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jawlawsenpai · 4 years

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Chapter 4: Source of Madness

Simon woke up on a bed. As he sat up he touched his forehead and to his surprise the third eye was no longer there. Sebastian came in the room, he saw Simon finally awake.

"Thank Christ you're awake!" Sebastian exclaimed.

"How long was I out?"

"Three days!"

"I was asleep for three days?!"

"I guess using that third eye of yours for the first time really took its toll on your body."

"I still don't even know how I did that."

"Was that the first time that happened?"

"Yeah it was. I seriously don't know what's happening to me."

"Well right now we have three problems."

"And those are?"

"Well the first one would be the fact that you've missed class three days straight."

"What did the others say?"

"They all still think that you're still getting over some family issues and that you should take your time."

"I think that's best. We shouldn't tell them about... all this weirdness."

"Agreed, the second one would be the flower that makes people crazy and the third one would be your third eye syndrome."

"I'll figure out my third eye problem some other time right now we need to figure out what's up with that flower."

"Yeah okay, but why do you want to figure that out exactly? You know that I'm into this stuff but why do you feel obligated to find this out? We are dealing with a flower that can cause people to go insane that's not something teens like us should do, right?"

"I don't know exactly, but I saw her in my dream for a reason and maybe if we figure this out I can also figure out what's up with my third eye."

"Okay good answer because I really don't have anything better to do and my brain filled with useless occult stuff can actually be put to good use." Sebastian laughs.

"Did you find the box in the room that contained the flower?"

"Nope, but I did figure out what Night Shore Postal Service is. It's an old postal company that runs here in Owl Valley, but since the internet no one from our age group knows about it that much, but apparently their business is still booming."

"So do they still conduct business here in Owl Valley?."

"Yup and they are also currently owned by a company named the Weaver Corporation. They own a lot of other businesses just to spread their brand I guess."

"Okay great anything else?"

"Regarding the flower itself I found something interesting. Apparently there was this legend in Owl Valley, in the old days a king from a foreign land wanted to conquer our lands, the village witch concocted a potion that causes madness because why not? She gave it to a servant of a king that despises him, the servant watered a purple flower from the kings prized garden. The king smells the flower and well you know the rest."

"Wow where did you get that info?"

"Funny story, while you were unconscious I tried reading some of my books to see if they have anything about flowers that turn people insane and I found... nothing. So I tried using the internet and again I found nothing. I went to the old public library and did some digging and I found a lot and I mean a lot of old lore regarding this town. Apparently a lot of mystical stuff has happened in this town before."

"Okay this is great, we should try to go to that Night Shore place and figure out who sent that woman the flower."

"Are you sure you don't want to rest a bit more?"

"The sooner we solve this the better!" Simon proclaimed.

"Sounds like a plan."

As Simon finally stands up from bed he immediately felt his stomach begging for food. Simon asks Sebastian what time it was, Sebastian stated it is still early morning. Simon decided too cook a good breakfast and a heavy one before they leave.

Simon asks who's room did he used while he was still in his coma? Sebastian answered that it was the guest room but now it's Simon's room since he didn't have a room here to begin with. As Simon walks down the hallway he noticed a lot of doors, he thought that since Sebastian's house is like a mansion it must have a lot of guest rooms. by the end of the hall Simon saw two stair cases one leading to the third floor while the other one leading to the first floor. They went down stairs to eat at the kitchen.

Simon walks up to the refrigerator and to his surprise it is fully stocked. Sebastian stated that he had nothing better to do since his best friend is in a coma so he just bought food just in case Simon woke up. Simon decided to make pancakes with chocolate chips in them and added maple syrup. Sebastian watched Simon cook and to Sebastian's eyes it was like watching an artist paint a canvas. Simon finished cooking, the two of them got separate stacks of pancakes both of them consisting of four pieces of pancakes each, They chowed down to their stomachs content.

As the two finish breakfast they both prepare to leave and go to the Night Shore office. Simon was wearing a purple shirt with a black broken heart printed on it, while Sebastian is wearing a black shirt with an artistic design of a zombie hand coming from the ground printed on it. They both wore jeans and sneakers. Again Sebastian brought his bag with multiple items just in case they might need it.

Before the two left Sebastian showed Simon two bicycles located around the back of the house. He said that the main office is kind of at the edge of town so they might need to use these. Simon agreed and they took the two bicycles the blue one for Simon and the red one for Sebastian.

It took them till lunch time to arrive at their destination but they finally made it. Swarms of people with suits came in and out of the huge building, Sebastian estimated that the building might be around twelve stories high. Written on a huge sign next to the building was "Weaver Corporation". Simon went in determined he felt as though that this was the right move that once he finds out who sent those flowers to the woman everything weird going on would stop.

The two boys went up to the receptionist, they asked where the Night Shore postal service department was, they stated that they had something important to ask. The receptionist kindly tells the two boys to wait as she calls someone from that department that could be of help to them. She told them that luckily the manager of that department is free today and that he would be happy to answer their questions.

As the two wait in the lobby, Sebastian was telling Simon about how worried Liz is about him. Simon blushes and simply said that Sebastian was lying, Sebastian laughs and as Simon turns away and not look at Sebastian because he was irritated a little bit, he saw a finely dressed man wearing a black suit with a red tie with his hair properly combed walking towards them. The man greeted the two boys and introduced himself as Connor Price, he said that he was the manager for the postal service department, the two boys greeted him as well and stood up to shake his hand, the man insisted that the two boys should just sit down and that it's not everyday that two young men asks about the postal service. The man sat down prepared for any question the two might ask.

"So boys what may I help you with today?" Connor asked smiling.

"Well you see sir... We want to know who sent a package to a woman going by the name Ellaine." Simon said this while avoiding eye contact with the man because he was a little bit shy.

"Ellaine? do you mean Ellaine Sharp she's an employee here we met a couple of times. Why on Earth would you want to know about that?"

"She was an old friend of my mother and we were saddened by her death and we heard that she received a package coming from your business. We couldn't find the package in her apartment room so we decided to find the person that did sent it to her and ask that person what it was." Sated Sebastian.

Simon is utterly shocked that Sebastian can spew out lies this good. He kept on lying and lying with a straight face like he was pro at this. He wondered if Sebastian has ever lied to him like this before.

The man showed a look of shock in his face for a quick second, but then replaces that look with a smirk as if to say that he figured something out. The man said to wait right where they were and he'll come right back after he has checked the system for any information about the sender.

Simon and Sebastian waited for a while and the man returned. He sat down and told the boys that the system was corrupted and a lot of the files from this month were erased. The man said that he was sorry that this just had to happen today and that their system usually works properly. Finally Simon looked at the mans face in order to tell him that they're also sorry for wasting his time but then once again Simon felt a sharp pain from his head, but unlike before this pain is a little bit more lighter and Simon heard voices in his head. This voice was eerily familiar, it took Simon some time to figure it out but then it clicked in him this was the voice of Ellaine and it was saying things like "Liar, Murderer, Killer." Simon desperately tried to mute out what she was saying but Simon wondered why was she saying that. Connor asked if Simon was alright because he clearly saw that Simon was going through some pain. It took Simon a minute and then he said that he was fine and that he was sorry for wasting the mans time, they said good bye to the man and the two proceeded to leave the premises.

Sebastian asked Simon what they should do now. Simon replied with.

"He did it he killed her."

"Who did?"

"Connor Price!"

"How are you sure?"

"Just trust me, like you he was lying to us and lying to us good but I know for a fact that he's guilty of it. Because she was screaming it at me."

The two waited at a cafe in front of the building and started to create a plan.

#story #original story #fiction #supernatur #mystery #Novel #original content #writing #words #creative writing #literature #writer #writers #writers on tumblr #writeblr

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bryonysimcox · 4 years

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Four wheel driving, van repairing and living slowly: Week 6, Spain

It was a week mostly spent in a cottage in the hills, editing films, fixing the van and exploring Iberic villages. It was a week of taking things slow. Here’s my round-up of week six on the road.

By far, this has been the least ‘eventful’ week on the road. By that I mean we haven’t done loads and loads of travelling around, exploring or seeing lots of different stuff. But it has made me realise two things. Firstly, the reality of vanlife is that there will always be weeks like this one just past, where we knuckle down with work and van admin. And secondly, that time is the greatest asset of all.

Living slowly is a revelation.

I’ve always been the kind of person who tries to cram as many things as possible into a day. Even if I’ve got a spare ten minutes, rather than just chill out I’ll look for any small job or activity I can do to ‘make the most of’ that time. The downside of this approach is that you’re always rushing around, you sometimes don’t give a task or activity the attention it deserves, and you’re often late because you never quite finish one thing before another pops up!

