Good Drones Obey: Communism and Kink in Post-Revolutionary America
- Thread starter RiverDelta
- Start date
- Mature Timeline Future
- Location
- Back in the 90s (In a very famous TV show)
- Pronouns
- She/Her/Ve/Ver
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I'm tempted to edit it into a shameful dream sequence that is much more about Bridget's deeply toxic self, if that sounds like it could work? Like, exploring her as the political operator, the war criminal, and the creepy repressed bisexual who is kind of into Kendra and also wants to kill her due to being morally repugnant. All of that would also feed into her coping with the Fuhrer's death. Could any of that work? Less about Kendra and Ruby and more about the instability under the media-friendly mask she relies on.
- Location
- Northern Virginia
- Pronouns
- He/Him
That would make it a whole lot better, actually.
Update 28: Bridget's Fingers
- Location
- Back in the 90s (In a very famous TV show)
- Pronouns
- She/Her/Ve/Ver
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"Author's" Notes: This update was posted as heavily incomplete, under another title. This is the full, complete update. Much has been changed from the draft. If you like this revised update, please tell me, I absolutely appreciate it.
CW: Some possessive romantic intent, knifeplay/torture mention, Bridget using the T-slur, Bridget's bigoted Nazi psyche, a "KYS" statement given to a Nazi, etc.
Bridget wore an Army merch sweatshirt as she looked at the Indian girl and the tran— transgender person with each other. She drank a peach bellini as she sat at a little table. She had six fingers. She had nine toes, and she could feel it. She didn't like Seattle. It was a degenerate town and always had been. Still, she looked at the red armband on the Indian girl's body. What was Kendra Oswald doing with...Oh, they were kissing. Feeling each other up. Lesbians, apparently. Fuck California. Still, it was part of her new job.
Bridget had never been a fan of lesbians, either. She'd always loved men, even if women did give her odd thoughts. Most people would call her bisexual, if they knew. She called herself straight with a problem. It was a problem she'd never admitted, a problem that it took TJ's death to approach. She liked to think if TJ had heard about her thoughts, he would have understood. Sure, she and him had butchered enough bulldykes to get a taste for it, but she and TJ never played by the movement's rules. The floor didn't exist.
They'd long since proved they were immune to degeneracy, so anything they did wasn't degenerate.
The floor existed again.
On the other hand, part of her feared that TJ wouldn't've let her. Even if medieval European nobles routinely had their gay escapades that they denied the common people, TJ was virtuous. Sometimes, she thought, too virtuous for her. Well, that was what this "left-nationalist" sham was for, wasn't it? She was going to prove herself his equal.
Her words died in her mind.
He did so like powerful women who were his, almost as much as he liked powerful men who obeyed his command.
She had four fingers.
He was hers and she was his, and he was dead. Bridget MacBay thought of his smiling face, his pretty lips, his well-built muscles and his giant's figure. She thought of his embrace, of their total dedication to Hell and to Fury. For a second, out of the corner of her eye, she thought she saw him with his chain necklace and bovver boots. Just someone else.
She saw his skull.
Aryans didn't cry, but Bridget did. She sobbed.
She saw the Indian girl and Oswald approaching her. "Are you okay?" Oswald asked, not seeming to recognize her.
"I'm fine," Bridget said. "Just having a tough day."
One day you both will hang from the lampposts, she thought. Then, she looked up at the two, and she saw Oswald's electric doll-like makeup, her circuitry tattoos, her long nails, her slender form, her perfect face....
Is Kendra Oswald supposed to lack teeth?
"You OK?" Oswald asked.
Bridget had seen the interview with Aiah Hirsch and those other rats a year ago. Oswald was a bitchy narcissist, but she cleaned up well, looked like a cyberpunk Aryan princess, and there was something so tempting about her being a transs—
"Dude," Oswald asked.
"I'm fine. You're just, you know, hot," Bridget said.
Why am I saying this?
"I know I am, babe," Oswald said with a smirk. It fell off of her.
"No, you don't get it. It's a problem. You're not supposed to look like that. People like you aren't supposed to be happy. You're supposed to be miserable and then die," Bridget said.
The Indian girl spoke. "Kendra, maybe we should get—"
"Points for honesty," Kendra said.
"It's hard to be honest," Bridget responded. "Look, I didn't want that to come off rudely, it's just that you're something unnatural. You're like a monster or a Sidhe, you're something made not born and not meant to exist. That's why you look perfect. That's why your voice is so sweet. That's why..."
Daisy Holland is laughing at me.
"Hey, um, that's really cool to hear and all, but is there anything I can do to make you feel better?" Oswald asked. "I don't wanna be an asshole, but I don't really know how to respond to that."
The Jews are laughing at me.
"...Yeah. I'm sorry." Bridget did what Bridget often did, and lied.
I am a joke.
Oswald noticed it. "Hey, what's this really about?" she asked.
My dead boyfriend wouldn't want me to be into you, Bridget thought, realizing you couldn't just say that. "I guess I just find you attractive, but in a way that goes against my ethics."
Oswald sat down at the table and the Indian girl found a chair. "What about finding me hot goes against your ethics?" Oswald asked, pushing those very real-looking tits up a bit with her hands in her bra.
"Do you want an honest answer?" Bridget asked. Kendra had no eyes, and a giant fleshy cock appeared on the table. It went away. She was lucid, but not awake. Dreaming, she thought.
"Hell yeah, let's see how deep the rabbit hole goes," Oswald said.
"It's like I said. People like you, transgenders, you're not supposed to be happy. You're especially not supposed to be attractive. You're a social disease, one that is by and large a plot by grasping and avaricious intellectuals to weaken my people, and yet I still stare at your perfect lips."
They cut her into looking like this. I need to grasp her, I need to fuck her, I need to own her.
Oswald's nose turned up a bit, then grew longer. "Oh, I get it! You're a Nazi. Nobody says my people or grasping and avaricious intellectuals like that without being a Nazi. Look, I'd love to be some apparently very drunk rando Nazi's gay-slash-trans awakening, but I'm a celebrity, so..."
Bridget saw halos made of spray paint appear over the two women's heads.
She is not a woman. She is an effeminate man, a monster, and I need to fuck her. I need her to own me. I need those manicured hands on my cunt like—"
Yeah, like that. You have power, you have confidence. You are above me," Bridget said, almost whined. "I wish you were a man, by the Prince."
Die, tranny, die!
"What?" Kendra exclaimed. "Okay, Nazi chick, fuck o—"
Bridget took a sip from her drink. "No. Well, in a biological sense you are a man, but more to the point I wish you were masculine so I could feel less bad about—"
All Bridget felt was unnatural, radioactive weakness.
"Drunk Nazi chick, what's your name?" Kendra asked, impishly excited to see where this mess of a person was taking her.
"Bridget MacBay."
Kendra turned to the Pakistani girl. "Hey, Rosie, mind googling her?"
Ruby drew her phone. Nobody used Gooble anymore, but the verb persisted. "Seems like she was the girlfriend of the Atompilz head, and is currently kind of poorly disguising her Nazism under some Red-Brown thing. She's the head of some no-name party: the National Councilists."
