Amy Lane's Blog: Writer's Lane, page 114

Companionship

*** Okay-- so yes, I loved Teen Wolf and I really loved Sterek, but I haven't watched it this season. I have it all taped, but, you know… sometimes you just fall in a pothole and can't get out, and when Stiles saw Derek Hale's initials on the library shelf, that was where I fell. But I still have a fondness for the possibilities of the early seasons, so that's where I'm writing from. From what I can see, the fandoms have pretty much given up on the writing as a whole anyway-- the canon is shit, but the fanfic is terrific, so let's go where the writing is!

Or where it's fun to write, in this case.  This is Sterek/Eureka crossover, which means we've got two blond sheriffs with two wayward teenagers, and a whole lot of drinking to do.


***

Oi! Sometimes John Stilinski just had to get the fuck out of town.

"But Dad!" Stiles whined. "You were going to be here for dinner!"

He sounded patently insincere.

"You don't want me for dinner," John retorted. "You have no desire to have me here at all."

"Sure I do! You know, Scott's coming, Lydia's coming--"

"Derek's coming," John said dryly, pulling his leather jacket on over his button down shirt. He felt naked, really, without his uniform or uniform jacket, but he was leaving Parrish in charge, so he didn't need it. He hoped.

"Yeah, well, he comes… over, sometimes."

John groaned. "Yes, son, I'm sure he comes… over sometimes--"

Stiles scrubbed at his dark hair. "Well, you know, since we all graduated from college, we sort of, you know, me and him, we've got shit in common."

"Like both having broken up with your girlfriends, Stiles. I know. I'm not senile."  Neither was he stupid. He was well aware that Stiles's other friends left long before Derek Hale did.

As in, Derek Hale had snuck out of his son's window on several occasions right before dawn.

Which was yet another reason John Stilinski really needed a night out. "You guys cook popcorn or pop each other's corn hole or whatever, and I'll be home in the morning, okay?"

Stiles looked truly disgusted. "Oh my God, Dad!"

"Look, just tell him he doesn't have to sneak out, okay? If he's in my kitchen in his boxer shorts making breakfast tomorrow, I'm not going to have a coronary."

And look-- the classic Stilinski blush, right to the roots of his hair. "He's… well, he's not even supposed to be in Beacon Hills, dad. He and Scott-- they've barely reached detente with the other packs and--"

"Are there bodies I need to worry about, son?"

"No, Dad."

"Then please, for the love of God, let me go somewhere not the hell mouth where I can have a drink."

"Yeah. Sure, Dad. Drive safe. You know, don't drink and--"

"Stiles, I'll stay. I'll stay, we can watch cartoons, and I will tell Derek about the time you and Scott went running naked around the neighborhood screaming about bedbugs biting off your wieners, okay?"

"And I think you're late for that drink!" Stiles responded brightly.

"I think I am."

John ruffled his son's hair in exasperated affection and managed to escape from his own home.  God. One lousy drink-- was that too much to ask?

* * *

He saw the bar set back deep in the woods, and wondered--usually he just kept driving to Placerville, because there were a couple of places there that he enjoyed, but this one was a little closer. He had his cell phone clipped to his belt, and well… after mentioning the werewolves, he just didn't want to go too far.

He took the turnout and parked with the rest of the cars--the really high end cars, which was odd-- in the turnout.  He'd go in, have a scotch, look at the other adults drinking their scotch, and maybe talk to a pretty woman. It was all he asked for in an evening.

That and to not have to pretend he wasn't hearing his son getting banged in the room next to his. He really needed that in his evening. He needed it so bad he could hardly breathe.

He pushed through the door and looked around uneasily. Frankly, he'd be more comfortable with werewolves and ninjas or something--this clientele looked particularly swanky. He spotted the bar, though, and toward the end, a guy a lot like him. Fortyish, blond, creases from living in his eyes and around his mouth-- but turned up creases. Like he smiled.

Well, hell-- no women, but then, John hadn't been hoping for a hook-up or bust, really.  Company, that's all he wanted.

He pulled up near the guy-- not so much in his space but in his orbit-- and ordered a scotch from the big guy with the curly hair who seemed to be stressing about every detail.

"And what kind of scotch would you like? We have several oak barrel brands, some with a cinnamon under taste, the kind that's pressed from the wood itself, some--"

Oh God. "Johnny Walker?" he pleaded. "Red or black or gold or…"

"Give him what I've got," the other fortyish guy said dryly. "Don't stress-- he just wants what I do."

"Yeah," the barkeep said deferentially. "Sure thing, Jack."

The bartender disappeared--apparently the plain stuff was kept in the back, and John offered his thanks.

"I, you know, not my place," he said, shrugging sheepishly. "Strange bar customs, right?"

The guy turned and winked, his blue eyes particularly arresting in his homely/handsome face. "I get it--but this is a Eureka establishment--you've heard of us?"

"Oh hell."  Of course he had. The Feds-- Scott's father included-- kept threatening to make Beacon Hills property of the Eureka people if Stilinski couldn't keep a handle on the body count.  "John Stilinski-- Beacon Hills Sheriff."  He extended his hand only to have it engulfed and caged by the other guy's.

