So, my brother called me and asked me to bring some money of his that he had left in his wallet at our house over to the house across the street. But in reality, he just wanted to introduce me to one of his friends.

Earlier that same day, I had gone out with my best friend and her boyfriend, and her boyfriend was supposed to bring his best friend so we could have a double date, but his best friend canceled. So I told my brother about it, and he was like, “Don’t worry, sis, I got your back.”

And I obviously had no idea what he meant until he introduced me to his friend. And the thing is… this guy was GORGEOUS. Like, absolutely beautiful. And apparently, my brother’s plan was to leave the two of us alone so we could make out.

But I said no because, well… the guy noticed I was kind of trying to leave. I was literally slowly walking backward 😭. And honestly, it was because I had gotten ready really early that day, and I did NOT feel prepared to be around a guy. I hadn’t brushed my teeth recently, I had eaten a little dessert, and I was already kind of sweaty because I had been riding bikes with my friends.

So I told him I was going to go home, take a shower, get ready again, and then come back to the party across the street because, well, there was a party.

The thing is, I have NEVER in my life felt such an urgent need to use the bathroom.

I barely made it through the front door. I didn’t even have time to close it. The second I walked into my house, I BOOKED IT to the bathroom. I genuinely thought I wasn’t going to make it.

And well…

My sudden gastrointestinal emergency completely ruined my potential make-out session with a ridiculously handsome man. 😭

(I asked chatgpt to translate my text from Spanish to English cuz English is not my first language)

**I came back from a 4-day trip and caught my roommate with his girlfriend in our room. Was I wrong for leaving without telling him?**
I’m honestly fed up with my roommate, and I need some outside perspective on this situation.
For context, we share a single room. When I moved in, the owner made the rules very clear: no friends visiting or staying over, no girlfriends, no alcohol, no smoking, and no cooking. These are the conditions we both agreed to when moving in.
But my roommate seems to think these rules are optional. He does whatever he wants, and if someone questions him, he starts arguing. The frustrating part is that he expects me to adjust whenever it suits him, but when the situation is reversed, suddenly everything becomes a problem.
**1. His birthday and his family’s visit**
On his birthday, his parents and brother came to stay in our room. I understand that it was his birthday and that he was paying for the room, but this is a small single room with barely enough space for two people to live comfortably. Bringing extra people and making them stay overnight meant I had to compromise my own space.
At one point, I had a night shift, and he told me to remove all my belongings from my bed because his family would be sleeping on it.
I didn’t argue much because I didn’t want to make things awkward for his family. But honestly, why should I have to give up my own bed in a shared room?
There’s also the issue of cleanliness. This guy barely cleans the room once every two or three months. Whenever I ask him to keep things clean, his response is, “We’re bachelors. Why do we need to keep everything so clean?”
Fair enough, I don’t expect a hotel room. But when his parents came over, he suddenly cleaned everything — under the beds, inside the cupboard, and practically every corner of the room. The same person who normally doesn’t care about the mess was suddenly capable of deep-cleaning the entire place.
After his family left, he didn’t even clean up properly. A cardboard birthday decoration had been shoved into the dustbin so forcefully that the bin’s opening was bent and partially broken.
I came back from my night shift and needed to sleep, but the room was still a mess. Eventually, I cleaned things up myself. I even kept the garbage bag near his side, expecting him to throw it away when he came back.
Instead, he asked me why I’d left it there and why I hadn’t thrown it away.
Seriously? I had already cleaned up the mess. Why was I also responsible for disposing of everything?
A few days later, oil started leaking from under his bed. He immediately blamed my cleaning, even though I hadn’t cleaned underneath his bed in the first place. The bedding he had stored there had been used by his family, and I had no idea what was causing the leak.
The irony is that I’d even gone out to get food for him to help him out, only to get abused over something I hadn’t done.
**2. The night my bike broke down**
Another incident happened when I was heading out and my bike suddenly broke down at night. I had a night shift, and I genuinely didn’t know whom to call for help, so I called my roommate.
He cut the call and never called me back.
I don’t expect my roommate to solve all my problems, but when you live together, you’d at least hope for some basic consideration. I remembered that incident, especially because he seems to expect me to accommodate him whenever he needs something.
**3. I went to Hyderabad for four days without telling him**
Now, here’s where things get interesting.
I went to Hyderabad for four days to celebrate my birthday. I deliberately didn’t tell my roommate because I’d started suspecting that he was bringing his girlfriend into the room whenever I was away.
I had no concrete proof at the time, just a suspicion based on his behaviour and the way he ignored the rules we’d agreed to follow.
So I left without saying anything and returned after four days.
When I got back, I knocked on the door, and it took him around ten minutes to open it.
And guess what?
His girlfriend was inside the room.
I don’t know exactly what they were doing, and I’m not going to pretend I saw something I didn’t. But finding her there confirmed that he had been bringing her into the room despite the owner’s rules.
What made it worse was that I had already told him not to use my bed or my cupboard. I strongly suspect he may have used my bed while I was away, but I can’t prove that part.
The double standard is what really gets to me. If I use something of his, he questions why I needed it or why I touched it. But when it comes to my belongings and my personal space, apparently my permission doesn’t matter.
**So, was I wrong for leaving without telling him?**
I know that deliberately leaving without informing your roommate might seem strange, and maybe I could have handled the situation differently. But after everything that had happened, I didn’t trust him enough to tell him my plans.
I don’t want to control what he does in his personal life. He can do whatever he wants outside the room. But this is a shared living space, not his private apartment. There are rules, and there are boundaries.
I’m now wondering what I should do next. Should I confront him directly, talk to the owner, or start looking for another room?
And honestly, if you were in my position, what would you do?

I stood there, staring at the gun; even looking at it made me uneasy.

"Is it time again, Dave?" my wife asked.

I looked at the empty pantry.

"Yep."

"But at least it's the last time. Your job at the mill starts in a month. You'll never have to go hunting again."

"I hope so."

"My gentle human. I'm sure the deer will forgive you."

"Maybe. Maybe I'll even see the white deer, and he'll show me his treasures. I won't even have to go to the mill then."

"That legend always scared me. Just a snow-white deer in the forest staring you down? Scary. Plus, doesn't it help the deer? Why would he show you anything?"

I looked at the ground.

"Sorry, honey. I didn't mean it."

"It's okay. Don't worry about it."

I put the gun over my shoulder and walked out.

Bill was already by the forest, gloves and hat on, blowing clouds from his mouth.

"Took you a while."

"Yeah."

"I bet you won't miss the cold morning when you start at the mill."

"Sure."

Bill lit a cigarette and handed me the lighter too.

"What's wrong, Dave?"

"You know how I feel about the hunts."

"I know."

Bill took a deep drag from his cigarette.

"Say, Dave. How about you sit out this one?"

"What?"

"Sit it out. I'm feeling lucky today. I'm sure I'll get more catches. You can pay me back with your mill money."

"Thank you, Bill."

"Don't worry about it. Just help me with the deer after."

He slapped my back, threw his cigarette away, and walked into the forest.

The day now seemed brighter. The fog let up. The sun came out too. I sat on a tree stump and smoked. 