"Christ." Kendra turned to Bridget. "So, what, you're a mix of Eva Braun and George Lincoln Rockwell?"
"She's also a massive liar and the ANCP's platform is really bigoted," Rosie said, gesturing with three fingers on a blurry, one-fingered hand. "The Seattle Prole continues to be useless."
Bridget finished her fourth bellini. "I'm my own person."
"Look, well, I'm kind of already taken..." Kendra said, hastily.
"Please," Bridget said, staring under the table at Kendra's art deco heels. "I'll say whatever you want, I'll do whatever you want. I just want to be in your life. I saw you on the interview, I saw your anti-white movie five times, please. You are a goddamn succubus and I need you. I don't need to date you. Please, just keep calling me bigoted and 'Drunk Nazi chick' and a liar and all this other stuff. I need a trann—transgender woman to keep me around like a goddamn pet."
Oswald's lungs should be on the outside and covered in shit.
"Dude, you own a Nazi party. Go tell someone else your creepy fantasies," Kendra said, staring at Bridget's broad shoulders and chiseled features. The halo of spray paint grew lighter and brighter.
"Do you want input on the platform?" Bridget asked. "There was going to be a right-wing party in this country no matter what, don't you want the chance to shape it? Kendra, you are a white goddess, if you want to let transgenders in I'll make it happen."
Weakness. That's all you are. Running, screaming, anything to avoid admitting that you're
Ruby gave it some thought. Bridget heard her thoughts.
It seems like this woman is deeply attention-starved from the end of her last relationship with the genocidal maniac. She's...also a genocidal maniac, but maybe we could get something out of it?
"Hey, babe," Kendra said. "Maybe...Maybe it would be a good opportunity to get to keep the far-right from doing anything too stupid. She's kind of the heir to Atompilz, right? If letting her drool over me means that she'll keep her people from doing hate crimes and shit, maybe that's not so bad?" I just wish she wasn't a Nazi, Kendra thought. I'm good with liars. I know liars.
Bridget's expression was one of hope.
attack dog
Ruby considered calling the People's Militia, but the right to organize dissident parties (so long as they did not overtly promote political violence) was part of the Worldwide Republic's society. Even with MacBay's many crimes, it wasn't as though she'd get more than house arrest or a penal batallion tour. The latter was bad, but Bridget deserved far worse. "Kendra, you can't just keep a person in our house like some kind of pet."
own me
Two images battled in Bridget's mind: one of Ruby and Kendra dangling from nooses with their eyes cut out and signs reading "ENEMY OF THE RACE" around their necks, and one of Bridget being able to feel something, to feel romantic feelings and lust for someone after what they did to him.
burn you
Bridget MacBay, you deserve to be happy, she thought.
the way of the warrior is found in misery
"It's me or her, Kendra," Ruby said. "Everything she did, everything she believes, it's all totally unjustifiable. The fact that she's alive is an indictment on the failure of the revolution. She needs to pay."
no facades, no excuses, no lies
Kendra spoke with the voice of a man. "So society isn't punishing her anywhere near what it should, because of the new justice system. Well, if we keep her with us, we can make sure she doesn't hurt anyone else."
die
"She's a mass murderer. Kendra, you're thinking with your clit."
bodies burning atop broken beacons
Kendra sat down in Bridget's lap, getting comfortable. Oh my god, Ruby is Indian, Kendra thought. "Babe, I am so sorry. I just realized one of the many reasons why you're not cool with this." Kendra got out of Bridget's lap and hugged her girlfriend. "I got carried away, I promise."
you are the monsters, i am human, i am aryan, i am invincible, die die die die
"...I think I see the problem," Bridget said. "You see me as a threat, don't you?" she asked Ruby, begging. Ruby had no eyes. There was a hole in the left side of her chest.
Ruby's expression made her thoughts clear.
"Well, I promise I won't hurt a hair on your head. You're Kendra's, and I would never break something owned by her," Bridget said, arousal mixing with terror and hate. It wasn't her voice, hopefully.
Ruby was about to launch into a horrified rant explaining the difference between kink and real slavery, but then she realized that this was probably just Bridget's evil racial politics.
"Let's go," Ruby said.
"Ruby, please," Bridget asked. "How can I make you feel better?"
Rosie didn't give it much time. "Kill yourself. That sword in the picture of the article, stab yourself with it. Die."
die, die, die, die, die, die, die
Well, I can't say she's wrong, Kendra thought. Then, memories of her dying due to the pills in college came into her mind's eye.
"Ruby?" she asked, softly.
There was a sword in Bridget's chest, not a claymore but a samurai's katana.
"Yeah?" Rosie asked.
"She's barely gotten punished. At least if we give her some time we can torture her serial-killer style. I'm good with knifeplay and shit, and I've done my research for my writing. Plus, you have your experience as a medic. We torture her, and then she gets to hang around us as long as she genuinely tries to turn over a new leaf. That way, we get rehabilitation and punishment, plus letting us impact the neo-Nazi right to make it a bit less dangerous, rather than just her getting off scot-free and finding some dude to be into."
torture me
"I would like to torture her," Ruby said.
Bridget looked down. "I promise I can take it," she said. "If that's what I need to be around such an unnaturally perfect Aryan goddess, I will accept that...punishment."
morally perfect knight of the race
"C'mon, babe, let's make her suffer," Kendra said, motioning for Bridget to follow. Ruby nodded, a small smile on her face. It was time to make that lying bitch bleed.
invincible
Bridget woke up in bed, screaming, as she watched Captain America on TV say something stupid to someone stupid. TJ, you were right: this world falls. However, I must not. She gave a quick prayer to Lucifer and a Hitler salute to remind her of what she was.
Bridget had five fingers.
Kill them all.
CW: Some possessive romantic intent, knifeplay/torture mention, Bridget using the T-slur, Bridget's bigoted Nazi psyche, a "KYS" statement given to a Nazi, etc.
Bridget wore an Army merch sweatshirt as she looked at the Indian girl and the tran— transgender person with each other. She drank a peach bellini as she sat at a little table. She had six fingers. She had nine toes, and she could feel it. She didn't like Seattle. It was a degenerate town and always had been. Still, she looked at the red armband on the Indian girl's body. What was Kendra Oswald doing with...Oh, they were kissing. Feeling each other up. Lesbians, apparently. Fuck California. Still, it was part of her new job.
Bridget had never been a fan of lesbians, either. She'd always loved men, even if women did give her odd thoughts. Most people would call her bisexual, if they knew. She called herself straight with a problem. It was a problem she'd never admitted, a problem that it took TJ's death to approach. She liked to think if TJ had heard about her thoughts, he would have understood. Sure, she and him had butchered enough bulldykes to get a taste for it, but she and TJ never played by the movement's rules. The floor didn't exist.
They'd long since proved they were immune to degeneracy, so anything they did wasn't degenerate.
The floor existed again.
On the other hand, part of her feared that TJ wouldn't've let her. Even if medieval European nobles routinely had their gay escapades that they denied the common people, TJ was virtuous. Sometimes, she thought, too virtuous for her. Well, that was what this "left-nationalist" sham was for, wasn't it? She was going to prove herself his equal.
Her words died in her mind.
