#west memphis three shirt

[leviabeat]

#volbeat #michael poulsen #elvis fan #west memphis three shirt #elvis jacket #trucker cap #studio

[nicklloydnow]

“See the child. He is pale and thin, he wears a thin and ragged linen shirt. He stokes the scullery fire. Outside lie dark turned fields with rags of snow and darker woods beyond that harbor yet a few last wolves. His folk are known for hewers of wood and drawers of water but in truth his father has been a schoolmaster. He lies in drink, he quotes from poets whose names are now lost. The boy crouches by the fire and watches him.

Night of your birth. Thirty-three. The Leonids they were called. God how the stars did fall. I looked for blackness, holes in the heavens. The Dipper stove.

The mother dead these fourteen years did incubate in her own bosom the creature who would carry her off. The father never speaks her name, the child does not know it. He has a sister in this world that he will not see again. He watches, pale and unwashed. He can neither read nor write and in him broods already a taste for mindless violence. All history present in that visage, the child the father of the man.

At fourteen he runs away. He will not see again the freezing kitchenhouse in the predawn dark. The firewood, the washpots. He wanders west as far as Memphis, a solitary migrant upon that flat and pastoral landscape. Blacks in the fields, lank and stooped, their fingers spiderlike among the bolls of cotton. A shadowed agony in the garden. Against the sun's declining figures moving in the slower dusk across a paper skyline. A lone dark husbandman pursuing mule and harow down the rainblown bottomland toward night.

A year later he is in Saint Louis. He is taken on for New Orleans aboard a flatboat. Forty-two days on the river. At night the steamboats hoot and trudge past through the black waters all alight like cities adrift. They break up the float and sell the lumber and he walks in the streets and hears tongues he has not heard before. He lives in a room above a courtyard behind a tavern and he comes down at night like some fairybook beast to fight with the sailors. He is not big but he has big wrists, big hands. His shoulders are set close. The child's face is curiously untouched behind the scars, the eyes oddly innocent. They fight with fists, with feet, with bottles or knives. All races, all breeds. Men whose speech sounds like the grunting of apes. Men from lands so far and queer that standing over them where they lie bleeding in the mud he feels mankind itself vindicated.”

#blood meridian #mccarthy #cormac mccarthy #reading

[from-memphis-with-love]

Gambling on Your Love - Ch. 2

Summary: Memphis Mafia antics cause trouble on set and put Elvis' relationship with the film's director on thin ice. Amidst this chaos, he finds himself increasingly drawn to his co-star, Francesca, who challenges him to consider a more serious path in life. Their growing connection, marked by moments of vulnerability and the thrill of new affection, leads to a pivotal evening that could change Elvis's life forever. Will he embrace the possibility of true love, or will his old habits die hard?

You can go back and read chapter one here. Word count: 9,800 Warnings: Outdated gender dynamics; crude humor; sexual content; alcohol use.

“Wake up, wake up, wake up!”

“Hey, E.P. Wakey wakey, eggs and bakey.”

“Hands off yer snakey!”

Elvis knew those annoying hyucks and haws anywhere, especially beating down his door at the crack of dawn. He yanked on a black silk robe and tied it at the front. 

“We know you’re in there, E! Come to the door!”

He could hear the alcohol and pills still imbibing their speech and doubted they’d even went to bed last night. Opening the door to his home proved that no, they in fact had not gone to bed last night. At least not their own.

Joe Esposito wore a frumpled paisley polo shirt that was half tucked into his black slacks. One shoe was missing and there was old vomit on the one poor mahogany loafer present. Jerry Schilling had sweat through his beige three-piece suit and struggled to keep upright on the pebble driveway leading to the patio.

Marty Lacker and Billy Smith were leaning against one another, using each other’s gravity to stand up. The saddest mountain in the valley. Red West, sober and only a pinch aggravated, a vein bulging from his sweating forehead, opened his arms up for a mighty hug and a few wallops on Elvis’ back. He pulled the cigarette out of his mouth before asking, “So why haven’t you answered any of our calls? You know I had to call fucking Parker to clue us in on where you went off to.”

“It hadn’t been that long,” Elvis insisted, glancing at his neglected answering machine.

“Longer!” Joe wailed, leaning all over Elvis and rubbing his pink forehead into Elvis’s silky sleeve. “Oooh, it feels so cool against my face. Say, where’s the bathroom around here again?” He gestured towards the pool right out back and Elvis guided his hand to straight down the hall. 

“First room on the left.” Or was it right? He didn’t use the downstairs as much in this house. Those double glass doors leading to the pool veranda freaked him out at nighttime. He made a mental note to buy some curtains. Getting everyone some water and ginger ale to nurse on, Elvis kicked back in his recliner, still in his loungewear with almost a full house. He hadn’t been so casual since childhood, without even his slippers on, for God’s sake. But everyone drank deeply and munched on the little cheeses and crackers he’d set out just in case they needed to soak up some of the liquor sitting on their bellies. He could get wild around this group of men. 

His reputation was something that he never really tended liberally. It was effortless to display whatever it was that made his fans flock to him. In all regards, he was just himself and it seemed to work to get him this far. His fridge was full, his bank fuller, houses in every state (that he liked to visit), top shelf dames for the picking. Why, just the other night he’d (almost) taken Francesca on a date. She insisted otherwise, but his cheek still sizzled with that little peck, he could smell her perfume when he shut his eyes. Hot spiced wine and caramel. He couldn’t get enough. 

The image he needed to maintain for this production was demanding and he realized that some of the worry he carried, in making this work, in making a mark, in doing more than just producing a film—in crafting a classic; was not for himself alone. The heaviness was shared for her. Frannie. She’d been in films before, he’d even watched a few of them. Some strange indie films, an avant garde piece with a French director, with her voice distastefully voiced over. She had a few commercials, television and radio. 

Francesca might not be selling out stadiums, but she certainly had a devoted following of fans. Some of them were mixed in with his, albeit intermittently and much quieter than his raucous crowd. Young ladies with long straight hair and plaid skirts, glasses and berets, tracksuits and pinstripes. Artsy types. Sophisticated types. And of course, young men by the droves. 

She always waited patiently for them, one by one, talking with them. Graciously asking them how their families were. Sometimes she remembered specific fans’ names, told them about their gifts seated on her mantle or dangling from her rearview mirror. She always had time for them, always radiating humbleness. She was grateful for every interaction, every autograph, every bouquet and box of chocolates. Frannie was working class at heart, just like Elvis. They both had a gift that lifted them from poverty, and both of them never forgot their roots, feeling more comfortable around the “little people” rather than their contemporaries. 

So it meant something to him. To inadvertently have a stronghold on the helm of her career. He’d blame himself for the rest of his life if he did something to steer her into a media storm. He watched her perform when she thought no one else was looking. He learned that when she was rehearsing, she had a whimsy about her. A playfulness in everything that she did. But she was also precise, always hitting her mark, yet subduing herself. She was saving her true magic for the camera film. Like an endurance sprinter, pacing herself. When she was alone, or under the impression she was, Frannie flourished. Like the night he first saw her on the television, an angel on stage. She commanded hearts with ease, turning heads, widening eyes, craning necks. He could watch her for hours. 

“So, who’s the girl? You know we know there’s a girl,” Joe asked, pouring himself a drink while plopping down in the only dent Elvis had managed to carve in the slippery white leather wraparound couch.

“There’s always a girl!” Marty hiccupped, his eyes shut as he sunk down in the crook of the couch’s arm, his cheek mushed against the wooden panel. They weren’t wrong. Elvis was by all accounts a ladies’ man. Women were the gentler sex and he’d always adored them, lovely and flirty as they came. He liked what he liked.

The Memphis Mafia had always been his traveling pack, but just for this film that he wanted to distance himself if only a little bit. Just to take things, well, seriously. He knew the boys were his weakness. They could get him partying all night long, blowing his money at casinos, bars, races. He loved the fellas, but this was only temporary.

But looking at ‘em all, so sad and slumped on his couch, strewn about his living room, stumbling back from the bathroom, he wanted to hang loose, too. Relax. Unwind with the boys a little. They were all dying to see what it was like on set. But more importantly, they were dying to meet Francesca.

“I saw her on a billboard on the way here! That dark haired doll with those come hither eyes,” Red whistled, rubbing his hands in that scamp way. “Oooh wee. Nothing gets me going more.”

“She’s a lady on set, but I guarantee she’s a wild cat in the sack, isn’t she, Presley?” Joe snickered, nodding his way.

Elvis felt a momentary pang in his heart. Then, he felt a childish itch to fib, but he relayed the truth, “Frannie and I are just friends for now. But trust me, it ain’t for the lack of trying.”

The fellas nodded solemnly, sharing glances with one another. “Typical games. They want you to try, try, try until you almost can’t see the finish line anymore.” Billy chided.

“Nothing quite like the fire of a hard-to-getter,” Red chuckled dryly. “She’ll make you work for it. But I can tell you just from looking at her, it’ll be worth it.”

Elvis wanted to pivot the conversation away from Frannie. It felt off to talk about her like a conquest. While he wanted her willing and wanting, batting those lashes at him, swooning for him, it just wouldn’t be quite right. She just didn’t seem like the type to fawn and frill. She never had a moment of, “Wow! You’re really Elvis Presley!” She’d taken him as a man, as her equal. A coworker, a co-star. A foothold on the wall-climb of success.

Once his boys had a power nap, a greasy fast food breakfast, and a long ride to the studio with the top down, they were right as rain, springing out of the Cadillac one after another.

“Good morning, Mr. Presley,” a young crew member winked. It was the girl from a few days ago that’d tried getting his attention. Looking at her now, she was quite the pretty freckled thing. Wispy bleach blonde hair pulled back in a high, twisty ponytail. Her hair was thinner than Francesca’s. So blonde it was almost pink. She had on a lot of make-up, maybe. He was apparently not the best at pegging if a girl had any on or not, if she was subtle enough with it. But she had black clumps in her eyelashes. Pretty, still.

The fellas tipped their suggestive glances towards him, wiggling brows, laughing and slapping him on the shoulders. Out on the hot concrete, the huge garage style bay door was open. Apparently, the air conditioning had gone out over the weekend and everyone was going to have to just power through it. The breeze was nice and there were more crew members lingering outside, smoking and shooting the shit.

Cassandra had gotten her hair cut, the graying wisps framing her face as she glared at him from across the way. She watched them cautiously, critically. He knew instantly that he would be under scrutiny with his boys around, but what’d started as a seed of worry had died and in its place agitation bloomed. He never liked the idea of being anything but his authentic self. His boys were nothing but a little harmless fun, and they weren’t causing a disturbance. Yet…

On set, Elvis noticed someone he hadn’t before, not only because of the new face, but also because he was escorting a brilliant mare, blonde and spotted, who shook her head and whinnied softly. He kept to himself, in a torrid conversation with the director, luring her attention back to his face.

Francesca’s scenes weren’t being rehearsed until the afternoon, but she was always in attendance early. She was inside, dark hair tousled by the breeze, chatting with the make-up crew and Eddie, who was already back on set, albeit with a neck brace and bandages squeezing his fractured hand. He gave a thumbs up before wincing, making the guys laugh.

“Looks like you at that age,” Red jibbed, as Eddie was almost a head shorter than him, gangly and pale. The poor kid was made to be behind the camera. Which was too bad, considering he had a lot of charisma. He told Frannie and Elvis jokes between gracious thank yous when they drove him back to his place. Kid still lived with his parents. In a basement no less. Eddie’s well-loved station wagon was outside and Elvis pointed at it, half-heartedly saying, “If I had to have a family car, that’d be the one.”

“That’s the car that would make you a father?” Francesca had laughed, that flighty, birdsong sound that haunted his dreams. Literally. He dreamt of her, feverishly, night after night since their not-date at the carnival. At first, they were silly dreams, wherein he was pantless and asking for directions in his second grade classroom and Francesca was the teacher answering snidely, “Yes, you may use the restroom, Elvis.”

Saturday he’d seen her in his childhood home. She was a little girl with braided pigtails and a sunhat too big for her tiny head, letting diamonds of sunlight in. They played together until it was time for him to wake up. One of those dreams he couldn’t remember the devices of, just the impression, the feeling he’d been left with when blinking his eyes open.

But there was one dream, his fervid dream just last night, where Frannie let him in, let him take her on a real date, wining, dining, charming her. Making her fall in love with him. Dark arms reached from the backs of their dining chairs and before he could shout, he was plunged into pitch black. Flashes of sunlight and song, mirth. He awoke with her in his bed, her beautiful back facing him, the linens bunched at the dip of her elegant waist. He would dream of lifting that sheet, but instead he drew her into his arms, inhaled her lush scent, felt her soft tresses against his face. His eyes had shot open and without even looking down, he could feel the space between the blankets and his belly where his morning wood tented the sheets.

A cold shower had been imperative. And then his crew had arrived, worried that he was in a slump (or more likely needing a place nearby to crash while they slept off their inebriants). But those feelings returned in full force the nearer he drew towards her. 

Sensing his approach, Frannie turned to him with a face so lovely it made his heart ache. He inhaled sharply, never as off kilter with his words than with her. She just did something to the part of his brain that told his mouth to say things.

“You look stunning, Frannie,” Elvis rubbed her arm and although she didn’t pull away, she wasn’t at all receptive to the touch, or returning the familiarity in any way.

It wasn’t until she leaned in with a worried look in her eye that she said, “There’s a reporter on set. I want everyone on their best behavior.” She hadn’t emphasized “everyone,” but she might as well have. He wanted to kick rocks or maybe go find a hole. Suddenly, thoughts that never plagued him before came rushing in, a worry that he could be the architect of his own undoing. He felt as if he was being eyed, damn near looked down upon. Like she waited for him to step out of line and make a mistake, sending her inevitably and gracefully swooping in to save his bumbling ass. 

Over by the craft table, Joe gestured towards Frannie and whispered, “That’s her, that’s her right there, shining like the sun. Talking to Elvis.” The boys made a beeline towards her and introduced themselves one by one, everyone remarkably tame.

She was still on the balls of her feet, her heels lifted, her composure fracturing when she watched the collective headturn of all the Memphis Mafia, eyeing bleach blonde and buxom Debbie who rapidly approached. She was a background dancer, the waitress that one of the male side characters was supposed to fall for. The girl who had winked at him just earlier. It took him a minute before he recognized her.

Debbie cut a line towards them, ignoring Francesca’s presence obliviously, so close to Elvis that she reached out with frosted pink nails and fixed his starchy white collar. “There ya go. I know how you like lookin’ your best, Mr. Presley.” She was chewing gum, strands of her hair getting occasionally snared on her glossed lips. “You wanna go see a movie after this? I’m free.”

He blinked in surprise at her boldness, but swerved the invitation tactfully, even with the boys egging him on.

“She says she’s free, Elvis,” Billy snickered.

Elvis grinned. “I’m so tired of movies, maybe something like lunch another time.” He didn’t intend anything but cordialness, but he instantly saw a shift in Francesca’s features. Her brows pinched momentarily, her lips thinned. She took a minute step back, acknowledging the situation.

Debbie was over the moon, clapping her hands together girlishly with a squeal behind her teeth. She had a gummy smile. He knew he’d done something that he’d regret, even if he didn't necessarily feel guilty.

Francesca walked away without a word, her perfume following her. He didn’t know whether to try and talk or just let her go. But watching her walk away, his decision not to trail left him hollow for the remainder of the day. He couldn’t stop thinking about it, about her face in that moment.

*

“So, like I was saying. My favorite place ever to shop closed down last week and I’ve been so upset about it. Where else am I gonna find another consignment boutique around here? Gah!”

Elvis nodded. “You should try secondhand, there’s a lot of good—”

She cut him off with laughter. “No way! You shop at thrift stores, too?!” Her voice was up there, volume wise.

“Oh, sure! I grew up shopping secondhand. This old spot back home, Tupelo Treasure Trove—”

“Shut up! You’re from Tupelo? My mom is from Saltillo!” She slapped his chest, her hand lingering for just a little too long. “That’s crazy! I bet we crossed paths before at a grocery store or a park, or like, on the street maybe. How funny would that be?”

Red and the others snickered behind him, rescuing him from menial conversation with a well-meaning loud girl, a natural reflex they’d honed to perfection over the years.

“He’s gotta get to make-up, ma’am,” Jerry politely interjected, hauling Elvis back.

“Yeah, he looks like hell, look at that,” Marty ribbed, mussing up Elvis’s hair, leading him towards crew. He craned his neck to look for Frannie and although he spotted her, she never glanced up at him.

While he was getting his hair sprayed and his pores powdered in, he saw Colonel Parker off to the side. He appeared as surly as ever, arms crossed and face puckered as he watched all the young people on set scurry around, getting everything perfect.

He approached Elvis. “Still just doing rehearsals? Thought you’d be filming by now at least,” he said gruffly, lighting a cigarette inside, something that Cassandra had strictly forbidden, proclaiming that the smell made her gag. 

“The director just wants to make sure that everything is perfect before we start filming.”

“That’s what retakes are for.”

It was always an argument with Parker about something, anything. He would find the little details to gripe about. Even while getting the lion’s cut of the share, he was still a begrudging miser. He coughed wetly, pointing at Elvis. “This hotel fee is going to fucking kill me.”

Elvis didn’t take the bait. He just went positively along, refusing to argue. “Prices are crazy. If you want, I can cover the cost of the hotel, too.”

“Oh, would you be so kind?” Parker stamped his cigarette out on the bottom of his shoe, flicking it into a trash can. “Look, there’s press on set.”

“Trust me, I know.” Although, he hadn’t seen anyone yet with a camera or a recorder. They must be trying to gather information without being noticed first.

“Just don’t lean in to any of those disparaging questions they’ll ask you about your other films and you’ll do fine like you always do. You're proud of your work and you’re excited to give a female director a chance.” He couldn’t finish that without chuckling at the end. 

Elvis nodded along, knowing that if he misspoke about his previous work, he’d just be burning bridges in every direction. It was true, he was proud of his work even if it wasn’t his best. He’d put heart into all his roles, even if he’d been playing hard most of those blurry nights. 

“You’re up, hun,” the director’s rotund, sweet-faced assistant pitched her head towards the main set, the floor of the casino. He had another solo to play, but the music wasn’t the focus so much as the conversation his character was supposed to be overhearing between the crooked casino owner and a dirty cop.

The boys were chatting up some pretty girls at the craft table, lining their pockets with ding dongs while they were at it. They waved to him, all thumbs ups, wolf whistles, and cheers for their main man. 

Elvis took his spot at the piano bench, looking for Frannie again, settling his sinking heart before he focused on the ivories. The first tones were somber and the words he whispered were pitifully sad. He’d wanted Frannie to hear them. He selfishly wanted to see if she would be impressed with his playing or follow the lyrics with him. To see if she would still be avoiding him or not. 

But she didn’t show, and his lines were rehearsed and his scenes acted and danced out without a hitch in his step and declined to answer a lot of questions from the weaselly reporter that approached him, sticking to jovial, safe, canned responses about everyone doing their best.

*

Francesca avoided him. Jackass. Him and his little friends. They were acting like a bunch of pigs. She didn’t want to get muddy. She wasn’t some groupie.

Taking a break outside and enjoying the shade, the fresh air and flowing breeze made for a cooler air than the stuffiness on set. She could hear shouting from inside and after listening intently, she could tell that it was Cassandra, pitching an absolute fit. Stepping closer to the door, she propped it open to get a peek. Earlier in the day, Cassandra had grown instantly agitated by the presence of Elvis’s so-called “Memphis Mafia.” The obnoxious group of men had no right to be there. Their carefree demeanors sullied the professionalism on set, and both she and Frannie knew that they would serve as a very unhealthy distraction to their second leading star.

And they encouraged Elvis to flirt with all the girls on set. Ugh.

Cassandra had been fuming, practically pulling at her hair all day. She wasn’t saying a word, not yet, while she watched the boys cutting up daily, shmoozing with the pretty young crew members as the press sniffed for blood in the water. It was just embarrassing. Him. His antics. His effect on the film.

But now, the good director was spearing her anger directly towards the group of men, yelling at them to, “Cut the shit! How else would liquor end up in the punch?”