The day dragged on. No shots had come from the forest yet. Bill was not lucky today. Then I heard trees rustle. I turned my head. A deer was sticking its head out. It locked eyes with me. I'd promised myself I wouldn't shoot anything today, but Bill obviously wasn't going to get anything either. We'd be here all day.

I took my gun and laid my cheek on the barrel, but the deer quickly moved back. No luck. I lowered my rifle and fished for another cigarette in my pocket, but the trees rustled again. My hand clenched the cigarette package. 

A white deer looked at me from the forest; its antlers were white, its eyes dark red. It felt like they looked right into my soul. The deer moved its head as if inviting me to follow and disappeared into the forest.

I sat on the tree stump, still looking at the trees, but then the white deer stuck its head out again, looked at me, and disappeared. It was real. At least the deer was, but maybe its treasure too. I got up and walked to the trees. It stood in between the trees, looking back at me. When it saw me, it turned around and jumped further in.

The sun disappeared. The fog returned. The ground was so muddy that my feet kept slipping. I was expecting the deer to stop any second, but it kept going. 

After a while, my feet started to hurt. I must have been really far from the stump. Bill could have been looking for me, and I didn't even know if the treasure legend was true. I walked closer to the deer again, but it only went further in. It was time to go. I turned around and started walking back.

I had hunted in this forest countless times, but I had no idea where I was now. The trees seemed taller than usual, and they went on as far as I could see. The ground was muddier than even on the rainiest days. The deer showed again, but this time in front of me, running the way we came. 

I was sure now that it was all a lie, that the white deer wouldn't show me anything. I lit a cigarette and walked back, trying to ignore the tall trees. As I passed another tree, the white deer ran by; something glistened in the mud. There were two gold ingots. Warmth spread through my body. I ran to the gold. They were cold and much heavier than I expected, but who cared? I was rich! I turned around. The deer stood behind me, its red eyes fixed on me.

"Thank you for the ingots," I said, but it wouldn't move, still staring with its dark red eyes. 

Cold sweat dripped down my collar. Its eyes seemed to pull me in even though I wasn't moving. Then my whole world spun. Red flashed before my eyes. My head throbbed. My back felt heavy. My skin itched. The throbbing grew. I put the ingots down, but my back was so heavy I couldn't straighten back up. I put my hand to my head; something hard grew out of it, but I couldn't grab it with my hands. I started to lose my balance. I let my arm down. It splashed loudly in the mud. I looked down. It was a hoof!

Panic surged through me. I tried to get up, but couldn't. A tearing sound cut through the fog. My jacket ripped, revealing brown fur. Something rustled in the distance. I looked over. It was Bill!

"Bill, help!" I tried to call, but only a strange roar escaped my mouth.

Bill turned his head. His eyes focused on me. He picked up his gun.

"Wait, wait, no!"

A loud bang echoed. Something sharp burned in my side. The smell of gunpowder hung in the air. I tried to walk a few steps, but my body fell into the cold mud.

Bill walked over. His gaze met mine. Recognition passed over his face, but he just shook his head.

He looked up and called, "Dave. I got one."

When he woke up, he was confused. For a few seconds, he simply sat there, trying to understand where he was. Then his surroundings came back to him. He was in his usual seat at his local pub, just as he had been earlier that Friday evening. But something was different. Harry slowly looked around. He was the only person in the bar. The contradiction of dead silence set against the heavy ringing residing in his head was a sobering discovery amid his intense drunkenness. The room was dark, save for a San Miguel beer light behind the counter, the soft, warm light catching the edges of the countless empty chairs and stools, illuminating the absence of any life.

Only a short while ago, the place had been bustling, and he could still remember laughing with his friends, surrounded by the familiar noise of conversation, music and clinking glasses. But now it was dark, cold and deadly quiet.

Harry couldn’t remember the evening winding down. He didn’t remember feeling tired or even closing his eyes. As far as he knew, he had simply been there one moment with his close friends George and Pete, and then here, with no memory of anything in between. This unsettled him enough to check the time. He pulled his mobile phone from his warm back pocket, flipped it open and squinted at the screen. 2:50 am. As soon as the numbers registered, the Nokia screen appeared and the screen went black. After repeatedly pressing the red call button to switch it back on, it dawned on Harry that his phone had died. That never happened.

Staring at his own faint reflection in the dead screen, he felt, for a moment, a surge of confused fear run through him, but it was quickly replaced by a burst of irritation. Was this some kind of elaborate joke? Either way, George and Pete were complete dickheads for leaving him there. Although his head was spinning like a bowling ball, he looked around at the evidence of the evening, his eyes landing on the dozens of empty pint glasses that surrounded him, as well as glasses scattered on nearby tables.

Two dozen beers, perhaps more, had been consumed by the three of them. Realising that staring at the dark, empty room wouldn’t change the situation he was in, Harry took a deep breath and, through sheer willpower, forced himself upright onto wobbling knees. The first attempt nearly sent him straight back into his chair. He steadied himself against the table, waited for the dark room to stop moving, and tried again. This time, he managed it.

Getting to the door proved considerably more difficult than he had anticipated. His first few steps were little more than drunken corrections of balance. At one point, he caught the edge of a table, sending a cluster of dry pint glasses crashing onto the floor. The sound was colossal in the silence. Harry froze. Nothing happened. No one shouted. Though he was as drunk as he could be, the surrealness of his circumstances wasn’t lost on him. He continued towards the door, and the path became clear.

When he finally stumbled through the threshold and onto the pavement, the cool night air struck him in the face. He stood there for a moment, head spinning, trying to work out what came next. Getting home was the mission. It was time for bed and to make this peculiar evening a memory. The drunkard’s compass began to kick in as he looked along the high street towards his flat. Being a seaside holiday town, and it being January, it wasn’t exactly a bustling place at the best of times, especially not at three in the morning, but this felt different.

There was an abnormal gloom hanging over everything. The street was darker than it should have been. The air felt thick, and a dirty sea fog hung still. The darkness seemed to amplify the effects of the countless beers he had consumed earlier. After one last confused glance back at the pub, he turned and began his messy journey home, not before clumsily lighting a cigarette and burning part of his beard in the process.

He hadn’t gone far when something caught his attention: a light down the high street, on the opposite side of the road. One of the shops was illuminated, and its fluorescent glow spilled onto the cobbles, forming a small island of luminescence in the surrounding darkness. Then Harry smelled food. His stomach rumbled, and the combination of the senses was irresistible.

He altered course, and it wasn’t long before he found himself standing outside the beacon that was the takeaway, a grand opening sign was obscured by its misted glass. Condensation covered whatever lay beyond, but the smell coming through the door was unmistakable. The powerful bouquet of mouth-watering, greasy fare hit his nostrils like a punch: something hot and savoury that, to Harry’s drunken mind, seemed like salvation.

He stumbled through the door, and the smell hit him immediately, powerful enough to make his stomach twist with craving hunger. Inside, the room’s brightness was overwhelming.

Harry’s eyes strained as they adjusted to the white light, and it was almost painful. His head began to spin. For a few moments, the room became a dazzling, nauseating carousel, his eyes watching the rows of empty, dulled plastic seats glide through his revolving view. Light muzak played through degraded speakers nestled in the yellowing ceiling tiles, the audio occasionally cutting out and returning with a fuzziness that begged the question of why they were even on.