He did so like powerful women who were his, almost as much as he liked powerful men who obeyed his command.
She had four fingers.
He was hers and she was his, and he was dead. Bridget MacBay thought of his smiling face, his pretty lips, his well-built muscles and his giant's figure. She thought of his embrace, of their total dedication to Hell and to Fury. For a second, out of the corner of her eye, she thought she saw him with his chain necklace and bovver boots. Just someone else.
She saw his skull.
Aryans didn't cry, but Bridget did. She sobbed.
She saw the Indian girl and Oswald approaching her. "Are you okay?" Oswald asked, not seeming to recognize her.
"I'm fine," Bridget said. "Just having a tough day."
One day you both will hang from the lampposts, she thought. Then, she looked up at the two, and she saw Oswald's electric doll-like makeup, her circuitry tattoos, her long nails, her slender form, her perfect face....
Is Kendra Oswald supposed to lack teeth?
"You OK?" Oswald asked.
Bridget had seen the interview with Aiah Hirsch and those other rats a year ago. Oswald was a bitchy narcissist, but she cleaned up well, looked like a cyberpunk Aryan princess, and there was something so tempting about her being a transs—
"Dude," Oswald asked.
"I'm fine. You're just, you know, hot," Bridget said.
Why am I saying this?
"I know I am, babe," Oswald said with a smirk. It fell off of her.
"No, you don't get it. It's a problem. You're not supposed to look like that. People like you aren't supposed to be happy. You're supposed to be miserable and then die," Bridget said.
The Indian girl spoke. "Kendra, maybe we should get—"
"Points for honesty," Kendra said.
"It's hard to be honest," Bridget responded. "Look, I didn't want that to come off rudely, it's just that you're something unnatural. You're like a monster or a Sidhe, you're something made not born and not meant to exist. That's why you look perfect. That's why your voice is so sweet. That's why..."
Daisy Holland is laughing at me.
"Hey, um, that's really cool to hear and all, but is there anything I can do to make you feel better?" Oswald asked. "I don't wanna be an asshole, but I don't really know how to respond to that."
The Jews are laughing at me.
"...Yeah. I'm sorry." Bridget did what Bridget often did, and lied.
I am a joke.
Oswald noticed it. "Hey, what's this really about?" she asked.
My dead boyfriend wouldn't want me to be into you, Bridget thought, realizing you couldn't just say that. "I guess I just find you attractive, but in a way that goes against my ethics."
Oswald sat down at the table and the Indian girl found a chair. "What about finding me hot goes against your ethics?" Oswald asked, pushing those very real-looking tits up a bit with her hands in her bra.
"Do you want an honest answer?" Bridget asked. Kendra had no eyes, and a giant fleshy cock appeared on the table. It went away. She was lucid, but not awake. Dreaming, she thought.
"Hell yeah, let's see how deep the rabbit hole goes," Oswald said.
"It's like I said. People like you, transgenders, you're not supposed to be happy. You're especially not supposed to be attractive. You're a social disease, one that is by and large a plot by grasping and avaricious intellectuals to weaken my people, and yet I still stare at your perfect lips."
They cut her into looking like this. I need to grasp her, I need to fuck her, I need to own her.
Oswald's nose turned up a bit, then grew longer. "Oh, I get it! You're a Nazi. Nobody says my people or grasping and avaricious intellectuals like that without being a Nazi. Look, I'd love to be some apparently very drunk rando Nazi's gay-slash-trans awakening, but I'm a celebrity, so..."
Bridget saw halos made of spray paint appear over the two women's heads.
She is not a woman. She is an effeminate man, a monster, and I need to fuck her. I need her to own me. I need those manicured hands on my cunt like—"
Yeah, like that. You have power, you have confidence. You are above me," Bridget said, almost whined. "I wish you were a man, by the Prince."
Die, tranny, die!
"What?" Kendra exclaimed. "Okay, Nazi chick, fuck o—"
Bridget took a sip from her drink. "No. Well, in a biological sense you are a man, but more to the point I wish you were masculine so I could feel less bad about—"
All Bridget felt was unnatural, radioactive weakness.
"Drunk Nazi chick, what's your name?" Kendra asked, impishly excited to see where this mess of a person was taking her.
"Bridget MacBay."
Kendra turned to the Pakistani girl. "Hey, Rosie, mind googling her?"
Ruby drew her phone. Nobody used Gooble anymore, but the verb persisted. "Seems like she was the girlfriend of the Atompilz head, and is currently kind of poorly disguising her Nazism under some Red-Brown thing. She's the head of some no-name party: the National Councilists."
"Christ." Kendra turned to Bridget. "So, what, you're a mix of Eva Braun and George Lincoln Rockwell?"
"She's also a massive liar and the ANCP's platform is really bigoted," Rosie said, gesturing with three fingers on a blurry, one-fingered hand. "The Seattle Prole continues to be useless."
Bridget finished her fourth bellini. "I'm my own person."
"Look, well, I'm kind of already taken..." Kendra said, hastily.
"Please," Bridget said, staring under the table at Kendra's art deco heels. "I'll say whatever you want, I'll do whatever you want. I just want to be in your life. I saw you on the interview, I saw your anti-white movie five times, please. You are a goddamn succubus and I need you. I don't need to date you. Please, just keep calling me bigoted and 'Drunk Nazi chick' and a liar and all this other stuff. I need a trann—transgender woman to keep me around like a goddamn pet."
Oswald's lungs should be on the outside and covered in shit.
"Dude, you own a Nazi party. Go tell someone else your creepy fantasies," Kendra said, staring at Bridget's broad shoulders and chiseled features. The halo of spray paint grew lighter and brighter.
"Do you want input on the platform?" Bridget asked. "There was going to be a right-wing party in this country no matter what, don't you want the chance to shape it? Kendra, you are a white goddess, if you want to let transgenders in I'll make it happen."
Weakness. That's all you are. Running, screaming, anything to avoid admitting that you're
Ruby gave it some thought. Bridget heard her thoughts.
It seems like this woman is deeply attention-starved from the end of her last relationship with the genocidal maniac. She's...also a genocidal maniac, but maybe we could get something out of it?
"Hey, babe," Kendra said. "Maybe...Maybe it would be a good opportunity to get to keep the far-right from doing anything too stupid. She's kind of the heir to Atompilz, right? If letting her drool over me means that she'll keep her people from doing hate crimes and shit, maybe that's not so bad?" I just wish she wasn't a Nazi, Kendra thought. I'm good with liars. I know liars.
