text:
Countess

Traits

Melee | ASSASSIN | BURST | SIEGER | GANKER | DURABLE

Release Date

October 25, 2016

Codename Vamp

Difficulty

Advanced

Base Stats

Base Health
Health Regen
Base Mana
Mana Regen
Movement Speed

566 (+59.3)
0.94 (+1)
390 (+30)
1.7 (+0.1)
655

Ability Defense
Basic Defense
Basic Attack Damage
Attacks per Second

30
13.6 (+2.3)
52.9 (+2.1)
1.11

The COUNTESS is a burst caster whose greatest strengths are misdirection and unpredictability. Utilizing her abilities, Countess can quickly single out and assassinate a key target and vanish into the darkness.

Abilities

Background

-   Remembers every meal she has ever had; taste, smell, and texture.
-   None have ever traveled to her lands, yet none doubt her claim to nobility.
-   Seeks that which is greater than herself, and believes she has found it.

Emotes quotes

-   Courting her prey over the centuries, Countess has perfected the art of invitation.
-   "Whenever that creature laughs, someone is going to die." - Terra
-   Countess does not tolerate foolishness.
-   On rare occasions, Countess will dance for others to put them in a more pliable mood.

-   Countess is seeking something from Sevarog. _(revealed by Epic)_
-   Had a showdown against Terra. Ruled the city of Velikov. _(revealed in Tales of Agora)_

_“When a provincial noblewoman jumped from a high bridge and hit the water far below, she was found beneath the depths by a dark spirit, and emerged the next morning with cold skin and a strange hunger. She returned to the court that had ended her life and became its sinister ruler as the Countess.”_

Gallery

Skins

[Countess Default skin]

_Countess in her beloved leather and lace._

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HOW TO UNLOCK: Unlocked by default

[Countess Green Default skin]

_Countess in her beloved leather and lace._

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HOW TO UNLOCK: Obtain as a Loot Crate drop

[Countess Blue Default skin]

_Countess in her beloved leather and lace._

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HOW TO UNLOCK: Obtain as a Loot Crate drop

[Countess Challenger skin]

_"I've always loved wearing white. It goes so well with all the red." - Countess_

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HOW TO UNLOCK: Begin Countess' Master Challenge

[Countess Rival skin]

_Tyranny and murder become law and order when dressed in royal violet._

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HOW TO UNLOCK: Obtain rank 6 on Countess' Master Challenge

[Countess Master skin]

_A great fire burns within Countess as numberless lives flow through her veins._

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HOW TO UNLOCK: Earn the title of _Master_ with Countess

[Countess Red Hex skin]

_The blood is spilled. The rites, performed. There is no turning back._

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HOW TO UNLOCK: Purchase at the Store for 500 [Coins icon] or obtain as a Loot Crate drop

[Countess Carnivale skin]

_Countess loves a masquerade, but if her amusement dies, the revelers follow._

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HOW TO UNLOCK: Purchase at the Store for 500 [Coins icon] or obtain as a Loot Crate drop

[Countess Red Carnivale skin]

_Countess loves a masquerade, but if her amusement dies, the revelers follow._

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HOW TO UNLOCK: Obtain as a Loot Crate drop

[Countess Green Carnivale skin]

_Countess loves a masquerade, but if her amusement dies, the revelers follow._

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HOW TO UNLOCK: Obtain as a Loot Crate drop

[Countess Golden Masque skin]

_A fortune spent in embroidery, filigree, and gold leaf - no expense too great for a victim's last sight._

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HOW TO UNLOCK: Purchase at the Store for 500 [Coins icon] or obtain as a Loot Crate drop

[Countess Shogun skin]

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HOW TO UNLOCK: Unreleased skin found in Countess' assets on Unreal Engine

 Images

[][]

Videos

[Paragon - Countess Announce]
Paragon - Countess Announce

[Paragon - Countess Overview]
Paragon - Countess Overview

[PARAGON COUNTESS SKINS]
PARAGON COUNTESS SKINS

[Paragon - Countess Voice Lines]
Paragon - Countess Voice Lines

Change Log

UPDATE V44.6 - DECEMBER 12, 2017

-   Shadow Slip
    -   No longer executes jungle minions (intended to execute lane minions only).
-   General Balance
    -   Base Health increased from 520 to 566
    -   Base Health Regen increased from .87 to .94
    -   Health per level increased from 53 to 59.3
    -   Health Regen per level increased from 0.9 to 1

UPDATE V44.3 - NOVEMBER 20, 2017

-   Blade Siphon
    -   Damage increased from 88/135/181/228 to 105/152/199/246.
-   Shadow Slip
    -   Slow magnitude increased from 20% at all levels to 42% / 45% / 48% / 51%.
    -   Slow duration increased from 1s at all levels to 1.5s at all levels.
-   General Balance
    -   Base Basic Defense decreased from 19.2 to 13.6.
    -   Basic Defense per level increased from 2 to 2.3.
    -   Movement Speed decreased from 695 to 655.

UPDATE V42.5 - SEPTEMBER 12, 2017

-   Countess lore week

UPDATE V39 - APRIL 4, 2017

-   Polish & Bug Fixing
    -   Fixed glowing blades visual effect after leaving the shadowplane.

UPDATE V37 - JANUARY 31, 2017

-   Polish/Bug Fixing
    -   Fix for Dark Tide dealing no damage if she is stunned after it has been cast.
    -   Damage volume now more correctly match FX of the ability.

UPDATE V36.2 - JANUARY 24, 2017

-   Polish/Bug Fixing
    -   Fixed various clipping, mesh and animation issues.

UPDATE V36 - JANUARY 10, 2017

-   Polish and Bug Fixing
    -   “Naughty Naughty” emote now has audio.

UPDATE V35.1.2 - JANUARY 3, 2017

-   Dark Tide
    -   Increased base damage to 80/140/200/260 from 80/130/180/230
-   Blade Siphon
    -   Increased base damage to 60/110/160/210 from 60/100/140/180

UPDATE V35.1 - DECEMBER 13, 2016

-   Blade Siphon
    -   Tooltip updated to reflect new percentages of health gained from kills. (2% for Minions and 10% for Heroes)

UPDATE V35 - DECEMBER 6, 2016

-   Shadow Slip
    -   Damage type adjusted from "Physical" to "Ability."
    -   Cooldown reduced from 15 to 10 seconds.
    -   Range reduced from 1100 to 850.
-   Dark Tide
    -   Damage type adjusted from "Physical" to "Ability."
    -   Cooldown reduced from 17/16/15/14 to 8 seconds at all levels.
-   Blade Siphon
    -   Damage type adjusted from "Physical" to "Ability."
    -   Cooldown reduced from 12/11/10/9 to 8 seconds at all levels.
-   Feast
    -   Damage type adjusted from "Physical" to "Ability."
    -   Cooldown reduced from 100/90/80 to 100/70/40 seconds.

UPDATE V34.2 - NOVEMBER 22, 2016

-   Added Countess Emote “Naughty Naughty” to in-game store.

UPDATE V33.2 - NOVEMBER 1, 2016

-   Golden Masque Countess added to in-game store.
-   Carnivale Countess added to in-game store.
-   Polish/Bug Fixing
    -   Player cameras after being affected by Feast will be reset.

UPDATE V33.1 - OCTOBER 25, 2016

-   Countess added to Paragon.
-   Red Hex Countess added to in-game store.

-   Heroes
-   Melee
-   Assassin
-   Advanced
-   Burst
-   Sieger
-   Ganker
-   Durable

Community content is available under CC-BY-SA unless otherwise noted.

question: Summarize what kind of player experience is had when playing as the Countess.

answer: The Countess encourages players to fight in one-on-one situations as her abilities appear to be focused on assassination type attacks. The listed skills for her do not show any skills good for crowd control or multiple targets, so she is probably relegated to a support position in a team combat scenario. Naturally, she would be at a disadvantage when facing more than one opponent alone. She is noted to be durable and a sieger, which means that she is not entirely a damage based character. The backstory, name, and descriptions all point to her being a vampire themed unit, so it is would not be surprising of she has some teleportation abilities and health absorbing attacks.


split: test

text:
About This Game

[]
Fight your way up the ancient Tower and challenge the bosses of each level. Unveil the mystery that lies up in its peak. Play four different stories and unlock multiple endings. Join Lionel, Faindrel, Lord Snicklefritz and "Dark Echo" in their quest to get to the top! Now with co-op up to 4 players!

[]
[]

The Tower is known to have been created by an ancient being. Legends say that whoever defeats all of the guardians and reach the top will have the right to be granted the ultimate wish - "The ability to change one's fate". In the past 100 years, many have tried and never been heard from ever again. Until one day, four brave souls came forth and challenged their fate.

[]

[]

-   Fast-paced 2D boss battling action.
-   4 Playable Characters, many different ways to play.
-   17 Fightable bosses designed with multiple phases.
-   12 beautifully-crafted levels.
-   25+ CGs that are used for the storyline.
-   34+ Music tracks from bosses, characters and story themes.
-   Over 120+ story in game cutscenes.
-   Multiple story endings.
-   Arcade Mode for those who want to play the tower but not the tale!
-   Boss rush mode with leaderboards.
-   Freemode that enables you to fight the bosses at your own pace and difficulty.
-   Steam Achievements.
-   Full controller support + rebindable controls.

[]
Control four different characters and follow their stories. Learn their motivations on coming to the Tower. Each character shows a different perspective. The choices you make on one character may affect what will happen on the others. With a story that intertwines all of their fates, there can only be one who will claim the ultimate prize!

[]

First prince and heir to the throne of Lionhead Kingdom. Having heard about the legend of "The Tower", Lionel set out on a quest to challenge his fate.

[]
[]

Came from a forgotten civilization called "Ashelm". Enslaved by humans, she lived most of her childhood life in chains. Until one day, she was rescued by Alywyn the Red. A vigilante who fights for justice. She went to the Tower seeking power to rid the world of evil and end all wars.

[]
[]

A rabbit-folk from the Sect of Colors. He has mastered all forms of magic in each element. During the meeting with the four leaders, he has been tasked to investigate the tower as they have been sensing a source of malice around the area.

