From great heights, it’s easy to see Miami the way it used to be. With the sea in view, somehow still iridescent and tantalizing in the dark, it’s easy to let time slip and drag him back. Back to the sixties, to before Yixing had even arrived, when South Beach was little more than something lazy, something pleasant, something almost hopeful. He can almost imagine it up here, chairs and chairs and chairs of geriatrics and maybe even some teenagers, stoned and old and killing time while they wait to die. Standing on the factory roof, he can see over the cranes and the high rises, the metal scaffolding stained and painted in equal parts blood and blow. Here, Miami becomes something little more than an idealized getaway, something little more than an empty plot of sand waiting to be paved. Something made of potential.
At this height, it’s easy to pretend he is flying. Standing on the ledge of the factory roof, Yixing looks down at his shoes as he balances and offers the stability of his knees complete trust. The weight of the recorder at his side could easily make him tip or stumble, would scare a younger, less trained man into stepping away. He simply stands, feeling like a gargoyle, feeling like this factory is his cathedral charge, and lets the pavement below test his will. Occasionally, like this, when the breeze picks up and threads through his hair, he thinks small fibers of his muscles are tempted to jump, fall, fly, or kiss the earth below. He thinks that would be easy, thinks that would be nice.
At this height, a lot of things are easy, but, at this height, it’s hard to be seen.
From where he stands, he looks out over the world and sees people. Lives pass by, insignificant and inconsequential, moving at slow paces and burned by ignorance. Lights in windows glow, people fucking over the city or fighting down below, and he can hear, see, smell them all. No one sees him, because no one expects to. No one sees him, because they are not looking, but he sees them.
Years of abandonment and neglect have taught him to observe, look for, and seek all the flaws in humanity that give him the upper hand. When eyes are not focused on him, he looks and looks and looks until every person is reduced to little more than cosmic waste, carbon and nitrogen soaked in nothing more than sin. He likes it this way, thinks it’s poetic - to be the prophecy all prophecies pass and ignore. The great undoing of everyone and everything, eventually even himself.
Digging his hand into his pocket, he pulls out his lighter and juts his hip slightly to maintain balance. Pushing a cigarette between his lips, he relishes the sensation of his leather glove grazing his lips and lets the tobacco glide languidly into his chest and lungs. This moment could be soothing, he thinks, akin to a great wave of calm passing over his weary joints and mind. Could be.
Would be, except for the entire length of his drag, someone is screaming.
Eight floors below, somewhere in the purgatory of the empty building, Minho is learning how to die.
Really, it’s his fault that he’s there, likely losing his ear and certainly losing his life - even if his heart is still beating. It was only a matter of time before the group found out he’d been poking holes in cocaine shipments, meeting the traffickers at the port and cutting slits in the bags to take kilo and after kilo to the Cubans. Yixing assumes that he was smart enough to know he’d be caught, though he probably never thought it would be a prostitute, still wet with come and sweat, who would give him away.
Minseok said his name like he was spitting acid from his mouth, disgusted with the mere idea of him. His fingers twitched, itching to reach into his back pocket for his knife. Itching to take his knife and cut off his thieving fingers but, well, Minseok has always had stellar self-control when he wasn’t tweaked or depressed.
Initially, they thought him the mole, connected him easily to every conspiracy they could imagine and fabricate, plot lines filling in like they’d been woven over years of planning and choosing. Logical. Made sense. Infuriating.
Jongin nearly punched a hole in his dash when Yixing told him not to kill the guy, instead to bring him in, back to Baekhyun who had some questions. Over a decade of working with and knowing Baekhyun had long ago taught him this didn’t mean a conversation, it meant he wanted blood, and, deep down, Yixing wanted it too. Minho got careless, reckless, and greedy - that’s what Jongin called it as he was guided through the streets, trying to talk himself down from the blind rage he found himself in. Yixing said nothing on the topic, oddly reserved for this time of night, barking out directions as he mulled over Jongin’s turn of phrase. Jongin was being kind, using gentle words, sympathetic words to describe this. Yixing called it disloyal, called it traitorous - that was his version of kindness.