"Jack Carter--Eureka Sheriff. You guys send us some of the weirdest shit."

"You think so?" John asked. "Cause that shit's our every fucking day in Beacon Hills."

Carter could have gotten mad, but he let out a good-natured snort. "Yeah-- well, yesterday they reversed gravity in Eureka. Again. Man, I thought I'd come get a drink right now before I had to suck it through a straw in my nose."

At that moment the bartender returned with a bottle of Johnny Walker Gold and two shot glasses. He poured up the shots and shoved them both at the men.

John picked his up with relief. "Oh thank you thank you thank you," he breathed, smelling the alcohol just to make sure it was there. "Here's to… not having your son possessed by a Kitsune this year," he said, remembering seven years before like it was yesterday."

"Oh God-- we heard about that," Carter said, surprising him. "Here's to not having your wife's first husband come back from the dead and having her choose him over you."

"Oh no! That's not a perk!" John sympathized. "Salaud!"

They both downed the drinks quickly, and John let the liquid burn through him.  Carter signaled for another pour.

"I miss them," Carter said when the barkeep had left, and John understood that these shots were for nursing and not for pounding. Good idea.

"Yeah," John muttered. "I bet you do. I still miss my wife. Dating just hasn't--"

"Not the same."

"No. It's depressing. My son is getting more action than I am."

"My daughter just got married--to another genius. They're going to have babies who are smarter than me when they're born!"

"Oh, ouch!" Poor guy-- John thought his life was bad. Well, it did have it's downsides. "My son is getting banged by a werewolf as we speak," he confessed, and its was rewarding to have Carter wince.

"Oh that's too bad. But, you know--I've seen the jacket on that Hale kid. He's not bad looking."

John had to laugh. "I'm saying-- I've been a ladies man all my life, but I didn't bat an eyelash when I realized what they were dong. Could convert the dead."

Next to him Carter let out a wounded sound and then pounded back his drink.  "Oh," he said softly.

"What?"  John actually looked at him.

"Nothing. You know. Just… was nice, for a minute. Having an equal. Having a friend."

"But we were…"  Carter met his eyes frankly, and John flushed. "Oh," he said, getting it. He downed his drink and sat for a moment, letting the rush of the alcohol burn through his body. He reached into his wallet and threw down a couple of bills, then looked back at Carter, who was looking away in embarrassment.  "So," he said, tapping Carter's elbow to get his attention.

"Yeah?"  Carter looked back, resignation slumping his shoulders.

"You, uh, want to see a werewolf in his boxer shorts, cooking bacon?"

Carter's smile twitched, and John had a moment to hope he'd see the whole thing in the course of the night, because it had the capacity to light up that homely handsome face and make it beautiful. He leaned over and spoke in John's ear, his breath tickling the fine hairs there and shivering a surprise shot of desire right down his spine. "I'd rather see you without your boxers, eating sausage."

John smiled, but rested his hand on Carter's thigh. "That's a terrible metaphor," he said.

"But a really pretty picture."

They met eyes then, and John Stilinski knew exactly what Jack Carter wanted, and although he'd never had that for breakfast before, he was pretty sure it couldn't hurt to try.

* * *

"Stiles," Derek mumbled in his ear. "Wake up."

"Why?"

"Because there's someone downstairs, cooking breakfast."

Stiles yawned and stretched, making double sure his door was shut. He'd only barely managed to convince Derek he could stay around this time. "Yeah, so? Probably Dad."

"Well, yeah. But I think he's brought someone home with him."

Stiles listened, but he wasn't a werewolf, and wishing to become a werewolf or a were coyote or a were fox or a were-ever had not gotten any closer to making it so.

"Oh," he said, smiling. "That's awesome. I mean, you know--go dad!"

Derek was doing that thing with his eyebrows that indicated he could hear/smell/taste something that Stiles could not. "Stiles, do you have any idea who your dad was seeing last night?"

Stiles slid out of bed and started fishing for his boxer shorts. He bent over right in front of Derek and let out a little yelp when Derek slid his hand right down Stiles's crack to cup his balls. "Do you want round four?" he asked.

Derek tugged him backwards by the balls, and as Stiles sat down, Derek moved his arm super quick to catch him. "I always want another round," he growled in Stiles's ear. What followed was a sweet, quick fuck into the mattress, Stiles holding the pillow in front of his mouth to muffle his screams.  When they finally ventured downstairs, both of them in sweats and shirtless, the sound of cooking had been replaced by the sound of two voices-- male--talking what sounded like Sheriff shop over coffee.

Stiles and Derek rounded the corner, and there was his dad--and his Dad's long lost cousin or something--both of them with the same law-enforcement hunch over their coffee, and the same crinkles in the corners of their eyes.

"So I'm telling you," the other guy was saying, "We had to force him to reconstitute like half the town, because he was sure someone had stolen his proton mathingigig. It was infuriating, and by the time he realized that ray gun was just firing off by itself, there was like, two of us left to go around and fix everyone."

"OH my God," Stiles's father laughed.  Both of them paused and turned toward Stiles and Derek, and Stiles tried to shut his mouth.  They were both wearing white boxer shorts. And nothing else.