Bridget's expression was one of hope.
attack dog
Ruby considered calling the People's Militia, but the right to organize dissident parties (so long as they did not overtly promote political violence) was part of the Worldwide Republic's society. Even with MacBay's many crimes, it wasn't as though she'd get more than house arrest or a penal batallion tour. The latter was bad, but Bridget deserved far worse. "Kendra, you can't just keep a person in our house like some kind of pet."
own me
Two images battled in Bridget's mind: one of Ruby and Kendra dangling from nooses with their eyes cut out and signs reading "ENEMY OF THE RACE" around their necks, and one of Bridget being able to feel something, to feel romantic feelings and lust for someone after what they did to him.
burn you
Bridget MacBay, you deserve to be happy, she thought.
the way of the warrior is found in misery
"It's me or her, Kendra," Ruby said. "Everything she did, everything she believes, it's all totally unjustifiable. The fact that she's alive is an indictment on the failure of the revolution. She needs to pay."
no facades, no excuses, no lies
Kendra spoke with the voice of a man. "So society isn't punishing her anywhere near what it should, because of the new justice system. Well, if we keep her with us, we can make sure she doesn't hurt anyone else."
die
"She's a mass murderer. Kendra, you're thinking with your clit."
bodies burning atop broken beacons
Kendra sat down in Bridget's lap, getting comfortable. Oh my god, Ruby is Indian, Kendra thought. "Babe, I am so sorry. I just realized one of the many reasons why you're not cool with this." Kendra got out of Bridget's lap and hugged her girlfriend. "I got carried away, I promise."
you are the monsters, i am human, i am aryan, i am invincible, die die die die
"...I think I see the problem," Bridget said. "You see me as a threat, don't you?" she asked Ruby, begging. Ruby had no eyes. There was a hole in the left side of her chest.
Ruby's expression made her thoughts clear.
"Well, I promise I won't hurt a hair on your head. You're Kendra's, and I would never break something owned by her," Bridget said, arousal mixing with terror and hate. It wasn't her voice, hopefully.
Ruby was about to launch into a horrified rant explaining the difference between kink and real slavery, but then she realized that this was probably just Bridget's evil racial politics.
"Let's go," Ruby said.
"Ruby, please," Bridget asked. "How can I make you feel better?"
Rosie didn't give it much time. "Kill yourself. That sword in the picture of the article, stab yourself with it. Die."
die, die, die, die, die, die, die
Well, I can't say she's wrong, Kendra thought. Then, memories of her dying due to the pills in college came into her mind's eye.
"Ruby?" she asked, softly.
There was a sword in Bridget's chest, not a claymore but a samurai's katana.
"Yeah?" Rosie asked.
"She's barely gotten punished. At least if we give her some time we can torture her serial-killer style. I'm good with knifeplay and shit, and I've done my research for my writing. Plus, you have your experience as a medic. We torture her, and then she gets to hang around us as long as she genuinely tries to turn over a new leaf. That way, we get rehabilitation and punishment, plus letting us impact the neo-Nazi right to make it a bit less dangerous, rather than just her getting off scot-free and finding some dude to be into."
torture me
"I would like to torture her," Ruby said.
Bridget looked down. "I promise I can take it," she said. "If that's what I need to be around such an unnaturally perfect Aryan goddess, I will accept that...punishment."
morally perfect knight of the race
"C'mon, babe, let's make her suffer," Kendra said, motioning for Bridget to follow. Ruby nodded, a small smile on her face. It was time to make that lying bitch bleed.
invincible
Bridget woke up in bed, screaming, as she watched Captain America on TV say something stupid to someone stupid. TJ, you were right: this world falls. However, I must not. She gave a quick prayer to Lucifer and a Hitler salute to remind her of what she was.
Bridget had five fingers.
Kill them all.
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Well fuck.
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Yeah, the idea of the scene made more sense as a character exploration piece for a one character rather than as a plot-advancing scene for three.
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The next update involves family: found family and blood family.
Update 29: Family
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CW: Suicidal ideation.
Lyrics from "Family Matters", by Pyrite Morreo and Global Thermonuclear War
"And I'm calling you down, down, down to the street
down where the bodies burn, when the fire's complete"
Tom Picano held his phone in his hand. They let him use his phone, if nothing else. His face still felt like eroded rock.
She responded to him with a sing-song voice and a Hawaii phone number. "Really? They didn't kill you? " Calliope Anderson said, gloating. "Even after the conversion camps?"
"Look, I need to talk to you. We're like—"
"Brother and sister?" Calliope concluded for him. "We're a funny family, huh?"
"I thought I'd use my first call in a while to say hi," Tom said. "The rest of them were ideologues, right? Lowell wanted a 'brighter America', Ashley wanted a 'united United States', and Strecker and his attack dog wanted to turn back the clock. You and me, though?" His voice was almost tender.
"We know what we did," she said.
"Nobody takes responsibility anymore. Even Stone's butch is getting back into the old routine," he said.
"Yeah, so why should I start if nobody else is going to?" Calliope asked.
"I wanna say I told you so, when the trash can smoke lingers
I wanna say I told you so, when I lifted my fingers
I wanna say I was itching for the fall
I wanna say that, it just wouldn't be all"
"Penguin?" Sam Cross said into his phone, his words strained.
Lottie sat on her couch, the newly-minted actor's makeup still perfect. "Yeah?" she asked, answering to her childhood nickname.
The air was rotting. "You'd miss me if I died, right?" Sam asked.
"Dad, you're not in your right mind," Lottie said. She'd known what it was like to deal with a suicidal father. "You don't wanna die. You want to be here."
"I'm just looking into the possibility," he said. "It's cold in Hawaii."
"I thought it was hot," Lottie said, with forced levity.
"Ha-ha," he said aloud. "You're avoiding the question. If I passed away, would you miss me or not?" he asked. Iraq played through his head. What he would have given to go back in time and shoot himself rather than let that bitch enter his—
"Dad, how are you planning to do it?" Lottie asked.
"I took out my painkillers, but I didn't do anything," Sam said. "I mostly just wanted to ask, you know? I wouldn't want to die if you would miss me."
"That's not logical, please, Dad, put away the painkillers," she said.
"I have nothing to live for." You stupid piece of shit, he thought. You dumb piece of garbage, you're going to kill yourself and leave your daughter in another country, just so you can feel like you've done something with your life other than raise a broken girl and a monster. She's still nowhere near as broken as you are. You can rant about it all you like in your head, about her, but Calliope is happy and you never will be.
Lottie said what she often did in these sorts of situations. "The fact that you're talking to me means that you have some good reason not to do it," she said. She tried to keep her voice level, just like she'd done since she was ten.
"Cowardice," he said. Die, you dumb motherfucker, just kill yourself, he thought.
Her lips pursed. "No, strength. Look, if it's so important that you die, you'll still feel this way in an hour. Take your antidepressants, take a breath, and wait an hour. Then, it's up to you. If you want to die, go for it." She had to phrase it like that, to keep him from feeling manipulated. It used to turn her stomach pretending like she didn't care.
"Okay." He sighed, looking forward to doing the deed.
"Anarchy is coming, in the UK and USA
It's anarchy, violent anarchy, that's what they say
But I just miss you further in this brighter kind of age"
"You know, nobody will ever get us," Calliope said. "The other leaders couldn't think critically, and nobody else on Earth knows what it was like to be a war president in the Second American Civil War. You, the partyarch who reinvented himself as a post-MAGA, and me, the woke transgender mass murderer...It's just us."
Tom was thankful that Dakota in the corner was pretending not to listen. "In a way, we were both almost sane. All these other people, they believed in things, stupid things."
Calliope laughed. "Look at us geniuses, just saying what we needed to."
"Why'd you flee the country? You saw what they did to me. You'd be fine," he said.
Her laughter died. "...No, they said they were going to make an exception for me. They called me the American Hitler. I was going to be given the only death sentence in Worldwide Republic history. Firing squad."
