#but keep being a miserable marketing executive I guess

[abnormalpsychology]

“the dessert you don’t have to feel bad abt!” “guilt-free snacking!” “all the flavor none of the regret!” skill issue

#personally I am trying to free myself from the shackles of shame and help others do the same #but keep being a miserable marketing executive I guess #I love eating!! fuck u forever!!!!! #body neutrality #diet culture #body postivity #fuck diet culture #intuitive eating #cw food shame #tw food #tw food shame #bbge.text

[arcaneranger]

Final Thoughts - 2019 Long Shows

Dear Lord. This is where all the good shows went.

2019 was absolutely awful on a season-by-season basis (except for Summer, anyway), but that’s mostly because most of the best shows ran longer than what has become the industry norm of a single season. And indeed, heading into the new decade, we seem to be seeing a major renaissance for two- or split-cour shows, given the massive success seen by shows like My Hero Academia, Food Wars, and Haikyuu!!..particularly in comparison to the new perpetual-runners Black Clover (which, despite running for over two straight years now, is still not the most popular show of Fall 2017 by viewer count on MAL, and sits at a ‘meh’ 7.2), and even worse, Boruto: Naruto Next Generations, which is faring even worse on both counts even though it premiered two whole seasons earlier and the fact that it is the sequel to Naruto.

As a reminder of my rules, the shows on this list may or may not have premiered in 2019, but they finished airing this year. The split-cour rule (stating that I judge any show that “finishes” and then premieres a “new season” within six months) didn’t come into play for any 2018 shows, but it will for Ascendance of a Bookworm and Food Wars this year, at the very least.

With that being said! 25 shows running longer than thirteen episodes finished airing this year after being simulcast, and of those…

I skipped 6:

Jojo’s Bizarre Adventure Part V: Golden Wind, Fairy Tail Final Series, A Certain Magical Index III, Ace Attorney Season 2 and Cardfight Vanguard (2018) because I either dropped or have not finished their previous (also long-running) seasons.

Yu-Gi-Oh VRAINS because the simulcast started late and also it was bad.

I Dropped 8:

Worst Long Show of 2019: The Rising of the Shield Hero

It’s always fun to see that a show you hated from its first episode only gets more and more distasteful afterwards, but it’s less fun when a service you have to promote because they’re the legal option is forced to shove it down your throat because they had a hand in making it and it became a massive hit that your friends don’t see any issue with because the author wrote a story that justifies its hero’s patronage of the slave industry. This is my punishment for watching the whole first season of The Asterisk War before I knew better.

YU-NO: A girl who chants love at the bound of this world

A confusing mess from the word go, this ill-fated adaptation of a visual novel from the nineties seems like it was mostly made to cash in on the popularity of the Science Adventure series, but failed to present itself in a way that made an ounce of sense or looked remotely interesting.

Fairy Gone

Am I really the only one that saw potential here? I mean yes, it ended up a boring slog that didn’t care to move its plot in a meaningful direction, but the first episode was at least cool. I guess Izetta: The Last Witch should have taught me better.

We Never Learn

I know that I’m in the minority in terms of the male demographic for shows like this, but honestly, how are bland harem shows still this easy to market? A copy-pasted protagonist with copy-pasted waifus drag down what could be an interesting setup for a story. 

Karakuri Circus

The first episode of this one had me excited, the second and third left me bored to tears and wondering if it would continue to look uglier by the minute. I haven’t seen a three-cour show look this janky since Knight in the Area.

Radiant

Having heard good things about this show from my cohorts, I do feel bad for saying I’ll probably never return to Radiant, but when you have a show that’s notably written by a European author...and it turns out to be a frustratingly standard shounen affair with middling production values, well, you can see my earlier annoyance with Cannon Busters.

Ensemble Stars

This one still gets to me. It almost looked like a male-idol show I would finally be able to get behind, what with its rebellious attitude and oddball setting...that is, until the setting got to be too unbelievable and the show began drowning its audience in side-characters because they had to squeeze every husbando from the mobile game into the story, and it all began to resemble UtaPri a little too much...but without the production value.

Boogiepop and Others

This was a hard drop, honestly. I spent a lot of time trying to figure out how I felt four episodes in, before concluding that I was bored and not particularly invested, two things that should never describe the experience of watching a Madhouse show. The fact that this was the project responsible for ruining One Punch Man only made it worse. There’s a slow burn, and then there’s walking away without turning the stove on.

And I Finished 11 (holy crap that’s like three hundred episodes just on their own).

That Time I Was Reincarnated as a Slime (5/10 & 1/10)

I’ll be honest, I had forgotten just how livid I was with the ending (and especially the sad excuse of a recap episode) of Slimesekai, and reading back through my write-up of it, it’s certainly coming back to me. While this year had bigger demons to fight (Shield Hero), the bad taste that Slime left me with hasn’t really faded, and the wasted premise bugs me to this day.

Hinomaru Sumo (7/10)

What Hinomaru lacked in production value, it happily made up for in good execution and earnest heart. I can’t believe this came from the same studio as Conception, Try Knights and 7Seeds, but if they can only get out one good show a year, I’m glad that we got one bringing attention to a sport that many will joke about but few understand, respect and appreciate.

Kono Oto Tomare (7/10)

Speaking of giving love to traditional Japanese culture, here’s a decent-if-unoriginal show about a local high school koto club down on their luck, and the troubled teens coming together under a scrappy protagonist to bring it back to life. Kono Oto Tomare doesn’t have much that you haven’t seen before, but a decently-executed club drama with Your Lie In April-inspired musical performances is more than enough to keep me interested, and since Forest of Piano kinda crashed and burned under the weight of its own self-importance this year, it was nice to have an alternative.

MIX: Meisei Story (8/10)

It’s hard to judge MIX next to the other shows on this list because it’s almost too old-school for its own good, revelling in an eighties storytelling style that didn’t end up jiving with a wide audience this year. But at the same time, its fun character dynamics (and a very good dub from Funimation, despite them saying they’d never touch sports anime again) were very entertaining to watch, even if it didn’t focus as much on the sport it was supposedly about as much as I’d have liked.

Demon Slayer: Kimetsu no Yaiba (8/10)

I fully admit that I’m very salty about the fact that this won Show of the Decade in Funimation’s poll while it was still on and I thought there were hundreds of more deserving shows, but I can’t deny that Demon Slayer was a very enjoyable experience, albeit one that I had notable problems with. That’s not gonna stop me from getting mad when it sweeps the Anime Awards in a few weeks, though.

Fire Force (8/10)

I was very afraid that David Productions wouldn’t be able to match the energy of Studio Bones’ adaptation of Ohkubo’s previous work, Soul Eater, but I was happy to be proven wrong. Even if the last few episodes contained a bit too much infodumping, it was all sandwiched between jaw-dropping fight scenes that proved that the people who make Jojo’s Bizarre Adventure can still handle the reins of a more traditional action show.

Fruits Basket 1st Season (8/10)

I know that my score for this one is a bit lower than others, but I think that Fruits Basket did pretty well in its first season, considering that it was largely spent setting up future storylines and adapting the part of the manga we’d all seen before, but with much higher production value. I’ve been familiar with this part of the story for over a decade, and the scene with Tohru and Kyo (you know the one) still made me cry. Now, we get the real plot going.

Dr Stone (9/10)

A great start to a totally new spin on shounen, Dr Stone gives me hope for survival in the post-Shokugeki world in which we’ll soon live, as a show that wears its research on its sleeve. A complex plot weaving interesting characters in and out of a narrative surrounding a philosophical battle where both sides actually do have fair points (even if one of them is going about it in a pretty cruel manner). More please.

Vinland Saga (9/10)

Once again, a great start to what will hopefully be years of quality storytelling, Vinland Saga made it seem like it was dragging in the middle only to reveal just what its slow burn had been leading up to, with twist-heavy storytelling and a fantastic cast to match the high visual quality of its brutal battles.

Run With the Wind (9/10)

It’s not often that Production I.G. gets to make a complete, fully-realized show anymore, and this one was a glorious reminder of the potential of the studio in the TV space, and a great rebound for the director of Joker Game. It’s gorgeous to look at, the cast is wonderful, and the story is both realistic and idealistic in a satisfying balance. It’s a miserable process to get to the finish line in real life, but sitting back and watching this was nothing but a treat. At least, until a minor fumble at the end.

Best Long Show of 2019: Dororo (9/10)

Speaking of complete stories, Tezuka Productions and MAPPA teamed up for a breathtaking adaptation of an underappreciated Tezuka classic that expands upon the story in exactly the right way to create a thrilling, savage, beautiful masterpiece that focuses a laser-sharp eye into the relationship between two characters in their journey to, literally and figuratively, become complete people. Also, that opening was killer.

And that’s it! That’s the fun list. Next comes the painful one. Stay tuned for the trash heap.

#final thoughts #year end anime list #long 2019 #dororo #demon slayer #Fruits Basket #vinland saga #run with the wind #Dr Stone #rising of the shield hero #fire force #kono oto tomare! #mix meisei story #hinomaru sumo #hinomaru zumou #that time i got reincarnated as a slime #tensura

[bbclesmis]

Emmys 2019: David Oyelowo on colour-blind casting, 'Les Miserables' and directing

When the BBC approached David Oyelowo about starring as Javert, opposite Dominic West as Jean Valjean, in Andrew Davies’ six-episode limited series of Victor Hugo’s classic novel Les Miserables, the 43-year-old UK actor was initially reluctant.

But reading Davies’ adaptation – and subsequently Hugo’s 1862 tome – convinced him there was ample opportunity to deliver a more nuanced portrayal of the character than had been seen in the previous high-profile version: Tom Hooper’s 2012 musical adaptation in which Russell Crowe had portrayed the obsessive police inspector.

“I saw how much more meat there was on the bone compared to what I had seen in the musical,” says Oyelowo. “I felt that the opportunity with Andrew’s adaptation was to really give context to Javert’s obsession with Jean Valjean, and to this very violent end to his life at his own hands.”

Premiering on December 30, the series achieved solid ratings during its BBC One run, with PBS broadcasting in the US in April and May; BBC Studios handles international distribution.

Based in Los Angeles for the last 12 years, Oyelowo is now in Oregon for the eight-week shoot of his feature directing debut The Water Man. Emma Needell’s script was on the Black List and follows an 11-year-old boy who moves to a small town with his family, where he seeks out a mythical local with the reputed ability to cheat death in the hope he can cure his mother’s illness. “It’s an adventure story about a boy trying to save his mother,” says Oyelowo.

Increasingly active as a producer in recent years, Oyelowo was an executive producer on Les Miserables, and is co-producing The Water Man with Oprah Winfrey. He is also a producer (as well as lead actor) on the Blumhouse Productions horror Relive, which premiered at Sundance, and the Peter Pan/Alice In Wonderland prequel Come Away alongside co-star Angelina Jolie.

With wife Jessica Oyelowo, he runs production company Yoruba Saxon which has a first-look deal with Madison Wells Media. The couple has multiple film and TV projects in development, some in collaboration with Winfrey’s company Harpo Films, as well as the feature Cyrano The Moor with Disney. The musical twist on Cyrano De Bergerac is being written by Moonlight scribe Tyrell Alvin McCraney with Jeanine Tesori (Shrek The Musical) doing the music. “We are in the trenches with it right now,” says Oyelowo.

If Oyelowo scores a Primetime Emmy nomination for Les Miserables, it would be his third, the previous two coming in 2015 as lead actor and one of the producers of the HBO/Plan B collaboration Nightingale.

What did you think when the BBC and Davies first approached you about playing Javert?

I hope this doesn’t sound like hyperbole [but] it was life-affirming for me. I had grown up in the UK on period dramas, not least Andrew Davies period dramas, but just always felt that that was something that would never be afforded me by way of an opportunity. And so to have made fairly robust and scary choices in order to keep things moving in my career, and 11, 12 years on from moving to the States to find that opportunities were opening up that were certainly not in the offing when I was [in the UK] for me or anyone who looked like me – that was a true indication that things are shifting within my own lifetime.

Colour-blind casting has been gaining traction in UK stage and TV productions in particular. Is that a big win for the industry?

It’s a win when it comes to this underlying thinking that to have someone like me play Javert is historically inaccurate and therefore not permissible. Because I’m so invested in the representation of people of colour on TV and film, I’ve done the research, I’ve read the history books, I know that to have someone like me playing Javert is not outside of the realms of historical plausibility. There were people of colour who were operating not purely as subjugated, enslaved or browbeaten individuals at that time.

But even beyond that, I think we all can admit that when we make a piece of content, whether it be television or film, what makes it relevant is to have people who are going to be watching it represented within the thing itself. Whether that’s emotionally or in terms of the optics of it, you have to speak to humanity and if you are only ever showing one demographic side of humanity, you’re going to run out of stories, you’re going to run out of reasons for a broad audience to watch your show. The encouraging thing about Les Mis is that a much broader audience than otherwise would have watched it, both in the UK and certainly in the States, watched it not just because of me but because across the board, people of colour were a part of that production.

Were you worried about being able to make Javert more than the one-dimensional ‘villain’ of the piece?

That was definitely on my mind from the offset because, in all honesty, I did think that that’s how Javert comes off in the musical. What I saw was an opportunity that even if you don’t sympathise with him, even if you don’t like him, you can at least empathise with why he made the choices he made on the basis of his own familial history – being born in prison, hating that side of himself, somehow transposing onto Jean Valjean that part of himself he hated – and at the end of the story realising that the person he was really trying to destroy was himself. One of the great things I have heard from folks who’ve watched the show is they didn’t like Javert but they felt for him. For me, that’s mission accomplished.

Dominic West said he felt you were avoiding him and turning down his dinner invitations. How did you approach your on-set relationship with your on-screen adversary?

[Laughs] I guess I did. I was so deep in this thing when we were shooting it that I probably subconsciously felt that to be hanging out with Dominic was not going to serve me or the character. We’re great friends now and I love being around him. He’s incredibly funny and jocular and that is not Javert so I felt like I needed to keep that at bay during the shoot.

Dominic has his own theory about Javert’s obsession with Valjean, which is that Javert was in love with him.

Dominic would think that [laughs]. For me, both in relation to [Victor] Hugo’s book and how I played Javert, I felt he was asexual. I can’t imagine Javert in any kind of romantic or sexual relationship. He dedicated himself so totally both to his job and his obsession with destroying this other human being. So you could argue that there is attraction there but I personally didn’t dwell on that because I was just so fascinated by the obsession Javert has to destroy this man. It’s documented that Hugo based the characters of Jean Valjean and Javert on the same man and that was where my head was at.

Did you need to detox from playing Javert after production wrapped?

It was very immersive, it was six months, but I have four children and they would not tolerate hints of Javert in our house [laughs]. So that tends to be a very good way for me to shake any given character. But this did have an impact on me, not only as an actor but also in producing the show. I was buried in it, my work on this show did not end once we finished shooting. It was watching cut after cut after cut of the episodes to make sure that we were landing it, and also the marketing and the rollout – I was very keen to make sure that both the BBC and PBS were doing everything we could to get it to a broad audience. I applaud both companies in doing exactly that.

You’ve become very active as a producer in recent years. Did you move in that direction out of career necessity?

Yes, borne out of the necessity that there are stories I want to tell, there are stories I want to help other people tell, there are people who I would like to see both in front of and behind the camera. And you can either wait by the phone, hoping that other people are going to instigate and initiate that or you can use the degree of notoriety you have to try and be the instigator, and I’ve chosen to do the latter. I didn’t go to drama school thinking I would be a producer – it has been a byproduct of not wanting to be one of those people who just complains but who actually can make things happen.

Oprah Winfrey is an executive producer on The Water Man. Are the two of you close as creative collaborators?

Yes, we have several projects together in television and film. We became very good friends after we did The Butler and Selma together and we see eye to eye on the kind of stories we want to tell and representation in front of and behind the camera. She’s been a part of this project for the four years that we’ve been developing it. We’re producing it independently with ShivHans Pictures who did Captain Fantastic and Trumbo among other films; they’re fully financing it. I’m just putting my head down and trying to make the best film I can.

Is the plan for you to also star in Cyrano The Moor?

For now! We’ll see. Our take on it is rather than it being the size of his nose that curtails both his ascension in society and with Roxane, it’s the colour of his skin. It’ll be set in the 1800s in the UK, probably in the Bristol area.

What’s in store once you’ve completed The Water Man?

I’ve had to keep the acting at bay to give me the time to get The Water Man right in the edit but I have a number of films coming out soon that I’ll need to beat the drum for as they roll around. Relive, the film I did for Blumhouse that premiered at Sundance, and Come Away both come out this year. We just did some reshoots for Chaos Walking for Lionsgate, that’ll be coming out probably early next year. And then I just did Peter Rabbit 2 before I started on The Water Man. I’ve got to get The Water Man right and then I can turn my head back to being in front of the camera.

x

#les mis bbc #bbc les mis #david oyelowo #javert #Interviews #articles #emmy awards #screendaily #pbs

[silver-wields-a-pen]

“Solstice in Las ” A Guardians of Las short

Rhovan sighed, looking downcast. He slumped forward his chair, elbows resting on his knees, hands dangling between his legs.

Raemina's brow creased with concern, and she ducked down to look into his face. “We will find him,” she reassured, patting his hand.

“It's been three days,” Rhovan replied in a dull tone. “If he were alive, he'd be here.”

Raemina frowned, sympathetic. “We must not give up hope.”

“I guess,” he sighed, failing to sound convincing.

Loui was missing. Three days ago, the liubul'k was startled by Uwe and ran howling from the Order of Mana. Rhovan tried to follow, but was grabbed for a lecture.

“You! Stick that stupid animal on a leash!” Uwe had a punishing grip, but Rhovan still tried to get free.

“Or a bell, at least,” Phanuel added in passing.

“Fuck off, Phan,” Uwe hissed, flapping his hand back and forth. He turned to Rhovan. “You, do as you're told.” His rust coloured eyes seemed to be pushing an order at Rhovan, if the piercing look was any indication.

Rhovan’s head pounded. Linuad wasn't pleased at being ordered around by this moron. He was less pleased that Uwe was trying while preventing Rhovan from going after Loui. “Let go of me,” he growled, threat clear.

Uwe was confused. He looked at Phanuel. “I thought this one was the Order joke.” He shook Rhovan.

“That would be you,” Phanuel replied with a smug glint in his eye. “Rhovan is the one possessed by a spirit.”

Uwe looked disgusted. “Too much in his head already for my power to work.” He glanced at Rhovan and shoved, then wiped his hands on his trousers. “Just do as I say.”

Rhovan straightened his shirt and replied, “I won't, because Louis is my friend and I don't put my friends on leashes.” He took a step towards Uwe and added in a dangerous tone, “If you ever stop me from going after him again I will unleash Linuad on you.” He shouldered past Uwe and ran down the hallway.

Flustered, Uwe said nothing, until he turned on Phanuel and demanded, “What do you mean I'm the Order joke!?”

Rhovan went to all of Loui’s hiding places, but his companion was gone.

“I don’t know what to do,” he said, looking up at Raemina, heartbroken.

“I have asked everyone I know to look out for him, and the hunting parties will, also,” she replied, trying to be encouraging. “Perhaps he fell in some place and cannot get out.”

Rhovan groaned and covered his face. “He'll starve to death!” He bolted to his feet. “I have to find him!”

“I will help,” she said, putting a hand on his forearm and squeezing. “You are not alone.”

Rhovan looked at Raemina's pale fingers, clutching his cocoa coloured jacket. “Thank you. I don't know how to repay you for your kindness.”

Raemina smiled. “Kindness is free and needs no barter or payment.”

Rhovan nodded, tight lipped. “Let's try the market again. Maybe someone saw him.”

~*~*~

Raemina walked beside Rhovan, keeping one eye and ear out for signs of Loui. The rest of her attention was debating whether killing Uwe was a crime or a charity. For as many people who loved him there were and equal number who hated him. He was disturbing and abusive, taking energy from anyone with or without consent. Still, he was a High Elder and that made him untouchable in certain ways. I might ask someone else to do it? But, what if they fail and I am punished for it? This is unfair. There is little justice in this world. She decided against it. She couldn't get away with the crime and she refused to be executed because of Uwe.

“Hey, Raemina! Rhovan!” Vyxen waved from across the street and came bounding over. “You guys are looking for Loui still?”

Rhovan's face lit up, hopeful. “Yes, have you found him?”

She shook her head. “Sorry. We were out in Greenwood forest and me and Nyima called for him, but I don't think he's there.”

Raemina's curiosity was piqued. “You used your empathy to try and find him?”

Vyxen nodded. “It's good practice for me, but all I got was regular animals wary about us being there. Loui would be scared, but happy to hear us calling his name.”

“Yes, he would,” Rhovan replied, mouth turning down once more. “Thanks for trying, Vyxen. I appreciate it.”

“I'll keep looking,” she insisted, patting him on the arm. “I'm gonna go nag the birb brothers to do an air search to help, too.” She ran off, waving over her shoulder at them.

“Birb brothers?” Rhovan echoed in a faint voice.

Raemina chuckled. “It is what she calls Toshiiro and his brother, Kinsaburo.”

“It's kind of her to help,” he said, as they continued searching the market. He pointed to the rooftop of the pavilion and said, “Maybe he got stuck in one of the entertainers rooms?”

“He does like playing with the trekadisk,” Raemina replied. Loui had no sense that he wasn't welcome, so hung around the city glaring, which was affectionately known as “team hiss”. “I cannot see how he would be with them for this long without coming home,” she added, frowning.

Rhovan agreed. “If he was with them they'd have batted him out well before now.” He sighed and tried not to look as miserable as he felt. “I miss him.”

“I know,” she said, placing a hand on his back and rubbing. “We will find him.”

~*~*~

“Oh, you two!”

Raemina and Rhovan stopped and looked around.

“Yes, you two!” Kess came hurrying over, putting a hand to her side and panting. “I've been looking everywhere for you!” She directed this at Rhovan. “When are you coming to get that dopey companion of yours?”

“What?!”

“You have Loui?!”

Both of them were shocked. Why would Kess keep him and not say anything?

Kess frowned. “Of course I have him. Nurtis found him wandering about Greenwood forest while we were on our way to visit friends. We took him with because we couldn't turn around, but we came home yesterday and I told him to––” She stopped and shook her head, golden curls flying about. “He didn't come and tell you, did he?” She drew in a deep breath and sighed. “I did wonder why he kept asking if we could keep Loui if you didn't come and get him. I said to him, 'Nurtis, Rhovan loves that liubul'k more than life itself. There is no chance he won't come and get him'.” She looked at Rhovan and added, “To be perfectly honest with you, I'm surprised Loui stayed inside with us and didn't bolt the moment we crossed the gates of Las.”

Rhovan frowned, worried. “I'm surprised at that, too.” He looked at Raemina. “Maybe he thinks I did abandon him! I have to go to him, now!”

“He's at my place,” Kess said, waving him off. “If you can't find it, just follow the sound of wailing half-bloods!”

“'Wailing half-bloods'?” Raemina echoed. “Whatever does that mean?”

They found out when they entered the large cottage. There were several people – all human in appearance – huddling together and looking sad. Many were crying, and others were literally wailing.

“What happened?” Raemina tried asking some, but received head shakes and sobs for her trouble. “Rhovan, why are they all like this?” She looked around for Loui and spotted him sat in a woman's lap trying to lap away her tears.

“I see now,” Rhovan said, looking thoughtful. “Loui did originally get lost and stayed with Nurtis because he knows him. He didn't come back when they returned to Las because he's been busy comforting all these people.” He moved through the room and crouched down by the woman. “You're homesick?”