"Derek! Glad you could stay this time," Mr. Stilinski said, a sincere smile on his face and not the fake one that didn't reach his eyes that Stiles had been afraid of.

"Thank you for not chasing me with your shotgun," Derek said politely. "Coffee Stiles?"

"Dad!" Stiles said after a moment, "Dad! You're… you and your… your--"

"This is Jack Carter," Mr. Stilinski said, talking to him slowly, like he was still a child.

"He's in his underwear!" Stiles wailed.

"And you're banging a werewolf, now come sit down and have breakfast."

Stiles gaped like a fish, and Derek shoved coffee in his hands.  "What did you think?" he asked softly. "YOur dad would be single forever?"

Jack Carter looked at Stiles and winked.  "I've heard a lot about you," he said after a moment. "Your dad says you're looking for a job, but you've got too many physics degrees to know what to do with yourself."

"Yeah, so?"  His dad ahd gotten laid. The same way Stiles had gotten laid. That was a thing that was going to burn it's way in Stiles's brain until it fell through the gray matter and hit occipital lobe.

"Have you ever heard of a town called Eureka?" Jack Carter asked, and Stiles and Derek both sucked in a breath.

"Tell me more?" Stiles said, a little stunned.

Suddenly, Jack Carter was far more interesting than his underwear, and Stiles had a lot more on his plate than a horny werewolf.

And a dad who left the house at least once a week for companionship.

And two sheriffs in the kitchen in their boxer shorts, which Stiles would never ask about again.

Goddamned Puritans

Okay, so in Spain and Mexico and civilized countries, when it gets really fucking hot, they shut the place down. They shut down the businesses and the stores, they shut down the schools if they have to. Everybody goes home during the heat of the day and they do the logical thing when they sun is trying to kill you dead:

Lay down in the shade under the fans and nap.

The body doesn't want to function under all that heat-- why the hell bother?

Now, businessmen in America may sneer-- what do they have to show for their lives, if they just nap them away?

Well, these intrepid South Americans and Europeans actually wake up from their naps and go back to work when the day gets cooler. Makes sense, yeah? They stay up until two, wake up at dawn, and sleep when the sun us trying to kill them.

Makes sense, right?

Now, the Puritans from way back in the day, they didn't have to worry about this in jolly old England. England was temperate (a lot more so then than now, even idiots like Trump and Murdoch have to admit) so, at most, it got to be 80 degrees outside, and they could wear their layers of wool and do hard work from dawn until dusk and their lives weren't at stake any more than they are normally when your default function is giant stick up your ass.

So, because this was how they lived, this, they assumed, was how all civilized people lived. If you had a work ethic and followed God, you woke up at dawn and worked until dusk and the weather didn't deter you because that was God's work you were doing and fuck all impediments that was the devil trying to get in your way.

So the Puritans left England and stayed for a while with the Dutch, but the Dutch weren't white enough for the Puritans (in the way that white means rigid, unbending, and believing that all faith should suck the joy out of not only your life but the lives of any unfortunate individuals who have the bad luck to cross your path) so the Puritans left the Netherlands and came to our East Coast.

Now, when they first arrived--in the middle of November-- the brine was literally freezing on their faces. Half of them died of starvation, disease and frostbite in that first winter, and they HAD to either keep moving or huddle over a burning stick or, well, more of them would die.

So the flaw in their reasoning didn't really catch up with them.

But then summer hit. And oh holy hell did summer in the north and southeast blow their fuckin' minds. See, their religion required them to button layers of black and blue wool up to their chins and yet, God gave them infernal temperatures and miserable humidity to test their faith. But did they quail? Oh hell no, because they were servants of GOD and GOD KNOWS the devil will just worm into your little heart if you go nap in the shade during the heat of the day and maybe do some of your work in the cool of the night, and to prove they were REALLY faithful, they stayed buttoned up in their suits too.

A lot of them collapsed from heat exhaustion.

A lot of them took off their frickin' jackets and worked in their shirt sleeves and showed no repentance.

A few of them kept on their jackets and used sanctimony as a coolant as they looked down upon their neighbors who were trying not to die. "See! I am plowing the field in my woolens all year long, I must be holier than fuckin' thou!"

But none of them thought, "Hey-- maybe we should rearrange our day a little in the summer so that we do not daeeee."

Because they were stupid that's why.

And they have passed their stupidity down through the ages, until today, when it was 107 degrees, I had to face the hideous choice: Send my daughter to soccer practice in the heat, or stay home in the air conditioning and laugh as Mate hauled our son out into the same heat for his game, and yet feel sadly demeaned and unholy and a little bit dirty because I didn't choose suffering as the righteous path.

I chose to hang out in the coolth because A. Squish has had a headache for the last two days and I feel guilty for throwing her out there, B. 107 is fucking insane and why wouldn't you call practice for a bunch of 9 year old girls, and C. FUCK THE PURITANS ANYWAY!!!

I mean, those assholes gave smallpox to the natives ON PURPOSE to depopulate the Americas. Why would we want to follow their worthless righteous hypocritical witch burning asses into the holy God Sacramento cauldron of hell anyway? What did these assholes give us besides an over inflated sense of ourselves and the completely false idea that the world revolved around their view of religion?

