Waking the Predator

by Chris McKitterick

The moment you wake up to who you are – when your soul wakes, your heart sings, everything suddenly feels real – you become alive. The you-who-was becomes an alien, someone you can maybe feel sorry for if she didn’t disgust you. She was a pushover. She tried to be nice, tried to blend in with the normals. Said things like “Thank you,” “Okay,” and “I’m fine.” She practiced smiling in front of a mirror so people would believe the expression was genuine when she turned it on at appropriate times.

Problem was, she was anxious all the time, and the smile looked like a gorilla baring its fangs, and who believes that means something nice? So she-who-was stopped trying. Anyhow, if you don’t feel like smiling, what’s the point? I figured no one ever actually, genuinely smiled. The whole world was full of bullshit fakers baring their teeth at one another. It’s just that they were better at pretending to smile than I was.

Then I finally discovered why people smile. I woke up.


A typical Thursday afternoon. School’s out, your brother’s got the house to himself until the parents come home drained a little more by yet another day down the crapper, working with assholes they’d rather punch in the teeth than hang out with. Yet they spend nine hours a day together. Smiling. Pretending to give a crap about each other’s kids while they ignore their own. “Yes, sir,” “Sure, no problem,” “I’m fine, and you?” Dumbasses. Asleep in coffins made of wages and nailed shut with health insurance.

How many people wake up? Can’t be many. Getting older seems to be a process of growing wearier and more lethargic along the path to permanent sleep. I mean, look at your parents and teachers. Look at those working registers at the head of the line with their dead eyes. Look at your heroes, once they’re old and stop giving a shit about the causes they fought for when they were young. Connect-the-dots, color-inside-the-lines, play nice. That’s how most people make it through this world. Maybe they’re even happy. How would I know? That whole “act as if and it’ll happen” theory of contentment that guidance counselors and therapists tell you is a load of crap. I suppose if you grew up in some fantasy family and have no outrageous ambitions, it could work or you. Hell, maybe some people who act happy actually are. How would I know? Good luck. I’m serious. If that’s you, I’m kind of envious. Would be nice to not have this constant itch at the back of your skull and just under the knuckles.


School had been particularly ass that day. I don’t just mean the usual BS classroom stuff no one cares about, even the teachers. Easy to ignore. Two tenth-graders tried to get under my skin at lunch, Mark and I-don’t-remember-his-name (Derek’s older brother). I have a way of dealing with dudes like that: You just stare at them while imagining what you could do to their eyes with the fork and butter-knife on your tray. Practice your gorilla-smile at full wattage, and they shut up. It’s instinct to not poke venomous things.

When the bell went off at the end of seventh hour, I tossed my notebook into my backpack, threw it into my locker, jogged down the hallway on my way out through the swinging glass doors, and took off on my bike away from town. Needed to burn off some hatred of the human species. Just ride.

Twenty minutes later, I was blasting through the forest around Lake Perry. In the air half the time because the bike club that’s responsible for keeping the path clear usually slacks off once you’re more than half-way around the lake, as if they think no one ever rides that far. Whatever. I like a challenge. Took a couple spills, too, but nothing some Bactine and a couple Band-Aids couldn’t fix.

My heart was hammering away in my neck, my legs were pumped, my lungs were on fire in the good kind of way, and my forearms were tight from hanging onto the grips over yet another fallen tree, when I skidded around a sharp turn and flew out of the forest near the beach. You can get there by car, because oldsters drive out there in their SUVs with their families on the weekends. But on a weekday afternoon it’s nothing but high-schoolers and kids with learner’s permits bringing their friends out for some beer-soaked swimming or make-out sessions. And some younger kids like me, who make it out on bikes or get a lift with older siblings.

I rode across the mossy rocks to the shoreline and dropped my bike once I reached the sand. Walked into the cold lake, shoes and all, until it almost soaked my cutoffs. (To hell with school dress codes. If the legs came down more than three fingers past my underwear like the rules said, that’s all my parents cared. I told them, “When Lord Principal gives us reasonable A/C, I’ll wear pants. ‘Til then, I’m ignoring the no-shorts rule.” They shrugged and smiled and went back to their phones.)

I was about to let my sweaty self drop beneath the cool surface when I heard the kind of cruel laughter that only junior-high school kids produce. Always about stuff that’s not funny.