Now, listening into the conversation, he’s satisfied with the words Baekhyun has selected. Their fearless leader, his childhood friend, ever the poet.
‘You know, I don’t like people.’ Baekhyun releases small grunts through his words, the effort of slicing through cartilage filtering through his speech. ‘People are cunts. Worthless pieces of come and pussy, self-servicing - fuck, I don’t even like Suho that much.’
‘It’s mutual.’ Junmyeon’s voice cuts through Baekhyun’s little sermon, sharp, pointed, and bored.
‘So what made you think that I liked you? That we were friends? Was it the money I was fronting you to push this shit? Did you think it was a fucking loan?’
Exhaling into the breeze, Yixing chuckles at Baekhyun’s nonchalant tone, almost cordial in its cadence. Any other man, he imagines, would use this opportunity to impose dominance or threat in their word choice. Treading carefully over their words, they would select the ones they find most sinister and brutal in the effort of exerting authority. For as long as Yixing has known him, Baekhyun has never felt the need to do this. He has never done this because he doesn’t need to, choosing instead to let his actions showcase his will. And his will, always and without fail, is lethal.
‘Answer me, I’m genuinely curious. I’d like to know.’
Soft whimpers permeate through the silence, intercut by howls of pain. Minho is losing his ear, and, in this case, he is lucky.
‘Oh, sorry, is my knife at your ear making it hard for you to speak? Let me make it easier for you.’
Minho screams, agony erupting out of his chest and sending Yixing back from the roof edge as he winces through the feedback in his earpiece. Laughter dances through, sounding splintered yet paradoxically gleeful, Baekhyun happily walking away with an ear.
‘There. Okay, tell me. What made you think we were friends?’
‘What the fuck are you talking about?’ Minho rasps, voice ragged and tilted with pain.
‘I don’t know,’ singsongs Baekhyun, boyishly weaving his way through the interrogation. ‘You started this whole Shakespearean shit. The Brutus to my Julius.’
‘Baekhyun, can we please hurry this up.’ Once more, Junmyeon bursts through, tired and irritated with the length of time this is taking. He’d rather go home. He’d rather have the body dump already arranged. Instead, he is playing rook to Baekhyun’s whim.
Yixing gets it, he truly does, but even he isn’t so forgiving, and so he decides to speak.
‘We’ve secured this building for two hours. There is plenty of time.’
‘Lay,’ Junmyeon says, feigning surprise. ‘I’d forgotten you joined us.’
Turning in a slow circle as he surveys the area, Yixing smirks. ‘Wish I could say the same.’
‘Shut up,’ interjects Baekhyun. ‘I think he wants to speak.’
Retching sounds become the soundtrack to a young couple fucking against an alley wall far below. Yixing smiles. Yixing watches.
‘What the fuck is that, is that tacos?’
Junmyeon sighs. ‘Looks like a burrito.’
Unable to help himself, Yixing laughs as he moves towards the opposite side of the roof. ‘Jesus Christ.’
‘Contrary to popular belief,’ Baekhyun announces, playfulness steadily disappearing from his voice, ‘my patience grows thin rather quickly. So, either you speak or I’m going to tell you what I think.’
With an intake of breath that sounds more like a hiss, Yixing braces himself for the oncoming storm. Now, it’s serious. Now, this kind of betrayal is a tangible reality and everyone is starting to feel it. Even Junmyeon, who is usually taciturn and stoic during all interrogations and meetings, releases a small, almost inaudible growl from his throat. Everyone wants some of Minho’s blood, and Baekhyun is sure to deliver.
Baekhyun’s tenor weaves its way around the room, sounding soft and beautiful, and absolutely deadly.
‘Okay, here’s what I think: I think you got comfortable. You made your first million and you thought you could use me to make more. Because we’re friends, right? Friends would understand.’
In the brief pause, Yixing grits his teeth in anticipation. There’s a rhythm to the way Baekhyun handles his interrogations, a pacing similar to a dance, and he knows where this one is headed. As if by clockwork, he hears the cock of Baekhyun’s SIG Sauer before the trigger is pulled. The sound is loud, erupting through both the mic, giving sharp feedback directly into his brain, and out into the city. No one will notice. No one will care.