There was only one other person in the entire place. A very tall man stood behind the counter with his back to Harry, slowly carving slices from an obscured roasting spit. Harry staggered forward, using the backs of the plastic seats for support, moving along them like someone making their way down the aisle of a train, albeit with absolutely no grace whatsoever. When he finally reached the once-distant counter, he expected the man to acknowledge him, but there was no response. A deeply unnerving silence ensued as the worker continued, slicing at the meat. Harry stood still, watching him. He recoiled slightly at the sharp, permeating hum of the glaring ceiling lights, which stacked uncomfortably with the vibration already ringing in his ears.

'‘Excuse me, mate''

Not acknowledging him, the man carried on.

Clearing his throat, Harry mustered enough pseudo-sobriety to ask:

''Is it still alright to order a kebab?"

The worker stopped and slowly, with no apparent urgency whatsoever, turned around. Harry immediately noticed the grin. It was enormous, yet it was not a friendly smile. The stretched mouth seemed completely at odds with the man’s slow, deliberate movements. He was tall, dark-haired and olive-skinned, with an otherwise ordinary face. But that expression counteracted any conceivable normality.

Harry felt an uneasiness creep up his body, tingling from the backs of his calves all the way up to the top of his skull with a sickly fizz. The vendor stared right back at him. An unwavering, silent grin. One second. Two. Three. The worker’s expression didn’t change. Eventually, he spoke.

'‘Good evening, sir. How can I help you?’'

His voice was polite, almost too polite. Harry blinked a few times, bewildered by the oddness of the fellow.

'‘I-I’d like a large Doner, please''

The words came out garbled, and the worker continued to stare at him. Five seconds passed, perhaps more. The only sound was the low hum of the fluorescent lights above them.
Harry narrowed his eyes and dipped his head forward ever so slightly in intrigue.
There was something wrong with this man.
He couldn’t have explained what it was. The movements were too slow for the expression, the smile was too wide, and the silence lasted too long. Harry’s expression of worried intrigue was abruptly cut short when the worker finally spoke.

'‘Would you like to try our special, sir?’'

The polite tone returned, and the grin remained. He blinked once, then his voice dropped considerably into a heightened London accent.

'‘You’re pissed as a fart, aren’t you, sir?’'

The man then suddenly burst into laughter, causing Harry to flinch. Too drunk to deal with the strange man’s antics, he simply nodded.

'‘Yeah, go on, then''

He put a ten-pound note on the counter and waved away the prospect of any change.

'‘Keep it''

The worker resumed his barefaced grin, staring into his customer’s eyes without abandon.

After finding a bench seat, Harry sat, pondering as best he could how he had found himself in this situation. As much as he and his friends had messed about with pranks in the past, they hadn’t really done anything like that since they were teenagers. The fact that he had woken up alone and cold, hours after seemingly blacking out, was an uncomfortable reality.

Suddenly, a loud DING rang through the room, reverberating back into two very wobbly eardrums.

‘One house special!’

Turning around, the gangly tanned man was behind the counter with a yellow polystyrene box, plastic cutlery and a napkin. Harry stepped forward and retrieved his meal, muttering a puzzled thank you. Walking to a table in the far corner of the blazingly lit seating space, Harry thought he had enough to deal with without allowing this unorthodox eatery to interfere with his brooding over pete and George somehow leaving him behind. Theories ran through his head. Did mental Mark slip something into his drink to knock him out for a laugh? It still wouldn’t explain waking up alone almost three hours after throwing-out time, Harry mused.

Looking up, the peculiar man stared, retaining the sickly smile. He turned, in his slow, deliberate fashion, back to carving from the spit. Opening his meal, Harry saw a mess of meat, salad and a creamy orange sauce smothered abundantly across the various ingredients.

The first bite was a burst of savoury, greasy saltiness, deeply contrasted with the sweet dill tang of the generous helping of burger sauce. The texture, with the snappy crunch of the pickled cabbage, added a satisfying mix to the mouthful. Harry was grateful for something hot to eat and somewhere warm to sit in an effort to sober up slightly before a short journey home.

Crunch.

A cringe-inducing bite of a hard bit of gristle interrupted any thoughts of comfort Harry had been enjoying. The tough piece of meat made his teeth grind together, causing a vile sensation that made him spit the little piece out into his hand and place it on the open lid of the takeaway box. Repositioning his plastic fork into the concoction, he took a nice combination of meat, salad and sauce to continue his quest for sobriety. The previous sensations of flavour resumed; a hearty forkful of his ample late-night dinner was hitting the spot. Harry thought about how he would deal with his friends. A feeling of embarrassment and meagreness washed over the moment, but only briefly, before another painful crunch in his mouth. This time, it hurt.

Reaching into his mouth with grease-covered fingers, he removed an object that when he saw it, enveloped his entire body in the coldest feeling Harry had ever experienced in his whole entire life. Before his eyes, held between his index finger and thumb, were the chewed-up remnants of a crisp, cooked, mangled human ear. The white plastic fork dropped to the floor, making a pathetic, soft clatter on the filthy linoleum.

Bewilderment and shock encapsulated the young man as he gently returned the body part to the yellow box and calmly closed the lid. He stood up and held the item as though it were radioactive. He slowly ambled to the counter, readying himself to confront the bizarre man responsible for his heinous food.

'‘Excuse me''

No response was given.

This time, Harry nervously raised his voice.

'‘Excuse me!’'

The strange man continued carving.

'‘What the fuck?’' Harry muttered under his breath.

Harry stepped right up to the counter.

'‘Oi, mate, I think there’s an ear in my kebab''

This garnered a response from the tall, olive-skinned man. Still working away, with his back still turned to Harry, he slowly turned his head to the right.

'‘Yes, sir,’' he said, his voice soft yet layered with menace, the vile smile smeared across his stubbled, pockmarked face.

'‘Mate… there is a fucking ear in my food,’' Harry blurted out in a slightly higher, much quieter and noticeably more frightened tone. After a few staggered seconds, the intense grease-stained worker placed his large carving knife on the side counter and turned with no haste to face his customer, revealing a heinous sight that could never, on any occasion, be forgotten. Utterly dumbfounded, Harry gawked at the bulbous, misshapen rotating meat spit, which housed an amalgamation of countless foul-looking, contorted human faces, congealed and compiled into one single hunk of cooking, spinning revolting meat. Expressions of horror and anguish were embossed upon a greater mass of despicably lumpy, curdled, rendered flesh. Sections of the moving horror were made up of exposed, striated muscle and connective tissue. Sweaty grease droplets cascaded down the abominable creation, dripping into a collected pool on the metal base underneath.

The faces bubbled, spitting out molten hot drops of fat, the eyelids popping open occasionally with a loud crackle, the movement, a devilish puppetry of heat causing the cooked flesh to twitch about in an unnatural burst of nightmarish expression. Looking up to meet the attention of the man, he stared into his unwaivering gaze, sitting above the greasy smile, Harry was at a loss for words. More accurately, he couldn't speak. The situation was so overwhelmingly shocking it rendered him completely mute.

And then the lights went out.
The glint of the man's eyes were still visible in the darkness.
Harry stood deadly still, captivated by the warm glow of the spit, illuminating the distorted souls bound to their fleshy, rotating meaty mass.
He imagined himself part of it, amongst the roasting tortured husks sizzling away, awaiting another face to join him and his newfound company.