“Look, lady, we understand why you’re so pissed off. But we had nothing to do with this. Less than nothing. I don’t even know nothing. That punch tasted like regular ol’ punch to me earlier, but let me try some now.” The one she was sure was named Joe was clapping back at her, but it only pissed her off more when he sampled a bit from the pouring ladle.

“Get out! All of you, off the set. Anyone who is not getting paid by me, leave my set.” Her voice lowered an octave and she shut her eyes, calming her nerves and letting the men gather their wits.

Elvis was shocked, his face one of disbelief, but all the guys just laughed.

Francesca watched him lean into Debbie, close enough to smell her cheap perfume, to see the glitter she sprinkled in her hair to try and catch some of the low light and make him notice her. They exited out the door and Frannie, well, she was content to practice her lines. She wouldn’t let him dirty her on-set decorum. Maintaining good composure, she just barely tilted her head to acknowledge him, her expression blank. He was turning out like every bad rumor she’d heard about him.

Hell, when Francesca told her sister Connie about landing the star role alongside Elvis, she’d gasped and warned her to cage herself around a man like that. They just liked playing around and dipping out when things got inconvenient for them. Say something wrong, do something obnoxious, not laugh at one of their jokes and that was all they needed to deflate the joyride and steer things off course. 

But Frannie hadn’t set a course. She was just having fun and quite content to stop things at anytime. If they’d even started, that is. After all, she had told him that wasn’t a date. But they were supposed to go to dinner this weekend. Somewhere out of town, he wouldn’t tell her where. 

She was done thinking about this, letting him live in her head. She cleared some well-needed space and when he was hot on her tail after his rehearsal, when he’d magically garnered a moment away from his rowdy pack of dogs, he was laughing, shouting back at them, “One sec, just one sec!”

“Don’t bother,” she thought but didn’t say. Decorum, Frannie. Work professionalism was key in climbing the rickety ladder of fame. One wrong step was all it took. An explosion on set, a scorned would-be lover, jilted and hysterical, unable to continue filming, production on hold until a replacement could be found and—she swallowed, clutching her throat, turning to face him with a placid smile.

“Elvis. Don’t you want to get back to your friends?” Her tone was level, but he wasn’t stupid. 

“Well, hey. Hey, how are you feeling? You seemed a little distant on set today.”

“Distant? Distant, oh, I’m sorry, I’m not going for that with Josephine’s character.”

He waved that away. “No, no. I mean you. What’s wrong, did I do something? Say something?” He looked like he wanted to reach out and pull her closer. He already was with his eyes, raking them over her.

Usually she would never buck up, never cause a stir. She gracefully knew to take the pacifist route in this world very much dominated by men. But seeing him with Debbie genuinely rattled her. It was a strange, foreign feeling. 

“Look, I’m not a girl who can just sit pretty on a shelf and wait for you to come and fancy playing with me again. Do you… understand what I’m saying?” She struggled to keep her tone calm. He had truly unnerved her. She’d liked him, dammit. Still really did. But she kept it to a whisper, knowing that a nosey reporter could be anywhere on set, lurking in the shadows to get the next scoop, maybe overhearing a conversation on set that he shouldn’t have.

Francesca was horrified at the thought of any bad press getting out about the movie before its theatrical release. She didn’t want to do anything to put this project in danger. It meant so much to her, definitely more than one night at the fair. But she’d gotten kinda dizzy on the swings after a whole funnel cake, and he’d wiped powdered sugar off the corner of her lips, absently licking it from his finger. Her heart had skipped a beat. Now, it’d just sunk into the pit of her stomach. Like a portent, black storm cloud on the horizon, a man approached her with a greasy smile to match his sickly green checkered shirt and ocher colored shorts. He had a badge around his neck, a thick pair of prescription glasses resting on his bulbous nose and a pair of extra shades propped on his balding white head. He didn’t have a camera crew in tow, but he did have a recorder in hand, and he was already fumbling with it before he made his way to her.

Francesca steeled herself, trying to read him as a hard hitter or a blow-over. Some papers wanted a fluff piece about the latest film to placate the average reader. But others wanted to dredge up the worst of the worst, all the drama, all the angst, all the little petty arguments taking place behind the scenes that didn’t matter even an ounce in the grand picture of filmmaking. She saw them as pests, wondering if there was a fly buzzing in front of her face.

“Francesca Ferrara,” he slanted, his recorder hissing in the background, rustling his voice like wind through leaves. “What’s it like working alongside Elvis Presley for your biggest film yet?”

Maybe he was oblivious to how duplicitous it was to pose a question about her much more famous co-star, especially as the very first thing out of his mouth. She just barely masked the twitch of her lips, keeping her smile on.

“It’s amazing! I cannot believe that I actually get to work with Mr. Presley. You would not believe how professional he is. I couldn’t ask for a better co-star.”

He looked satisfied with that answer, asking another. “And this is your first Hollywood debut, right? What would you say to any potential moviegoers who don’t know which ticket to splurge their hard earned dollar?”

“I’d have to say this one. I’m so thankful for the opportunity to star in a movie directed by Cassandra Morgan. She is amazing. So, to not give too much away, just know that there’s going to be a lot of runaway laughs, heart stopping romance and a rocking soundtrack that’s going to shake the house.”

“Excellent, sweetheart. Excellent. And you just look fantastic. Fantastic, darling. What’s your diet? All the ladies are crazy about that cabbage right now. But you’ve always said you have a hearty appetite. How do you do it?”

Frannie was taken aback, but not surprised that his line of questioning devolved into simple dribble. What do you like to eat, Francesca? Do you go for a morning run like Miss Natalie Wood? Are you seeing anybody, Miss Ferrara? Do you have a man in your life?

She cleared her head, smiling though the bullshit. “That’s my little secret. But you can bet that I was taught never to be late for dinner, and I don’t count on skipping any meals. I’m Italian, after all! You’ll have to tell me about that cabbage, though.” She laughed daintily, even though she hadn’t really said anything all that humorous. She just wanted this to be over, clean and short. But he just kept prodding.

“So, I’ll ask the obvious. You and Elvis are playing a couple and have quite a few romantic scenes. Does any of that chemistry translate off camera?” The silence was filled with that anticipatory hiss. The recorder hungry for a story. One she was hesitant to give in full.

She couldn’t deflect his insinuation too hastily, for it would look like she was trying to hide something. Instead, she rolled her shoulders and held her chin up when she said slyly, “Isn’t that every girl’s dream?”

Thankfully, the questions shifted to lighter things about co-stars and estimated release dates, which she couldn’t really comment on other than a hopeful guess for next fall. When he concluded their interview and went on his way, she felt eyes on her. Turning to glance over her shoulder, in the shadows of the casino set, Elvis’s creepy agent, Colonel Parker was watching. The same dickhead who tried to lowball her agent and get her to take a smaller cut and put her name second. Absolutely not. She did not like the man, and by the looks of it, he didn’t like her either. She could live with that just fine.

*

Elvis watched from the sideline, a cool towel around his neck. He apologized profusely to the boys and also on the boys’ behalf. He just couldn’t believe that any of them would do something like that. Hell, when he interrogated them about it outside, they all had clean pockets. No one had a flask. So whatever alcohol had been used, the bottle had been disposed of. He wanted to check the trash cans to see if he could find any evidence, but what use would that do? They were already banned from set, and now Elvis was on what some might consider thin ice. Luckily, Cassandra Morgan was forgiving, seeing the obvious confusion and worry on Elvis’s face when he tried to make sense of what happened.

Apparently, some of the crew members were enjoying an early lunch. The punch left out had tasted a little dry and the smell was off. Elvis wondered if maybe some fruit juice had simply fermented. None of the boys would do something like this. Sure, they were jokesters, but they would never involve unwitting victims in their pranks. Absently, he had to worry if someone was trying to sabotage him.

With the air conditioning out and summer setting in, it was already starting to get hot with so many people. Debbie was saying something but when Elvis leaned in to hear what she was saying from all the way down there, he spotted the new horse trainer talking to Frannie. She was laughing, letting him release her hand after giving it a kiss, her eyes glittering. She looked refreshed, happy. Saying, “Antonio, you’re too much.”

Antonio was helping her up on the golden mare, letting her get used to the feel of such a powerful animal under her reins. She looked pretty and comfortable, like she’d done this before. When she responded to something the dashing Spaniard said to her, her dark hair spilled over her shoulder, mesmerizing him, Antonio, and certainly any other man with eyes in attendance. Her outfit was smart, tight fitting in a black pants and silver heels, the stark color of her slacks making the hand helping her quite glaring. Even though Elvis couldn’t make out what they were saying to each other, he could tell that Antonio was fishing. 

His fists balled and released at his sides, but he kept it cool, watching as Antonio exited stage left and Frannie took her place just off camera. In this scene—a heavily stylized dream sequence—she was supposed to blaze down the steps of the casino and steal a loose carriage horse to make a quick getaway from armed men who are tailing her, guns blazing! A few sound guys were stand-ins for the henchmen and posted up with the fingers as pretend guns. One knelt for a quick long range shot and the other was in pursuit as soon as Cassandra called action.

Francesca pumped her arms, her heels clicking as she ran, picking up speed before attempting to make the jump up to the saddle. She made a good first attempt, skipping to a momentous slide and up—up! Well, not exactly all the way up. She could almost get her leg over the saddle, but would fall just a little short and of course, her valiant hero came to lend a hand.

Antonio smiled, clearly loving the image he’d built for himself as the charming, helpful casanova. His hands once again grabbed her lithe thighs when she ran towards him, like she might tumble into his arms. And up she went, given that extra boost needed to soar up and land gracefully on the saddle. The horse, Goldie, adjusted with a mild-mannered flick of her blonde tail as she boredly chuffed.

“There you go, you had it in you the whole time. Just don’t be scared. She will catch you, just trust her and trust yourself.” Antonio served, but she was only somewhat interested as she nodded at him, grinning in acknowledgement and towards Cassandra to continue on with another take.

This time everyone was in a quiet standstill as Frannie focused ahead on the sprint path and took off. Without falter, she draped her right leg over the saddle like lace, fitting her feet into the stirrups and grasping the reigns. Goldie’s mane fluttered and she looked tired of the action, ready to gallop free. But she was a good girl, enjoying pets from Frannie to her big broad neck and ears. Gentle creature, tamed by a beautiful woman. 

Elvis watched on with a foreign pang in his heart, but there was pride in seeing how accomplished Frannie looked, mounted high like a queen on her throne.

“Good job, my girl! I knew you could do it. Just takes a little practice, like everything else.” Cassandra’s southern accent grew thicker when she was tired, and her words were practically a drawl in this heat at high noon. “Let’s pick this back up tomorrow, folks! Give poor Goldie a break—and a round of applause! For Goldie and her handsome handler.”

The ladies in attendance all looked at Antonio with saucy, behind-the-hand laughter and then turned to giggle amongst themselves. Except Debbie, who was still very much enthralled with Elvis’ presence, her hands clasped low and her breasts pushed high up, betting for his attention.

Frannie waved goodbye from up on Goldie, ironically doling out kisses just like royalty. Always in good humor and ready to make someone smile.

He went to approach her, to stride up the steps to see her. Debbie’s arm looped into his so fast it gave him whiplash.

“Whoa, whoa!” He kindly brushed her away, “Almost lost my footing there, thanks for the hand. I’m gonna go talk to our lovely friend there,” he trailed, hopping up the set steps with his hands in his pockets. 

Frannie could sense him approaching even while she conversed with Antonio, saying something about, “The Costa del Sol sure must be lovely this time of year.” She laughed elegantly, the kind of laugh that you stopped your own laughter to listen to. But here she was, putting on a polite show. Elvis could tell instantly that Frannie didn’t like Antonio, she was just being cordial. But the same couldn’t be said for the Spaniard, who was leaning against Goldie with his tan, brawny arms crossed, letting his eyes greedily wander all along Frannie’s figure. He was whispering, his brown eyes darting up to see Elvis rapidly approaching.

Frannie turned on her heels, never displaced, never caught off-guard. She touched her well-manicured, red lacquered pointer finger at his chest, muttering tightly, “We were just having a conversation about classic bikes. You have an old sportster, don’t you?”

He could tell even with the craft of her words, that the deliverance was key and that he wasn’t being welcomed in. Antonio looked smug, smirking at Elvis from over Frannie’s shoulder.

Elvis didn’t avoid eye contact with the younger man. “A Sportster. A Bonneville. Superhawk. Got an Electra Glide on the way with some customizations, before they’re being sold to the public next year.” He didn’t like being steered on when and where to talk, especially if some chump was going to try coming in on his girl.

Frannie leveled him with a split-second, whip crack glare. Like she couldn’t believe he was actually trying to flaunt his wealth. Or was he just puffing up like a peacock in some misguided attempt to win some perceived fight with Antonio? Either way, it shouldn’t have stung Elvis as much as it did. He was often regretting the things he said moments after he said them.

Antonio glanced between them, sliding his hand out with owl eyes. “Hello, sir. It’s so nice to meet you. I’m Antonio.”

“Antonio here is only supposed to be on set for a few weeks, so we have to make the most of our time with him while we can.” The insinuation in her voice wasn’t lost on him but Elvis didn’t want to believe it. Whatever chemistry they had couldn’t have soured so quickly. He then realized why Frannie had been acting terse with him since this morning. 

Was he being an ass right now? He stopped just short of rubbing his hand tiredly down his face. She was jealous and flaunting herself to tease him. Him and all the other men on set who would chomp at the bit for her affection, pouring their intentions into every word, every lift onto a pony. She was stunning, even when she was ticked off. 

*

Elvis suddenly felt alone. His boys were probably at home, having a good time playing his records and eating his food, while he was here pacing the dark hallway to the dressing rooms. He’d spent only a short amount of time thus far in there, seeing as he was already dressed to the nines when arriving on set for rehearsals daily. Filming would commence next week and he was more than ready.

He let his brain toss his thought-slurry up one more time and somehow, amidst the fight for logic and courage, courage won out and he marched towards Frannie’s door. Knock, knock, knocking before he’d actually come up with anything to say to her.

“One second!” He heard a loud bash like she hit her vanity. She coughed a little painful grunt and stumbled to the door. “Jesus. I’m coming.”

When she answered the door, her heels were off, and she had her right foot clenched in her hand.

“I stubbed my toe for this?” She rolled her eyes, not hiding her irritation with him now. He wasn’t used to members of the fairer sex disregarding him like this. If any other woman had done that, it would have made his blood boil. But with Frannie, it only made him want her more.

“Frannie, talk to me, sweetheart. What’s going on? What did I do?” He wanted to make it right. Alleviate some of her pain. He didn’t like seeing her so upset—especially at him.

But she just glared back. “I already told you that I do not want to speak to you.”

“Well, you didn’t say that.”

“I guess it was implied. I would appreciate it if you got out of my dressing room, please.”

“I just want to talk to you, Frannie. Don’t be like this. Can we at least go out for a walk? Some fresh air, maybe? It’ll do you good, you’ll love it.”

“I’ll hate it.”

“Nah, you won’t.”

“Get out,” she cut, shutting the door, but he caught it with his fingers. 

He shouted out in pain and she instantly pulled back, worriedly looking over him, but he used that as an opportunity to slip inside and shut the door behind him.

“Not until you talk to me.”

“I told you to get out! Do not—” Francesca collected herself before she misspoke, her heart leaping into her throat. He was so close. “Do not cause a scene.”

“Look, we’re behind closed doors. I’m not gonna raise my voice or nothing like that. I just wanted to talk to you, Frannie. We’re safe from the press. Just… talk to me. If you’re mad, let me know what I can do to make it up to you.”

Frannie was fuming. “Make it up to me? Making it up to me would encompass you apologizing me to start with and I don’t know, changing your entire personality perhaps? Because it seems you are incapable of going five minutes without ogling the next set of perky breasts.”

She knew she caught him completely off guard with her rashness, but she wanted him to feel struck, just like she had. Because for a moment, she entertained the idea, the fantasy that the rake Elvis Presley could be reined in, tamed by one woman. She couldn’t believe herself for believing in him for even a second.

“What are you talking about, Frannie? Oh come on, are you really upset about Debbie?” His tone was incredulous, like he couldn’t fathom fault in drooling over multiple women. 

“You cannot be that dense, Elvis.” She scoffed, turning away from him to pour herself a drink. Just some water, to settle her roiling stomach. He was actually having a physical effect on her. More than one.

“I was just joking around with her. You heard me turn her down? Didn’t you?” Then he grinned. “Besides, you and I, did we ever go on a date, really? I didn’t think you even really liked me all that much, Frannie.”

Oh, he was so full of shit!

“I heard you tell her you’d go to lunch sometime.”

“I was just letting her down easy! Lunch isn’t very sexy, is it?”

“Then how would you like it if Antonio asked me to lunch. Huh? What if he asked me to go with him to Spain later this summer? And we ride horses on the glittering sands together?”

That made him falter. “Well, I... that’s completely different. Situationally.”

“How? Situationally.” Smart ass.

“Because you know that I like you.”

Now it was her turn to be caught with her mouth open, closing it without a word, mulling over her response. He was being vulnerable with her right now. Real.

He looked even more handsome in the low light of her dressing room. The red lamp shades made it look like he had hearts scattered in his blue eyes. He took a step towards her and she didn’t move away. 

“Is that why you’re upset, Frannie?” He asked, his voice like velvet. “’Cause you like me, too?”

Of course she liked him. How could she not? He was a recipe for heartache wrapped in charm and velour. It would be too easy to fall for him, as easy as breathing. He was right in front of her now, looming above. The back of his hand brushed against the apple of her cheek. She inhaled sharply, her eyes searching his for the answer to the questions her heart asked.

Should I really be doing this?

He made the decision for her. When his lips crushed against hers, she cleaved to him, letting him melt against her. She could feel his relief when she didn’t retreat from him. He smiled, enveloping her face in his hands, petting her ears, exhaling indulgently, saying thank you with eager presses. 

Elvis was pushing her back till her knees hit her settee. She stopped him, her hands on his chest. When he pulled away for air, blinking slowly while gazing down at her, his mouth parted. He almost panted with passion. She was helpless not to let him continue. He took her down, his large body pinning her to the cushions. She felt warmth pooling between her thighs. He was such a fucking good kisser, his hands busily caressing her, his tongue gently sweeping against her bottom lip, kindly asking for permission. She readily allowed him in, letting him lick against her in the same beat of his hips, which had begun to pitch forward against her own.

“Frannie…” He muttered into her neck, making her shudder and cling to him. What was he doing to her? Whipping her into a fervor pitch just with a kiss and a deft roll of his hips like this. He was parting her thighs, making her accept him between them. His trousers were silky against her skin, his mouth desperate against her neck and his hands exploring her body. Starting with the dip of her waist, he let his fingers trace her. 

She arched into his touch, settling comfortably with him on top of her. It kept creeping up on her, the brevity, the quickness with which she was allowing this to happen. But she never pushed a man away because she was prudish or scared, only because she wanted to know that he meant to stay with her. That he was willing to get to know the real her. Yet something about them felt right. She couldn’t help but adventure headlong into this foray with him, learn these things about one another. About how sweet his mouth tasted, or how sturdy his hands were, gripping the small of her waist.

The vapors were rising and she could feel her body flush with heat. Her head began to spin, grounded by his weight. She touched him, cradling his face, pulling him into another kiss. Stirring his hips against her, she let out an unbecoming sound, one that he wanted her to make again and again with the way he continued that very movement.

“This side of you, how long was she waitin’ to come out?” He asked against her lips, stealing her breath with another smoldering kiss. Marking her with bruising passion. He was eating her up and she couldn’t get enough, even knowing that this was hurtling too fast, too far. 

Maybe he felt her about to retreat, to douse the flames, so he quickened his pace, rocking his hips against her, lacing her hands with his and hoisting them above her head while he kissed her fluttering throat, leaving little love bites as he went. 

She cleared her throat. 

