Hi everyone. I am moving to Seattle for a full time position after graduating college and decided a solo road trip was in order to prepare for full-time work life. In total it will take 26 days and will start in my current location (Rochester, NY) then head on home (Houston, TX) to move out of my house, then finally up to Seattle where I’ll be living full time. Pictured below is my trip. Each location does not mark a single day and some places I will be visiting then not sleeping there.
My 2 questions when planning my road trip (at least when discussing location) are between Nashville and Houston, and between Zion National Park and Seattle. If anyone has any suggestions, I’d love to hear them. I am a very open person and love many outdoor activities. Swimming definitely a plus. I will be taking my bicycle and also will be camping for much of the trip if that helps.

Three New Terrifying True Scary Tales
​
Number One: The Pool
​
Now, this happened a very long time ago. I am not going to mention when or where though and I am submitting it anonymously. I don’t want people going back and finding out more about it and then lashing out of me.
​
I was 13 years old and my brother was 11. As I mentioned, this happened a long time ago and I think today, not a lot of parents would put a 13 year old in charge of an 11 year old. But this was not unusual at all back then. In fact, I was looking after my little brother all the time before either of us even hit 10 years old.
​
After a while, of course, always keeping my eye on him began to get very annoying. It interfered with my hanging out with friends. It was quite a drag when I would try to talk to girls. It was just a pain in the ass, really.
​
Anyway, one day during a really hot summer, our parents decided to drop us both off at the local swimming pool for the day. My dad had to work and my mom had errands and stuff to run plus work do to do for the church. It was so hot and there was no way we could afford air conditioning. We had one old fan in the house and a sprinkler in the yard that we could go play in. But the swimming pool was the much better option.
​
Of course the pool was very crowded. Lots of families would drop their kids off there during the summertime. And of course, even though I knew it already, my mom stressed to me, “Keep an eye on your little brother at all times.”
​
Some of my friends were at the pool too. I got to talking to them and they told me about this new girl who moved into town. She would be starting school that fall and supposedly she was really hot. So of course, I wanted to check her out. I knew the lifeguards would be watching my brother in the water, so he would be fine.
​
I went with the guys and the girl was really cute. My buddies all dared me to approach her, which was admittedly a brave thing for a 13 year old boy to do. Of course, I couldn’t chicken out in front of them, so I did just that.
​
She was a very sweet girl. We actually ended up talking for a little while. Her parents were at the pool though, and they called her back after too long. So I went back to the water to see how my little brother was doing.
​
The only problem was that I couldn’t see him anywhere in the water. This was a small town in a rural area, so although I said the pool was crowded, it wasn’t like a water park is crowded though. I should have easily been able to pick him out of the water. He just wasn’t there.
​
I went and searched around the area surrounding the pool and didn’t see him there either. My heart started beating faster and I began panicking. I went to the building where the showers and concession stand were. He wasn’t there either. You couldn’t leave that pool without going through that building, though. I asked the attendant if a 11 year old boy had left the pool on his own in the previous hour and he told me no.
​
I then went to the lifeguards and my buddies. I thought maybe there was a chance that I had missed him. It’s easy to occasionally miss someone in a crowd. The lifeguards ordered everyone out of the pool. Fortunately, there were no drowned children in the pool. Unfortunately, my brother was nowhere to be found outside of the pool.
​
The lifeguards had to call my mother at the church. I had never before lost track of my little brother like this before. I had no idea what to expect when she showed up. I was only thankful that the police were already at the pool or she probably would have whipped my ass right there in front of the entire pool.
​
The trouble I got into at home isn’t something that I want to go into very much. My butt very much has PTSD from the experience. But that was minor compared to the fear I felt for my little brother. Hell, I didn’t even have time to feel guilty although that I knew that I was. I was only concerned for him and wondered what would happen.
​
All day and night, I expected the police to bring him home. But that didn’t happen. I expected it the next day too. But it didn’t happen.
​
The town organized a search to look for him. I kept expecting to hear from them that they had found him. But that didn’t happen either.
​
After about a week of my brother not being found, I began fearing for the worst. I began thinking that he was dead. And I was terrified every waking moment of my life, expecting to absolutely hear the news that his dead body was found.
​
Nearly two weeks after the disappearance, we got a phone call from the police. They had found my brother and thankfully, he was alive. But unfortunately, that’s not the whole story.
​
Remember the attendant telling me that no boy had left on his own? Well that’s because the boy left with one of the lifeguards who was getting off duty. He had lured my brother out of the pool and into his car with promises of ice cream, something he and I rarely ever got. And my brother went to his house with him.
​
For all of that time, he kept my little brother locked up in his basement. He didn’t do anything sexually to him, thank God. But there was a lot of mental and some physical torment when my brother wouldn’t do what he was told to you. But the scariest part for him was thinking he would never get out and be with his family again.
​
Here is another weird part. The lifeguard wasn’t an adult. He did this while his parents were out of town for a few weeks. They came back early and caught him. And if you think I felt bad for my parents’ punishing me, what they did to him had to be legendary. The police thought he was either planning on killing or releasing my brother before his parents got home. But no one ever knew for sure.
​
He had to live with it without much help for a long time. Mental health assistance had a very bad stigma back then. But we’re both still alive today and he forgave me a long time ago.
​
Number Two: Taking the Garbage Out
​
A few weeks ago I went outside at around 3am to move the garbage to the curb since pickup would be in the morning. I often do this in the middle of the night. I just tend to keep weird hours and as the weather warms up for the summer I find the warm nights preferable to the sweltering days.
​
I’m not worried about bothering my neighbors since I don’t use noisy bins and all of the houses right next to me are currently empty. I actually find the quiet of the neighborhood at night quite relaxing.
​
Unfortunately since I don’t use bins animals are able to get into the bags a bit easier and while this doesn’t happen often it had happened on this night. So I was outside picking up the strewn around garbage and putting it into another bag when the silence of the night was suddenly broken by multiple police sirens.
​
At first they seemed distant and while they startled me it was not at all unheard of to hear sirens at night here. But usually it would be one in the distance. As I listened, still bagging the garbage, I could tell it was multiple sirens and they were getting closer. Then just as suddenly as it started it stopped again. There was just silence. By the time they stopped they sounded maybe four blocks away.
​
For a moment the night was silent again and I began hauling the bags to the curb when the neighborhood dogs began barking all at once. It was like every dog in the neighborhood had gotten the cue to start barking. Many were even howling. It continued for maybe a minute and once again it just stopped as suddenly as it had started.
​