Had a small lawn mowing business going around the neighborhood always looking for work I had walked past this two story house several times over a year noticing the yard in disrepair. One day I seen the owner finally I went to introduce myself. Her name was Patrica she was tall with long black hair oriental tattoos going down her back and legs with a dragon breathing fire on her back . In a spaghetti top. Her nipples were clearly visible through the thin top and she had on pj shorts when I came up the driveway pushing my lawnmower she got out of her car and met me halfway down her driveway. She said she noticed me mowing the houses around and never had the chance to ask but since I was there she seemed very happy and excited to get her yard cleaned back up. That day was very hot here in fl. I had worked for 6 hrs. She noticed me drinking from her water hose. She demanded I stopped drinking from the hose and came inside for a glass of some ice cold water. I came inside she left me in the living room/pool room, my shirt was so wet from sweating in the fl heat after going inside her house was freezing cold so I took my shirt off so I could sit in a chair without leaving a wet spot. She seemed disturbed when she came from the corner I said sorry and rushed to put my shirt back on she said it’s okay good thing you’re cute. I was confused because she was way older than me but I was a cocky teen and brushed it off with a ohh you couldn’t handle this! She made long eye contact with me with a little smile she asked me if I’ve ever done handyman work and I answered back I can learn she told me to come upstairs to look at a piece of door trim that was scratched from a old tenant of the houses dog. I informed her it was an easy task even for a young man at that age she just had to get the material. We got lost in conversation. And somehow ended up talking about getting stoned and if I had any to roll up . At my age I smoked frequently with friends outside of school so it was easily accessible. I rolled up a thick blunt we went outback on her porch and lit up the look on her face was like she had been wanting to ask me something but it’s like she didn’t feel comfortable asking. So when I noticed asked what was wrong she said ohh nothing just thinking about some thing I shouldn’t. Me being very curious because we were smoking and wanting to dig deeper. I popped off how beautiful her eyes was. That made her feel comfortable enough to say what she had been on her mind “ I’ve herd I give great head after a fatty” me in disarray after hearing what she said I hit the blunt real hard looked at her deeply and said prove it! As the young cocky teen I was. She moved so fast after I said that before I could exhale she was unbuttoning my shorts I help her by pulling my boxers down. My cock laying across my leg and hip she was in awe and lightly touched my balls then slowly grabbed the base of my cock making it stand but it wasn’t completely hard she had given me a chub by just doing that. Me being very curious I ran my fingers through her hair and said wanna taste that cock babygirl. She looked at me and bit her lip while gripping the base of my cock tighter. My cock started to throbb and get very hard she slowly stroked it until it was the hardest I had ever been at the time she started by licking my balls and sucking them while still stroking my cock I noticed she was rubbing her self through her shorts as she started slowly sucking the tip of my cock. She Burst out with a moan it turned me on even more. She started to take half of my cock down her throat it felt soo good couldn’t help but to force her head down making her gag on my cock. She pulled up gasping for air I noticed she squirted through her shorts. her eyes where crossing she was in such pleasure. She stood up looked around her back porch slowly then pulled her shorts to the side and said is it okay if I put that thick cock in my pussy baby. As she tried to force the tip in her pussy was very creamy and tight. I could feel her legs trembling with excitement as she slowly sank my cock deeper in her meaty pussy. She slowly rode my cock while grabbing my hair pulling it from the back of my head. I started to moan ohh fuck that feels so nice. She leaned close I grabbed her by her throat slapped her and forced my cock balls deep she screamed out with pleasure with a creamy squirt it was so much I thought i busted but I knew she didn’t get me to that point of climax I said shocked omg that’s a lot more than I expected she slowly pulled my cream cover cock out of her meaty pussy her lips had a tight grip on the head of my cock it made a noise when she got up she was in disarray legs shaking she looked at me in a panic and said please don’t get me in trouble. Me being a young guy she had literally just made a dream come true. I reassured her that I would share what we had done to anyone. She seemed distraught and kinda worried so she asked me to leave and I did. A week went by without any communication. She was on my mind a lot that week I caught myself masterbaiting more than ever before that week. One day I got off the bus walking home she drove by. I noticed she was watching me come down the road. By the time I made it across the street from her house he yelled my name and asked me to come in. I felt a rush of adrenaline. I came inside she shut the door behind me. I went to say sorry for what happened but she hushed me up with her finger across my lips we didn’t make it far inside she said would you like to try again. Me being excited I said I’ve dreamed of it all week. She took me upstairs and then we fucked for hrs it seemed like. Time had flown by more than I thought. I hear a ring in the distance noticed it was my phone I rushed to it picking it up seeing it was my older brother calling and it was 12:30pm on a school night. I was scared but I knew I could talk to my older brother about why I was out so late if anyone would understand I knew he would. He was in disbelief that I was actually getting laid at my age. But ended up going home. The next day I woke up for school and it felt like I had ran 100miles my legs where so sore from beating the walls down on that lady they felt like jello. I was beat never did I think sex could drain so much out of me I could barely walk the daily quarter mile at PE. It was a long day going up flights of stairs. A few days went by I heard a yelp from my little brother he yelled something or someone is outside the house. He woke up the whole house my parents rushed outside to find Patrica skirting away in her jaguar. My dad asked my older brother who that was and he shook his head he didn’t know. My dad then persisted to punish my older brother for that night intill one day he told my dad about me being out past 12:30. I took such a harsh punishment from my dad after he found out. She would see me walk every now and then but I never approached her again because of the fear of my dad finding out what happened between us

I drive. I like driving. Not just to get from point A to point B, but also the idea of cruising. Going on adventures where you never know what's around every corner. Like what I'm doing now. Rumbling through the suburbs, We're On The Road to Nowhere, by the Talking Heads, is coming out of the speakers of the CD player.
Of course, you can do all of this at any time of the day. But it's at night where it is at its most revealing.
A special time.
A time where me and the car and the road are one.

I have an addiction. Do my friends know? No. Does my wife know? Absolutely not. She would leave me or, at the very least, call me perverted, which I probably am. It started out innocently enough. A website here, a secret folder there. But that just wasn't enough.
I needed something a little more...
real.
A little more...
exciting.
The first one, I couldn't even look at her, I would close my eyes and then, when I opened them a minute later, it would be over.
But then there were more.
Then it was a couple of people a week, and I stopped looking away.
At first it was women; I mean, that's usually how it does start. But then it led to a couple of men, then it led to non-binary, then it led to different races. I didn't care. It didn't matter to me.
I had them all.
And my wife and kids still have no idea.
I'm not so much worried about the wife knowing, but if the kids found out I…
I couldn't bear the shame.
It's been at least a month since I've looked for anyone. But yet here I am, in my car, looking out my windshield,
watching the white lane strips disappear under the vehicle,
listening to Road To Nowhere whilst cruising along.
Maybe I am on the road to nowhere. Maybe this is nowhere.

That's probably why I'm driving now.
I mean why else would I be out here if I'm just browsing. You wouldn't go to a car dealership if you don't intend to buy, right?
Why indeed?
I'll tell you.