‘Shit man, you’re a cripple now.’
This simple sentence tells him Minho now has a bullet in one knee cap, though by the end of the night he expects he will have more in other, more important places.
‘Do you know what happens to cocaine when it makes contact with salt water?’ Footsteps follow Baekhyun’s words, signalling his movement through the pace of his speech; Yixing can almost see him circling the chair, eyes impassive behind yellow sunglasses and mouth set in a straight line. ‘This doesn’t have anything to do with you, well, it does but mostly I just want to know if you know. You’re a smart guy. Community college. Some bullshit like that.’
‘He dropped out after a year,’ he provides, leaning over the roof to watch Jongin turn a corner, circling the perimeter without being obvious.
‘But he went!’ Baekhyun exclaims, feigning pride. ‘That’s gotta mean something, right college guy? So, tell me. What happens to cocaine in salt water?’
Minho spits. ‘Fuck you.’
‘My sex life is fucking incredible, thanks, but that’s not my question.’
Another gunshot rings out in his ear, unexpected and brash, making him bend down and open his mouth in a silent scream of shock.
‘Sorry, my hand slipped. But hey, at least you know you aren’t walking out of here, right? You can relax now.’
Tired of playing games, Baekhyun is moving forward at an unprecedented speed. Yixing can sense it, even the air that moves around the roof is saturated with his wrath, and, soon, he thinks the whole of Miami will be caught in its tides.
‘Here’s what happens,’ Baekhyun says, sounding almost too pleasant for the details he’s about to provide. ‘Coke in water? Shitty, but if you evaporate the water it’ll still be there and it’ll work. Won’t work well, but it’s enough to get you addicted. Coke in salt water? Whole other story. So, when you’ve been dropping my shit into the sea, did you think this would eventually come back to you?’
For a while, the only sound Yixing can hear is Minho’s whimpering. He hopes Minho is suffering. He hopes he never goes numb to the pain.
There’s a sudden fury of movement: the tearing of bags, the pushing of a chair, fabric thrusting and moving in nondescript motions. He can’t make sense of it, his brain trying to picture each action and rounding itself back into a fog. Speech dies on his tongue, choosing not to interrupt Baekhyun as he works and instead keeps all his complaints to himself.
‘I want you to try it.’
Now, he gets it. Now, he feels almost sympathetic towards Minho. Almost.
‘Look, I’m sorry I don’t have a nice mirror for you to snort this off, but I think your ear makes a fine dish don’t you?’
More movement occurs in vague patterns: thrusts and grunts, sounds of inhales blocked by powder in nasal passages. Minho coughs, loud and sputtering and gagged, and, soon, he’s reduced to little more than a mess of uncomfortable whining.
A small sigh, one of insincere platitudes falls from Baekhyun’s mouth. ‘Your nose is bleeding. Suho, do we have a tissue for his nose?’
‘No,’ Junmyeon says, plainly. ‘No, we don’t.’
‘Sorry man. But hey, now we know what happens when you snort impure blow. Fucking sucks, doesn’t it.’
Below, Jongin circles back around, appearing as a lost driver attempting to find the highway entrance. Below, the world is moving, dollar bills are circulating in the Florida economy that are laced with cocaine simply by passing through the fingers of Miami’s lawyer’s, doctors, car salesmen. Below, a woman walking home alone is crying.
Above, Yixing is watching. Above, Yixing is listening. Above, Yixing is waiting. He knows the bullet is coming, and so he takes his ear piece out and rests it calmly on his shoulder. Without Baekhyun in his ear, the world seems calm. Miami seems calm and quiet and soft. Without Baekhyun in his ear, Miami seems colourless. Without Baekhyun, Miami seems hollow.
‘I’ve got one more question for you,’ Baekhyun says, voice in a loud whisper. Baekhyun is leaning over Minho now, close and low and breathing heavy into his wire mic. ‘What happens to dead bodies in salt water?’
‘I don’t know,’ weeps Minho, pathetic and sad and aware that these are likely his last words.
‘Me neither. Will you be sure to tell me?’