I'm certainly not going to drag my fat sorry ass into the inferno because some righteous high-horse-riding jackasses who's greed-driven work ethic should have collapsed the moment the first one who wouldn't take off his wool jacket dropped dead of the heat continue to drive our political agenda.

So anyway, that's why Squish wasn't at soccer practice today.

And Mate, bless his righteous heart, still has a Puritan work ethic, and that's why he and Zoomboy went and came home exhausted.

And now you know.

Attention Everybody...

I have cleaned my bathroom, and the dog is ded of shock.

She is laying there, as if to say, "I will only regain life if you clean off the kitchen table and sweep the kitchen floor.

I said I'd think about it.

She licked my toes and told me that was the most she could expect.

And then we both bitched about the heat and decided the housework could continue another day.  But the bathroom looks better-- I'd show you pictures, but even "clean" it's still a third-world death trap.

I'd rather show you the ded dawg.

With a Bullet...

*  First of all, I wasn't aware of how much I depended on Comedy Central to put my news into perspective until @Midnight and The Nightly Show premiered tonight. Oh, thank God for Chris Hardwick and Larry Wilmore, without whom I'd have to blog medieval on the world's ass yet again. They do a far better job than I could, so I get to bow out of politics for a while.

* We've been shotgunning old Supernatural episodes. The little kids have been appropriately scared out of their wits (because the first few seasons had their roots solidly in the horror genre) and now Squish, too, has begun the family infatuation with Jensen Ackles's freckles. I can only pat her shoulder in sympathy-- it's been almost eleven years, and I can still stare at the screen, hungrily waiting to catch another glimpse.

Ah, freckles.

*  I spent the morning in the car. Wake up, drop ZB off. Get home, drop the dogs off, pick Squish up, drop her off at school.  Leave school, go to airport, pick up Mate who is horrified at how much alcohol he can no longer drink without feeling like asscrackles. Come home, settle Mate down to sleep, sit down at my desk and…

Need a frickin' NAP because that was a lot of driving on five hours of sleep!

*  Chicken got a job! (We are all so relieved to hear this. Of course now she needs a SECOND job to pay off her student loans, because Elizabeth Warren is NOT president yet. But she will be… hopefully before Chicken contributes more money to American political greed.)

*  And it's 100 degrees again on the awful soccer field. *headdesk*  I would love so much for it to rain-- somebody get right on it, 'kay?

*  And I just had to erase a half an hour of political ranting again. @midnight, don't you ever leave me! I'll become unhinged!

* Big T has cleaned his room. I swear, we can see carpeting. *sigh* This means I REALLY have to get to the damned table, doesn't it?

* Squish has been brushing her hair and putting it up in an inexpert ponytail lately. I'm just frequently reminded of how much and how quickly they're growing up!

* And did I mention (I may have) that ZB asked a girl out to the school dance. She might say yes-- the little minx is dangling two boys on a hook. ZB's father is… stunned. He can't figure out where this confidence and precociousness came from. I told him it must be a recessive gene like the ADHD. One of the kids had to have it…

*  I need to start "preening" for Yaoi-Con which is… oh wow-- NEXT WEEK????? Holy CRAP. But seriously-- I love this event. I'm there with friends and all the kids at the con get dressed up and everyone is usually happy.  YC was my first con ever-- the first place someone (Sadonna Swan I think it was you if you're out there) came to a booth and asked for me by name. The first place I met my beloved Elizabeth and much adored Lynn, the irrepressible Ariel and her gracious writing partner Nikki, the bouncilicious Andrew, the sultry and seductive Connie, my beautiful Julianne, and Mary-my-Mary and nobody else shall have her. There are no events at Yaoi-Con (although I believe I'm on a panel with Shira Anthony on Sunday morning-- yay!) and no "signings".  It is just watching Mary-my-Mary sell books, because she's STUNNING-- glorious and a true lover of stories as only she can be. It is watching the costumes and seeing the vendors--whom you sort of get to know-- and generally being a part of a great party, and seeing some lovely boy/boy art and talking to people I love. (Even if most of those people I met at my first one won't be there :-(  Anyway-- I'm excited. Anybody in the Bay Area, be sure to look up the DSP booth-- it will be on the vendor's floor, so you'll probably only need a one-day pass to come visit.  I'd love to see you all there!

Kermit Flail Monday-- September Edition!!!

Whew! I survived August! YAYAYAYAYAYAYAYAYAY!!!

Seriously-- I didn't think I was going to make it. I have to admit, the end was a lot easier than the beginning-- and it was still pretty intense.

So I'm sooooooo happy to see that September is moving on a bit, and that it's looking like it might not be a thousand degrees over the next month. *sigh*  Everybody pray for rain, okay?

And also, everybody enjoy the fall reading we've got here!  (We could file that under clumsy segues, but let's be charitable and not, kay?)  Seriously-- we've got four new releases, one of them het and one of them RHYS FORD (I've been waiting for this one!) and a sale on an author that I think you'll really love.  So fall, time of change and the falling away of the old and the hope for the new, here we come--we're ready for some new and some change and some exciting awesome reading-- are you all with me? 