Life on the road feels like a therapeutic process which is deconditioning me from being so busy all the time. Rather than thinking about the next job I need to do or how I could make something even more time-efficient, I’m taking things one by one and really relishing activities which I might’ve previously avoided because they were ‘indulgent’ or slow. That has meant reading more books, cooking, and this week even playing my violin (which I promised myself I’d play, given that we’ve brought it all this way!). It has also meant reaching out to friends and family, and being there for others.

(image) ‘It’s okay, I’m right behind you’, my latest collage for Analogue Bryony which was made in the Barraca.

I think there’s something in the ‘slow movement’ that we should all consider. In the modern world, the idea that time is the most valuable resource we have and that we should indulge ourselves in it has been replaced by the idea that time is money and efficiency is king. It’s kind of scary that I’ve had to embark on a trip like this to see how wrong that is, and to unburden myself from being a slave to efficiency.

Spending solid days and long hours working on filmmaking and admin for Broaden makes day trips and adventures even sweeter when they come.

On Thursday, I insisted that we get out and about. Even though we have spent most of the week staying in the ‘Baraca’ (the small cottage in last week’s post), George transformed the van parked on the driveway into his own editing office and practically locked himself in there from 9am - 8pm most days. By Thursday, I was keen to explore the region around us, and George was keen to test Suzi’s 4x4 abilities, so we headed north, up towards the Iberic villages of Ullastret, Peratallada and Palau-Sator.

It was only thanks to recommendations from a family friend that we found the villages, as they were tiny settlements away from the coast. We took some pretty sketchy roads to get there, but were really impressed by how well the van can handle off-road situations, especially when put into four wheel drive. Suzi the HiAce has selectable 4WD, which means that she’s only in 4WD when you switch a button and go outside, twisting the locking hubs on the front two wheels. This manual 80s style approach may seem antequated, but so far seems pretty foolproof and means that we can cruise along in 2WD most of the time when it suits.

(images) A pretty fun morning of proving Suzi’s off-road abilities!

A series of fortified medieval towns with narrow streets and stone buildings, the Iberic villages were utterly charming.

Ullastret, Peratallada and Palau-Sator all had a similar urban structure, with an old town wall and circular street pattern. Churches, markets, towers and prisons were some of the key historic buildings, and Peratallada even had a castle situated in its core. Ullastret was perhaps my favourite, not least because so many of the modified buildings featured beautifully-designed and understated architectural interventions. It was definitely apparent that Catalunya is a wealthy region, because even civic elements like street lamps, bins, railings and paving stones are well-designed and well-made, carefully crafted to remain in-keeping with the impressive historic setting.

(images) The historic Iberic villages: peaceful and charming.

(images) Sophisticated architectural detailing characterised these towns.

From the villages, we headed east to find one of the famous beaches along the Costa Brava - a beach I’d been recommended called ‘Aigua Blava’. We’ve had so many great travel recommendations, and surprisingly many of them have been from Australian acquaintances (it really is true that you Aussies see a lot of Europe when you visit this part of the world!). Aigua Blava lived up to its name, with aquamarine water framed on both sides by fancy hilltop houses and a small sandy beach. Unspoilt by the tourists of summer season, we practically had the whole beach to ourselves. Of course, I had to go in for a swim too.

Wild swimming feels like another part of living ‘slowly’ and of being present. It’s my way of connecting with my surroundings, of celebrating the natural world and the incredible opportunity George and I have to explore these places.

(image) Another wild swim in the bag, still cold this time of year but the stunning setting of Aigua Blava made up for it.

On the note of celebrating the natural world, I’ve been determined to spend as much time as I can outside. That said, it can still be pretty chilly here in Spain even though it’s been really sunny. Whilst George spent most of the week putting the final touches into the running documentary in his van-office, I stubbornly insisted on working on my laptop outside, on the porch in front of the cottage and wrapped up in lots of layers! From my ‘outdoor office’ I wrapped up some graphic design for the running documentary (artwork to be released soon), researched film festivals to enter it into (any recommendations welcome), and pitched our videography services to countless potential clients.

(images, left to right) George editing in his van office, me wearing all the necessary gear to be working outside, and the grape vines which surrounded our cottage.

Launching a videography channel and company can feel like a bit of a daunting task, but I’m generally finding that George and I have a lot of complementary skills. It’s really nice having someone to bounce ideas off, and the more we produce, film and edit together, the more we can learn from each other and fill in the gaps of our knowledge. I know it feels like every week I say we have video content coming soon, but I really can’t wait to release some stuff to show you all. That said, filmmaking is a time-consuming process and in the name of living slowly, I’m going to embrace taking as long as we need to get the videos ready!

Sunday was our last day at the cottage and saw us dedicate our time and energy to Suzi the van.

There had been a growing ‘to do’ list for the van, and so we finally set about getting it done - cleaning her out and fixing her up. It’s hard to admit it after the painful van-building process, but George and I have realised we actually really miss having a building project on the go. We both love making things, and are already plotting future tiny-houses and electric campervan conversions (yep, just six weeks into this trip…!). So on Sunday, it was all hands on deck. I cleaned the floor and all the drawers and shelves, which collect dust and dirt so quickly. I also installed some latches on cupboard doors, which have been propelling themselves open when we drive around corners.

Meanwhile, George set about replacing the headlights and reversing lights with LED bulbs. A few had blown, so we decided that if we were going to try and take off the light clusters, we might as well upgrade all the bulbs for brighter ones at the same time. The light clusters are an absolute pain to take off, and involve removing the grill and other parts (confusing construction seems to be a trend for 90s Japanese car design). Unfortunately the bulbs we had ordered for the rear lights and the fog lights weren’t the right fit, so those two are a job for the future.

George also fitted an LED light bar below the rear bumper so that we can see more with the reversing camera, and it worked first time! It’s so cool how many different types of LEDs there are on the market these days and how affordable they are. With a little bit of electrical knowledge you can do a lot of lighting modifications.

(images, left to right) Replacing old (and dim) bulbs, removing the headlight units to get to the bulbs, and George working underneath the van to wire up our new reversing light.

Ready to hit the road again, we rounded the week off by heading south towards Valencia.

Valencia is our next destination, but we plan on splitting the journey over a few days. The first leg involved us skirting around Barcelona, naïvely taking the ‘no toll road’ option which involved a huge detour and some insane elevation. The price of the toll would’ve probably been less than the time (and fuel) spent slogging up towards Manresa at about 40MPH! Nonetheless, we battled the hills and some insane winds and finally made it back to the coastal road.

Late Monday afternoon we stopped at Torredembarra and wandered along the beach. Eerily quiet, it seems this area is popular with holidaymakers through peak season and almost abandoned off-peak. We only stayed for about an hour, walking against strong winds with a beer in hand and photographing repetitive apartment block designs. It is the curious places like this that make travelling by road so worth it, because you can stop by for a short stay and see the in-between places, places just as locals see them, and places in their off-peak state.

(images) Golden hour scenes from the empty beachfront of Torredembarra.

It feels great to be living in the van again. We had a marvellous stay at the cottage near Palamós, but Suzi is our home, wherever that may be. I’m going to carry on living slowly and take each day as it comes.

Next week, Valencia.

#traveldiaries #SuziTheVan #toyotahiace #overlandadventures #digitalnomads #vanlife #BryonyandGeorge #vanliving #hiacevan #lifethroughalens #consciouscommunity

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movingkeepmoving · 5 years

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Sofía, Bulgaria - June 2019 🇧🇬

The second last day of my journey was ready to start. It started once more early but not as early as intended to at first. My original plan included a coach trip from Thessaloniki to Sofía, but as lucky as I was on this trip, I got adopted by two fellow fans who invited me on their ride on a more comfortable car. While I did know tiny bits of Greek, I didn't know a single thing about Bulgaria. Well, not 100% true - I knew they're part of the European Union, they don't have the Euro and they use the Cyrillic alphabet. That's it. I didn't know they were not part of Schengen and I also didn't know a single thing about their fascinating long history.

Once being dropped of in Sofía, I fell in love with the city. Its different, it's full of history - you can tell by just walking around for five minutes - and it's super green and full of parks. I head to my hostel, ring the bell and after a couple of minutes an old lady appears, telling me in broken English there's something wrong with my room and hands me a phone. The man on the other end explains me that they have anogher building down the road, the woman will bring me there, and they will upgrade my single hostel room to a studio for the same price. Alright?!? I follow her and we have a nice and brief talk in English. I tell her I'm from Germany and it's my first time in Bulgaria, I'm here for a concert, but not to play myself - to watch a band. She's charming and welcoming as she's trying her best in communicating with me.