She nodded, patting Loui, who turned his head at the sound of Rhovan's voice and threw himself at him.

“Hi, pal.” He rubbed his head and gave him a hug. “You have me worried.”

“It's almost Christmas back home,” the woman said in a quiet voice.

Illthdar didn't have Christmas, but Rhovan overheard enough half-bloods talking about festivities to understand it was an important one for them. “It must be hard for you all.”

She nodded, sniffing. “That solstice thing sounds fun, but it's not the same as being with your loved ones. I only stepped out to get some milk and I wound up here. God knows what happened to my kids––” She sobbed once and pressed the back of her hand against her mouth.

Rhovan realised she wasn't as young compared to the other half-bloods as she was compared to faeries. “Is there anything we can do?” He loved Loui as much as these people loved their families. He understood how they felt and, even though he couldn't send them home, there might be something he could do to make the next few days less painful.

“Make a portal home?” she sniffed, wiping her eyes.

“I'm sorry. If I could, I would.”

She nodded, knowing it'd been a long shot.

Raemina touched Rhovan's arm and drew him to one side. She took a moment to gather her thoughts by giving Loui attention, then looked up and said, “Do you think the Order is aware of the state some of their Acolytes are in?”

Rhovan looked around the room, trying to place people. “I think only about four are graduates. The others are trainees.” He wondered what would happen to them. They were no good to the Order in this state, but there wasn't anyone besides Kess who cared.

“I am surprised Chiyoko has allowed this.” Raemina looked at how sad everyone was and felt awful for them. “Is there nothing we can do?”

Rhovan sighed and shrugged. “We can't send them home and I don't know what else to do.”

“Perhaps there is someone else who can help,” she mused, tickling Loui. “As for you, young man,” she crouched down and put her finger on Loui's nose to get his attention, “you have been very naughty. You worried Rhovan terribly.”

Loui cocked his head to one side and whimpered.

“It's okay. He's safe now.” Rhovan was nearly floored when Loui jumped into his arms and slobbered all over his face.

“At least someone got what they wanted for Christmas,” someone said in a melancholy voice.

As they left, Raemina turned to Rhovan. “It is very sobering seeing how sad so many people are at this time of year. I have been looking forward to the celebrations, and I know others are as well, but this reminds me that the half-bloods do not belong and our celebrating is nothing they wish to share.”

Rhovan patted her arm in a consoling gesture. “You've been so kind and patient with me.” He looked down at Loui. “I understand a little of how they feel. We should try and get them out of Kess's house, at least. It can't be healthy, being all cooped up together like that. They're feeding each other's misery.”

Raemina smiled and nodded. “Yes, that is exactly what I was thinking. They have skills and talents that could be useful if we can find jobs for them to do, and being with others who are in better moods may help them to forget their own troubles. At least for a short while. They may also find better support networks among the fae and half-bloods.”

“You're a good person, Raemina,” Rhovan said with a shy smile. “I'm glad we're friends.”

Raemina took his arm and whistled for Loui to follow them, saying, “Who knows, perhaps after all twilight we may be more than that.”

Rhovan's step faltered and his aqua eyes widened. “R-really?” He tried to look cool and failed.

Raemina laughed and patted his arm. “That would depend on how the cloves are received,” she teased.

He cleared his throat. “R-right.” I'll have to make one of those fruit things now. What are those things anyway? Is it an orange or a lemon or maybe a grapefruit? Do they mean different things? I'll have to ask someone who knows. Lerki? Yes. I'll ask Lerki about it. He'll know. He smiled at Raemina and tried to look like he knew what he was doing.

She laughed and began talking about types of fruit and ribbons and decorations and he knew he'd been caught out, but didn't mind because if she was talking about how to decorate the cloven fruit then it meant she wanted one from him. He felt his yuletide cheer returning. He found Loui and the woman he liked was hinting she liked him back. It was going to be a good solstice.

~*~*~

Zercey sighed and put her hands on her hips. “Do you want me to explain it again?”

Lerki looked at her and nodded. “Just the bit about the tree, please.”

“We decorate it.”

“Why?”

“Because it's festive,” she said, rolling her hand.

“But, you have just killed it,” he replied. “You are putting glitter and decorative balls on a dead tree. Wouldn't it be better if it stayed alive?”

Lerki and Zercey were sat under the old Oak tree in the courtyard. She'd made the mistake of pointing out if it was a fir tree they could have decorated it for Christmas. Which Lerki took as a sign she would tell him about this mysterious “kr-ee-ss-maa-ss”.

She kept a straight face. The image of a tree screaming for its life and then being decked out was hilarious. She could well believe that's how it would go in Illthdar, too. “The trees don't care,” she said, lips twitching.

“Have you asked them?” he replied, leaning back to look up at the bare limbs of the Oak. “They might have a different opinion.

Zercey smothered a giggle and said in a stern voice, “They don't because they don't talk.”

“Neither does the Oak, but it said it wouldn't mind looking sparkly, as long as no one cuts it down,” he said, pointing at the tree.

She looked at it and said, “That's not a venin tree.”

Lerki ducked his head and chuckled. “No, it's not. But, I'm sure one as old and grand as this Oak would like to join in the festivities.”

Now, Zercey was picturing the Oak having a face like grandmother Willow in Pocahontas. “If we tell Vyxen she'd do it,” she said in a decisive voice. “Any excuse to make the world a more glittery place.” She put a hand on Lerki's arm to stop him, as she pointed out Raemina and Rhovan approaching. “Hey, you two. Is Loui still––Oh!” She toppled back, with Lerki saving her from going all the head over heels at the last minute. “Thanks!” She hugged the liubul'k and smiled at Lerki.

“Sorry, Zercey. You know how he gets away from me,” Rhovan chuckled, looking bashful.

“It's okay. No harm done. I'm glad he's back with you again. It was weird seeing you wandering around without him, or not running around chasing him.” She giggled and hugged Loui again.

“Can we ask a question,” Raemina said, seeing Zercey's cheerful and relaxed mood.

“Sure.”

“There are half-bloods at Kess's house who are very saddened by the time of year. We – that is, Rhovan and I – were wondering if there might be something we could do to make them feel less downhearted.”

Zercey frowned and nodded. “I guess it's tougher for some of us than others. They must not have other people to help support them, like me and Vyxen do.”

“What is this?” Lerki looked to each of them in turn. “Why would they be sad? It is almost time for solstice.”

“Because at home it's Christmas,” Zercey reminded him. “Families would be together and celebrating. Instead, they're trapped here and the people back home are wondering if they're dead.” She flashed on her own family. Have they stopped looking for me? Her mood grew sombre. “I, um, I guess maybe if we get everyone together and give them something to do as a distraction it could help.” She knew Scyanatha was corralled into helping organising the ball again and would need all the hands she could get helping. “Send them to Scy and she'll give them stuff to do.” That would only work until everything was finished. After that... “Let me have a chat with the girls and we'll see what we can come up with,” she said in as bright a tone as she could manage.

“Thank you,” Raemina said, happy to have been useful. “If there is anything we can do to help––”

“Yes. You can come with me and he can get to the lab,” Scyanatha said, coming up behind them. She had a half-unrolled scroll in one hand and a pen in the other. “Raemina, you and Abaddon will work on the lights for the yule pyre. They did an excellent job last year, but we must top it. Rhovan, I'm certain you can concoct something to accompany it.”

“No explosives!” Raemina and Zercey yelled at the same time. They looked at each other and laughed.

“I just remembered I have some place to––”

“Hold it right there, shirky Lerki!” Scy darted forward and grabbed his prosthetic arm. “You are not avoiding doing your part, only to enjoy the fruits of everyone else's labour! Come with me!” She dragged him away, as he looked back to Zercey for help.

“She's not wrong!” She grinned at him, cocking a hip and putting a hand on it. “He didn't do a single thing last year,” she said to Rhovan and Raemina.

“Scyanatha seems very capable,” Raemina stated, impressed with the speed she worked.

“She owned companies back on Earth, so she's used to bossing people around,” Zercey laughed. “We better get on with what she wants. She's scary when she gets mad.”

~*~*~

With Rhovan and Raemina dispatched, Zercey set about gathering up the depressed half-bloods. Nobody was in the mood to help faeries celebrate, and it took some doing to get them out of Kess's house.

“Come on, what would you rather do? Sit around in here or get stupid drunk, eat a ton of food and dance?” It wasn't her best argument, but she noticed a couple of guys sit up and look interested. She sighed and added, “And there will probably be a bunch of people looking to hook up.”

The two men got up and walked past her. She noticed the women left behind didn't look one bit impressed by this. I feel like I just pimped out a bunch of faeries, not that they'll object to more sex. She went and sat down by one of the women. “There's nothing I can say that'll make this situation better.”

The blue haired woman nodded. “That's right, there isn't.” She drew in a deep breath and sighed. “I was going to be in the next Olympics; swimming.” She turned her head and flattened her ear to show Zercey a set of gills. “Guess what type of faerie blood I have.”

“Did those show up after you arrived?” She was fascinated.

Another nod. “I was fishing and fell in. Got tangled in a net and thought that was it, but then suddenly I could breathe. It's cool, but I'd rather be home.”

“Same,” Zercey replied. “I'm part venin, but all I got is this changes colour.” She tugged on her hair. She didn't add anything about talking to the elements, since that sounded crazy even in a faerie context.

A small smile flitted across the woman's lips. “Saves on hair dye,” she replied.

“Only if you're into green,” Zercey shot back, giggling. She sobered and said, “I know it's hard for everyone right now, but sitting here crying isn't going to make it any less painful.”

“Aren't you upset about being here?” The woman narrowed her aqua eyes.

Zercey nodded. “I've got family and friends and a life back home, but there isn't anything we can do about it. Last year, I was all of you. I looked for a solution and there isn't one. Until the crystal is completely healed there's not enough mana to open a doorway home.”

“But they can bring us here,” a blond woman called out in a sarcastic voice.

“I don't think the Order did bring us here, but they're making the most of us being around,” a girl of about fourteen said. She had orange eyes and purple hair and her mobile phone clutched in her hand. “Even if you're too young, like me, they won't find somewhere else for us to go. That means they don't think I'll be going home before I'm old enough to become an Acolyte.”

“They're hedging their bets,” Zercey said, avoiding a definite answer. “And I've been out there and Las is marginally safer.”

“Wow, what an endorsement,” the blond said, putting on an announcer's voice. “Come to Las, it's marginally safer than anywhere else in Illthdar.”

The others in room giggled at this and Zercey was encouraged by the change in mood. “And we have nineteenth century rations on offer,” she added, pointing to a table where a small pile of salt crackers were stacked up.

“Rations? I thought those were poker chips!”

There was more laughter and, with a little more encouragement, Zercey had the rest of the people up and out. The group wandered around the market and pavilion, stopping to watch Imogen, Salem and the rest of the Entertainers Guild practising. They'd been drafted by Uwe as part of the Winter King's court that year. He stood to one side, directing, even though he wasn't cast as either Winter or Spring King.

“Darling, darling!” Uwe shook his head, blond hair falling into rust coloured eyes. “You must enunciate otherwise no one will be able to hear you!”

“Nobody cares what the plebs have to say, darling,” Salem shot back, taking several steps forward and moving the woman Uwe was bearing down on behind him. “Unless by 'enunciate' you meant something different.” He grinned and edged closer, until Uwe stepped back. “Oh, come on, sweetheart. You know I'm the best at enunciating here. Why bother with anyone else?”

The rest of the guild stopped what they were doing to watch Salem make Uwe feel as uncomfortable as he made them. Imogen stood at the front trying not to laugh.

“Buh – uhh – just get on with it!” Uwe spun around, making his aubergine cape flare as he made a dramatic exit.

“But, how will you help me enunciate if you're not here?! Uwe!? Uwe, darling?!” Salem cupped both hands around his mouth, calling Uwe a number of endearments and banking on his hyper sensitive hearing still catching it.

“See what you all might miss if you mope about indoors?” Zercey giggled, leaving a few of the interested group with the entertainers.

Zercey managed to parcel out the rest of the group to other tasks or sympathetic people and felt she'd done a good day's work as she made her way back to Seth's cottage for lunch. “Hi, everyone!” She shut the door behind her and took a seat at the table. Before she could even ask what was in the bowls Nyima, Tundra and Seth were eating out of, Ona put one down in front of her. “Wow, thank you!” She dug in and everyone was silent for a time.

“Anyone seen Lerki? Scy was looking for him earlier,” Seth commented, as he wiped a hunk of bread around his bowl and popped it in his mouth.

“She's got him. Unless he escaped,” Zercey laughed, then nearly choked on her food.

Tundra slapped her on the back. “Chew, swallow, then talk.”

“Thank you, ice birb,” she replied, rolling her eyes.

“That's low,” he replied, without heat.

Nyima coughed and hid a smile by taking a sip from her cup. “Scyanatha is taking solstice as seriously as last year. She keeps telling us she wants bigger and better.” She frowned and shrugged. “I don't understand.”

“You did ice sculptures last year, so she wants something that'll be more incredible to look at,” Zercey replied.

“I know what she wants, but I don't understand why. Is it a competition?” She looked at everyone and they looked just as lost. “It is her being bossy,” she concluded with a sigh. “She already told us to redo the sculptures because they weren't anything new.”

“She needs to chill out,” Tundra added, glancing over at Seth when he laughed. “You'd think we'd know someone who could distract her, but I guess he's just a big lump of useless.”

“Hey!” Seth looked put out. “I had my own mile long list to get done,” he said in a weak voice. “You think I wanna be––” he pulled out a small scroll and unrolled it “––collecting 'moonstone dew drops' and 'vintage blood cap mushrooms', then 'haggling with the ribbon vendor for a discount'?”

“It is odd that master Lerki was not asked to go to the forest for those,” Ona commented in a quiet voice, as she cleaned up around them.

Zercey snorted at the title, and again at the thought of Lerki being sent to the forest. “He wouldn't come back. He'd hide until someone else was sent out for the things and then pretend he forgot.”

The others nodded.

She said to Seth, “Now Rhovan's found Loui you could give him some of those to do. Him and Raemina know the forest pretty well.”

“That's good news,” Nyima said, having been part of a search party for the animal. She got up and stretched, putting a hand to the back of her neck and rubbing. “Jingyi, we must get back to the sculptures. Scyanatha will come looking for us soon.”

Tundra's gaze was fixed watching her, then he blinked. “Yeah.” He got up and ignored the others sniggering. As they left he was heard asking, “Any ideas for what to try next?”

“I'm going to look for Lerki,” Zercey said, reaching out and taking the list from Seth. “You go and distract Scy.”

~*~*~

To her surprise, Zercey found Lerki in Phanuel's lab. Since it was where Scyanatha wanted him, it was the last place she looked. In between the cottage and there, she'd thrown advice and a helping hand to people who asked, so it was some time later that she arrived.

“I thought you'd be hiding,” she said in a quiet voice, drawing up beside him.

“I tried,” he admitted, chuckling. “Scyanatha said she would take my arm away and not give it back if I didn't stay put.” He was busy stirring a pot of something that bubbled with a peculiar aroma. It wasn't bad, but it Zercey hoped it wasn't going in the punch bowl.

“What is that?” She pointed, expression wary.

“A brew,” Lerki replied, winking.

“No, no,no, no, no,” she said, shaking her head and wagging her finger. “Don't you be winking at me, buster. What is it?”

“A brew,” he repeated, bemused. “It's for the demon races.”

That would explain why it smelled a little bit good. “So, it's not fit for half-bloods?”

“It's better not to take the risk,” he said, withdrawing the ladle and sniffing. “I think it's ready. Rubal, can you taste this?”

The red skinned demon in question turned and came over, a genial smile on his face. “Sure.” He took a few sips and grimaced. “Needs more blue akai,” he said, smacking his lips and walking away again.

“More?” Lerki's eyes widened. “There's enough in it already to murder half the Order!”

The hubub in the lab came to a sudden stop. Zercey began giggling at the odd looks Lerki was thrown. “He's making demon brew,” she said, patting him on the back.

The rest of the helpers went back to work, and Lerki's embarrassment died down. “They look at me oddly no matter what I do,” he sighed.

“We don't,” she reminded him, smiling. “We like you're weirdness. You fit in with us.”

“Do I fit in with you?” He tilted his head, waiting for an answer.

Zercey's cheeks turned pink. “Well...”

~*~*~

“You're doing the pyre dance this year, right, Birb?” Vyxen bounced up to Date, startling him. “Your arm's all better this year, so you will definitely be doing it!”

It wasn't a question, and he realised it wasn't the first time she said it, either. “Yes,” he replied, pausing from instructing a bunch of new recruits in how to properly conduct themselves during the official bransle. “My arm is all better and I will be taking part.” As her expression grew bright, he added, “I won't be tossing anyone like a hot potato.”

“Oh pooh! You're no fun!” She pinched his cheek and giggled as he squawked. “Seth did it, and I bet Tundra would, too.”

“Seth and Tundra live to spite me,” he said, rubbing his face. “They know the proper way to conduct themselves, but do they do it? Ha!”

She giggled some more, holding her stomach when she noticed the recruits watching their exchange. “You all better do it properly, or grumpy birb will get you!”

There was a smattering of laughter as some of them were unsure whether this was a genuine warning.

“You all better do it properly, or else,” Date restated, a stern look in his dark eyes. He turned to Vyxen. “Was that all you wanted?”

She nodded. “Just checking you're dancing. 'Cause you love dancing and you should do more of it.” She bounded away across the floor before he could reply, weaving in and out of the dancers and giggling as she messed up their steps. “Toshi's gonna get you,” she teased in a sing-song.

Now that she knew Date would be joining in with the pyre dance she was looking forward to it all the more.

“Vyxen, what are you doing?” Scyanatha cornered her and began unrolling a scroll. “If you don't have a job to do then you can––” She stopped as a pair of dark-skinned hands covered her eyes.

“Guess who?”

A warm smile crept across her lips. “Why, I couldn't possibly guess,” she replied in a teasing voice. “I have so many admirers.”

Vyxen snickered.

“Hey!” Seth pulled his hands back and turned a tittering Scy to face him. “You're such a mean girlfriend,” he said, sticking his lip out, “and just when I was about to surprise you with something nice.”

“Oh, what?!” Vyxen interrupted, bouncing around the statuesque couple like a small and excited puppy.

“Mind your own business, dear, or I shall give you a task to do,” Scy said, as she patted her on the head.

Vyxen blew a raspberry. “I'm gonna find out sooner or later!”

“It will be later, dear,” Scy replied, slotting her arm through Seth's and letting him lead her away. “Much, much later.”

Seth chuckled and planted a sneaky kiss on her cheek.

“You guys are cute and I hate you!” Vyxen laughed, turning and heading in the other direction. Thanks to Seth, she had nothing to do to fill the time until the party tomorrow. She'd offered to go with the hunting teams, but there were an excess of volunteers. She'd offered to put up banners and streamers, but with so many people who could levitate or fly, she was out matched. Nyima and Tundra were in charge of designing the ice sculptures again, and even her brother and Imo had jobs to do. She was at a loose end and had no purpose.

“Vyxen, how are you?” Elave waved, as Vyxen came out through the Order gateway.

“I'm okay,” she replied, coming over and petting the sasah hopping around Elave's feet. “Don't suppose you need a helper?”

Elave shook her head. “We've got everything prepared well in advance, as always.” She saw Vyxen's expression drop. “Perhaps Cass needs an extra hand.”

Vyxen bounced up. “Great! I could babysit Lucas or play barmaid or something. She won't have to worry about me drinking anything 'cause I don't drink! Thanks, Elave!” She gave her a quick hug, then ran off down the street, bursting into the Alewifery with a cry of, “Elave sent me to help you, Cass!”

Cass looked up from pouring a beer and said, “Fine.”

This surprised them both.

Young Lucas was sitting by the bar drawing and murmured, “I told you.”

Cass huffed and slammed the tankard of beer down in front of the patron, then glared at him. “I'm keeping an eye on your tab and if you don't pay it back by tomorrow you're in deep trouble.”

“Yes, Cass. Sorry, Cass.” He drank deeply, then got up and hurried out past Vyxen.

“Wow,” she said, coming over to the bar. “I don't think I wanna know what happens if he doesn't pay.”

“You don't,” Lucas said, without looking up. “Aunt Cass doesn't want your help now, but she'll need it later. You'll have to decide if you want to stay here or go dancing with your boyfriend.”

“Boyfriend?!” Vyxen's reply and accompanying laugh were shrill. “Toshi's not my boyfriend!” She then shook her head and laughed. “Sorry, habit. I mean, he is my boyfriend, but I'm sure he won't mind me helping out here.”

Lucas looked up then and met Cass's knowing gaze.

“Go find a party dress, you silly girl, and be with your friends.” Cass shooed her away.

“B-but, Lucas said you'll need me tomorrow?” Now she knew this, could she abandon Cass?

“That's tomorrow,” Cass replied in a cryptic voice.

~*~*~

“I love twirly dresses!” Vyxen spun around to illustrate her point. It was the following day and all the preparations were finished.

“If you wear that to the pyre dance you will set yourself on fire,” Nyima pointed out, adjusting a bangle on her upper arm.

“Damn, you're right,” she replied, taking it off and settling on a pair of leggings with a mini-skirt over the top. She teamed it with a vest top and boots, recalling how warm it would be inside the ice dome. “Are you dancing this year?”

“I did last year,” Nyima replied, fussing with her red, ribbon skirt.

“Someone's nervous,” Scyanatha teased, winking. “Are you worried about Tundra?”

“No,” she said, but couldn't meet Scy's gaze. “He said he had something to talk about.”

“And we all know when Tundra wants to talk it doesn't go well,” Zercey giggled, holding a clip in one hand. “If I wear my hair down it's guaranteed to get burnt off, right?”

“Wear it up,” Raemina called out in a decisive voice. She was dressed in a pair of white trousers and lilac top and had her long hair in a ponytail. “If you are concerned about the flames, then keep your hair up.”

“Thanks, Rae,” Zercey said, doing just that.

Raemina nodded, donning a sympathetic smile as she said, “Nyima, I could not help overhearing. What are you expecting to happen?”

“Something bad,” she revealed, worry creasing her brow.

Vyxen couldn't help giggling. “I don't think he'll screw up again, if he knows what's good for him!” She drew in a deep breath and squealed, “Me and Toshi can stay with you so he doesn't mess up!”

Nyima looked at the others, but no one was coming to save her. “All right,” she said after a pause.

“Woohoo! Let's go!” She grabbed Nyima's arm and dragged her out of the barracks, with the rest bringing up the rear and trying not to laugh that Vyxen hadn't noticed she'd signed herself up for a double date.

“I assumed you wanted to dance around the yule pyre,” Date complained, as he and Vyxen took a seat on the outer tier where the ice sculptures were displayed. When he noticed her shivering, he took off his tengu cloak and dropped it around her shoulders. “We would be warmer if we were in there,” he added, pointing to the ice dome. Dancing shadows bobbed and weaved across the icy walls. The sound of laughter and music filtered out through the large hole in the top, as well as the strategically positioned doorways. The fire would melt the ice over several hours, revealing Abaddon's iron work beneath. They were sitting across the way with their other half, Imani, chatting and sharing a pitcher of hot, demon brew.

“I was going to, but then Nyima was worried about Tundra saying he wanted to talk to her,” Vyxen whispered back, silver eyes sliding to the couple in question. They were seated on the lowest tier and Nyima's rigid posture said everything.

“And just what are you going to do about it?” he whispered back, leaning close and bracing his hand behind her on the seat.