[]
[]

An unknown assassin who claims to be the "Son of Darkness". He likes to say catch phrases like "Get eaten by darkness" and thinks he's the best. His true intentions are unknown.

[]

question: What does "25+ CGs that are used for the storyline" mean?

answer: CGs usually mean computer graphics.

question: "Up to 4 players," but can fewer than four play?

answer: Presumably, "four brave souls came forth and challenged their fate" just sounds like telling of the story.

question: What does "Control four different characters" mean?

answer: Sounds like you ultimately have to advance through the levels with all four characters, even if you're playing alone.

question: Who are the four characters?

answer: Lionel, a girl rescued by Alywyn the Red, a rabbit-folk character, and an unknown assassin the "Son of Darkness."

question: Write a ~3 sentence summary.

answer: This unnamed game stars four heroes on a quest to defeat the various bosses along the way to the top of an ancient, mystic tower. Whoever reaches the top will have the right to "change one's fate." Featuring fast paced 2D boss battling action, 4 playable characters, 17 bosses, and 12 beautifully crafted levels.


text:
MIKHAIL VASILYEVICH MOTSAK (; 22 November 1949 – 19 October 2019) was a high-ranking career officer of the Soviet and Russian Navies.

Born in Moscow, Motsak grew up in Sevastopol, attending the and starting his naval career as an engineer in the Pacific Fleet. Rising through the ranks to more senior positions, he served on submarines in various roles, transferring to the Northern Fleet and his own submarine commands in 1982. Commended for his performance, Motsak graduated to various staff positions in the fleet, was promoted to rear-admiral in 1993 and became commander in 1993. In 1994 he was awarded the title of Hero of the Russian Federation. In May 1999 Motsak was appointed Chief of Staff and First Deputy Commander of the Northern Fleet.

Part of his duties included organising the fleet's exercises for summer 2000,the first in a decade. During the exercises the submarine _Kursk_ suffered a series of catastrophic explosions and sank. Motsak was deeply involved in rescue attempts to reach the stricken submarine before officials learned that the entire crew of 118 had died. He commanded the salvage operation the following year. Motsak was among the fleet's officers to be criticised in the subsequent investigation into the disaster.

He was demoted and forced to resign. He became deputy to the Presidential Envoy to the Northwestern Federal District for a time. Later he worked in the private sector with marine engineering companies. Over his career he had received several awards in addition to the title of Hero of the Russian Federation, including the Order "For Merit to the Fatherland" Fourth Class, the Order of Honour and the Order "For Personal Courage". He died in 2019 and was buried in the Serafimovskoe Cemetery in his home city of Saint Petersburg.

Early life and career

[The , where Motsak studied in the 1970s] Motsak was born on 22 November 1949 in Moscow, then part of the Russian Soviet Federative Socialist Republic in the Soviet Union.[1] His family moved to Sevastopol during his childhood, and Motsak grew up and attended high school there. After graduating from high school, he enrolled in the .[2] He graduated in 1972 with a specialty in submarine missile guidance systems, and was assigned to serve as a senior engineer in the Pacific Fleet.[3][4][5][6] After service in shore-based weapons installations as engineer and then senior engineer, Motsak transferred to the submarine service. Between 1974 and 1979 he was promoted from armament commander to assistant commander, and then senior assistant commander of a nuclear submarine.[7] He completed the in 1982.[8][9]

Motsak was next assigned to the Northern Fleet, where from 1982 he commanded the _K-517_.[10] During his time in command, the _K-517_ received several commendations for excellence, and for two years received the title of the best submarine in the navy.[11][12] From August 1985 until 1991, Motsak was deputy commander of the 33rd submarine division of the Northern Fleet.[13][14] During this time he attended the A. A. Grechko Naval Academy, graduating in 1987 with the award of a gold medal.[15]

In June 1991 he became commander of the 11th submarine division.[16] On 18 February 1993 he was promoted to rear-admiral.[17] In August 1993 he was appointed chief of staff of the , and in December the following year was appointed the flotilla's commander.[18][19][20] On 15 June 1994 he was awarded the title of Hero of the Russian Federation, with the accompanying Gold Star “for courage and heroism shown in the performance of military duty”.[21][22] In August 1995 he oversaw a missile-firing exercise from a Typhoon-class submarine at the North Pole, commanded by .[23] On 22 February 1996 he was promoted to vice-admiral.[24][25]

Chief of Staff of the Northern Fleet

In May 1999 Motsak was appointed Chief of Staff and First Deputy Commander of the Northern Fleet.[26][27][28] He had by this stage of his career served on 24 long-distance voyages, sailing a total of 390,000 miles.[29] Among the operations he undertook were two trans-arctic voyages to transfer submarines of the Northern Fleet to the Pacific. The first was in August and September 1991, during which two submarines, the _K-173_ and the , were transferred.[30] In the second, the _K-456_, under the command of Captain 1st Rank , was transferred between 18 August and 14 September 1993.[31]

Loss of the _Kursk_

[An Oscar II-class submarine, of the same class as the _Kursk_] As chief of staff of the Northern Fleet, Motsak had responsibility for planning the exercises that were to take place in summer 2000.[32] Several submarines were assigned to the exercises: the _Borisoglebsk_, _Karelia_, , , _Daniil Moskovsky_, and the Oscar II-class _Kursk_.[33] The exercises were overseen by Northern Fleet commander Admiral Vyacheslav Popov, 1st Submarine Flotilla commander Vice-Admiral Oleg Burtsev, and Vice-Admiral Yuri Boyarkin, the fleet's deputy commander for combat training, all based aboard the Northern Fleet's flagship, the battlecruiser _Pyotr Velikiy_. On 11 August the crew of the _Kursk_, led by Captain 1st Rank Gennady Lyachin, carried out a test launch of a Granit cruise missile.[34]

The next morning _Kursk_ was preparing to fire a practice torpedo at the _Pyotr Velikiy_. A hydrogen peroxide leak in the torpedo caused it to explode while in the forward torpedo compartment, starting a fire and destroying two compartments. The ship sank to the seabed where within a few minutes the fire caused the remaining torpedoes to detonate. This destroyed much if the front part of the _Kursk_, killing most of the 118 crew members. The nuclear generators shut down safely. Some 23 survivors gathered from the aft compartments into the last, ninth compartment of the submarine to await rescue.[35]

Some hours after the explosion, concerned at the _Kursk_{{'}}s failure to report in, Popov ordered Motsak to alert the fleet's rescue forces. Six hours after the _Kursk_{{'}}s sinking, Motsak ordered the fleet's rescue vessel, the _Mikhail Rudnitsky_ to come to one-hour readiness to put to sea.[36] An hour later Motsak ordered five Ilyushin Il-38s to begin searching the exercise area, subsequently supplementing the effort with six helicopters.[37] It is believed that most of the crew died within 6 hours of the explosions, before the sub was even identified as missing. Motsak was due to give a press conference on 15 August, four days after the _Kursk_ sank. He was replaced at the last minute by Igor Baranov, of the Rubin Design Bureau, which had designed _Kursk_.[38][39] It was not until 20 August that Motsak admitted that the Russian Navy had no deep sea, saturation divers, using this as justification to accept aid from foreign navies.[40]

On 21 August divers were finally accessed the submarine and opened the aft escape hatch. They confirmed that there were no survivors from the 118 men who had been aboard. Motsak announced the news. “Our worst expectations are confirmed. All sections of the submarine are totally flooded and not a single member of the crew remains alive.”[41] Motsak was one of a number of officers who suggested that a foreign submarine had collided with the _Kursk_ and caused the disaster.[42] During the recovery of bodies, a note written by Dmitry Kolesnikov, the senior ranking survivor of the initial explosions, was found. In a televised announcement from fleet headquarters at Severomorsk, Motsak announced the recovery of the first bodies from the wreck, and a summary of the contents of the note.[43] [The , Motsak's flagship during the salvage operation] Motsak oversaw the salvage operation to raise the wreck of the _Kursk_ between July and October 2001, with the _Udaloy_-class destroyer as his flagship.[44][45] Motsak said that “the first and main reason to raise the Kursk is to get the nuclear reactors off the seabed. Secondly, we have to raise it to fulfil our human obligation to all those who died on board and to give them a respectable burial.”[46] After extensive preparations, _Kursk_ was lifted from the seabed in the early hours of 7 October 2001. Prior to the lifting, Motsak had honoured an old naval tradition by spitting three times over his left shoulder.[47] Reflecting on the hazardous nature of the operation, he said to the assembled experts that “once we reach the shore, we will have a good drink, according to Russian custom.”[48] The salvage operation was a success, and the wreck being safely brought into Roslyakovo on 10 October.[49]

A subsequent investigation led by Prosecutor General Vladimir Ustinov laid part of the blame for the tragedy on Motsak, and Captain 1st Rank Teslenko, chief of the Northern Fleet's submarine rescue service.[50] The investigation criticised the lack of proper training.[51] On 1 December 2001 Motsak was demoted, along with Admiral Popov and Vice-Admiral Oleg Burtsev, the commander of the 1st Submarine Flotilla, while eleven other senior naval officers were sacked.[52][53] Motsak was relieved of his post and forced to resign.[54][55][56]

Retirement

In January 2002, now retired from the navy, Motsak was appointed deputy to the Presidential Envoy to the Northwestern Federal District.[57][58] He served in this role under Ilya Klebanov from 2004 until 2012.[59] In 2009 both Motsak and Klebanov were implicated in a political scandal related to the use of the historic cruiser _Aurora_ as a venue for parties for VIPs. Captain 1st rank Anatoly Bazhanov of the _Aurora_ was subsequently sacked.[60]

After serving as deputy to the Presidential Envoy, Motsak entered the private sector. He became head of Marine Integrated Systems LLC, and from 2015 was CEO of a private company involved in the construction of ships, boats and floating structures.[61]