A third and final gunshot breaks through, and Yixing smiles. He smiles at the moon and the sea and the city, but it is neither content nor is it pleased, it’s simply relieved that one half of their problems has been eradicated. It’s simply relieved that he can go home and not sleep, just think without this weighing heavy on his mind.
Minho is dead and Yixing is now free, at least for the next six hours.
‘This was all well and good, but we still have a mole,’ Junmyeon says, wires moving and indicating he is about to disconnect and arrange disposal of the corpse.
‘His brains are on my shoes,’ whines Baekhyun, sounding childish. ‘These were a gift.’
‘I’m sure your pretty piece of pussy will be able to get you another pair.’
‘That’s not the point,’ Baekhyun states, voice stern. ‘And don’t call her that. I’ll put a bullet in your mouth if you do it again.’
He likes it, this banter. It makes him feel as though he isn’t on his own or alone, operating like the satellite he is. It makes him feel distant from New York City, the mob and the cops and the lonely way he had to move through the night to steal a car or a kilo to make a quick buck. It makes him feel distant from the thing he was before.
He likes this banter but now, he is tired, and now, after thirty-six hours, he is going home.
‘I’m leaving,’ he announces, and all sounds on the other halt as he commands attention. ‘I’ll leave the tape with Kai. I-95 should be clear until four.’
There are three deadbolts on Yixing’s door, each made of solid brass. There are three deadbolts and each is more imposing than the one that comes before. When he suggested this, you laughed and called him paranoid. He simply agreed. When he suggested this, you said it was a tell, a give away that something serious was happening inside. You said, we’ll either look crazy or criminal, and I don’t know which is worse. He simply agreed, but he said it would keep you safe. He didn’t include himself. He doesn’t really care, not really about anything, except you.
When he walks through the door, like usual, he is ambushed by you. Whole heartfuls of lust and sentiment flare up and outward from his chest, rising through his throat to linger on his tongue. When he walks through the door, he is ambushed by you, standing in the center of your living room.
When he walks through the door, he is ambushed by you, and you are pointing a gun at him.
It reminds him of the first time he met you, when you pointed a gun at him and called him a fed, called him a cunt, called him a lot of things that made him laugh until he pulled a wire out from a car and hot wired it for you. You called him a lot things that night, held the gun to his head as he drove you through Brooklyn, while he told you he didn’t care the AV equipment was government grade or that it was hot, just that he wanted in the on the money if you were going to make him drive. You held the gun to his head all night, only put it down when he fucked you on your bed, dad sleeping in the next room an arms reach from a rifle - the riskiest sex he ever had.
When he walks through the door, he is ambushed by you. You are pointing a gun at him, and you are shaking.
Instantly, words rush forward and fall from his mouth, tearing through him before his mind can assess his surroundings. Something feels off, slightly amiss, but he doesn’t care. He cannot care, because you are there with wide eyes and looking at him as though the world is in a state of collapse.
‘Nocti,’ he breathes, hands flying up in defense. He knows you won’t shoot, you never shoot, but you’re severe and strong, and your hold on the gun was always better and more stable than his. ‘Nocti.’
Just hearing the nickname seems to make you relax, your shoulders drooping and defenses falling just enough for you to come back to him, to peek around your shell and let him know this fear and this rage is not directed at him. And seeing you soften, seeing that you are neither hurt nor fighting with him tonight, makes the atmosphere shift and the flesh of his arms tingle.
‘Someone’s been in the house.’
You say it together, at the same time, and he’s at you before you can even move to investigate. Running his hands over your face, your hair, your waist. He looks at you as though you are bleeding, hemorrhaging in his hands even though he knows you are whole and complete and vital.
‘I’m fine,’ you state, though you cling to him tighter than usual, and it makes his jaw clench with disdain that someone could have this kind of power over you and his home. One and the same, really. ‘I just got home. I felt it when I walked in.’
Furiously, he pulls away from you, sure and calculated in every moment of his limbs. He tears through the house, inspecting rooms with his knife clutched tightly in his hands while you, with your Harballer, point at the furniture as though it is preparing to devour you whole. The silence is deafening, both of you reverting to hand signals and instead listening for sounds of footsteps unfamiliar with various weak spots in the floorboards. Yixing is looking for shadows and he knows you are looking for flesh, tendons to tear and shoot, men to cripple. Yixing is looking for shadows, feeling much like the moon as he tries to draw them out of the dark and give shape to phantoms already long gone.