Near a rusty grill mounted to a post driven into the sand, the same two bullies from lunch were giving crap to Derek. A year younger than me, he was pretty cool. At least he understood the appeal of sitting quietly across the lunch table, wanting nothing besides hanging out, two mammals feeding together. You don’t need to be a herd animal to enjoy companionship.

Mark gave Derek a shove, and Derek’s own brother stuck out a leg. The kid tripped into the sand.

I splashed in their direction. “Real brave,” I said, “picking on a kid two years younger than you.”

“Yeah?” said Mark. He gave the rising Derek another shove before heading to intercept me. “Maybe I should pick on you instead?”

“You can try, ass-hat,” I said.

Keep reading

Fishing Accident

I was looking for bullies.

I’m still studying TAB like it’s a therapy/theater event- everyone is someone else, someone from Sherlock’s memories. Time for the Carmichaels. I thought at first they were a variation of the Holmes parents, but that doesn’t quite fit. Back to the drawing board.

So, Sir Eustace. He’s a bully and a coward. An abuser, in hiding as a loving husband. And he ends up dead. Who have we seen that fits that description? Took me a while, but I found a few:

😡. Charles Magnussen, blackmailer. Dead. Some kind of partner with Mycroft. He liked to watch people squirm.
😡. Connie Prince, makeover queen. Dead. On TV, week after week, she bullied her brother Kenny. Kenny’s lover Raoul poisoned her for it.
😡. Carl Powers, the young swimmer. Dead. We feel sorry for “little Carl”, but… “Carl laughed at me, so I stopped him laughing.” Maybe Carl was not such a nice guy.

Both Carl and Connie were killed by the “five pips bomber”. Same poison, in fact. Connie’s death wasn’t personal, it was just another consulting criminal case, so we can put her aside. That leaves Charles and Carl. Charles, Carl….. Hmmm.

Carl: German/Scandinavian form of Charles.
Charles: From Germanic, meaning “man” or “warrior”
(From behindthename.com)

Powers: Two origins: from French for “poor”; or……
“from the Old French “Pohier”, indicating a native of Pois, a town in Picardy, North France, so called from the Old French “pois”, fish, because of its well-stocked rivers.“
(from surnamedb.com)
Magnussen: son of Magnus, which means "great” in Latin, and “Power” in Swedish.
(from houseofnames.com)

Carl/Charles Powers/Magnussen = Man-fish.

Maybe Mycroft has a type? An obsession? A "bloody stupid power complex”??? 🏭 🐟 ☂ 👀

👿 “Change the subject, NOW!”

Thanks to Ariane DeVere for the transcripts!

Tagging some folks for fun, in case this is a new connection.
@may-shepard @tjlcisthenewsexy @hubblegleeflower @queerjawn @ebaeschnbliah @just-sort-of-happened
@its-not-sher-locky-day @Mybrainrots @thememacat
@Sherlock-little-weed @lijahlover @isitandwonder @imnova

A reproduced postcard circa early 1900’s of the “Real Carabinieri” translated; Real Police with a #canecorso #dog

#Italy is home to two (2) #police forces, with the #polizia the regular state police while the #carabinieri being part of the #army.

The Carabinieri was founded by Victor Emanuel I, Duke of Savoy and King of Sardinia almost half a century before modern Italy came into existence with their
name coming from the carabina, the #rifle they traditionally carried.

Every major country has utilized in their #military as well as #lawenforcement some type of #breedsofpurpose Italy’s choice was and still is the Cane Corso. A large, athletic #mastiff

Note the ear crop style, a slender framed dog and a tail that isn’t docked unlike today’s #dogs

#history #pitbull #Rottweiler #pets #instagood #instadog #instalike #boxer #germanshepherd #guns #malinois #neo #dobe #bulldog #bullies #dontbullymybreed

Made with Instagram

It’s kind of funny (not really but…) all the hypocrites on tumblr reblogging posts about bullying when they do so themselves. Look at yourself in the mirror first and analyse your behavior, then I’ll take you seriously.

I’m getting tired of this crap.

anonymous asked:

I feel that because my dad doesn't thoroughly express how he loves me and because I was bullied by guys, that I will never allow a man to love me.

This makes me extremely sad because daddy issues are so for real and it breaks my heart to see it happening, and it also makes me kind of sad to see how much of a joke daddy issues have become. I pray that you get peace and closure in your relationship with your dad, and that whether you do or don’t, you don’t allow your past failed relationships with men (which are obviously NOT your fault or responsibility!) cause you to miss out on a wonderful relationship with the right guy or guys (friends or significant others) who will love you properly, my love