[The St. Nicholas Naval Cathedral in Saint Petersburg, where Motsak's memorial service was held] Motsak died in Saint Petersburg on 19 October 2019. His death was announced by the Saint Petersburg Navy Sailors and Veterans Club, who said that he had died at the S.M. Kirov Military Medical Academy “after a serious and prolonged illness”.[62][63] The incumbent commander of the Northern Fleet, Vice-Admiral Aleksandr Moiseyev, expressed his condolences.[64] Retired admiral stated that Motsak was a “real submariner, a competent specialist and a caring commander.”[65] A funeral service was held at the St. Petersburg Naval Institute on 22 October, with a second service later that day at the St. Nicholas Naval Cathedral.[66] Motsak was buried in Serafimovskoe Cemetery in Saint Petersburg, the same cemetery where many of the _Kursk_ crewmen were interred.[67]

Over his career he had received, in addition to the award of Hero of the Russian Federation, the Order "For Merit to the Fatherland" Fourth Class in 1998, the Order "For Personal Courage" in 1993, the Order of Honour on 10 May 2009, the Order of the Red Star in 1980, the Order "For Service to the Homeland in the Armed Forces of the USSR" Third Class in 1984, and fifteen medals.[68][69] He was also awarded the and had been made an honorary citizen of the town of Zaozyorsk.[70]

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title: Mikhail Motsak

question: Who is Mikhail Vasilyevich Motsak?

answer: He was a high-ranking career officer of the Soviet and Russian Navies.

question: Where did Motsak start his naval career?

answer: He started as an engineer in the Pacific Fleet.

question: Summarize everything relating to Motsak and the submarine, Kursk.

answer: When Motsak was Chief of Staff and First Deputy Commander of the Northern Fleet, he was responsible for planning naval exercises where several submarines, including the Kursk, participated. The Kursk crew were preparing for torpedo practice when a hydrogen peroxide leak in the torpedo caused it to explode. The Kursk sank to the bottom of the seabed, where a fire caused all remaining torpedoes to explode. All 188 crew members died. Motsak was criticized for the poor response and botched rescue of the 23 crew members trapped in the ninth compartment. The Russian Navy didn't have deep sea saturation divers, which Motsak used as an excuse to accept aid from foreign navies. After an investigation, part of the blame was laid on Motsak. He was demoted and forced to resign.

question: What happened when Motsak was serving as deputy to the Presidential Envoy?

answer: He was implicated in a scandal related to the use of the historic cruiser Aurora as a party venue for VIPs.

question: Write a ~9 sentence summary.

answer: Mikhail Vasilyevich Motsak was a decorated, high-ranking career officer of the Soviet and Russian Navies. He was a veteran submarine commander and an expert on submarine guidance systems. Over the course of his naval career, Motsak was awarded the Hero of the Russian Federation and several other prestigious medals. He reached the pinnacle of his career when he was appointed as Chief of Staff and First Deputy Commander of the Northern Fleet. However, the Kursk submarine tragedy during a planned exercise where all 118 sailors died due to a hardware malfunction was blamed partly on Motsok, so he was demoted and forced to resign. When he was serving as deputy to the Presidential Envoy, he and his commanding officer were implicated in a scandal related to the use of the historic cruiser Aurora as a party venue for VIPs. Motsok retired from the Navy and entered the private sector, where he became head of Marine Integrated Systems LLC, a private company involved in the construction of ships, boats, and floating structures. Motsok died in Saint Petersburg on 19 October 2019 after a serious and prolonged illness. Motsak was buried in Serafimovskoe Cemetery, the same cemetery where many of the Kursk crewmen were interred.


text:
Larry and I were shelving a shipment of medieval fantasy costumes when the lemmings came. The last television season had brought with it a plague of dragons and warlocks and kings and queens and slutty princesses... a big heap of generic Halloween products spawned by the popularity of dark-age soap operas. I noticed the soldiers first: three men standing roughly 5 foot 11, though they would be closer to 6'3" had they the intuition to stand up straight. Their gait reminded me of a newborn calf learning how to walk, calculated and awkward, but surprisingly successful. They were very much like humans in appearance. The most prominent feature was the abnormally large and freakishly pale face, which had a weird way of making their deep-set round eyes seem proportional.  Each soldier wore what appeared to be a hand-knitted holiday sweater repurposed to look like an armored breastplate. In the center of the chest was stitched a typical large black clover design that one could find in any deck of playing cards. They all had skin-tight swimmer's caps covering their heads and wrapping their faces, probably for protection against water.

"Don't move." The soldiers had very real steel-tipped spears pointed at our throats.

"Take whatever you want, Bro." My jerk reaction was to make it clear that I would not stand in the way of their burgling. "I just work here, Bro!" I quickly realized how bizarre it would be for someone to steal merchandise from Costume Party Kingdom when there was a much more appealing jewelry store right next door. In fact, the mall contained several jewelry stores and electronics boutiques that would provide a much bigger payout than this shithole.

"Shut up, Biatch!" I don't know what surprised me more, the fact that the soldier used the word "biatch" or his lack of physical expression when he said it. The tone was right, but there was no bodily movement other than his lips: no head cocking, no finger no-no, nothing. There was something absolutely off-putting about the way this creature communicated.

Larry did not take kindly to this command: “Oh, hell no!” Larry was a pretty big guy, 6 foot 4 and bottom-heavy. He always said he didn’t have six-pack abs, but rather a whole keg. The joke was unfunny every time he said it. As far as looks go, Larry was a redneck stereotype, but he described himself as a dirty commie bastard. Larry walked up like a gangsta and slugged that mouthy son of a bitch square in the kisser. I cheered from the sidlelines: “Ohhhhh shit!” I thought that big doofus was down for sure, but the soldier did not flinch. Larry played it off with a heavy breathing sequence. He grabbed the end of the spear and jerked it around a little. “I’ll shove that stick up your ass. I bet you’d like that, wouldn’t you, Cracker Bitch?”

The soldier replied gruffly with an angry inflection: "You better check yourself before you wreck yourself." He held the spear loosely while he said this, and he held a friendly disposition, like the face you would make when you're greeting a stranger.

"Step up, Bro!" In that moment, Larry was a majestic plaid eagle, swooping in and flaring his wings for the death strike. “Make a move, Bro!” I held my breath as Larry placed his face within an inch of his prey.

"Let me apologize for the rudeness of my colleagues, gentlemen." There were two other men, not in uniform, trailing the soldiers. This one was short, around 4 feet, yet quite proportional, not like a midget save for height. "Skylar, Larry, I would like to introduce my associate, bzzzz bzzzz." It sounded like he was half-assing the sound of a bumblebee. It was not even a good impression. "You can call him Buzz, if you'd like." Buzz was like the soldiers. He had the same look and the same mannerisms about him. The short man continued, "My name is Jayquon Jackson." He stared at me right in the eyes as he said this. I must point out that this man was just as pale-faced as the others. I hesitated, then moved to speak after an awkward silence, but Jayquon cut me off. "The blacks in my world would not appreciate your joke." For the record, I was not going to say a black joke. And I am black.

The store was empty of customers most days. I would be surprised if we were making any profit whatsoever. It was these facts that drew our supervisor, Carol, to the commotion. "Can I help you find anything?" She was always willing to take sales commission out of our undeserving hands.

"Where do y'all keep the big boy costumes?" The talky soldier now had a delightful southern twang to his accent. Carol chuckled pathetically.

Buzz chimed in: "What Bobby really needs is a pair of big boy undees."

On cue, Carol laughed loudly. She was a real whore for customer service.

"Carol!" I did not know how to properly communicate the situation to Carol, so I froze. She gave me an evil look that meant get back to work.

Carol: "I need these stocked before close today, guys. I'm serious."

Another soldier cut in: My wife is named Carol. Is that short for Caroline?

Carol had a fake grin on her face: "Yes! It's my grandmother's name."

The soldier continued: "A pretty name for a pretty lady."

Carol chuckled nervously. "Right this way, sir."

The moment she turned around, one of the soldiers thrust his spear into the back of Carol’s skull with a loud crack. The moron slipped and scrambled like a giant cockroach as he worked his way back on his feet. It was a serious blow, and it knocked her to the ground 10 feet ahead. As she tried to make sense of the concussion, the soldiers stabbed every inch of Carol's soft flesh like a pincushion. Larry immediately dropped his empty wallet at their feet. "My bad, Dawg, I ain't trying to hide nothing." I guess, in the heat of the moment, he had forgotten that spears are effective killing weapons.

In the next moment, Larry and I were being herded at spear-point through the mall. There we were with these strange hunched beings, swinging their disproportionately long arms as they hobbled brainlessly down the halls with big stupid grins splashed upon their faces. Jayquon sported a particularly grotesque smile for our audience as they observed the freak show we were leading.

My mother used to tell me that the lemmings would take me away if I didn't behave. The lemmings had allowed us, or rather forced us, to choose costumes for ourselves before we left the costume store. Larry chose the Wizard King costume. He was always into magic. I chose the Dragon Princess costume, partially out of spite and partially out of curiosity.

I could hear Larry mumbling under his breath. “I’m gonna rip a hole in that nigga's sack...” The dude was steaming.

Me: “Larry, cool your jets, brah. These bastards ain’t fucking around.”

Larry: "Shut up, Dousche. Why did you have to wear that costume?"

By our unfortunate choice of costumes, Larry and I led our parade as the royal couple. We were the ironic outcasts amongst a horde of degenerates: teenagers, thugs, fat people, all ye olde mall folk passing us by, chuckling under their hands and trying not to make eye contact.

A security guard approached our party. "How are y'all doing tonight?"

Jayquon: "Just fine, sir. How about yourself?"

Security guard: "I'm going to need you to stop here for a minute, guys." He held his hand radio to his face. "Yeah, there are seven of them."

The radio chimed and a voice responded: "I see them."

Security guard: "You can't be out here on mall property without a permit, guys."

Buzz replied: "Yes, Sir, we were just heading out. We're gonna have to brave that heat wave. In the middle of October, can you believe that?"

Security guard: "Yeah, there's a cool front coming in Thursday."

Buzz: "My son lives in Wisconsin. They're getting 3 feet of snow today."