"For lighting it up?" he asked, disgust in his voice. He knew he was a snake, but he wasn't a sociopath. At least, he hoped he wasn't.
"Yeah." She detected a note of discomfort in his voice. "You would have done the same thing."
"I wouldn't've," he said.
"What if it was losing or lighting shit up?" she asked.
He gave it the little thought it deserved. "I still wouldn't do it. I'd rather end up in house arrest in Carolinagrad."
"Same old Tom," she said.
"Moral?" he asked.
"A pussy," she said. "It's war, and in war the most ethical thing is the thing that ends the war quickest. That's all you can do. You have to care about everyone, not just your constituents."
Tom spat the next phrase. "Then what happened to your kids and the cop?"
"He's fine. The kids are fine."
Lottie approached the door clad in a dark skirt-suit. She knocked. Opening the door was Benjamin Cross, wearing an ankle monitor and a cheerful expression. "Well, welcome back!" He gave her a too-firm pat on the back, and she entered his house. He had three armed guards living there with him. If he so much as stepped on his driveway, they'd shoot him dead. The system wasn't entirely toothless. "So, I hear you're a famous actor now?" he asked.
She nodded. "Yeah. What've you done all this time?" she asked, her expression darkening.
"Oh, just sitting here, watching pre-revolution sitcoms! What else?" His smile was wide. It was a needle into her skin. "So, come in, make yourself at home. This is David, that's Vasily, and that's Cooper," he said, pointing to two men and an enby. "It's a really nice place."
"Yeah, it is," she said.
"Really makes you think, huh?" he asked, a note of condescension in his voice.
"About what?" she asked, sitting on the couch next to David and Vasily. It was an old couch.
Benji begun to talk in a pretentious voice, like a TV serial killer. That was the thing with Benji, he genuinely saw the world like it was TV. Everything from the blood to the crying was just for show in his world. "How little human life means when you're more focused on restitution than—"
She interrupted him, snarling. "Listen you pseudo-intellectual lump of fuck, the fact that you're talking to me is a goddamn miracle. Them caring about giving you the freedom to make amends and keeping you from hurting anyone else isn't a bad thing. It's Christian mercy. Do you think I like the slow economy, the constant condescension, or the fact that people hate me just for having tried to make the world a better place? No, of course not. I'm not one of them, and neither are you, but you know what? I'm glad you're here. I'm glad that they did the right thing and gave you some kind of mercy before God sends you straight to Hell!" Her words grew louder and harder the more she spoke, before jabbing two fingers right into his chest.
His smile didn't fade. "Wow, uh, you seem really agitated about all this. Maybe I can offer you a drink?" He laughed self-effacingly."You're not you when you're sober, right?"
"In anarchy, all that matters is that I love you
"and I love you while it's going, and I'll love you when it ends
"when anarchy comes, I'll be here for it too
"I'll love you for me, for you, for hope and truth and for everyone"
Sam Cross, for a moment, felt only the usual self-loathing as he lay on the couch. For now, that was good enough. Those recurring thoughts yelling at him hadn't abated.
You evil motherfucker, you just wanted attention, right?
Still, he let them pass by like the wind from the ceiling fan above his eyes. Someone loved him.
Lyrics from "Family Matters", by Pyrite Morreo and Global Thermonuclear War
"And I'm calling you down, down, down to the street
down where the bodies burn, when the fire's complete"
Tom Picano held his phone in his hand. They let him use his phone, if nothing else. His face still felt like eroded rock.
She responded to him with a sing-song voice and a Hawaii phone number. "Really? They didn't kill you? " Calliope Anderson said, gloating. "Even after the conversion camps?"
"Look, I need to talk to you. We're like—"
"Brother and sister?" Calliope concluded for him. "We're a funny family, huh?"
"I thought I'd use my first call in a while to say hi," Tom said. "The rest of them were ideologues, right? Lowell wanted a 'brighter America', Ashley wanted a 'united United States', and Strecker and his attack dog wanted to turn back the clock. You and me, though?" His voice was almost tender.
"We know what we did," she said.
"Nobody takes responsibility anymore. Even Stone's butch is getting back into the old routine," he said.
"Yeah, so why should I start if nobody else is going to?" Calliope asked.
"I wanna say I told you so, when the trash can smoke lingers
I wanna say I told you so, when I lifted my fingers
I wanna say I was itching for the fall
I wanna say that, it just wouldn't be all"
"Penguin?" Sam Cross said into his phone, his words strained.
Lottie sat on her couch, the newly-minted actor's makeup still perfect. "Yeah?" she asked, answering to her childhood nickname.
The air was rotting. "You'd miss me if I died, right?" Sam asked.
"Dad, you're not in your right mind," Lottie said. She'd known what it was like to deal with a suicidal father. "You don't wanna die. You want to be here."
"I'm just looking into the possibility," he said. "It's cold in Hawaii."
"I thought it was hot," Lottie said, with forced levity.
"Ha-ha," he said aloud. "You're avoiding the question. If I passed away, would you miss me or not?" he asked. Iraq played through his head. What he would have given to go back in time and shoot himself rather than let that bitch enter his—
"Dad, how are you planning to do it?" Lottie asked.
"I took out my painkillers, but I didn't do anything," Sam said. "I mostly just wanted to ask, you know? I wouldn't want to die if you would miss me."
"That's not logical, please, Dad, put away the painkillers," she said.
"I have nothing to live for." You stupid piece of shit, he thought. You dumb piece of garbage, you're going to kill yourself and leave your daughter in another country, just so you can feel like you've done something with your life other than raise a broken girl and a monster. She's still nowhere near as broken as you are. You can rant about it all you like in your head, about her, but Calliope is happy and you never will be.
Lottie said what she often did in these sorts of situations. "The fact that you're talking to me means that you have some good reason not to do it," she said. She tried to keep her voice level, just like she'd done since she was ten.
"Cowardice," he said. Die, you dumb motherfucker, just kill yourself, he thought.
Her lips pursed. "No, strength. Look, if it's so important that you die, you'll still feel this way in an hour. Take your antidepressants, take a breath, and wait an hour. Then, it's up to you. If you want to die, go for it." She had to phrase it like that, to keep him from feeling manipulated. It used to turn her stomach pretending like she didn't care.
"Okay." He sighed, looking forward to doing the deed.
"Anarchy is coming, in the UK and USA
It's anarchy, violent anarchy, that's what they say
But I just miss you further in this brighter kind of age"
"You know, nobody will ever get us," Calliope said. "The other leaders couldn't think critically, and nobody else on Earth knows what it was like to be a war president in the Second American Civil War. You, the partyarch who reinvented himself as a post-MAGA, and me, the woke transgender mass murderer...It's just us."
Tom was thankful that Dakota in the corner was pretending not to listen. "In a way, we were both almost sane. All these other people, they believed in things, stupid things."
Calliope laughed. "Look at us geniuses, just saying what we needed to."
"Why'd you flee the country? You saw what they did to me. You'd be fine," he said.
Her laughter died. "...No, they said they were going to make an exception for me. They called me the American Hitler. I was going to be given the only death sentence in Worldwide Republic history. Firing squad."