“You want me to be honest with you?” Francesca poised the question and he was hooked on hearing the answer. Gazing down at her, his hair falling out of place. “I do like you, Elvis.” She felt his hot hands slipping up her thighs, darting underneath the shadows of her dress. The fabric began to bunch at her waist and he was mesmerized, watching her face as he pet her. 

“No sex,” she insisted breathlessly when he cupped her panties, palming the white cotton. Had she been anticipating this deep down? She wore the type of undies that turned him on most and delighted at the sight of his mouth parting.

“Anything you say, Frannie.”

His lack of fuss surprised and endeared her. What a good boy—a gentleman, even. Taking what he could get. Perhaps he really did like her. If only that were enough.

“This isn’t how I usually… conduct myself.”

“Well, I really love the way you’re conducting yourself right now.” He notched her dress up just a bit higher, catching the little bow at the top of her panties. It took his breath away.

“You should see how they match the top,” she alluded, rolling her shoulders and letting her dress fall. He eagerly assisted, tugging it down to show her lush breasts, attractively on display in a white cotton bra. It complimented her olive skin nicely. He touched her with open hands, gripping her impatiently. His thumbs pressed gingerly on either cup and he whirled in small circles, slowly stirring her, sending jolts down her spine with every spin. He was making her squirm, touching her so thoroughly. And he’d barely graced her bare skin. She worried if she could control herself if he did. She could be a voracious lover, taking a man for an endurance ride, and Elvis seemed all too ready for the task. If he had a tail, it would be wagging. 

“So, does this mean you’ll let me take you on a real date now?”

She laughed throatily. “Don’t get ahead of yourself, big guy.”

He shivered, holding her tighter. “I like that. Keep calling me that.”

“Only if you keep behaving.” She retorted, with only a sliver of venom laced in. Still, he knew what he needed to say. To really get the panties to drop. And maybe get her to… like him more.

“You know. I’m sorry. About before, I am. I’m just—You…” Where to start? He breathed out, tousling her pretty hair. He didn’t need to make excuses; he knew she wasn’t the type of woman to wanna be fed any. But she waited attentively, patiently, for him to say the right words that would reel her heart in. Maybe she’d never be able to love a guy like him, but he could at least get her to kinda like him. “I’m sorta, y’know, stupid when it comes to women’s feelings. I know that I like the attention, it makes my big dumb ape brain happy when a girl tells me I’m her favorite artist, or I’m sooo handsome—”

“Oh, please.” Frannie snorted. Elvis giggled too. 

“I’m going somewhere with this, I promise. I just want to say, I’ll quit listening to the part of me that says to entertain these girls and start listening to the really, really loud part, begging, pleading to listen to—” He leaned into her neck, still as stone, his hands poised on her ribs. She froze. “Frannie! Francesca!” He was tickling her, making her laugh involuntarily. She couldn’t even accuse him of playing unfairly; he was making her fight for every breath between bouts of laughter.

When he let her go and they were both catching their wind, looking longingly, almost warily at one another, she put her hand on his wrist, “Take me to dinner tomorrow.”

“Why not tonight?”

“Hmm. I’m busy tonight,” she coyly replied, letting him place butterfly kisses along her exposed collar. He dipped a few to the pillow of her cleavage, nuzzling into her, brushing his cheek along them. Almost purring. She played with his hair.

“You ever ride a motorcycle?”

She chuckled and he looked up to see what he’d said that was so funny. Behind a daintily furled finger, she grinned. “I’m very acquainted with them, darling.”

His ears went red and his cheeks bloomed with color when she called him sweet names. “Then I’ll pick you up tomorrow night!”

“Or, how about we ride separately, but together.” She could tell she was speaking his language when his eyes brightened. There was that wagging tail again.

“Then I’ll see you tomorrow at Sullivan’s.”

*

He couldn’t believe it. She was letting him in. He felt her skin. He tasted her tongue. He had her fingers squeezing his while he kissed her. When he palmed her down there, he’d felt how wet she’d gotten just from kissing. She was mesmerizing and constantly on his mind. He couldn’t stop thinking about her. He dreamed about her again. 

They were riding horses through the woods together, somewhere in Tennessee. It was snowy and there were perfect white flakes on her thick lashes. She looked like an angel atop a black mare. Next thing he knew, they were beside a roaring bonfire and he was taking her savagely in the dirt, her cries like music in his ears.

Again, he awoke thrusting his sheets, reaching out for her and grasping nothing. Dreams were weird and his always had been exceptionally so, but now they were also sex fueled. Francesca Ferrara fueled.

He brushed his teeth and thought of Frannie. What was she having for breakfast right now? He got dressed and wondered what she would be wearing. He stepped out into the living room, tumbling into the game room to play some billiards with his boys and pass the time until he could see her again. 

Filming started Monday and Cassandra wanted everyone at their best, well rested. They stopped by a local burger joint. Joe griped about the director for the third time that day.

“I’m just saying. That lady had some nerve. Talking over me like that. Wouldn’t even let me explain. I don’t drink that stuff. You know what was in that punch?” He stabbed a steak fry into ketchup. “I’ll tell you. That was Malort.”

All of them gagged in response.

“Malort. Cheap garbage. It's a better drain cleaner than it is as a liquor. I don’t buy that shit. Don’t know anybody who does. Maybe poor guys on welfare.” Joe shuddered. “That’s some immature high school level shit, pouring it into an open drink like that though. I’d never do that. We’d never do that.”

Elvis held up his hands. They knew he believed them. “She’s just terrified of anything going wrong, is all. It’s her first big budget film and she’s critical of everything.” Especially me.

“She’s giving you a hard time cause you’re a man,” Marty quipped around a mouth full of burger, the others nodding in agreement.

“Damn, this is good,” Red gruffed, hardly saying a thing while he inhaled his plate, sucking his fingertips after every bite.

“I’ll talk to her about letting you guys back on set,” Elvis promised, knowing that he could grease the wheels with Cassandra a little bit. Tell her he’d let her family have free merchandise or something. Even a meeting with him and all that jazz.

“Ehh, don’t even worry about it, champ. We’ll just be distracting you, keeping you from uh—making it with that Ferrara girlie.” Lamar Fike’s double chin jiggled as he laughed.

Elvis grinned. “Don’t talk about my Frannie.” 

“Oh, his Frannie, he says!” Marty chimed in, banging the tabletop, turning heads in their direction. 

“I’m just trying something a little different. A little more…”

“Serious?” Red finished, the others waiting on his answer like a bunch of sad sacks. Like Elvis was going to marry and settle down with two and a half kids, white picket fence, labrador and station wagon. 

Elvis shrugged, picking at the fries on his plate, anticipating dinner tonight. He had made the reservations and the breathless host had told him they could have a whole section to themselves, but he asked instead to just be seated far from the door, maybe outside on the balcony. He didn’t want a bunch of people coming up to them, star struck. He’d just wanted a private evening alone with her.

“Yeah. Just a bit more serious this time. Frannie is a really nice girl.”

“Don’t go falling in love.” Red warned.

“Don’t go breaking that nice girl’s heart, you old dog!” Lamar added, clearing his plate.

It was the last intention on his mind. In fact, it was paradoxically the one thing keeping him the tightest bound from diving into things with her. He wanted to take her on a trip to Europe, he wanted to take her to Bloomingdale’s and let her pick out anything her heart desired. Buy her a puppy, buy her a fur coat, buy her a matching pink Cadillac, buy her a house across from his so that he could see her at his leisure. 

But above all, he didn’t want to hurt her. And inevitably, he always hurt the women he got involved with. He already gutted her with just a little harmless flirting. It worried him that his wandering eye would get the best of him and she wouldn’t be able to find it in herself to continue forgiving him, accepting him back into her life. He couldn’t do that to her. She said so herself, that she didn’t want to just be part of his failures, his shortcomings, his bad films, his broken relationships and used women.

Francesca wanted something he would have to dig deep to give. His truest self wasn’t the type of man that she deserved. He had a lot of thinking to do while he picked out which outfit looked best. “Navy or white?” He asked the guys, holding up two ties, the poll for white winning out.

He wore a sporty black three piece, his red under shirt conveying his bleeding, beating heart. His gold cufflinks clinked against his helmet as he placed it on his head, careful not to mess up his hair. Tugging on his jacket, he headed out the door. Sunset painted the mountainous horizon in swatches of orange and violet. The blue sky fading beneath dotted with starlight, guiding him towards the city as his bike ate up smooth black asphalt. He knew to meet her at her apartment so that they could ride together—but separate—as she’d put it.

Elvis caught Francesca again, looking out the open window. And he wondered how long she had been waiting there for him, in a flowing red dress and black leather boots. Riding boots. She looked like a mermaid, wind racing lovingly against her figure, whipping her hair wildly about her face. A vision of loveliness. Maybe this was what it meant to truly take a heart’s gamble and roll the dice.

#elvis presley #elvis #elvis fanfic #elvis fans #elvis presley fanfiction #elvis fanfiction #elvis presley fanfic #elvis presley fic #elvis x oc #elvis fic #gambling on your love

[whatstruthgottodowithit]

Lonely In a Crowded Room [Part Two]

Fandom: American Actor, RPF, Elvis Movie RPF

Pairing: Elvis Presley x Female Reader

Characters: Elvis Presley, Female Reader, Reader, Red West, Billy Smith Marty Lacker, Original Female Characters, Memphis Mafia, Austin!Elvis

Word Count: 2656 // Rating: Mature

Summary: Have you ever felt alone in a room full of people?

Tags/ Warnings: Established Relationship, Marriage, Graceland, Living at Graceland, Kisses, Anxiety, Nudity, Memphis Mafia, Austin!Elvis, Elvis Movie, Horse-riding,  Kissing, Fingering, Birthdays, Birthday Party, Romantic Getaways, Loneliness, Migraines, Football, Elvis Playing Football is so hot I cant, Presents, Reader Can be Priscilla if you want, Arguing, Fighting, Flashing, Birthday Party, Security, Reader Dress Inspo, Reader Necklace Inspo

Notes: im obsessed with graceland at the moment but the idea of so many people coming and going in my house is my idea of hell. So i thought I’d write about it lolol

this will be two parts maybe more depending on how carried away i get [okay so its three cos i have no self control]

PART ONE // PART TWO // PART THREE

After Elvis and I made up (twice over) we fell asleep and when I awoke late the following morning he wasn’t in the bed beside me. As I stirred and pushed myself up to a sitting position in the bed I heard him singing from the bathroom which made me smile. I sat there for a moment just enjoying his velvety voice as he unknowingly serenaded me. After a couple of minutes, he fell quiet and then I heard the door open as he came out into the bedroom.

‘Look at that the birthday girls up,’ he said coming towards me with a beaming smile on his face. He leaned down and kissed me deeply before he flopped down onto the bed beside me. Then he said, ‘I’ve been waiting for you.’ ‘How come you’re up so early?’ I said ‘Hey it’s been known to happen,’ he grinned which widened as I quirked my eyebrow, ‘okay maybe not that often.’ ‘Almost never I’d argue,’ I giggled. ‘Well saying good morning to the birthday girl is a good enough reason I’d say wouldn’t you?’ he retorted. ‘Most definitely!’ I giggled. ‘And if I wasn’t awake you wouldn’t be able to get this now would ya,’ he said as he reached under the bed and produced a flat wide box. I squealed as he placed it gently on my lap and I tore the paper off wasting no time. I pulled the lid off the box and gasped as I saw what was inside.

‘How did you?’ I said looking at him with awe before my eyes fell back on the beautiful emerald dress I’d seen a couple of days ago. He never failed to surprise me. ‘One of the girls mentioned you had your eye on it and couldn’t try it on and I figured if she thought to mention it…’ he said. ‘I wanted it for my birthday dinner. I’m so excited!’ I said. ‘So was I once I saw that neckline,’ he chuckled. ‘Maybe it’s not such a good idea after all I mean we do have a meal to get through,’ I giggled. ‘As long as I’m the only one looking there’ll be no problems,’ he smiled as he leaned in a little closer, ‘and I thought it might go with this.’ He placed a long thin box on top of the dress and watched me closely. I picked it up and opened it. Inside was a long thin gold chain with a small heart-shaped emerald attached. It was beautiful. ‘Oh E I love it,’ I sighed looking up at him. He smiled at me, a twinkle in his eye. ‘You do?’ he said. I nodded. ‘Definitely! Put it on me?’ I asked handing him the box. He took it from me and I moved the dress box out of the way so I could turn myself around. I pulled my hair off of my neck expectantly. His fingers ghosted up my neck, fiddling a little until the necklace hung freely against my chest. I dropped my hair and turned back to face him.

‘Stunning,’ he said with a smile. I twiddled it between my fingers for a second and then I leaned in and placed a tender kiss on his lips. His hand moved to my neck, stroking my jawline with his thumb as he pulled me into him deepening the kiss. Mine went to his shirt fiddling with the buttons but his hand grasped mine and stopped me as he pulled away.

‘What?’ I said searching his face for what was the matter. His face fell a little before he said, ‘uh, I’ve actually gotta go somewhere this morning.’ ‘Oh,’ I said, evidently downtrodden. ‘I won’t be long I promise,’ he said as I started to feel the frustration of yesterday come back. ‘Okay,’ I said sadly. ‘It’s important,’ he said, ‘and last minute…I’m sorry baby.’ ‘It’s okay,’ I said waving him off, ‘work’s work.’ ‘Yeah,’ he agreed though there was a look in his eye that hinted of something else. ‘Say how about you take yourself to the salon or something? My treat,’ he said. I nodded. He gave me a peck on the cheek and then stood up smoothing out his shirt for a moment. ‘Happy birthday baby,’ he said reaching out and pulling my hand up so he could kiss it gently. ‘Thank you,’ I replied watching him leave the room a moment later. As the door shut behind him I looked down at my new dress as my fingers held my necklace absentmindedly. I was bummed that he had to go but I supposed there was no point being down on my birthday. No, I was going to try and be positive. I just wondered how many charges to Elvis’ credit card it would take.

✵✵✵

‘Open the door,’ Elvis said gruffly as he tried the handle once more which clunked against the chair I’d forced under it. ‘No,’ I replied. ‘I’m not joking around here Y/N,’ he said. ‘Neither am I,’ I retorted as I ran my fingers through my hair gently. I watched myself in the mirror for a second before I headed to the door and moved the chair. ‘Open the damn door or I’ll-’ he started but he fell short as I yanked the door open a smirk on my face. ‘What? Break it down?’ I chuckled. His eyes trailed down my body taking in every inch of me. His mouth fell agape a little. It was the outcome I’d hoped for. ‘Well if I’d have known you looked like that in here I would have,’ he smirked pulling me into him. He leaned in to kiss me but I pulled away a little making his face fall with confusion. ‘Don’t ruin my makeup,’ I said. ‘But-’ he whined and I shook my head. ‘I’m the birthday girl remember,’ I giggled. I kissed my fingers and then pressed them to his lips as I whispered, ‘what I say goes.’ ‘For now,’ he smirked slapping my ass as I walked past him. We headed downstairs to find Sonny and Red waiting in the hallway.

In an effort to be civil, I smiled at Red who returned it warmly. Our feud was seemingly forgotten and as I glanced at Elvis he seemed to be pleased that the two of us had made up. ‘Happy Birthday Y/N. You look lovely,’ Sonny said leaning in to give me a hug. ‘Thanks, Sonny,’ I said as he pulled back. ‘Yeah, Happy Birthday Y/N. Y’all ready to go?’ Red asked looking at Elvis who nodded. ‘We’re going together?’ I asked looking up at him. ‘Yeah, sorry honey,’ he said. ‘Some nut jobs have been hanging outside the gate so I thought it’d be better if we drove,’ Red said checking his watch. He wasn’t in friend mode now. He was embodying his role as head of security. I sighed and nodded as we walked to the front door. Elvis’ hand slipped in mine as he led me down to the waiting car, helping me climb into the back seat.

Red set off down the drive and as we got to the gate I noticed that there were more people hanging around than usual but Elvis didn’t roll down the window as he normally did. He waved as a people waved back at him all agog with emotion at getting a glimpse of their King and then we were off speeding down the road to our destination. When we pulled up to the restaurant Red leapt out of the car and Elvis followed holding his hand out to help me out of the car so Sonny could go ahead and park up. He joined us seconds later and as we headed inside I noticed Red was looking around a little more often than usual and I felt a shiver run down my spine. I didn’t know why. They were Elvis’ bodyguards. It was their job but I couldn’t help but think there was something else going on that I had been left out of the loop about.

As we got inside there were cheers from all of the guests that had already arrived at Lombardi’s. It was my favourite Italian and they loved catering to Elvis so that meant when I asked for a private function at their restaurant they had obliged and shut down just for our party. Where their main room was normally made up of individual tables it was now one long table which was dressed up ornately with our friends and family sitting around it. There was a Happy Birthday banner hung up in the back of the room and a stack of presents on a table by the bar. My girlfriends leapt up to come and congratulate me as Elvis took his seat at the top of the table. As I got situated with a drink we chattered for a while before we migrated back to our seats as the wait staff started to linger, wondering when they should start.

The meal was lovely. An evening of good food, good friends and laughter which was just what I needed. After a while the table rejigged itself and I ended up down the other end opening my presents whilst the boys entertained themselves. I took great amusement in disturbing them every so often as I thanked one of the boys for my gift and watched as they nodded enthusiastically the look on their faces giving them away as they had no idea what their wives had bought for me.  

‘I actually have the same one and it’s to die for so I knew you’d love it,’ Mara said with a smile as I held my gift up in front of me. ‘I do. It’s gorgeous,’ I said as I placed the bracelet back in its box. Before I could say anything else the room fell silent and I looked up to find Elvis standing at the top of the table beckoning me back towards him.  He sat down as we all returned back to our normal seats. As my butt hit the chair the lights went down and waitstaff appeared from the kitchen a ginormous cake in their hands. I flushed deep crimson as everyone started singing ‘Happy Birthday’ to me with Elvis’ deep baritone at the helm.

Two waiters placed the cake on the table in front of me and I stood for a moment so I could blow my candles out. Everyone cheered as they went dark and then my cake was whisked away automatically so everyone could get a slice. As it disappeared from in front of us Elvis stood and clinked a spoon against his glass commanding the attention of all. I looked up at him and he winked at me before he spoke, ‘I want to thank you all for coming tonight to celebrate my love Y/N. It warms my heart to know that there are so many people who celebrate her as much as I do.’ ‘Or can sniff out a free bar,’ I chuckled earning a round of laughter from the table. ‘Either way,’ Elvis chuckled, ‘let’s raise a glass to my darling wife. To Y/N.’ ‘Y/N,’ a chorus sounded out behind him.

As he sat back down the waiters descended on the table with plates of cake. Chatter rose up around us but I leaned in towards him and dropped my voice so that only he could hear, ‘I love you y’know.’ ‘I love you too baby,’ he smiled leaning in to kiss me quickly. ‘Even though I’m headed to being all old and grey?’ I giggled. ‘You’ll still be a smoke show at eighty,’ he chuckled, ‘I know it.’

We ate and drank a little more before the conversation started to wane and people started to head for home to relieve babysitters and relatives. As the wait staff started to linger a little more frequently looking, waiting for someone to sort the check, Red said, ‘ready to leave EP?’

‘Yeah, bring the car around,’ Elvis said wiping his hands on his napkin, ‘Y/N and I are just gonna pay our compliments to the chef.’ ‘Sure thing boss,’ Red said standing up from the table. ‘We are?’ I asked raising my eyebrows but standing nevertheless as he did. ‘Yeah,’ he said reaching out to wrap his arm around me so we could head towards the kitchens. As we walked he looked over his shoulder and said, ‘Jer.’

I heard the screech of a chair moving back from the table and I didn’t doubt that Jerry was following behind us. As we disappeared through the swing door into the kitchen Mr Lombardi, the owner, appeared as if waiting for us. ‘Mr Presley sir,’ he said, ‘I hope everything was as you wanted.’ ‘It was,’ Elvis said, ‘thanks for having us.’ ‘Anytime sir. And Mrs Presley I hope you’ve had a good birthday,’ he smiled as he walked us through what seemed to be a deserted kitchen. ‘I have thank you,’ I said. ‘Well, whenever you want to come again don’t hesitate to let me know. We always cater for our favourite customers,’ he smiled. Elvis nodded and clapped him on the shoulder as if signalling for him to disappear. As he scuttled away I turned my head to look at Elvis who seemed unfazed as to where we were going, ‘what’s going on?’