Security guard: ”Boy, I tell ya what. Well, you know, if you don't like the weather today, wait until tomorrow!" Both Buzz and the security guard had a hearty laugh at that comment.

Buzz: "It's not so much the heat, it's the humidity that gets ya."

Security guard: "Yessir. Maybe we'll get some relief from this energy shortage."

Buzz: ”In this economy?”

Security guard: ”Your tax dollars at work, ladies and gentlemen.”

"I hear that, Officer.” Buzz made his leave: ”We better be on our way if we're gonna beat this rush hour."

Security guard: "Alright, you take care, now." We watched our only hope for salvation stroll back to his post.

We walked for what seemed like days. I had never noticed how ginormous the mall was before. Contemplating your imminent demise really puts these moments in perspective. “You all go on without out me. I’ll stay here.” Jayquon signaled to Buzz and entered a small book store. The soldiers followed Jayquon. I think back to all the opportunities we had to escape. We weren’t bound with ropes, the soldiers were clumsy, and there were plenty of people to help us. Now, the soldiers had left us and only Buzz remained. We shut up and followed orders, instead.

We approached the exit near closing time, my favorite hour. The mall had cleared out nearly all of its patrons. “Ahhhhh!” Buzz let out a series of yelps, ruining the cool silence. A diseased lemming had latched on to Buzz and was gnawing at his leg. She was a disgusting witch, dragging herself across the floor and leaving a trail like a slug. This was an animal that smelled like shit and looked the part. Her big eyes were bloodshot and black bile oozed through her teeth. Buzz produced a club and proceeded to beat the shit out of her until she let go. The thuds were so powerful I thought Buzz would break that bitch in half. She screamed like she would explode from the pain, that sort of high-pitched sound that rattles you on the inside and shoots your adrenaline beyond 100%. I flinched every time the club smashed into her body. “WHY ARE YOU DOING THIS? WHY?!” She yelled at Buzz like he had betrayed her.

"Let go, Hoe!" The witch did not heed Larry's advice quickly. She took a heroic pounding to the face and torso and eventually curled up with her hands over her head, still howling like a banshee. My heart was in my ears at this point beating on my temples. There was lemming goop all over the floor.

Did Buzz always have that club? I don’t remember. He stood in front of us, club in hand, to protect Larry and I from the witch. He teased her by slamming that motherfucker against the floor when she tried to slither closer. “We need to go!” That is all he had to say. We followed without question.

We must have ran 300 miles per hour, because the next thing I knew we were approaching a cliff somewhere in the wilderness. “Jump if you want to live.” High on adrenaline and fear, Larry and I jumped and cleared a 40 foot gap, soaring through the air like god damn antelopes. We stopped on the other side. Buzz carefully examined the horizon, reached down, then pulled up the curtain of the world in front of us. It all made sense. This transdimensional barrier was here all along, we just had to lift it up! The world on the other side had a vivid hue of orange dusk unlike any color I had ever seen. There were prairie plants and small grasses over the hills, and there were no insects to be seen.

Larry hesitated. Something was wrong. “Shh, I hear crying.” In the tall grass, 15 feet away, another witch was gnawing on a lemming. The girl’s legs and arms were torn to shreds and the witch was licking sap from the remaining stubs. Buzz held up the curtain, “Let’s go!” I stared at him as the girl cried softly while being eaten alive. “You take care of it.” Buzz handed me the club and I stood over the witch. I cocked it back and dropped the club on the back of her head as hard as I could. Before I knew it, I lost my footing and the witch was standing tall over me as I cowered on my back. Buzz had made it look so easy. The club bounced off her head, causing no damage, as if her skin was made of thick rubber.

The witch stared at me with a look of disgust. “Would it be alright with you if I perform my rightful duty in peace?” I thought about the question in silence, not knowing exactly how to answer. The half-eaten girl rolled over to have a look at me. “Mind your own business, faggot.” Her words riled me up and I  tried to respond, “I was trying to help you, you honky bitch.” I never did finish the “honky bitch” part of my sentence, because the girl talked over me. “Did I ask for your help?” The witch picked up what remained of a leg. “May I continue?” I did not care for the obvious sarcasm nor the tone of her voice. I returned the club to Buzz, feeling humiliated. The crying continued much louder than before, “Oh the pain!” The witch and the girl giggled as I turned my back on them.

“Wait! Don’t go! For the love of pete do not go in there!” Jayquon was running like a hellion towards the cliff.

I called to Buzz: “Wait, Buzz, I don’t understand!”

Buzz seemed oblivious to Jayquon’s warning. “They’re lesbians.”

Me: “Jayquon says don’t go in there!”

Buzz: “I think he means don’t go in there, as in don’t fall into the pit across the cliff.” He pointed to the valley.

I tried to plead with Buzz: “No, dude, I think he means don’t go through the... the..." What do you call this thing? "Don't go through the portal!”

Larry approached the cliff to confirm the instructions: “Jayquon! Do you mean don’t go through the portal or don’t go into the pit?”

“The portal! THE PORTAL!” Jayquon yelled out in desperation as he hopped up and down.

Larry relayed the message: “He said the portal, Bro. I’m sure he said the portal.”

“Alright, let’s go through the portal.” Buzz had made up his mind.

“NO!” Jayquon leapt from the cliff and fell short. His body splashed upon the earth below.

Buzz grabbed Larry and I by the neck and shoved us into the new world. The view was stunning. “Holy shit.” That was what Larry kept repeating. We stood there for hours admiring the spectacle.

“Are you two fags done jerking each other off?” Buzz was standing behind us.

Jayquon spoke as he flipped through a periodical: “Nice to see you, gentlemen.” He awkwardly held the cover of the magazine in our line of sight to make sure we noticed it.

I responded reflexively: “Nice to see you, too.”

Jayquon: “Why would it be nice to see me? I kidnapped you and forced you to come here.”

Larry whispered to me: “This is creepy, man. I saw that guy go splat.”

Larry: “How do we get out of here?” There was no response to Larry’s question.

Me: “Why did you tell us not to come in here?”

Jayquon: “Obviously, I made a mistake.”

Buzz scoffed: “I tried to tell those idiots.”

Jayquon: “I meant to say don’t fall into the pit.”

THE END.

title: Case Insensitive

question: What does the story say about Larry and the narrator?

answer: They work at a costume shop in a mall. One day, they are kidnapped by a bunch of lemmings at spear point. While Larry tries to resist, their supervisor Carol intervenes, thinking the lemmings are regular customers. Carol's death makes Larry hesitant to resist further, and they are forced to pick and wear costumes. Larry wears a Wizard King costume while the narrator wears a Dragon Princess costume, and the lemmings make them walk through the mall, pointing their spears at them. They make small talk with the security staff and head out of the mall. Over the next few days, despite numerous chances, the duo doesn't try to escape. They become witness to many strange behaviors, like a lemming eating another alive among screams, but somehow the "victim" is fine with it all. They eventually come across a portal, where the world on the other side has an orange tint, prairie plants over some hills, and no insects. After some confusion, they pass through.

question: What does the story say about gremlins?


text:
Last night I dreamed that I had died. It wasn't the normal kind of dream. It wasn't the kind of dream that you wake up enthralled, afraid or tearful from. It was something deeper than that.
When I died, there was no white light to walk toward; no staircase in the clouds; no golden gate atop them; no heavenly chorus scoring each and every one of my footsteps, as if each one of them pounded on the drums of destiny; no heart; no passion; no feeling that every breath I took in my mortal life led to this moment, and that now my dreams were coming true, and I was ascending towards everlasting glory.

There was none of that.

But equally there was no fear. There was no anxiety, or panic, or hopelessness. The four emotions I had forever associated with death. The emotions that had left my mind crippled, contemplating other alternatives to constantly living with the big day forever looming over me. Emotions that had rendered me useless, unable to function, wondering what the fuck we are doing on this planet, and why something as spectacular as life on earth, with its inconceivable beauty and ability to emote human euphoria, could have such a terrifying and mind numbing opposite as death, and how we could know so little about it other than at its existential core, it is nothing but the absence of life in a previously living body.

No. Instead of fear or euphoria, there was realism. Quite frankly, there was no commotion. I had died in a hospital, in a small room, my family surrounding me as I lay in a bed drifting off courtesy of an incurable disease, as so many have done before me, and so many will do after. As I faded I felt my woes fade also. I don't think we realise it when our lives are so busy, but we always have our woes or problems on our mind, we just don't notice them as much. I thought about my family and friends. They held hands and sobbed around my bedside, knowing they were witnessing the last moments of my human life. I guessed that I should have been worrying about them, how they would cope without me, but three familiar words kept circulating in my head. Life goes on. Life would go on for them. They would be sad, but they would find closure, and then eventually it would be their time to go too. None of these things worried me. I had always pondered the afterlife, and by this point I had accepted that I would either see them again, or that I wouldn't need to. I understood that love transcends life.

And then it happened; though it didn't happen instantly. Throughout life I had always imagined that the moment of death would be similar to an abrupt power-outage, where in a split second, darkness would engulf everything. But it wasn't. It was a gradual process and I wasn't quite sure when life had ended, and whatever came next had begun. Those around my bed began to leave the room. They left in an orderly fashion, as if it had previously been decided how they would do so. First, my four best friends. Second my brothers and their wives, my sister, her husband and their children. My grandmother, and finally my mother and father. Each of them did so matter-of-factly, and that was the first sign that I may have passed over, as I'm sure in normal circumstances they would be crying and mourning uncontrollably. Instead, each of them just left. Some of them held my hand before leaving, and others kissed my forehead. And then, just like that, I was alone, albeit for just a few seconds.

It was in this moment that I realised that I was witnessing my death out of body. I was standing in the corner watching this happen, not lying in the bed. And then I realised that I now had a purpose. I sat at a table in the middle of the room. It was small and there were only two chairs. The version of myself that I had just been watching got out of bed and sat at the table also. I was sitting across the table from myself. Somehow looking into my own eyes and staring back at them at the same time. Only when you look into your own eyes can you comprehend your existence. And then we talked for what felt like an hour, and yet it could have lasted for a thousand years because any comprehension that I had of time in my human life had faded, and I began to think that maybe time didn't exist anymore. We talked about the life I had lived on earth, about the relationships I had formed and the feelings I had had, what I had achieved in life, and what mark I had left on the earth. And then I asked myself what was going to happen next, and of course didn't know the answer.

