice day.' Eight months later:

Morrison runs into the crony from the Larkin Studios at Dempsey's bar. Morrison is down to what Cindy proudly calls his fighting weight: one sixty-seven. He works out three times a week and looks as fit as whipcord. The crony from Larkin, by comparison, looks like something the cat dragged in.

Crony: Lord, how'd you ever stop? I'm locked into this damn habit tighter than Tillie. The crony stubs his cigarette out with real revulsion and drains his scotch.

Morrison looks at him speculatively and then takes a small white business card out of his wallet. He puts it on the bar between them.

You know, he says, these guys changed my life.

Twelve months later:

Morrison receives a bill in the mail. The bill says:

QUITTERS, INC.

237 East 46th Street

New York, N.Y. 10017

1 Treatment $2500.00

Counsellor (Victor Donatti) $2500.00

Electricity $ .50

TOTAL (Please pay this amount) $5000.50

Those sons of bitches! he explodes. They charged me for the electricity they used to. . . to Just pay it, she says, and kisses him.

Twenty months later:

Quite by accident, Morrison and his wife meet the Jimmy McCanns at the Helen Hayes Theatre. Introductions are made all around.

Jimmy looks as good, if not better than he did on that day in the airport terminal so long ago. Morrison has never met his wife. She is pretty in the radiant way plain girls sometimes have when they are very, very happy.

She offers her hand and Morrison shakes it. There is something odd about her grip, and halfway through the second act, he realizes what it was. The little finger on her right hand is missing.

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bamf-castiel · 7 years

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(1/?) Okay imma say this here since my blog is SFW, but I've noticed something in a lot of top!dean/Bottom!Cas docs that irks me a lot. They always infantilize Castiel. Make him pale and frail and weak. He's a fucking angel of the lord. Misha is buff as hell. And fairly tan too. He is strong and powerful, and I hate seeing this stripped from him in a lot of these kinds of fics. Yeah, he's kinda dorky and socially awkward, but he's also intelligent and STRONG

(2/?) One thing I enjoy about top!Cas/bottom!dean fics is that they don't take away Dean's strength, his cockiness, his attitude. They /use/ it. I like seeing big tough Dean grinning as he's pushed against the wall (Like he was in the PILOT EPISODE except that was a car), getting all blushy and excited when 'sexy rules' were mentioned, and was pushed down onto the bed by the amazon. He remains strong and protective, but Cas is always weak and soft when he was bottom and it drives me crazy.(3/?) And when it comes to children, especially mpreg AUs, Cas is shown as the mother figure more often. Why? Dean was a mother to Sam, Dean had been shown to be GREAT with children, and likes spending time with them. And are we forgetting the scene when he was making the bunker his home and literally said he was nesting?? Cas is awkward and confused around children, but that's not his own fault. Cas had Jimmy's memories, he knows how to be a father, and he learned about a father's love from him

My dear stressed Nonnie, one more time, I am so sorry I made you feel like you need to apologize fdvbdfjs. Back to your message: 1/? - I agree so much. I tend to avoid fics with this kind of characterization because I personally don’t like it.I mean, I am quite okay when Cas is pale and weakened because of something that happened in the fic - like because of an illness or maybe substance abuse, or anything, really. It would be logical and make perfect sense. But I dislike it greatly when it’s only because he’s ‘the bottom’ in the relationship and people feel the need to make him look smaller/paler/tinier/more feminine in comparison to Dean. I mostly don’t like this portrayal of Cas in fics that are set in canon verse - but that’s just my personal opinion. And Nonnie, you know what I also don’t - personally - like? When Cas is written as completely naive, like, uh, that makes me nope out from a fic pretty quickly. I absolutely adore the fact that Cas is powerful, tall, beautifully tan, with shoulders and arms that can lift even my self-confidence. He’s so handsome, and like his hands? Big strong hands that turned monsters to ashes?? His beautiful thighs? Why to take this away? I love that about Cas that he’s this ancient being that can destroy cities and he still can be so soft and gentle. He can touch with such tenderness, smile with such warmth and I just??? There is absolutely no need to take away some parts of him to enjoy the other. You can literally have both. Cas is a complicated character, you don’t need to reduce him to some stereotypes based on some weird views on sex positions. And I will repeat it again - I like bottom!Cas. I prefer bottom!Dean but I like bottom Cas too. But I like it when he’s still Cas, not some meek pale version of himself. And again, that what I, as in me, Emilia aka bamf-castiel on tumblr dot com, like.Personally. Others can enjoy whatever they want to.2/? - again, I agree so much with this! I - again, personally - love it so much! Dean is still very much himself, and I always get few years added to my lifespan when I see it.I love Dean so much, I love Cas so much. I am so happy when in fics they both are described ans strong and as themselves. Those are my absolute fave kind of fics. And I know those are not the same but I do see Dean and low key submissive, and it’s so lovely? He’s such a rough tough guy, he’s fierce and protective and loves so deeply. I enjoy it greatly when people explore the other parts of his character, I love it when Cas takes care of him and Dean lets him. I like it when they are both soft with each other, too. They deserve the gentleness and the softness. But yes, I agree, there is a hug difference how bottom!Dean and bottom!Cas are usually portrayed in this fandom. ( again, I say this based on the fics I stumbled across - I have not read everything, and I have read things that differ from this, I don’t mean to generalize and hurt anyone’s feeling. Plus you have every right to enjoy whatever characterization you want) 3/? - I don’t think I’ve read enough fics with mpreg to have an opinion about it, but I guess I agree? I mean both of them have character traits usually associated with mother/father figures. I think that I see Dean more of a mother figure than I see Cas as one though. Everyone can enjoy whatever they can, but yeah, looking on canon I agree with you here Nonnie.But that’s just my opinion, of course. Thank you for the message!