YAYAYAYAYAYAYAYAYAYAYAYAYAYAYAYAYAYAYAYAY!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Sloe Ride
by Rhys Ford

Sequel to Tequila Mockingbird 
Sinners Series: Book Four 

It isn’t easy being a Morgan. Especially when dead bodies start piling up and there’s not a damned thing you can do about it. 

Quinn Morgan never quite fit into the family mold. He dreamed of a life with books instead of badges and knowledge instead of law—and a life with Rafe Andrade, his older brothers’ bad boy friend and the man who broke his very young heart. 

Rafe Andrade returned home to lick his wounds following his ejection from the band he helped form. A recovering drug addict, Rafe spends his time wallowing in guilt, until he finds himself faced with his original addiction, Quinn Morgan—the reason he fled the city in the first place. 

When Rafe hears the Sinners are looking for a bassist, it’s a chance to redeem himself, but as a crazed murderer draws closer to Quinn, Rafe’s willing to sacrifice everything—including himself—to keep his quixotic Morgan safe and sound.


Buy at Amazon


Betrothed: A Faery Tale
by Therese Woodson


Faery royalty have always married for duty rather than love. Prince Chrysanths should be no different—except with a human for a father, the prince known as Puck already is different. When he is betrothed against his will to Prince Sky, Puck flees to his father in the human world, only to have Sky follow.

Prince Sky Song of the Clouds isn’t thrilled with the prospect of marriage either, but is bound by duty to follow through. If he can’t win Puck over, the faery realm might very well dissolve into utter chaos. Too busy arguing, Puck and Sky are unaware there are others with a vested interest in seeing the betrothal fail. In a bid for Puck’s crown, they’ll seek to keep them apart, even as Puck and Sky realize that duty and love don’t always have to be mutually exclusive.
Dreamspinner Press


Challenge the Darknessby Dirk Greyson
When alpha shifter Mikael Volokov is called to witness a challenge, he learns the evil and power-hungry Anton Gregor will stop at nothing to attain victory. Knowing he will need alliances to keep his pack together, Mikael requests a congress with the Evergreen pack and meets Denton Arguson, Evergreen alpha, to ask for his help. Fate has a strange twist for both of them though, and Mikael and Denton soon realize they’re destined mates.  Dirk GreysonDenton resists the pull between them—he has his own pack and his own responsibilities. But Mikael isn't willing to give up. The Mother has promised Mikael his mate, told him he must fight for him, and that only together can they defeat the coming darkness. When Anton casts his sights on Denton's pack, attacks and sabotage follow, pulling Denton and Mikael together to defeat a common enemy. But Anton’s threats sow seeds of destruction enough to break any bond, and the mates’ determination to challenge the darkness may be their only saving grace.
Buy at Dreamspinner  



The Bend or Break collection is an LGBTQ series of linked standalone novels. From off campus roommates who cross all the boundaries or an angry banjo boy with his hometown ex, to a bangable dudebro with a huge heart and a bi girlfriend, or a pair of competitive crew rowers, these stories are emotional, honest, and smoking hot!
Off Campus is currently on sale for 99 cents, but I'm not sure how long that will last. It was supposed to be over already! I'm happy it's not, but it could end at any time.
Series link on Amazon:  http://www.amazon.com/gp/product/B0141KAHZM/ref=series_rw_dp_sw 
Off Campus (sale) or Level Hands (new release) elsewhere. I know this is more links than you need, but I figured I'd give you all of the & you can use what's most preferred. :)
Off Campus at ARe 
Level Hands at Amazon Level Hands at ARe

Actos of Creationby Elisabeth StaabHe’s living a lie.
Dante Ramos: Champion. Ladies’ man. Party animal. Women want him, and men either want to be him or put his lights out for sleeping with their girlfriends. It’s all an act. Inside, he’s so full of self-loathing he’s on a fast-track to self-destruction.
She’s living in the shadows.
Meeting Michelle at a support group for assault survivors shows Dante a new world of possibilities. Finally, someone in his life might understand him, and she creates in him a fierce need to protect. Trouble is, Dante lives his life in the spotlight, and the only thing Michelle wants is a place to hide.
Early release price! 99 cents – regular price – 3.99.
Amazon
ARe


And that's it, folks!  Remember--if you have anything you want posted on Kermit Flail, be sure to send it to me the last week of the month. I need a .jpg photo, a buy link, and a blurb and I'm good to go!  I'm always up for new *Flail*!!!

Amy's Suggestion for the Coming Election

I'll be real. The worst thing about politics-- for me-- is that it bores me shitless. Yeah, so Trump's a crass bozo who couldn't find his ass with both hands if someone gave him a bucket to shit in.  We know it, we know everything that's going to come out of his mouth is going to be awful and make us hate ourselves and the rest of mankind, and we know the Republicans are going to pretend to be horrified while actually being titillated because he's actually articulating their policies with the precision of a standup comic and making people love those horrible, dehumanizing policies because he's a bozo who couldn't find his ass with both hands if someone gave him a bucket to shit in.

These people are awful, awful human beings who have given up pretending to try to fix their country, and now I'm bored. I want to see GOOD people doing GOOD things.

And mostly, I want to see all this happening not on my television viewing time. I'm fucking serious, man. The next time someone preempts my gory cop drama so we can see candidates talk out of their assholes while planning the continued dominion of the puckered angry white man I'm gonna fucking lose it.