She drops me off with her colleague at the studio house. This new woman doesn't speak any English, so she hands me her telephone and I talk to the guy I talked before. We discuss the final details and then I have a super huge studio with a kitchen and sofa and a large bed all for myself. I charge my batteries, check the nearby restaurants and download the local Taxi App. It works like Beat in Greece, you can pay via credit card and so you don't have to withdraw too much money from the next ATM. I'm craving something fresh and healthy so I get late lunch at a close by fusion restaurant that serves an amazing poke bowl. As I have a full day left for sightseeing, I decide to head down early for the venue. I'm totally on my own this time and you never know how crazy the Bulgarian folks are about gigs. On my way getting there I have the best and cutest old taxi driver you can imagine. She talks English, shows me some sights of the city while passing them, tells me to definitely use the app after the show to not get scammed by another cab driver as the venue is in a students area and he hands me a tourist info in English about the most famous sights. He also changes the radio station to the rock channel once I told him about my plans for the evening and in just that moment, the gig gets announced on the station and Dropkick Murphys are played on the radio...

Boy, was I wrong about the audience. Nobody shows up until 30 minutes before door. The first person I get in contact with is G. from the UK. He tells me he came down as DKM and FT are his favourite artists. Well once more - I'm not alone at a Frank Turner gig and I guess I never will. Doors open, and about 6 people head into the venue, an ice hockey stadium. Once the six of us are in, nothing happens for an hour. I walk around, get me a coke and water and some caramel popcorn as apperently this is what you can buy at a gig in Sofia. Franks set is moved back by 20 minutes and once he enters the stage there are some hundred people inside the venue while the rest is still out front smoking. (For the first time of this tour, the promoter made actually sure that nobody is smoking indoors! It's a blessing!)

Once more some Frank Turner fans gather around close to the front. I can hear them singing both on my left and my right side, which makes me smile like a nutter and sing even louder. It's once more utterly insane to whitnes Franks first gig in Bulgaria. I guess it's pretty hard regarding the size of the venue and the small amount of people who do know him. But it doesn't stop him. No, he tries even harder, chats his bits through the Bulgarian language and he even managed to sing "Eulogy" in it. It's like his magic trick, everytime he does that, the crowds starts to respect him a tiny bit more. He tells the crowd how crazy it is for him to finally play a show in Bulgaria and says its pretty special to him as he wrote his university dissertation about British-Bulgarian relationships. This evening I sing extra loud during "I still believe" - as it somehow became the song of my trip to the East. I would never had thought that I would travel all the way down to Greece to see my favourite artist opening up for an American band. Well in the end I travelled to those places and the shows were the red cherry on top of doing the trip.

Sofia was finally the gig where I was able to witness a FULL Dropkick Murphys gig. I got me a seat on the side and enjoyed the non smoking environment. From the very first start about 2700 people went nuts. While looking around I saw so many happy faces and I once more realised how lucky I am living in Berlin with 5-10 gigs every day. These people had to wait more than 20 years to see Dropkick Murphys play in their city - in their country. And the guys from Massachusetts showed them what Punkrock was about. At one point singer Ken stopped the band as he saw someone in the crowd doing Nazi salutes. Ken was all about to jump into the crowd and fight that guy. Everything happened at the other side of the room, I didn't see anything besides a raging singer. But in this moment Ken earned a lot of respect from my end.

Luckily the show was ready to continue and I wandered a bit around until a friend of the band invited me to come up sidestage to become part of the final stage invasion of my tour. I've been side stage for many shows in my life, but to see this wild and happy crowd from up there made my heart jump with joy. It was beautiful and being part of the stage invasion some minutes later felt absolutely unreal. Do you know this feeling when you just think you're dreaming? That was me, dancing and singing around on a stage in Sofía, Bulgaria. Even when I look back to it now, I can not really believe this did actually happen to me.

Sometimes life is full of big surprises and I'm still so happy I decided to do this trip when all my fellow gig buddies said they wouldn't join. Traveling and going to my gigs on my very own made me learn a lot about myself but also a lot about those foreign countries and their people who react differently to you if you actually interact with them. When you're travelling in a group you tend to keep to yourself and turn around to keep chatting in your group conversation. This wasn't possible for me, I had to get in contact with people and I loved it! One more day in Sofia ahead...

#traveling #always on tour #solotravel #frank turner #fthc #Sofia #Bulgaria #Bulgarien #Dropkick Murphys #Dkm

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illuminatingcomics · 7 years

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I miss you!

It’s too late. It was only a matter of timebefore this happened. Out of cash, out of a job, out of my house, I only have thisplace where to vent out. I don’t want to supplicate for help, or bore you withmy sad story, I only want to open your eyes, be honest for once. This blog, andall the work published on it, was just a desperate attempt to fight back thegrowing insanity that overwhelmed my mind ever since I‘ve learned about thetruth…

And the truth, you shall learn, if you’rewilling to listen.

It’sa well known fact that Marvel experienced a terrifying financial crisis in themid nineties. Corporate greed and shady business practices saw Marvel’s stock value collapse; shares once worth$35.75 each in 1993 had sunk to $2.375 three years later. The market crashed.Retailers lost their shops, speculators jumped ship, and titles that soldmillions because they had twenty-three variant cover plated in gold and withattached trading card now sold only a few thousand copies. It was hell, and inthe back alleys of Wall Street, executives and editors were ready to cut eachother throat to salvage what little was left. Neil Gaiman compared it to thetulip mania, when back in the 17th century, the price of tulip bulbsexploded only to drastically collapse in 1637.

Now, what happened after?How did Marvel survive? The official version of the narrative tells us theyremained afloat selling the movies rights for some of their biggest and mostremunerative franchises (Spider-Man, Fantastic Four, the Sub-Mariner), before finallyentering the Disney family in 2009, other meat for the unstoppable everconsuming grinder that company became. But that’s not the real reason. I knowthe real reason. I saw the real reason.

I worked as an intern forMarvel from 2002 to 2003. It was a strange period in the company’s history.Modern classics like Grant Morrison’s New X-Men and Millar’s Ultimates were published side by side with stuff like Marville and that War Machine book madeentirely of 3D models. You could tell by entering their offices that editorsweren’t giving second thoughts to any idea, threw everything on the wall to seewhat stuck, a process that resulted in both masterpieces and ugly catastrophes.

I said I was an intern, Iwas more like a glorified janitor, paid in food stamps to empty out the trashcans, make photocopies, walk out Perlmutter’s pet South Pacific cannibal, andstuff like that… I’ve never met anyone important, so if you’re expecting astory about certain famous writers being secretly lizard people, I’m sorry, thisis not it. I’ve only ever crossed roads with Joe Quesada, and aside form hisconstant need to gift me autographed copies of the issues of Ninjak he did in1993, everything was normal… everything, not everyone. There was an editor.This man… he’s why I’m writing this.

Howard Gardner was his name,but you won’t find it printed in the credits of any book, I assure you. Yet hewas an editor, that was his role. Asking around the building, I’ve learned thathe had been working at Marvel since before the bubble burst, but only oversawfew, scattered books. Apparently he was the guy that came up with the basicideas for Avataars:Covenant of the Shield, Fantastic Four: Unlimited, and he hadghost written at least two issues of Uncanny X-Men… you know the ones.People didn’t like working with him, writers didn’t like talking to him,artists didn’t like the notes he put on their pages, yet, in an era of constantbudget cuts and people losing their job, he was still part of Marvel’s staff.

He was a tall, lanky man,of an auburn complexion, maybe… I say that because there’re few things abouthim I can accurately describe. Something about him slips away from my mind, Ican’t put a face to a voice, can’t connect it all to a name, and I’ve met himseveral times. The harder I try to remember the less I do… or perhaps, I simplydon’t want to remember, as if my memories are protecting me from something. There was a certain oddness about the way he behaved, and the requestshe made at every editor’s meeting, all promptly ignored by the rest of thosepresent. Now, you think he was asking for something gruesome and horrifying,but knowing the graphic shit Marvel published in their MAX line, would youreally believe they wouldn’t have the stomach for something in particular? No,his requests were just strange.