Just as quickly as I had realised what my role was in my own passing over ceremony, I became clueless even faster. And there I was. At a table with another person, and yet somehow completely alone simultaneously; with the most pondered question of all time, and not a single answer. I closed my eyes and breathed in. I took two more, long, similar breaths, and I held the last one. I opened my eyes.
And then I saw everything. Every sunrise and sunset from every possible corner of the earth. Every flower that had ever bloomed, every tree that had ever grown, every mountain that had ever been conquered. Every creature on land, in the sky and in the oceans. Every man who had ever made his dreams come true and every woman who had ever accomplished her greatest feat. Every new-born baby that had ever been born, potential in their eyes. I experienced every sensation that could ever be felt, and heard every note that had ever been played, I tasted success, I smelled hope and in all of these things combined I saw the face of God.

I awoke in my bed and questioned my own existence again. As I write this I am still unaware of what my dream means. I believe that we are more than skin and bones. I believe that our bodies are nothing but vessels, and I believe that our souls are always yearning to escape them. I am unsure of the afterlife, and I wonder whether or not this life on earth is simply the afterlife to a previous one; that maybe every life is an afterlife and in each one we are promised something different for the next. I wonder how many times I have died before, I wonder how many times I will die again, and I wonder whether or not there is some end to this cycle. The only thing we can be sure of is death, for without death there is no life. There cannot be one without the other, but I do not believe that birth is the beginning and death the end. Until it is my time to become knowledgeable of what is next to come, I will just keep dreaming.

title: A Dream I Had About The Afterlife.

question: What does the narrator experience after speaking with themself after they die?

answer: After discussing the entirety of their life, they ask themself what is the point of existence and what is going to happen next. Then they open their eyes and they see everything. They see every sunrise and sunset from every possible corner of the Earth. They see every man and woman and all of their deeds. The author experienced every sensation that could be felt, seen, heard, smelled or tasted, and in all of them combined saw the face of God. The end of the passage concludes with the narrator speculating on the nature of God and the existence of reincarnation.

question: Describe the narrator's views on reincarnation.

answer: The narrator wonders whether life is not merely the afterlife of a previous life. They question whether they have lived many lives before, and each time they are promised something else afterwards. They wonder how many times they have died before, how many they will die again, and whether there will ever be an end to this cycle.


text:
-   SNAPCHAT HAS REMOVED PRESIDENT TRUMP FROM ITS DISCOVER SECTION.
-   THE APP TOOK ACTION AGAINST TRUMP'S POSTS THAT HAVE BEEN ACCUSED OF GLORIFYING AND INCITING VIOLENCE.
-   THE PHOTO-SHARING APP'S DECISION PUTS MORE PRESSURE ON FACEBOOK AND MAKES MARK ZUCKERBERG LOOK INCREASINGLY ISOLATED.
-   WHILE SNAPCHAT AND TWITTER BOTH TOOK ACTION AGAINST TRUMP OVER THE POSTS, FACEBOOK INSISTS THEY DON'T BREAK ITS RULES.
-   FACEBOOK'S DECISION HAS PROMPTED HUGE EMPLOYEE PROTESTS AND RESIGNATIONS.
-   CLICK HERE FOR MORE BI PRIME STORIES.

Facebook is looking increasingly isolated in its decision not to take action against President Donald Trump over his controversial posts.

On Wednesday, Snap, the parent company of the photo-messaging app Snapchat, announced it was removing Trump from its Discover section over a post he made about "shooting," which was in response to the ongoing US protests against racism and police brutality.

Twitter earlier accused the president of "glorifying violence" — but Facebook has taken the opposite approach.

CEO Mark Zuckerberg has insisted that Trump's post does not violate Facebook's rules and says the company will not take action against the head of state over it. The decision has been intensely controversial — sparking internal worker protests, resignations, and denouncements from early employees at the company.

Still, the 36-year-old billionaire CEO has not backed down, defending his position at a heated employee meeting on Tuesday.

But Snap's decision could place further pressure on Facebook to reconsider, and it illustrates that Facebook's position is controversial — even within Silicon Valley.

"As for Snapchat, we simply cannot promote accounts in America that are linked to people who incite racial violence, whether they do so on or off our platform," Snap CEO Evan Spiegel wrote in a memo. "We have spoken time and again about working hard to make a positive impact, and we will walk the talk with the content we promote on Snapchat."`

Snap's action is particularly notable because it came in response to a post that didn't appear on its platform. Twitter took action only on a tweet on its social network — affixing a warning label  — while Facebook has refused to take action on a Facebook post.

But Snap determined that the president's off-network post was severe enough that it merited action on its platform — an unusually strong approach to content moderation for a social-media platform.

Trump is not barred from Snapchat, but he will no longer appear in Discover, a human-curated section of the app that highlights high-profile accounts and other content deemed important.

Over the past week, more than 300 cities around the US have seen mass protests, which were sparked by the death of George Floyd after a Minneapolis police officer knelt on his neck for nearly nine minutes. As the protests spread, Trump shared a post that said in part: "When the looting starts, the shooting starts" — a phrase used by a Miami police chief during civil-rights unrest in the 1960s. (Trump has said he was not aware of the phrase's racist origins.)

_DO YOU WORK AT FACEBOOK, SNAP, OR TWITTER? Contact Business Insider reporter Rob Price via encrypted messaging app Signal (+1 650-636-6268), encrypted email (robaeprice@protonmail.com), standard email (rprice@businessinsider.com),_ _Telegram/Wickr/WeChat (robaeprice), or Twitter DM (@robaeprice)._ _We can keep sources anonymous. Use a nonwork device to reach out. PR pitches by standard email only, please._

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question: What are the differences between different social media companies' actions toward moderating Trump?

answer: Facebook is alone in insisting that Trump's posts on its platform aren't against its terms of service while Twitter and Snapchat took action. It's noteworthy that Facebook's insistence continues even after employee protests, resignations, and denouncements. Twitter placed a warning label after a post from Trump on its platform, but Snapchat was proactive in removing Trump from its Discover section over a post made on another platform.

question: What does the text say about Trump?

answer: Trump is facing backlash after his comments, which are thought to incite violence. He made a post, saying "When the looting starts, the shooting starts" during the protests of George Floyd's death, who died after a police officer sat on his neck for more than nine minutes. The phrase originates from the 1960s when a Miami police chief uttered it during the civil-rights unrest, but Trump claimed that he was unaware of the phrase's origins. After Twitter placed a warning label on him, Snapchat decided to remove Trump from its Discover section. Facebook is the odd one out amidst social media companies as it still refuses to take action against the President.

question: What does the text say about freedom of speech?