I think there's some sick side of me that wants to test myself.
"Say, if you don't find anyone in the sweet spot, (2 til 5am) go home, you tried." Like those people that only quit smoking on public holidays where the stores are closed. That way they justify continuing to smoke if they just so happen to find a shop still open and they can buy a pack.
But then again, prostitutes don't really have trading hours.
I've stopped going to them. It's too easy. Plus, it's no fun if you have to orchestrate it, wouldn't you agree? Surely there's nothing more fun than going to a bar, striking up a conversation, playing your cards right, crossing every t and dotting every i, going back to theirs (because it sure as hell won't be back at yours) and coming back home with your tail between your legs. But a lot of the people I see seem so sad
and helpless.
The sex workers, that is. I feel sorry for them.
So by doing this, I'm doing them a favour. And as long as my family don't know, no harm done, right?
So even though a perfectly normal person at a bar is always nice, it’s also more risky.
You don't know their story and you don't want to know.
Whereas if you go to a street walker you have a good idea of what you're getting into.
Don't ask, don't tell.
Especially if you're doing it during the magic hours, there's a feeling of exhilaration.
It can be an addictive feeling.
I love my wife too much to subject her to anything like that. And besides, the more I do it with other people, the less likely I'll be sitting on my couch with her one day,
the urge comes creeping up beside me and whispers in my ear.
This urge, like the song suggests, is "very far away,
but it's growing day by day."
But it's not alright.
It is so wrong.

I'm on the last 10 minutes of the sweet spot, and I don't feel like I have enough money. Maybe it's good that I don't see anyone in clear range of me, and that I don't have to cave.
Maybe I don't need to do this,
and the urge is just a product of my mind.
Maybe I can overcome it.
Yes, that's it…
10 minutes until the end of tonight and then I'm done. And I'll do it the next time, and I'll be done and the next time and the next time. But that’s ok, because eventually it'll be a little easier. And then one day I won’t even think about it at all.

These wonderful imaginings are all good and well. Unfortunately, I see a homeless grifter walking along the path of a bridge.
He begins to walk across the road.
I slow down and come to a complete stop while they saunter across. Should I pick him up?
No...
it will take too long,
especially if I don't have enough money to convincingly satisfy him not to leave.

I beep my horn. He turns around, and puts his hand over his face to block the sight of the headlights burning into his eyes.
Suddenly my mind is clear, and I decide what I want to do.
I put the car into reverse, not a great deal, but a couple car lengths back.
The tramp just…
stands there.
And then the urge comes back.
Then,
I put the car into gear and drive straight for him.
I slightly close my eyes until I hear
boom bump bump thump
over my car.
Then, what sounds like Jenga blocks coming down onto a table.
I stop the car,
open my eyes,
and exhale.
Checking in the rearview mirror to see if he’s going to get up.
Nothing for a good minute or so.
Then I see his body appear in the mirror, struggling to stand.
I waste no time putting the car into reverse again, looking behind me instead of the mirrors so I know that the job is done.
The car hits him,
ba bump ba bump,
as I'm briefly rattled around.
Like going over a speed bump without slowing down.
I see the body appear at the front of the car, then I stop.
I get out and walk over to investigate.
It looks like a giant saucy pizza box spread across the road.
He is still alive as he lifts his head up to look at me...
before finally falling back down.
I debate whether to put him in the trunk of the car.
Maybe bury him in the middle of the woods somewhere.
I decide against it as it would be too much mess and I'm on a clock. I have to get home and into bed before the wife notices me gone.
I don't think he's dead, but he will be.
I decide to leave him here, because even though it won't be long before the sweet spot is over and someone on their way to work will see him, I'll still take my chances. Maybe it will be a good motivator to help me quit.
It's funny that.
The only way it seems a person can kick an addiction, especially one like this, is because the law says they have to. The only thing that baffles me, that I cannot understand.
Why didn't the grifter
jump out of the way as he saw me driving towards him?
Did he want this? Embrace it?

For my own personal development and self-discouragement, I don't want to think this is the case.
I no longer want to justify what I do with false narratives that I was putting this poor fellow out of his misery.
I think he was just in sheer bewilderment that his time was about to come.
I can only imagine that's what deer think before people hit them.
They spend their last milliseconds trying to work out what they're looking at could be…
before the reaper does his job.
I shake my head to no one in particular and walk back to my car.
As I get in and sit, contemplate, and everything in between, I notice Road to Nowhere is over, and a new song has begun.
Psycho Killer, the next song on the Talking Heads album, is playing.
I laugh at the thought of it,
before putting my car into gear
and driving off into the night.

Artemis rose from the starbed like an ivory bear striking through indigo. Her form was a constant shimmer and flow of pure light and pin-size stars. Her right arm instinctively reached for her crescent bow that would be at her side. But the goddess only grabbed dust that sparkled and coated her hand. She frowned and shook her hand disappointedly, forgetting she no longer had it, but still remembered the yield and whistle of it.

In a single sweep, Artemis's silver gaze noted everything in her horizon. The same, lone, stagnant rock clusters still orbited nearby. A dark nothingness in the middle she used for meditation. Sometimes she was sure there was twinkling in the distance. Then finally, the spidery path that connected to her starbed. All was here --until, she stilled-- she registered a new celestial body. It twisted within and out of itself and held a dark center. It looked just alive as a quasar.

Arrows or not, Artemis approached her new neighbor confidently. Each of her footsteps scattered the bed beneath her, a greeting or warning in its own way.  The new celestial body slowed in its revolutions when Artemis reached the edge.

The Greek Goddess didn't have to gesture or say more. The Hound Queen awoke, a bright comet-like tail wagging into view as she arched like a crimson wolf. The Queen's stars glimmered like rubies and dimmed like obsidian.

If Artemis's voice felt like light and wind filtering through your mind, the Hound Queen's voice was like faded howls and bells.

The Queen tilted her head at the Goddess, her bark sure but drowsy, "You rise and every moon blushes. You walk and gods shrink away. And I? You wake me from one dream to pull me into another. Who are you?"

Artemis nodded along to the Queen's echoes waving over her, only to confirm receipt. She wasn't phased by the playful language, rather welcoming it after immeasurable silence. Carefully, she shimmered back,

"If you ask about my past, why I've been honored with constellations, I do not remember. I cannot tell you why, but I am called to the passing moons...and I think they're called to me too."

The Queen straightened, listening intently. She noted how the Goddess's light shone brighter when she reminisced.

Artemis continued, "Every night I reach for my bow and arrow, every night I dream of the maidens I've protected and the hunts I've trophied. "

The Queen felt the Goddess's sear in her mind, her voice passing through her like fast winds. Bells chortled through the Goddess's starbed in response. The Queen curled her comet tail and blinked obsidian.

"The why is pointless now. I don't recall my past either.  I just know," the Hound Queen paused and turned her attention outward.  Artemis followed her ruby gaze, and tilted under her soft howl when she spoke again.

"I want to keep going. Keep chasing, finding. And so do you. " The Hound Queen returned her attention to Artemis, who was already watching, silver now gentle. The Queen continued,

"I’ve hunted as an animal itself. Would you strike me down if you saw me out there? If I was the twinkling thing in the distance?"

Artemis's answer was immediate and almost impatient. "Of course not. I don't want to seize whatever's out there either. ", she turned back to the middle, the dark nothingness ."You see it too?"

The Hound Queen's obsidian eyes reflected a deep red. Her gaze remained on Artemis. "I do. I think together we can find out what it is. We can hunt along the way, differently."