Eventually, you both discern that nothing has been taken nor moved, the only real difference being the weight of the air in the house. It’s sticky and damp, a swamp dripping down the walls - though, he cannot tell if it’s the Florida air finding a way in or if it’s the rapid beating of his heart making him feel as though the earth is trying to suffocate him. And while this should calm him, the fact that everything is the same and as it should be, he is only able to manage a further, excessive panic because someone got in to do just that: be inside.
There are three deadbolts on Yixing’s door, each made of solid brass. With no obvious signs of force at any entry point, this means someone followed him, likely for weeks, and made keys. With no obvious signs of forced entry, this means someone has known about his home, his life, his space for a long time. With no obvious signs of entry, this means it was planned.
‘We have to leave,’ he says, walking into the living room to where you are holding your gun at your side, defeated. ‘We need to get the fuck out.’
‘Don’t be stupid,’ you retort, putting the safety back on and tossing it to the couch. ‘Leaving means they win.’
Yixing releases a scoff at your indifference to this plight, taken aback by how firm you are in your stance. ‘Nocti, you stole a lot of shit for us. I’m not embroiling you -’
‘For you,’ you interrupt, scowling and pointing a finger into his chest. ‘I stole that shit for you, not your boss or the whores he collects. You.’
Always, you are stronger than him. Will of iron and teaching him to be fierce, unwavering, brave. ‘If they found us,’ he begins, pulling you to him, ‘they’re onto a hell of a lot more than a pimp and a club owner who might be involved with racketeering.’
‘If they find us, you can put a bullet in their brain and I’ll search their pockets for loose change.’
For a while, you both fall quiet. Still, even with the discovery that nothing was taken, the house feels awkward, the bubble of privacy and clarity wholly removed and replaced with something foreign, something he hasn’t felt since Queens and the night a dead cop turned up on his doorstep. He’s used to running, leaving shit behind until his trail goes cold. He’s used to observing, never being observed unless it was your eyes only, and he can’t help but feel as though this is the beginning of the end.
Eventually, your mouth finds his neck, kissing a calm sort of fire into his skin as you speak. ‘Besides, you have a deal in a few days to scout. We can’t leave before -’
And then he’s gone from you, pulling away from your hold and running down the hall to the back spare room. It’s mostly empty, filled with boxes of office supplies neither of you use but keep merely to give the appearance of planning, converting, using, living. He moves a box to the side and tears at the wallpaper, revealing a small panel with a lever. Tugging the metal rod, he listens to the latch release and watches the wall slide away to reveal the radio room.
This too is small, but is the single most important thing his first million ever made him. With only two tables, two chairs, and three short wave radios, the room looks like an unassuming broadcast radio station at best but it’s the eighty foot tower less than three miles from the house that makes this room lethal. This is where Baekhyun talks to Colombia, this is where traffic routes are detailed, this is where Yixing listens to all the ways they’ve learned to live and speak and survive, and no one has never heard him. Not even once.
Inspecting each radio with a careful, quizzical eye, Yixing finally finds the thing that’s changed. One small detail that any other man, a careless man, would miss.
On the second table, sitting small and green and wholly unassuming, the knobs of a shortwave transmitter have been turned, sitting now in different positions than when he left them.
Releasing a breath he didn’t know he had been holding, he rests his weary body in the chair and he looks. He simply looks and looks at the dials and knows that, now, everything has changed. The information of a mole is no longer a rumour, something to be treated as mere investigation, but something that needs to be handled as though a warrant for execution has been issued. The mole is no longer a rumour, and they are inside, crawling inside all of Yixing’s private spaces and making him feel young, out of control, and completely unlike himself.
Like this, he thinks he could be reckless. Like this, he thinks he could be dangerous, publically and vocally, and he never liked the idea of either.