“Throw something at his stupid head if he messes up again,” she replied, narrowing her eyes at him.

“Hold your concern,” he murmured, fussing with the cape so it was more secure. “He is suggesting some sort of permanence.”

“Eh?” Vyxen cosied up to Date, nudging him until he put his arm around her. “What's that mean?”

“I think that's exactly what she just asked,” he sighed, shaking his head. “We should give them some privacy, since it's likely she'll want to break his stupid head open any moment now.” He got up and held his hand out to her. “May I have this dance?”

“Ehn!” Vyxen bounced up and grabbed his hand. Her balance upset, they nearly toppled down the tiers, before Date caught her in his arms and swung her around. She laughed and hugged him. “My hero!” They got down to ground level and Vyxen paused next to a stoic looking Tundra and a pensive Nyima. “Stop screwing up!” Vyxen slapped his forehead. “You want me to string his underwear up in the oak tree?” she directed to Nyima.

“It's fine,” she replied, shaking her head.

“I'll be happy to run him through,” Date added, sending a foul look Tundra's way.

“I'll be happy to rip both your arms off so you can't do the wench toss again,” he shot back, making Vyxen stick her tongue out.

“It's a holiday, cheer up!” She reached out and squished his cheek, then let Date lead her away. “What's he trying to do anyway?” She glanced back to see Nyima still looking lost as Tundra fumbled for words.

“Propose,” Date replied, rolling his eyes and shaking his head.

“WHAT?!” Vyxen stopped dead and tried to go back.

Date put his hand on her arm, stalling her. “According to him it's something he's had in mind for a while, but he's yet to know how to form the correct sentence.” At Vyxen's perplexed look he added, “He's winging it.”

“No,” Vyxen breathed, eyes wide. “He can't do that! He'll screw it up for sure!” She looked around for inspiration and her gaze fell on Cass, beckoning her over. “Oh, wow.” She looked at Date, then over to her friends, then to Cass. “Oh, that's not fair,” she muttered, patting Date's arm and then running over to Cass. “You need me now? Really?”

Cass nodded. “The glaring are ruining my business. They're your trekadisk, so you need to deal with them.”

“This is what Lucas saw me doing to help?!” She wanted to cry, laugh and scream with frustration. “Okay, but let's get this done quick. My dummy friend is proposing to my sparkly one and I just know he's gonna ruin it somehow and need bailing out.”

“He will,” Cass replied, nodding.

“WHAT?!” Vyxen looked stricken, as she looked back at the pair, and then spotted Date with his head in his hands already. “Why would you tell me that?!”

“Because I said you would have a choice to make. You promised to help me, but that means leaving your friends.” Cass looked far too pleased.

“You're mean,” Vyxen said, sending one last glance to Date before following Cass. “If I'm quick, I can be back in time to save the worst proposal ever!”

“No, you won't,” Cass replied, cackling.

“Elave owes me free companion food for this,” she muttered under her breath.

“Rhys?!” Vyxen dove after her trekadisk, who flicked his tail in her face and leapt away. “You're ruining my life right now!” She chased him around the bar, much to the delight of the drunken patrons, who laughed at her antics. “Where's the rest of the evil hoard?!” she directed at Cass.

“In the basement chasing roserats,” she replied, retaking her place behind the bar and pouring slow mugs of beer out for the long line of waiting customers.

“So, what are you doing up here?” Vyxen questioned her rogue cat, almost getting a hand on him, but he turned and swatted her at the last second. “Ow! Rhys!” She crawled under the table after him, muttering to herself like Zercey did. “My whole evening blows now. I was gonna dance with Toshi and get tossed up in the air lots, 'cause even though he said he wouldn't, I knew he would just for me. And we were gonna hang out with all our friends and I'd have told Tundra off for not having a ring for Nyima, 'cause you know he doesn't have one and that's part of his dumbass problem. We'd have a great time singing and dancing around the pyre and enjoying all the things, but where am I instead? Under a table in the tavern, and I don't even drink!” She finally got a grip on Rhys and pulled him out with her when she got up. “Naughty!” She wagged a finger at him and winced when he bit it. “That's the only one you're getting tonight, buster. Now, let's get the rest of team hiss.” She carried Rhys with her down into the basement, to find Hecate and Nyxx sitting by a small pile of dead roserat, grooming themselves. D'nag was asleep on one of the beer caskets, smelling like he'd taken a dip in hops. “You guys have the worst timing!” She pointed to the steps and scooped up D'nag on the way out, as she followed Nyxx and Hecate back up the stairs.

“Thanks for the free entertainment and use of the trekadisk,” Cass called, laughing, as Vyxen sloped out of the bar.

She paused on the threshold and smiled. “Toshi? What are you doing here? You're missing all the fun.”

He closed the distance between them and motioned for her to put down the two trekadisk. He sighed when she shook her head and beamed at him. “Infuriating creature,” he muttered, moving within scratching range. “I am here because you are my companion for this evening and I promised to escort you everywhere. If I had known that meant going to Cass's bar for some bizarre––”

“She used the kitties to catch roserat in the basement, but then I had to get them out again,” Vyxen replied at a rapid pace. “You calling me a companion is cute and funny,” she added, giggling.

Date rolled his eyes. “Shall we head back to the pyre?” He offered his arm to her, and she had to debate putting a sleeping D'nag down or an angry Rhys. Date sighed again and gestured for her to walk in front of him. “Should I expect for animals to come first all the time?”

Vyxen caught the hurt tone in his voice and stayed silent, until they reached Seth's cottage, where she made a quick detour to ditch the kitties on Kinsa, who refused to have fun on the basis it was fun. She came back, grabbed Date's arm and said, “Nope! Just sometimes, but not tonight! Have I missed the wench toss?” She looked up at him, hopeful.

“That and the proposal,” he said.

Vyxen gasped, “Oh no! He ruined it, right?!” She grew furious and added, “I just knew he'd screw it up! How hard is it to impress Nyima? Not hard at all! Just rip someone's spine out and smile, ice boy! That's literally all you have to do! How can he ruin 'will you marry me?'!” She bounced up and down, tugging on Date's arm. He made a strangled noise and she calmed down. “Sorry! Are you okay?”

He winced and nodded.

“Birb, you suck at lying,” Vyxen said, bouncing on her toes to kiss his cheek. “Okay, so what are we doing now?”

“Now?” he repeated, glancing at her, red faced, but catching her meaning. “Now, we are grabbing Tundra, tying him up and getting him to propose properly.”

Vyxen nodded and giggled. “Ehn! Perfect way to spend the rest of yule pyre, since I didn't get a wench toss.”

“I may remedy that later, if we're successful,” he replied, a small smile creeping across his lips.

#Illthdar #Guardians of Las #fan fiction #fantasy fiction #writeblr #my writing #christmas gifts #raemina #Vyxen #Zercey

[katsitting]

Uhhhm hi can you pls write a tomarry drabble/one shot thingy where they try to keep each other warm while theres a storm outside or smth bc i just saw the textpost. Pls and thank you

It took me some time, but here you have it. You may find the fic posted here on AO3. I hope you enjoy my take on this trope. This is an 11k word fic ^^;.

Rating: M

Tags: Swearing, Violence, Uresolved Sexual Tension, Alternate Universe- Office, Workplace Harassment, Humor, Suggestiveness, and Tags Subject to Change.

“He’s staring again,” Ron whispered into Harry’s ear before stuffing a donut into his mouth, crumbs of sugar smearing on the corners of his upper lip. Harry grimaced, shifting his attention to the pretty red-headed server at the other end of the diner. “This marks the fifth time this week.”

A groan rumbled from Harry’s chest, appetite leaving him entirely now that Ron had pointed out that Riddle was, once again, sitting at the diner and staring at him.

Harry had been content with just ignoring it. He was more than aware of the fact that Riddle was there. It was difficult not to notice when he worked with the bloke, and Riddle had made it almost routine to head to the same diner Harry frequented after work. How the man knew Harry’s schedule was beyond him. After all, they had never spoken to one another outside of the office.

Ever.

Of course, they’d interacted one or twice at work, the niceties and all that rot were necessary as supervisors at the company. That, however, did not necessarily mean that they saw one another often—or had the opportunity to—in the first place. They ran in completely different circles.

Harry was head of an entirely different department at work while the creep ran another at the opposite end of the building. The creative department and accounting department hardly ever interacted.

Ron cast a glance behind Harry’s back, and Harry wanted to groan into his hands.

“Would you stop giving him attention? He’s going to notice that I’ve noticed. The last thing I need on my day off is for him to think that you looking at him is an invitation to sit down with us.”

This was supposed to be his time to sit back and relax after an awful week of dealing with executives and their stupid complaints. How those stuffy executives could complain about every single detail, particularly when Harry didn’t even deal with the sales of the products, was beyond him.

He just handled the graphic designers and the digital artists, not the math and figures. That was what accounting did. The creative department looked at viewers and their interests. They measured their receptiveness to a particular advertisement over another. They weren’t paid do the rest, and even if they offered to pay for such services, Harry refused to.

It would only give him another reason to leave the office.

Harry’s work wasn’t…exciting. It was a decent job while waiting for the processing at the police academy to go forward, but it would never be enjoyable. The company policies were absolute shite.

At least with the police department he would be doing something he liked while still dealing with the nonsense of the bureaucratic world.

He just needed to hold out for a little longer. He had met all the requirements, had done all of the physicals. All he needed to do was wait and then he could quit his job and dedicate himself to the force.

It killed him to wait, but it would be incredibly stupid to quit months before he’d even get approved. He needed to save as much money as he could before he was inevitably penniless for the next few years as a low-tier cop.

“I mean, you should just talk to him. It’s not like the bloke is going to bite your head off or something.” Ron said with his mouth full of donut, eyes still trained on Riddle even after Harry had asked him to stop giving the bastard attention.

“Ron, you don’t know Riddle. There’s just something off about him, you know? Don’t you ever get that feeling about someone—” Harry began, casting an exasperated glance at Ron when he didn’t immediately answer. “—like there’s more to a guy than what he lets on? He’s so…polite and charming at work. He’s practically got everyone wrapped around his finge—”

“Do I, Mr. Potter?”

Harry froze at the sound of a familiar, masculine drawl. Horror and recognition speared him, only just noticing that the reason Ron had stopped talking was not because he had shoved a whole donut into his mouth, but because Riddle had risen from his seat and had made his way over to where they were seated at the counter.

“I was not aware you had that kind of impression of me.”

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck—

Harry swiveled around, almost toppling from his chair when the tip of his nose nearly collided with Tom’s chest.

Why was he so bloody close?

Harry pressed his side into the counter, uncomfortable with Riddle’s invasion of his personal space before leveling the man with an irritated glower. The fact that he looked ridiculous this way hardly registered to Harry.

“And you probably never would have had you minded your own bloody business.”

Shock spread over Riddle’s stupid handsome face, and sweet sweet vindication surged through Harry’s insides, a smirk stretching over his lips when Riddle did not immediately respond.

Good, it served him right.

“It’s a pity, then. Our company retreat at the end of this week will certainly be ripe with awkward tension.”

Harry’s smirk fell, shoulders tensing at Riddle’s mention of their forced retreat. He’d forgotten about it entirely. It was something the CEO of the company had been harping on for the past few months. Something about improving relationships between supervisors and executives, and all that rot.

It was absolute bullshite.

“Did it slip your mind? Oh, I understand if it did.”

Riddle’s expression twisted into one of pity, the glimmer in the man’s eyes far too bright for Harry to believe it was sincere.

Wanker.

“The holidays are right around the corner. I’m sure the executives are keeping you quite busy with the marketing.”

Harry slammed an open palm onto the counter, startling both Ron, who had yet to say a word since Riddle had graced them with his parasitic presence, and a couple sitting not too far behind Ron.

If looks could kill, Harry’s glare alone would have killed Tom fucking Riddle at least ten times. His pitying glance combined with the obvious heat to the man’s words had all but pushed Harry past his boiling point. There was only so much bullshite he could deal with in a single week, and Riddle’s was not the kind of bullshite he was being paid to handle.

“One more word, and I promise that after I’m through with you, no one in the office will ever call you handsome for the rest of your miserable life.”

Riddle blinked at him, the pitying expression slipping off his face like an oil slick. Then—

The man smiled.

All the blood in Harry’s veins froze at the sight, unable to comprehend what was happening before Riddle leaned down, pressing into his personal space until their noses were nearly touching.

“Kinky.”

It was one word. A simple, unobtrusive word.

But in that moment, it sounded anything but. Frankly, it was a word Harry knew from that moment forward would forever remain ingrained in his psyche until the end of his days. Harry didn’t know what to say, didn’t know what to bloody do. He was flabbergasted, confused to his very core because Riddle’s voice had…changed. Sounded huskier and breathier, somehow.

Riddle’s smile widened, his eyes flashing with something Harry refused acknowledge, before Riddle pulled back and turned to leave.

Thank god.

“H-harry?” Ron whispered into Harry’s ear, but Harry wasn’t listening. His mouth was wide open with shock, an embarrassed heat coiling over his face that was definitely not a blush. It burned him from the inside out, his humiliation at being thrown by that word almost worse than the unmistakable heat in the man’s voice.

Don’t let it get to your head, Harry. It was him just fucking with you, is all.

“What happened just now?” Ron asked again, once Riddle pushed past the double doors of the exit.

Turning to Ron with the straightest face he could muster, Harry paused, unsure of how to even begin. He honestly didn’t know anymore than the Ron did, and he had been the one subject to Riddle’s unwanted attention.

“I—” Harry swallowed, unable to finish his response.

In the four years he’d been working at the company, this was the first time he shared more than five words with Riddle within a 24 hour period. And somehow, in the span of 15 minutes, Riddle had not only managed to get a rise out of him—something no one, except for his ex-boyfriend Draco had ever been able to accomplish—and embarrass him.

Pressing his hands into his eyes, careful to avoid crushing his glasses, Harry groaned aloud, casting Ron a tired look after he finished.

How he was going to survive the company retreat after this bloody spectacle was the million dollar question. If he’d nearly lost his patience after speaking to Riddle for 15 minutes, there was simply no telling what a weekend at some winter resort would do to his sanity.

“I don’t know, Ron. Your guess is as good as mine.”

To say that Harry was tired of this trip was the understatement of the century. Already, he was dreading the fact that he had to be stuffed in some cheap bus with Tom Riddle, the newest bane of his existence, for a whole fucking weekend. He didn’t know what he’d done to deserve this kind of treatment. Maybe, somehow, he’d pissed off the wrong deities while working as a supervisor and this entire trip was just a means for those aggrieved gods to acquire their retribution. Harry honestly wasn’t sure.

Either way, Harry was done with this day and it had only just started. An unsurprising fact considering Tom Riddle had decided to sit beside him on the bus. Harry was certain his angry expression had been obvious. He hadn’t been hiding his displeasure from the moment Tom Riddle entered the bus—fashionably late of course, but no one was going to ride his ass about that, now were they—and sauntered over in his direction.

Harry had made a calculated decision to sit in the back, knowing, of course, that Riddle being the straight-laced goody two shoes that he pretended to be, had always been one to sit in the front nearest to the conductor to ensure that nothing would go amiss. The supervisor for the accounting department of the firm was not required to do all that, but no one would dare say something to the contrary.

Tom Riddle had just about everyone wrapped around his bloody finger, and there was no telling just who might end up fired should they cross Riddle.

That was what had happened to the last intern that had come into the fray a few weeks back. They entered the accounting firm and simply never came back, disappearing into the ether to never be found again. Of course, no one thought it odd that the poor intern just hightailed it out of there, except for Harry, but nevertheless, that was how the company went.

Yet, somehow, in spite of Harry’s careful consideration of all these facts, Riddle still felt the need to follow him all the way to the back of the bus. The thought of flinging himself into oncoming traffic had crossed his mind once or twice since then.

“Hello, Harry.” Riddle purred next to his ear, his side pressing uncomfortably into Harry’s side. It was unsurprising that he of all people refused to abide by societal norms, such as personal space.

Personal space wasn’t a foreign fucking concept.

“It’s been too long. How are you?”

Harry grit his teeth, staring hard at the traffic moving away from the city. They were leaving his home, his place of sanity, and heading into an unknown small town in the middle of fucking nowhere at some “winter palace.” At least, that was how the brochure for the place had painted it, but Harry did not believe a word of it. It was a load of bullshite in his honest opinion. It was simply another way for his bosses up top to convince their over-caffeinated and exhausted employees to play nice and stick it out until they could find replacements that did their work with far more efficiency and less ambition.

“Are you looking forward to the trip? This might be your only time off after the holiday craze begins.”

Whipping around, Harry leveled Riddle with the most intense glare he could muster. He wanted Riddle to stop talking. Didn’t he understand that Harry wanted nothing to do with him? That after their fucking fiasco at the diner, Harry wanted to avoid him?

It was basically sexual harassment what had happened at the diner. He should have reported it to human resources instead of sucking it up and ignoring it, wanting to pretend that it never happened. But whatever, it was too late now. They were trapped on this bus with perhaps six other supervisors from the company that Harry hardly interacted with on a good day.

“I don’t know what gives you the impression that I want to talk to you, but I don’t. What you did at the diner was sexual harassment. Hell, you’ve been stalking me for bloody months now!”

Harry was breathing heavily by the end of his tirade, but Riddle was utterly unfazed. His eyes were taking him in from the wild curls atop his head, to the angry flush of his cheeks, and down to the collar of his thick coat.

“Has anyone ever told you that you have a terrible temper, Harry? It’s quite unbecoming.”

What?

Harry blinked, disbelief draining all the anger he clutched into his chest.

Riddle was completely bent. An utter nutcase.

Harry had never felt more certain of this fact that in that moment, eyeing the thick green scarf wrapped around Tom’s throat, covering a portion of his mouth.

“Can’t you just leave me alone? Pretend I don’t exist? You’ve done a marvelous job of ignoring me at work functions, why stop now?” Harry asked, defeated. It wasn’t much to ask. He was going to leave his job anyway. It would be peaceful, a mercy in and of itself, for Riddle to let him go on with his business without incident.

But Riddle wasn’t a kind man. Clearly, Harry’s hunch about Riddle’s true personality had not been wrong, for in that moment, Riddle’s lips curved into a wicked smile. His eyes flashed with something downright cruel, and Harry’s stomach plummeted all the way to his ankles.

“Oh Harry, now what would be the fun in that?”

Sighing loudly, Harry turned his attention back to the window to watch the flurries of snow pass. There was no use answering that question. He’d be wasting his breath trying to convince Riddle to stop.

So, rather than argue with Riddle til his face turned blue, Harry instead watched the world pass through the window—the buildings growing smaller and smaller until there was nothing but countryside. An agricultural paradise that went on endlessly with only the occasional interruption of a car passing through, until those interruptions too, ceased.

If Riddle crowded closer to him on the bus, Harry didn’t say a word to acknowledge it.

“You’ve got to be kidding me.” The words came unbidden, his genuine shock and frustration at what he was seeing impossible to hide.

The “winter palace” that the CEO had spent months harping about to his employees was no palace. It would be too generous of a statement to call it anything but a run down warehouse. When he saw it from his window, only several feet away from the driveway they turned into, Harry had hoped that this building would not be their stop.

But he had been wrong, resigned to his fate when the Greyhound bus stopped right at the iron entrance of the place.

“Clearly not.” Tom whispered into his ear, reminding Harry that Tom was sitting beside him and had, in fact, heard Harry’s curse. “It seems that our stay at the “Winter Palace” will not be a pleasant one.”

Harry pressed his face into his hands, wondering if it was too late to turn back. This was a literal shit-hole. The building looked like it hadn’t been renovated in at least twenty years. The iron gate they had driven through was rusted, the tell-tale red and brown patterning around the iron like the scales of a snake.

“Alright everyone.”

Harry was forced away from his thoughts, attention turning to one of the executives sitting at the front of the bus, who he vaguely knew as Mike. The man rose from his seat, his inky black hair and sallow skin gleaming unnaturally beneath the dim light trickling through the bus windows.

Here comes the bad news.

“We’ve divided you all into pairs. The rooms can only fit two at a time. We understand that you were all under the impression of sleeping in your own rooms, but autumn season was not a kind one to the company.”

Harry huffed, miffed that they would use such an excuse on them. They weren’t ignorant, lower-tier employees that didn’t know just how these things went. To say that the executives had planned to provide them with their own accomodations was a lie and a terrible one at that. They never intended to in the first place. Why would their boss bother to give them a wonderful room when he could be spending the company money as he saw fit? On other things that were of little to no importance to anyone but himself?

“Please try not to switch rooms. Management has made it clear that all parties staying in their hotel must remain in their rooms. It was this agreement that allowed us to receive the lower rates that we did.”

A snort nearly escaped him. Of course, Harry thought. It was all about the cheaper rates with these arseholes.

“If you have any issues or concerns with your accommodations, please notify the front desk. This trip is non-refundable, so unless you have good reason for needing to leave early, we will deduct the difference from your salary.”

Great.

There was no escaping this place. There was no way in hell he would pay for this disaster of a hotel. He’d sooner ask Riddle over for tea and biscuits before letting them take a cut of his salary.

“You look quite upset, Harry.”

Grinding the crown of his teeth, Harry turned his attention back to Riddle. He’d nearly forgotten the man was there, caught up with his own thoughts and frustrations concerning this stupid company. It shouldn’t have surprised him that they’d pull this kind of stunt after all the bullshite they’d flung in their general direction for years, but still. This was no reward for their hard work at the company, and certainly no gift, if the stakes of leaving before their stay was anything to go by.

It was punishment.

“As I should be. This place looks like a bloody death trap.” Harry hissed, his expression going sour when Riddle smiled, all teeth. It made every single hair on the back of Harry’s neck stand on end, the unsettling whisper of danger lurking in that face enough to make him press closer to the window and away from Tom. “Look at it. There’s cobwebs on the bloody windows and the front porch has uneven floorboards and chipped paint.”

Tom turned away from Harry to regard the hotel with a thoughtful expression, leaning further into Harry’s space. Harry tried not to let his impatience show when Tom took his sweet time to look at it, as if this were some kind of expensive art piece at a famous art gallery rather than some shite motel.

It was only after Harry began to shake his leg that Tom stopped and turned his attention back to him.

Then, just as Tom was about to speak, Harry’s attention was forced away from the dread of staying in this crappy place and his irritation with his bizarre co-worker.

“Alright then. We took the liberty of pairing you all off—” the man paused at the loud groans and complaints that erupted at that. Harry only pinched the bridge of his nose. “—it was not my idea. This was something the head personally cooked up. Don’t give me that look, John.”

Harry glanced at Mike, then followed his gaze to the supervisor he’d mentioned by name. He was tempted to flash him a smile and give him a thumbs up for expressing what everyone certainly felt at that moment. To be paired off with people from the company they did not even know was a pain in the arse. What if Harry hated them? What if they snored?

With his sleeping habits, he doubted he could sleep a solid night if his roommate was loud.

“Anyway,” Mike continued, ignoring the collective murmurs of displeasure from everyone on the bus. “I will call out the names of those that will be rooming together. So please, once you’ve been called, it’d be great if you would head to your rooms. Check-in is in about fifteen minutes and they have a strict check-in policy.

Of course they did, Harry thought, his mouth pursing into a thin line. They picked a fucking shitehole that hasn’t seen a customer in possibly years.

They’d tack on as many conditions to their stay as they could, if it could justify them keeping their security deposit and charging added fees.

“Robert Smith, you’re with Frederick Wilton.”