"For lighting it up?" he asked, disgust in his voice. He knew he was a snake, but he wasn't a sociopath. At least, he hoped he wasn't.
"Yeah." She detected a note of discomfort in his voice. "You would have done the same thing."
"I wouldn't've," he said.
"What if it was losing or lighting shit up?" she asked.
He gave it the little thought it deserved. "I still wouldn't do it. I'd rather end up in house arrest in Carolinagrad."
"Same old Tom," she said.
"Moral?" he asked.
"A pussy," she said. "It's war, and in war the most ethical thing is the thing that ends the war quickest. That's all you can do. You have to care about everyone, not just your constituents."
Tom spat the next phrase. "Then what happened to your kids and the cop?"
"He's fine. The kids are fine."
Lottie approached the door clad in a dark skirt-suit. She knocked. Opening the door was Benjamin Cross, wearing an ankle monitor and a cheerful expression. "Well, welcome back!" He gave her a too-firm pat on the back, and she entered his house. He had three armed guards living there with him. If he so much as stepped on his driveway, they'd shoot him dead. The system wasn't entirely toothless. "So, I hear you're a famous actor now?" he asked.
She nodded. "Yeah. What've you done all this time?" she asked, her expression darkening.
"Oh, just sitting here, watching pre-revolution sitcoms! What else?" His smile was wide. It was a needle into her skin. "So, come in, make yourself at home. This is David, that's Vasily, and that's Cooper," he said, pointing to two men and an enby. "It's a really nice place."
"Yeah, it is," she said.
"Really makes you think, huh?" he asked, a note of condescension in his voice.
"About what?" she asked, sitting on the couch next to David and Vasily. It was an old couch.
Benji begun to talk in a pretentious voice, like a TV serial killer. That was the thing with Benji, he genuinely saw the world like it was TV. Everything from the blood to the crying was just for show in his world. "How little human life means when you're more focused on restitution than—"
She interrupted him, snarling. "Listen you pseudo-intellectual lump of fuck, the fact that you're talking to me is a goddamn miracle. Them caring about giving you the freedom to make amends and keeping you from hurting anyone else isn't a bad thing. It's Christian mercy. Do you think I like the slow economy, the constant condescension, or the fact that people hate me just for having tried to make the world a better place? No, of course not. I'm not one of them, and neither are you, but you know what? I'm glad you're here. I'm glad that they did the right thing and gave you some kind of mercy before God sends you straight to Hell!" Her words grew louder and harder the more she spoke, before jabbing two fingers right into his chest.
His smile didn't fade. "Wow, uh, you seem really agitated about all this. Maybe I can offer you a drink?" He laughed self-effacingly."You're not you when you're sober, right?"
"In anarchy, all that matters is that I love you
"and I love you while it's going, and I'll love you when it ends
"when anarchy comes, I'll be here for it too
"I'll love you for me, for you, for hope and truth and for everyone"
Sam Cross, for a moment, felt only the usual self-loathing as he lay on the couch. For now, that was good enough. Those recurring thoughts yelling at him hadn't abated.
You evil motherfucker, you just wanted attention, right?
Still, he let them pass by like the wind from the ceiling fan above his eyes. Someone loved him.
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Link to My Enemies-to-Lovers Lesbian Superhero Novella
- Location
- Back in the 90s (In a very famous TV show)
- Pronouns
- She/Her/Ve/Ver
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As always, feel free to give your thoughts, I really appreciate them.
PS: If you're enjoying this, you might like my recent novella: Superstructure: A Lesbian 1960s Superhero Novella Original - Novella
PS: If you're enjoying this, you might like my recent novella: Superstructure: A Lesbian 1960s Superhero Novella Original - Novella
- Location
- Back in the 90s (In a very famous TV show)
- Pronouns
- She/Her/Ve/Ver
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Tomorrow's update is about Kendra and Dane Oswald.
- Location
- Canada
I really hate your non-commie characters. All shitbags, the whole lot of them. No amount of whining from anyone will ever redeem them. Probably your goal in the first place.
Anyhoo, does the Worldwide Republic actually live up to its name? And does it have the consent of the people who live in its territories?
Anyhoo, does the Worldwide Republic actually live up to its name? And does it have the consent of the people who live in its territories?
- Location
- Back in the 90s (In a very famous TV show)
- Pronouns
- She/Her/Ve/Ver
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Actually, that was not my goal. A lot of the characters in this story are genuinely awful, but I've tried to give the sympathetic non-communist characters their due. In fact, I actually relate to Kendra and other characters.
The Worldwide Republic mostly controls the former US (save for Hawaii) and part of Canada right now, and I don't really know what you mean by it having the consent of the people.
If you're asking if most people aren't opposed to living there, yeah, most people are willing to stay or actually like it.
That said, it's kind of this academic-direct democratic-labor power-technocratic messy construct, so in an anarchist sense of consensus democracy it's not really that.
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- Location
- San Francisco
Update 30: Root Beer
- Location
- Back in the 90s (In a very famous TV show)
- Pronouns
- She/Her/Ve/Ver
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Kendra stood in the convenience storehouse clad in a low-cut cocktail dress. She got looks, of course, but she set aside half an hour a day for makeup for a reason. Her eyelids were glitter and purple shadow.
She stared at the cooler for a moment that lasted about six minutes. Kendra rocked on her stiletto heels, clutching her Versace bag.
It used to be that you could taste the difference between a a Sprite, a Sierra Mist, a Lime Coolzee, and a Starry, but these days they just put the same lemon-lime drink in bottles with randomized labels. She looked up at the root beer, which was labeled as Barq's. If you're going to slaughter tens of millions of people, the least you can do is let the survivors drink crap, she thought.
There was a hole in her brain, and sobriety burned like an electric chair. She picked up the root beer and stared at it for a moment. I can't drink this, it'll ruin my waistline, she thought. She tried to mentally simulate the taste of drinking root beer, to recall what it tasted like last time. Cherry, vanilla, a bit of bark, some sugary taste binding it all together, and she got a vague sense of it. She put the bottle back in the rack.
Beer, beer, beer, beer, she thought. What she wouldn't give for a good light beer. She didn't do an hour and a half of exercise a day to get a beer gut, she thought. She approached the beer section, just sort of staring at the tallboys, cans, and bottles. Okay, I need to get drunk, but it can't be beer. Beer makes you fat, she thought.
She went to the liquor section of the convenience storehouse and started staring at a big bottle of Russian wine. Rehab, remember the rehab program at the psych ward? she thought.
In dialogue with herself, she thought of the other side of the story.
Yeah, but Aristotle said "everything in moderation", which means if I just have a bit of vodka, like shot or two, I'll be fine. That's even healthier than abstaining, right? What if I can't work on the next project without booze? Come on, it's not like I'm snorting coke or OD'ing on Xanax, right? It's just vodka. They literally sell it ten feet from the Sprite. Besides, mixology's a good skill. It's a classy hobby.
She redeemed her digital labor vouchers for the bottle of vodka and some Coke to make friends with it, along with stopping by the grocer for limes and bitters.
She left the convenience store with a smile on her face.