It’s as these thoughts pass through his head that he notices the pad of paper, yellow and legal and long. Impressions, erratic, unfocused and illegible, remain in the center of the pad, and suddenly a great wave of relief washes over him. This is the relief he had been seeking from his last smoke, the kind he had been seeking the moment he stepped through his door and held you in his arms.
This is the relief of control.
Flipping the pages up, he tears the last sheet out and lays it over the top, grabbing a pencil and sketching whole dark lines over the top. He makes one large dark cloud, big, almost circular, and lets the indents be the only white lines in the center.
Genre: Fan Fiction (Vikings) Pairing: Ivar/Reader Warnings: N/A Rating: G Length: Drabble Disclaimer: a strict work of fiction, I own nothing except the original characters and the plot line. In no way am I affiliated to any of it.
A/N: More Modern!Ivar, because he is clearly a hit ;)
I don’t think I’ve shared the belt I run yet it’s a High Speed Gear no-slip. On it there are 3 15rnd mags in HSG carriers, Benchmade SOCP 176, Fenix PD35 TAC flashlight, Leatherman MUT, extra batteries for flashlight in tube, CAT tourniquet, dump bag, kydex holster that I made for my Sig P229 and a couple of small extras tucked in to the molle. If I’m running a shotgun I will either put shells in the dump bag or replace it with a dedicated carrier (pictured but not mounted). This setup may not be for everyone but seems to work well for me and is modular so it’s easy to adjust.
The HSG no slip belt is amazing and really does stay in place.
Pairing: John Laurens x reader Word Count: 2,119ish T/W: Angst, slight violence! A/N: For Nervous Smol Bean Anon’s request: “Can I have a John x reader ( bc I’m obsessed) where the reader is Lafs sister and Laf finds out they’re dating and gets really overprotective and angry at John and just angst angst angst?“ Tags: @applesislife ✨ @iworshipmusicals ✨ @othermia ✨ @justfangirlingaround ✨
Dating without anyone knowing was extremely hard, but you and John seemed to make it work. The only free time the two of you got was well…never. You had to lie to your extremely protective older brother to sneak out and see John. Though he knew John through work, he was nowhere near fond of him and he certainly wouldn’t approve of you dating someone like him. You were supposed to date and marry into a wealthy family, as you came from a rich line of nobles yourself, it was only “proper.” But John always called you his ‘Juliet’ because of your “forbidden” romance.
You had been dating for about a year, and were completely in love with each other. There was one incident where John was threatened by your brother when he saw you two out together, thankfully you could play it off easy, but you didn’t want to. You wanted everyone to know that you were in love with John Laurnes. Sometimes John talked about you running away together, to which you laughed saying ‘that’s not how it works.’ And you were right, it didn’t work like that. The feeling of love could only last so long, and who’s to say how long this one would if you couldn’t even make it known….
“Shh,” you whispered.
“I thought you said he wasn’t home,” John continued to kiss at your neck.
i made a thing for @ingthing‘s YOI Wedding Planner/Florist AU!! took me way too long, but it’s now complete. also on soundcloud! and max, man, you screwed up the time sig but you’re super talented so thank you!
@wtfmulder wanted me to write about Scully physically beating the shit out of CSM. Maybe that comes later in my fic life. This is what came today.
Here they are. Again.
She wanted to believe they were done with this.
Even after she accepted assignment back into the FBI.
Even after he fell to the ground twice, ringing in his head
so severe it reminded her of Africa and ketamine fantasies and tombstones.
Yet here they are and it’s the most “here” she thinks she
has ever been.
Because even when he was lying in a bed, fresh out of a
grave, with tubes down his throat and a Foley catheter shoved up his dick and
everything else that goes along with that… Even then. She believed he would wake up.
But that night, in that car, on that bridge? Scully wanted to believe. But she didn’t.