text:
        It was 3:05 pm in Portland, Oregon. Evan Greene walked through the doors of his high school, down the walkway where the other kids' parents were already waiting for them. His hair was long and a mess. His clothing looked as grungy and defiant as he felt. His eyes moved along the row of cars in a lost kind of way. He saw what they had, and he used to want that for himself, but today, as every other, no one was waiting for him. His shoulders sagged as he thought about his family. Mommy. Daddy. Son. Family. They were words that had lost any meaning some time ago, and he knew those words were a lie. He was alone. In his head, in his heart, and in his very deepest depths.
Evan's favorite band was, to him, the ultimate expression of everything he would scream if anyone were listening, and the way Kurt bellowed and belted his pain and tension out into the world, like a giant "Fuck All Of You!," cradled Evan with empathetic arms and he could sleep at night knowing that someone besides him hated the world.
	Evan's home life was tragic. His mother was finding herself, so to speak, sleeping around town in some vain attempt at quelling the decades of regret and repression left deep in her soul by an abusive and distantly unappreciative husband. If one wanted to search her out, they need look no further than the nearest bar, likely five drinks deep by the time Evan got out of school, her arm wrapped around some married day drinking business clone. She was lost and scared and angry, and she dealt with it all by drinking and sleeping her way through the true hate she felt for her life.
	Evan's father worked long hours, wading through shit at a dead end job that he genuinely despised as much as he did his family. The guilt and shame weren't for concern of his son or his meandering wife, because truthfully, he never wanted any of it. The family, the job, the responsibility, the same festering wounds reopened each day the moment his alarm clock rang out. In his mind his son was just another regret. Fuck the wife. Fuck the job. Fuck the kid. He was already dead. Their house was perpetually filled with the wafting smoke and stench of two packs a day and some molding spilled beer, hibernating under some piece of garbage that seemed the only indicator that someone living had once been present. He had no control of his boiling rage, and the slightest argument sent him reeling into an atomic rampage, each incident an epoch for the ages.
	Evan left the school to make the trek down to the bus home. The walk, for a teenager, was a perilous one, and his greasy flowing locks, torn jeans, and sullen posture made him a frequent target for bullies. It was drizzling but the sun was out, and a familiar scent permeated the air. That smell that comes when rain hits grass in the spring. It reminded Evan of sitting with his grandmother on her porch, listening to a million tiny drops of water hit the pavement, watching the dry cement become consumed, drop by drop with tiny splashes until the splashes converged and the sidewalk became glistening and covered. His grandmothers wrinkled fingers ran through his hair and she showed him great tenderness.
     With a loud crack, Evan was stolen from this serene and comforting moment. A short and obviously angry boy, no older than him had thrown a rock at Evan's head, knocking him to the ground, and the harsh transition from the his grandmother's grace to a throbbing and painful state left him on his back, staring right through the sky above. As he began to roll over to right himself, he saw the boy walk up to him, shouting obscenities about his "faggoty hair" and his "pussy band" shirt, which was now torn from the fall and stained with his blood. His entire life, every bit of anger, every unkind word his father ever spoke and hatred boiled inside his veins. His heart pounded, and each increasingly rapid beat drew him to a crescendo that took from him his better judgement. Just for a moment it all went black. Seconds later, his haze began to clear as he realized he sat firmly atop the bully, knees to his shoulders, pinning down his arms, and mid punch he snapped back to reality and caught his breath long enough to know that he had lost control. He left his antagonist bleeding on the gravel, regained his composure and continued on his way home.
	As his adrenaline began to dissipate, his head started to throb, and he stopped, put his hand over the right side near his temple, closed his eyes, and massaged the spot where he'd been hit. As he drew his hand back, he saw blood on his fingers, which made him dizzy and even a little angry. He opened up his backpack and pulled out a small package. He unwrapped the two cigarettes he'd stolen from his father the night before, taking one in between his fingers and re-wrapping the other. He lit it, closed his eyes tight and took a long and deep drag, trying his best to let go of his frustration as he exhaled. No luck, and his head continued to throb. He took another drag and went on his way. A block before his first bus, he passed by a row of houses. He saw a young man sitting on a rocking chair, his hands covering his bowed head. A cigarette in his hand burned to ash as he sat, unaware, but he was obviously crying. Not like when you're physically hurt, but the kind of shaking with heart break weeping that only happens when something truly awful has happened and you can only sit in disbelief. Evan stopped and asked the young man if he was okay, but after three ignored attempts, the man got up, screamed at Evan to "Fuck Off!!," and went inside, slamming the door behind him. He always felt compelled to comfort others even tho no one ever returned the favor.
	He made it to the bus stop just as it arrived. He entered, payed his dollar and went straight to the back. He took his Disc-man out of his backpack. He put on his headphones and pressed play. Nirvana's "Nevermind" was the drug of choice and he immediately went to "Lithium." This song sounded the way he often felt, so it assured him that at least one other person felt as shitty and worthless as him. He closed his eyes and by the time he opened them again, four tracks had passed and he was at his stop. His heart sank and he imagined the horrors to come. How many drinks had dad had? Who's bed had mom been in? Would they fight with each other or would they turn on him as was usually the case?
	Evan's bus arrived at the stop next to his house and he exited, again, as slow as humanly possible, only delaying the inevitable, but those few precious seconds belonged to him and him alone. As he approached the paint chipped house with it's unkempt and weed riddled front yard, he heard glass shatter. That was followed by the  sound of his mother screaming at the top of her lungs. He shuddered as he crept up the front steps and slowly opened the door, wanting nothing but to make it to his room without either of the two noticing. As he took his first step onto the staircase, he tried to avoid the loose nails in the boards that might give his presence away. Four steps were silent, but on the fifth, he lost his balance and his blood stained shoe pressed down on the loudest spot there was. A rather emphatic squeak was produced beneath his foot and he stopped cold. He shut his eyes tight and prayed they hadn't heard his misstep. Once he thought himself in the clear he took the next step, but before his foot could land, he felt a hand on his back. It was his father, drunk as ever, and upset that Evan hadn't greeted him with the respect he felt he deserved. His father grabbed his t-shirt from behind and pulled Evan back down the stairs, tripping him and causing him to land at the base of the steps and on his back for the second time that day.
	As his father pulled him up by his shirt, which was now torn so badly it was unwearable, he screamed in Evan's face. His eyes were bloodshot and his breath wreaked of whiskey and cigarettes. He dragged his son into the living room and threw him loose onto the couch. "Get the fuck up!!," he yelled. "You ungrateful little shit! Who the fuck do you think you are coming into MY house and not giving me the respect I deserve!!"? Evan replied, "I didn't mean anything, dad. I just heard you and mom yelling at each other and I wanted to stay out of it. I didn't think you'd even want to see me." "Well, you got that right, you little faggot, but respect is respect!," his father insisted with a petty smirk on his face. His mother came sprinting into the living room shouting, "What the fuck did you do this time, you goddamn brat!?" Evan, his rage boiling, yelled back at her, "Fuck you, you drunk slut! You're supposed to be my mother! You hate him as much as I do and he treats you like shit too. What the fuck is wrong with you two!? Why won't you both just fucking leave me alone!? I didn't even do..." Before he could finish his sentence, he felt wind across his face just before his father's fist connected to the side of his face. The force of the hit knocked him several feet across the living room and face first onto the carpet in front of the television.
	The tv was on and turned up loud, which Evan hadn't noticed until he was laying on the floor bleeding in front of it. Still in a haze, he stared blankly at the screen, which showed a picture of his hero, Kurt Cobain. He was confused by what he saw. He had no context for why his favorite musician was on the local news, but as the ringing in his ears slowly subsided, he saw a set of numbers flash on the screen. They read 1967-1994. He was still in shock, and seeing this nearly caused him to pass out. His heart pounded intensely. He heard the words come from the tv speakers, still loudly. "Kurt Cobain, dead at the age of 27 from an apparently self inflicted gunshot wound. He is survived by wife, Courtney Love, and daughter, Francis Bean Cobain." Evan didn't even notice his swelling face or the blood dripping from his ear and nose. His heart was torn and beaten, and he couldn't breathe. He gasped for air as the quickly mounting anxiety constricted the muscles in his chest. He could hear his own heart bellowing like the deepest tribal bass drum. His vision went in and out with the beat of his pulse, and as he pushed himself up to get off the ground, everything was slow motion. He wiped the tears from his eyes, which he noticed were mixed with a fair amount of his own blood. He turned slowly toward his parents. His father was to his left and his mother to his right. There were a few feet of space between them, and as they continued to shout, he stumbled in between them and then past them.
	As he reached the foot of the stairs, he began to run, struggling with all his might to find the strength to make each successive step. He forced his way through the door of his parents' bedroom and headed straight for the night stand. He knew his father had a pistol there because on many a drunken occasion, he would pull it out. If Evan ever challenged his father on the wrong night, the gun came out and Evan had seen down it's barrel plenty of times. He opened the drawer and palmed the gun. He adjusted his grip until it was firm and secure. He pulled back the slide to make sure it was loaded and he floated back down the stairs in what seemed to be more moments of slow motion, his heart beat increasing even further until it was all he could hear in his head. He entered the living room once more and saw his parents with their backs facing him. Evan screamed, echoing through the room. "Hey, Dad!!!"
	His father, surprised, quickly turned around to find his son holding a gun at his side with the look of desperation reading loud and clear across his tear soaked face. His mother turned a moment after his father and when she saw Evan standing there, gun in hand, she let out a scream that could have shattered glass. His father, trying to seem in control, began to slowly creep toward his son, his hand outstretched toward Evan as he commanded him to give up the gun. His father said, with some satisfaction, "I always knew you were a fucking psycho. Just look at you. Crying like a woman and bleeding because you aren't man enough to stop me from making you bleed. This is all your fault, you know." Evan's eyes filled with tears and the lump in his throat made it hard for him to speak. " I'm not the freak! I'm not the fucking psycho! Dad, your whole life is a disaster and you can only blame me! Mom, you let this piece of shit bloody me and put a gun in my face! You are the psychos! You are the fucking freaks!" His father continued his slow approach, hand still out, and as he reached the couch a few feet from where his son was standing, he began to taunt him, but Evan couldn't bear to hear another word from someone he hated so thoroughly, and before his father could finish his slander, Evan raised his arm and he squeezed the trigger. His eyes blinked as the shot rang out in the small room and it forced the welling tears from his eyes down his cheeks.
	His mother screamed bloody murder, as she rushed to her husband's side. She looked at her son, shaking and crying, and in shock, still holding the gun, arm still raised. "What have you done!?," she wallowed. "Call an ambulance!" Evan's compassion was long gone. His life had been a cruel joke and the only person he loved had taken himself away from him. In that moment, his mind became more clear than ever. He aimed the gun at his mother and dispatched three shots into her head. She was lucky. She died quickly. Her husband, though, was still choking on his own blood. Evan's father had a look of rage in his eyes. The last words he ever spoke were unkind. Without hesitation, he put three bullets in his father's head. BANG! BANG! BANG! A his feet, his parents lay motionless in pools of blood. He walked over to the couch next to the television and he sat.
      He felt no guilt or regret. No sympathy. Evan stared at the blank tv screen. Looking back at him was something familiar. That same look that Kurt had in every photo. He was tired, so he closed his eyes, and never opened them again.

title: Together in the End (Evan Greene) [RF]

question: What does the story say about Evan's parents?

answer: Evan's parents are typical examples of awful parents. His mother sleeps around town in a desperate attempt to escape the reality of depression and regret and an abusive unappreciative husband. She is lost, angry and mostly lonely and prefers to drown her sorrows in the bottom of an alcoholic drink and a stranger's bed. Evan's father is an ill-tempered, abusive, alcoholic smoker who works long hours at a dead-end job he hates as much as he hates the family he never wanted.

question: What is the story's plot twist ending?

answer: When Evan returns home from school, he meets his parents, arguing. However, his plan to avoid them fails and his father assaults him for not giving him his expected respect. His mother joins his father to insult Evan, but Evan has had enough, and he retorts at them disrespectfully. His father punches him to the ground, and as he gets up, the news flash on the screen announcing the death of Kurt Cobain, his role model, numbs him. Unbothered by his parent's continued argument, he goes into his father's drawer in his bedroom and pulls out a gun. Evan, at this point emotionless, throws caution to the wind and shoots his parents till they're dead. Afterwards, he sits on the couch in the living room and dies.

question: What does the story say about Evan's life?

answer: Evan was a young teenager who lacked the affection of a normal functioning family. He was also constantly lonely and found solace in Kurt Cobain's music. His mother slept around with different men in town, while his father was an alcoholic brute who hated his family. The love he lacked from home affected him physically and psychologically so much that he became the prime candidate for bullying in school. Additionally, when Kurt Cobain, the only figure that gave him some peace and comfort with his music, died, Evan was as good as dead.


text:
PARKSIDE COLLIERY was a coal mine neat to the town of Newton-le-Willows, in the historic county of Lancashire, but from 1974, until its closure in 1993, it was in the metropolitan county of Merseyside. It was always described as being in Lancashire, and was the last deep coal mine operating in the Lancashire Coalfield upon closure.