Her dad had taught her how to make a few drinks, but a vodka and coke was new to her. She looked at an online recipe as she set her ingredients out. Of course, it would be an addict thing to do toget drunk get tipsy get intoxicated practice mixology alone. So, having had a shot multiple shots of vodka to test its potency, Kendra called up Ruby. "Hey!" she said, slurring her words.
"Hey, what's up?" she asked. "Wait, are you drunk?"
"I'm a little buzzed," Kendra said, drunk. "Look, you wanna hang out? I'm practicing, uh, cocktails. I got lime. I'm really good at this, I've been watching all of these Public Network Streaming videos by this Greg guy."
"It's been six months since you were hospitalized! Stop drinking."
Kendra spoke. "Yeah, I kinda fucked up, a little bit. Fuck, a lot. Drinking, god dammit. God, I'm a mess, I'm so fucked up. I'm such a fucker, such a useless garbage fucker. I suck at rehab. I'm a fuckup. I'm the worst. I fuckin' suck. I suck, and I'm drunk, and I suck. You should probably break up with me, and I should probably break up with you, because obviously you don't support me as a garbage alcohol person."
"Kendra, I'm not going to break up with you. We have a good thing going, you're just a mess right now—"
Being drunk was one thing, but not being high was another. One of cocaine's withdrawal symptoms was paranoia. "Yeah, you'd just say that, right? You just want to use me by convincing me that I need you, like some kind of abuser. This sucks! Being sober is impossible, and you know what? I'm happy. I'm functioning fine. Do you know who I met in rehab? I met a girl who nearly jumped off a building because she had a bad trip on acid. You wanna control me because you have no faith in me, but I am fine compared to thatl." Kendra wasn't even fully sure what she was saying, frankly.
"What is your problem, today?" Ruby asked.
"You're my problem! You only support me on my own—your own terms," Kendra said. "You want to own me, huh? Is that all I am, a robot that tops you in bed? Am I just a dildo for you?"
"You know what? I was right to send you to rehab. Look at you. I'm not talking to you like this," Ruby said.
"Are you breaking up with me?" Kendra asked.
"Yeah, I am. You're just like your bougie fucking dad." Ruby hung up.
Kendra drunkenly went to her Contacts list on her PubPhone. She giggled a bit at pub, before calling Dane Oswald.
"Hey, pumpkin," he said. "How's it going?"
"I'm good, you?" she slurred, without actually thinking about her words.
"Hey, I just wanted to let you know that I really support you doing what you did. I thought it was a smart choice," he said.
"I'm kinda drunk now," she mumbled.
"Also a smart choice," he said. "Hey, there's this pot strain you should try, it's called 'Hatchetfield'. Great stuff. Really mellowing me out."
"I don't like weed without coke, it makes me feel slow," she said.
"Then why not grab some coke?" he asked.
"I can't get it, they made me delete all my contacts who gave me drugs."
"Well, you wanna know a secret?" Dane asked, in his "cool dad" voice.
"What?" she asked.
"I know a doctor. I can get you some Ritalin shipped to your place."
"Dad, I think that's a really bad idea," she said. "What if I need more Ritalin?" she asked.
"Yeah. Good point," he said. "Maybe you need an easier-to-get upper? Get a Monster or a Saturn Five or something. Six hundred milligrams of caffeine in you and the pot won't slow you down. You'll feel amazing."
"What about rehab?" she asked. "I'm a fuckup, I fucked everything up, I'm a drunk piece of crap."
"I don't know how they do rehab now, but when I was in rehab in the 90s it was all basically a big joke. You paid them to stay there, and they all but said 'now go and sin no more'."
"It was better. They gave me naltrexone."
"You don't sound good, is everything okay?" His voice was tender.
"My girlfriend broke up with me," Kendra said
Dane gave a paternal sigh. "Well, do you think you did something wrong?" he asked.
"I don't know, it seems like she was after me for, you know, falling off the horse. She got mad at me."
He spoke, a light sprinkling of sadness on his voice. "Look, it's your choice. If you think you want to go cold turkey, that's great and I support that, pumpkin. I know you, and I trust you. You have control over your situation. You know what you're doing. If you want to have fun, maybe you should have fun instead of beating yourself up. She should be able to accept you as you are, right? If she isn't okay with you making decisions she doesn't approve of, maybe she wasn't right for you. I know it sucks now, but if she's that controlling you might be happier with someone who gets you."
"Yeah, Dad, maybe you're right, Kendra said, waking up in a BDSM club wearing a knockoff Playboy Bunny outfit and smelling of Moscow mules. Her designer bag sat next to her, thankfully unopened. She reached for her phone, cordless drills pushing through her skull. Were hangovers always this bad? "Come on, Dad!" she yelled to the empty club.
She asked the guy cleaning the floor where they'd put her clothes.
She stared at the cooler for a moment that lasted about six minutes. Kendra rocked on her stiletto heels, clutching her Versace bag.
It used to be that you could taste the difference between a a Sprite, a Sierra Mist, a Lime Coolzee, and a Starry, but these days they just put the same lemon-lime drink in bottles with randomized labels. She looked up at the root beer, which was labeled as Barq's. If you're going to slaughter tens of millions of people, the least you can do is let the survivors drink crap, she thought.
There was a hole in her brain, and sobriety burned like an electric chair. She picked up the root beer and stared at it for a moment. I can't drink this, it'll ruin my waistline, she thought. She tried to mentally simulate the taste of drinking root beer, to recall what it tasted like last time. Cherry, vanilla, a bit of bark, some sugary taste binding it all together, and she got a vague sense of it. She put the bottle back in the rack.
Beer, beer, beer, beer, she thought. What she wouldn't give for a good light beer. She didn't do an hour and a half of exercise a day to get a beer gut, she thought. She approached the beer section, just sort of staring at the tallboys, cans, and bottles. Okay, I need to get drunk, but it can't be beer. Beer makes you fat, she thought.
She went to the liquor section of the convenience storehouse and started staring at a big bottle of Russian wine. Rehab, remember the rehab program at the psych ward? she thought.
In dialogue with herself, she thought of the other side of the story.
Yeah, but Aristotle said "everything in moderation", which means if I just have a bit of vodka, like shot or two, I'll be fine. That's even healthier than abstaining, right? What if I can't work on the next project without booze? Come on, it's not like I'm snorting coke or OD'ing on Xanax, right? It's just vodka. They literally sell it ten feet from the Sprite. Besides, mixology's a good skill. It's a classy hobby.
She redeemed her digital labor vouchers for the bottle of vodka and some Coke to make friends with it, along with stopping by the grocer for limes and bitters.
She left the convenience store with a smile on her face.
Her dad had taught her how to make a few drinks, but a vodka and coke was new to her. She looked at an online recipe as she set her ingredients out. Of course, it would be an addict thing to do to
"Hey, what's up?" she asked. "Wait, are you drunk?"
"I'm a little buzzed," Kendra said, drunk. "Look, you wanna hang out? I'm practicing, uh, cocktails. I got lime. I'm really good at this, I've been watching all of these Public Network Streaming videos by this Greg guy."
"It's been six months since you were hospitalized! Stop drinking."