And that's the root of my proposal for the coming election.

I want to see these fuckers--Democratic and Republican-- DO SOMETHING. Anything. Jesus, knit a fucking sweater, just don't take up my time and a fuckton of the nations money being career politicians.

So how about we put that money somewhere else.

I propose that the Superpacs give each candidate a set amount of money. They cannot use their own funds. Superpac money, the end. And then they have a year to FUCKING DO SOMETHING for their country.

I mean it. What do they claim to be behind? The environment? Great-- take one of the cities with the shittiest air quality and build solar centers on some buildings. Civil rights? Awesome. Get together a think tank and come up with some solid policies that will stop open season on our black population, because I am all the hell for stopping that shit, it needs to fucking stop. Then implement those policies in a control group and see if they work. Women's health issues? Maybe open up some women's health clinics that don't slut shame and don't rate a woman's life at slightly less than a cockroach's, hmm?  Education? Great. Invest in some teachers in some of the country's poorest areas and stop crippling them with things like, "Teach everything but history, literature, and science."  Oh-- and a schoolbook or two would 't fucking kill you, would it?

I don't give a damn what you do with this money-- just do SOMETHING besides get on my television and make me wish I was born a mantis shrimp or a tiny dog or tsetse fly or ANYTHING that shares DNA with the blithering fuckheads who make me loathe my entire goddamned species.

And then, after a set time, we do analysis. We look at statistics before and after, exit interviews of employees, exit client interviews, we find some sort of measurable form of success (I know this blows people away, but education does it all the fucking time-- ovary up, politicians, we want to know you're not corrupt diseased political whores, get the fuck over it) and we see if this politician has managed to implement a successful strategy to make the world a better place.

And THEN we give the top five successes an advertising budget with one caveat: they are not allowed to shit on anybody else.

Seriously. I can't sell a single book by trash talking my competitors-- and why would I even try? It would make me feel like the bacterial slime on dogshit to try to make myself feel better by saying bad things about colleagues who work just as hard as I do to produce a decent product. So why do we REWARD politicians for doing this? We buy into their fear and their hatred and their "THIS OTHER PERSON IS BAAAAAAAAAAAAD" bullshit.  THEY may be bacterial slime on a dog turd, but WE'RE better than that.

Let's make THEM better than that.

Let's make them advertise what they've done for us. Let's MAKE them accomplish something. Let's MAKE THEM get the HOLY FUCK OFF OF OUR TELEVISIONS while we're trying to invest in some sort of positive view of the human world. (And remember-- I watch gory cop dramas-- how bad do they have to be if they're worse than the scum dogs on Major Crimes or Murder in the First.)

Let's make them prove they can do something.

That's really all I ask.

What Things Do You Know

Okay all-- here we go. Thanks to Jules Who Loves Books and Mary-my-Mary, today's choice is STUCKY!

For those who don't know, this is Captain America (Steve Rogers) and Bucky Buchanan (The Winter Soldier.)

I don't know any more of the canon than we've seen in the Marvel Cinematic Universe, so that's what I stuck with here.

Did I say it was angsty?

Yeah-- bring tissues:

*  *  *

Bucky knew three things were true:

He was a soldier of the United States Government.

He loved his country, his mother, and Brooklyn.

He'd gone down on Steve Rogers before the guy had become a freakshow of muscles, and as the slender, fragile body had arched in his arms, spattering semen down Bucky's throat in Steve's virgin cum, he had fallen so deeply in love with another human being that to yank that out was to destroy the best part of who he was.

The hydra officer looked into his eyes and clamped the final binding into place before checking all of the sinister red lights on his control panel.

"So," the officer said, mask in place and only eyes made bulbous and frog like by spectacles giving him any semblance of humanity, "You seem to have a strong sense of self."

Bucky laughed.  Yeah, they'd managed the vibranium horror show of an arm--he'd taken out the first three doctors to try to make him test it, though, hadn't he?

"I can fuck up anything you throw at me," he dared.

But a part of him was afraid. God, what if he lost what he knew to be true?  He was proud to be a soldier, proud of his country, proud of his mother and Brooklyn--

Proud of those stolen moments, Steve's limpid eyes looking at him like he'd hung the sun and the moon and the stars. Proud of the moments in a flophouse in France, where Steve had put down the shield and Bucky had touched every new muscle in wonder.

I bet you think you should top now, doncha big guy?

No, Bucky. I want you inside me, always.

Steve's chest had felt hard and certain under Bucky's hands, his nipples pointed and oh-so-sensitive. Bucky had kneaded the thick muscles of his flank and ass before going down and tasting his asshole.  He'd thrown Steve around and back against the bed, hungering for his cock again, longer this time, thicker, but still Steve's. Bucky was a visceral guy, he needed to touch, needed to taste, needed to have Steve's hands on his skin, making the whole thing real.

But in the end, Bucky thrusting inside that perfect body, it had been Steve's blue eyes, gazing at him wide and full love wonder, because he, James Buchanan, had taken that body and made it sing, made it buck and heave and cum.  