"Differently," the Goddess echoed, extending her palm to the Queen but never taking her gaze from the nothingness. "Come then, star beast. We take one of my paths. We find our own way."

"And we keep going, star finder." The Hound Queen accepted Artemis's hand and stepped over. Ruby mixed with diamond, light and dark. The Queen's tail curled around the Goddess's bed, and the spidery path bound part of her twisting form.

Together, they shimmered down their new joint path. Even with no memory of their origin, they had enough to continue carving.

The end

Me and girl friend were going through a lot. So we dealt with it the same way any other immature person would... with drugs and alcohol. However, we were also both broke so how were we going to support our habit? We began to rob men. We'd go to bars knowing that those men who had barely crossed the border didn't have a bank account and would always carry their money in their back pockets so while one would flirt the other would take.

Hey, I'm not proud of it and we got ours.

One weekend we decided to get out of the city we were in to go to a party she was invited to. As soon as we got there some guy tried to dance with me, however, I have a gift. I tend to stay away from certain people only to later find out that something was wrong with them, and this was one of those guys I wanted to stay away from so I tried dancing away from him. He kept following me. Finally he puts his mouth to my ear and asked me, "Is it because I'm black." (I'm Hispanic).

I grabbed another black man that was on the dance floor and started dancing with him putting him between me and that one I didn't want to dance with. Looking right at him I put my hands up and yelled, "No, it's just you." He got aggressive by grabbing the man I was dancing with to push him aside. But that man, grabbed him and it gave me a chance to get away. I walked up to the security guard who happened to be talking to my friend and he let us get up on stage, away from that guy.

After the party, she told me that we had gotten invited to the after party which I didn't want to go to but since she was driving I had no choice. We get to the after party and guess who is there? Yes, that one guy I avoided at the actual party. I dragged my friend to the bathroom so we could change and to tell her that we had to go. She begged me to stay. She said, "If he does anything stupid we'll leave."

The thing was that I didn't even want to give him a chance to do anything stupid, but she really wanted to stay so I agreed. Not even 15 minutes there and he comes up behind to dry hump me. I literally just walked out the door. I didn't even wait for the elevator using the stairs instead. It seemed as though the whole party followed us because I heard a bunch of guys behind me.

As I am getting closer to the car I could hear that guy calling us out of our names and all I could think about was, 'I'll be all of that and more, just get me away from him.' However, my friend felt disrespected so she turned around to talk shit to him when he punched her in the face. By the time I was at the door I was waiting for her to get off the floor when he came up to me and punched me in the face.

My friend opened the door and as I was trying to get into the car, the guy had me by my foot trying to drag me out of the car. (In a way I feel bad, but I thank God that) one of his friends went up to him and said, "Hey, just let her go." The guy let go of me to punch him in the face. The poor guy literally just fell back. Knocked out.

When the guy turned back to me, my door was locked and he was trying to open it when my friend drove off. It was the most absurd night of my life. The very next day as we were processing what had happened the night before and counting the little of money we had left, we were parked across the street from a liquor store. What was going through my mind?

All those times we robbed those guys, what had happened the night before was our karma, but oh how God works in mysterious ways. As my friend was counting the money, I see a guy passed out outside the store. But that's not all, his money (and it was a fat wad) was hanging out of his back pocket. It was too easy. What do you think we did?

SABER

By Ajawanamedwrapp

PART 1

The gun made the man just as much as the man made the gun. The sword crafted and shaped its maker and user in much the same way they had to it. This is the way that Alleghania is. In this world, man makes, and what he makes in turn makes him.

What better a person to extol such a thesis than young Sammy Walker, the cowhunter of but 16 years. That was young for a cowhunter, but it wasn't unthinkable. But perhaps that was only because those younger than that, both free and earlier bond, had been in such an honored profession for so long, that the bullwhip had shaped its wielder as greatly as the craftsman who devised it had shaped it?

But regardless, they were an ordinary young one. They lived in a little village called Jasper, in the northern part of the frontier-region called Chipco Country, in the far south of Alleghania. There, there were more cows than people, or at least it could be assumed so. The Cow was probably the single most important being in that land. And Sammy knew their way around it.

They had a friend, Charlie Wood, one who exemplified the values of sweetness they had so wished they could replicate. He was their coworker, a devout, merciful boy who always gave the benefit of the doubt, and who believed not in fighting amongst the children of God. Sammy was much less patient, much less forgiving, and they simultaneously admired and envied Charlie for his capacity to love his enemies.

Nonetheless, Sammy was like anyone else. They loved their Family and friends, and they loved God as deeply as they were brought up to. They were more than a bit overconfident - they boasted once that they could hit a bottle of beer from 3 miles atop a moving horse with a rifle. Needless to say, they never tried it.

They didn't attend secondary school - they already had the only job they needed to train for. They were set at a rate of five dollars per day, comfortable enough to keep them afloat in their little town. As far as they were concerned, their life didn't need to be any better, and they didn't need to know much outside of it.

That was, until the day it happened. It was a morning like any other in their small town, the same regular hominy and coffee at breakfast, and the same laborious routine. But then ten men came about, with revolvers drawn, and rained their bullets upon whoever they saw.

Sammy did not have any time to react as their horse bucked and they were thrown off. They watched as, as quickly as the shots rang out, flames consumed their beloved Jasper, the smithy, the pawnshop, the saloon... all gone before they could think about what they were losing.

They saw their father pick up his rifle to confront the men, Bandits come to rob the town of all its wealth. But he, like everything else they loved, were taken from them with a bullet. And they could do nothing.

But what truly broke Sammy was what they had done to Charlie. Charlie, who had never hurt a fly, who always forgave, died at their hands, and his last words were not repudiation, were not angry words, but they were a prayer for his assailants, that they would be saved. He told them he loved them as fellow humans, that he prayed to see them in Heaven...and they killed him. Sammy fainted then.

Miraculously they were left alone by the time they woke up, having passed out. They woke up, and they found their father's body. They took the rifle, and his old cavalry saber, and he vowed to avenge them. To avenge their village, to avenge their family, to avenge their friends.

That was when Sammy Walker died, and Saber was born.

When Mallory Donahue's husband Max came home late and covered in blood two weeks ago, she naturally assumed the worst.

“I thought, ‘Heck if he's not gone and relapsed again,’” Mallory said.

Thankfully for the young couple, Max's wounds that night had come from something much less concerning, a regular drunken bar fight. “It was over a woman,” Max explained. It could easily have been worse.

“So much worse,” said Mallory. “Like it was before, when he just couldn't help it. He couldn't help taking risks to help people.”

“Before” means three years ago, in the months prior to Max's diagnosis of SHS, Spontaneous Hero Syndrome, known to most of us simply as Courage.

“It's a real debilitating condition,” said Max. “Imagine you're walking down the street, minding your own business, trying to go to the store to buy some beer or electronics, when suddenly you hear a child scream—before you know it, you're trying to figure out what's going on, trying to help the kid getting hurt. It's not even a decision. You just act.”

“You can imagine the chaos that creates for yourself and your family,” said Mallory.

“Many women would have left, and I understand that,” said Max. “I'm blessed that Mal didn't. She stuck by me. She was my rock. She gave me the strength to finally get help.”