History

The sinking of the shafts started in 1957, with at least one fatality before any coal had been wound to the surface.[1] The site commenced operations in 1959, when the groundworks had been completed. Developing the site had cost the National Coal Board (NCB), over £13 million;[2] however, the first coal brought to the surface did not occur until 1964, seven years after the initial groundworks on site.[3] A pair of Koepe winding towers, both high, were installed above the shafts, both were made of concrete and destroyed fairly quickly after closure.[4]

Production from the mine peaked in the 1970s, when over 1,600 miners were employed at Parkside. On average, over of coal was mined during this most productive time.[5] The deepest shaft was ,[6] and coal was mined using the longwall mining method.[7]

The mine suffered from methane in the coal faces, with it being piped above ground where it was used in the mine's boilers, or vented into the atmosphere. It was later piped direct to a chemical works in Warrington via a pipeline that carried between 12 and 15 million therms of gas per year.[8]

In its final years, the mine employed 750 to 800 people,[9] and its output was railed in merry-go-round trains from the site to Fiddlers Ferry power station on South Merseyside.[10][11]

Closure

The mine was ceased production in October 1992, but kept open on a care and maintenance programme whilst the 1990s pit closures were assessed by British Coal.[12] During the unworked period before final closure, a group of four women, led by Anne Scargill (the then wife of Arthur Scargill, staged an “occupy protest” against the pit closure.[13][14] They stayed underground for four days before resurfacing on 12 April 1993.[15] The story was later turned into a play, “Queens of the Coal Age”, by Maxine Peake,[16] which was also later dramatised on Radio 4.[17]

The closure of the colliery caused 84 MPs to sign a motion protesting about the ending of coaling operations. They stated that the mine had been in profit for the last six years, and that a new seam had recently been opened which had involved the procurement of over £6 million worth of machinery to work the new seam.[18] Another issue raised was that of closure without proper consultation; British Coal announced the intention to close loss-making pits, and “Less than 36 hours later, at 7.15 am on Friday 23 October [1992], the president and secretary of the Parkside branch of the National Union of Mineworkers were called to the colliery deputy manager's office and told that, as from 7 pm that night, all coal production would cease. That was the total extent of the Secretary of State's 'genuine consultation.'”[19] The High Court decided in May 1993, that the colliery could legally be closed.[20] The rush to destroy the winding towers after the protest, left all the valuable equipment unrecovered below the surface.[21]

Parkside Colliery was the last working pit in the Lancashire Coalfield; when it closed, it was the last one in a history of coal-mining in the county that had stretched back for 700 years.[22]

The miners later took British Coal to court over the fact that they were made to accept the terms of redundancy, rather than being offered the chance to be redeployed to other coal mines.[23]

Regeneration

After closure, the site lay dormant, but it was elected as a possible Strategic Rail Freight Interchange (SRFI) by the rail industry with applications submitted covering an area of of warehousing, sidings and roads. This venture was withdrawn during the economic downturn of 2008.[24] The site was still being proposed as an SRFI in 2016,[25] with approval being granted in December 2019.[26]

Notable people

-   Frank Collier - professional rugby league player who would work in the pit during the week and play rugby for Wigan at the weekends.[27]

[1]

[2]

[3]

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[6]

[7]

[8]

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[12]

[13]

[14]

[15]

[16]

[17]

[18]

[19]

[20]

[21]

[22]

[23]

[24]

[25]

[26]

[27]

title: Parkside Colliery

question: Summarize the history of the mine

answer: The sinking of the shafts started in 1957. The site commenced operations in 1959, but the first coal was only brought to the surface in 1964. Production from the mine peaked in the 1970s when over 1,600 miners were employed at Parkside. The mine ceased production on the 23rd of October 1992.

question: What was the historical significance of the Parkside mine closure?

answer: Parkside Colliery was the last working pit in the Lancashire Coalfield; when it closed, it was the last one in a history of coal-mining in the county that had stretched back for 700 years.

question: What controversies plagued the closure?

answer: During the unworked period before the final closure, a group of four women, led by Anne Scargill staged an “occupy protest” against the pit closure. The closure of the colliery caused 84 MPs to sign a motion protesting about the ending of coaling operations. They stated that the mine had been in profit for the last six years and that a new seam had recently been opened which had involved the procurement of over £6 million worth of machinery to work the new seam. The miners later took British Coal to court over the fact that they were made to accept the terms of redundancy, rather than being offered the chance to be redeployed to other coal mines.