#I can feel the drama in my bones #good God #seriously #Boże widzisz i nie grzmisz #Supernatural #Destiel #ho boy all the drama from earlier today #okay #top!Cas #top!Dean #bottom!Cas #bottom!Dean #all mentioned #also #mpreg #Anonymous #Other #Answering things

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amplesalty · 5 years

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Day 14 - Monster Brawl (2011)

Talk about your Halloween Havoc...

Through my watching of House of Frankenstein and House of Dracula, I pined for an all out fight between all the big hitters; Frankenstein’s Monster, Dracula, The Wolf Man...but it never really came to pass.

Luckily, someone in Canada foresaw my need and even sprinkled a lot of Pro Wrestling into the mix. Quite frankly, I’m surprised it’s taken me as long as it has to do this one.

The action takes place in a graveyard and is presented pretty much as a wrestling show rather than some sort of narrative movie.

Oddly, the commentator, Buzz, has the same sort of cadence as Howard Cosell. AKA the commentator in the Olympics flashback in The Simpsons when Drederick Tatum is doing a triumphant turkey trot over the supine Swede.

I was expecting a big tournament but instead it’s separated out into two conferences; Undead and Creatures. 4 fighters in each, two of which are classed as Middleweights and two as heavyweights. The winning middleweights instantly become the champions of that conference in their weight class, whereas the heavyweights go on to face each other to decide a grand champion. That’s not a very deep roster there guys.

Here’s the card:

Undead Conference

Middleweight – Mummy vs Lady Vampire

Heavyweight – Frankenstein vs Zombie Man

Creature Conference

Middleweight – Cyclops vs Witch Bitch

Heavyweight – Swamp Gut vs Werewolf

At least they’re quite progressive in having intergender matches. I’m going for Mummy over Lady Vampire and Frankenstein over Zombie in the Undead category. The Mummy I think wont be affected much by the vampires attacks, Frankenstein I think will have a bit more about him than the Zombie.

I guess it comes down to the prowess of this individual zombie. I mean, you have perhaps the most notable and successful zombie ever in The Undertaker, if it’s anything like him then he’s a shoe in.

But there have been other zombies who haven’t been quite so successful...

Then I’m going with Witch Bitch and Werewolf on the Creature side. Can the witch use magic? What powers to Cyclops even have? Or Swamp Gut for that matter? He’s sort of like a messier Creature from the Black Lagoon. Werewolf I think will take it overall.

All fights are to the death and there all no rules. Probably for the best, I can’t imagine you’d have a good time trying to tell the Frankenstein monster that he has until the count of 5 to break his submission.

Of course, the biggest supernatural being here is Jimmy Hart. I’m sure that guy has a painting in an attic somewhere growing old in his place.

Jimmy’s interviewing the promoter and frankly looks bored throughout. What kind of universe is this that these monsters exist and the idea of them having this big fight is dull?

The pre-match video packages for Cyclops and Witch Bitch almost make them sympathetic to a degree. The Cyclops feels a little like Mortal Kombat as he gets a mysterious invitation to the contest. Cyclops talks about his beef with Hades, having entered a pact with him to gain the power to see the future but at the cost of one of his eyes. Witch Bitch is looked down and even spit upon until she is approached by a manager who needs a client for the big event. They talk up the Cyclops training and fighting background whilst the Witch is made out to be a total novice so I sense shenanigans.

Witch Bitch interestingly is played by Holly Letkeman, who would go on to be TNA’s Rosemary.

I meant more like magic spells or something but the witch starts out early by kicking the Cyclops in the balls. Referee is having none of this but doesn’t give two shits about Cyclops using his smithing hammer to smash witch in the face. Rod Zapata wouldn’t have stood for this.

Witch Bitch doesn’t care for this favouritism and promptly slashes the ref’s throat with a rusty cleaver. Geez, most ref’s get knocked by a stiff breeze, I think throat slashing was a step too far.

Speaking of Mortal Kombat, in amongst the commentary there are little voice clips like ‘AWESOME’ or ‘FANTASTIC’. I’m just waiting for someone to pop up and shout ‘TOASTY!’.

By the way, the answer to the question of what Cyclops’ powers are? Fucking optic blasts. OP, nerf now. The witch’s manager tries to get his heat back but promptly gets his head uppercutted off.