‘Is everything as I asked?’ he said, ignoring me. ‘Yeah, just out here,’ Jerry said as he overtook us. We were at a large metal door now which he opened and Elvis shepherded me through. ‘You sure got everything?’ he said. He’d led me out to the back of the restaurant which was less glitz and glam and more industrial. There were big dumpsters along the wall and it was dimly lit though I couldn’t miss the car parked in front of me. Jerry handed Elvis the keys and nodded, ‘everything that was on the list. All sorted… I mean if you need anything-’ ‘It’s fine,’ Elvis said cutting him off, ‘thanks man.’ ‘Will someone tell me what the hell is going on?’ I said still lost in this interaction. Elvis and Jerry shared a smirk but neither of them answered me. Instead, Jerry smiled and put a hand on my shoulder. ‘I’ll leave that to the big man,’ Jerry chuckled, ‘happy birthday Y/N.’

And then he headed back through the metal door, closing it with a thud. I turned and looked at Elvis, folding my arms across my chest. ‘Come on,’ he said heading to the driver’s side. ‘Not until you tell me what the hell is happening,’ I said. ‘I’ll tell you in the car,’ he said. I raised my eyebrow and he sighed, ‘look if you don’t get your ass in the car right now there ain’t going to be anything to tell you about.’ ‘Fine but you seem to have forgotten the birthday girl’s in charge,’ I grumbled sliding into the passenger seat. ‘Never,’ he chuckled as he got himself situated. I looked around. I was already sure it was Jerry’s car but the spick and span nature sealed my assumptions yet there were no other clues as to what was occurring. Elvis started the ignition and pulled off into the main street and away from the restaurant. He glanced in his rearview a couple of times before he settled down into his seat. I watched him for a moment and when he glanced at me he said, ‘what?’

‘What?!’ I said turning in my seat. ‘Yeah,’ he said as if it were nothing. ‘What is going on?’ I said. ‘This is your birthday present,’ he said simply. ‘What do you mean? Where are we going? Why are we in Jerry’s car?’ I said. ‘You’re just going to have to trust me,’ he said grabbing my hand. His thumb ran over the back of it trying to lull me to trust him. I narrowed my eyes a little but then he smiled at me cheekily which won me over, as it always did. I nodded and allowed him to pull my hand up to his lips so he could kiss it. Then I relaxed back against the seat watching as the streets of Memphis whizzed past me. I guessed I couldn’t turn my nose up at a birthday surprise. I just wondered what it was.

#my writing #elvis presley #Elvis #elvis x reader #elvis fic #austin!elvis x reader #austin elvis x reader #Elvis Movie #Elvis Presley Fic #elvis presley x reader #lonely in a crowded room #red west #sonny west

[thasallweare]

Joseph Quinn

Played Eddie Munson on Stranger Things 2022

“This year is my year. I can feel it.” This line was said by the character Eddie Munson in the first episode of season four of Netflix’s monster-hit show Stranger Things, but it could easily have been uttered by actor Joseph Quinn.

It takes talent to join a much-loved TV cast in their fourth season and become a fan favourite. This series of Stranger Things has set Netflix records by hitting No 1 in 83 countries and is more watched than Bridgerton. But as the charismatic but vulnerable Munson, 28-year-old Quinn has made a splash. He only joined Instagram in May and already has more than 1.6 million followers.

His character is the voluminously haired metalhead who runs the Hellfire Club, Hawkins high’s Dungeons & Dragons society – with sidelines in drug-dealing and a band called Corroded Coffin. He soon finds himself at the centre of the sci-fi saga’s latest adventure. Prime suspect for a gruesome murder and accused of satanic worship, Munson becomes the Indiana town’s most wanted man.

I tried grappling with Dungeons & Dragons, but accepted that wasn’t going to happen

Quinn manages to steal even his first scene though: jumping on the table in the school cafeteria, dancing, waggling his tongue, flipping the bird and flicking food in diners’ faces. It is quite the entrance.

“That was so weird,” says Quinn with a laugh. “I auditioned by doing a self-tape of that speech, but it was one of the last scenes I ended up shooting. So I waited from November 2019 to June 2021.”

Born in south London, Quinn trained at Lamda and, until now, was best known for homegrown period dramas. He played Arthur Havisham in Dickensian, Leonard Bast in Howards End and Enjolras in Les Misérables. He played the queen’s son, Tsarevich Paul, in Catherine the Great, which starred Helen Mirren as the empress of Russia. His stage roles include Wish List at the Royal Court and Mosquitoes at the National.

Quinn as Eddie Munson in season four of Stranger Things.

Quinn as Eddie Munson in season four of Stranger Things. Photograph: Courtesy of Netflix

So Stranger Things represents a departure, but the show has been lit up by Munson’s arrival. Quinn himself, though, couldn’t be more self-effacing.

You’re getting rave reviews for Stranger Things. Are you proud?

I’m relieved, really, that’s the overriding feeling. The show represents my pandemic. At the end of my first day’s filming in Atlanta, we went into lockdown. I went home and lost my mind like everyone else. When I went back, it was a completely different experience because I couldn’t come home [to the UK], so I became very close to the cast. That’s the best thing about this business. You go to a strange place and meet a bunch of strangers. You leave with a fondness for the place and some dear friends.

You were cast after just two self-taped auditions, weren’t you?

No meetings, no chemistry reads, no protracted process. It was pretty unusual and very disarming. It meant I was waiting for [creators] the Duffer brothers to realise they’d made a mistake.

The show has overtaken Bridgerton to become the most-watched English-language series in Netflix history. Are such figures hard to get your head around?

You get past a certain number and it’s kind of boggling. I’m thrilled that people are watching it because I can’t tell you how hard everyone worked.

What brought home to you how big it had become?

Mainly its influence on the zeitgeist. Kate Bush is now back in the charts, which is so cool. I was in LA last week and two cars drove past playing Running Up That Hill. I’ve seen people walking down the street wearing Hellfire Club T-shirts, which was spooky.

The Duffer brothers have acknowledged that Eddie is loosely modelled on Damien Echols of the West Memphis Three. Did you research him?

Little bits, but I’m not going to pretend I did a huge amount. I tried grappling with Dungeons & Dragons, but accepted that wasn’t going to happen. Music was my main way in. I listened to a lot of heavy metal – Black Sabbath, Metallica, Dio – and I worked with a brilliant vocal coach called Mary Howland. But 99.7% of the work is that wig.

Oh, you can take slightly more credit than that…

OK, maybe only 99.6% is the wig. It’s objectively ridiculous. When I take it off, that helps me go unrecognised, so it’s been a blessing in that respect.

Quinn, far right, with Rory Kinnear and Helen Mirren in Catherine the Great.

Quinn, far right, with Rory Kinnear and Helen Mirren in Catherine the Great. Photograph: TCD/Prod.DB/Alamy

Did you know much about the satanic panic of the 80s?

Not before landing the role, but it’s testament to the Duffer brothers how they reference it in this sensitive, finely executed way. They don’t crowbar in the nostalgia or real-life nods, they just let them live in this world they’ve created. That makes it feel authentic – well, as authentic as a show with a tentacled lizard-man can be.

With you, Charlie Heaton, Millie Bobby Brown and Jamie Campbell Bower, there’s a sizeable British contingent in Stranger Things…

It’s a testament to the heritage of British acting and the grounding we get over here. It’s an invaluable thing. I owe a lot to my training, what little I have.

What did you learn from older cast members such as Winona Ryder and David Harbour, who play Joyce Byers and Jim Hopper?

Unfortunately, I didn’t have many scenes with them but I went for dinner with David and his wife [Lily Allen]. He was gracious and lovely. I was coming back from a party at 2am recently when I got a text which started: “Hey it’s Winona!” I thought, “I can’t sit on this”, so I showed my flatmate. I know I’m in a show with her but I’m still a fan. Winona’s wonderful – a real example of someone who hasn’t been corrupted by Hollywood. She made all us new guys feel welcome.

A Hellfire Club meeting in Stranger Things season four.

A Hellfire Club meeting in Stranger Things season four. Photograph: Netflix/Avalon

The climactic two episodes of the series are shrouded in secrecy. Can you tell us about them?

The thing is, they’ve got my family tied up somewhere and if I spoil anything, I’ll never see them again. No, I can say there’s a guitar scene and that the scale and ambition are astonishing. All the seeds that have been planted bear fruit and it’s just carnage. You know the finale is two-and-a-half hours, right? Ending with this monster, feature-length episode is so bold.

Will you be back for the fifth and final season?

I’ll be furious if they don’t bring me back [laughs]. I’d love to, if they’ll have me.

When did you first realise you enjoyed performing?

It was painfully stereotypical. I was an only child of separated parents, which breeds a pathological need for attention. I was never a stage kid being taken to auditions from an early age, but I’d always been curious. At primary school, I became a bit of a showoff. I got a drama scholarship to Emanuel school at Clapham Junction and it was the only thing I had any natural aptitude for. The fact that it’s my bread and butter now is mental.

You’ve worked alongside both Helen Mirren and Olivia Colman. How was that?

The two dames. I’ve been spoilt. Mosquitoes was a crazy experience. Working at the National with a Lucy Kirkwood script, Olivia Colman attached to it and Rufus Norris directing was a real “pinch me” moment. Like everyone else in this country, I’m in love with Olivia Colman, so forming this weird family and working with her every night was a career highlight. She’s a force of nature. Phenomenal. And Helen Mirren was… well, she’s Helen fucking Mirren. She was very kind, had great advice and a filthy sense of humour, which is always great fun.

Watch a trailer for Stranger Things season 4, volume two.

Next up, you’re in a film called Hoard. What can you tell us?

It’s directed by this extraordinary young woman called Luna Carmoon, who grew up in south-east London obsessed with film. It’s an independent British film made on a half-a-Mars-bar budget but Luna has written something feral and different. I’m excited for people to see it because there’s definitely something about her.

What do you do when you’re not working?

In a desperate attempt to reconnect with my youth, I started skateboarding again this year. I’ve still got some tricks in my bag but it’s much scarier now. Otherwise, I cook, I exercise and I worry.

I heard that you take your work seriously but don’t take yourself seriously?

Other way around. No, it’s hard to take yourself seriously in a three-ton wig. Anthony Hopkins, who’s a hero of mine, was once asked why he wanted to act for a living. He replied: “Beats work.” This is a fascinating job and, without wishing to sound like a Hallmark card, that’s kind of what I want out of life: an adventure.

Stranger Things season 4, volume 2 will stream on Netflix from Friday 1 July

#Joseph Quinn #eddie munson #stranger things

[leviabeat]

#Michael's T Shirts

More about The West Memphis Three below the cut

The West Memphis Three are three men convicted as teenagers in 1994 of the 1993 murders of three boys in West Memphis, Arkansas, United States.

Damien Echols was sentenced to death, Jessie Misskelley Jr. to life imprisonment plus two 20-year sentences, and Jason Baldwin to life imprisonment. During the trial, the prosecution asserted that the juveniles killed the children as part of a Satanic ritual.

Following a 2010 decision by the Arkansas Supreme Court regarding newly produced DNA evidence and potential juror misconduct, the West Memphis Three negotiated a plea bargain with prosecutors. On August 19, 2011, they entered Alford pleas, which allowed them to assert their innocence while acknowledging that prosecutors have enough evidence to convict them. Judge David Laser accepted the pleas and sentenced the three to time served. They were released with 10-year suspended sentences, having served 18 years.

(Source: wiki)

Personal note here: if you look into the initial investigation a little bit, the police handled this about as well as the O.J. Simpson case. Just saying.

#volbeat #michael poulsen #Michael's t shirts #free the west memphis three #the west memphis three #west memphis three shirt

[whatstruthgottodowithit]

The Girl He Left Behind [Part Nine]

Fandom: American Actor, RPF, Elvis Presley, Elvis Movie 2022

Pairing: Elvis Presley x Original Female Character

Characters: Elvis Presley, Addison Goodwin, Gladys Presley, Vernon Presley, Minnie May ‘Dodger’ Presley, Red West, Sonny West, Gene Smith, Billy Smith, Original Female Characters, Colonel Tom Parker, Billy Smith, Marci Cunningham, Steve Cunningham, Jerry Schilling, Mary Jenkins, Alan Fortas, Marty Lacker, Original Male Characters, Mona Goodwin, Joe Goodwin

Word Count: 4732 // Rating: Mature

Summary: When Elvis returns home to Graceland from the Army he’s followed by the headlines ‘The Girl He Left Behind’ but what the media don’t know is that Priscilla wasn’t the first. No, that title belongs to someone Elvis will never forget.

Tags/ Warnings: Angst, Fluff, Graceland, Poverty, Friends to Lovers, 1950s Elvis, Bad Parenting, Surprise Surprise the Colonel Is a Colossal Prick, Parental Loss, Grief, Fun Fairs, Kissing, Vaginal Sex, Oral Sex, Movie Nights, Arguing, Tension, Denial of Feelings, Age Gap Romance, Underage, Addison is 17 Elvis is 22, Guilt, Betrayal, Extortion, Blackmail, Jealous, Army Elvis, American Draft, US Army, Lying, Time Shift with Elvis moving to Memphis, Flashbacks, Caught. Addison’s Dress [the one Marilyn’s wearing]

Notes: I had to look up how much his tickets were and THREE FUCKIN FIFTY. stg i nearly wept real tears

LINK TO ALL PARTS // AO3 LINK // PINTEREST LINK

TAGS - @girlblogger2002 @sania562​  

Twelve days. Twelve whole days. Mona had been back in their lives for only twelve days and Elvis was already at the end of his tether. It didn’t help that through most of the time she had been back he’d been busy recording or in meetings which meant he couldn’t keep an eye on their little ‘sessions’ of getting reacquainted. From what she had told him Addison seemed to be taking them well though he figured she might be sugar-coating it a little given she knew his feelings for her mother. Vernon and Gladys had also taken a back seat to proceedings as they appeared to be letting her make her own decisions, much to his annoyance. Every day seemed to be the same - Addison would go to school and come home insisting on doing her chores around the house before her mother would collect her and they would head out to do something together. Every evening Elvis would feel a sinking disappointment as she disappeared out the door without a second glance. He was also a little upset that she was now driving independently with her new learner’s permit under her mother’s guidance in one of his old cars.

He was in his office, going over a couple of movie scripts the Colonel had brought over earlier for him to peruse when Addison appeared at the door. He smiled and sat up properly in his chair but she didn’t move into the room, instead, she remained leaning against the door jamb watching him nervously.

‘Everything alright?’ he said. Addison nodded. Elvis chuckled, ‘what did you ruin one of my shirts again interfering with Mary’s laundry?’ ‘Hey I was trying to help,’ Addison smiled coming in to sit in the chair opposite him. ‘Yeah that’s why I had to buy a completely new one,’ he smirked. ‘Well you could do your own laundry,’ she quipped. ‘I don’t think I’d even know how to anymore,’ he smiled, shuffling the papers on his desk until the scripts were covered back over and in a neat pile. When he was done he interlaced his fingers and leant towards her and said, ‘so what is it?’ ‘What’s what?’ she asked innocently. ‘Whatever it is you came to tell me but are too frightened to,’ he said. ‘I’m not frightened of you,’ she scoffed but Elvis merely raised an eyebrow, ‘okay, okay, maybe I was a little, let’s say, nervous to ask.’ ‘What is it?’ he said suddenly intrigued. ‘Um, well,’ she said biting her lip, ‘I’m going out with my mom tonight she wants to go to Beale Street.’ ‘Aren’t you a little young to be going to Beale Street?’ he asked. ‘How old were you when you started knockin’ around there?’ she said making Elvis’s retort stop dead in its tracks. He supposed she had a point. ‘So what’s the problem?’ he said. ‘Well she wants to go to Club Handy,’ Addison said nervously. ‘And what, you want me to make a call?’ he asked. ‘Actually, she wants you to come with,’ Addison said. Elvis was shocked but recovered quickly. ‘Oh, uh, sure,’ he said, ‘I mean it’s pretty quiet on a Thursday night so we should be okay as long as you promise you ain’t gonna be falling asleep at your school desk tomorrow.’ ‘Don’t worry about me Grandpa,’ Addison said with a cheeky smile, ‘I’m young remember.’

And with that, she stood up and headed out of the room. Elvis sat back and sighed. He supposed her teasing him was only fair, he had brought up her age first, but he didn’t like the reminder that they were so different in age. He also wondered why Mona wanted him to join them. He was glad, after all he didn’t trust Mona and having Addison hanging with her on Beale Street at night did make him uneasy so he supposed it was better for him to be there. Still, he couldn’t help but feel there was something off.

Putting that uneasy feeling aside he finished up in the office and headed downstairs to join his family for dinner where he was surprised to find Addison didn’t make an appearance. When he had asked after her Mary had informed him she’d made her a sandwich to eat in her room. Once dinner was over and his parents announced their plans to watch TV with Dodger for the night Elvis informed them they’d be going out and headed upstairs to change. It took him a while to decide on what to wear. He didn’t know why as he had been to Club Handy a thousand times before and he knew the vibe it had. Nevertheless, as he picked out his black slacks, red shirt and a bomber jacket and spritzed a little cologne he felt a little nervous. Like he was getting ready for a date.

As he came down the stairs the was a knock at the door and he opened it to find Mona standing there. She looked pretty though Elvis couldn’t deny a little cheap. She smiled at him and he moved out of her way so she could come and stand in the foyer.

‘Are you ready?’ Mona said tucking her purse under her arm. ‘Addie’s just getting changed,’ he said. They stood there for a moment, in awkward silence, before Mona said, ‘I hear Club Handy is quite the place to be these days.’ ‘Yeah,’ Elvis said, ‘it’s a cool scene.’ ‘I bet. I’m glad us Goodwin girls have an expert to show us around Beale Street tonight,’ she said. Elvis intended to make a snide remark but he was forced to stop as Addison came in from the kitchen. She looked stunning. Her hair was tied up neatly, secured with a small scarf, and she was wearing a dress that whilst cute left little to the imagination. Elvis noted the way it clung to her body as if designed for her alone. He couldn’t speak, his throat suddenly too dry to form a sentence, though he didn’t need to as Mona spoke before he could.

‘I told you that was the one didn’t I?’ she said gesturing for Addison to spin around. She did, though awkwardly, a blush across her cheeks. ‘It’s just a dress,’ Addison said. ‘A beautiful one, right Elvis?’ Mona asked. Both sets of hazel eyes landed on him. ‘Stunning,’ he said before he turned quickly and grabbed his keys so they could head out. He opted to take the caddy making sure Mona was in the back and Addison was beside him as they headed towards downtown. It wasn’t too busy as they pulled into Beale Street but there were definitely enough people around to signal the weekend was coming. He parked and hopped out of the car, opening the door for Addison and then her mother so they could both climb out. Fortunately, they were admitted into the club without even a second glance which Elvis thanked his lucky stars for as he didn’t quite feel like arguing with the doorman with Addison being underage. The club was busy but they managed to find a booth in the back with a good view of the stage.

‘What do you want to drink?’ he asked as Addison slipped into one side of the booth and her mother did the same on the opposite side. ‘Soda’s fine,’ she said. ‘Oh come on Addie,’ her mother said rolling her eyes, ‘live a little.’ ‘She doesn’t have to drink if she doesn’t want to,’ Elvis said defensively. ‘I know but she doesn’t have to not either. She’s already inside she can have a drink if she wants,’ Mona said. Elvis’ jaw tightened but he didn’t say anything and instead just looked at Addison who seemed put on the spot. ‘Um, whatever you’re having,’ she said talking to Elvis. ‘Two Old Fashions it is,’ Mona said with a smile. Elvis nodded curtly and headed to the bar to order. As he walked away Addison watched him go. He looked handsome tonight though his outfit was a lot more toned down than normal, making her feel all the more out of place. If anything she was dressed like her mother which made her feel even worse. Mona didn’t waste a minute of him being gone before she spoke.