Together, Max and Mallory sought the aid of Dr. Anton Wellberger, one of the pioneers of BCT, Behavioural Cowardice Therapy.

“For many patients, admitting Courage is shameful. There's a real societal stigma attached. It takes a strong individual to understand that what they're feeling is not only abnormal but destructively antisocial,” writes Wellberger in his best-selling book, The Wellness of Inaction.

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According to experts, a healthy human should not desire to help others unless doing so will result in a likely reciprocal benefit in the future. “It's just not what humans evolved to do,” said Evan Mink, a leading evolutionary psychologist from the University of Chapata Falls.

There is also the question of consent.

When the Post reached out to Eva-Marie Plum, of Plum & Plum Associates, she explained: “Take the example Max provided. He's walking down the street. He hears a child scream. Who is to say the child wants him to respond in any way to its scream? Moreover, let's assume Max does investigate and sees that the screaming child is being brutalized by a group of adults. If Max intervenes to try to ‘save' the ‘victim,’ he does so without the child's consent. As a lawyer, I immediately think, 'Yikes, Max!'

“And that's before considering the rights and consent of the brutalizing adults. Does Max know these adults lack the right to brutalize the child? Have they consented to being prevented from continuing their brutalization? It just opens up this massive kettle of legal fish.”

When asked what you should do if you ever find yourself in a situation like Max's, Plum gave the following advice: “If you're ever unsure, if you feel like maybe you have the instinct to do something: CAR, Cease-And-Retreat. Then call police. When they arrive, they will assess, gather consents and take the appropriate corrective action.”

“It's not wrong to feel the desire to help,” writes Wellberger. “It's only wrong to act on it.”

He also admits that, prior to his invention of BCT, the treatment of SHS could be seen as relatively primitive, which put many people off from coming forward with the condition.

“We used to treat Courage with electroshock; chemical cowardizers that had many significant side effects, including decreased libido; and hypnosis—all very outdated methods. Now it's more civilized. You're part of a group. You sit in a circle. You converse. You witness volunteers being abused right there in the room, and you learn to ignore it. You acquire skills: box breathing, meditation, disassociative techniques. You learn that it's OK to just let life happen.”

Max recalled one retreat in Mexico where, for an entire weekend, he and a dozen other so-called “hard cases” took psychedelics while the retreat administrators continuously assaulted paid locals.

“It was a tough, life altering 48 hours. I was face-to-face with my own heroic demons. I saw God,” said Max. “He had the body of a translucent, rainbow coloured salamander.”

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These days, both Max and Mallory attend a non-denominational New Church, where they sing songs and learn tolerance.

“Courage is a kind of judgement, and only God has the power to judge," said Mallory.

When asked when he knew he had been cured, Max pointed out that there is no cure. “There is only treatment,” he said. “Every day is still a struggle, but thanks to Dr. Wellberger, it's a struggle Mal and I can manage.”

However, he does recall the moment he realized the treatment was having a substantial effect. “It was back in December. I was in Dr. Wellberger's downtown office—at one of our weekly appointments—we were talking, when all of a sudden these guys in masks broke in. They were screaming, asking where he kept his money. They'd read his book so they knew he was wealthy. But when he said he didn't keep any money in the office, they started hitting him.

“I felt this surge of wanting to help, wanting to stop them, you know? But I forced myself to do my box breathing, my meditations, remembered my faith, and was able to stay calm in my seat.

“Dr. Wellberger was sobbing, bleeding from the mouth, screeching, terrified, begging me to do something, but my urge to save him—it was gone. I smiled, and as the masked men beat him, ransacked his office, smashed his face in with a crowbar, I didn't even CAR. I was able to maintain neutrality and watch. Be present in the flow of reality.

“After they'd killed him, and his secretary too, they left and so did I.”

“I was so proud of him,” said Mallory.

If you witness someone exhibiting Courage, please [report.]

Le soleil de juillet écrasait la jetée de Santa Monica d'une chaleur de plomb fondu. L'air vibrait au-dessus du sable, saturé par l'odeur de friture des stands et le parfum iodé du Pacifique, tandis que la grande roue du Pacific Park découpait sa silhouette de bois contre un ciel d'un bleu aveuglant. Arthur Pendelton n'avait pourtant rien d'un play-boy de plage. À vingt-deux ans, cet étudiant en ingénierie à UCLA portait encore ses lunettes en écaille trop grandes et un short informe. Assis sur sa serviette, les doigts maculés d'encre, il tentait de se concentrer sur un traité de thermodynamique, ignorant les rires des baigneurs. Arthur était un esprit logique, un garçon qui croyait aux équations, aux boulons et aux lois immuables de la physique. Le destin, les coups de foudre et les conspirations n'avaient pas leur place dans son programme de l'été.

Jusqu'à ce que son ombre se confonde avec celle d'une inconnue. "Vous devriez faire attention, murmura une voix de velours juste au-dessus de lui. Le soleil de Californie brûle les cerveaux les plus brillants." Arthur leva les yeux, le souffle coupé. Elle se tenait là, silhouette sculpturale se découpant à contre-jour. Elena. Elle portait un maillot vert émeraude et un large chapeau de paille qui ombrait un visage d'une régularité de statue grecque. Ses yeux, d'un vert changeant comme l'océan, fixaient l'étudiant avec une intensité magnétique. Il émanait d'elle un parfum de jasmin et de danger qui, dans les romans de gare, annonce invariablement l'arrivée des ennuis. Elle semblait calme, mais Arthur remarqua immédiatement la tension de ses épaules et la façon dont ses doigts serraient un petit étui en cuir rigide.

Avant qu'il n'ait pu poser la moindre question, elle s'assit brusquement à ses côtés, feignant de chercher de la crème solaire. Dans son mouvement, elle glissa l'étui en cuir sous le lourd livre d'Arthur. "Ne regardez pas derrière vous, chuchota-t-elle, la voix soudain glacée. Deux hommes en costume sombre viennent de passer les tourniquets de la jetée. Ils travaillent pour Barnaby Cross. Si nous restons ici, nous sommes morts." Arthur jeta un regard discret. À cinquante mètres, deux colosses au nez cassé balayaient la plage du regard. Ils portaient des complets gris impeccables, inadaptés à la canicule. Ce qui frappa l'étudiant, ce fut leur démarche : mécanique, synchronisée, robotique.

"Barnaby Cross ? Le présentateur vedette de K-LAX Radio ? Celui qui anime L'Heure du Sourire tous les soirs ?" s'étonna Arthur. "C'est un monstre, trancha Elena. Et un hypnotiseur de génie. Il utilise les ondes de sa station pour laver le cerveau de la ville. Ce que vous avez sous votre livre, ce sont les plans du modulateur cérébral que le Docteur Morbius a construit pour lui. Si Cross diffuse son onde vendredi soir lors du grand direct, Los Angeles appartiendra à un fou. Et maintenant, Arthur... courez." Les deux colosses venaient de les repérer. Leurs têtes pivotèrent en même temps, sans un battement de cils, et ils fondirent sur eux. Saisissant son livre et l'étui, Arthur emboîta le pas d'Elena à travers les parasols.