text:
Mervs is a hole; a working class dive bar in downtown Mountain View, CA, with a 60 year history of serving cheap drinks—in a narrow hole in the wall behind a second rate Chinese restaurant—that Nick Fitzpatrick, a huge tank of a man, is a regular at.  Mountain View, near wholly gentrified by now is still sprawling with cheap, blue collar opportunity and fun, just beyond the purview of google employees and city hipsters, the town has a culture if you can find it. It’s not all suburban wasteland. It’s nothing like Los Altos, the sleepy and equally dreary bedroom community to which Mountain View is so curiously juxtaposed, surely the men who had built the majority of the small and overpriced ranch homes of that town had come to Mervs for a drink at the end of the day too.
 	There are secrets all over town. The hidden harddrive in that police officers closet, the one who they let work with all the kids at the elementary school. Even the neighboring Los Altos Hills, the sprawling hilly community for the upper bourgeois of the area that had become the pot smoking retreat for it’s neighbors youth. The neighbor who lived across the way, whose house a mysterious car always visits during the workday, sitting so brilliantly, arrogantly in it’s bright red blaze, lifted and on big black off road tires, sitting like inky muck on pearlescent rims. Even the jerk who steals the paper in the morning.
     “Who even does that?”
Nick says with disdain, in a booming and commanding voice beyond his control, a voice that brought nearly the entire bars attention on him with the accentuation of every vowel; sharing somebodys secret.
      “Who even steals a paper? I mean it’s not like it’s that expensive, his house costs as much as mine surely.”
     “Yeah!”
The barfly says wistfully and with a bit of anger in his voice
     “Man if I caught someone stealing, I’d take the guy out for a beer, ask him out for a cigarette, and then make him dig his own grave before I killed him too!”
     “You’re a fucking sadist man,”
Nick Fitz says, chuckling a bit at the ridiculousness of what the man had said, at how well adept barflys and drunks are at spinning yarns.
 In Mervs the walls tell the secrets, the aged beer signs and ancient light bulbs that management no longer even bothers covering. The walls with the half century old paint job, chipped and decaying, that seems to seep out the scent of ancient cigarette smoke, of poison and fear. Mervs doesn't even have shelves visible to store it’s liquor, so most everything is bottom shelf, except the good scotch that the owner kept most likely because it was his personal poison, his brand of drinking swill. Other than that Merv’s is well known for attracting the kind of desperate fools who buy the lottery tickets—cash only of course—that keep this hole in the wall from disappearing into a memory. Protecting Mervyn’s from being prettied up and made to look nice for the new residents of the town. The kind of residents with a perverted view of northern California gleaned from Hollywood,not reality. The kind that plants palm trees in the yard of their awkwardly red roofed, ugly, spanish style, pocket mansions.
He sat, sipping his gentlemen's Laphroaig, and while tasting the woody oak and smoky aroma that defines great scotch, pondering the days events.
There was the women who had tried to extort pain medicine from him, she had been a good story teller as well, able to “remember” all the right details for him to type into his machine that she so associated with her own personal drug highs. Drug addicts can spin a yarn. Parents know how to bullshit their way through just about anything too, Children were not near as clumsy as their parents seem to continually claim to him they were. Parents always know what to say to him to type into his little machine, they all know what to say.
    He sat alone in his thoughts in the dark bar, surrounded by others alone in their own dark thoughts. Sipping poison to numb the pain and take that edge of pent up anger and resentment off. Staring absentmindedly at some other cities sports team batting, or throwing, or hitting—for more money than most men at the bar could even conceive of— sipping and cheering rhythmically to their younger heroes trials and tribulations Just trying to be normal in their own heads and in their own way. With every sip of the booze, washing away the days events, cleansing of the worries and pain of the hospital and dissolving of the emotional toll of all and of his own overactive imagination. Lifting off the weight of worried mothers, fathers, brothers, husbands, and wives, that so heavily rested upon the huge Physician Assistants shoulders at the end of nearly every shift.
He pauses, running his fingers through his short Minnesota blonde crew cut and stares into the bottom of his high ball glass as if looking for an answer to some question he didn’t quite know how to ask, wondering how many others had done the same with this same glass.
     “So what do you even do Nick? I see you in here about every week day now around 530.”
 Another barfly, on his right, a little bit older, and maybe just a little bit kinder asks.
     “I’m a physician assistant, I work at Valley Med’s ED. I’m on day shift now so I work 9-5 and I just come here for a drink or two before going home, before I have to deal with my wife and all, you know how it is.”
 Nick answers, trying his best to be complete and thorough as to not invite any more questions, twiddling his thumbs as if the conversation was unwanted attention, detracting from his own processing of the days events. He wriggles with discomfort on the old worn bar stool, worn by the asses of thousands of denim jeans.
The barfly nods at him, with understanding, or more likely frustration with his own significant other.
     He thinks to himself about what she would think if she knew he was here, not at the hospital still doing paper work as he would so often lie. His eyes are tired and red, memories imprinted that were still being processed completely, as new ones continued the assault on sanity. He raises his hand when the heavy set and elderly bartender looks over at him.
     “What’ll you have?” he queries.
     “Laphroaig, Neat.” Nick answers
He goes to the liquor cabinet that sits just out of view of the restless alcoholics, near limping up to the door to serve Nick’s drink.
     “So Nick,”The bartender says, seemingly popping out of nowhere to serve his customer the drink, “I heard you were in the Army, where did you serve?”
He looks at Nick as if examining and judging him, as if he was looking for an answer to some sort of hidden question to be satisfied.
     “I was at Fort Knox for a while, as a Physician Assistant, I was then a PA for an infantry battalion in Eastern Afghanistan, but I was a grunt before that, in 03’ during the invasion,”
 Nick says, letting him know of his experience as a grunt last, to prove a point, a point he didn’t quite understand or necessarily need.
        “Ah, I was in the infantry back in Korea,” He says, with some amount of pride in his eyes, as if it was a high point in his life. Nick knew the feeling and longed for the times of his near youth as well. In his memory the young strapping 18 year old kid headed to war for the very first time, the life of the party, the immature idiot, was a far cry from who he saw himself as now.
         “Thank you for your service sir.”Nick said respectfully, shaking the man's hand as the man returned the words.
        “Thank you for your service,” And he continued on back to serving a few of the working class mexican patrons who were drinking beer and carousing in the corner, having a good old time. Good for them Nick thought to himself. But then he thought back to Afghanistan and how it had all started there.
Every week at the beginning of deployment he would skype his wife, and every week he would say less, and less, as the horrors of what he was seeing separated their realities divisively until he rarely called home at all.
     “It’s not that I don’t love you, it’s just that I’m having trouble feeling anything”
he remembered saying, and the words even stung him. That was over now and when he had returned he had eventually opened up again, and they were good for a few years. He didn’t have to sleep on the couch anymore, they had sex every night, everything was going great!
But he was still haunted by memories, and didn’t want to share for fear of burdening his wife. But as he was dealing with old memories, his profession of medicine never failed to provide new traumas to cope with, and as it piled on he just felt like going and getting a drink before going home. I mean where was the crime in that? His phone rings, illuminating the old picture of his unit he sets as his background. A text message.
     “Hey Babe are you gonna be home soon?”
It reads, from his wife. Maybe she missed him he thought to himself, maybe she wanted to be with him right now, maybe the cloudy weather had her thinking of him.  She was at her most affectionate at times like these, a woman who enjoyed nothing more than the cold and the rain, any excuse to stay indoors with a book; to feel the warmth of her husbands body beside her under the warm comforter of their queen sized bed.
     “I’ll be home in about 45 minutes, just finishing up some paperwork at the hospital.”
 He lies, instinctively.
As the lie sets in, on top of all the other lies, well intentioned lies albeit but lies all the same. His handsome boyish face—a face that hardly represented his real age of 33 going on 88— wrinkling and shifting with worry and stress. He begins to feel dirty, to hate himself. Only two drinks in though, there's still turning back as he throws the monster off his back, getting up immediately and leaving the bar to walk nextdoor to the flower stand to buy some white Azaleas, her favorite flower and his go to in crisis. On the way he passes Los charros, the taqueria untouched by time, with old murals and cheesy Chicano culture, save the new flat screen tv,simplify endeared it to is and it was the place where they had had sporadically met for lunch so often. He remembered her words.
"What are you thinking about?" She had asked? What had been thinking about? Perhaps it was the patterned burns that so tortured that 7 year olds legs he had seen earlier, the one with the story telling parents. The boiling pot fell. Bullshit.
"Nothing honey, just dazing." He said lazily, offering an easier solution to her, shirking their responsibility to one another.
"Really?" She queried, prodding for some more information, pushing him to open up. But the walls were still up, and he wouldn't lend her his vulnerability.
"Yeh honey, I'm ok." He said, locking the door on his feelings. And he really did feel ok. She placed her hands on his hands and looked him in the eyes lovingly, trying to imbue strength and caring. Their eyes met and she appeared shocked, stunned by the emptiness in his, perhaps shocked by the despair and tortured nature of it all. There it was her fear.
“15.50,”
 The flower clerk says, handing him his cut flowers. Flowers, what a god damn racket he thought to himself as he handed her so much of his hourly wages.
	The alley reeks of piss as he walks through it, territorial markings of hundreds of animalistic drunks.  Getting in his car he thinks about what he’s going to say, as he rolls down the window to let in fresh air. The cold fall air is crisp and breathable; cold air that had travelled over the ocean, past the lazy beach towns of the coast and over the Santa Cruz Mountains across highways, and sleepy little rural communities once occupied by the now nearly extinct ohlone tribe, settling as a fog in morning over the water, and making it’s way inland to drape itself like a cold blanket over the peninsular city.
“Honey I love you I’m...fuck what do i say...fuck, Ok. Honey I love you and I’m sorry for lying, I just cant. Fuck I can’t deal with you after work without having a drink first? No, no that sounds horrible you evil bastard. Ok, I’m sorry, I fucked up, I’ve been having a drink after work every day, and lying that I was at work. I know it’s stupid, I’m not opening up to you enough, I’m sorry.”
Maybe that will work he thinks to himself. He’d rather just be honest and get it out at this point then try and plan and maybe manipulate, just tell the whole truth.
The trees whizz by on either side of the road as his old brown chevy blazer—with the busted tail light and brown peeling finish— flies into the quiet and picturesque suburban, sputtering, and coughing up smog. The neighborhood is right near downtown Mountain View, tiny little homes for new couples and single google employees, right near Merv’s. On the way he passes a car accident at an intersection, the red and white lights pierce through the darkness, casting ominous shadows as the rescue workers worked on getting a passenger out of a smashed up car.
     He pulls up to their tiny two Bedroom house, with blue wooden paneling glossed like an after thought over cheap stucco walls, with white four pane windows and ugly maroon blinds that he had picked foolishly for their price one time without asking his wife. A Red
Lifted truck sits in the driveway, in brilliant arrogance.
    He gasps, sighing deep like a man with a bullet in his chest, and puts his hand to his head for a moment, as if in some sort of incredible pain, and then the training kicks in, the separation of emotion from thinking, —the lobotomy of compassion for self—his face overcome with the arrogance of apathy.
He turns around to return to Mervs, for his own safety, the echoes of a thousand puzzled therapists echoed in his head.
     “Just walk away.”
Driving back to the bar, he passes the car accident. The red lights are still their flashing, the police have arrived too. He notices the— unmistakable to him— form of a blanket covered corpse. Sitting alone and unattended in its place behind the rescue truck. At the sight of the corpse, there he is again, pulling the sheet over the face of another dead child, to shield others from the shock of such a sight. The tears come now, streaming down his face;there was no guilt, crying over a dead child. He completes his drive to the bar and sits with the other lonely barflys on those aged and torn up barstools.  The white azaleas sit in the passengers seat of the bronco, alone.

title: [SF] Unnattended

question: What does the story say about Marvs?

answer: Mervs is a working-class dive bar in downtown Mountain View, CA, with a 60-year history of serving cheap drinks. In Mervs, everything is old and needs renovation. Mervs doesn't even have shelves visible to store its liquor, except the good scotch that the owner kept most likely because it was his personal poison. Mervs is well known for attracting the kind of desperate fools who buy the lottery tickets—cash only. That keeps this hole from disappearing into memory.

question: What does the story say about Nick's relationship with his wife?

answer: He was a Physician Assistant for an infantry battalion in Eastern Afghanistan. That experience changed him, and he is having trouble feeling anything. He has been having a drink after work every day and lying to his wife that he was at work. He cannot deal with her after work without having a drink first. She loves him but notices the emptiness in his eyes.

question: What does the story say about the narrator's children?


text:
I turned my palms so that they were face down. I was wrapped from the waist down in the white sheets of a bed. I felt like a twig. I looked at the smiling doc. My vision was surprisingly clear. Beyond the doc, the room boasted blue curtains, white walls and bright lights - as one should expect, I assume at least, from a hospital room.

The doc sported black hair, two lovely pearly earrings and a pair of eyes. I smiled back. I was definitely on something. I can’t tell what, but my mouth crinkles seemed to buzz as muscles contracted. It was a weird feeling. My mind wondered easily. Almost as easily as my eyes. I remember looking at the wall clock and following the ticking motion of the hands. At the time, they had a nice movement to them. I likened that motion to the sway of smoke or the flapping of a flame.

I was told by the lovely doc to embrace my new heart in a language comprised of factoids and the occasional medical vignette.

“It’s a technologically sound device and very new indeed”.

“135 beats per minute and far more efficient than the real thing. Breath taking, really”.

After the doc’s description about how terrific my new heart is, I had a little coughing fit. I can only put the cough down to the dustiness of the room’s air. The odd thing was that my heart rate stayed exactly the same. Now, not having experienced this before, I must say it is a feeling of peculiarity. It was at this moment that I realised my case was quite luxurious. I would never have to worry again about becoming light headed from lying down too long and nor would I have to worry about attending anymore of Minnie’s god awful Pilates classes. A minor miracle.

I remember having a little lapse form my bliss. How would Minnie respond? And the kids? Joseph had only just managed to graduate and, well, Kayla’s kids now have to deal with an even less capable Gramps. Fantastic. Thinking about all this was all fine and dandy, but I soon realised that the most pressing issue was to work out how I was going to navigate Minnie’s “I told you so” moment.

“Listen to me, you’re too old for this”.

“40 years. It’s going to kill you”.

Minnie’s concerns are always the same. I never take them to heart. I know she means well. But, my god, that woman can complain and she now had a fair point. I looked back at the doctor still mumbling away. I concluded apologising was the best bet. I needed to play the victim card to my advantage. Minnie isn’t that heartless. She’s come around.

I tuned back to the doc. I was told that there are two battery packs built into my chest. All externally rechargeable, of course. When one pack dies out, the second pack kicks in and it becomes paramount that the previous one is recharged. If I fail this procedure, I die; with both battery packs empty there is simply nothing to power the circulation of my blood, to transport my oxygen and to keep me alive.

The doctor smiled again. I must say, by now, I remember beginning to feel a little restless. I was starting to come around. My eyes darted down towards the doctor’s blouse, to the chest pocket of her white coat and then to the little white pen that popped out.

It was then that I realised I now had no heart and all I really wanted was a cigarette.

title: Heart.

question: What does the story say aboutthe doctor's appearance?

answer: The doctor has black hair, two lovely pearly earrings, and a pair of eyes. She is wearing a blouse. The chest pocket of her white coat has a little white pen popping out of it.

question: What information does the story tell us about the narrator?

answer: The narrator has just had a heart transplant and now has a synthetic heart. He has a wife and kids and grandchildren as well. He is at least 40 years old. He is also a smoker.

question: What does the story say about Joseph's kids?