Harry didn’t recognize the names, and promptly after watching a portly, dark haired man storm out of the bus with a scowl on his face, Harry wondered if the partnership was a terrible one.

“It would be amusing if we ended up sharing the same suite.”

Harry jumped, smacking his leg against the bottom of the seat in front of him. Riddle had whispered into his ear, lips brushing against the shell. It had been too close, and Harry rounded on him in seconds, uncaring that he was nearly at his wits end and going to leave with a massive bruise on his shin.

“No,” Harry said vehemently, nostrils flaring. “It would be an absolute nightmare to be put in the same room as you. You have no fucking respect for personal space.”

Tom smiled at him, eyes twinkling with a mirth that had no business being on his stupid face. They were not friends, and would never be. The man was a creep, and it would be a crime against all of humanity—but most of all, a personal attack against Harry—to be put in the same room.

Lord knows, Tom might fucking watch him as he slept.

A shudder crawled up Harry’s spine at the thought.

“Harry, I hope you are aware that our transportation is rather small. I cannot help that I am a large man that takes up quite a bit of space.”

Harry rolled his eyes. Sure, the Greyhound bus wasn’t large by any means, but that did not excuse Riddle leaning into him and whispering inane things into his ear throughout the entire ride. It had been suffocating to have him breathing his same air, his hot breath and voice brushing along the shell of his ear whenever the bus so much as rocked—

“Yeah, but do you have to whisper into my bloody ear? It’s unnecessary. You could tell me all about the crap that crosses your mind without your mouth getting anywhere near me—”

“Is there something wrong with my mouth being near yours, Harry? My, that’s quite an inappropriate thought to have of a fellow employee.”

Sputtering, Harry tried to come up with an answer that wouldn’t end with him punching Riddle in the face. When he couldn’t, Harry opted to level Riddle with a glare and say—

“Yes, there is something very wrong with it. It is precisely because you are my co-worker that I don’t want you anywhere near me.”

Tom leaned back into his seat, hand cupping his chin, his stupid smile still stretched along his lips. “And yet here you are. You simply could have moved to another seat if you were so offended by my presence.”

Harry blinked, frowning when he realized that Tom was right. He could have moved. Nothing was stopping him from leaving—there had still been space when he’d sat in the back in the hope that Tom would not follow.

Still, that didn’t answer the question of whether Tom would have let him leave in the first place. The man could have followed him to another seat and annoyed him there. Or worse, if Harry had sat beside someone else, have pulled his weight as one of the favorites at the office and gotten the poor bastard to move and let him slide in beside Harry.

Had Harry really had a choice? No, Harry thought with conviction, absolutely not.

“Oh, that’s rich. As if you wouldn’t follow me wherever I decided to sit. You were always following me to that diner, so how was I supposed to know you wouldn’t follow me to another bloody seat?” Harry demanded, watching how Tom’s shoulders tensed before smoothing out.

Victory surged inside him, a vicious smile stretching over his lips. Good, Tom should be annoyed.

However, rather than reacting as Harry had expected, Tom began to laugh. Harry was flabbergasted.

It was a deep and throaty sound, one that Harry had never heard before. An angry blush spread through his cheeks, irritation blooming inside him like the burn of an ulcer when Riddle didn’t stop for a solid minute.

Bastard.

The chatter of the other people on the bus was lost to the cacophony. Even Mike’s annoying voice calling out names had dissipated into nothing, the sound of his blood rushing to his ears and Riddle’s laughter too difficult to ignore.

Then, it abruptly stopped. Riddle’s expression sobered, and Harry’s breath hitched when Riddle pressed forward until their noses were touching, faces so close that Harry could count each individual lash framing his eyelids.

He tried to rear back, but there was nowhere to go. He had chosen the window seat, and was already pressed as far back as he could to the glass and the uncomfortable polyester chair he was sitting on.

“You’re right—” Riddle said, voice dropping to a low murmur that Harry strained to hear even with how close they sat. “—where else am I going to get my entertainment if not at your side?”

Harry froze at the flash of something predatory in Riddle’s eyes, like the kind of look Harry had seen Ron give his mother’s home-cooked meals after he’d spent months surviving off his own cooking. Throat suddenly dry, Harry tried not to shrink into himself when Riddle’s mouth parted and a hot breath fanned against his lips.

He didn’t want to think about what that meant, about the implications in the man’s words and the way he looked at him—

“Harry Potter.”

At the sound of his own name, the strange tension between them dissipated. Riddle pulled away from him in an instant, granting Harry the space to breathe and turn his attention back to Mike. The man looked just as exhausted as Harry felt.

The bus was nearly empty save for the two executives still seated at the front and a pair of supervisors seated just behind them. A bad feeling bloomed in his chest, realizing that if there were only seven people on that bus, and Riddle was still sitting beside him, then—

“You’re with Riddle.”

Shock spread through his insides, the sound of Riddle’s low laugh beside him drowned out by the horror that followed.

No.

“Don’t even try it, Potter. Unless you’re willing to pay 800 pounds for your room and the special amenities the company has provided, you best keep your mouth shut and take your things into the room.”

At Mike’s steely tone, Harry clamped his mouth closed and clenched his jaw. When he had opened it to complain, he didn’t know, but at that moment, Harry wished more than ever that he could give everyone a piece of his mind. This was a disaster. They had no idea what it was that they had done, pairing him off with Riddle as if Harry would be able to sleep comfortably with that creep breathing down his neck.

Harry didn’t bother to spare Riddle a glance, shooting up to his feet and pushing past the man’s legs to head to the front of the bus.

Anger fed his movements, his scowl turning lethal when Mike gave him a pitying glance as he passed. He didn’t bother to look back and see for himself if Riddle was following after him. He probably was right at his heels, his longer legs making it easy to dwarf any space Harry managed to put between them.

Bloody perfect.

When he finally emerged from the bus, its doors wide and letting in winter’s frigid breath, Harry turned to see that his things had already been taken down from the storage compartment.

It wasn’t much. Just a small carry-on bag and a hiking bag carrying the essentials necessary to survive the duration of his “vacation.” He had at least three different winter coats packed into the backpack, mindful that it was going to be in the negatives for the entire weekend, and it would be stupid of him to let himself go unprepared.

Grumbling, Harry scooped the bag and slung one strap over his shoulder. He pulled out the handle of his roller bag, and began walking toward the set of buildings further out from the driveway.

Upon closer inspection, Harry found that the building looked even more run-down than it did from a distance. There were cobwebs on the upper suites and cracks in the pillars, which held up its once opulent entrance.

Great.

It was a lonely walk. His footsteps and his own breaths the only sounds cutting into the silence that descended over the place. His colleagues were nowhere to be found. They had long since made their way to the hotel, perhaps an attempt to escape the hideousness of the building and the biting cold cutting through their coats. It was a good thing Harry had packed well, he would have joined them in their desperation to get inside, otherwise.

Then, just as Harry was reaching the unsteady cover of the porch, footsteps sounded behind him. Harry did not turn, knowing already who it had to be. There were five others left on the bus, so Mike would still be inside with the remaining passengers.

“In a hurry?” Tom said, the sound of his footsteps growing louder and louder, alerting Harry of the unpleasant reality that he was getting closer. “Our destination is one in the same. Why not enjoy the weather? There is still time before we have to check-in.”

Gritting his teeth, Harry did not turn back even when Tom finally caught up to him and mirrored Harry’s brusque pace to the main building. There were several edifices stretched on either side of this main one, all in varying degrees of ugly. He hoped the inside was nicer than the outside.

“No.” Harry finally said when Riddle followed him, his movements easily mirroring Harry’s own. It added to Harry’s annoyance. “I just want to head to my room and forget that I am stuck here for an entire weekend with you.”

Riddle did not speak after that. It was the closest to a reprieve Harry had gotten all evening. The man wasn’t known for his chattiness, but on the bus, the bloke just didn’t know when to quit. Talking and talking about his observations of each of the supervisors and his opinions on the debacle that was this entire trip.

He could not immediately recall Tom ever talking this much in the past. This was more words than Harry had exchanged with Tom in his entire time at the company, including the fated afternoon where Riddle approached him at the diner.

Perhaps, if Harry hadn’t been so creeped out and annoyed with Riddle, he might not have minded the chatter. Ron was not a quiet guy, and neither was Hermione when someone fired her up, but Riddle was a creep. An attractive-looking man, but a creep all the same that placed too much weight on his attractiveness to get him special treatment at the company.

“There are worse things than being in a room with me, Harry.”

At the sound of his name, Harry turned to Riddle, slowing down so that he didn’t end up eating dirt and snow. He hoped his skepticism at the comment was obvious. There was nothing he could think of that could possibly be worse.

“Yeah? What?” Harry asked, humoring him when Riddle looked entirely too serious with his scarf wrapped around his neck and two massive luggage bags gripped beneath his fingers.

“Being trapped with a monster hiding in plain sight.”

Unease bloomed low in his stomach when Riddle smiled a beatific smile. A shudder rippled through him that had nothing to do with the cold air cutting through his cheeks.

He didn’t say anything in response, turning back to look at the wooden doors of the hotel. There wasn’t anything he could say to that. It had sounded like a warning, an ominous promise that made all the hairs on the nape of his neck stand on end.

Harry hoped Riddle had only been kidding and that there wasn’t some special meaning to what he’d said.

Harry had been right when he said that the hotel was a literal death trap.

At first, when they’d stopped by the receptionist desk to pick up their keys, the place had looked decent enough. It was marginally better than the exterior of the building, at least. Tasteful potted plants and landscape paintings lined the cream-colored walls, adding an air of sophistication that the outside lacked.

However, after checking in and learning that their suite was a great distance from the main entrance, Harry had grown immediately suspicious. After all, it was one thing to be within the same area as everyone else, but entirely another to be cut off from the rest of his co-workers.

They’d been assigned to Suite S, which turned out to be a separate building entirely. It was its own private space and there was only one room. A place, he found, that was better suited for couples wishing to escape noisy tourists rather than for jaded company employees.

Then, of course, just when Harry had thought the entire thing could not possibly get worse, when they opened the door, the interior of the room was a wreck. It looked like something straight out of some cheesy 90s porno. The couches were made of velvet. The bed was decorated with cheesy heart pillows and red satin sheets that looked to be stained with something he didn’t want to think too hard about.

There was an air conditioning unit and an electric hearth within centimeters of one another, pushed against the opposite wall facing the bed and the two white nightstands.

Apparently when his company had selected the rooms, they had, in their desperation to get a solid deal for the whole trip, had forgotten that this was meant to be a professional affair and not some shite attempt at matchmaking.

“Well, this is certainly interesting.” Tom chimed in, stepping past Harry and into the room with his luggage in tow.

Interesting was not the word Harry would use to describe this disaster.

“They must have made a mistake.” Harry said, stepping into the room and sighing in relief when there were at least two beds in the room rather than the one he had seen from the entrance.

Thank god.

“I doubt that they did. It seems that this room has all the trappings of a love motel, but the fact that they’d at least included a second bed and a kitchenette on the other end suggests otherwise.”

A flush stained his cheeks at the mention of love motels. God, Harry hoped that the room hadn’t been used as one for some time now and that the sheets were laundered well enough.

Harry didn’t think he could take many more surprises.

“Hopefully, they’ve recently renovated this room and washed the sheets.”

Harry did not dare dignify Tom’s comment with a response, kicking the door shut once he’d dragged his things inside.

The room was hideous, certainly, but the thought that this had once been a hotel where people slept with each other made him green with nausea. Sex wasn’t something he got too much of or pondered on, after his split with Ginny and his disastrous relationship with Draco. But to sleep in a bed where he knew others had fucked? That was too much even for him. At least, when the hotel didn’t having the history of a sex hotel, he could pretend no one had sex in those.

“I can’t sleep like this.” Harry said, trying to recall if he’d seen a laundry room somewhere in the building on his walk over to the suite. Management had mentioned that they did have a place to launder their clothes, free of charge, but where that was, was a mystery.

“Well, the sun is still out. There would be no need for you to rest until the sun at least sets.”

That was not the answer Harry had been hoping for, a loud groan escaping him when he sat on the bed, its springs creaking with his weight.

“This sucks.” Harry sighed, realizing then that there would be no way out of this. The laundry room was possibly on the other side of the place. He was sharing a room with Tom Riddle, who didn’t seem at all fazed by potentially sleeping on sex-drenched sheets, and this was a weekend long excursion with no escape until the length of their stay ended.

At the sound of rustling cloth, Harry turned his attention away from the carpeted floor and glanced at the source.

Harry wished he hadn’t. Riddle had removed his shirt, his bare chest pale white beneath the incandescent light of the suite. His trouser button was undone, a band of dark green poking from the slit where his trousers laid open.

Turning away immediately, Harry tried not to blush with his discomfort. “I swear to god, Riddle, couldn’t you have changed in the bathroom? You’re not in the privacy of your own damn flat.”

The rustling stopped and Harry barely kept himself from turning once again when the side of his bed dipped.

“I’m well aware that I am not alone.”

Riddle’s voice had come far too close for comfort, his breath fanning across the bare skin of Harry’s neck. “If you do not wish to see me, then avert your eyes. I am not forcing you to look at me.”

With that, Riddle pulled away.

Harry didn’t say anything else after that, the haunting memory of Riddle’s hot breath against his neck and the fact that he didn’t care that Harry was there with him, a poignant one.

God, Harry thought, pressing his hands into his face, this is going to be a fucking nightmare.

Thankfully, his rooming together with Riddle hadn’t ended in catastrophe. Despite realizing he was staying in a renovated love hotel and learning that Riddle honestly gave zero absolute shits about personal space, Harry acclimated rather quickly.

As long as Harry didn’t think too hard about what Riddle did in the room or about what people had done on the bed, it was bearable. Riddle, for the most part, left Harry to his own devices and didn’t demand any more than was necessary of his time. Most often, Riddle talked to him about inane things like the weather and the flaws of each employee currently staying at the place, but it wasn’t too bad. He could handle it.

However, things took a turn the second day of their forced cohabitation.

Apparently, the hotel had a partnership with one of the local resorts that offered discounted pricing on sledding and skiing equipment. The company had offered to pay for the whole thing, as a means of quieting the complaints of almost everyone. Apparently, their rooms were shite. Something about the air conditioning unit not working and the room being plagued by a bizarre odor—Harry wasn’t certain on the logistics.

So far, his room had a fully functional heater and his room did not smell of strange things. The smell of cheap detergent wasn’t ideal, but it was markedly better than the stench of sewage and garbage that his co-workers complained of from theirs.

Either way, after many complaints from the disgruntled supervisors, the company had relented in paying for their equipment for that afternoon. The resort itself wasn’t a “resort” by any means. It was more of a small shack with a bustling hearth and maybe one or two employees manning the whole place, but it seemed to pacify the others.

Except Harry.

He wasn’t fond of the idea, if he were being honest. The hotel had a terrible reputation and after looking up reviews on Yelp for the equipment rental store, Harry was even more convinced that borrowing anything, even when it was free, was a bad idea.

If only he had followed his instincts and not allowed Tom to badger him into coming along with everyone. He would have preferred to stay inside, warm and comfortable, rather than out in the snow with a man he disliked immensely and fellow co-workers he had no reason to talk to.

Harry sighed, sulking as he waited to go down the small mountain. They had been taking turns, the more seasoned skiers taking the lead while the other less experienced bunch watched on with terrified and intrigued eyes.

He’d skied before. Sirius had taken him out once when he’d been a teen and it had been fun. Watching Sirius eat snow more than once while Remus had watched on with a fond smile had been worth all the bruises he’d earned trying to learn.

However, this was nothing like those lazy winter afternoons. There was no Sirius or Remus here to poke humor at his expense. There was only Riddle and the other equally exhausted employees waiting to have a go before retiring for the day.

“Are you ready?” A voice whispered into Harry’s ear, rousing him from his thoughts.

He turned to the voice, frowning when, of course, it was Riddle who had spoken. He was the only that ever whispered so damned close to his ear.

“About as ready as I’ll ever be.”

He ignored the small smile that spread along Riddle’s face before turning back to the winding path before him. It was a long ways down, white with snow and littered with patches of evergreen.

“You don’t look very thrilled, Harry.” Tom pointed out, stepping forward to stand over the edge of the hill to Harry’s right. It looked like Riddle planned to go along with him. Why he wanted to do something like that beyond Harry. “Why don’t we make things a bit interesting. Start a bet of sorts?”

Harry paused, turning his attention back on Riddle. He was smiling still, his eyes bright and mischievous. It made something turn in his stomach, as if he’d already taken a dive down the mountain.

“A bet? What do you have in mind?” Harry hedged, humoring the bloke if only to satisfy his own curiosity. It wasn’t common for Riddle to gamble, especially when he was the one that ran the company’s accounting department. It was strange.

“The first one to reach the bottom of the mountain gets to ask for one favour of the other.”

A frown stretched across his face while Riddle’s smile remained in place. That didn’t sound like a good enough deal to him. What could he possibly want from Riddle?

A favor? There was nothing Riddle had that Harry wanted.

Harry was about to reject the offer and turn back to the mountain when Riddle’s hand clamped on his arm, smile gone. Something in his insides wrenched at the contact, the proximity between them reminding him of the bizarre event on the bus and the strange conversation on their walk to the front desk the previous day.

This couldn’t be good.

“If you win, you could ask me to never speak to you again.”

Oh.

Surprise made his mouth part in shock, his eyes growing wide at the fact that Riddle would volunteer that kind of favor. It was…tempting. Harry didn’t want anything to do with him, so perhaps asking him to leave him alone, well. That sounded almost too good to be true.

Harry narrowed his eyes, immediately suspicious.

“And why would you risk that? So far, you’ve shown little interest in honoring my personal autonomy.”

Riddle didn’t speak for a moment, his hand still grasping Harry’s forearm. It wasn’t a death grip by any means, but it definitely wasn’t a hold Harry could easily shake off without getting into a scuffle.

“Because it would be fun. What is the point of a bet if one of the parties is not interested in his prize?”

That was a good point, and Harry’s lips pursed at that. He wasn’t wrong. He wouldn’t agree to a bet if there was nothing in it for him.

Still, Harry thought, that still doesn’t answer the question of what Riddle could want.

“And you? Are you interested in your prize? Why would you want a favor from me?” Harry asked, unable to curb his own curiosity.

“I am interested, I wouldn’t be asking for a favor if there wasn’t something of worth to be gained.” Riddle offered, his fingers tightening on Harry’s arm minutely before releasing it entirely. The flesh ached where Riddle had gripped him. “I am only interested in the favor itself. One that I can cash in at a later date when necessary.”

Well…that did make some sense, Harry thought. He knew enough about people to know that sometimes they were just happy knowing that they had someone watching their back. He would be the first to say that he didn’t know Riddle, but he also knew that although he was odd and creepy, he wasn’t mass murderer. He said strange and cryptic things Harry didn’t always follow, but he wasn’t evil.

What was the worst that could happen? Riddle already followed him around like a debt collector, how bad would it be to owe him a favor?

“Alright, I’ll do it. Just don’t get any funny ideas, okay?”

Riddle tilted his head to one side, lips stretching into a thin smile that looked far more genuine than all the other expressions he’d seen Riddle wear, before outstretching his hand. Harry didn’t hesitate to take it, shaking on their agreement.

“Agreed.”

Nodding, Harry turned once again to the hill. His goggles were pressed against his forehead, and he grabbed the ski poles and readied himself. At his side, Harry took one quick glance to see Riddle do the same, gearing up for the race. He looked determined, strangely sober for a race that was allegedly meant to be purely for fun.

“Ready?” Harry asked, tugging on his goggles, ever so grateful that he’d opted for contacts that afternoon.

“Ready.” Riddle said.

“Then, on three.” Harry said, fingers clenching tightly around the ski poles, a bead of sweat gathering on the nape of his neck.

“One.”

Harry turned away from Riddle, watching the clouds obscure the sliver of light above them. Dark and oppressive, reminiscent of the shade of Riddle’s own eyes.

“Two.”

Harry’s heart was racing a mile a minute, euphoria and adrenaline close companions as he prepared himself for the race. It’d been a long time since he’d played games with high stakes.

It felt good.

“Three!”

They were off. The wind blowing against his face was relentless, the darkening sky and the sensation of his skis hitting the snow one that made his blood sing. He didn’t turn to look if Riddle was following him.

In that moment, it was Harry and the snow. The wind was all he could hear, the biting pressure of the air cutting through every layer of his coat and his thermal underwear. It was thrilling, and he couldn’t help the smile that stretched over his face when he pushed on, wading through the snow like a sea snake swam through a river.

A whoop tumbled from his lips, and he watched how the trees passed him in a blur of green and white, rocks and other debris easily avoided with a careful push of his ski poles. It was amazing—he’d forgotten just how much he enjoyed this feeling.

“Harry!” A voice cut through his excitement, loud and familiar. He almost turned toward it, befuddled that someone could be shouting his name when he was flying through the snow at a speed that was almost unreal.

“You have to turn back!” Frowning, Harry did turn his head at that, confusion coloring his face when up at the top of the mountain there was a crowd of onlookers that he couldn’t identify. They were too far for him to see their faces, but their screams rang through the sound of rushing snow and wind.

“There’s a storm brewing, you have to stop!”

A storm?

Trepidation bloomed in his stomach, recalling in that instant the darkened clouds that had begun to gather at the top of the sky, the sun nearly overcome when he’d been talking to Riddle earlier.

There had been no mention of a storm on his weather app, he had checked three hundred times to make sure. It was unprecedented that things could unravel so quickly.

“Watch out!”

At that loud cry, Harry had one split second to turn around and look forward before he smashed into a tree, his body careening out of control. He screamed, eyes falling shut as the snow and his own inertia forced him down the hill and further away from the screaming voices of his colleagues.

His body lifted mid-air, rolling through the ground in a heap of limbs. Harry had no time but to buckle down when his ankle smashed into a rock, an ear-splitting crack sounding in the air. A cry tore from his lungs, the pain making his eyes water when his body continued to roll further down until he could hear nothing but the sound of the blood rushing to his ears and his own whimpers each time he jostled his leg.

Help!

Harry couldn’t scream, mouth filling with snow as he continued to roll until finally, he smashed into what could only be another tree, halting his descent. Everything hurt. His fingers were wet and sticky with blood from when the rocks along the path had cut through his coat and into his skin.

There was no telling how long he laid that way. It could have easily been an eternity before he gathered the wherewithal to open his eyes.

Blinking, he tried to repress his tears when he tried to get up and unwittingly awakened a deep, pulsing pain concentrated on his ankle.

A swear tumbled from his mouth, then a whimper, his eyes blinking away the darkened spots of his vision to take note of his surroundings. He didn’t dare move as he took in the winding trees towering above him and the bloodied snow. No, he held perfectly still, afraid to jostle any other injuries.

Fuck, he should have been paying attention. It was a rookie mistake to turn one’s back, to lose one’s concentration while in the midst of a run.

“Hel-help, somebody,” Harry cried out, coughing when his lungs began to protest at his efforts. “R-riddle? Someone!” He didn’t know why he called for him, why he would bother, but he had to try. He couldn’t just lay there, helpless while a fucking storm rolled over the horizon.

There was no response. It was only him and trees around him. The sky, in the time that it took him to come to a stop after hitting every rock and fallen branch on the way down, growing darker. Purple and heavy, the threat of a storm thick in the black clouds that floated above the trees.

Perfect, just bloody perfect.

Harry laid there helpless, unable to do anything as he waited for someone come find him. He was certain he hadn’t rolled too far away from the main skiing camp. There was only so much inertia a person had before they stopped, and Harry doubted he could have gotten very far.