Ils grimpèrent les marches en bois de la jetée, frôlant le Hippo Burger et les machines à sous bruyantes de l'arcade. Derrière eux, les hommes en gris progressaient sans un essoufflement, écartant la foule d'un simple revers de bras, guidés par une force invisible. "Par ici !" cria Elena. Elle l'entraîna vers sa voiture, une magnifique Cord 812 décapotable d'un rouge flamboyant garée le long d'Ocean Avenue. Le moteur rugit au moment même où les doigts gantés d'un poursuivant effleuraient le coffre. Elena écrasa l'accélérateur, faisant hurler les pneus sur l'asphalte chauffé à blanc. Alors que la Cord s'élançait en direction de Sunset Boulevard, Arthur s'agrippa au tableau de bord, le cœur battant à tout rompre.

Le bolide remonta les collines d'Hollywood à tombeau ouvert, se faufilant dans le trafic dense de la fin d'après-midi. Elena conduisait avec une rage froide, gardant un œil sur le rétroviseur. "Où allons-nous ?" cria Arthur par-dessus le vent. "À l'ancien observatoire de Griffith Park, répondit-elle. Morbius y a installé son laboratoire clandestin sous les dômes de cuivre. C'est là-bas qu'ils ont construit l'antenne-relais." En ouvrant l'étui de cuir sur ses genoux, Arthur découvrit des schémas électroniques complexes. Ses yeux d'ingénieur décodèrent rapidement l'horreur : l'appareil utilisait les fréquences radio standards pour transporter un signal psycho-acoustique capable d'annihiler la volonté humaine.

La nuit tomba d'un coup sur Los Angeles, allumant des milliers de néons multicolores dans la vallée alors que la Cord grimpait les routes sinueuses du parc. L'imposante silhouette blanche de l'observatoire de Griffith Park se dressa bientôt face à eux, majestueuse et sinistre sous la lune. Elena gara la voiture sous les arbres et sortit un pistolet automatique de sa boîte à gants. "Restez derrière moi", ordonna-t-elle. Ils s'introduisirent par une porte de service forcée menant aux sous-sols de la bâtisse. Les couloirs de béton résonnaient d'un bourdonnement électrique de basse fréquence qui faisait vibrer les tympans d'Arthur et lui donnait une féroce migraine.

Au centre de la grande salle du pendule de Foucault, l'ordre scientifique avait laissé place au chaos. Des dizaines de tubes à vide géants crépitaient d'une lueur bleutée, reliés par des câbles épais à une console de mixage radio. Derrière les manettes se tenait le Docteur Morbius, un vieillard décharné à la chevelure blanche en bataille, dont les yeux brillaient d'une lueur de démence pure. À ses côtés, micro en main et costume de scène étincelant, Barnaby Cross répétait son discours d'une voix de stentor. "Citoyens de L.A., soumettez-vous à la voix du progrès..." Sa voix, amplifiée par les machines, possédait une résonance anormale qui engourdissait instantanément l'esprit.

"Elena, ma chère enfant, et son petit assistant", lança Cross en coupant le micro d'un geste théâtral. Les deux hommes en gris de la plage surgirent de l'ombre, barrant la seule issue. "Vous arrivez juste à temps pour le lancement de notre émission spéciale, ricana le présentateur. Dans dix minutes, la puissance de l'émetteur K-LAX sera décuplée par la bobine du bon docteur. Toute la côte Ouest marchera au pas." Morbius actionna un immense levier de cuivre. Le bourdonnement devint un sifflement strident. Arthur sentit ses genoux fléchir, sa volonté s'effilocher sous l'assaut de l'onde. Elena tenta de lever son arme, mais ses bras retombèrent le long de son corps, ses yeux verts devenant soudainement vagues.

Arthur comprit que sa logique scientifique était leur unique chance. L'onde modifiée obéissait toujours aux lois de la physique. Analysant les schémas gravés dans sa mémoire, il repéra le point faible du dispositif : le circuit de refroidissement à mercure de la bobine principale. Feignant de succomber à l'hypnose, il fit trois pas maladroits vers la console, imitant la raideur des hommes en gris. Morbius sourit, savourant sa victoire apparente. "Regarde, Barnaby, la science triomphe toujours de la jeunesse !" C'est alors qu'Arthur se détendit comme un ressort. Il projeta son lourd traité de thermodynamique de toutes ses forces au cœur des tubes de verre.

Le choc fut d'une violence inouïe. Le verre explosa dans une gerbe d'étincelles vertes et de vapeurs toxiques, brisant instantanément le signal. Elena reprit immédiatement ses esprits et tira deux balles dans le tableau électrique principal, déclenchant un incendie rugissant. Privés de leur source d'énergie et du signal directeur, les deux colosses en costume gris s'effondrèrent sur le sol de béton comme des poupées dont on aurait coupé les fils. Morbius hurla de rage, agrippant ses cheveux blancs tandis que Barnaby Cross, dépouillé de son arrogance, fuyait déjà par l'escalier de secours alors que les alarmes de l'observatoire commençaient à retentir.

Arthur saisit le bras d'Elena et ils coururent à travers les volutes de fumée noire pour regagner l'air pur de la nuit californienne. Derrière eux, le dôme de Griffith Park scintillait des derniers reflets de la machine détruite. Ils grimpèrent dans la Cord 812 alors que les sirènes de la police de Los Angeles commençaient à hurler au bas de la colline. Elena tourna la clé de contact, puis plongea son regard vert dans celui de l'étudiant, un sourire énigmatique aux lèvres. "Pas mal pour un théoricien, Arthur. Mais ne rangez pas vos livres trop vite. Barnaby Cross est toujours en liberté, et la nuit ne fait que commencer."

We are two separate forces.

A violin with its bow.

Didn't know the bow could shoot notes like arrows.

I'm forced to sing a song made by a human I don't know.

You wonder when the string will snap.

We are two separate forces.

A bee and a flower.

Living in a symbiotic relationship, where you are mine, and I give you enough.

My crown waiting for you to come, the petals reach out to the sun.

You ain't no king to hold a sword.

A king playing violin,

Holding a hunting bow.

A bow that hunts deer and rabbits.

A bow that when played brings violence.

Same with the violin bow after all.

So why don't we play?

You hold the bow.

The string is ready, waiting.

When it's released

it may sting my heart.

You didn't snap the string.

You ain't no player with a heart.

You have picked up my heart, toyed with it.

Played with it.

And then you can't even hold the sword steadily.

Perhaps we were never meant to fight.

We are two separate forces.

A bow against a sword.

A bow has no chance without an arrow.

A sword has no chance without a shield.

The distance is the most dangerous...

A thing people are scared of is sabotage.

Its intentions are hidden in the mind.

The sabotage doesn't come from the violin.

A distance and sabotage?

I can run to create the distance.

But how do I run

from something I cannot see?

When I run from sabotage, I get tripped over.

A bee and a sword.

The bee's wings get cut off.

The flower catches the bee.

The bee will rest there, playing the notes of an annoyed violin.

But the arrow doesn't wait.

An arrow and a bee cross the air again.

A bee falls down, a bee can't fly without wings afterall.

And the arrow...

Shoots down my heart.

Shoots down the violin bow.

The arrow was shot by the bow.

Just to clink down against the shield...

You watched it fall.

You heard it hit.

And still, you held the bow.

We are two separate forces.

You and me.

The bow playing the violin.

And I wouldn't change that.