‘You look good tonight,’ she said. ‘Thanks,’ Addison said. ‘Elvis too,’ she continued, ‘don’t you think?’ ‘Yeah, I guess,’ Addison said feeling her cheeks heating up as she looked away towards the stage which was currently being set up for a performance. ‘The pair of you even match a little,’ she said, ‘his shirt, your headband…’ ‘Just a coincidence,’ Addison said dropping her gaze to where she was flipping a beer mat in between her fingers. ‘Almost like you’re a couple,’ Mona said watching Addison’s face closely, ‘you’d make a cute couple you know.’ ‘Mom,’ Addison groaned. ‘What are you trying to tell me you don’t like him even a little?’ she said raising her eyebrow. Addison glared at her mother but she didn’t seem to care as she continued, ‘oh come on Addie, you won’t melt if you admit he looks handsome.’ ‘I didn’t say he didn’t look handsome,’ Addison said snappily. Mona placed her hands up in surrender. Before Mona could tease her anymore Elvis reappeared placing three drinks on the table. He placed a glass in front of Addison and shuffled into the seat beside her.

‘Go on Addie,’ Mona said nodding at Addison as she took a swig of her own drink. Addison glanced at Elvis who was watching her with a somewhat stony silence before she took a small sip of her drink. It burned the back of her throat and she winced at the taste of orange something she detested. ‘What do you think?’ Mona said eagerly. Looking at her excited face Addison suddenly felt a wave of irritation bubbling inside her. Not only about the teasing she had been doing but also at the fact her mother couldn’t even remember something as basic as her not liking oranges. ‘It’s awful,’ she said making her mother’s face fall and Elvis smirk. ‘Oh I’m sure you’ll like it take another sip,’ Mona said recovering quickly from her dismay. ‘I’m good, you have it,’ Addison said pushing her drink forward towards her mom. ‘That’s why I asked the bartender to wait a minute and bring us over some more sodas,’ Elvis chuckled. Mona forced a cold smile at him which made his grin grow even larger not that Addison seemed to notice the cool demeanour between the pair as she said, ‘life saver.’ ‘And don’t worry, nothing with orange in it,’ he said throwing his arm behind her on the top of the booth as he looked at Mona and added, ‘she hates that.’

They chatted idly for a while after that, their conversation mostly filling time before the performers took to the stage. Once the band was in swing the club started to fill but it was mostly regulars which meant that they were largely undisturbed as most of them were acclimatised to having Elvis around. Eventually, there were enough people in the club to get a good dance floor going, something Mona insisted they both take part in much to their chagrin. Well, the pair of them probably wouldn’t have minded dancing in the club just not with Mona in tow. As the performers announced they were taking a short recess Elvis spied his chance to break from the floor and leant down to shout into Addison’s ear.

‘Want another drink?’ he asked, Addison slowed her moves and nodded clasping onto his jacket sleeve as he led her towards the bar. They didn’t make it all the way though as Mona appeared and forced her way in between them, slinging her arms around them both as she said, ‘not ditching your ol’ Mama are ya?’ ‘We were just getting another drink,’ Elvis said. ‘Ooh, make mine a double,’ she said fishing into her purse for a couple of bills as she said, ‘here Addie you get them in, my shout.’ ‘I can get them,’ Elvis said. ‘I know,’ Mona said rolling her eyes in a way not dissimilar to her daughter, ‘but you’ve bought them all night long. Besides, like any bartender’s going to turn her away in that outfit.’

And before either of them could protest she pushed Addison towards the bar and directed Elvis back towards their booth. He was glaring at her as they sat down making her roll her eyes once more, ‘oh come on stretch you’ll not crumble if the pair of you are apart for two minutes.’ ‘She’s underage in a club and you’re making her buy drinks,’ he said ignoring her little jibe. ‘Like I said that bartender isn’t going to be focused on what she’s ordering,’ Mona chuckled. ‘Maybe you should be a little more worried about what he is focusing on,’ Elvis said. ‘What like you, you mean?’ Mona said raising her eyebrow, Elvis scowled but said nothing, ‘don’t think I haven’t noticed the pair of you together. All lovey-dovey like you’re the only people in the room.’ ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about,’ Elvis said trying to ignore the happy little flutter inside him at the possibility she might reciprocate his feelings. ‘Sure you don’t,’ Mona said, ‘hey I don’t mind. She could do a lot worse.’ ‘Yeah she could have a track record like yours,’ Elvis said. ‘Ouch,’ Mona said cockily as she rested back against the booth folding her arms across her chest, ‘look I get it, you don’t like me yadda, yadda, yadda but this whole you hating my guts thing is getting pretty boring.’ ‘Well you know the solution,’ Elvis said, ‘you’ve done it enough times.’ ‘What? Leave? When I know my being here’s driving you crazy? Not a chance,’ she scoffed, ‘and anyway, Addie likes having me here.’ ‘Yeah ‘cause she thinks you can change,’ he said leaning forward. ‘What and you don’t think I can?’ Mona said earning nothing but a cold stare from the man across the booth, ‘oh that’s right I forgot you know everything about my daughter’s life, right? I’m just the wicked witch and you’re her knight in shining armour. Tell me this though, does she know why you care so much? Huh? Why you’ve taken an interest in lil ol’ Addie? I mean she’s coming back now how about we ask her?’

Mona turned to look towards the bar where Addison was near finishing up and raised her hand to flag her down but as she went to call her daughter’s name Elvis’ hand grabbed onto her arm pulling it down with fury flaming in his eyes. Mona smirked, ‘thought not.’ ‘Look Addie is my friend. Whatever ideas you’ve gotten in your screwed-up head are just that. Ideas,’ Elvis said. ‘If that’s the line you wanna spin have at it,’ Mona said, ‘you’re just friends, whatever.’ ‘That’s the truth,’ Elvis said. It was, technically. Regardless of how he felt they were still just friends. ‘Sure, I mean I’m sure she’ll be crushed but I’ll take her mind off of it. I mean we can start this weekend I’m sure there are lots of eligible teenagers in Nashville,’ she said. Elvis leaned forward and said, ‘what are you talking about?’ ‘This weekend,’ Mona said a self-satisfied look dawning on her as she said, ‘oh Addie didn’t tell you? We’re spending the weekend together. In Nashville. Just us girls.’ ‘But-’ Elvis said though he was cut off as Addison appeared at the table and placed three drinks down on it. ‘That took forever,’ she said going to shuffle into the booth only to find him looking at her irritably. His jaw was set and his eyes near black with anger which made a pit form in her stomach, ‘what’s going on?’ ‘Why don’t you tell me?’ he said, ‘or better yet call me when you get to Nashville and tell me.’ ‘You told him?’ Addison said turning to her mother whose smug face had turned to one of concern. ‘I thought you had,’ she said, ‘you know what I’m like, me and my big mouth.’ ‘Look I was gonna tell you,’ she said shuffling into the booth and watching him with pleading eyes. He stared at the table, fidgeting with a beer mat, so the anger bubbling away inside him didn’t spill out on Addison rather than her mother. ‘When?’ he said looking at her, ‘when you got across state?’ ‘She was going to tell you,’ Mona said receiving a glare from both of them, though Elvis’ was more severe. He could tell she was loving this and though he didn’t want to give her any more satisfaction he couldn’t remove the scowl from his face and pretend he was okay.

‘Mom, why don’t you go and dance?’ Addison said. ‘But-’ ‘Mom,’ Addison said pointedly. Mona sighed and grabbed her purse off the table. When she was definitely out of earshot Addison shuffled around so she was facing Elvis her big hazel eyes watching anxiously as he looked at her.

‘I was going to tell you. I just didn’t know how. Honestly, I don’t even know how I agreed to go,’ she said with a small chuckle which made Elvis’ jaw unclench a tad, ‘we were just talking about how I was missing school because of the shows and she started going on about how we should spend the weekend together. Telling me how perfect it was because I was already excused out of school and that I’d not be stuck hanging around whilst you’re busy workin’ or whatever.’ ‘You wouldn’t be stuck hangin’ around,’ Elvis protested. ‘Maybe…maybe not. I mean you’ve gotta work. Can’t exactly be hanging with me when you have to be on stage. I don’t know,’ she said getting quiet for a moment before she added, ‘she just has this way of talking people into stuff. It sorta made me realise how my dad could take her back so many times.’ ‘That’s what worries me,’ Elvis said watching her with concern. Addison chewed on her lip for a moment, ‘you think this trip is asking for trouble?’ ‘I think anything involving your mother is asking for trouble,’ he sighed catching Addison’s unsure gaze which made him concede a little. Maybe this was a good thing. Maybe she didn’t need to be told time and time again her mother was bad news. Maybe seeing it first hand on this trip would prove it, ‘but I have to work and I s’pose hanging around with my folks and Dodger isn’t as exciting as a weekend in Nashville so if you wanted to go I guess I’d be okay with it.’ ‘Are you sure? I mean I know you were excited about this weekend,’ she said biting her lip. Elvis nodded. Addison wrapped her arms around his neck and pulled her to him, her fruity perfume filling his nostrils for a moment before she pulled back. ‘Thank you for understanding,’ she said. ‘Nah I get it,’ he said waving her off, ‘I mean this was the first time you were gonna see me perform so I can’t say I’m thrilled you’re gonna miss it but she’s your mom and you’re trying.’ ‘Are you trying to make me feel guilty?’ Addison giggled. ‘Oh for sure,’ he smirked, ‘I mean you’re gonna miss a hell of a show.’ ‘Eh, I’ve had the VIP experience,’ she shrugged. ‘Oh yeah what’s that?’ he asked. ‘I’ve heard you singing in the shower,’ she giggled. Elvis’s smirk deepened as did the fire inside him as he thought about her listening to him showering which quickly flashed into the pair of them showering. He pushed the thought away as fast as he could. ‘Well in that case you owe me $3.50,’ he chuckled. ‘It wasn’t that great, in fact, I was gonna demand a refund,’ she quipped. Elvis went to respond but stopped as Mona reappeared at the table slipping into the booth opposite them.

‘You two kissed and made up?’ she said with a knowing smile that brought bile back into his throat. ‘There was nothing to make up about,’ Addison said, ‘apart from you and your big mouth.’ ‘You know me, sweetheart. I don’t do things by half measures,’ she said. ‘Well anyway,’ Addison said, ‘we talked it over and it’s fixed.’ ‘So you’re coming with me?’ Mona said. ‘I must be mad but yeah,’ Addison said. ‘Excellent,’ Mona smiled, ‘I’m sure we’ll have a great time. So much to catch up on.’

Addison didn’t seem to catch her meaning as she started talking about things she wanted to do in Nashville but Elvis was only half listening to her. His eyes remained fixed on Mona who leaned back against the booth and took a swig of her drink, smirking at him throughout. Doubt settled inside him as he watched her. He had agreed to this thinking that it would scupper Mona. Now he was worried about the nonsense she’d fill her daughter’s head with given the chance. Or worse that she’d out his true feelings and Addison would see him for the lovesick puppy he was.

They didn’t stay long after that. The band had not finished playing but the mood had certainly shifted, enough for the three of them to decide it was time to leave. As Elvis drove home he mulled over Mona’s words analysing and scrutinising them as much as he could. It had worried him at first. Especially given the fact she had teased him about how he felt, but more than that he hadn’t failed to notice how she had made it seem reciprocated. His mind played her words back to him over and over, ‘All lovey-dovey like you’re the only people in the room,’ like if he did it enough it would be true. He kept glancing over at her. She wasn’t looking at him as she was staring out the window, her yawns becoming more frequent as tiredness crept in. He yearned to know what was going on in that head of hers. He wanted to know if she was feeling like he was. He hoped she was, but he didn’t trust Mona. He didn’t trust that her words might just be lies to get him to make a fool of himself. He didn’t trust that she wasn’t working some sort of angle.

In fact, he was immensely relieved to get rid of her not even bothering to say goodbye as he pulled up outside the apartment block across the way from Graceland. As she disappeared into the building headed towards the apartment he had on permanent rent and was letting her stay in Addison seemed to come to life. As they drove back around to the house she spoke, the silence from earlier long forgotten.

‘I had a nice night tonight,’ she said. ‘Yeah me too,’ Elvis said. It wasn’t technically a lie considering the only downside to his night was the fact her mother was there. His night with her had been nice. ‘That woman’s voice was amazing, what’s her name,’ she said tapping her fingers together as if it would jog her memory. ‘Big Mama Thornton?’ Elvis said. Addison nodded, ‘yeah she’s great. Got a good ear for new talent too.’ ‘Maybe I’ll sing for her then,’ Addison giggled. They were pulling into Graceland now which meant Elvis didn’t have to pay much attention to where he was going and looked towards her puzzled. ‘You got something you wanna tell me?’ he chuckled. ‘Hey, you aren’t the only person around here that can sing,’ she grinned. ‘Is that right?’ ‘Are you forgetting the amount of shows I made you put on with me?’ she chuckled. ‘Oh yeah,’ he said recalling the endless amount of hours she’d have him learning a new song on his guitar just so she could sing to her dad, ‘if anything I was your backing band.’ ‘As it should be,’ she giggled. Elvis had stopped the car now and cut the engine though neither of them seemed to be in any rush to jump out and head inside. ‘See, and I was just going to offer to introduce you next time,’ he said, ‘but now I can see that’s only asking for trouble.’ ‘If I promise not to usurp your career will you please introduce me?’ Addison mused. Elvis paused to pretend to think scratching his chin and pursing his lips a little before Addison swiped at his hand knocking it off his face, ‘sweeten the deal Goodwin and maybe.’ ‘Okay how about next time we go I promise my mom won’t be invited,’ she grinned. ‘Deal,’ Elvis chuckled, ‘I mean don’t get me wrong I enjoyed myself but I don’t really understand why she asked me.’ ‘Actually, it wasn’t her idea,’ Addison said making Elvis look at her, ‘I wanted you to come.’ ‘Why didn’t you just ask?’ he said puzzled. ‘I don’t know,’ she shrugged, ‘I guess when she suggested we go to Beale Street I thought of you. I mean you’ve told me about the club and everything… I guess I just wanted my first time to be with you.’ ‘She didn’t mind?’ Elvis said trying to ignore the fact his heart was swelling a little at the fact she’d wanted him there. That he was on her mind even when they weren’t together. ‘I didn’t give her chance to,’ Addison said honestly continuing as he looked puzzled, ‘I sorta made it seem like your folks wouldn’t let me go…that way she couldn’t disagree.’ ‘And then you told me she’d invited me my, my, Miss Goodwin what a tangled web you weave,’ he chuckled. ‘It got me what I wanted didn’t it?’ she smirked as she unlocked the door and climbed out of the car with Elvis following her quickly.

‘You know,’ Elvis said as they walked inside, ‘with ruthlessness like that you’d go far in Hollywood.’ ‘You think? If only I knew someone with any clout there,’ she jibed. Elvis clutched his heart. ‘You really are just full of zingers tonight aren’t ya,’ he said. They were inside now, outside her bedroom, each of them resting against the door jamb as they looked at one another. ‘Maybe you shouldn’t be such an easy target,’ she said with a smirk leaning up a little. He could smell that fruity perfume once again and he mistakenly glanced down, reminding himself once more of how sultry she looked in that dress. She was looking at him awaiting a response her eyes wide and expectant as a ghost of a smirk still played out on her lips. He wanted to kiss her. More than he ever had before, spurred on by Mona’s words in his head. He swallowed thickly and pulled back missing the flicker of dejection in Addison’s eyes as he walked a few feet away.

‘Target practice is over,’ he joked though there wasn’t as much bant in it as normal, ‘I should let you get to bed.’ ‘Yeah, oh, I forgot to ask. I sort of need to borrow a car,’ she said hurrying to explain as he looked at her confused, ‘for Nashville. I mean I’ll take good care of it and I promise I won’t let my mom drive-’ ‘Sure, whatever,’ he nodded, ‘how about we sort this out in the morning?’ ‘Okay,’ Addison said quietly, ‘night then.’ ‘Yeah night,’ he said quickly and before she was inside her room he was out of sight practically sprinting upstairs to his room. He couldn’t think straight. Every time he tried to string a coherent thought together his mind went back to the way she looked at him just moments ago. He stripped out of his clothes and hopped in the shower, turning it to freezing as he tried to calm himself down. It didn’t work though. And soon enough the thought of her in front of him in that dress and the thought of her listening to him in the shower like she’d mentioned melded into one. And every inappropriate thought he’d ever had about his best friend came crashing to the front of his mind spurring him on until he was overrun with pleasure that soon washed down the drain.

#my writing #the girl he left behind #elvis presley #Elvis #Elvis Movie #elvis fic #Elvis Presley Fic #elvis presley smut

[fajoblog]

Los geht’s

Von mehreren Seiten wurde mir die Doku-Serie Tiger King (USA 2020) empfohlen: Darin gebe es tolle, unvorhersehbare Wendungen und spannende Protagonist*innen. Mein Seheindruck war allerdings ein anderer.

Bis zum Ende habe ich nicht verstanden, worum es eigentlich geht. Die Serie springt von einem Spektakel zum nächsten, ohne einen für mich ersichtlichen roten Faden. Ein wirkliches Interesse für die Protagonist*innen und ihre Faszination für Großwild konnte ich auch nicht erkennen. Außerdem verletzt der Regisseur elementare Regeln des Dokumentarischen, wenn er Menschen zu Ereignissen befragt, die sie selbst nicht erlebt haben (z.B. wird „Joe Exotic“ in Folge 3 zum Kronzeugen für den angeblich Mord von Carole Baskins Ehemann). Am meisten stört mich aber die Tendenz, alle Protagonist*innen auf ihre niedrigsten Bewegründe zu reduzieren. Obwohl die Serie häufig auf sehr wackliger Basis argumentiert, gibt es kaum Raum für Ungewissheiten. Alles ist sehr eindeutig und vor allem sind die Gezeigten eindeutig schlecht. Auch wenn das angesichts der Behandlung der Tiere vielleicht als gerechte Strafe erscheinen mag, das Ausstellen von Menschen finde ich dokumentarisch doch eher uninteressant. Die Serie erinnerte mich allerdings an einen Text, den ich vor einigen Jahren mal für einen anvisierten, aber niemals realisierten Fajo-Empfehlungsblog geschrieben habe. In dem Beitrag empfehle ich einen Dokumentarfilm, der das alles hat, was Tiger King mir nicht bieten konnte: Komplexe Erzählweisen, unglaubliche Wendungen, Ambivalenzen und ein Interesse für Menschen. Alle drei Teile der empfohlenen Dokumentation lassen sich immer mal wieder auf einem großen, werbefinanzierten Videoportal mit den Buchstaben Y und T im Namen finden.

Da es unter uns Fajo-Mitarbeitenden das Bedürfnis gibt, sich auch mal nichtwissenschaftlich auszudrücken, wollte ich deshalb meinen alten Text nutzen, um einen neuen Versuch für einen Fajo-Blog zu starten. In unregelmäßigen Abständen werden hier also hoffentlich Beiträge erscheinen, die beachtet werden wollen. Los geht’s mit diesem:

„Oh my god, look at his T-Shirt!“ lautete die missbilligende Bemerkung, mit der eine amerikanischen Touristin fingerzeigend ihr Kind auf mich aufmerksam machte. Im Jahr 1996 trug ich im Urlaub in Florenz stolz meine neueste Merchandise-Erwerbung der amerikanischen Death-Metal-Band Deicide spazieren. Darauf zu sehen, war ein auf dem Rücken liegender, aufgeschlitzter Jesus. Der Kauf hatte sich also gelohnt. Im selben Jahr erschien in den USA die Dokumentation Paradise Lost: The Child Murders at Robin Hood Hills (USA 1996), die ich kürzlich wiederentdeckte und die mich bleibend beeindruckte. Der Film dokumentiert den Prozess dreier Jugendlicher, die vor allem aufgrund ihres Musikgeschmacks und ihrer Kleidung verdächtigt werden, drei achtjährige Jungen sexuell missbraucht und grausam ermordet zu haben. Die Dokumentation ist aus mehreren Gründen bemerkenswert, nicht zuletzt, weil der Film Teil der Geschichte geworden ist, von der er erzählt.