But when the minutes seemed to stretch out for what felt like an eternity, Harry’s confidence began to wane. Apprehension crept over his senses, the possibility of dying out here in the cold while he bled out, a heavy one that made his breaths come far too quickly.

So much for a wonderful vacation, Harry.

“Harry!”

At the sound of his name, Harry perked up, wincing when he jostled his arm, realizing that he’d probably broken it too when he tried to break his fall.

“I’m he-here!” He screamed. His voice echoed through the trees, and he prayed in that moment that whoever had followed him down there had heard him. He didn’t know how long he could last if he didn’t get some help.

He had already lost feeling in his extremities, the numbness more terrifying than the actual fall. When one started going numb, that was when fingers or limbs were lost. Eaten away by the frost, victim to winter’s cruel breath.

“Harry, where are you!?” That voice came again, closer this time. Harry tried to crawl toward it, teeth aching when his ankle began to pulse in time with his racing heartbeat. It was so fucked that Harry doubted he could put any weight on it—he’d need a doctor to fix it if he didn’t want a permanent limp. “Harry!”

“I’m here. I’m here!”

Harry was screaming bloody murder, crawling toward the voice. His nails dug into the snow, his fingertips, even with gloves, tingling with each mound of snow he dug through to push himself forward.

A shadow passed over him, lurking from somewhere inside the trees, and Harry opened his mouth to scream again.

“I’m here, please. I’m here—” His throat was aching fiercely by the end of it, scratchy and hoarse. He doubted he could keep shouting without losing his voice entirely.

The minutes trickled by, the shadow lingering in the trees for a long stretch of time, before the shadow broke through the trees and ran toward him. Harry couldn’t quite make out the person, his vision was coming in and out, blood loss and pain taking its toll on him after forcing himself to crawl that one meter he had.

“Harry…”

The person threw himself to the snow beside him, his hands, gentle and so warm, pulling him up to rest his head over his lap.

“You idiot,” the man said, fingers carding through the hair peeking from beneath his cap. It was a miracle it hadn’t fallen off, with how quickly he’d rolled down that mountain, but he was grateful for it. His insides were cold, his hands and feet had gone numb. “You could have gotten yourself killed. Why would you look back while skiing?”

Harry coughed, head lolling to one side. His head felt heavy, as if weighed down by stone. His vision was growing darker and darker as the minutes passed, and it was only at the stranger’s curse that he became aware that he was being scooped up, the pain in his arm and ankle yanking him out of the strange haze settling over him.

Whimpering, Harry tilted his head to regard the man that was now dragging him by his waist and shoulders toward, what he assumed, was the hotel.

It took him an embarrassing amount of time to recognize who this person was. The goggles, cap, and thick coat had obscured most, if not all, of the man’s features.

“R-Riddle?” Harry said, throat dry and aching as he was pulled along. “They sent you?”

Riddle fixed his gaze on him then, his dark eyes the only discernible feature on the man’s face. They were intense, a glimmer to them that made something nervous jolt in Harry’s stomach. It wasn’t a pleasant look. One might even say that Riddle looked upset. Harry didn’t get it.

“I sent myself.” Riddle replied, his eyes staring into Harry’s eyes. It almost hurt to look at him, the strain of his eyes making his head pound. “When I saw that you were nowhere to be found, I set off looking for you.”

That made sense. They had both pushed off the top at the same time. It would be odd not to find his competitor after they’d both made their gambles.

“The storm should be here soon. I did my best to find you before you became buried in it.” Riddle continued, his movements careful even though, in retrospect, Tom should be rushing to find cover somewhere. There was no time for him to be gentle with him. His ankle and arm were broken, but what did his limbs matter if he didn’t survive in the first place?

“Riddle, then you might want to hurry up. I-if we do have a storm coming, then you shouldn’t be this slo-slow.” Harry coughed, cheeks itchy with dried tears as he tried to compose himself through his hacking fits. Maintaining conversation was a strain, but he couldn’t just be quiet when their lives were at risk.

“We’ll be fine. There’s a cave not too far from here.”

Harry nodded, not trusting himself to speak, and allowed Riddle to guide him to the cave. It was certainly no hospital, but he couldn’t afford to be picky. There was no time to make it back to the hotel and avoid the storm. A quick glance towards the sky revealed that it would be upon them at any moment. It had gone a sickly dark purple, the sun eaten entirely by the terrifying weather.

Heaviness swept through him, the same sensation of floating away making his head fall against Riddle’s chest. He was exhausted, eyes struggling to stay open when Riddle’s rocking movements lulled him to sleep. It didn’t help that his fear and adrenaline had gradually dissipated, Riddle’s words and presence serving as a comfort for the real danger he’d be in without it.

He didn’t want to die here. Not now when there was so much for him to do, when his life was only just beginning. How terrible would it be to die with his last memories being this shitty trip? No, he refused to die here.

Riddle did not speak for some time, the sound of his steps crushing snow and his own breathing the only thing to break the eerie silence that had settled between them. Harry tried to stay awake, shifting his head to look at Riddle, but the numbness was too much. Even Riddle’s heat, though welcomed in that moment, was not enough to drive away the chill still clinging to his limbs.

“Ar-are we almost there?” Harry said, eyelids falling shut and refusing to obey his desire to remain awake. It was dangerous to fall asleep, to give in to that strange sensation undulating beneath his skin. He’d heard stories, seen enough survival series to know that sleep was the last thing he wanted to have when he was losing blood and freezing his arse off.

“Harry—” Riddle said, but Harry could not make out his words. They faded in and out of his hearing, even when Harry’s cheek vibrated with the force of Riddle’s voice. There was something calling to him, something familiar.

Harry…

It was a soft voice. One that sounded an awful like his mother, singing for him to close his eyes and to dream. He recognized it, latching onto it desperately because it was his mother’s voice. It was unmistakable, the rich velvet of her tongue speaking his name could not be anything else.

Sleep, my darling, my son.

A smile crept over his face and the world became nothing. Haziness settled into his bones, over his fingertips until there was nothing but her.

Close your eyes and let yourself be free…

The lolling motions ceased, evaporating like a white mist.

Cover your ears, I’ll be here…

His mother had never come back. Her voice and the rich scent of her hair were the only memories he had of her—her face and her hair, a nebulous nothing that he couldn’t recall with detail. Not when it’d been years since she’d died, since his father had joined her in the afterlife, leaving him at the mercy of the Dursleys…

To battle the monsters reaching for your feet…

“Harry!”

His eyes snapped open to a sea of grey, his chest heaving with shallow breaths as he tried to make sense of where he was and why it was so damn bright…

“Don’t close your eyes. You must stay awake.”

He blinked repeatedly, trying to will away the black spots flickering over his vision.

“W-where—?” Harry coughed, unable to finish his phrase when the short puffs of air turned into heavy wheezing. His eyes burned, tears threatening to fall from the violence of his breathing. It was so terrible that it took him a while to notice the warmth stretching along his back, rubbing soothing circles against his clothed flesh.

There was no telling how long he remained that way, equal parts enjoying the warmth seeping into his back and hating the burn of his throat.

God.

“There, that’s it. Breathe in through your nose and let out slow breaths from your mouth.” A masculine voice whispered into his ear, a strange sensation blooming in his belly when lips grazed the shell of it. “Try to stay awake. You cannot fall asleep in your condition.”

Confusion spread through him, and then—

Harry glanced down after his coughing subsided to find that his ankle was bent in a way that he’d never seen his leg bend before. It was lying on the floor, his trousers smeared in blood and dirt, the cuff torn so as to reveal bruised and swollen flesh.

There was no pain despite its grim appearance.

Swallowing, Harry was just about to ask what had happened when all of his memories came at him at once. The bet, the cries of an oncoming storm, the loud crunch of his ankle and arm making impact with tree and rock, the sight of his blood on white snow—oh god, his blood—and the cold. A fierce, unwavering cold that spread through him as sickness cut through impoverished villages.

“O-oh god,” Harry stammered, the lack of feeling in his legs and fingers making panic choke on his spit. “I-I can’t feel my fingers, my feet—”

“You were out in the cold for some time. There’s no need to panic. I’ll try to get you warmed up as we wait for the storm to pass.” Riddle—yes, that was who this was—said into his ear before his arms wrapped around him.

Harry stiffened, unable to repress that reaction, before he inevitably sank into the embrace, unable to resist the heat Riddle emitted. It made his blood warm, his body tingle strangely to be pressed against his body after winter had nearly devoured him with her icy mouth. There was a strange sound beneath the background, not nearly as loud as the sound of Riddle’s voice or the heartbeat beneath the man’s chest, but it was there.

It was a constant thrum.

“Unfortunately, in the time it took me to bring you to the cave, I was not able to gather some dry wood to start a fire. We will have to make do with one another’s own body heat until the storm tapers off.”

Storm…? That had to be the source of the sound. It couldn’t be anything else.

Then, the reality of Riddle’s words finally registered. It was nearly enough to spring him from the brink of death.

Sharing body heat? If this had been any other situation, Harry might have balked at such a suggestion. But he was out of options, nearly having died for the second time that afternoon by sinking into hypothermia.

Had he been out that long that he’d nearly succumbed to it? Had he lost that much blood that he’d thought it a great idea to give in to the weakness in his body? There could be no other possibilities.

“H-how long did it take you to find me, out in the snow?” Harry asked, voice shaking.

“Three hours, possibly. I cannot be sure.”

Closing his eyes, Harry sank deeper into Riddle’s body. He couldn’t believe that he’d been out that long. Could he have passed out after his fall? Harry frowned, a gasp escaping him when he moved his arm and a searing pain shot past his elbow and up to his shoulder. It made his eyes water, reminding him once again that he was far more injured that he’d originally thought.

“Careful. Try not to move. You’ve broken your arm and ankle. It is also possible that you’ve sustained other injuries not easily seen.”

No shit, Harry wanted to say, but refrained from doing so. As much as Riddle annoyed him on a good day, the man was helping him. He’d come out to his rescue, had saved him not once, but twice, from death. Riddle had been nothing but helpful, his touches gentle and soothing even when they came from someone as strange as him.

It was uncharacteristic how such an unfeeling man in many ways managed to be understanding of his pain. Perhaps, Harry might have misjudged him? Had jumped too quickly to conclusions by convincing himself that Riddle was an unfeeling automaton?

Guilt cut through him, recalling some of the unwarranted insults he’d thrown in Riddle’s direction when the man had done nothing but make conversation. He supposed now was as good a time as any to apologize and thank him for his help. He would be dead if not for his intervention. It was the least he could do.

“Ri—”

A sharp intake of breath cut off whatever apology or amends Harry intended to convey. Hot air fanned against the back of his head before something hard poked it, a something that was unmistakably a nose—

“D-did you just bloody sniff me?” Harry said, eyes wide with disbelief when Riddle did not cease the gesture, breathing him in as if he’d been waiting years for this privilege. “Are you really doing this right now?”

Harry was too shocked to feel any anger. He was injured, exhausted, and trapped in some cave for an indeterminable amount of time. He didn’t have it in him.

“We are quite close. There isn’t much room for me to breathe elsewhere.” Riddle replied smoothly, almost too smoothly. Harry’s eyes narrowed, unconvinced, but didn’t push the issue. There was a time and a place for arguments.

Injured, trapped in a cave, while a storm was raging outside was clearly not the time nor place.

“Fine.” Harry said, giving into the warmth Riddle provided. He was still cold, fingers and feet still numb. As much as it pained him to have to rely on Riddle, he was the only source of heat available for the time being.

And if Riddle’s mouth trailed too close to his neck, or his fingers played with the hem of his winter coat? Harry would make no mention of it. Not when he huddled closer, basking in Riddle’s warm embrace.

Their bet and their tumultuous relationship, temporarily forgotten.

#Tomarry #Harrymort #fanfiction #tropes #Anonymous

[shieldagentscully-blog]

SAS 5 - Great Minds

May 1994 - Washington D.C.

The body was a 34-year-old male, Puerto Rican, gang member who had been the star witness in a Department of Justice trial involving a cartel operating out of the Port Authority in New York, importing goods and drugs for distribution and sale on the black market. The case was run of the mill, honestly, and the unfortunate fellow had been pretty cut-and-dry as far as such cases went. There wasn’t much a bullet to the back of the skull was going to tell you outside of the fact that the caliber was enough to make an open casket impossible for his family. Scully did what she could to ensure that the funeral home didn’t have to deal with too much of a mess, sewed up the Y-incision and went back to her office to begin writing up her notes.

She was only mildly surprised to see anyone sitting in there. Certainly, she was used to the itchy agent or three who would on occasions camp out there with the impatience of a hyper two-year-old waiting for the results for their investigation, and in fact she had been expecting that very thing on the body she had just put into the freezer. She didn’t even pause as she rounded towards her desk, barely looking at the woman seated across from it.

“Javier de Valle was a standard execution, plain and simple. Was asked to kneel in a parking lot, hands behind his back while they put a slug into the back of his head. The exit wound obliterated much of the upper part of his face. I’m getting ballistics to give me the specs on the weapon used and if it’s traceable, and when they do, I’ll add those to my report. I should have something preliminary for you by the end of the day with addendums within the next 48, depending on how our trace goes.”

The woman merely blinked dark eyes at her, a hint of something tugging at her lips. “Well, that was a horrible way to die.”

It was the British accent that caught her attention, as few people from Justice ever had one of those. She paused, really looking at her visitor for the first time. An older woman, maybe in her 60’s, still clearly vibrant judging from the bemused smirk on her faintly lined face, hair slowly fading from brunette to silver. Her well tailored suit and elegant pearls made Scully suddenly very aware of the standard-order scrubs she was wearing and her own copper hair pulled up in a messy scrunchy at the top of her head.

“Ummm...I’m sorry, I thought you were from Justice, on the body I had sent down to me.”

“I wish I was now, it sounds fascinating.” She shrugged, regarding Scully quickly. “Let me guess, gang killing, likely drugs or some such, and your body was an informant?”

Scully couldn’t deny or affirm that, so she only stared. The woman only seemed more amused by that.

“Of course, it’s the sort of everyday, run-of-the mill stuff that the Department of Justice feels they need to send to Quantico, because nothing less than their best forensic pathologists would do. After all, not everyone can tell that a man having his face blasted off was shot in the back of the head.”

“In fairness, most people wouldn’t get past the face being missing, but beyond that, I suppose they could have used a New York City coroner. They are backed up for a week or more, however, and as this was a key piece for a DOJ investigation, they came to me, as they should.” Scully leaned back in her chair, regarding the stranger. “You know, Quantico is a Marine base. They don’t just let anyone in here.”

“Well, good thing I have the clearance for that sort of thing.” Her smile was now genuine as she leaned across the desk, placing a white card in front of Scully. It read “Margaret Carter, Director, Strategic Homeland Intervention, Enforcement, and Logistics Division”

Scully suddenly felt her mouth go very, very dry.

“Director Carter,” she managed, clearing her throat and tugging at her blood spattered and rumpled top. “I...uh..how can I help you?”

“I just wished to say hello, introduce myself, and tell you that Agent Coulson is speaking to your friend on my orders.” Her expression was mild enough, but there was something of the predator in her as she leaned back, crossing her legs at the knees, pulling her skirt down primly. “I must admit, I find it admirable the devotion you have for Agent Mulder. It’s rare to find that in our line of work. Though, to be fair, you two aren’t exactly the standard for FBI agents, now are you?”

“May I ask why you are reaching out to Mulder?”

“Because I know his father.”

That gave Scully pause.

If she expected Director Carter to elaborate, she was mistaken, as she breezed by that tidbit. “Agent Mulder has been on our radar for some time, since before the FBI managed to snare him. It is unfortunate they did because they’ve squandered the talent as they always do. Bill Patterson is a jackass and always has been, but, that’s where they put your partner and nearly ruined him for anything else.”

Scully’s brain swum as the other woman rattled off the information, racing to try and keep up with her. “I’m sorry, you said that SHIELD wanted Mulder first?”

“Oh, we had every intention of taking him. Politics got in the way of that.”

“But Mulder was a profiler. He didn’t work anti-terrorism.”

“As brilliant as your partner’s mind is, Agent Scully, I didn’t want him because he knows how serial killers think. I wanted him because of the way he thinks; outside the box, without labels or preconceived notions, willing to turn the picture on its side and look at it in a different way.”

“I see.” She didn’t really, but she wasn’t willing to admit that. “And this has nothing to do with the X-files, the death of a high profile man in a global conspiracy who served as Mulder’s informant, or the fact that Mulder was infected with a strange virus whose origins cannot yet be quantified?”

“It could be all of that, too.”

None of this made sense.

“I’m sorry, Director Carter, but I find it hard to believe that a global organization such as SHIELD is going out of its way for someone the FBI has nearly written off. Why not just approach him out in the open, like you and I are? Why all the clandestine business?”

Far from offending the other woman, Scully’s tone made her laugh outright. “I knew I’d like you from the start. I pushed to have the pair of you, honestly, but Fury said to try the more obvious one first. I’m glad to see my instincts were right.”

Before Scully could feel nettled enough to demand answers, the other woman leaned over to a briefcase at her feet, pulling out a file she flipped open on her lap. “Dana Katherine Scully, born 1964. Your father was career Navy, retired a read admiral, your mother was a homemaker and now spends her retirement volunteering and working for veterans’ causes. You have three siblings, a sister, Melissa, who last we saw was driving up the coast of California to see friends in San Francisco. You have two brothers, both career Navy, one in San Diego, the other based in Norfolk, specializing in naval intelligence.”

She raised an eyebrow at that. “Interesting...might have Fury look into him.”

“Is there a point reciting my life story?”

“I like knowing about people.” She didn’t even look up from the page. “You graduated from Maryland summa cum laude taking a bachelors in physics, and then Stanford Medical, where you specialized in cardiology before switching to pathology and the FBI. Had it not been for Daniel Waterston, you’d have been making high figures fixing hearts, instead you are in the basement of the Hoover Building trailing after a man whose heart was broken years ago and he’s never been able to fix it. Why?”

She might as well have dumped cold ice water over Scully’s head for all the shock Carter caused. She hadn’t expected her to drop Scully’s previous sins on her like that.

“I...my father and brothers were Navy. I wanted to do something equally as worthwhile, to make a difference.” It was mostly the truth.

“And a broken heart from a man cheating on his wife wasn’t the reason?”

“Do you honestly think I’d still be here, doing this, if Daniel Waterston is the only reason I joined the FBI?”

Her answer seemed to please Carter. “You didn’t want to join the Navy yourself? You have brains, a medical degree, you could have excelled. They are always looking for that.”

Scully did know that, had even considered it, briefly. “When I was a girl, my father was more often away than at home. It was Vietnam, he was off at one base or the other, and my mother was left in San Diego fending for four kids and praying that he’d come home safely from wherever her was stationed. Granted, it wasn’t World War II, but we all saw the news every night, the names read off. I wasn’t interested in being shipped off to fight in a war and break my mother’s heart.”

“Even though women can be in the military, now, which was more than in my day.” Carter only sounded slightly bitter at that.

“There are other enemies and other ways to fight a war and I’m not Captain America, able to throw myself into battle and defeat my enemies by just beating them into submission.”

She had meant it as a small joke, a call back to SHIELD’s history with the SSR. She had struck a nerve, though. Carter’s geniality faltered, briefly, regarding Scully, as if attempting to stick her 5’2 frame into anything close to Steve Rogers and failing miserably.

“No,” she finally sighed, somewhat sad, somewhat humorously grieved. “Few people can claim to be as hard-headed or foolishly determined to fight unwinnable wars as Captain Rogers was. But, I think your friend, Fox Mulder, might just give him a run for his money.”

That made Scully snort loudly. “He just might.”

She wasn’t sure what it said about Mulder if they could mutually agree he was almost, but not quite, foolish enough to do something like take an untested serum in order to fight super-Nazis. Scully didn’t think she wanted to put the notion in his head.

“Back to the matter at hand, you joined the FBI to make a difference, to have a bit of adventure, use that incredible talent of yours to solve the world’s problems and not just triple bypasses. So, why are you stuck in Quantico again, dissecting gangland executions for needy DOJ prosecutors who got their short hairs in a twist because they didn’t protect their informants well enough?”

Scully nearly choked on her own spit as Carter dropped them neatly between them, all tweed and pearls, as cooly as she was discussing the weather. “Well, I’m here because that’s where the FBI assigned me after Agent Mulder’s unfortunate fall out and the closing of the X-files.”

“Are you seriously happy here, though, doing work any city examiner could do while teaching green-faced cadets how not to puke at the sight of blood and guts coming out of a corpse?”

“Is it what I’d like to do, no, but I’m knowledgeable at it.”

“I’m knowledgeable at how to make a good cuppa and not dribble on myself and yet you don’t see me at tea parties.” She sniffed mildly, disdain evident. “All this talent wasted because the FBI wanted to reign you in and shut you up. Are you really content accepting that?”

“And what, leave? To do what? Work for you?”

Carter only arched one dark, elegant eyebrow.

“I’ve never done the work SHIELD does. I’m a pathologist who has some skills in an ER, that’s about it.”

“You also have some knowledge on a virus known as ‘Purity Control’ correct?”

How in the hell did Carter know about that? “I’ve seen it, yes, but the evidence I have for it is gone now.”

“Yes, I’m afraid it is. But, I can help you and Mulder find it again.”

“How? His contact has already been killed.”

“Because the FBI has no idea what they are dealing with, but I do. SHIELD has been fighting them for decades. And I’m offering a chance for you to come alongside Mulder to keep up your work.”

Keep up their work? Opening the X-files?

“What is it that SHIELD does again?”

“A little bit of everything, Agent Scully, but primarily we protect, just like every good shield does. Things, places, but mostly people. We are what keeps the world safe at night, able to live another day, because there are things out there that are far bigger than armies or governments, and threats that no one could even predict or begin to understand. We are the first line of defense, and if we are lucky, the only one they ever meet. That’s the idea, anyway, and I should know, as I helped found the bloody place.”

Found? Scully’s eyes went impossibly wide as she stared at the woman in front of her. “You...helped to found SHIELD?”

“Why yes, darling, else the thing would have never gotten off the ground, though I daresay without Chet and Howard we’d have failed even getting that far. The threats didn’t end because Hitler was dead. There needed to be an organized group that could handle these sorts of bigger-than-life threats, ones that all the superpowers caught in their Cold War were too busy to pay attention to. Thus, SHIELD was born.”

All Scully could think in the heat of the moment was that the Gunmen would die of absolute envy at this moment.

“So you want Mulder to help you stop global threats?”

“Fox Mulder isn’t the only one we want.”

Scully knew it was coming, but even when the other shoe dropped, she still felt stunned. “I’m just a forensic pathologist. We are a dime a dozen.”

“You are a gifted scientist, a talented doctor, and you’ve managed to keep up with the likes of Mr. Mulder for over a year, which knowing his reputation I say is an impressive feet. Beyond that, I’ve seen your work. You have a clinical mind and a meticulous investigatory brain and I want it. The Bureau is wasting what talent they have here throwing you at gangland killings and raw recruits, you have more to offer than that.”

Scully glanced down at her scrubs, then at her desk, the piles of papers stacked in the corner, the notes scribbled across a legal pad, the tape recorder with her verbal notes on it from her autopsy. She hadn’t minded returning to the lab, really, but if she were honest with herself, she missed the field work she had been doing with Mulder, the true investigations, the search for the truth. Besides, if he was going to be working for SHIELD, he would need a minder.

“How is your insurance plan?”

At that, Carter smiled widely. “As long as you don’t mind the occasional experimental treatment, I think you will find it adequate.”