“I want Black Widow tofight iridescent orbs” he told a writer, “Make the furniture blue, it’s myfavourite colour” he asked a colorist, referring to an inconsequentialapartment shown during a fight scene. Just bizarre non sequiturs like those, atevery meeting when he wasn’t pitching some outlandish stupid book. He behavedlike he wasn’t entirely there, the best way I can describe it is that he actedlike a tourist from another country, that didn’t know anything about thecustoms of the area, but still tried his best to awkwardly fit in.

Eventually I got used tomost of Howard Gardner’s strangeness, but one thing I just couldn’t wrap myhead around were his visits to Marvel’s “boiler room”. Sometimes he went downthere two or three times a day, sometimes once every few weeks, and neverfailed to announce it. “I’m going to the boiler room everybody!” he woulddeclare, sometimes in the middle of a meeting, standing up and marching out theroom. Nobody seemed to care, or at least, they pretended not to care. I triedto ask Quesada once, and he just replied “He’s a funny guy like that” beforehanding me over issue #3 of Sword ofAzrael.

Such was my morbid curiosity, that oneday, after yet another announcement, I decided to follow him. He didn’t takethe elevator to reach the boiler room, but stairs. I waited five or six minutebefore chasing after him, as cautiously as possible. He was already about fourfloors lower than me, so I kept that distance, walking by the wall rather thanthe rails, only once in a while peering out to ensure he hadn’t notice me. So Iwalked, and I walked, and I walked… after several minutes I began to wonderjust how deep could Marvel’s basement be? We were already far below ground level,and yet we kept moving. I had no idea the building was that big, and thefurther down I went, the more the environment started showing signs of decay,and disuse, like nobody had been there for years, or decades… It gradually shifted, looking more and moredecrepit, walls covered in incomprehensible, ruined graffiti, garbage coatingthe floor, huge, old stacks of Jim Lee’s X-Men #1 stuffed inthe corners. The air was filled with a stale and odd smell, a mixture ofvinegar and paper, it made my eyes watery and my mouth dry, but still, I moveddown, as an unpleasant, sweaty warmth surrounded me.

Finally, the stairs ended, and only onelong, shadowed corridor appeared in front of my eyes, scarcely lit by orangetinged lamps. No trace of Gardner,he just vanished in the darkness. There was a noise, a rhythmic noise,reverberating in the air. The shuffling of pages, of a book, no, many books, anarmy of people skimming through hundreds of books, all at once. It wasstrangely hypnotic, and I began following it, carefully moving across thecorridor.

The floor was wet. Puddles of a wateryblack liquid covered it. The intense smell I perceived in my descent was allaround, and I finally identified it as the acute scent of ink. Shreddedcomicbook pages were all around, so utterly cut up and ruined I couldn’t tellwhich issues they were from.

I proceeded across thecorridor, and it seemed to stretch out without end. The further I went, thedeeper the ink lake turned. I was in it up to my ankles, when finally, afterthe seemingly endless walk, I reached a single iron door, left ajar. The boilerroom. The heat was unbearable, coating me like a blanket in the summer. I wasviscous and sticky with sweat, so thirsty my throat was sore, yet, I entered,following the noise, constantly skimmingin the my ears.

It was dark inside, Icouldn’t see anything, but still I understood, the place was bigger, muchbigger than it had any right to be. It was as if I was entering an entirelydifferent building, another place, better yet, another world. The floor was a dense, gooey swamp of ink and soaked paper, the airbasically unbreathable, polluted by the toxic smell of industrial paint. I tookjust a few steps forward into the alien world, and the marsh reached my knees. I stopped, gazed into the darkness… and I saw Gardner. He was far away,and the entire lower portion of his body, from the belt down wasn’t visible:he was immersed in the ink… I have to wonder now, was it really ink, orsomething else? And if it wasn’t, then what?

I shivered, glaring at the scene. Gardner had his arms up. He was looking atsomething. I narrowed my eyes, looked up, saw nothing at all.

Then, it moved. That nothing, was everything. Therewas a shape, filling the void, in its entirety. It was grandiose andstupendous, it was horrifying and atrocious. I couldn’t comprehend anythingabout its anatomy, it was as if a thousands sails moved at unison, shifting inspace, like billions of pages stacked one on top of the other. The rhythmicshuffling belonged to it, the supernatural, diseased sound of its existence.

If it had eyes, I can’t tell. If it had consciousness,or it was just an endless sea of living flesh, I can’t tell. It was ancient andunending, primeval masterpiece of a bygone era. It existed long before anyonecould recount, it filled our dreams and our nightmares. It was the reason ofthe company’s endurance. It was its protector. The god they had swore to serve.And it, in turn, served them. It was Marvel.

The moments that followed were a blur. I barely hadthe time to contemplate my insignificance in the greater cosmic theatre and wetmyself before I decided to run. Out of the boiler room, out of the building,out of the city, out of the goddamned country. Some would say I am coward, andit’s true, because in front of that archaic force, we’re all cowards.

It’s been fourteen years. Itried morphine, I tried cocaine, I tried coke. I still cannot forget. The imagesare burned in my mind. Mocking the thing with silly internet edits was my wayof fighting its power, and maintain my sanity, but it’s not enough anymore. Ah!It was never enough to begin with, and anonymity only got me so far. I believethey found me. I realize now the truth about Howard Gardner. More than a man,more than an editor, he was an instrument of its hateful design. He saw meescape, and he’s been looking for me, hunting me down every waking moment hewasn’t busy green lighting projects like Marvel DIVAS and Curse of the Mutants.

Theend is near. I hear a noise at the door, as of some immense slippery bodylumbering against it. It shall not find me. God, the hand! Thewindow! The window!

#ask #october #marvel

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thestarsofthenight · 7 years

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Chapter 5: A Fine Laugh is the Best Medicine

Fandom: Kuroshitsuji/Black Butler

Pairings: mainly Ciel Phantomhive/Elizabeth Midford

Summary: “There is nothing more ridiculous than living in a country in which an orange-skinned man won an election,” Francis had said, ending the Midfords four-year-long stay in the USA. Three days later, Elizabeth lives in gloomy London, wishing to be back in sunny LA, when a murder case suddenly turns her life upside down, entangling her with Ciel Phantomhive, his duty to the crown, and his school-intern detective agency…

Navigation: Chapter Index

“I love people who make me laugh. I honestly think it’s the thing I like most, to laugh. It cures a multitude of ills. It’s probably the most important thing in a person.”

― Audrey Hepburn

London, England, United Kingdom – November 2016

That was not what Elizabeth had awaited.

After seeing the look on Ciel’s face and hearing his ominous words, she had braced herself to go to a very strange place – like something resembling a witch’s house. But now, she and the others were standing in front of St Bartholomew’s Hospital – the oldest hospital in Great Britain, having been founded in 1123.

“I thought that we would go somewhere odd,” Elizabeth told Ciel while they entered the building through the back door.

“The place is not odd,” he answered her, not looking at her but keeping his eyes in front of him. “The person we are about to meet, however, is.”

They headed downstairs, and people who saw them only glanced at them before continuing to where they had to go. The hospital staff had indeed got used to seeing a twelve- or thirteen-year-old boy wandering around these halls, flanked by a weirdly mixed group of adults. If anyone of them was surprised to see Elizabeth, they did a magnificent job not to show it.

Elizabeth followed Ciel and the others into Barts’ morgue – a huge room in a sickening white with the doors of the containers on the walls and tables resembling operating ones here and there. Except them, there was nobody else in the room.

“I am not in the mood for your silly games, Undertaker,” Ciel said into the room, and Elizabeth raised an eyebrow at his words.

“Hi hi. I knew that you would come~” suddenly came a voice from somewhere around the room, interrupting Elizabeth who had just wanted to ask Ciel why the person they were here to meet was called “Undertaker.”

“Welcome, Earl…” continued the eerie voice, and one of the container doors opened. “Do you want to see how it feels to sleep in a container?”

Elizabeth got goose bumps when she saw a tall man with long silvery grey hair crawling out of the container. How morbid – a living person in a place for the dead.

The man wore a black suit which was a little bit too big for him and a black hat. The bangs of his hair were so long and unruly that they covered most of his face, but she could still see a scar running over his face and the wide grin on his face when he finally stood tall and odd in front of them. A glimpse at Lau, Angelina, and Grelle told Elizabeth that the man’s entrance had scared them more than it had her: They were staring at him with open mouths and Grelle cowered on the ground, completely horrified.

The man seemed to be quite amused by their reaction.

“Like I’ve said: I didn’t come here to play today,” Ciel replied with slight annoyance in his voice.

The strange man walked towards Ciel and pressed a finger against his mouth and only now, Elizabeth could see that he had very long fingernails which had been painted black and wore a ring on his left index finger.