Amateurkamera-Aufnahmen von einem Fluss, Bildunterschrift: „Police Crime Scene Video, May 6, 1993 – Robin Hood Hills, West Memphis, Arkansas.“ Über die Original-Tonspur der Polizistengespräche und Funksprüche legen sich Flageolett��ne, der Beginn von Metallicas Welcome Home erklingt. Die Kamera schwenkt neben das Flussbett auf zwei nackte, totenstarre Kinderkörper, ein dritter folgt.

Schon zu Beginn der Dokumentation zeigen sich einige ihrer Wesensmerkmale. Der Film geht sehr nah heran, vor allem weil die Regisseure Joe Berlinger und Bruce Sinofsky das Vertrauen aller relevanten Beteiligten gewinnen konnten. Wir sehen Interviews mit den Angeklagten, ihren Familien und Anwälten sowie mit den Angehörigen der Opfer. Die Kamera läuft aber auch bei den Strategiebesprechungen der Verteidigung und – aufgrund des besonders öffentlichkeitsfreundlichen US-Rechtssystems – auch im Gerichtssaal. Gleichzeitig bleiben Berlinger und Sinofsky unsichtbar und stumm. Statt eines Voice-Over hört der Zuschauer Metallica-Songs als Kommentar zu den Interviewpassagen. Es war der erste Film, der Lieder der Band nutzen durfte und diese Musik ist hier nicht neutral. War ihr Konsum es doch, der den Angeklagten zum Verhängnis wurde. Ohne Kommentare macht der Film das Publikum zum Richter: Den Zuschauenden wird abverlangt, selbst ein Urteil zu fällen, wobei die präsentierte Faktenlage eine Lesart sehr wahrscheinlich macht.

Der Film steht in der Tradition des Direct Cinema von Albert und David Maysles, bei deren Dokumentarfilm Gray Gardens (USA 1975) Berlinger und Sinofsky auch mitgeholfen hatten. Er ist aber vor allem auch ein Vorläufer, des True-Crime-Booms, den wir seit der Ausstrahlung des US-Podcasts Serial 2014 erleben. Paradise Lost erzählt schon sehr früh und ungeplant seriell eine komplexe Geschichte mit unglaublichen Wendungen und sehr dankbaren Charakteren, da dem Film noch zwei weitere über die angeklagten und schließlich verurteilten sog. West Memphis Three folgten. Fast sieben Stunden verfolgte ich also gebannt das Leben von Damien Echols, Jason Baldwin und Jessie Misskelley.

Es sind nicht die menschlichen Abgründe der Tatmotive für die Kindermorde, die im Zentrum des Films stehen, sondern das Milieu, in dem Jugendliche aufgrund ihrer Andersartigkeit kaum eine Chance auf Gerechtigkeit haben. Die Regisseure zeigen scheinbar neutral alle Perspektiven auf dieses Justizdrama. Doch haben sie eine Haltung, ihnen geht es darum, die Unschuldsvermutung zu bergen, die bei diesem Prozess durch Vorurteile verschüttet wurde.

Mir ging der sehr gut gemachte Film vor allem auch deshalb so nahe, weil darin deutlich wird, wie jugendliche Provokation bzw. vielleicht sogar einfach nur Andersartigkeit verhängnisvolle Folgen haben kann. Das gewissermaßen das Tragen eines T-Shirts Menschen für Jahre hinter Gitter bringen kann. Für einen kurzen Moment trat in meinem Kopf eine alternative Biografie hervor, die mich erschaudern ließ.

Florian Hannig

[pseudophan]

my free the west memphis three shirt arrived my life finally has a purpose

[dentalrecordsmusic]

Fest Review: Rockstar Energy Disrupt Festival, Noblesville, IN, 7/14/2019

Words and photos by Ari Jindracek

Okay, imagine this: you’re in the middle of an open field with maybe three trees in sight. You’re out of water, you didn’t put on enough sunblock, and it’s 95 degrees. You feel like you’re going to pass out if you don’t sit down right this second. However, when your heat-exhausted body slams into someone else who smiles as they push you back into the pit, you forget why you wished you could be anywhere else. Usually a Chicagoan, if you hadn’t yet noticed, I headed out to Noblesville, Indiana and the Ruoff Home Mortgage Music Center to catch the Rockstar Energy Disrupt Festival (because I have family near Indy and couldn’t get to Tinley Park). At 1:30 PM, with the sun high and blinding in the sky, a small crowd kicked off nine and a half hours of music, standing belly-up to the barricade at a small stage a few minutes’ walk from the amphitheater itself. As every lead singer who took that small stage would note, it was hot as hell. However, as you can probably guess if you’re reading this, it was super worth it.

The first act on the bill was Hyro the Hero. Starting half an hour after gates opened, when a large portion of the crowd hadn’t shown up yet, Hyro nevertheless drew a lot of attention. He climbed and jumped from amps and from the drum platform, borrowed hats from other band members and switched them around, and, near the end of his unfortunately short set, climbed into the crowd to ensure that the festival was going to start out with a pit. He packed more raw energy into the opening set than some of the other bands at the festival did in twice the time. His sound was unique among the rest of the acts, too, mixing rap flow with heavy hardcore instrumentals. After ending the set with no less energy than he’d started with, Hyro was also kind enough to stop and sign merchandise for fans, including fans who didn’t expect the pit to be as big as it was and needed to support themselves on his shoulder for a few seconds while they collected their stuff. (You’re right, I absolutely should’ve known better.) I can think of no better way to kick off the rest of the long, awesome afternoon.

If Hyro brought the heat to the concert, second act Juliet Simms helped everyone chill out a little. With a country twang to her voice not necessarily unlike Dolly Parton and a tambourine at her hip, Juliet fit well into the outskirts of Noblesville, which, despite being maybe 45 minutes from Indianapolis, were essentially open country fields. By no means, however, is Simms a country act. Her music would be right at home in my friend’s favorite Spotify playlist, made up of “vaguely Southern gothic” songs. Her backing instrumentals were fantastic--I was especially interested in the drummer, who kept the tempo strong going while flipping around a curtain of blonde hair--and Simms hit all the right notes with songs about leaving demons behind you and the dubious joy of difficult relationships. As a pair of acts, she and Hyro had vastly different energies, but both brought something different onto the setlist and complemented each other as artists.

Trophy Eyes, like Juliet Simms, were a bit less of a moshing, thrashing act, and a bit calmer. Lead singer John Floreani had moments of energy, punching the air and jumping around, but largely swayed over his mic stand. Technical difficulties only a few minutes into the set briefly left the band standing on stage for five hot minutes with no sound but Floreani’s faintly-accented voice asking everyone if they were okay and giving progress reports. However, once things got underway again, the band drew the crowd right back in. Their songs felt like walking through a pop-punk hedge maze: meandering and familiar. It was easy to catch on to the words and sing along, getting caught up in swaying and clapping. As a big fan of longer songs (what can I say, I have a type), I hardly wanted to pull myself out of the music for long enough to take pictures. Despite their rocky start, Trophy Eyes brought a chillness to their set, and the crowd had fun as they did.

The energy levels picked back up with Memphis May Fire, a band that, knowing the kind of music I listen to, I definitely should have gotten into beforehand. In a return to mosh pits and horns up, Memphis came on stage to provide the hardcore sound that one might expect on the Disrupt bill, judging by their fellows in the lineup. They had quite a few long-time fans in the crowd (not surprising, given their thirteen-or-so-year long run) but gave the uninitiated a terrific show as well. The band mixed songs from their latest albums with older ones dedicated to long-term fans in the audience (singer Matty Mullins was impressed by the reactions of long-time listeners in the crowd when he asked who had been with the band for a while) and mixed slower, sweeter songs with ones that opened puts instantly. Within the first few chords of the set, I was struck by the band’s sound and knew I needed to look into them further going forward.

Andy Black is a name I've been faintly aware of in the emo/alternative universe for a while but hadn't listened to his music much before this show, but the chances of me getting into his work after this are way higher. One of the first things I noticed was Black's speaking voice, which has a tone to it that I haven't often heard, almost like if you took a sports announcer out of the Wild West (but also nothing like that at all.) This added to his music, and you could tell there was a little something extra in the songs. On stage, Black leaned against his bandmates, paced the whole stage, and talked through his set jovially. One thing that I remember specifically is a newer slow song of his, "Ghost of Ohio," because I could relate to it, because it explained why the backdrop of the stage was a huge picture of Ohio, and because the singing and instrumentation were stunning. Black put on a really interesting show, and I fully intend to look into his music more as I go forward.

And now I must, sadly, inform you of a great sin of mine: I spent most of Sleeping With Sirens' no doubt excellent set in the women's bathrooms, trying not to pass out from the heat. I saw them perform maybe one full song. This is a tragedy, not only because the crowd had clearly come out for them -- this was the largest crowd at the secondary stage, more than twice the people who had been there for the first three openers, and several people boasted signed shirts or meet and greet passes--but also because I could hear their music from the distance I was at, probably a quarter-mile away and inside a building, and it sounded like something I'd be into. For the moments when I was there, I could see singer Kellin Quinn ranging the stage and checking in with his sweaty, dehydrated fans, waving along to the music with them, and beaming while he watched them. The love between the artists and the crowd was more salient, even, because it was standing room only, so the average fan was closer to Sleeping with Sirens than they would be had the band performed on the main stage.

Atreyu were the first act on the main amphitheater stage (where, finally, mercifully, there was shade) and they started off with a bang. I had briefly dipped my toe into their discography before the show, so I was prepared for some of their songs, like obvious crowd favorite "Bleeding Mascara" and their cover of "You Give Love A Bad Name". The cover riled up the crowd and helped keep the flagging crowd engaged, even when the songs ranged into less familiar territory. I was more invested in this set than several of the others I’d seen so far that day simply because I was capable of singing along to some of their songs Guitarists Dan Jacobs and Travis Miguel got to be the focus regularly and pink-haired frontman Alex Varkatzas held focus as he ranged the stage. No matter how much they knew about Atreyu's music beforehand, the crowd seemed to be along for the ride.

Circa Survive was, unfortunately, the second set that I mostly missed. (I’ll explain why I missed it in a later article. It wasn’t the heat exhaustion this time.) Thankfully, I was able to slip in for the tail end of their performance and, while distracted, I got to enjoy a couple of songs. Circa Survive is a chiller band than Atreyu overall and you could tell it by the crowd, which, though a lot of people were standing up to watch, wasn’t moshing or headbanging very much. They had a genuinely beautiful stage setup, too, with a backdrop in the distinctive style of their album covers and light cans with three segments that could light up individually, making for an interesting effect even if it was not yet dark enough to make out the lights on stage very well. It felt like Circa Survive had set up an exquisite set and I am sorry that I missed so much of it.

Coming into the concert, I definitely did not have the right idea about Sum 41. I was aware of them as a band and, like everyone else, had heard “In Too Deep” before. If you asked me after their set if I expected that, I would say no. I had expected their pop-punk to lean more pop, but that was based on a very limited sample set. Singer Deryck Whibley walked out on stage with very 90s spiked hair and proceeded to easily control the crowd. He referred to the audience members as a “family” (usually with “bullshit” or “fucking” sprinkled in for good measure) and talked to us regularly. Every time he thanked us for coming out, he did so two or three times in succession. During the band’s cover of another song everyone knows, “We Will Rock You,” he stopped the song completely to make sure everyone poured their energy into a huge crescendo. Whibley made sure to leave his two guitarists time for solos, and actually introduced all of his bandmates by name, which most other acts did not do. As the only band with effects beyond lights and fog machines--huge pillars of smoke would occasionally erupt from the stage with a roar--Sum 41 drew eyes in. As of the publication of this article, their newest album has probably just come out, and if and when they tour it, I want tickets.

Now, we get into the part of the article where I’m biased in my reviews. I love Thrice and count them among my favorite bands, so far be it from me to say that they didn’t have a good set. They did. One thing that I noticed was that the crowd dwindled after Sum 41, and when Thrice came on, a lot of people stayed in their seats. When Thrice played “Artist in the Ambulance,” a song that is easy to mosh and scream along to, the audience was largely sedate. Thrice’s music overall is chiller than, say, The Used, but it seemed that the crowd wasn’t feeling even the heavier songs. For artists whose songs I know, I am not a good enough judge to determine if it was the artists’ stage presence that drew the audience out or if it was just that there were fewer people around to watch. The clump of people around me who were standing and screaming (myself, two girls behind me, and a guy in front of me) were into it. Thrice played a range of music from their early-2000s albums to their newest EP, dropped in April of this year, from calmer songs like “Only Us” to a headbanging rendition of “The Earth Will Shake”. They stood as a calm act between two high-power, big-name groups, and while the crowd was out getting more beer or merchandise, they missed out on a stellar set.

Even before the final set started, The Used put their own spin on it. They dropped a screen over the stage and projected an animated film with classical piano in the background and the audience watched as the blades of grass wavering in non-existent wind turned into the band's heart logo and the screen dropped in one quick motion. The Used probably gave the single strangest performance I've seen at a concert. The band didn't actually finish their second song, "The Bird and the Worm" because frontman Bert McCracken stopped the audience to tell them that he was really feeling the energy and was about to amp his own act up. At various points, he recited Shakespeare, embellished the soliloquies by opening a circle pit, hoisted a child out of the audience, and pretended to gag over his own band's cover of Oasis's "Wonderwall". The giant dangling beating heart over the stage added to the ambiance. The Used exclusively played songs from their first three albums (and "Wonderwall"), despite almost twenty years worth of songs to pick from, but every song was full of energy. The crowd was at its peak, singing along and presumably moshing (I couldn't see over all the people on their feet in front of me). It was hard to stop watching long enough to take pictures. For a short set, relative to many of the headlining bands I’ve seen who usually get an hour or more, plus encore, The Used packed a lot of work into their songs, and it was definitely a captivating performance. If you offered me a ticket to see them again tomorrow, I’d fight my way into the pit.

As someone who hasn’t been to many festivals, and, well, didn’t actually get to absorb the whole thing beginning to end as I should have, Disrupt was probably the best concert I’ve been to in years, if only because it was eleven concerts in one. I’ve found a few bands that I need to put into my regular rotation and had experiences I wouldn’t give up for love, money, or the ability to get rid of the painful heat rash that reminds me of the festival constantly, as if I wouldn’t be daydreaming about it anyway.

Ari Jindracek has been listening to The Used on an infinite loop for five days and counting. You can catch Ari on Twitter for more concert pix.

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#disrupt #disrupt festival #rockstar energy #the used #bert mccracken #hyro the hero #juliet simms #trophy eyes #memphis may fire #andy black #sleeping with sirens #atreyu #circa survive #Sum 41 #thrice #ari jindracek #live review

[goddessofthedawn]

is it really a holiday if i don’t wear my west memphis three shirt and then start yelling about injustice

#just ramblings of aurora

[searchingwardrobes]

Headphones: Part Two

Here it is! Part two of Headphones. This is way longer than part one at 3,000 + words! I have to first and foremost thank @bethacaciakay  , who originally suggested that I write Emma and Killian attending their high school reunion.

The amazing art work above was done for me by my CS secret valentine, @theblacksiren  and was a huge inspiration for this story. Check her stuff out here: http://theblacksiren.tumblr.com/tagged/myart

Also thanks to  @sarcasticknowitall for asking me to tag you when I posted this. You lit a fire under me to finish i

You can also read it here on Ao3 https://archiveofourown.org/works/13707867/chapters/32177808

Tagging: @capswantrue @ellierdbeere @julesep3026 @galadriel26 @captainswanandclintasha @hxxkxd @monalight @avengingangel148  @shady-swan-jones       @piratesbooty63fan  @allonsycaptain @juneqparis  sorry if I missed anyone!

              Emma Swan could never pinpoint the exact moment that she decided to escape inside herself. It was just something that happened slowly, one betrayal and disappointment at a time. She could, however, pinpoint the exact moment she stopped merely escaping. The moment she swapped headphones with Killian Jones.

              Which, in the end, led her directly here. Sitting on a hotel bed, talking to her one year old daughter via FaceTime. Emma laughs as Hope blows her kisses, her little freckled nose scrunched up. Suddenly, Liam Jones’s face fills the screen instead.

              “I taught her that,” he brags, only to have the phone yanked out of his hand.

              Ingrid’s face now fills the screen, “You know these Jones boys, always exaggerating. Elsa and I have spent the entire afternoon preparing her to blow kisses.”

              “Hey!” Emma can hear her brother-in-law protest off-screen, and Ingrid laughs.

              “Is that my little lass?” Killian asks from the doorway. He’s still wet from his shower, a towel wrapped around his waist.

              Emma nods and dashes over so he can see the screen. “She learned something new.”

              “Dada!” Hope squeals when she sees her father’s face. Then she blows an even more theatrical kiss than before. She’s a daddy’s girl through and through, no doubt about it. Killian pretends to catch the kiss, then sends her one back. They both say goodbye half a dozen times before their little girl is satisfied, and then Emma plops down on the edge of the bed to say goodbye to her foster mother.

              “Does it really take three adults to take care of one baby?” Emma asks her.

              Ingrid shrugs, “What can I say? She has us bewitched. And besides –“ Ingrid glances behind her and lowers her voice before continuing, “I think Liam and Elsa are practicing, if you know what I mean.”

              Emma nods conspiratorially and then ends the call. She tosses her cell phone aside and leans back on both arms to give her husband a good and thorough once-over. He’s still standing in the doorway to the bathroom, rubbing a hand through his wet hair.

              “Are you sure we really want to go to this thing?” he asks her.

              Emma tilts her head and bites her lower lip as she takes in his dark hair as it drips water onto his broad shoulders. Water droplets glisten against his dark chest hair, and she feels a heat travel down her spine as she watches one slowly make a trail down his abs to the edge of the towel that is hanging invitingly low. Her tongue darts out to wet her lips as she smiles wickedly.

              “Oh yes, we are definitely going.”

                              *****************************************************

              A decade ago, this was a trip Emma and Killian probably would have said they would never make. After graduation, Minnesota was merely the view from the rearview mirror of their busted-up car. Liam and Ingrid had both wanted them to try for college. And since they were both orphans, scholarships and grants would have been within their reach. Except for their grades, that is. And institutionalized learning was something they had both spent years suffering through. The last thing they wanted was to suffer through four more years of it.

              So they packed up their lemon of a car and hit the road with the little money they had saved from their after school jobs. Liam and Ingrid would always be there for them, but they both made it clear they weren’t supporting Emma and Killian’s bohemian lifestyle. They were okay with that.

              Music was still their passion, so they went in search of it. They tried LA, only to be disappointed. Someone out west told them that the southeast was the place to go these days, so they made their way slowly across the country, settling down here and there only long enough to make enough money to hit the road again. Atlanta was interesting, but the hip hop and R&B scene wasn’t their thing, so they headed to Memphis. It just seemed less obvious than Nashville, and more retro. They may have lived off beans and toast, but Memphis was where they found their sound.

              But they couldn’t make a living in Memphis. For that, they had to swallow their pride and go to Nashville. In that city, luck was finally in their favor. Two things aligned: a thick playbook of songs they had written together from LA to Atlanta to Memphis. And a chance encounter with Elsa Arrendale of Fjord Records. The rest, as the cliché goes, is history.

              Now Minnesota is the view on all three sides as they drive the familiar roads to the place they called home back in high school. And instead of a lemon, they drive a luxury SUV. It fits in nicely with the rest of the cars parked in the lot of the country club. Killian whistles as he unbuckles his seat belt.

              “Well, this is a place I never once laid eyes on when I was a teenager.”

              Emma chuckles in agreement, then pauses as she reaches for the passenger side door. “Are we sure we want to go to this thing?”

              Killian’s gaze travels over her stunning blonde hair that falls in soft waves down her back and then down to the figure she cuts in her tight, little red dress.

              “Oh, yes,” he tells her huskily, tongue darting out to wet his lips, “we are definitely sure.”