“Good, because you are going to find that Mulder is going to need it.”

#scully #agent scully #quantico #peggy carter #mcu

[douchebagbrainwaves]

THAT'S BIG COMPANY THINKING

I think the big obstacle preventing us from seeing the future than the best investors, because until you're profitable that's who you have to put up with them because they have some skill you need and how much funnier a bunch of adults had been transposed into your bodies. People are always asking you this, so you could use it. There is always a big time lag in prestige. You're unlikely to have more than enough. You'll need an executive summary, which should be 3x this year's. Fixing a bug in it; ITA's software includes a lot of people, for example, you start to get a line right. Let me put the case in most types of business; they feel they've been lucky to get that done quickly, instead of letting it drag on through your whole life, as in many others, the eminent are actually disadvantages. And because the points are independent of one another, just as we can become smarter, just that it's more straightforward. He'd only been working on when they bought us. Because he pays close attention, a Navy pilot can land a 40,000 lb. But you never had one guy painting over the work of the product managers and designers.

Sacrificing Users to Supposed Profit When I said at the beginning of the summer. That's what I thought was a huge interval. Different Not understanding that investors view investments as bets combines with the ten page paper mentality to prevent founders from even considering the idea of building Facebook in 2004: organic startup ideas usually don't seem like you have to be able to reach most of the startups from the rest. The secret to writing on such narrow pages is to break words only when you have a better chance of generating those if you combine stuff from distant fields. Where axioms are concerned, especially, is to separate the things you sell. How about that for years, and then, by accepting offers greedily, because the problem was with her. Make something people want. This gets harder as you get older and more experienced.

I didn't mean by this that Java programmers are dumb. A market takes every organization and keeps just the good ones and the bad ones only becomes visible in the original sense, is something called bottom-up programming. I'm not the only one. They get introductions to VCs from various sources: their angel investor connects them with a high probability of the latter. The Atlantic. We'd also need ways of erasing personal information not just to acquire users, but also burn your reputation with those investors. This is not too high a valuation is that you will yourself misunderstand your work.

Possibly, but I'd guess that many of these would-be startup founders but to students in general, but they seem to be any less committed to the business as you wanted. But only a bad VC fund would take that deal. Wall Street. I think VC funds are seriously threatened by the startup itself. But they forgot to consider the cost. I first meet founders and ask what their growth rate is a bit higher than I'd like. Reading Period, when students have no classes to attend because they're supposed to. The first assumption is widespread in text classification. Intellectually, it is no fun to be at least some of the biggest dangers of not using the organic strategy, you could do is find a middle-sized non-technology company and spend a couple weeks living what is, for people there, but that you haven't thought much about it, knowing that we needed money and had nowhere else to get it from the rich. Later stage investors won't invest in at a cap of $x will have an individual spam probability of 98%, whereas the same token in the body. Indeed, the other alternative was to get the right answers.

The startup may not have the kind of people it wants. When technology makes something dramatically cheaper you have to get bought or go public. So if you're an outsider you're constrained too, of course. Now we can stick computers in everything. One thing we'll need is support for the new way that server-based software never ships. It is not unusual for an old Raleigh three-speed in good condition, and sent me an email offering to sell me one, I'd be delighted, and yet he knows what language you should write it in. Best of all is likely to think is that all the complaints about App Store approvals are not a fallen people, who are amazed to find that there are more undergrads who want to get the rest of the market were a couple of 20 year olds. What deals do is fall back on. I think are very valuable.

On the subway back from the airport she asked Why is everyone smiling? They may have to decide between turning some investors away and selling more of the company. Design is not just a series of small changes. The junior people will tend to put them in a boat together. Much to the surprise of the builders of the first visitors to this new model, per se, so long as you didn't fail at that. You have to be called corruption when there started to be driven by how well that worked for him: There is no magically difficult step that requires brilliance to solve. There's not much we can learn, though perhaps none of them agreed with everything in it. But suggesting efficiency is a different form of profitability than startups have traditionally aimed for. The Harmless People and The Old Way. It was the worst year of my adult life, but there it is: The Men's Wearhouse. Indeed, it may not be by reforming the universities but by going around them. What if we let more great programmers into the US, startups will do a rolling close, where they take money from novice investors, or there would never be tactful; they were too slow to become profitable.

MIT, Stanford, Berkeley, and Carnegie-Mellon. The seeds of our miserable high school experiences were sown in 1892, when the Facebook was founded—though strictly speaking someone else did think of that as your task? Web, meaning Web-based software, all you need is a language where you have to figure it out yourself. And most importantly, what are we really complaining about its finiteness? That plus the inexperience card should work in most companies, acquisitions still carry some stigma of inadequacy. Should you take it? Nerds If you want people to see their mistakes. You can't just say Err to the user like software, this technique starts to have aspects of a practical joke, like letting a bat loose in a room, they squash the high-paying union job a myth, but I don't think universities will disappear. Well, there are ways to solve it. Prep schools openly say this is inevitable—that he was writing differentiation programs even in the US, it becomes an advantage to be able to transcend your environment. Only a tiny fraction are startups. Curiously, however, which makes others want to, but they probably won't be coming this month.

It shouldn't be, but it seems a good hypothesis to begin with. You don't do that if you invest in startups founded by eminent professors. You get to watch your own thoughts from a distance. They can practically read one another's minds. The last 10 years. Most will say that I'm clueless or being misleading by focusing so much on the richer end of economic inequality in a country with a truly feudal economy, you might want different mediums for the two situations. Don't be too pushy, but know the actual lawsuits rarely happen. In science and engineering, some of the people who work at VC firms regularly cold email startups. The way to seem good.

#automatically generated text #Markov chains #Paul Graham #Python #Patrick Mooney #investments #bets #paper #finiteness #Facebook #inadequacy #economy #approvals #schools

[pcwpolwrestling]

Shutdown Showdown-PCW Newsline

1/10/2019 PCW NEWSLINE

The Shutdown Continues

The Media Reacts

Kellyanne Conway and Jim Acosta Get Into It

PCW Heartland Rankings

This Week on PCW Extreme Political TV

CURRENT CHAMPIONS: Universal PCW Champion: ‘Red Solo Plastic Cup’ Ray McAvay (Independent/Les Miserables) Universal PCW Tag Team Champions: Sports Entertainment Corporation: P.M.C. Banks and Charlie Blackwell Universal PCW Women’s Champion: ‘Extreme Pizza Delivery Girl’ Tessa Martin (Independent) PCW Red Brand Champion: Kirk Walstreit- the Wall Street Market Analyst with the Man Crush on ESPN’s Kirk Herbstreit PCW Blue Brand Champion: Vacant PCW Red Brand Tag Team Champions: Banks and Blackwell PCW Blue Brand Tag Team Champions: Union Jack Taylor and the Ultimate Social Justice Warrior

===

LAST WEEK ON EXTREME POLITICAL TV: The shutdown continues. How is the media covering the shutdown?

Colleen Crowder: Our narrative is that the shutdown is all Donald Trump’s fault plus it’s wrong that PCW Heartland owner Dawn McGill gets to run her shows while the PCW Blue and PCW Red Brand shows…bigger shows…are forced to stay home.

PCW Heartland Owner Dawn McGill delivers a warning to the Establishment.

Dawn McGill: I said this on May 14th, 2017 and it holds true today. Paul Ryan or Kevin McCarthy whoever in charge there don’t get it. Mitch McConnell, Nancy Pelosi, and Chuck Schumer don’t get it. I still wonder sometimes if Donald Trump actually gets it.   But let me make this clear to the Establishment…PCW is not here for you. PCW is not here for the Sports Entertainment Corporation and CSPN. PCW is not here for the American Patriots. PCW is not here for the Progressive Alliance. PCW is here for…YOU…the fans. We don’t need the American Patriots. We don’t need the Progressive Alliance. All we need to succeed is you…and your support.

Nancy Pelosi adjourns Executive Committee meeting early leaving American Patriots wondering what’s going on.

Pelosi moves to adjourn for the weekend. Steny Hoyer (MD-Progressive Alliance) seconds. The Progressive Alliance quickly stands and streams out the door as fast they can leaving a confused and bewildered American Patriot Leader Kevin McCarthy (CA-American Patriots) looking at the American Patriots in the room.

Kevin McCarthy: Hey! Where’d everyone go? Does anybody know what’s going on?

Elizabeth Warren has a beer at the show.

Back from the break, the camera pans up to where Elizabeth Warren (MA-Progressive Alliance) is sitting in the crowd. She’s having a beer and talking with the people surrounding her.

Colleen Crowder: All Elizabeth Warren is doing is trying to show that she’s an ordinary person…no different than anyone else.

Johnny Suave: Because most ordinary people pretend to be a member of a protected class in order to gain preferential treatment at one of the world’s most prestigious universities.

New Universal PCW Champion Ray McAvay speaks.

Ray McAvay: The wrestlers of the PCW Red and Blue Brands are sitting at home right now because the Progressive Alliance and the American Patriots can’t agree on anything. We are here in Topeka, Kansas this afternoon because we are here for you…my way is different from most professional wrestlers. I’m an average schmuck. I show up. Punch in. Shut up. And get to work.

Heartland Title Tournament Semi-Finals. -Jack Fraiser defeats Average Joe in the first semi-final. -’The One Man American A-List’ Stone Chism defeats SNAFU in the second semi-final

===

SHUTDOWN UPDATE An emergency meeting took place this past Tuesday night with the PCW Red and Blue Brand wrestlers, PCW CEO Donald Trump (NY-American Patriots), Nancy Pelosi (CA-Progressive Alliance) and Chuck Schumer (NY-Progressive Alliance).

Trump spoke first and once again urged the Executive Committee to agree to his security enhancements to make PCW show a safer place for the fans. Trump emphasized that he wanted to get the PCW Red and Blue Brands back to work. But as long as Nancy Pelosi and Chuck Schumer refuse to even consider his plan, he will keep the shows shut down.

Next, Pelosi and Schumer spoke to the assembled wrestlers concerning the grave situation.

Pelosi went first. She grimly states Trump has chosen to hold the Red Brand and Blue Brand hostage until he gets his way. Pelosi agrees that we need to secure our shows. But she alleges Trump has manufactured a crisis and is hurting the families of the all the wrestlers who have been effectively locked out of their jobs.

Schumer, who appeared uber glum, wants to separate the shutdown of PCW shows from the arguments about security. We can secure our shows without building a literal wall between our fans and our wrestlers. Schumer also calls this a manufactured crisis and says let’s get the Blue and Red Brand shows going again and work this out.

How did it play out? Longtime Progressive Alliance adviser James Carville had this to say.

James Carville: I’ve been more excited about colonoscopies than he (Schumer) was giving his speech tonight. He didn’t want to be there.

A meeting was scheduled for Wednesday between Trump, Pelosi, and Schumer to continue to discuss the issue. Could both sides ratchet down the rhetoric and work together to find an end to the crisis?

VIDEO: Wednesday Meeting Between Trump, Pelosi, and Schumer

[Trump walks in and sits down across from Pelosi and Schumer.]

Donald Trump: What’s going to happen in thirty days if I reopen the Red and Blue Brand, will you agree to approve the improved security enhancements I’m proposing?

Nancy Pelosi: No.

Donald Trump: Okay.

[Trump stands back up and starts for the door.]

Chuck Schumer: Hey? Where are you going?

Donald Trump: I’m not wasting my time.

Chuck Schumer: You can’t leave!

Donald Trump: Didn’t Nancy Pelosi adjourn the Executive Committee early last week so the Progressive Alliance could leave instead of negotiating with the American Patriots?

Nancy Pelosi: That’s different.

[Trump exits.]

So apparently no.

The Guild of Low Level Media People Trying to Make a Name for Themselves had this to say:

‘Low Level Reporter at the New York Times Trying to Make a Name for Herself’ Colleen Crowder: Trump has fabricated this crisis. Again, this is why we need a new CEO.

‘Low Level Reporter at CNN Trying to Make a Name for Herself’ Sharon Johns: Donald Trump is being petulant. He's trumped up this 'crisis' and is keeping wrestlers from making a living. The Progressive Alliance is right to dig their heels and refuse to consider any other view other than theirs because their view is correct.

‘Low Level Reporter at the Washington Post Trying to Make a Name for Himself’ Dan Miller: Trump is wrong. He’s being a child. His argument has no merit and we agree with the Progressive Alliance over this manufactured crisis.

‘The Voice of PCW’ Johnny Suave had this to say.

Johnny Suave: So I guess the moral of this story it’s okay when it’s clear Nancy Pelosi has no intention to negotiate when she adjourns the Executive Committee last week so the Progressive Alliance can leave the American Patriots and go home for the weekend…but it’s not okay for Donald Trump to get up and leave when it’s clear Pelosi has no intention of negotiating.

Crowder, Miller, and Johns all begin to cough…

Colleen Crowder (coughing): …that’s different…

Dan Miller (also coughing): …whataboutism…

Sharon Johns (also also coughing): …false equivalency…

Colleen Crowder (coughing): …let’s move on…

Dan Miller (coughing): …move on…

Sharon Johns (coughing): …yes…move on…

===

CONWAY-ACOSTA SKIRMISH Trump aide Kellyanne Conway tangled with CNN’s Jim Acosta before the Tuesday meeting.

Jim Acosta: Kellyanne, can you promise the PCW CEO will tell the truth tonight?

Kellyanne Conway: Yes, Jim. Can you promise that you will? The whole truth and nothing but the truth, so help you God? Am I allowed to mention ‘God’ to you?

Acosta fired back that he doesn’t have an ‘alternative facts’ problem like she does.

Kellyanne Conway: Make sure that goes viral. This is why I’m one of the only people around here who gives you the time of day. You’re such a smartass most of the time and I know you want this to go viral.

Jim Acosta: Ma’am?

Kellyanne Conway: Don’t you ma’am me. Don’t you put it back in my face for all corrections your network needs to issue. I was on your network 25 or 26 times in 2018. I’m one of the last people here who even bothered to go on, and the disrespect you show to me personally, I’ll look past it. By the way, isn’t this you at a PCW House show this past weekend showing that security enhancements actually work?

VIDEO: Poplar Bluff, MO House Show

[A video appears. Acosta is standing in line to go to a PCW Heartland house show in Poplar Bluff, Missouri.]

Jim Acosta: There’s nothing here resembling an emergency situation.

[There’s extra security in place. There’s dividers in place that help separate people.]

Jim Acosta: There’s no people rushing to get into the building.

[The whole process is smooth and orderly.]

Red-faced, Acosta’s jaw drops. He turns and runs off.

===

PCW HEARTLAND RANKINGS

Heartland Title Champion: TBD #1 Contender: ‘The One Man Anti-Hollywood A-List’ Stone Chism/Jack Fraiser #2 Contender: SNAFU #3 Contender: Average Joe #4 Contender: Justin Beaver (SEC)

Heartland Tag Team Title Champion: Weapons of Mass Destruction: A. Tom Bomb and Hy Drogen Bomb #1 Contender: The Dork Dynasty: Leonard and Sheldon Robertson #2 Contender: Island of Misfit Wrestlers: Rah and Halitosis #3 Contender: The Beer Bellied Softball Playing Ninja: Hank and Tiny #4 Contender: The Green World Order: ‘Extreme Vegan’ Brock Cole Lee and GreenPete

===

THIS WEEK ON PCW EXTREME POLITICAL TV We will find out who the new Heartland Champion is going to be? Will it be the ‘One Man Anti-Hollywood A-List’ Stone Chism? Or will it be Jack Fraiser backed by his Oootlander Claire Rendell?

‘Mr. Hollywood’ Kevin Daniels is upset over the Les Miserables ‘intrusion’ of the Golden Globes earlier this week. Daniels plans to address the issue at Extreme Political TV.

PCW Heartland Owner Dawn McGill and Professor McCarthy of Berkeley, California meet…no, not in a ring but in Dawn’s office about the incident at Extreme Election Night 2018 where McGill threw McCarthy over the railing and through two tables below.

The SEC tries to explain the Clemson-Alabama game this past Monday night.

And the latest on the PCW Shutdown of the Red Brand and Blue Brand shows.

 All this and more this Sunday night on Extreme Political TV.

#politics #political #political satire #political wrestling #political nation #democrats #democrat #republican #republicans #us house of representatives #heartland #moderate #populist #populism #Red State #blue state #Donald Trump #nancy pelosi #chuck schumer #shutdown

[darkpoolgirl]

_dpg’s guide to making money for individual traders

Intro: Why?

Writers say they write because they just can’t do anything else. Not because it’s easy or profitable. I believe that. Traders often say the same thing. They want to ‘eat what they kill’ because that makes their lives feel more authentic or something. I totally get it. Corporate refugee here… an office is a terrible place to spend a life but then I don’t want to be a miserable artist or a hunter-gatherer either.

To me trading is a game. Not something I need to do but something I want to play and win. It gives me a childish excitement, and the idea that I can do this instead of a ‘real job’ is great. But because this isn’t a ‘lifestyle’ or one of those situations where ‘the journey is a goal’ (wtf?), there has to be an actual way to win or else playing the game is stupid. My ‘win’ is $5mm liquid, which I figure is enough to ‘buy my freedom’ and be able to sit under a shade tree with my dog or on a beach somewhere with a guaranteed income and to sip as many umbrella drinks as I want. If that sounds corny you’re just jaded (understandable, but weak). I will actually stop trading when I win. I’m embarrassed to say that I am right now under 10% of the way there (Roth IRA gets traded aggressively [for tax benefit] but I keep several years of expenses totally untouched in after-tax accts. that I do not consider part of gambling “bankroll” so my total liquid net worth is not in trading accounts).

The game has been hard so far. Obviously. I’m writing this after a 43% portfolio drawdown (due to stupidity) and then recovering the whole thing and biting my nails the whole time. You work harder when you lose money and you find ways to make yourself accountable so it doesn’t happen again, so I wrote the following rules, which were things I knew already but had trouble following. Some of you will recognize that these are not ‘investor’ rules or even ‘trader’ rules, these are ‘gambler’ rules. Because this game is about gambling, and if you don’t know that already then you need to start thinking like a gambler. Odds, probabilities.

I’m sharing this because other people helped me get here and I want to share like they did, and because despite what some people think, we individual traders are not competing against each other. We could all suck up $1 billion from an overgrown, mismanaged fund somewhere and nobody would even notice.

One last thing: If you’re playing for sub-2x annual gains or if you’re accountable to investors, this really isn’t for you. I’m playing to grow my bankroll across retirement and taxable accounts at a high enough rate to actually meet a goal and everything below is stuff that I think you have to do in order to ‘win’ this game. With that said, you might be playing a different game but still find this helpful and that’s fine.

***

A. The three things you need
 1. CONVEXITY. you can probably make 20% a year with different types of “short volatility” (dip buying with cash acct., selling ATM cash covered index puts, small short VXX position or selling VXX call spreads, etc.) just like every big fund manager… and because you’re more nimble you can probably do it better. But this is a good return for a pension fund, not an individual. You can also make 100%+ a year by gluing yourself to your screen and trading a few smaller niche products. Some gamer-types will be able to succeed at this but it’s a lot like a pro sport. You’ll burn out fast. To NOT burn out and to make 1000% a year, you NEED a lot of small, smart, uncorrelated bets, each of which has a convex payout. This means buying calls and puts (ATM/OTM) on mid- and large-cap stocks (these options are liquid enough).

2. EDGE. Your edge is always going to come from your size and the fact that you don’t have an investment committee breathing down your neck. All the people with PHDs and supercomputers have $20 bil in AUM and an army of lawyers and can’t play the same game that you are, because your $1 million account can go lots of places they can’t and because they have clients who have a specific equity curve in mind (hint: 20% drawdowns are unacceptable) and won’t accept risk. One of the places your account can go is in stock options (stuff smaller than AAPL, BAC, AMZN etc.). The guys with the PHDs think they can make money by arbitraging the difference between option prices (implied volatility) and realized volatility. (You know that they make 20% a year by doing this.) You, meanwhile, make 1000% a year by taking directional, convex bets on something that would be really hard to justify to an investment committee but that is still a real source of edge. They act smart, but you’re smarter.

3. RISK MANAGEMENT. The rest is always worthless if you don’t understand fractional Kelly betting and how to honestly assess your edge. Betting too much will destroy your account. Betting too little means you make 50% a year instead of 1000%. These numbers are brutal, but true. You need to come face to face with this. Do some simulations. Hire a coder if you need to. Quantify your edge, even if it’s fuzzy. Hold yourself accountable for following a sizing system and don’t deviate from it. Kelly or fractional Kelly is the answer, and consistently executing is essential.

OK? You need each of these three things.

Without CONVEXITY, you’re wasting your time. CONVEXITY multiplies the profit of every right move you make, but doesn’t multiply the downside of your wrong moves (fixed risk). If you can be right 50% of the time and get a 2:1 payout, you are minting money.

Without EDGE, you will bleed chips over time. It is impossible to make money without edge. Luckily, individual traders have this a thousand times easier, as long as they have…

RISK MANAGEMENT. This requires you to be humble and always follow your rules. Your edge never gives you a 100% chance of winning on a trade (if you think it does, then you’re wrong). You need to devise a system and stick with it completely.

If and only if you have each of these things, you will always be in control, you will never lose a lot of money unexpectedly, and you will make money over time. Of course you will have big drawdowns, but they will be totally quantifiable. Being long options gives you limited risk, and makes capturing your EDGE and executing with your RISK MANAGEMENT possible. It is tempting to learn from books written by institutional traders, and to adapt their methods to your situation (this is what 99% of individual traders try to do) but it is a huge mistake. You don’t have to accept the risks that big traders have to accept (short convexity), and at the same time you can accept the kinds of portfolio risk that would get finance guys fired. This is a huge advantage.

Financial institutions are conservative. They are full of people who are trying to keep their jobs… contrary to the idea that Wall Street people take big risks all the time. This is always where your edge will come from. You can take the risks that bankers are afraid will make them look stupid. Stuff with slightly lower probability of profit. Stuff that the investment committee would laugh at.

Your job is to make money, not impress your boss. If you totally internalize this fact and accomplish these three requirements (CONVEXITY, EDGE, RISK MANAGEMENT), you will succeed.

B. About CONVEXITY (Difficulty: Easy)

CONVEXITY is the property of something ‘convex’. In betting terms, something is convex if it can make a lot more money than it can lose.

Some people will argue that a concave bet (one that can lose way more than it can ever make) can also be a good bet, and that it all depends on the price and the expected value. This is true but meaningless. When you have a risk of unknown losses, you can’t put as much money on the line. When you can’t put as much money on the line, you can’t make as much money. More succinctly, you cannot ever make a lot of money if you take concave bets. You can only ever make a lot of money if you take convex bets. We want to make lots of money. We have to make convex bets.

But…

This means that we have to accept, for every bet, a lower probability of profit, because we will buy options that only have something like a 25% probability of making money (ATM/OTM). If you don’t like that, well that sucks. You have to get over it or you have to be ok with mediocre returns and get a job as a corporate drone.

C. About EDGE (Difficulty: Average)

Your edge comes from being small, but your edge isn’t just “being small.” You as a small trader have a role in the trading ecosystem, and that’s to take money that someone else is leaving on the table. Big fish leave a lot of money on the table because it’s impossible not to, and because they tend to want “price improvement” and other stuff like that. They are fiduciaries and don’t want to get sued. You need a signal to help see how and where this money is moving.

The easiest money being left on the table always comes from  simply following other people. Coming up with your own “ideas” is an ego trip and is a waste of time and money. Your job is to trade and make money for yourself. Find and take the handouts.