“You don’t need to tell me. I know why you came. With just one look I can tell what is on your mind.” He giggled, and when he saw Elizabeth, his grin widened.

“You brought an interesting girl with you, Earl,” the man said. “And since you went out of your way to visit me, I’ll certainly do everything I can to help.” He walked to the morgue’s exit. “Please take a seat first; I’ll go make tea. It is all right when you sit on the tables. They were cleaned~” With these words, the man left the room.

“And this was…?” Elizabeth said, sitting down next to Ciel. Except for Sebastian who had positioned himself behind his master, Ciel had been the only one not to hesitate to sit down on one of the tables.

“Undertaker, yes,” he replied.

“Why is a forensic pathologist called ‘Undertaker’? I mean that cannot be his real name, right?”

“Because I am primarily a mortician, dearie,” the man, Undertaker, answered Elizabeth’s question when he stepped back into the room, a tray in his hand. “What I do here, I do for fun because I cannot get enough of the beauty of death.”

He offered them bone-shaped biscuits which he had stored in a jar looking like a cinerary urn, and Earl Grey poured into beakers.

He is like a darker version of the Mad Hatter, Elizabeth thought while eating one of the biscuits which were surprisingly quite delicious.

“Now then,” Undertaker started, sitting down himself, “you wanted to know about the Copycat?”

“No, I want to talk about the other prostitute-killing maniac walking around Whitechapel – Leather Bib,” Ciel replied, resulting in Undertaker starting to giggle.

“Sarcasm surely runs in your family, doesn’t it? It is always so refreshing to have a Phantomhive around~”

“If you do not start telling me soon what you have found out, you can as well start working on my funeral.”

“It would be a pleasure to put you in one of my custom-made coffins, Earl, but after the numerous times you have come to me have you forgotten that my services have a price?”

“I see, so that’s how it is. You’re very good at making business, Undertaker,” Lau said, trying to sneak into the conversation like he usually did. “How much money do you want for your information?”

“How much money?!” Undertaker exclaimed and jumped in front of Lau, startling him. His sudden movement and change in tone made Elizabeth flinch. What a Mood Whiplash.

“I don’t want any of the Queen’s money!” Undertaker snapped at Lau before walking back to Ciel, cradling his head in his hands. “Now, then, Earl… I only have one requirement…”

It has to do something with jokes! Elizabeth thought, eagerly watching the scene before her. Ciel implied that, and having got to know Undertaker’s nature it is quite likely!

“Show me a first rate laugh. If you do, no matter what you want to know, I’ll tell you!” Undertaker said with crossed arms.

100 points to Midford House!

“Fu, Earl, if that’s the case, let me handle this,” Lau said, stepping forward. “The sleeping tiger of the Shanghai’s New Year’s party, also referred to as my soul – this should satisfy you!”

And with a triumphant smile on his face, Lau told the lamest joke in the history of jokes in an insanely confident manner. Elizabeth was not even sure if this could still count as a joke as it had been so utterly terrible.

“It looks like he won’t talk, Lau,” Angelina said after recovering from the shock after hearing Lau’s excuse of a joke. “It can’t be helped.” She stepped forward. “Then, I, Madame Red, a beauty of high society, shall make my appearance now! If I ask him, he’ll sure be sure to tell us!”

“Madame!” Grelle yelled from the back, but Angelina already started to talk. Quickly, he covered Elizabeth’s ears, apparently knowing very well what would come now, and she saw Sebastian covering Ciel’s ears as well.

What could be worse than Lau’s “joke”? Elizabeth wondered. After an hour, Undertaker had enough of Angelina’s tale and wrapped a bandage around her mouth to make her shut up. He did the same to Lau – perhaps in the fear that he could make another “joke.”

“Thank you, Mr Sutcliff,” Elizabeth said to Grelle after he removed his hands again. He politely bowed at her.

“I guess it is your turn, Lady,” Undertaker announced, an amused smile on his lips.

“Leave her out,” Ciel interfered.

“Why should I? Let the Lady have her chance – maybe she can make me laugh?” He chuckled.

I am so in trouble, Elizabeth thought. After Ciel had asked her if she knew any good jokes, she had gone through the files in her mind – and had found not a single acceptable one. All she could think of had been silly rabbit jokes.

What do you call a happy rabbit? A hop-timist!

What did the rabbit give his girlfriend? A 14 carrot ring!

What do you call a rabbit transformer? Hop-timus Prime!

And so on.

I cannot tell any of them. But everyone stared at her, and her mind was blocked, and she ultimately blurted out, not forgetting to change her voice for the rabbit parts: “Comes a rabbit to a bakery and asks the baker: ‘Do you have bee sting?’ And the baker answers: ‘Yes, I do have bee sting cake.’ ‘Have to apply ointment.’”

In the silent morgue, the only one who giggled was Grelle.

This is beyond embarrassing – hopefully, this just stays a Big Lipped Alligator Moment.

Undertaker grinned at her. “Cute but not really suitable to cause laughing. You’re the only one left, Earl – it is your turn now.”

“Damn,” Ciel mumbled, but before he could start, Sebastian stepped forward. “It can’t be helped.”

“Sebastian?!” Ciel exclaimed, puzzled, and Undertaker said: “Oh, it’s the butler’s turn now?”

“Everyone, please step outside for a moment. You absolutely must not peek inside,” Sebastian said, and they dutifully obeyed.

Elizabeth, Ciel, Angelina, Grelle, and Lau stood in front of the morgue’s entrance for only a short period before they heard Undertaker’s hysterical laughter through the thick walls.

What has Sebastian done? Elizabeth asked herself when Sebastian opened the door for them and she saw Undertaker lying on the floor, his hair now covering his entire face, and holding his body in laughter.

“I have noticed that there are not enough ‘guests,’” Undertaker said after he had calmed down from his outburst and everyone else was seated on the tables again.

“Not enough?” Sebastian asked.

“Yes, not enough. Internal organs, of course. Don’t you think that the eternally sleeping ‘guests’ that lie in coffins are so cute? My hobby is to take out the organs for research.”

Immediately, Lau, Angelina, and Grelle stared at their beakers, turning white.

“They were autoclaved,” Ciel told them, annoyed.

“Ah, of course, they were,” Lau said with a knowing nod. “It is foolish to assume they weren’t.”

“You have no idea what ‘autoclaved’ means, right?”

Lau smiled confidently at him before he raised his hands. “Not at all.”

“To recite Wikipedia: ‘An autoclave is a pressure chamber used to carry out industrial processes requiring elevated temperature and pressure different from ambient air pressure. Autoclaves are used in medical applications to perform sterilization and in the chemical industry to cure coatings and vulcanize rubber and for hydrothermal synthesis.’”

Lau nodded at Ciel’s words.

“You still have no idea, right?” Ciel said, and Lau nodded. Ciel rolled his eyes. “It is a pressure chamber often used to sterilise things – this means that whatever you put in them, afterwards it is cleaner than CPR depicted in movies or TV shows. And this means that no matter what Undertake has done to these beakers, it is safe to drink from them.”

He turned to Undertaker. “Please, just continue.”

“Hi hi, of course, Earl.

“The prostitute, Anna Walker, isn’t a whole woman anymore – because her womb is gone. Just like the other three.”

“Interesting,” Ciel said. “The canonical five victims of the Ripper were badly-hit but only the second’s, Annie Chapman’s, and the fifth’s, Mary Jane Kelly’s, uterus was at least partially removed. But everyone’s, except Elizabeth Stride’s, abdomen was mutilated.”

“Indeed. Apart from that, the Copycat murdered their four victims – Courtney Alizarin, Molly Marrow, Erika Weikopf, and Anna Walker – in the same exact manner as the original Ripper did.”

“This could indicate that Jack the Rip-off’s real objective is to remove the uteri of these women but, for some reason, they made it look like it is the work of a maniac, only wanting to re-enact this famous crime.”

“Perhaps they want to pin the murder on a very desperate Ripperologist?” Elizabeth suggested.

Ciel looked at her like he had forgotten that she was still here before he spoke. “A nice suggestion, but flawed. After all, this would mean that the Copycat does not only either hold a personal grudge against these women or even needs five uteri for some reason but also that they also hate a Ripperologist whom they may or may not know. However, until now, there weren’t any hints suggesting that one – or all – of these overenthusiastic fanboys and wannabe detectives could be the culprit. Furthermore, if the Whitechapel Copycats indeed planned to pin the murder on a Ripperologist – don’t you think that they would have done a better job with the re-enacting? The dates of the murders are wrong, the times too. No letters have been sent so far. And, of course, there’s still the aspect of all four victims missing their uterus. A real Ripperologist wouldn’t have made such mistakes. And it’s not like it’s hard to find information on Jack the Ripper on the internet.”