This happened in 1995, but I still
remember it clearly. I was 24 years old, hard at work on a novel about love and
loss and redemption, and working third shift at a convenience store just off
the college campus to make ends meet. My manager, Todd, was a dick; my
girlfriend, Sage, was probably cheating on me; and the stray cat I’d taken in,
Kurtd, liked to crawl into my closet and piss on my Doc Martens.
night I’m talking about here was in October, and it was chilly and clear and I
remember the moon was big. If we’d had text messaging back then I’d have texted
Sage something poetic about a big orange moon (something about ‘kurious oranj’
because you couldn’t go wrong making a Mark E Smith reference)
but back then we just kept that shit to ourselves and everybody was just as
happy. I’d covered up my uniform shirt with my old reliable blue and orange
flannel shirt, the way I did every night, and Todd the Dickhead would have
thrown a shit fit if he’d seen it.
this all went down I was actually feeling pretty good about myself, because I’d
just made a little coin on a shady deal. It was a Friday night and a party at
the Sig Chi house had run out of booze. So around 2 in the morning, a couple of
Sig Chi bros came in and tried to buy a 30 pack.
were absolutely not supposed to sell beer after 1 AM, I said. It would be a
real risk for me to take, I emphasized. I cleared my throat. Looked around and
pointedly saw nobody in the store. “A real risk, dudes, a real risk,”
Two of the three guys turned around to leave. The third guy, a
handsome fellow wearing beer stained Abercrombie khakis and a violent green
polo with a little alligator emblem on it, said in a low, raspy whisper,
“And what would a risk like that be worth to you?”
minutes later I was at the back entrance, out of camera range, handing them a
30 pack of Natty Lite and counting my money. I walked back into the store and
saw a dude standing there playing our Pac-Man game.
what you may or may not know is that 80′s nostalgia among college kids goes back
to, well, the 80′s. By the mid 90′s, 80′s nostalgia was in full fabulous swing
and every bar on or near campus had an 80′s night or two every month, and every
frat house and off-campus frat apartment had several 80′s parties every semester. The owner of the convenience store where I worked, a big Falstaffian
goofball named Peter, partly as a nod to the college kids and partly because he
was a lovable dork himself, bought and refurbished an old Pac-Man arcade game
and set it up in the corner near the entrance.
the kid who’d come in to play it while I was hornswoggling the frat boys out
back looked like he’d just come from the ultimate nostalgia splooge-fest. Dude
could have just stumbled in from the big Shermer High School Winter Wonderland
Carnival. He was wearing a clean, crisp jean jacket with the word Disappearer
airbrushed in neon pink and green letters on the back. He had big spiky blond
Club Kid hair. This guy was skinny–we’re talking “Lives on vodka tonics
and Bolivian Marching Powder” skinny–and had the sleeves of his jean
jacket pushed up to reveal jelly bracelets up and down his right arm. White
Guess jeans were stretched tight across a round, muscular ass that I’m sure Sage
would have gone wild for, and the jeans were rolled up to show he wore his
white Gucci loafers sockless.
boy, The Disappearer, was really into his Pac Man too. He was bobbing his head
and swaying his hips and gobbling up ghosts. It was pretty fun to watch at
first. Almost on cue, the local radio station started playing Duran Duran’s “Girls on Film” and I jokingly said, “Hey dude, did you call in a
response. Not a talker. Fine with me! I sat my ass down on some egg crates I
kept behind the counter (Todd kvetched about it but fuck him) and started
scribbling in my notebook. This time of night I didn’t do much cleaning and
there weren’t many customers, so if he wanted to stand there and feed quarters
into an old arcade game that was fine by me.
I was actually kind of cranky he hadn’t answered me. Who did this shit think he
was? Just because I work in a convenience store he thinks he can just blow me
off? A Depeche Mode song came on the radio, Strangelove, and in addition to
giving the game some body English I noticed he was kind of shaking his ass to
the song. I decided to try being friendly again.
Above all else, I’ve been wanting a Mk23 for ~20 years now. My collection will never be complete without one. Thankfully, I’ll (hopefully) be getting one within a few months.
SIG X-5/X-6. Particularly a Blue Moon, Black & White, or SuperMatch. To me, these are some of the best looking firearms ever created, and are one of the best shooting handguns in existence.
So far, the CZ TS Orange is the nicest shooting handgun that I’ve encountered. Along with being one of the most accurate (right behind the CZ TS Czechmate & SIG X-5 SuperMatch) and it looks hot as hell. Thus, I need one.
And the CZ Shadow II, because it’s an evolution of one of my favorite handguns ever made.