Bucky's orgasm threw him forward, and when Steve spurted between them, Bucky had wanted to roll in it. He wanted Steve on his skin for always.

He wasn't giving that shit up, no way, no how-- he was from Brooklyn, dammit!

The Hydra Officer gave him a bored look and hit the big red button. The six stainless steel hypodermic needles all thrust into his skin at once and the plungers depressed.

Bucky began to scream.

*  *  *

Bucky knew three things…

Wait… he was from Brooklyn.  He was in the army.  Who's? The United States of Hydra.  Who's? The United Hydras.  Who's Army, Soldier, Who's army are you in? 

Hydra's Army, sir!

Bucky knew three things…

He was in Hydra's army.

Hydra was his mother.

Hydra was his home.

He didn't love to need anyone because--

Because those eyes, blue and limpid, looked at him like the sun and the moon and the stars.

"Who's army are you in, Soldier?"

"Hydra's."

"Who's army do you love, Soldier?"

"Hydra's?"

"Where is your home, Soldier?"

"Hydra!"

Don't ask me about my soul, because my soul is in the taste of cum in a flophouse in France. My soul is in my best friend's body as I climax and shatter into a million pieces, made whole again in his eyes. Don't ask me about my soul. You don't know me. 

"Is he completely ours, Doctor?"

"There is something in his eyes…"

"But you have taken all the measures, have you not?"

"Jawol! But there is something we don't know how to ask."

"If we don't know how to ask it, it must not exist. Now send him out…"

The taste of cum… a flophouse in France… my best friend's body, tender, fragile, a human tank… climax, light shattering in my head, made whole again in his eyes.

"Treat him again!"

cum… France… body, tender, fragile, human… climax… light… made whole again in his eyes.

"Again!"

cum… tender… fragile… human… climax…dark… made whole again in his eyes…

"Again!"

Oh please… let me just remember… I can remember Steve's eyes.

"Again!"

Steve's eyes, his cock in my throat… his body arching--

"Bucky? Is that you?"

Fight. Fight. Muscles bunching, vibranium arm flexing, eyes intent only on target. Kill target, Captain America, blond, beautiful, the symbol of all Hydra wanted to destroy, lines of fatigue and sadness in the corners of his eyes, bitterness around his full mouth.

This man knew the taste of betrayal, of trampled dreams, of despair.

Kill him.

"I won't fight you!"

Then die.

And the battle rages.  Don't look at me with those eyes. YOu don't know me. I am three things. I am a member of Hydra's army. I love my captors. Hydra is my home. 

"Then kill me."

And Soldier watches him hurtle out of the disintegrating ship, eyes limpid and betrayed, beggared of all faith.

STeve's eyes in a flophouse in France, the taste of his cum, that knowledge that Bucky Buchanan had owned his body, held his heart in soul in the palm of his hand.  

"Steve!"

*  *  *

His body was tender, fragile, made of muscles and bone.  Bucky was the monster, more machine than man. Bucky needed to rescue, needed to see him breathe.

You looked at me and owned my soul with your eyes. 

I need to see what you see.

I need to find my soul.

*  *  *

Steve Rogers coughed up water and turned over, vomiting more.

I saw him. I saw him. I know three things.

My name is Steve Rogers.  I love my country, Brooklyn, and the Avengers.
My best friend took my virginity when we were away at war. I gave him my soul in my eyes, in my body, in my cum. He holds it in the palm of his hand.

I need him to come back, because he holds my soul. 

A Tiny Post of Evil

So, I sent this picture to Chicken, who has been calling the dogs "assholes" since they chased her cat away.

"Look," she responded. "It's two assholes straining."

And yes, she was correct. That IS two assholes straining.  (I carry a little cylinder full of plastic bags for no other reason than to pick up poop. Yes, I find this hilarious.)

Chicken and I also came to the conclusion that one benignly drunken male feminist is worth ten sober chauvinist pigs on any day.

Unfortunately, that ratio is true.


Also--

Yesterday, Mate was looking at the ziplock bags full of dog treats I buy and laughing. "I don't know why! I keep thinking they're human treats! And that plastic bin full of dog biscuits is the same thing!"

We both had a good laugh about it, and today I went grocery shopping.

I came home today with three ziplock bags of jerky-- the kind for humans-- and one of those clear plastic bins of animal crackers--mostly just to dick with him. I lined them up on the counter with the dog jerky and biscuits and let Mate come in and see them.

Heh heh heh… I'm usually the worst practical joker in the world-- I loathe the practical joke. But this one? This one made Mate laugh. I was happy.

Also--

So, Kim Davis got to go to jail today. For those of you unfamiliar with Ms. Davis, she's the Kentucky clerk who refused to grant marriage licenses to gay couples because of her own religion. She's an elected official, and she was refusing to do her duty and refusing to step down and let someone else do it, so, yah, jail.

I am obviously not feeling sorry for her.

I am particularly not sorry that her past life as an adulterer has come to light.

Because here's the thing-- there are a lot of religions that would stone this woman to death for that. She should be thanking her lucky stars that she lives in a place that believes in the division of church and state.  But it does all go back to what I said earlier-- people always tend to think that "division of church and state" means that their state will support their church.