                             *************************************************

              There’s a bubbly woman with a clipboard checking people in and getting them their name tags. Emma may not have been popular back in the day, but even she recognizes the former captain of the cheerleading squad and senior class president. The girl – Marie, Emma remembers - hasn’t changed a bit, her cheeks still cherubic and pink as she smiles; her dark hair still glistening as the light hits it. But Emma can also tell from the wrinkle in her brow that she can’t place Emma and Killian at all.

              “I’m sorry, I’m afraid I don’t remember you . . .” Marie trails off, looking embarrassed.

              “Emma Swan and Killian Jones,” Emma tells her. She inches closer to her husband and slips her arm around his waist. “Though it’s Emma Jones now.”

              Marie’s mouth falls open and a gasp escapes, “Oh my goodness! You two have changed so much, I didn’t recognize you. You were so cute in high school, and you got married?”

              “You didn’t get the pictures that I sent?” Emma innocently asks. Marie wasn’t a bully in high school, simply too busy with her perfect social life to pay kids like Emma and Killian any mind, so Emma has no ill will towards her.

              Marie instantly blushes. “You know,” she chuckles nervously, “I forgot about that. I didn’t think you’d . . . “

              She trails off awkwardly, and it occurs to Emma what the woman had assumed. That she had sent fake pictures, planning on not showing up. She glances at Killian and sees that he’s had the same thought.

              “So,” Killian says, clearing his throat, “do we need name tags or anything?”

              Marie waves her hand in the air. “No, we thought it would be more fun without name tags. Get everyone to mingle, you know? But there will be a seating chart at dinner. For now, just get a drink at the bar, mingle . . . “

              She trails off again as another couple walks through the door, waving in recognition. Killian waggles his eyebrows at Emma.

              “I don’t know about you, love, but I already need a drink.”

              “Sounds great. Get us both some rum; I’m just going to the ladies room for a bit.”

              He nods and she brushes a kiss across his cheek before heading for the restrooms. Before she leaves her stall, her phone dings. She fishes it out of her purse and grins when she sees that it’s a picture from Elsa. Hope is in her high chair, stripped down to her diaper and covered head to toe in spaghetti noodles and tomato sauce.

              Emma chuckles then texts a reply: You served a one year old spaghetti? Amateurs ;)  

              She’s just hit send when she hears hear name on the other side of the bathroom stall.

              “Have you seen Emma Swan yet?”

              Emma feels like she’s fifteen again as she inches closer to the slit beside the door. Through it, she can just make out a red head with a small baby bump using the sink next to another woman with a short, dark mom haircut. Only when the dark haired mother turns her head does Emma recognize her. She’s cut her hair and gained about twenty pounds, but there’s no mistaking those piercing, critical eyes. It’s Regina, the queen bee who used to terrorize her the most back in high school.

              “Yes,” Regina says with a roll of her eyes, “just as scrawny as she was the day we graduated.”

              The red head laughs, “She was, wasn’t she? And so was her boyfriend . . . what was his name? The nerd who wore all those obscure band t-shirts?”

              Regina waves a hand dismissively as she leans against the sink. “Who cares? He’s probably playing video games in a dark basement somewhere.”

              “Well, Emma’s taste in men has definitely improved. Did you see her date?” The brunette fans herself dramatically. “Gorgeous doesn’t even begin to cover it. And definitely not scrawny. He had his shirt unbuttoned to here,” the woman gestures to a spot mid-chest, “and let me just say it hinted at enough to make me want to yank the whole thing off. Chest hair and muscles like you wouldn’t believe.”

              Regina leans forward and dabs at her lipstick. “I saw him, believe me.”

              Emma smirks behind the stall door at the appreciative hum in Regina’s voice.

              “Did you see his eyes?” the other woman continues to gush.

              “Please, Zelena, you’re waddling around with a wedding ring on your finger to boot.”

              “What are you trying to say?”

              Regina smirks at her friend. “I’m saying that he may have arrived with Emma Swan, but he’s leaving with Regina Mills.”

              “You’re wicked,” Emma rolls her eyes at the way Zelena says it in a gleeful voice, “what if she’s married to that man candy?”

              “Doubtful,” Regina scoffs, “he’s probably just an acquaintance she coerced into coming with her.”

              Emma decides this is the moment for her dramatic entrance. “Actually, Zelena’s right,” she says as the stall door swings outward, “he’s my husband.”

              She waves her left hand so they can see the ring, then elbows past Regina to get to the sink.

              “Emma Swan,” Zelena stutters, actually seeming embarrassed, “it’s been . . . a long time.”

              Emma smiles with exaggerated sweetness at Zelena’s reflection as she turns off the tap and reaches for a paper towel. “Actually, it’s Emma Jones now. As in Killian Jones? Maybe you didn’t recognize him without the . . . how did you put it? The obscure band t-shirts?”

              Emma casually tosses the paper towel in the trash can, inwardly laughing as both women’s jaws almost hit the floor. She keeps a serene expression for their benefit, however, as she walks out the door. As she approaches the bar, Emma smiles with pleasure at the sight of her handsome husband.

              Her handsome husband who is currently leaning away from a tall woman with salt and pepper hair who has sidled up next to him at the bar. The sight only makes Emma’s smile broaden.

              “Killian,” she says with a sigh, wrapping her arms around him from behind and brushing a kiss against the shell of his ear, “sorry it took me so long. That ladies room is packed.”

              The woman’s face suddenly falls at the name, her gaze darting between the two of them. “Killian Jones and Emma Swan?”

              Emma nods and once again lifts her left hand. The diamond in her engagement ring catches the light perfectly, and the woman blinks rapidly.

              “Emma Jones, now though.” God, she’s never loved saying that more than she has tonight!

              “Well, um . . .” the woman grasps for words as she takes a step backwards. She mumbles a congratulations and hurries off.

              Killian turns on his stool to face her, and Emma’s arms loop around his neck. “Thanks, love. I think she wanted to devour me.”

              Emma laughs then gives him a thorough kiss, the kind that she normally would consider too intimate for public displays of affection. But clearly every woman in this place is checking out her husband, and it gives her tremendous satisfaction to show off that he’s taken. That he’s hers. It isn’t that she’s jealous, quite the contrary, actually. It fills her with smug pride that all these women are finally noticing what Emma saw all along. The fact that Regina Mills walks out of the ladies room just in time to see them lock lips is only icing on the cake.

              “Not that I’m complaining,” Killian says when she pulls away, his breath ragged, “but what was that for?”

              “Hmm. . . “ Emma replies, sitting right on his lap with her arms still clasping him about the neck, “I believe I call it revenge.”

                            ********************************************************

              By the time dinner rolls around, they have both had enough of the shocked, “wow, you two have really changed!” routine. The food ends up being a disappointment, especially considering they paid $80 a person to come. Killian whispers that at least there’s an open bar. That has to be the only reason for the exorbitant ticket price. It may be a country club, but this is still just a Minnesota suburb.

              After dinner, a slide show plays. It shows each graduate’s yearbook picture, followed by current photographs. Time has been kind to some, others not so much. Emma and Killian’s yearbook photos are shown together, the only ones in the slide show formatted that way. Emma knows it’s because of the photos she submitted: one of the two of them on their wedding day, one of both of them with Hope on her first birthday, and one of Killian with Hope asleep on his chest. It doesn’t escape Emma’s notice how many “aws” their pictures get from the women in the audience.

              But for Emma, those photographs make a lump rise up in her throat. Her hand goes instinctively to Killian’s. He squeezes it and turns to her with an understanding smile on his face.

                            *********************************************************

              An hour later, Killian grins as Emma sighs and slumps against him, resting her head on his shoulder. He wraps his arm around her and brushes a kiss to the top of her head.

              “I miss our baby girl,” she tells him.

              “Aye, Swan, so do I.”

              Emma tilts her head up to look at him, an adorable pout on her face. “Can’t we just drive back to Nashville tonight?”

              Killian holds her just a bit tighter and waggles his eyebrows at her. “But darling, I was looking forward to enjoying one more night in that hotel room.”

              Emma’s face scrunches up adorably at his flirting, then she yanks his lips down to hers for a quick kiss. This isn’t her showing him off; this is the two of them in their happy bubble. Killian drifts his lips across her cheek, nuzzling her hair with his nose. He surreptitiously swipes his tongue across the shell of her ear.

              “So many things we can indulge in without a baby in the next room,” he whispers huskily. He can feel her shiver, and there are goosebumps along her arm when he runs his hand down to tangle his fingers with hers.

              “I’m the luckiest woman alive,” she whispers against his collarbone, her voice completely sincere.

              Killian pulls back so he can really gaze into her eyes. He fiddles with a lock of her hair. “Funny, I was thinking that I was the luckiest man alive. When you walked away from me at the bar, you should have heard what the former star football players were saying about you.”

              “Oh really,” Emma says teasingly, lifting both his hands to press his palms to hers. “And what did they say?” she asks as she laces their fingers together.

              Killian shifts closer so their noses are brushing, “Nothing suitable for repeating.”

              Emma’s eyes narrows as she studies his expression. “Killian Jones, what did you say to them?”

              He shrugs, grinning mischievously. “Well, first I asked them to stop objectifying my wife. Then I told them if they hadn’t been blind Neanderthals back in high school maybe they could have been as lucky as I. Funny. They didn’t recognize you.”

              Emma smiles tenderly as she reaches up and traces his jaw with her finger tips. “Know what else is funny?’

              “What?”

              “I thought we needed to come tonight for, I don’t know, vindication or something.”

              Killian nods. “The whole success is the best revenge thing?”

              “Yeah,” Emma exhales, looking over his shoulder at the drunken crowd now clogging the dance floor. One man is attempting to pull his inebriated wife away from the microphone. Killian follows her gaze.

              “Did you notice we’re the only ones here besides them?”

              Emma cocks her head. “What do you mean?”

              “Look at them, Emma. Think back to the slide show. Everyone here but us were popular when we were in high school.”

              Emma nods, chewing on her bottom lip in that adorable way that has always driven him crazy, even in high school. “That’s exactly what I mean, Killian. We didn’t need to come here at all. I realized when that slide show played that you and Hope are my present and my future. Nothing else matters, especially not the past.”

              Killian reaches up to thread both hands in Emma’s hair. “As painful as adolescence was for me, I always have one beautiful memory. And that’s you.” He presses his forehead to hers. “Always you.”

              Emma gets up and tugs on his hand. “Then let’s get out of here, shall we, Mr. Jones?”

              “Your wish is my command, Mrs. Jones,” Killian replies as he stands with a mock bow, which makes his wife giggle.

              She turns to leave, her hand still in his, but Killian stops her. “Wait, love, don’t forget our prize.”

              Emma rolls her eyes as Killian picks up the tiny trophy off their table and waves it at her. It’s a joke, really, with a tiny figure of a teenager with his fist in the air like Judd Nelson at the end of The Breakfast Club. Emma yanks Killian’s hand closer to her so she can see the inscription on the trophy.

              “High School Sweethearts” it reads. And as cheesy as it is, when they get home, Killian insists on keeping it on their nightstand.

#cs ff #cs ff rec #modern au #high school reunion #outcasts #married fluff

[fakeboitherottengirl]

even though they are free i want a “free the West Memphis Three″ shirt

[nations-imagined]

America

The bar was crappy, and the rooms upstairs were worse. Yet, it was all you could afford on your cheap budget, and it was worse with the war raging on in Europe. The beer in your hand was so bad that you spit it out as soon as it touched your lips. “Water, please,” you said to the bartender. 

“That bad, huh?” the guy beside you said. You glanced over to the blonde boy who probably wasn’t even old enough to be sitting in the bar. He lifted his own glass filled with water. “Join the club.” 

“Aren’t you a little too young to be in here?” you asked with suspicious eyes as the bartender sat down your water. “You cannot be a day over 17.” 

He smiled, and one thing was certain, his smile could make angels sing and women automatically fall in love with him. “I’m 19, actually.” You noticed a tiny dimple. “Bu you were close enough.” 

“Okay, so what’s a big 19 year old man doing here?” The taste of beer was still on our tongue. “What’s the point if you can’t even drink?” 

He nodded his head back at a group of rather drunk guys in the corner. They were singing a song. “Because of them, and because there are pretty girls like you in crummy places like this.” You laughed. “I’m Alfred.” he held out his hand. 

“(Y/n).” You took his hand. “Nice to meet you, Alfred. Where are you from.” 

His smile somehow grew in size. “I grew up in DC, but, recently, I’ve been living in Kentucky.” He took another sip of water. “What about you?” 

“Ah, everywhere. I just got off a train from Memphis yesterday.” You shyly look at the ground. “Before that, it was Birmingham, and before that, New Orleans.” You look up to see him intently listening. “I’m thinking Cincinnati next, or wherever I get stuck.” 

Alfred tilted his head. “Why have you moved around so much?” His look expressed concern. 

It was a personal piece of information, but he was nice and easy to trust. “Oh, well, my fiancé signed up to join the army. I didn’t support the war. He went to Europe, and I stayed here. I guess we broke it off somewhere along the line.” It was hard for tears not to well up in your eyes. “There was no reason for me to stay, so I hopped on the first train out of there.” You wiped at your eyes. “Last time I talked to my folks, they told me that he married some girl that he met in Italy.”

He gently touched your shoulder. Alfred and everyone else in the bar could tell that you were upset. “I’m very sorry to hear that. Guess you don’t care much for soldiers, do you?” 

“I don’t care for anything to do with the war effort.” You traced your finger around the rim of your water glass. “I don’t see why we throw bodies at people to try and stop them, or why someone would want to be that body. I think whoever signs up is just being bull-headed. Hitler can just suck it. You get me, right?” 

Alfred’s smile faltered a little. “I can see where you’re coming from.” His sparkly blue eyes stared off into space. “I signed up for the draft, but I signed up to be in the air force before they could stick me in the army.” He glanced over to you. “So, I guess I’m bull-headed.” 

His words sunk in. “I’m sorry for saying that. I would’ve never have guessed that you were a soldier.” You hung your head. “I’m just really bitter about it all.” 

He laughed, and you knew that no harm had been done. “Any sane person would be,” he said as he leaned closer to you. 

You caught a whiff of his cologne, and he smelled really good. You felt bad for being attracted to a kid who wasn’t even 20 yet, but you weren’t much older. That made it better in your mind. “I think that we may be the only sober patrons in this bar.” You let the hem of your skirt go up your leg a little, and then you crossed your legs. 

Alfred looked around and laughed. “You may be right about that one.” There were crow’s feet beside of his eyes. “Hey, where are you staying?” 

“I’m actually renting a room just upstairs. That’s why I haven’t found a bar with better beer yet.” You had forgotten all about your drinks at this point. “Want to join me upstairs?”

He looked back at his buddies, and then he looked at you. They way you sat and the small, inviting smile drove him crazy in the best way possible. “Yes, of course.” You had never seen someone stand up as fast as he did, or someone as excited. 

“Alright, follow me.” You stood and proceeded to lead him upstairs. He almost fell down the stairs a few times as he jogged up the stairs behind you. 

Your room was the second one out of the three rooms upstairs. It felt like it took forever for you to unlock the door. “You can put your coat on that chair right there,” you told Alfred as you shut the door behind the two of you. 

When you turned around, you were met with soft lips. You felt guilty for falling into the kiss, but it was too good and he was too hot. Alfred wrapped his strong arms around you as the kiss came to an end. 

“Wow,” you breathed, “you’re really good at that.” He grinned before kissing you again. 

His kisses were sweet and gentle at first, but they soon became needy and passionate. Around that time, you’re pushing his coat off and clumsily unbuttoning his shirt as he is working on the buttons of your shirt. 

You run your hands over his chest when his shirt was discarded on the ground. He’s built with muscles that one could only get in training. You move your hands so that they tangle in his golden locks. 

Alfred threw you onto the bed. He hovered over top of you before ripping your skirt off. “I’m sorry,” he mumbled. 

“It’s fine.” You barely had any time to speak before he slid your underwear off, leaving only your bra on. “You’re forgetting something.” You reached behind and unclasped it. “That’s better.” He sat there, his mouth agape at the sight of a naked woman in front of him. “What, never seen a naked woman before?” 

Alfred shook his head. “No, this is a first.” He then started to undo his belt. 

“Wait.” Alfred stopped what he was doing. “You’re a virgin?” He nodded. “Are you sure that you want to do this?” 

“(Y/n), I have never been more sure of anything in my life.” 

You looked at him, with his tan skin. He was hot, and it was really hard to resist. “Okay. Continue.” 

He smiled and pulled his pants off, leaving him in only his underwear, which left very little to the imagination. The bulge in his pants made you squirm in anticipation while he kissed down your neck to your chest. You then pulled his underwear down for him. 

Alfred positioned himself. “You sure?” You nodded and gripped his arm as he sunk into you. He released a moan and a small, “Goddamn.” His strokes were slow. 

You moaned a bit at his length. “You can speed up, you aren’t going to break me.” 

He looked at you before picking up the pace. Alfred planted a sloppy kiss on your lips. You moaned into it and raised you legs a little while arching your back. He stopped for a minute to pull out, grab your legs, and throw them over your shoulders. 

Then he was back at it. You let out a small squeal. His grunts and your low moans filled the room. You threw your hands over your head. Alfred took this as an opportunity to take your boobs in his hands. He gave them a playful squeeze before rolling the nipple in his fingers. 

His thrusts were becoming more sporadic, and your moans were becoming louder. “Fuck. Fuckfuckfuckfuck,” he whispered. You grabbed his sides and dragged your nails across his torso. 

One thrust hit your g-spot, and then he kept hitting it. A knot had been growing in your stomach before that, and then you released. The feeling of you clenching around him caused him to continue for no more than three seconds before pulling out and coming all over your stomach. 

His hair was plastered to his forehead, and his chest heaved. You didn’t look any better. Alfred fell on the bed beside you and smiled. “That was awesome!” He threw his arms in the air in victory. Alfred rolled over so that he faced you.

“It was pretty great,” you agreed. 

His eyes trailed down your body. “Let me get something to clean you up with.” He stood and looked around before grabbing a dirty towel off of the ground and wiping your stomach. He threw the towel to the side afterward and laid back down. 

You threw the cover over the both of you. “So, how long are you going to be here?” you asked. “Because I could definitely do that again.” 

Alfred traced his fingers on your bare skin. “About that.” His eyes were sad. “I’m being deployed to Pearl Harbor tomorrow.” He looked over you and at the clock. “In fact, I need to leave soon.” 

Realization struck you as he pulled you close to him. He kissed the top of your head before getting of bed and getting dressed. As he put his coat on, he turned around. “If you ever find yourself in DC after the war, look me up.” With that, he let himself out. 

You looked at the clock a few minutes after you left. It was only a little past midnight. You stood up, threw on your clothes that you were wearing earlier, and rushed down to the bar area. 

“Can I make a call?” you asked the bartender. He didn’t pay attention to your disheveled appearance. He nodded and lifted the bar so you could step back there. 

Quickly, you dialed the operator and asked for the train station. “Yes, hello,” you said, “I would like to know when the next train west leaves.” 

#female #nsfw? #aph america #aka my boi #I'm sorry that there's so much dialouge #I also apologize for the bad quality #it was never supposed to be this

[casebeautee]

[ezatluba]

Dog collars hang above a tub filled with raw beef and rice as kennel owner and trainer John Farmer prepares to feed some 60 dogs. In total, they eat about 90 pounds of beef mixed with commercial dry dog food, water, electrolytes, rice or macaroni, multivitamins, and supplements to combat anemia.

The era of greyhound racing in the U.S. is coming to an end

Concerns about the dogs’ welfare and declining betting revenue have led tracks across the country to close in recent decades.

Eight greyhounds thunder around the sandy oval at Derby Lane in St. Petersburg, Fla., the oldest continuously operating dog track in the U.S. Florida voters chose to effectively ban dog racing in the state by the end of 2020, which will wipe out nearly the entire American greyhound racing industry.

BY CRAIG PITTMAN

OCTOBER 1, 2020

It’s 8:30 on a Saturday night in August. A gibbous moon hangs low in the Florida sky, its pale glow no competition for the red neon proclaiming, “GREYHOUND RACING” and “DERBY LANE.” About 300 people are scattered around grandstands that once held thousands, murmuring among themselves while the loudspeaker plays big band and rockabilly tunes.