“There’s something which makes me wonder: the CCTV cameras,” Elizabeth began. “London is one of the metropoles with the largest CCTV network. There are thousands of them, hidden in every corner. How could none of them have filmed the crime?”

“CCTV cameras could not prevent the bombings of July 7, 2005 – they may be everywhere, but the system is not flawless. In case of the Copycat Murders, there were cameras at the crime scenes but, mysteriously, all of them malfunctioned at the time of the killing. I do not know how but they somehow managed to manipulate the system.” Ciel shook his head. “If they had used my new, improved cameras, such a thing might not have happened. I showed them to some higher-ups, but, of course, they refused my offer. I work in the dark – and do a better job than them. Of course, they would not accept it if I invaded their beloved CCTV business.”

Elizabeth frowned. “Doesn’t Funtom only sell sweets and toys?”

“Yes, it does. Designing and building electrical devices is a hobby of mine – I created my cameras during an especially boring German lesson.”

“Ciel, why am I sending you to school if you don’t learn?” Angelina said, shaking her head.

“Because you refused to let me be homeschooled so that ‘I could learn how to socialise,’” Ciel replied.

They sound like Artemis Fowl and his mother whose name is, coincidentally, Angeline.

“Can I continue my report?” Undertaker said after a while. “Yes? Very well, hi hi.

“The Copycat may not have followed the Ripper’s moves until now, but the removal of Anna Walker’s left kidney could suggest that they will follow the original crime’s procedure more closely now.”

“And why should a cut-out kidney hint such a thing?” Angelina wanted to know.

Ciel blinked at her. “Don’t you remember? I had told you quite a lot about Jack the Ripper when you came over for dinner a few years ago.”

“You did? I guess, it slipped my mind.” Angelina shrugged.

He sighed. “After Jack the Ripper killed his fourth victim, he sent his famous letter ‘From Hell.’ Many letters have been sent by people, claiming to be the Ripper, but this particular letter is one of those which could truly be from Jack the Ripper themselves. ‘From Hell’ was sent to George Lusk, the chairman of the Whitechapel Vigilance Committee, on October 15, 1888, alongside half a kidney because the letter states that the Ripper ate the other half of it.”

Grelle spitted out the biscuit he had just been eating into his beaker.

“Gross, Ciel,” Lau remarked. “People are eating here.”

“We are in a morgue, sitting on operating tables, eating bone-shaped biscuits, and drinking tea out of beakers while discussing a serial murder case.” Ciel looked at Undertaker. “Please, just continue.”

“The wombs and the kidney were removed with odd precision, signifying that no regular person could have committed these murders. Besides, if we compare the double event of November 21 to the original one of September 30, 1888, it is also evident that the killer is someone experienced. After all, just like Elizabeth Stride and Catherine Eddowes, Erika Weikopf and Anna Walker died around an hour apart from another. Unlike the original victims, Weikopf and Walker were not in possession of their uteri when they were found. It is impossible for someone not familiar with the handiwork to remove them with such precision and carefulness in such a short time like our Copycat did. After all, Weikopf and Walker did not die next to each other.” Undertaker poked one of his long fingernails into Ciel’s cheek. “You should have been able to figure that out too, Earl.

“It’s very likely that the murderer is an expert – in today’s world, there are numerous people possessing this very knowledge. This information will not cut down the list of suspects. Maybe if he knew you were here, it could lure them out. They will keep committing crimes, they definitely will, unless someone stops them. Can you stop them? Aristocrat of Evil, Earl of Phantomhive?”

“The world of darkness has the world of darkness’ rules. They wouldn’t murder random people for no reason. There must be an influence manipulating them from behind,” Ciel responded to Undertaker’s words. “I won’t be scared. No matter what tricks I have to use, I will solve this crime.

“Thanks for the tea and biscuits and providing information, Undertaker. It is time for us to go now.”

***

It was already quite dark when they returned to the townhouse after leaving Lau in East End, and right before they could get out of the car Ciel’s mobile phone rang. He got it out of his coat pocket, and Elizabeth leaned in a bit to take a glimpse at the message he had received:

Come to my house, ASAP! S7616.

“Aunt Anne, we cannot discuss the information we have received just now,” Ciel said to Madame Red, putting away his phone. “I have to go to McMillan’s now.”

“Can I come with you?” Elizabeth asked.

“You should take her with you,” Angelina interjected before Ciel could say anything. “She is part of your team now, and it wouldn’t be gentlemanlike at all to leave her out.”

“Wouldn’t it be more ‘gentlemanlike’ to bring her home before it gets even darker than it already is?”

Angelina just wanted to reply something when Ciel’s mobile rang again. He took it out and read the message.

Just take Lizzy with you. No time to argue with DD.

I barely knew McMillan but… What is he? A psych?

Ciel sighed and put his phone away again. “You can accompany me, Lady Midford. Good evening, Aunt Anne, Mr Sutcliff.”

***

“There you are!” McMillan greeted Ciel and Elizabeth when they entered his house, closing the door behind them.

The McMillan house was an old Victorian building, flanked by similar looking edifices. The façade was greyish-white, but lovingly raised flowers left and right on the way to the entrance, a friendly doormat telling you to ring the bell and visit them as well as colourful curtains hanging in the windows let the old house shine with life.

“My parents are not at home, and Niall and Nuala are at a sleepover,” McMillan informed them while they took off their coats.

“How is the party organisation going?” Elizabeth wanted to know.

“It’s going well. Thanks for asking. And, Lizzy, how was meeting Undertaker?”

“He’s a very interesting person,” Elizabeth replied.

McMillan chuckled. “Yes, he is. And he bakes the best biscuits. I always ask him to give me the recipe, but he keeps refusing.”

Undertaker’s cookie recipe is something even McMillan does not know? What is happening to the world as we know it?

“Lizzy, you can give me your coat, I will put it away for you.”

Elizabeth handed it to him. “Thanks.”

“You’re welcome. C?”

So cute. They call each other by the first letter of their names.

Ciel also gave him his jacket, and in the few minutes McMillan was gone to hang up the coats somewhere, Elizabeth could take in the inner beauty of the house.

Everything about it was narrow. In every corner were books, books, and more books; here and there were toys. Everything was stuffed with signs of life, and still, Elizabeth did not feel claustrophobic – the house might be narrow, but the building’s warmth made you forget how small everything was. It was such a stark contrast to the wide and cold Phantomhive townhouse – just like the vibrant McMillan was the opposite of the cynical Ciel.

They climbed the stairs to McMillan’s room after he had returned. His room was just like the others – narrow and crammed to the ceiling.

“So… why did you tell us to come, N?” Ciel wanted to know, sitting down on McMillan’s revolving chair.

“There are two things I want to talk about,” McMillan said, putting a piece of paper and a box on his desk. Elizabeth moved closer to join the boys at the table.

McMillan folded out the piece of paper and revealed that it was a map with four crosses on it which had all been connected. “The first thing is this.

“While pondering over the case, I got the sudden idea to mark on a map where the crimes happened. When I marked the places, it did not come to my mind but, naturally, I had to connect the crosses – how could I not do it after all these maths lessons with Mr Boone? He literally screams at us to do this whenever we work with graphs.

“Well, I unconsciously connected the dots, and when I looked at it again, I noticed something odd.” McMillan ran his right index finger over the red line. “Do you see that? It could be nothing more but a coincidence, but when you see the linked marks, you see that these women were killed where they were killed in order to form a certain letter: ‘J.’”

“This could be helpful to determine the last crime scene,” Ciel said, and McMillan nodded. “But the ‘J’ looks a bit strange – the upper line is a little bit too round.”

McMillan nodded again. “Yes, I noticed that too. And then I experimented a little bit and…” He turned the map upside down. Ciel’s and Elizabeth’s eyes widened at the same time.

“Apparently, our culprit does not only want to carve in stone that he is indeed a copycat of Jack the Ripper but also wants to give you a message: ‘I know that you are there, Ciel Phantomhive,’” McMillan spoke out what all of them had thought.

“A game,” Ciel said, clenching his hands. “This is a game to them.”

“The Copycat is mocking you,” Elizabeth pointed out.

“They are, but I will not lose this game – I never lose a game.”

McMillan nodded. “You should see how often Ciel beats me at chess or Uno, Lizzy. And don’t get me started at Cluedo.”