I know a teeny tiny bit about history, and I'm reasonably sure the founding fathers did not mean it that way. What they meant was that their president couldn't also be the leader of the church that compelled attendance and tithes from all of the citizens, and the reason we know this is because that's what the monarch back in England was doing. 

This was bad.  They thought we shouldn't do that.

This did not mean that we could use our religion as a club to bang people on the head with, and it did not mean that anyone who didn't practice our religion was violating anything to do with the state.  Yes, I know--given our foreign policies in the middle east and the right wing's domestic policies governing women's health and their bodies, people probably got confused.  It is obvious that this woman, too, was confused, much as I was when I read that she got pregnant by her third husband while married to her first, and that the second was okay with this but the fourth one didn't come around until she found God.

It probably wasn't that hard to find God.

He was probably eating popcorn while watching her do bizarre kinky things to her life.

Right now, he's probably full of popcorn, drinking a root beer, and talking to his son, full of wonder for the entire human race.  "And can you believe it, 'Sus? This crazy heifer was using our names to justify this shit!"

"Yeah, Dad. I"m sick of that shit-- anything we can do?"

"Just laugh at all the bigots not going to heaven, son."

"Yeah-- and aren't they going to be surprised when Mom tells them that.  Man, they are just going to shit their shorts when they realize who's really in charge."

"Heh heh heh… It's awesome to watch. And John Boehner can't live forever, son. It's gonna be beeyoootiful!"

"Oooh! Yeah! That's gonna be fabulous. Can I cook up some more popcorn so we can watch the show?"

"Yup-- here, hold the giant Jiffy Pop pan over California. I've got to say, global warming isn't good for the poor folks down there, but it sure does make it easier to get snacks!"

Okay-- you get the picture. And I must be more tired than I thought, because A. I ventured into politics again, and B. I just had an imaginary conversation with God and Son in front of witnesses.

I'll leave it on that note, before some clerk in Kentucky decides this blog is illegal.

Moar Adventures of Chicken!

Text--
Chicken: Mom, how do you change a tire?
Me: You get the tire out of the trunk--wait, why are you asking.

Phone Rings

Chicken: Okay-- so I've got a spare in my trunk?
Me: Your father and I are going to hell for this.
Chicken: Are you sure?
Me: Of course I'm sure-- all cars have a spare in the back.  Now lift up the thing--
Chicken: There it is!
Me: Now pull out the jack, and the crossbar thingy, and the tire--wait. How bad is your tire flat? Can you just pump air into it--
Chicken: It exploded.
Me: How'd you do that?
Chicken: I don't know.  I curbed it, it was flat, I tried to drive it to a gas station and it blew up.
Me: That's bad.
Chicken: It's what dad told me to do.
Me: Next time call an auto service.
Chicken: How to I operate a jack?
Me: Okay--
Chicken: Wait-- here's the owner's manual. It's got pictures.
Me: You can read that?
Chicken: Yeah, no big deal.
Me: Please tell me you're not on the side of the road changing your tire.
Chicken: Mom! I'm not stupid! I'm in the mall parking lot, inside.
Me: 0.0 Okay…
Chicken: It was safe.  Anyway--

And at this point, my attempts to help Chicken change a flat tire via a phone call from San Diego to Sacramento are interrupted by a dick. Well, he was a nice guy, really-- I mean, a chivalrous guy, who wanted to help the sweet little lady change a tire, and I was grateful. But before she hung up I heard him being condescending to the little girl with the big problem, and I wanted to get pissed.  Hey there, buddy-- that little girl was smart and resourceful and she could read an owner's manual.  Her only problem is that she has parents who forget things like AAA and how to change a flat.

Treat her like an equal-- she's got this grownup shit nailed.

More Parenting Fails

*  This afternoon Big T asked me if we had any dish soap. I told him no, I'd get him some tomorrow. Two hours later I got mad because the dishes weren't done.

Lightbulb!

*  Squish has had to do laps in soccer because we're three minutes late. A part of me thinks this is draconian and you shouldn't do this to nine year olds. Another part of me is wondering how I can get away with not talking to the people I'm usually talking to at 4:30 when I need to get her ready for soccer.  The other part of me remembers when my parents made me late for band and I had to do laps and I swore they were horrible people.

Ah, karma. It's a bitch.

*  Zoomboy is doing very well in math, but he has lost his school agenda. Because he's my spawn, that's why. And because I wait until the traffic clears to go pick him up. And because… because he's MINE, and I LOSE SHIT and I'm SORRY!

Oh my God-- could I possibly recall my part of the gene pool? It's not good for them-- it's just not!

*  Chicken got a flat tire. Apparently neither Mate nor myself taught her how to change a flat tire. I could have sworn Mate did it. He was like, "I just ran out of time…"

Story of my fucking life.

*  Y'all? I'm DYING for Fanfic Friday. Just saying. I'd really love to be somebody new!

*  And as a side note, I just lost two minutes after typing that last sentence-- I'm not sure, but I think maybe sleep would be a great thing for all of us. God. Soccer season. Thirteen years down, eight and a half to go.

*  Oh, and the .gif?  I uploaded that for a FB contest, and you know what? It makes me laugh, and I really needed that laugh.

Heh heh… get it? Pie!