They fall silent when it’s time for Frederick Davis to lead the parade of dogs.

“TNT Sherlock,” says the announcer, calling the names of the eight sleek animals as Davis makes them pause in front of the stands. Each dog wears a big number attached to a snugly fitted vest known as a “blanket.” “Tailspin,” the announcer calls, “…Charlotte York….”

Next, Davis, 41, and the eight handlers he supervises will put the dogs in the starter’s box. The mechanical rabbit named “Hare-son Hare” will zoom past, squeaking and shooting blue sparks. The doors will fly open, and the greyhounds will burst onto the track, their bodies a blur, their paws tossing sand in the air as they gallop around the oval for 30 seconds. They hit speeds of up to 45 miles per hour, making them second only to the cheetah, the fastest land animal on Earth.

In its glory days of the 1950s, Derby Lane attracted thousands of avid racing fans, such as Joe DiMaggio, who left Marilyn Monroe sitting in the car while he ran inside to place his bets. Now only a few hundred show up for the races, a sign of how its fan base has dwindled.

Famed sports columnist Ring Lardner called Derby Lane “the Churchill Downs of greyhound racing.” When the dogs run, you can still get a hint of its glory days. This was once a place that seemed full of glamour and excitement. The stands would be packed with men and women in suits and hats. Babe Ruth and Sophie Tucker were frequent visitors. Joe DiMaggio once left Marilyn Monroe in an idling car chatting with the valet while he ran inside to place his bets.

Derby Lane is the oldest continuously operating greyhound racetrack in the United States, but it’s headed on its last stretch. Two years ago, Florida had more greyhound tracks than any other state—11 out of 17 nationwide. Now it’s down to three, with about 1,700 dogs still racing.

In 2018, Florida’s voters had the chance to approve a constitutional amendment—Amendment 13—that would ban betting on greyhounds as of December 31, 2020. The proposal, which effectively bans greyhound racing, was brought by critics of the sport who contend dog racing is cruel and inhumane.

The racing industry bet on beating the amendment, arguing that its supporters were exaggerating stories of dogs’ mistreatment. The industry spent just a fraction of what supporters did on the campaign, believing the sport was popular enough that the majority of Floridians wouldn’t vote to ban it.

Greyhounds stretch their legs at Farmer Racing. Though generally gentle and non-aggressive, greyhounds often wear muzzles around each other because they can get competitive

They misjudged. Nearly 70 percent of voters said yes to the shutdown. Now the tracks must close by New Year’s. Derby Lane’s final race will be December 27.

Davis, a tall, slender man with dreadlocks and a quick smile, will be one of 400 Derby Lane employees out of work. He isn’t sure what he’ll do next. He’s been at the track for 14 years and considers this his ideal job.

“I love dogs,” he says, “and I love being outside.”

He might try to become a security guard, he says. That way he could work with dogs again—guard dogs, though, not greyhounds.

He’s not the only Derby Lane employee wondering about the future.

Decline of dog racing in the U.S.

Since the peak of dog racing in 1985, state laws have led to the closure of racetracks across the country. After Florida’s tracks close at the end of 2020, and Iowa and Arkansas’ by the end of 2022, only two active commercial racetracks will remain­—both in West Virginia.

“It’s a shame to have to shut down after 95 years,” says Derby Lane CEO Richard Winning, 64, whose office overlooks the track. His family has owned Derby Lane since it opened in 1925. He predicts that once the Florida tracks close, the ones in other states will follow.

“In 20 years, will anyone even remember what greyhound racing was?” he asks.

This is the one thing on which he agrees with Carey Theil, whose Massachusetts-based greyhound advocacy group, Grey2K USA, spearheaded the drive for Amendment 13: Once Florida’s tracks are gone, so too is the whole industry.

“Florida really was the industry,” Theil says.

Proverbs, royalty, and bribes

Winning is a born storyteller, with a droll manner, a gray beard, and a trio of cigars tucked in the pocket of his teal fishing shirt. He started out at the track 45 years ago collecting 50-cent pieces from the turnstiles, and since then he has worked almost every other job. He remembers when the regulars included rakish gamblers called “The Flicker” and “Champagne Tony,” the track restaurant served a 37-ounce prime rib, and a live band—not recordings—played between races.

Winning says greyhounds are the only breed of dog mentioned in the Bible, which is sort of true. The King James version of Proverbs 30:31 includes them in a list of things which are “comely in going.” (Scholars say the original Hebrew refers to Afghans or Salukis).

The King James translators knew about greyhounds because, back in the early 1600s, England was enthralled by a sport called “coursing,” in which two greyhounds raced to catch a scampering rabbit. Queen Elizabeth I was a fan—hence greyhound racing’s nickname, “the Sport of Queens.”

Dog collars hang above a tub filled with raw beef and rice as kennel owner and trainer John Farmer prepares to feed some 60 dogs. In total, they eat about 90 pounds of beef mixed with commercial dry dog food, water, electrolytes, rice or macaroni, multivitamins, and supplements to combat anemia.

Farmer rubs down his dog Rick Swift Creek with a muscle-soothing liniment. He also checks his dogs for ticks, looks at their nails, and massages their muscles. The dogs spend their days either waiting for the 30 seconds they’re racing or recovering afterward.

In the 18th century, an eccentric English nobleman obsessed with coursing created the modern English greyhound through selective breeding, according to Cynthia A. Branigan’s The Reign of the Greyhound. With lean, aerodynamic bodies, long legs, and shock-absorbing foot pads, greyhounds were built for speed. They have a proportionally bigger heart than other breeds, and more red blood cells and hemoglobin, which carry more oxygen to their limbs. Their sprinting gait (a “double suspension rotary gallop”) and high proportion of fast-twitch muscles power short, quick bursts of speed.

But dog racing as we know it today originated with an American inventor named Owen P. Smith who ironically wanted to be kind to animals. To him, the dying rabbits sounded like a child screaming.

The son of a Memphis undertaker, Smith was a sometime barber who loved to tinker. His brilliant idea: replace the live rabbit with a mechanical one. In 1910, he secured a patent for “the Inanimate Hare Conveyor.”

“Nobody in the history of any sport brought about a change comparable to that worked by the inventor of the device, and yet no inventor in sports history is so little known,” Sports Illustrated commented in 1973.

Smith did more than invent a humane lure. He and two partners designed the first modern greyhound track, which opened in 1919 outside Oakland, California. It failed, as did several others they opened. The tracks flopped because they didn’t allow betting. Gambling, while popular, was illegal.

The first commercially successful track was one Smith and his partners opened in 1921 in a swampy South Florida area known as “Humbuggus,” later to become the city of Hialeah. It was so close to the Everglades that the track owners hired a snake-catcher to intercept stray reptiles. Five thousand people turned out for the first race, watching a dog named Old Rosebud take the $60 purse, according to Going to the Dogs: Greyhound Racing, Animal Activism, and American Popular Culture, by Gwyneth Anne Thayer.

The key to its success: Electric lights. Running races at night meant working people could attend. With Florida’s 1920s land boom in full roar, thousands of new residents sought evening entertainment. The track ran until 1926, when a hurricane demolished it. New owners converted it to horse racing.

Flamenco Dancer, also called Bunny, was one of Farmer’s champion racing dogs. Between 2017 and her retirement in 2020, Bunny earned more than $83,000 in purses, of which Farmer got a percentage. Most racing dogs retire at about five years old, when they start to slow with age.

In 1950, thousands of fans would gather at Derby Lane to watch the races from the grandstands.

Uniformed monkeys ride greyhounds around a track in Culver City, California, in 1932.

Throughout the 1920s and 1930s, a number of tracks had monkey “jockeys.”

R.L. “Tex” Block, an owner and trainer, stands in front of the Derby Club in 1970 with seven of his dogs.

Kitty Wilkerson, the 1969 Festival of States “sungoddess,” stands with L.B.’s Dallas, the winner of the festival’s all-ages championship race.

Owner and trainer Jeanette Eagan ran dogs at Derby Lane from 1925 to 1980. She’s pictured here with Eagan’s Stephen, Eagen’s Maestro, and Rum Dum.

In 1925, on the other side of the state, Derby Lane opened under a cloud. The partners who built it ran out of money and couldn’t pay what they owed for the real estate or the lumber. That’s how T.L Weaver, Winning’s great-grandfather, took possession of the venue. He grew beans in the infield, says track historian Louise Weaver, and between regular races had monkeys in uniform ride the dogs as if they were jockeys, their outfits sewn onto the greyhounds’ blankets so they couldn’t jump off.

Although betting was illegal, tracks in the 1920s “did something sneaky,” Winning said. “They sold shares in the dogs.” The winners would get their money back plus a “dividend.” Losers would fail to recoup their “investment.” Other tracks skipped the subterfuge and ran “on the fix”—they bribed local lawmen.

In 1931, with the Depression bankrupting local governments, Florida legislators floated a bill to legalize wagering on dog and horse races and tax it. Governor Doyle Carlton, a Bible-thumping Baptist, opposed the bill. Thirty years later he contended, “interested parties were buying their way through the legislature” and claimed gamblers offered him $100,000 to sign the bill. He vetoed it instead. State senators overrode his veto, making Florida the first state to legalize betting on horse and dog races.

Once that law passed, racing took off. New greyhound tracks popped up across the state, from Tampa (1932) to Orlando and Jacksonville (1935) to Pensacola (1947) to Key West (1953).

Greyhound racing became part of Florida’s sun-and-fun image. Mickey Mantle filmed a cigarette commercial at Derby Lane. Boxing champs and movie stars hung out at the tracks. The 1959 movie A Hole in the Head shows Frank Sinatra and Keenan Wynn betting on races at Miami’s Flagler Kennel Club.

Susan Butchko, who has been fostering and adopting greyhounds since 1999, pets her newest adopted dog, a retired racing greyhound named Remy. Often described as “45-mile-per-hour couch potatoes,” greyhounds make good pets, owners say.

A newly adopted greyhound explores her new home. She was placed through GST Sun State Greyhound Adoption, which is working to find homes for the hundreds of dogs needing homes once the track closes in December.

At Dippel’s Florida home, retired racing greyhound Roxanne walks through the shallow end of the swimming pool.

‘Dachau for dogs’

Florida tends to be a sunny place full of shady people. The money involved in dog racing attracted plenty of them. Winning recalls seeing Tampa mob boss Santo Trafficante, Jr., laying down bets at Derby Lane. Some mobsters were more than customers. Lucky Luciano and Meyer Lansky had an interest in South Florida dog tracks, according to Scott Deitche, author of seven books on the Mafia.

A state racing commission was supposed to keep out unsavory elements. But in 1950, Senator Estes Kefauver’s Special Committee to Investigate Organized Crime reported that mobsters controlled the commission and made illegal campaign contributions to politicians, including then Governor Fuller Warren.

The mob’s involvement sparked frequent rumors about fixed races where dogs were overfed before the race to slow them down, or their toes cinched up with rubber bands to alter their ability to run, or they were drugged to make them faster or slower.

Dog-doping has continued to be a problem, particularly with the use of cocaine, which can grant a short-term burst of speed. In 2017, state racing officials revoked a trainer’s license because five of his greyhounds running at Derby Lane had tested positive for cocaine. Months later a trainer at a North Florida track was also suspended after a dozen of his dogs tested positive. In the three years since then, state officials say, 10 more trainers have had dogs test positive for cocaine.

The use of performance-enhancing drugs is just one of greyhound racing opponents’ concerns about the industry. Grey2K, which has spent nearly 20 years compiling reports on the welfare of racing greyhounds, says that even standard industry practices amount to mistreatment. When the dogs aren’t racing, for example, they’re often confined to small cages in warehouses. Dogs are forced to race under conditions that can cause serious injuries, too, they say. Grey2K’s website has collected documented cases of greyhounds that have broken their legs and backs, fractured their skulls and spines, and even gotten electrocuted by the lure.

The Florida Greyhound Association, an industry group, did not respond to requests for comment.

The larger concern is what happens to them when they’re not racing.

What makes greyhounds the fastest dog breed also makes them susceptible to injuries on the racetrack.

The low body fat content of about 2 percent and a thin single-layer coat reduces the ability to self-regulate temperature.

At two points during the stride all feet are free from the ground. This allows short bursts at up to 45 miles per hour but offers poor endurance.

A deep chest enables lung power and holds a very large heart that can go from 100 to over 300 beats in one minute, promoting muscle oxygenation.

Long, strong legs with a large proportion of fast-twitch muscle fibers allow sprinting but lead to fatigue fast.

In 1952, the Greyhound Racing Record said only 30 percent of greyhounds bred for racing would become competitors, leaving open the fate of the other 70 percent. Even those that do race only do so until they’re about five years old. Grey2K has compiled all the news stories over the years about greyhounds being destroyed or sold to laboratories for experimentation.

Among their evidence of cruelty: a 2010 case from a track in the Florida Panhandle town of Ebro, where a trainer left 37 dogs to starve to death after the racing season ended. He ended up pleading guilty to more than 30 counts of animal cruelty and being sentenced to five years in prison.

Possibly the worst case happened in 2002. A security guard for the Pensacola track was arrested after authorities found an Alabama junkyard where, over 10 years, he had killed and buried some 3,000 greyhounds. He said he’d been paid $10 each for shooting them when they got too old. A prosecutor called the junkyard “Dachau for dogs.” The guard died before he could be brought to trial on animal cruelty charges.

Graying greyhound fans

The scandals cut down greyhound racing’s popularity as fans were turned off by the repeated reports of mistreatment. Meanwhile, competing gambling operations—first the Seminole and Miccosukee Tribes’ casinos, then the Florida Lottery—began siphoning off the profits, Winning said.

The loyal fans tended to skew older. In 2001, when Steven Soderbergh filmed a scene at Derby Lane of George Clooney and Brad Pitt recruiting someone for their Oceans 11 robbery, their target was Carl Reiner, then 79. He fit in perfectly with the graying greyhound crowd.

Greyhounds in a daily matinee race at Derby Lane chase the mechanical lure around the oval track, a pursuit that’s over in just 30 seconds. Between races, a tractor emerges to smooth the sand down flat again to minimize injuries—a point of contention between the racing industry and critics

Photos of the finish line help Derby Lane judges determine which dogs finished in which place.

Farmer holds award plaques for “America’s Top Sprinter” in 2008 and “America’s Top Distance Dog” in 2015. He keeps his cache of awards and mementoes in an overflowing Tupperware container.

“Young people don’t like to have to handicap” the dogs’ chances, Winning grumbles, referring to the way ardent bettors carefully examine each dog and its record. “They just want to stare at their phones” and not put the time in.

Now the typical race fan is Jim Wickert, 77, a retired golf course owner who shows up at Derby Lane every Wednesday and Saturday sporting his jaunty tan Orvis fedora. A Derby Lane regular since 2003, he enjoys handicapping the dogs’ chances.

“I like trying to figure them out,” he said. “I don’t bet big, but it’s still exciting when you do figure things out and they run the way you think they should.” He said he once won $10,000 on a race.

He’s not sure where he’ll go once the track closes. Nothing else seems as exciting.

When Winning looks back at Florida’s racing heyday, in the 1980s, he remembers Keefer, the dog that won the Distance Classic in 1986. Some 12,779 people turned out that day to watch this superstar run—the largest crowd in track history. Now a Saturday crowd at Derby Lane might number 700 tops, Winning says.

The decline of U.S. dog racing is in part attributed to a drop in gambling. In turn, that has led to a reduction in greyhound breeding.

Year-to-year drop in wagers reflects the decreasing number of tracks open. As gamblers lose their favorite tracks, they tend not to migrate to others.

Over the past 10 years, the money brought in by live greyhound racing has dropped from $117 million to less than $40 million a year, state figures show. At Derby Lane alone, it dropped from about $12 million to $3.2 million in 2019.

The industry tried to adapt, winning legislative approval in 1997 to add poker rooms and simulcasting, which allows bettors at one venue to wager on races at another. Now the poker rooms are packed with younger customers, and the simulcasting has its fans too. Those will go on after dog racing ends, Winning says. But it wasn’t enough to save Florida’s racetracks.

‘45-mile-per-hour couch potatoes’

For a decade, Grey2K tried to persuade Florida legislators to ban greyhound racing, to no avail, Theil says.

Finally, they appealed to the state’s Constitutional Revision Commission, which meets every decade to update the constitution. A Tampa area state senator named Tom Lee—Winning calls him “our idiot legislator”—proposed Amendment 13. The amendment technically bans betting on live dog races, but by extension, it essentially bans the races themselves. Without betting, there is no profit, and the tracks can’t afford to stay open.

Grey2K and its allies, such as the Humane Society of the United States, spent $3 million convincing voters to pass it, Theil says. They spent almost all of it running graphic TV ads showing injured racing dogs.

The Florida Greyhound Association fought back with ads that asserted that Grey2K was exaggerating its stories of injuries and death, as well as warning that the amendment was full of “trickeration” that would somehow lead to bans on hunting and fishing. Its yard signs implied that banning racing would also ban greyhounds.

But the association couldn’t get support beyond its declining fan base. Thayer, author of Going to the Dogs, says the track owners, kennel owners, and dog trainers had been too fractured among their individual interests for too long to present a unified front.

Nearly 70 percent of the voters said yes to the amendment. Winning and others in the industry insisted the voters were confused somehow. A lawsuit to overturn the vote went nowhere.

The impending shutdown makes the future of more than 8,000 dogs associated with the Florida tracks uncertain. Greyhound adoption agencies are trying to find them homes, although not all the agencies are allowed to help. Those that supported the ban are not welcomed by track owners. Only adoption agencies that opposed the amendment can get dogs.

Track veterinarian Donald Beck and trainer Kelsie Gubbels care for BD Wells, who has a minor ligament injury. When he's healed, he’ll go to GST Sun State Adoption to find his forever family.

One of those is Tampa resident Sharon Dippel’s GST Sunstate Greyhound Adoption. She and her husband, Brian, have adopted eight former racing greyhounds themselves. They go through a couple of 44-pound bags of dog food every 10 days or so, she says.

So far, Dippel says, plenty of people have lined up to adopt the soon-to-be-unemployed dogs. She says it helps that the tracks are not all shutting down at once. Some closed shortly after the 2018 vote, while others closed in early 2020 because of the coronavirus.

Who’s adopting them? “Everyone you can think of,” says Linda Lyman of Bay Area Greyhound Adoption in Tampa, another of the organizations working to find homes for Derby Lane’s 776 dogs. “People who had greyhounds in the past or even just heard about them.”

They’re not high-strung animals, says longtime Derby Lane veterinarian Donald Beck. They’re affectionate. In his years of working at Derby Lane, he’s never been bitten—but he has been scratched a few times by excited dogs jumping on him.

As pets, greyhounds still like to run when they get outdoors, even without a mechanical device to chase, Dippel says. But when they get back indoors? “They’re a 45-mile-per-hour couch potato.”

Plenty of people got into the racing business because of their affection for greyhounds. Trainer and kennel owner John Farmer, a Klamath Tribe member from Oregon, fell in love with the breed when he was 11 and his mother let him watch races at Multnomah Greyhound Park. He’s now 55, with so many mementoes of his winning dogs that he carries them in an overflowing Tupperware container.

Once Derby Lane shuts down, he figures he’ll have to relocate to one of the few remaining states that still have greyhound racing: West Virginia, Iowa, or Arkansas—though Iowa and Arkansas’s tracks are expected to close by the end 2022. (Texas’s last track closed in June for financial reasons.)

Grey2K is working to convince those states to join Florida in outlawing the industry, just as it’s going after the other countries where it remains legal: Australia, Ireland, Mexico, New Zealand, the United Kingdom, and Vietnam.

Farmer remains hopeful that he can use his Native American heritage as a way to save racing in Florida. He’s got a plan to convince either the Seminole or the Miccosukee tribes to acquire a track that would operate in conjunction with one of their casinos and thus be exempt from state or federal regulation. That would, he said, “build a tradition.” So far, though, the tribes have expressed no interest.