Most signals are garbage at finding this. If it was popular in the 1980s, it’s trash. The market fundamentally changes every ten years (and if you’re thinking, “but human psychology doesn’t change,” then just stop… human psychology isn’t a signal). In today’s market, the best signals come from big fish moving money into or out of stocks anticipating they’ll go up or down, and those big fish move money in over-the-counter (OTC) trades through their brokers and other liquidity providers. These trades never touch the public exchanges, and so they have less impact on price. (The sqzme “dark pool” data lets us take educated guesses at whether the big fish are buying or selling, and how much.)

Usually, if someone “knows something,” they buy at the ask and push the price up or down, and if you try to follow them, you get a much worse price in the following minutes, hours, and days. But if someone knows something and buys slowly and passively in OTC/dark, you can have plenty of time to join before price goes up or down. (And again, you only have to be ‘right’ less than half of the time, because you’re taking convex bets with options.) Everyone wins.

And it gets even better, because it’s not just the big fish investors who leave money on the table for you… the option dealers are helping you too.

Aside: Everyone seems to think that when you buy an option, someone else is taking the opposite side of the trade. This is false. The guy who sells you an option is hedging it and takes no directional risk at all. He doesn’t care if he sells you a call and the market goes up, because he’s hedged against that.

So for example if you believe that a stock is likely to rally, the price that the option dealer gives you has nothing to do with how likely he thinks a rally is. In fact, you can buy a call from a dealer and BOTH of you can make tons of money (specifically if the stock slowly moves up). Again, everyone wins.

Point is: You’re not competing and it’s not a zero sum game. You’re a small fish. They are big fish. You follow and you eat some scraps, using convex instruments to leverage your signal. If you’re right more than half the time, you’re killing it.

D. About RISK MANAGEMENT (Difficulty: Hard)

This is the hardest part, because it requires you to be actually humble. And most people who try to trade for themselves are not humble by nature.

So here’s the thing: If all the probabilities were known, it’d be easy, but they’re not. Most people use this as an excuse to not attempt to measure probabilities at all. Most people also fail at trading for themselves.

At the most basic level, an at-the-money (ATM) option will have a delta (probability of ending in-the-money) around 0.50 (50%). If you’re taking a directional bet on a stock, you already disagree with this “implied probability” (because you think up or down is more likely than 50%) … so you may decide to buy the option (or a spread) because you believe it has a positive expected value.

But the difference between incredible success and total failure in being an individual trader is whether you buy 3 contracts or 4 contracts. Not exaggerating. Your edge will not save you from bad position sizing, and you have to accept that.

So first let’s limit our discussion to an ATM bullish call spread and look at the probabilities:

Stock XYZ trades at $100. It was recently $105, but it fell over the course of the last week. Last time it fell to $100  (two months ago) there were lots of dark pool buyers, and then price recovered over the next month. Back at $100 again, there are just as many dark pool buyers as before. With all of this in mind, you guess that there’s a >50% chance that the stock will go up over the next month, and you even think it’s pretty likely to return to $105 (though it might have a hard time getting above that).

So you look at the delta of the $100-strike and $105-strike call for next month. The deltas are 0.50 and 0.20, respectively. That means the market is pricing a 50% chance of being above $100 and a 20% chance of being above 105 in a month. So you decide to buy the 100/105 bull vertical, because you believe there’s a >50% chance of XYZ being above $100 in a month, and either a 20% chance, or <20% chance, of being above $105. The spread costs $1.65 ($165)  per contract.

You believe that, out of all the possibilities, the average  price of XYZ in a month is likely to be $102.50. Yes it could go down to $95, or up to $110, but on average you think $102.50 is likely. This means you believe that the 100/105 call spread is actually worth $2.50 ($250) per contract. This puts your average anticipated profit at $0.85 ($85), because that’s the difference between the market’s price and your expected value.

So, in your mind, you’re risking $165 to make $85. 85/165 = 0.5152. In “odds,” that’s 0.5152-to-1 odds. Remember CONVEXITY? In betting terms, something is convex if it can make a lot more money than it can lose.

Your bet is already non-convex, since you’re risking “1” to make “0.5152.” You don’t really want that, but whatever, you keep going anyway.

Now, at this point, you’re thinking, “I conservatively bet there’s a 60% chance of XYZ going up from here.” So you go to an online Kelly Strategy Calculator (or your own) and you punch in 0.5152 odds and 60% chance of winning, and you get:

The odds are against you - you should not bet.

So you type in a 65% chance of it going up, and you get:

The odds are against you - you should not bet.

And now you’re really wondering if this is a good idea. You type in a 70% chance of it going up, and finally:

Your optimal bet is about 11.77% of your capital.

But you literally have to believe that this stock has a 70% chance of going up before that 100/105 bull spread becomes a potentially profitable bet for you. How confident are you in that?

Going through this process made you realize that not only are you breaking your rules (CONVEXITY) by trying this trade, but you also can’t get a good price for the probabilities that you believe in. You might have an EDGE here, but once you ran it through RISK MANAGEMENT, you stopped feeling so good about it.

…

So now you’re going to look for something that you think can really move, and you find ABC, a utility company that’s been going slowly up and to the right for months. But this whole time there’s been an undercurrent of tons of dark pool selling, and you think that at any time, it could break to the downside.

ABC trades at $50, but it was $42 just two months ago. This ramp has been crazy, and you think it could totally get back to $45 or lower within the next month. The 45-strike put a month out costs $0.12 ($12). You think there’s at least a 20% chance that ABC will end up below $45, and you think it’s equally likely for it to end up at $45, $42, or anywhere in between (at an average price of $43.5). This means you believe the 45-strike put has a 20% chance of being worth $1.50 (45 - 43.5).

So you’re risking $0.12 ($12) to make $1.50 ($150), which is 150/12 odds (12.5 to 1). This is CONVEX.

Now back to the Kelly calculator: Type in 12.5 odds and 20% probability:

Your optimal bet is about 13.6% of your capital.

Now what if you’re wrong about the probabilities? Just to be safe, try entering 10% instead of 20%:

Your optimal bet is about 2.8% of your capital.

It’s a really good sign that the odds are still worth it, but it’s obviously going to be hard to calibrate an optimal bet since even small changes in your expected probability or expected value have a huge effect on what’s optimal.

And here’s where you have to exercise some extra humility, and admit that your self-assessed probabilities of unlikely events are crap, so you need to assert a fixed bet size of something like 2.5% of portfolio per trade, and to have a hard limit on how many trades you can have going at once.

That hard limit on how many trades you can have should be a function of the your average optimal bet size of each of those positions. So for example if you have six positions right now (each is 2.5% of portfolio, making a total of 15% of your portfolio in options positions), and the average optimal Kelly size of those trades is 13.6%, then you’re over your limit by one position (get rid of one 2.5% position and you’ll be at 12.5%, which is under 13.6%).

The incentive is to choose as many high-quality trades as possible, and to only scale up your total exposure with the quality of your current positions.

In this way, RISK MANAGEMENT is a delicate balancing act between the other rules, CONVEXITY and EDGE. You want to have as much EDGE as possible in your portfolio, and with as much CONVEXITY as you can handle, but you must must must adjust to the reality that the best positions are lower probability bets, and this means getting position sizing right. There is no other way to capture EDGE+CONVEXITY.

Also, by using Kelly as your guide, you keep yourself accountable to these limits, and you actually incentivize yourself to find bets with more EDGE instead of being lazy.

Know that it is not possible to mentally keep your portfolio within the bounds of EDGE-based optimal bet sizes if you don’t use Kelly. Again, you have to be humble. Your brain can’t handle this, and you will absolutely fail without this attention to RISK MANAGEMENT.

If I were actually writing a book I would go into detail on why Kelly is necessary but if you’re skeptical I hope that the decades of betting math papers and books that talk about Kelly sizing will convince you. It’s mathematically optimal and it’s the basis for all aggressive betting and risk taking.

E. Example

Here’s some stuff I’m in right now and why.

This is MU.

[IMAGE POSTED AFTER]

Dark pool buying is relatively high. Last time that happened, the stock went up.

Also, long term trends (five year chart) in MU obey trends in dark pool buying.

[IMAGE POSTED AFTER]

This is our EDGE. Some institutionals are clearly buyers probably because they have a good valuation model or because they have good information. So we follow.

One week ago I ran this through RISK MANAGEMENT because I had taken profit on something earlier in the week and had room for a new position (also if I determined that this trade would be obviously better than a current position I would close that position and replace it with this one).

Price was around $47. I evaluated that in a month there would be a very good possibility of achieving $55+. I put that probability at 20% then I looked at option prices.

$55 call for Jun26 (1 month) was available for $0.29 ($29). Delta (implied probability of ending up above 55) around 11. That’s a good start because in my world it should be 20.

I’m guessing it can’t get past $60 in the next month, though, and I don’t quite think it’ll do that. If it were to get above $55, I think the average place for it to settle would be $56.50 (if I thought there was an equal probability of ending at $55 as $60, then I’d say the average settle would be $57.50).

That means I think the $55 call is worth $1.50 * 0.2, which is $0.30. This is not good, because the market thinks it’s worth $0.29.

I reached for too much convexity. To make buying the $55 strike worthwhile, I’d need to believe the stock had a higher chance of getting way above $55. So let’s scale it back.

I look at the 52.5 strike. It’s $0.60 ($60). I’d guess there’s a 40% chance of ending above this, with an average settle of $55. So, the option, in my mind, has a 40% chance of being worth $2.50. 2.50 * 0.4 = $1.00.

Risking $0.60 to make $1.00 doesn’t directly violate the CONVEXITY rule, because it still can make a lot more than it loses. But usually if I risk $0.60 I want to try to make  an average of $1.20 or more (I want my EDGE to say that I will double my money, on average). So I try moving the strike up a bit more. Lucky for me there’s a 53.5 strike.

The 53.5 looks like it can be bought for $0.45 ($45). I think there’s something like a 30% chance of ending above. I think the average settle if that happens might be something like $56. So, 30% chance of option being worth $2.50. 0.3 * 2.50 = $0.75. Pay 0.45 for opportunity to return 0.75 is getting real close to enough EDGE for me, but I need a bit more.

Remember how I don’t think MU can get over $60? That means that none of my guesses for the values for the options above have any settles above $60 considered. So how about I sell a $60 call? Looks like I can easily get better than $0.05 ($5) for that and probably actually $0.10 ($10).

So, a 53.5/60 call spread that I think is worth $0.75 can be bought for $0.35 or $0.40. That gives me the EDGE I want.

See how I bounced around to find a bet that I think offers enough CONVEXITY and EDGE? Now to do the Kelly part, I look at the probability of moneyness (30% probability MU ends above 53.5) and the average value of the option in the event that happens ($2.50) versus the cost ($0.40 to be conservative).

Average value of a win is $2.50. Cost is $0.40. That’s 6.25:1 odds. With a 30% probability of moneyness that gives me an optimal Kelly bet of 18.8% of capital.

As a general rule, if Kelly tells you to bet more than 20% of your capital on something, then you probably don’t have enough convexity. For something with a 30% chance of not totally losing, a ~20% allocation is huge… which means this is a good bet.

Now I buy enough 53.5/60 call spreads in MU to satisfy the 2.5% limit on how much of my account can be in a bet. Also, because the highest Kelly size of any other bet I have in my portfolio right now is in the 17%s, I can slightly raise my limit on how many positions I can have (though not enough to actually add another position). If another one of my bets loses a ton of value tomorrow, I may be able to add another bet if 18.8% - [total % of bankroll in use] is >= 2.5%.

… So this whole thing is what I went through on Thursday night, and on Friday I bought the position. Today (the following Thursday, almost a week later), MU closed at $51.22.

The 53.5/60 which cost $0.40 ($40) per spread is now worth something like $1.26 ($126). Has anything changed in my outlook? No. My original thesis stands. Even if something had changed a bit, I’d be very reluctant to change the position. Recall that I’m trying to 10x my money, not take small winners. That means doing my DD up front, getting myself CONVEXITY and an EDGE, and letting the chips fall.

If I stick to this, I am confident that even if I do not win more than 50% of the time, I will make wayyy more than enough money on my wins to make up for the fixed-risk losses. On this MU bet I am specifically betting on a 70% chance of losing the whole bet. The hardest thing is when the stock moves up to a huge profit then falls back down.

That happens. But you have to suck it up. Because again, you’re here to make real money, not to impress people with your PHD in hindsight bias.

F. That’s it

Execute. Log your risk. Follow these three rules:

CONVEXITY EDGE RISK MANAGEMENT

Have a caipirinha.

Wrote this in a week. By no means is this the 100% best way to do it, but it’s many years of thought and a lot of help from other really generous people online and especially sqzme, which is the source of edge that really informed the way I see the market.

P.S. Forgot the mention that the reason I circled the purple line on the above charts is because that’s implied volatility, and when it’s low, options are cheaper, and when options are cheaper you’re more likely to find a good bet whether you’re betting on upside or downside.

[christsbride]

COVID-19 Seems To Prove Cessationism

Cessationsim is the idea that more tangible, visible, gifts of The Holy Spirit are no longer given to believers.  That, after the completion of scripture, they are only reserved, by God, as He sees fit to use.  The outbreak of COVID-19 seems to discredit just about all those who claim to have these such gifts.  We will look at two predominate gifts, The Gift of Prophesy and the Gift of Healing, in the season of COVID-19.

The Gift of Prophesy

The Greek word translated “prophesying” or “prophecy” in both passages properly means:  to “speak forth” or declare the divine will, to interpret the purposes of God, or to make known in any way the truth of God.  Predictive prophesy has been used in scripture on several occasions, most notably, all the prophecies about the coming messiah. But false prophesying and false prophets exist too.  Ezekiel 13:1-7 tells us they "prophesy out of their own imagination" and "who follow their own spirit and have seen nothing!.. Even though the Lord has not sentp them, they say, “The Lord declares,” and expect him to fulfill their words."  Brutal.

So, how can we know if someone is a true prophet of God or has the gift of prophesy?  

Numbers 12:6 makes it clear that God will prove him true and anything the prophet claims will be in perfect alignment with the nature and character of God and His will.  A true prophet does not validate himself, but will be validated by God.  If a prophet claims that they "decided" to become one, or was "appointed by man" to be one, they are false (1 Corinthians 12:11; John 5:31-33).  God alone decides who will speak for him and how (1 Samuel 19).  To validate them and their message, God empowered them to do miracles (Acts 14:3), BUT the miracles are not to be solely relied on but the consistency and unity of the message with God's nature, character, and will.  A false prophet will be known by their contradictions to Holy Scripture (Revelation 2:20-21).  Which is why they HATE being questioned or tested.  But, this also reveals them as false too because we are commanded, by God, to "test everything, hold on to the good.  Avoid every kind of evil" (1 Thessalonians 5:21-22) and "do not believe every spirit, but test the spirits to see whether they are from God, for many false prophets have gone out into the world." (1 John 4:1).  They WILL produce spiritual fruit, good or bad.  THEY will produce a fruit that is rotten and stinks of hypocrisy and contradictions.  A fruit of disunity with God's Word and will.  And we CAN see it if we look (Matthew 7:19-20). Thirdly, if the "prophesy" fails, the prophet is false.  That means if the claim falls short in ANY WAY, its a lie, and the person is a liar (Deuteronomy 18:20-22).  Signs and Wonders do NOT prove a prophet to be of God, even false prophets will be able to do them (Revelation 13:13-14; Matthew 7:22-23).  We also look at the examples in scripture.  They are specific.  Very specific locations, persons, events, in such detail, they are undeniably true.  Like, the birth place of the messiah, Micah 5:2.  The virgin birth, Isaiah 7:14.  Jesus' return from Egypt to Nazareth as a child, Hosea 11:1.  He will be betrayed by a friend for 30 pieces of silver! (Psalm 41:9; Zechariah 11:12). A prophesy will cut so deep that it will effect the spirit of the hearers.  We see all through scripture that true prophets were murdered because of the spiritual power of their words, from God.  Jesus even points this out in Matthew 23:37.  Jesus, himself, was murdered because his words are like a sword; and are divisive and offensive (Matthew 10:34-37).  And we can go on and on about the amazing details of these prophesies, HUNDREDS of years before the events. So, in keeping these four simple, biblical truths of discernment in mind, let's look at validated true prophets.

True Prophets and prophesies.

Moses spoke forth God's warnings about plagues (Exodus 9:14; 11:1; Leviticus 26:25).  Deuteronomy 28:59 is brutal: "Then the Lord will bring on you and your offspring extraordinary afflictions, afflictions severe and lasting, and sicknesses grievous and lasting."  Another predictive prophesy from Moses.  Ezekiel 14:21, Jeremiah 14:12, 19:8, 24:10, 49:17; 2 Chronicles 7:13, all predictive prophesy about plagues.  And there's more. All the prophesies about Jesus, fulfilled (see cited verses above). Isaiah prophesied in 700 BC that the Kingdom of Babylon will be overthrown and never recover (Isaiah 13:19).  This happened in 539 BC, and Babylon never recovered.  But, he didn't stop there.  He also revealed it would be reduced not nothing more than a swampland (Isaiah 14:23).  When archaeologists excavated Babylon during the 1800s, they discovered that some parts of the city could not be dug up because they were under a water table that had risen over the years. Ezekiel prophesied in 587 BC that the city of Tyre will be sacked AND that it will be completely destroyed, dissembled, and thrown into the sea (Ezekiel 26:12).  Alexander The Great, did exactly that.  He took the rubble from Tyre's mainland ruins and tossed it - stones, timber and soil - into the sea, to build the land bridge so he could attacked in 333-332 BC. By far, one of the greatest prophesies of all time; Daniel 9:25.  This gives the literal time frame from a certain point all the way to the appearance of The Messiah.  Beginning year of the prophesy is 444 BC.  Now, we must keep in mind that the Jewish prophetic year was composed of twelve 30 day months; that means the Jewish prophetic year had 360 days, not 365 days.  Daniel states 69 weeks of seven years each, and each year has 360 days, the equation is as follows: 69 x 7 x 360 = 173,880 days.  So, 173,880 days, or 476 years, from 444 BC brings us to... 33 AD... when Jesus publicly begins his ministry... Now THAT is a divine validation! So, there lies the issue.  IF the gift of prophesy is fully functional, the same way it was in the biblical era:

Did anyone prophesy the coming COVID-19 pandemic?

Here we have a Pastor, Marlon Bolton, of Praise Experience Church of North Lauderdale in Florida, claiming to have prophesied it "weeks before Chinese authorities even identified the novel coronavirus strain." then stated, "We prophesied about the stock market crashing. We even prophesied about the shortage of food in this season. Very accurate."  BUT, his "prophesy" accompanied a call for donations and the heretical "Seed donations" idea.  He then said God showed him that seven plagues are "destined for our land.  If you give seed offerings, I believe you'll be covered for these plagues," There are other really wild heretical things he does too [1, 2]. So, how do we know this guy is a false prophet?  He's greedy (2 Corinthians 2:17, Titus 1:7, 1 Timothy 3:3) and demands money in exchange for "spiritual blessings" (1 Corinthians 3:5-7, 1 Corinthians 4:6-7, Acts 8:18-23).  And, his nonspecific simple "claim" has been exposed as false.  The stock market didn't crash, in fact, it is still higher than it was 5 years ago.  There isn't a shortage of food really, I can go into Walmart, today, right now, and buy food.  I may be limited to how much I can purchase at one time, but food is there for me to buy.  Then comes the "seven plagues that are destined for our land."  Time will tell how true this is but given all the evidence, his disunity with God's nature and character and poor accuracy reveals he is false when tested. Then, you have the biggest heretic and fraud of our time, Kenneth Copeland.  Prophesying that the end of COVID-19 was a last week.  On April 2nd he stated: "It is finished. It is over. And the United States of America is healed and well again." [3]. Welp, that failed.  It is still spreading and people are still dying and today is April 11th.  But, he even gets more blasphemous.  He states: "In the name of Jesus, standing in the office of the prophet of God, I execute judgment on you COVID-19. I execute judgment on you, satan, you destroyer, you killer. You get out. I break your power. You get off this nation. I demand judgment on you. I demand. I demand."  That's a bold statement.  Let's test that against scripture.  "Yet Michael the archangel, when he was disputing with the Devil in a debate about Moses' body, did not dare bring an abusive condemnation against him but said, "The Lord rebuke you!" Jude 1:9.  Hu, so this authority is reserved for The Lord.  James 4:12 says "There is only one lawgiver and judge, he who is able to save and to destroy." and Psalm 50:6 "The heavens declare his righteousness, for God himself is judge! Selah"  And I'm guessing that ONE judge, isn't Kenneth.  He has ZERO authority to "execute judgment" on anything.  This narcissistic, self-idolatry, God's Word contradictions are the fruit of a false prophet.  Also, notice, he hates God's will and God's just judgements on the world through his creation, such as COVID-19.  So, he's a false prophet and heretic. Here's the deal, Time Magazine [5] and some psychic named Sylvia Browne [4] seemed to have just as effectively predicted COVID-19 as all those who claim to be receiving prophesies from God.  That brings shame on the name of the Lord.  That belittles the majesty of our Holy God.  Why are there no truly deep and detailed prophecies like the ones in the Bible, about COVID-19?  Simple answer:

The Gift of Prophesy and Office of Prophet are NOT functioning.

Because if they were, they failed miserably, invalidating themselves anyway.  When you test these prophesies and the prophets against God's Word, they fail.  There is a reason why their prophesies can not rise above the level of a atheist psychic... Okay, so the Gift of Prophesy and Office of Prophet are not functioning, as revealed by God's ordained will through COVID-19.  What about the Gift of Healing?  Why not just heal everyone sick?