“And what is the second thing you wanted to tell us?” Ciel wanted to know, and McMillan raised the box. “This was sent to me this afternoon.”

Elizabeth and Ciel shared a quick glance – The letter and the kidney – before they turned their attention back to McMillan who opened the box.

“I know what you are thinking – it has to be the Lusk letter, how can it not be the Lusk letter? I was thinking the exact same thing when the postwoman gave me a package without a sender, but I have to disappoint you. Well, at least, sort of.” He showed them the content of the box – a picture printed on a double sheet. Ciel took it out and put it on the desk.

On the right, the picture showed the image of half a kidney; on the left, there was the photographed letter “From Hell.”

From hell.

Mr Lusk,

Sor

I send you half the Kidne I took from one woman prasarved it for you tother piece I fried and ate it was very nise. I may send you the bloody knif that took it out if you only wate a whil longer

signed

Catch me when you can Mishter Lusk

“At least, this is more readable than the original letter,” Ciel remarked.

“It is,” McMillan replied. “Whoever our killer is, he or she might have copied the real Ripper’s letter with all its terrible spelling and grammar, but they did not have the heart to mimic Jack’s terrible handwriting.”

“But where is the real letter?” Elizabeth said. “The only reason I see for the Copycat not exchanging the name of the letter’s recipient is when the recipient’s name is Mr Lusk.”

“Hm. Possible. I will ask Sebastian to find everyone in London named Lusk and ask them if they received the actual package,” said Ciel.

“Uh, is that not a quite inconvenient and time-consuming procedure?”

“Sebastian can do that,” McMillan assured her. “He is one hell of a butler.

“There’s one more thing I want to point out.” He tapped on the bottom left corner of the paper on which the letter had been written. “It’s very small, but it is still a clue – a very small clue the Copycat themselves have missed: A tiny, tiny emblem belonging to Aleistor Chamber.”

Something clicked in Elizabeth’s head. “Aleistor Chamber? The Viscount of Druitt?”

McMillan nodded.

“I have once heard my mother talking about him,” she said excitedly. “She said ‘Which moron gave the Viscount of Druitt a degree in medicine? How could we end up living in a world in which even the biggest of idiots can become physicians?’

“The Copycat cut out the wombs of these women with the precision of an expert – and Chamber has a master degree in medicine. He certainly qualifies as a suspect.”

“This is a huge mistake on the killer’s part,” Ciel said. “And we cannot be certain that this is not a red herring. But a clue is a clue, and we should follow every one we can find. I heard that Chamber’s hosting a party Sunday evening, but you need an invitation to get inside.” He looked at McMillan. “Do you think you can get us a handful of these invitations until Sunday or do I have to ask Sebastian? After all, you still have preparations to do.”

McMillan shook his head. “This is a child’s play; it won’t take too much time and is even a nice warm-up.” He grinned. “There’s nothing easier than that.”

#the stars of the night #the whitechapel copycat arc #elizabeth midford #ciel phantomhive #mcmillan #sebastian michaelis #undertaker #angelina dalles #black butler #kuroshitsuji #grelle sutcliff #madame red #fanfiction #modern au #ff #ciel x lizzy #cielizzy

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politicrap-blog · 7 years

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Politics

Someone on Facebook asked me if I’m one of the “we are mad trump won team.” Let me tell you that yes, I am. I very much am. If you aren't a multimillionaire, you should be, too, because he's already screwing you over. He's looking to take away either all of your healthcare or make what you do have more expensive so his rich cronies can get richer. He cut mortgage aid on the FIRST day in office to make housing and other real estate more expensive. He's a real estate mogul, and stands to directly profit from screwing the little guy. He's willing to cost you money both directly and indirectly via his pipe-dream wall. Both taxes and the cost of goods from Mexico go up, and it won't keep anyone out anyway. We'd have to arm the whole border, which would push us right into going to war against not only Mexico, but probably everyone else who would stand to lose from such an agreement, like China, Russia, and most of the UN. Every single decree we've seen from him, and are going to see from him, are about dollars going right into his pocketbook. Let's talk about the Muslim Ban for a second. Which countries are on the list? Libya, Sudan, Somalia, Iraq, Iran, Syria, and Yemen. How many refugees have caused death on American soil from these countries? 0. Not a single one. In fact, the last time refugees suggested a real threat to the American way of life, the Cherokee side of my family were being slaughtered and enslaved by them. So why the ban? There are a few reasons, but none of them are good. Using panic and fear to increase personal power. Using economic pressure to coerce poor countries into accepting skewed deals. Just plain hatred of brown people. Who knows? Well, now that we're depressed, let's talk about the ACA, or "Obamacare." Millions of people are going to lose their healthcare if the ACA is repealed. If people lose their only access to healthcare, they die. Period, there's no way around it. How high could the death toll be from repealing the ACA? Well, before the ACA was enacted, Somewhere between 40 and 65 THOUSAND Americans died every year due to inadequate health coverage. Afterward, the number dropped sharply, but it's still too early to get a reliable estimate. The number is anywhere between 12 and 36 thousand. That said, any number greater than zero means that the Republican party is literally more dangerous to the American populace than Muslim refugees. They will have murdered, without hyperbole murdered, thousands of innocent Americans, and people are cheering for that because they don't understand the ramifications of what they're doing. They're just bucking the rules of the last president because he was liberal or he was brown skinned or he had a foreign sounding name or whatever. I'd much rather we spend the money that we're currently spending on a pipe dream on infrastructure, education, and yes, healthcare. I didn't support Hillary Clinton, I supported Bernie Sanders, because I believe that all people need to stand together. I believe that everyone should be treated equally, rich and poor, white and black and hispanic and asian and other, straight and gay and trans and asexual and apache helicopter and whatever else people are calling themselves nowadays. The law should be written so that the variables that make us individual people do not matter beyond the social scope. Rich people should not get lighter sentences than poor people, and the same goes for respectively white and black, but that's exactly what happens, no matter what you think of the now polarized word "privilege" (frankly, I hate it, because it boils down a complex set of socioeconomic interactions to "if you're a white male people treat you better," which is just not always true.) Society doesn't need to change much to make the lives of everyone better. We live in the information age, and could be on the cusp of true greatness via the elimination of poverty through education and the free exchange of information. I believe that the floor of poverty should be lifted so that the lives of everyone gets better, not the ceiling raised so that the top becomes further unattainable to more people. I believe that food, water, shelter, education, and the ability to stay alive if you get sick should be rights unalienable to all people, no matter how much it costs multi-billion dollar corporations or the billionaire elite, or even the regular joes and janes. Life is by far more important money, and if the taxes on my already impoverished wages need to go up, then so be it, but the rich need to pay their share as well instead of hoarding the money in the sick zero sum game of keep away that we're already playing. Adjusted for inflation and cost of living increases, we the actual working people are already earning less than half of the buying power that the minimum wage was worth 50 years ago. We're literally being driven backward economically because of the insane wealth disparity in this country. On top of that, we already have a huge number of democratic socialist/outright socialist programs in place in the United States. Everyone knows about Medicaid, Medicare, SNAP (food stamps,) and WIC as socialist policies, but the roads you drive on, the schools your kids go to, the free parks, libraries, and hell, even the infrastructure that companies profit from, like power lines and water and sewer pipes are paid for via tax money. On top of that on top of that again, a seemingly endless stream of economists have stated that the move to single payer universal health care saves the average American over $1,000 a year. I'd be okay with over $1k in my pocket, and the savings to each and every one of us, as well as the Federal government, could be seriously monumental if we took the further step of regulating the price gouging pharmaceutical companies to keep costs in check and reforming hospitals to keep prices down. The savings to the Federal government after five years are in the high double digit to low triple digit millions of dollars a year. That said, the current administration wants to fleece us for what little we've got while they sail away on a solid gold boat, to hell with making everyone's lives better and actually improving the overall economy by giving the lowest economic class the ability to put money back into it. So am I mad that Trump won? Hell yes, I'm mad. I'm mad that an utterly abysmal businessman (the guy doesn't pay taxes because he lost almost a BILLION dollars in a single year. Somehow that makes him smart. He has dozens of failed businesses in his wake and settled a fraud lawsuit for $25 Million. The guy couldn't even sell steak,) appealed to the worst in people. I'm mad that the new president of my country, MY figurehead, went on air about how he would walk in on underage teenage girls changing, on purpose, and his staff would force them to dote on him in various states of undress. I'm mad that he openly states that he respects no one. I'm mad that he treats people like property, stating that because he is rich, he could do whatever he wanted to whoever he wanted with no consequences. I'm mad because he's a horrifically bigoted person, and always has been. It's not just calling out Mexico. It's stating that he doesn't want "blacks" handling his money, that he'd rather give it to the jews. I'm mad that he tried to impress Billy Bush with "locker room talk." Even if he were in a locker room, that speech wouldn't be acceptable. In every locker room I've ever been in (and having been a martial artist for a very long time, that's quite a few,) if a guy, ANY guy, bragged about sexually violating a woman without her consent, they'd have their throat punched in before they could say another word. Thing about that is, he wasn't even in a locker room. He was at a TV taping where he knew he was being heard by microphones and didn't CARE who heard him. He is nothing more than a pandering demagogue who appealed to the scared old WASP crowd who believes that they're being oppressed now that the playing field is finally starting to level a little bit. Why am I mad? He spouted nothing but bullshit, and it worked. I've never had much faith in humanity, but I've never been quite this sickened by the American people, or been quite so ready to tear down the establishment and start over, either. Why am I mad? We had legitimate candidates that could make the country better, even if you or I didn't like them, but the vast majority of the states decided to elect a man who has one redeeming quality: money that he was born into and has lost most of. Good luck with your reality star. He's going down hard if he makes it to four years without getting himself removed from office.