For Mummy vs Vampire, thinking about it now, does The Mummy have the tools to kill a vampire? I mean, he’ll need some sunlight or a stake to the heart. Not feeling it.

That’s no Mummy, that’s clearly THE YETAY!

That pendant is some sort of artifact capable of summoning sunlight so it looks like Mummy might stand a chance.

But it’s evidently not powerful enough as the vampire fights back and rips the heart right out of the Mummy’s chest.

The Swamp Gut does have this toxic spit attack which could be quite bad if he manages to use it but I don’t know how he’ll fare out of his watery home.

A home documented in some sort of faux nature documentary, that’s kinda cute, especially the fake David Attenborough.

You know, everyone really loved ‘The Planet’s Champion’ Daniel Bryan but he clearly ripped it off from this movie. Shameful.

The commentators make a point of how deadly the toxic spit can be and warn that the Werewolf doesn’t want to get into any close quarter combat. Aside from the fact that that’s pretty much all the Werewolf has, he clearly wasn’t listening as he opens up by going for a headlock. That’s the problem with this all out, fight to the death monster jamboree, you can’t open a death match with a corner and elbow tie up.

Turns out that tocix spit wasn’t nearly as deadly as they made out as the werewolf shrugs it off. Swamp Gut gasses out like he was Yokozuna and has his stomach exploded by a top rope splash.

In Frankenstein vs Zombie, I’m now thinking maybe there’s a slight edge for the zombie. They’re both generally quite slow, shuffiling beings but I’m not sure if the Frankenstein monster has that killer edge. It make take him a while to cotton on to what’s happening, plus his structural integrity might come into question. We all know zombies like to bite, it could start ripping off all those loosely stitched together limbs. Plus the zombie was trained by Kevin Nash, clearly he’s going all the way in this thing.

Nash ends up giving the Monster that killer edge he needs by way of killing the Doc via hatchet to the back. To be fair, he started it by smashing the zombie in the head with a wrench. After a touching ‘father and son’ moment in the death throws of the Doc, The Monster hulks up and curb stomps the zombie into oblivion.

The zombie gets some small measure of revenge as his death somehow signals all the other corpses in the graveyard to raise from their grave. The Monster just growls and scares them off so they settle on eating Nash instead. 2011 wasn’t the best year for Nash, that being the time he invaded the Summer of Punk (”Would you like to see the text message on my telephone?”) and ended up in that ladder match with HHH.

The werewolf has become something of a defacto face here, talking about how monsters took everything from him and now he’s out for his revenge. The Monster has reverted to some sort of angry foreigner gimmick. Looking at this from a purely logical point of view, I’m not seeing how Frankenstein can stop the Werewolf if he needs a silver bullet to do it.

Apparently by just tearing his skull apart like King Kong with that T-Rex. Bullshit! Monster Squad clearly taught us that the werewolf’s head should just re-assemble at this point.

But, like all good wrestling shows, you need to setup your hook for your next big event. So the lights go out and out comes Zombie Kevin Nash to Wrestlemania IX things and go face to face with the Monster! Given that the Monster is billed at 8 feet tall and that Nash goes nose to nose with him, the wrestling world has been underselling him the entire time.

Nash rips the belt from the Monster’s shoulder and stomps on it in an act of defiance and disrespect not seen since Shane Douglas threw down the old NWA title back in 94.

And like something out of a Rocky movie, the two go to punch each other as we freeze frame to black. There was no sequel...

I feel like this is stuck in this awkward middle ground, too much monster for a wrestling show and too much wrestling for a monster movie. I don’t think presenting it as a straight up wrerstling show helped either, possibly down to the surroundings. There’s just no spark to it, without the crowd involvement it just feels hollow. Whilst it’s fun to poke fun at it, it doesn’t really reach the level of cheese I was expecting.

I get what they were going for with the graveyard set and everything but I think that having a more narrative driven feel would have worked better. Maybe talk about how business has been in the toilet and, to try and grab ratings, they capture these monsters and have them fight in actual arenas with real crowds. Maybe the monsters break loose and attack the fans, only for the big babyface to swoop in and save the day.

How about a Hulk Hogan movie? He’s probably not done too much acting in a while and we all know how he likes to go over, brother, there’d be something fun about seeing him giving the big boot and big leg drop to the Franksenstein monster.

Or, and there is no way you’d ever get this cleared, have the monsters closer to actual real wrestlers. Gangrel as the vampire, that’s a given. But you could have the re-animated corpse of Chris Benoit as the zombie. Maybe stitch together The Monster from all these other dead wrestlers to great some sort of super wrestler that inherits all of their abilities?

But clearly what let this down was the workrate of all involved. It’s just kick/punch the entire time. And where was the selling? Guys are getting hit with tombstones, I mean literal tombstones and not piledrivers, and they’re just popping right back up like they’re one of the Road Warriors. Who taught these guys to sell? They’re greener than Frankenstein’s Monster.

#Halloween 2019 #Monster Brawl

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