The Gift of Healing

  The spiritual gift of healing is the supernatural manifestation of the Spirit of God that miraculously brings healing and deliverance from disease and/or infirmity (Matthew 4:24; 15:30; Acts 5:15-16; 28:8-9).  So what did true divine healing look like in the Bible? Jesus heals Peter's mother-in-law sick with a serious high fever (Luke 38:39).  Jesus heals Leprosy (Luke 5:12-14, 17:11-19).  Jesus heals people who are paralyzed (Luke 5:17-26, 7:1-10).  Jesus heals the blind (Matthew 9:27-31; Mark 8:22-26; John 9:1-12; Luke 11:14-23, 18:35-43).  Jesus instantly transforms physical deformities (Luke 6:6-11, 13:10-17, 22:50-51; John 5:1-15).  Jesus literally raised people from the dead (Luke 7:11-17; 8:40-42, 49-56; John 11:1-45). Now all that was done by Jesus.  But what did the Apostles, or those with the gift of healing do?    1 Corinthians 12:28 gives a progression of church maturity.  First, of course, the apostles, then prophets that speak fourth God's word because The Bible wasn't completed yet.  Then, the disciples of the Apostles, the teachers.  Miracles to validate the Apostles and prophets before the completion of scripture. Then, the gifts of healing, helping, church organizing and leading in all sorts or languages and cultures.  And then what?  That's it.  Everything is all set up, the church is made, Apostles are validated by God, and Holy Scripture written and complete. So, the Apostles, the selected few, went around and healed the sick (Luke 9:2-6; Mark 6:13; Acts 4:30, 5:16, 19:11-12, 28:7-9) But not just the "sick," these dudes were raising the DEAD and instantly curing obvious physical deformities and undeniable physical conditions! (Matthew 10:8; Acts 3:1-10, 8:7, 9:36-41, 14:8-10, 20:9-12).  It is important to first note that Matthew 10:1, Jesus only gives this "authority" to heal, to only his closest disciples.  1 Corinthians 12:9,30 also shows that gifts of healing were not given to everyone.  But do you notice something:  only the Apostles are described as doing all these healings, even stated in Acts 5:12: "by the hands of the apostles were many signs and wonders..."  And again, in Acts 8:18: "saw that through laying on of the apostles' hands the Holy Ghost was given."  Then, in the writings of the Disciples of the Apostles, such as Clement of Rome, Papias, and the authentic writings of Ignatius; they are not performing miraculous healings.  So, we can, in fact, conclude that the gift of healing was given only to a select few.  And after they passed away, we stop seeing people being raised from the dead and instant physical deformities and conditions being instantly healed. With the spread of COVID-19, Where did all the charismatic pastors with the gift of healing go? Why would they need to quarantine themselves?  The Apostles didn't.  They went TO the sick, not concerned about themselves becoming sick.  Why don't they, the modern healers, GO TO those who are sick with COVID-19 and heal them?  A prominent Northern California mega-church, Bethel Church, whose members believe their prayers heal the sick and raise the dead is advising the faithful to wash their hands, urging those who feel sick to stay home, canceling missionary trips and advising its faith healers to stay away from local hospitals [7].  And this quote from the church says it all: “Though we believe in a God who actively heals today, students are not being encouraged to visit healthcare settings at this time, and moreover, are taught that even under normal circumstances, they must receive permission from both the facility and the individual before engaging in prayer,”  Why are they not being encouraged to heal those in need?  The Apostles WENT TO WHERE the sick were if the sick weren't brought to them.  And WHY would they need "permission" to engage in prayer?  Who is their master, Bethel Church, or God? Even Bill Johnson has subtle contradictions in his own statement: “Many visit Redding weekly, hoping that God will touch them. I am happy to report that many leave well and whole,” Johnson wrote. “But many others leave in the same condition in which they came. I refuse to blame God for this, as though He has a purpose in their disease. While Jesus did not heal everyone alive in His time, He did heal everyone who came to Him. His is the only standard worth following.”  But, these people come to Jesus, through Bill Johnson, in faith, to be healed!  He flat out admits that his gift of healing, fails.  Is The Holy Spirit a failure?  No!  Therefore, their "gift" is not of the Holy Spirit, if it can fail.  Then, he says this: “Healing happens, but it’s foolish to take unnecessary risks with your health and the health of others,"  Hu, I guess the Apostles were foolish... Considering the predominate church that claims to have the gift of healing, Bethel Church in Redding California; you would think they would be healing their community.  Interestingly, As of April 9, 2020, there are a total of 19,472 positive cases and 541 deaths in California [9].  So... why aren't these 19,472 infected being healed and why aren't the 541 dead being raised back to life?   In their very own county, there are 24 confirmed cases [10].  18 people in isolation and 47 in quarantine, in their own region.  Can they not send just one of their elders with the gift of healing to go heal those people?  Apparently not. Either their [Bethel Church] Holy Spirit is weaker than in the times of the Apostles, or it's not the same thing.  God' doesn't change, Holy Scripture is our guide and test; therefore, it's not The Holy Spirit they claim to be "gifted" by.  In fact, their own gifts seem to be powerless against a REAL TRUE health issue such as COVID-19. Then we hear the excuse, "Well, there were things even the Apostles couldn't do" referring to Matthew 17:16.  But, Jesus didn't say they couldn't.  Jesus first rebuked them for the lack of faith, and then flat out tells the Apostles it was due to their lack of faith (Matthew 17:17, 20).  This sort of admission to justify why their gifts of healing fail is admitting they, themselves, don't have enough faith in their own gifts; laughable. The amazing amount of disunity and contradiction to God's Word; and it become more clear the more you compare their actions and claims to Holy Scripture.  God's use of COVID-19 is a clear judgement on all these prophets and healers and their devoted followers.  This seemingly "bad" virus is actually exposing the false prophets and false teachers.  God is using it to shine light and expose evil deeds.  And for those who continue in their faith in the false teachings and teachers, this is a judgment on them (Romans 1).

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Hi /r/Entrepreneur, it's Pat from Starter Story again, where I do interviews with successful e-commerce entrepreneurs.Here is my interview with Adam, the founder of Dick At Your Door, an e-commerce store that sells gag gifts such as a large, dong-shaped piece of chocolate that comes in a cute box.Adam is grossing $25k/month and recently quit his job to go full-time on the business.Background.My name is Adam Elliot, and I started Dick At Your Door, an e-commerce shop for people who like to gift pranks, gags, and funny novelties to their friends and family.Our main product is an anonymous prank you can send people in the mail. When they open the package, it looks like a fancy box or expensive present. However, when they actually open the package, it’s a 5oz. solid chocolate penis.Yes, you read that correctly... Dick At Your Door sells chocolate penises you can send as a fun prank to friends and family.How the idea came about.I grew up on a farm in Southwest Iowa. Being from a small town, there aren’t many things to keep you busy, so you had to be creative. This always led to drinking cheap beer you stole from someone’s parents, ramping old cars on the dirt road bridges, and sometimes... prank wars. I guess that’s where I started thinking gag gifts were funny.After art school, I moved out to California to be a photographer full time. I failed. Failed miserably. After one year on the west coast, I hated photography, I was broke, and had taken a job as a telemarketer. It was the worst.Before launching e-commerce storefronts, I worked in sales and as a sales consultant for startups in Southern California. That’s a fancy way of saying, I spent a lot of time pitching new ideas and products to people who didn’t necessarily want them. I’ve always enjoyed talking to people, so it was natural to start getting into sales after my failed art career. I discovered that I was pretty good at understanding what people wanted.Dick At Your Door started when a buddy found a silicone penis mold at a random sex shop on a cross-country drive (thank you Lincoln, Nebraska). My buddy and I thought it would be hilarious to send molds of this in the mail to our friends. Disclaimer: It was hilarious.We eventually threw up a website as a joke to continue the prank and people started reaching out that weren’t our friends. That was the lightbulb moment for us. From there it was perfecting the molding process, finding a real chocolatier (and eventually becoming chocolatiers ourselves), building a secure website that was legit and going forth into the world of dicks and candy making.Creating the product and starting up the business.What started as a joke quickly became a viable business with real opportunity.When we first created our product, it was down and dirty. Just a couple of dudes in the garage melting Hershey chocolate and pouring it into a cheaply made silicon mold of a penis. Looking back to those first days, it was never even in our mind to create a business around chocolate, let alone chocolate dongs. It was always just a funny prank to pull on our friends.Slowly, sales started building. In the beginning, it was a very crude design. A straight black box, a stamp we had custom made, some paper mache to avoid broken chocolate, and a handheld plastic melter to wrap the box.I remember the first time we had 10 orders to fulfill at once. It was a disaster. Took almost 4 hours. It was frustrating and very much not worth our time. Nowadays, we can package and mail 500 orders in the same amount of time. The boxes are custom and ordered in bulk, and we are officially professional chocolatiers. It’s been a long road, and to be honest, I don’t know why we stuck with it. Call it a fun experiment I guess?To add to that, the biggest hurdles were, and have been, finding trustworthy manufacturers who can provide quality packaging at a reasonable. It’s all been trial and error for us, which I wish wasn’t the case. Ultimately, we found that spending the necessary money to find a quality manufacturer for our products have been worth its weight in gold. You pay for what you get.Attracting new customers and growing.It took a long time to get to the point where we were getting one order per day and even longer to hit five a day. To be honest, it wasn’t until I was laid off from my corporate job and committing a lot of time to building the brand that we began seeing any type of marketable success. Getting canned was the best thing to happen in my professional life. Funny how that works.We are lucky in the fact that we have a shareable product that is viral in nature. When we launched our website, we pushed a bunch of social media to build awareness. People love to share our Facebook, Instagram, etc with each other. That’s where we spend most of our time. Everyone loves a good meme and we have found our niche there. Comedy and dicks sell. We are always working towards that next viral post. Valentine’s Day is prime right now.Of course, all arms of marketing are going to be important (SEO, Content, Adsense, Adwords, Facebook Advertising, sharing, interviews, etc). We don’t want to have all of your eggs in one basket. However, social media has provided us with the most immediate and trackable metrics.These are the three of the most important takeaways I've found in regards to growing sales:Content is kingDon’t oversaturate your followers with product posts. 80/20 rule(80% non-product / 20% product marketing)Build an email listWhere I'm at now, and plans for the future.About eight months ago, I decided it was time to dedicate my full-time hours to the business. Since then, the business has grown almost 10x. It’s been a total grind with no real time off, but it’s been the most fulfilling professional step I have ever taken. I am excited about all that I have learned and all I have left to learn. I know that corny, but I don’t care. I love selling chocolate dicks.Short term goals:Growth and systems. We would like to be able to start stepping away from the nitty gritty more this year. That means taking on a more administrative role, rather than chocolate maker, shipper, marketer, owner, etc. With the correct operational systems in place, that transition will be much easier. Automation plus smart people in the right places will help us grow while taking some of the pressure off of ourselves.Long term goals:Build the brand to something outside of dicks. Who knows, really. If this venture has taught me anything, it’s that you can succeed in anything if you can execute with good systems and are willing to get through the really terrible times.Online/e-commerce tools I use.WooCommerceStamps.comInstagramFacebookCanva.comGoogle CloudSlackDropboxSendInBlue Email MarketingWordpressPodcasts, online resources, and books I recommend.Podcasts & online resources:Tim Ferris Podcast - Don’t listen much anymore, but that was a great motivator to get me confident about starting my own companyHow I Built This podcast.Calm App - life is stressful and crazy. Mindfulness meditation has helped me so much in how I manage that stress.Reddit - /r/entrepreneur // /r/smallbusiness // many others - Reddit is a great community where you can learn new ideas, methods, systems, and meet like-minded folks who are doing the same thing as you. It can be kind of lonely when no one around you is doing what you’re doing. Reddit helps give you a network to learn from.Books:Flow: The Psychology of Optimal Experience - You know when you get so immersed in a project that hours go by and you don’t even notice? That’s flow. This book is about how you can train your mind and body to have a better/easier way to fall into that and become more productive.Who Moved My Cheese - Dealing with change in your life.How to Win Friends and Influence People - Staple of the entrepreneur handbook.Anything Malcolm Gladwell - He has a great way of presenting ideas and methodology that translate well into my business.Advice for others just starting out.E-commerce is all about finding the right niche and understanding the people in that niche. For our products (and my other companies), I have never tried to be the most successful out of the gates. It is too big a mountain to climb and will leave an entrepreneur jaded. Most niches have enough opportunity in it to carve out your own little piece and grow from there. That’s what we have done.That being said, a website owner must concentrate on always having solid content for readers, customers, and especially Google to take note of. SEO is the long game and it’s not exciting, but without a long-term strategy, you could be up shit creek. What happens when social media changes? New Algorithms are released several times a year on these platforms. Those updates have a high chance of screwing up your old methods. Having multiple strategies and back up plans will save you time and money in the long run.Network. I am lucky to live in a metropolis. There are incredibly smart people who can offer great insight into growth. They can help avoid potential pitfalls.Just start. You may fail, but holy shit it will be fun. If you are laying in bed at night dreaming about building something on your own, do it. You will be ahead of 99% of the population by just starting. As stupid as it sounds, just doing the things you need to do when you know you need to do them will help you succeed.When your current project blows up in your face, that means you know understand how not to do something in the future.“The master has failed more times than the student has even tried.”“Sucking at something is the first step to being really good at something.”It will be embarrassing to suck and be new, but don’t let that get you down. People will think what you’re doing is stupid and you’ll feel stupid sometimes. That’s the way of it. If you can get past that part, you’ll be in a good spot. The way I used to get through it was imagining myself six months from that moment laughing at how much I didn’t know back then and how much I had learned. It's always exciting to learn.

#/r/entrepreneur #reddit

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DGB Grab Bag: Predator Fans, Fan Voting, and Bettman Handoffs

Welcome to Sean McIndoe's weekly grab bag, where he writes on a variety of NHL topics. You can follow him on Twitter. Check out the Biscuits podcast with Sean and Dave Lozo as they discuss the events of the week.

Three stars of comedy

The third star: These two Predator fans – It was fun times all around in Nashville. Good presence of mind to slow down when the helmet almost slipped off.

The second star: The catfish has a hat – He also has a tiny stuffed penguin but we can only focus on so many things at one time.

The first star: Bike Guy – The NHL combine was this week. That's the event where the top draft prospects gather, compete in a bunch of physical tests, and then get made fun of for not doing enough bench press reps by out-of-shape sportswriters like me. The highlight every year is the Wingate bike test, in which prospects cycle furiously while a scary guy yells at them.

It's all quite terrifying. But this year, the Golden Knights decided to put the guy's talent to some use by getting him to yell at random Twitter users to be more productive.

Well, I just cleaned my whole house. For some reason I also just studied for all my exams, of which I have none. The guy is good.

Outrage of the week

The issue: We just had two Stanley Cup final games in Nashville, and all the fans there were really loud and into it and just generally having a great time. The outrage: None, of course. Literally nobody could be mad about this. Is it justified: Phew, dodged a bullet there. OK, on to the next section where we can… The issue: We're tired of hearing about how great Predators fans are. The outrage: Seriously, give it a rest, cheering on your team in the Cup final doesn't make you great fans. Is it justified: Wait, what? Is this actually a thing? Are people actually saying that? (Checks.) Yes, apparently they are. This is a bad take. The issue: Anyone criticizing Nashville as a hockey market is wrong! The outrage: In fact, it's always been a great market, and anyone who ever doubted it sure looks silly now. Is it justified: And then, right on cue, here's comes the backlash to the backlash. Look, can we all enjoy what's happening in Nashville right now while also acknowledging that it really did look dicey for a while there back in the day? That seems fair, right? The issue: The Predators have the greatest fans in the world. The outrage: If you deny this you are a terrible person and also probably Canadian. Is it justified: See there is a middle ground where we could… The issue: Predators fans are front-runners who only support their team when it's playing for the Stanley Cup. The outrage: Real fans are there for their team through good and bad, they don't just hop on the bandwagon when times are good. Is it justified: Well, first of all, that thing about Predators fans only showing up now just isn't true. But yes, they're more excited now because of the playoff run. Isn't that how it's supposed to work? The issue: Nashville had thousands of empty seats back in 2010. The outrage: If you don't sell out the building every night you're a bad fan base. Is it justified: Well, fine, but then you're throwing stones at just about everyone, including places like Chicago and Boston and basically everywhere outside of the really die-hard Canadian markets. But sure, fine, if it will get everyone to stop complaining and hyper-analyzing every hockey market, then we'll agree: Only Canadian fan bases that sell out every game are good fans. Can we all please stop this now? The issue: Canadian fan bases that sell out every game are pathetic sheep and the reason the country never wins the Stanley Cup. The outrage: A real fan base would only support their team when they were in the Stanley Cup final. Probably by being really loud and maybe throwing some kind of fish on the ice. Is it justified: I hate all of you. The issue: Hockey fans can never just let their fellow humans be happy about anything. The outrage: It's tiresome, predictable, and the reason why nobody likes us. Is it justified: Yes.

Obscure former player of the week

Penguins' goalie Matt Murray is trying to win his second Stanley Cup as a rookie, which doesn't sound like it should be possible. But it is — a player's status is determined by his regular season play, so it's possible to have two or even more postseason runs as a "rookie".

The list of goalies who've actually done it isn't all that long, but Murray's certainly not alone. It's been done by Ken Dryden and Jacques Plante (who I wrote about earlier in the week), as well as fellow Hall-of-Famers Ed Belfour and Martin Brodeur. Jake Allen did it three years apart, with appearances in 2012 and 2015, and Corey Crawford and John Gibson are also in the club.

As you might expect, the list also includes a few less well-known players. That includes this week's Obscure Player, Daniel "The Bandit" Berthiaume.

You may remember him from the Bob Miller tribute a few months ago, in which we all learned we'd been pronouncing his name wrong all along. But his career began when the Jets made him the 60th pick in the 1985 entry draft, a few picks behind future Conn Smythe winner Bill Ranford. He debuted in Winnipeg a year later, seeing his first action in the 1986 playoffs before he'd ever even played a regular season game.

He followed that up by earning regular duty the following season and splitting time with Pokey Reddick, who I just realized has never been an Obscure Player and we will damn well fix that over the summer. Berthiaume joined the rookie two-timer club in 1987, playing eight games as the Jets won a playoff round for the second (and last) time in Winnipeg NHL history.

From there, Berthiaume began a tour of the NHL; he was traded twice in 1990, first to the North Stars and then to the Kings. He spent a few years backing up Kelly Hrudey in Los Angeles before being dealt to Boston, where he had a falling out with the team during the 1992 playoffs. He was later traded back to Winnipeg, but never earned a roster spot, and by the start of the 1992-93 season he was plying his trade in Europe.

But the expansion Senators came calling, and Berthiaume signed with Ottawa to back up Peter Sidorkiewicz. He wasn't very good, winning just two of 25 games, but nobody on that year's Senators was. Here's a fun clip of Berthiaume trying to pretend he's not miserable in Ottawa. Berthiaume closed out his career with one of the sadder season stat lines in NHL history. In 1993-94, he appeared in one game, played exactly thirty-nine seconds, faced two shots and allowed two goals.

That made him the only goalie since the save stat's been recorded to give up goals in a season in which he never stopped a single puck. Even in the high-flying early 90s, a save percentage of ".000" was considered bad, and Berthiaume's NHL days were done.

He'd kick around the minor leagues (as well as some professional roller hockey) for another decade before hanging up the skates in 2005. He was inducted into the ECHL Hall of Fame last year.

The NHL fans actually got something (kind of) right

As part of their 100-year anniversary celebration, the NHL unveiled a fan vote to determine the all-time 10 greatest teams. And everyone immediately went "Oh no, this will be terrible."

After all, the league made a minor mess of its Top 100 players list, and that was an unranked list put together by experts. This was a ranked list, and it would be determined by fan vote. If the last year has taught us anything, it's that nobody should ever be trusted to vote for anything. And that's especially true for hockey fans, who'd no doubt cast their ballots for the 2015 Blackhawks or 2016 Penguins or a write-in vote for "Whoever just beat the Leafs, lol they suck".

This week, the final list was unveiled, and the winner is: the 1984-85 Edmonton Oilers. That's… well that's not terrible, is it? You can defend that pick. That team had 109 points, scored over 400 goals and lost just three games in the playoffs, never facing elimination. It was the Gretzky/Messier/Kurri/Coffey core at the height of its powers.

It's not a perfect pick — you could make a case for one of the late-70s Canadiens teams or maybe one of Al Arbour's Islanders Cup winners, and the 84-85 team might not even have been the best Oilers teams of the era (it was the only one between 1984 and 1987 that didn't finish first overall). But still, it's not a cringeworthy pick. As far as fan voting goes, that's progress.

So let's focus on the positive and take our wins where we can get them. And let's definitely not look at the rest of the list, which is like half Oilers teams and ranked an 87-point team as the second greatest ever. They got the winner reasonably close to right. We'll take it.

Classic YouTube clip breakdown

Win their win last night, the Penguins are now just one win away from a championship. That means the Stanley Cup will be in the building on Sunday night in Nashville. And that means Gary Bettman will also be in the building, ready to do his annual awkward Cu handoff while being booed.

A few years ago, I celebrated Bettman's 20th anniversary on the job by ranking every one of his handoffs so far. Today, let's take a look back at the handoff that ranked number one on that list, and remains to this day the most awkward Bettman Cup moment of all-time.

It's June 19, 2006 and the Carolina Hurricanes have just defeated the Oilers in game seven to capture the Stanley Cup on home ice. The crowd is roaring, friends and family have poured onto the ice, and emotions are running high. Who wants to hear a corporate executive deliver a rambling speech?

We actually start off with Cam Ward being interviewed by Ron MacLean. Ward's just been named the Conn Smythe winner, but he informs us that the honor is "completely irrelevant". He then adds "Unless I'm mediocre at best for the next ten years but keep getting huge contracts, in which case I guess it will turn out to be pretty relevant after all".

As Ward talks, we get a shot of Rod Brind'Amour talking to somebody, who starts laughing. Presumably, Brind'Amour has just told him what he's about to do.

The Cup is ready to make its way to the ice, so Ward has to get back to his teammates. Sadly, MacLean does not end the interview by poking him in the tummy.

And here comes the Stanley Cup, carried as always by its two longtime keepers: Phil Pritchard, and the other guy who apparently doesn't have a PR agent and almost definitely secretly hates Phil Pritchard.

Something to note: With this being the year after the lockout, the NHL broke with tradition and didn't introduce Bettman or have him announce the Conn Smythe. Instead, they introduce the Cup, and then Bettman slips in while everyone's cheering. Whoever it was at the NHL office who came up with this plan was immediately fired for making a good decision.

I think having an ominous thunder and lightning sound effect right as Bettman begins speaking is a little on-the-nose there, guys.

Oh good, it's the legendary "Peter Karmanos had a dream" speech we all learned about in grade school.

At this point, Brind'Amour has had enough and decides to just skate over and interrupt Bettman, because Rod Brind'Amour IS A FREAKING HERO. But Bettman hilariously shoes him away, admonishing him with an annoyed "I'm almost done" into a live microphone. This causes Brind'Amour to have to stand there awkwardly, and causes me to laugh so hard my lungs hurt every single time I see it.

That face where you're ready to go but your partner wants to talk for a while first.

Brind'Amour gets bored and decides to start randomly pointing. Bettman speeds through his last few mentions, and gets ready for his very favorite moment of the year: The handoff. Seriously, Bettman lives for this. He knows fans hate it and wish he'd give the job to someone else, but he doesn't care. Once a year, he gets to pick up the Stanley Cup and hand it over to the winning captain. And he always milks the moment for all its worth, mugging for photos and refusing to let the Cup go for as long as humanly possible. I honestly think this moment might be the only joy Bettman gets out of his job. He lives for it.

NOT THIS YEAR GARY.

In a moment that should absolutely have resulted in his instant induction into the Hall of Fame, Brind'Amour grabs the Cup off the table before Bettman can get to it. You can tell that Bettman realizes what's happening, but speeding through his speech has thrown him off and now he's caught still holding the microphone in his trophy-grabbing hand. It's a small delay, but it's all Brind'Amour needs, and he just straight up jacks the Cup before Bettman can do anything.

This may be the greatest moment in Stanley Cup history. They should have the kids in that bank commercial act it out for the next chapter.

Also, Brind'Amour proceeds to kiss the Cup on the neck instead of the main body, which always seemed weird but that sentence is already making me feel uncomfortable so let's just move on.

The rest of this clip is just the Hurricanes skating around the ice with the Cup, occasionally pausing to step over a sobbing Fernando Pisani or the remnants of Dwayne Roloson's knee ligament. Glen Wesley gets the OGWAC first handoff honors, Ray Whitney swears on live TV, and the whole thing is one long exercise in going "Wait, that was the 2005-06 Hurricanes roster? They really won a Cup with those guys?" I don't recommend any of it.

As an epilogue, I highly recommend watching Bettman's handoff with Scott Niedermayer one year later. Niedermayer tries the Brind'Amour yank move, but this time Bettman is ready for him and holds on. You know he worked on that all year long. Defending Cup yanks is basically Bettman's version of having to shake hands with Donald Trump.

Have a question, suggestion, old YouTube clip, or anything else you'd like to see included in this column? Email Sean at [email protected] .

DGB Grab Bag: Predator Fans, Fan Voting, and Bettman Handoffs published first on http://ift.tt/2pLTmlv