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birdshirt1-blog · 5 years

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Jöro, Sheffield

Before it comes to the stage of trying the food at Jöro, you'd be forgiven for assuming that a certain Place In Copenhagen features as a significant influence on the way they go about things here in Sheffield. There's the name, of course - Old Norse for 'earth' and pronounced 'yoro' which as a nice ring to it and looks suitably Nordic written down with its umlaut. And then there's the building itself - is there anything more thrustingly modern than a converted shipping container? It's beautifully done, too, without a bad table in the house, each well-spaced and sensitively lit, bringing to mind the industrial aesthetic of another Copenhagen institution Amass. So far, so familiar.

And yet to dismiss Jöro as a Yorkshire Noma is to do it a great disservice. And not only because I thought Noma was far too pleased with its mastery of odd techniques to remember to actually give people a good time (I had a far more enjoyable lunch at Jöro), but because really, superficialities aside, Jöro is very much its own animal, taking just as many cues from Asian, and even traditional Yorkshire, cuisine than anything Scandi.

There's also the question of cost. Our evening began with an apology from front of house - one of the courses out of the tasting menu wasn't available, so instead of the usual 8 for £45, they could offer us 7 for £40. By anyone's standards, a 7-course tasting menu for £40, with a matching wine/cocktail option for an extra £35, is still an utter bargain, and would have been worth the trip up to Sheffield even if the kitchen had been less than competent and the advertised 7 courses been the sum total of the food offered.

Of course, this being Yorkshire where the compulsion to overfeed runs deep in genetic makeup of its people (I should know, my grandmother's family owned a fish and chip shop in Wombwell), Jöro aren't about to let you get away with just eating seven courses. Fully three sets of nibbles preceded the "first" course, a lovely linseed cracker dotted with blobs of cream cheese and beetroot...

...a mouthful of warm black pudding topped with apple sauce, rich and comforting...

...and a completely stunning duck croquette, managing to pack more flavour into this tiny cube of breaded, fried meat than almost any similar nibble I've had the good fortune to try for as long as I can remember. With a deep, almost sour game flavour and perhaps a touch of something alcoholic, it was a seriously impressive bit of work.

First course proper was a pretty 'tomato tartare' showcasing powerful San Marzano tomatoes and fresh summer herbs to great effect. Matched with this was Jöro's take on a Bloody Mary, a tomato consommé and vodka mixture that had an even more overwhelmingly "tomatoey" hit than the food. I don't care how jaded or cynical you try to be, there is no way a glass of clear liquid tasting like the world's finest Bloody Mary isn't going to make you gasp. It certainly did me.

Given that everything else from the kitchens at Jöro was so accomplished, it was very odd - not to mention a bit of a surprise - that the bread was so disappointing. Pappy and dry, it wasn't stale as such - at least I don't think that was the issue - it was just nowhere near as good as it should have been. There must be better bakeries out there - I've heard good things about Forge on Abbeydale Rd - so let's hope the house bread offering gets a makeover some time soon.

Anyway we were soon back on track with the scallops. With neat discs of seafood dressed speckled with vibrant parsley oil, and sprinkled with horseradish and samphire, it was as pretty as it was deceptively complex, all the various summer herbs and dressings combining in such a way as to not have any one stand out but allowing the scallop - cured in elderflower vinegar, which just removed the 'flabbiness' of raw scallop without destroying the freshness - to still be the main flavour.

Similarly barbecued pork neck glazed in some kind of sweet/sour, umami-rich Japanese dressing, its intense flavours cooled by pressed cucumber and texture added with toasted cashews. Japanese flavours featured in several of the courses at Jöro, and although jumping around global cuisines runs the risk of being confusing or disjointed, the sensitive and only occasional use of things like yuzu or dashi at Jöro makes perfect sense. It's also worth pointing out that the wine that this course came matched with, a Riesling I think, very cleverly matched the sugar levels in the pork with just the right amount of sweetness, producing a clean, crisp effect that was quite something.

In this broccoli dish, the vegetable blackened and smokey from the grill, paired with a blob of irresistibly addictive black garlic paste and topped with a generous dusting of very good Vacche Rosse Parmesan. By this point, you'll probably guess, we were having a blast. Inventive, exciting cooking like this, presented with flair and skill by an extremely competent front of house team, doesn't along very often, but the knowledge we were going to be sent home stuffed, drunk and happy for around £70 a head made the whole atmosphere even more giddy. As I scooped up the last of the black garlic I began making plans to rent a flat in Kelham Island and spend long, lazy days in the Fat Cat pub drinking pints of £3.40 local ales.

Next a huge, plump duck breast glazed with local heather honey, with a brilliantly sharp and complex wild blackcurrant sauce, beetroot and al-dente hispi cabbage. If I'm going to be brutal, perhaps not the most flavoursome bird I've ever been asked to eat, but cooked absolutely beautifully and so made up for a little depth of flavour with an utterly charming texture. After the dish was finished, the sauces and oils left on the plate - deep vermilion reds of fruits and meat juices, and emerald green cabbage oils, made the plate resemble a work of modern art.

Pre-dessert (yes, that's the fourth additional 'course' so far for our £40) was a smooth sour cream ice cream topped with summer berries, like a kind of fancy Müller fruit corner. Lovely tableware it came in too, a kind of rough stone bowl softened with frost.

First dessert proper was a brown butter and muscovado parfait on top of what they coyly referred to as 'parkin', a Yorkshire cake that's a kind of soft flapjack. The parfait itself, and the neat spheres of sake-soaked apple on top, were hugely enjoyable and worth the price of admission, but unfortunately the 'parkin' beneath, perhaps because they'd decided to tone down the strong ginger element usually present in parkin, was a bit bland, and the soft texture didn't really sit well. Still, full marks for invention and local colour.

"Yorkshire strawberries and raspberries" turned out to be an incredibly light yoghurt mousse of some kind, studded with dried and frozen fruit and spiked with yuzu. Light, refreshing and summery, it dissolved in the mouth like dairy candy floss, and was another great example of Jöro's mastery of technique. Also, being so insubstantial it was, despite our almost completely sated appetites, incredibly easy to eat, a very welcome thing indeed at this point in the meal.

Incredibly, Jöro decided to gift us with yet one more final flourish - petits fours of summer fruit marshmallows, and very lovely things they were too.

But that, eventually, sadly, was it. The bill, as I keep banging on about, came to £143 total, which included more than enough booze - but the Yorkshire generosity didn't even end at the glasses of Picpoul which our sommellier filled up to about the level of a half pint with a cheeky grin. No, Jöro had one final flourish of northern hospitality up its sleeve - no service charge. So we worked out the usual London % and left it in cash, because they'd earned every last bloody penny.

I don't want to focus too much on the bill though, because I don't want to give the impression that my enjoyment of lunch at Jöro was largely due to the fact I knew I was getting a bargain in contrast to what similar meals would have cost down in Shoreditch or Marylebone. Yes, Jöro is insanely good value - a good 30% less than what they could still charge with a straight face and far less you'd spend at far lesser restaurants, even in Sheffield. But the most important thing about Jöro, in fact the only important thing all said and done, is that they serve some of the finest food in the country, in one of the finest cities in the country, and there's absolutely no way you could eat here and not have the time of your life. So let's just leave it at that.

9/10

Source: http://cheesenbiscuits.blogspot.com/2018/07/joro-sheffield.html

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