Kendra spoke. "Yeah, I kinda fucked up, a little bit. Fuck, a lot. Drinking, god dammit. God, I'm a mess, I'm so fucked up. I'm such a fucker, such a useless garbage fucker. I suck at rehab. I'm a fuckup. I'm the worst. I fuckin' suck. I suck, and I'm drunk, and I suck. You should probably break up with me, and I should probably break up with you, because obviously you don't support me as a garbage alcohol person."
"Kendra, I'm not going to break up with you. We have a good thing going, you're just a mess right now—"
Being drunk was one thing, but not being high was another. One of cocaine's withdrawal symptoms was paranoia. "Yeah, you'd just say that, right? You just want to use me by convincing me that I need you, like some kind of abuser. This sucks! Being sober is impossible, and you know what? I'm happy. I'm functioning fine. Do you know who I met in rehab? I met a girl who nearly jumped off a building because she had a bad trip on acid. You wanna control me because you have no faith in me, but I am fine compared to thatl." Kendra wasn't even fully sure what she was saying, frankly.
"What is your problem, today?" Ruby asked.
"You're my problem! You only support me on my own—your own terms," Kendra said. "You want to own me, huh? Is that all I am, a robot that tops you in bed? Am I just a dildo for you?"
"You know what? I was right to send you to rehab. Look at you. I'm not talking to you like this," Ruby said.
"Are you breaking up with me?" Kendra asked.
"Yeah, I am. You're just like your bougie fucking dad." Ruby hung up.
Kendra drunkenly went to her Contacts list on her PubPhone. She giggled a bit at pub, before calling Dane Oswald.
"Hey, pumpkin," he said. "How's it going?"
"I'm good, you?" she slurred, without actually thinking about her words.
"Hey, I just wanted to let you know that I really support you doing what you did. I thought it was a smart choice," he said.
"I'm kinda drunk now," she mumbled.
"Also a smart choice," he said. "Hey, there's this pot strain you should try, it's called 'Hatchetfield'. Great stuff. Really mellowing me out."
"I don't like weed without coke, it makes me feel slow," she said.
"Then why not grab some coke?" he asked.
"I can't get it, they made me delete all my contacts who gave me drugs."
"Well, you wanna know a secret?" Dane asked, in his "cool dad" voice.
"What?" she asked.
"I know a doctor. I can get you some Ritalin shipped to your place."
"Dad, I think that's a really bad idea," she said. "What if I need more Ritalin?" she asked.
"Yeah. Good point," he said. "Maybe you need an easier-to-get upper? Get a Monster or a Saturn Five or something. Six hundred milligrams of caffeine in you and the pot won't slow you down. You'll feel amazing."
"What about rehab?" she asked. "I'm a fuckup, I fucked everything up, I'm a drunk piece of crap."
"I don't know how they do rehab now, but when I was in rehab in the 90s it was all basically a big joke. You paid them to stay there, and they all but said 'now go and sin no more'."
"It was better. They gave me naltrexone."
"You don't sound good, is everything okay?" His voice was tender.
"My girlfriend broke up with me," Kendra said
Dane gave a paternal sigh. "Well, do you think you did something wrong?" he asked.
"I don't know, it seems like she was after me for, you know, falling off the horse. She got mad at me."
He spoke, a light sprinkling of sadness on his voice. "Look, it's your choice. If you think you want to go cold turkey, that's great and I support that, pumpkin. I know you, and I trust you. You have control over your situation. You know what you're doing. If you want to have fun, maybe you should have fun instead of beating yourself up. She should be able to accept you as you are, right? If she isn't okay with you making decisions she doesn't approve of, maybe she wasn't right for you. I know it sucks now, but if she's that controlling you might be happier with someone who gets you."
"Yeah, Dad, maybe you're right, Kendra said, waking up in a BDSM club wearing a knockoff Playboy Bunny outfit and smelling of Moscow mules. Her designer bag sat next to her, thankfully unopened. She reached for her phone, cordless drills pushing through her skull. Were hangovers always this bad? "Come on, Dad!" she yelled to the empty club.
She asked the guy cleaning the floor where they'd put her clothes.
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- Location
- Back in the 90s (In a very famous TV show)
- Pronouns
- She/Her/Ve/Ver
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To be honest, sometimes I want to give Kendra a hug. I need to have something nice happen to her. She's just got so much shit and is trying to persist, but is so shackled by herself and the people who made her her.
She lives this superficial life, and it's not okay, but she could be a good person.
She could be here, and she just isn't, and it hurts people. It hurts the people around her. Her ego, her addictions, her parental issues, her trauma...It's killing her.
I want her to be happy.
She lives this superficial life, and it's not okay, but she could be a good person.
She could be here, and she just isn't, and it hurts people. It hurts the people around her. Her ego, her addictions, her parental issues, her trauma...It's killing her.
I want her to be happy.
- Location
- San Francisco
I know the feeling. I had a similar thing with my own characters.
- Location
- Back in the 90s (In a very famous TV show)
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Yeah, I think it's a writer thing. I also feel the same way for Lottie, though with Lottie her situation is more extreme.
I think, somehow, Sam Cross's breakdowns and Benji's deliberate attempts to ape being a NCIS villain feel in some ways different than Dane Oswald's genuine attempts to be a good father and utter failure to do so.
Terra Allias
World's only Magical Girl Spec Ops Asuka fan
- Location
- Cheverly
- Pronouns
- She/Her
So what do they call the cops these days?
- Location
- Back in the 90s (In a very famous TV show)
- Pronouns
- She/Her/Ve/Ver
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The People's Militia, and they're basically toned-down, restricted, specialized cops with a lot more oversight and less autonomy. Adalwolfa Botsch is one. It was an attempt to thread the police abolition needle.
Update 31: I Want Morbius, Not Less
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- Back in the 90s (In a very famous TV show)
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SUNY Purchase Film School
Review
"Nineteen Eighty-Four (2048)"
Review
"Nineteen Eighty-Four (2048)"
The Cinema Demon
Review
"Ninteteen Eighty-Four (2048)"
Review
"Ninteteen Eighty-Four (2048)"
Audience Reviews:
Dakota Eckhart: "What am I watching?"
Transistor Pernet: "This is a good metaphor for communism"
Lottie Cross: "As a fan of the book, I'm disappointed"
Ruby Singh: "Well, it's exactly what that rat Orwell deserves"
Dane Oswald: "You can just...make movies like this, now?"
Kendra Oswald: "God, this movie fucking rules"
The Cinema Demon
Nineteen Eighty-Four Sequel Confirmed for Next Year
Nineteen Eighty-Four Sequel Confirmed for Next Year
daedalus725
Kell of Kells, godking of Planet X
- Location
- Daedalus crater, The moon
This movie sounds assss
Terra Allias
World's only Magical Girl Spec Ops Asuka fan
- Location
- Cheverly
- Pronouns
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Fucking Jared Leto is in this?
What
That is not the issue
Fuck it, may as well
Oh, oh no.
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Chloe Sullivan
Subdefective
- Location
- 1630 Revello Drive, Sunnydale CA
Tyrants has given me an appreciation for cursed content.
Thanks, I hate it. (that's a complement)
Thanks, I hate it. (that's a complement)