I realized I hadn’t heard any barking or howling while the sirens were going and that’s normally how it would work. These dogs had started up separately from the sirens and just stopped all at once. It just wasn’t normal. I went back to the side of the house to grab more bags when the silence was broken a third time. 

​
Just a single chime in the night. Like someone getting a phone notification. This sound wasn’t blocks away. This sound was here. RIGHT HERE. No more than feet away. As I said, the houses around me are empty.
​
I was done. The rest of the garbage would wait until morning. I didn’t see anyone close by but that just made it worse. There was someone close by that I couldn’t see. I immediately went into the house to leave the garbage for the morning.
​
I don’t know if these things were related. If the cops had been chasing someone who’s fleeing had caused the dogs to bark. Someone who received a message on their phone as they approached my house. Or if it was all just a coincidence. But I won’t be taking the garbage out at 3am anymore.
​
A Commuter’s Nightmare
William M.
06/30/2021
​
Back in the 80s, I worked at the Irwin Memorial Blood Bank in San Francisco while living and commuting from Oakland, CA
​
My job as Registrar, took me all over Northern California, during Blood Drives at hospitals, clinics, major corporations, etc., where we would sometimes witness firsthand, the dead, being placed on gurneys, running out of the Coroner's or Medical Examiner’s rear doors, and down the sidewalks, because they simply didn’t have enough room or staff inside the morgues to process them. Mortuaries were having problems too due to the massive overload where deceased loved ones were admitted but not processed or interred for months or even years at a time.
​
I remember watching the News and reading newspaper accounts of E.R.s in hospitals, clinics, etc. so clogged with patients, that 1 in 10 would die waiting to just get in to see a Dr. It was a Public Health and Safety nightmare. It was a National disgrace. It was politically orchestrated mass murder. It was the B purge of the ‘80s and ‘90s.
​
I remember, starting work early on one of many Blood Drives (the A.I.D.S. epidemic was just getting started) and having to catch the first B.A.R.T. (Bay Area Rapid Transit) train out of the station at about 4:00 am, where morning after morning I would witness hundreds of people sleeping on the benches, or the sidewalks, or on the streets outside, waiting for it to open.
​
Hundreds of others would be seen walking around like zombies in the early morning freeze amid the concomitant yelling, screaming, moaning, begging, and pleading, all of it looking like a newsreel of the death camps at Auschwitz-Birkenau.
​
Many times, I was woken at home in the middle of the night, to the sounds of people howling and cursing outside my window at some real or imagined threat, until either the police came, which usually took hours because they were spread so thin, or some tenant, or other, ran them off.
​
I remember the time I woke up to the sound of a woman’s voice begging in the early morning cold for someone to help her. She kept repeating it over and over growing weaker and weaker until it was little more than a whisper.
By the time I’d gotten up, armed myself with the steel-reinforced baton I’d purchased at a Police Supply store, and ran the 5 floors down to the ground floor, I found her sitting in a taxi shivering from the 42-degree drizzle coming in off the Pacific. The cabbie told me it was alright; she was just cold and needed someplace to rest and warm up; He’d drop her off at one of the nearby shelters.
​
At the time, I was living in a local Residence Hall on Lake Merrit in Oakland, California which was little more than a converted Hotel from the San Francisco/Oakland Gilded Age of the late 1920s. It had 5 floors and a penthouse with a capacity of about 200. I never saw it get much beyond about 30 residents. It sported a full kitchen, dining area, big screen tv viewing room, swimming pool, and a recreation room with pool, foosball, and darts.
​
I lived with a friend, at the time, on the 5th floor just under the penthouse. There was an elevator, but like most refurbs, it didn’t work. That meant we'd have to climb 10 flights of stairs every day to reach our room. The best part was that we had the entire floor to ourselves. I guess nobody wanted to climb that many stairs. Because we were both runners, it was a little like running the 900 feet to the top of Angel Island, running across The Golden Gate Bridge and back, or running the 3.4 miles around Lake Merrit twice a day.
​
Because there was no air-conditioning, all the windows were left open during the summer months, but along with whatever cool air the San Francisco/Oakland Bay would bring through the gaping nearly wall-length vault ceilinged windows, it was always accompanied by the teeming, screaming City of Oakland street din: cabbies, buses, cars, trucks, vans, motorcycles, scooters, police sirens, ambulance, fire department, pedestrians, hustlers, druggies, break-dancers, prostitutes the homeless, et al. Day or night, winter or summer, it was like living in a jet engine test lab, somewhere on the 9th level of hell.
​
Of course, we could always close the windows against the noise 5 stories below. But if it was summer, with all the humidity coming off the bay, we’d roast like 2 suckling pigs in our own sweat even if we used a fan.
​
One night after a particularly grueling day at work, I came home, climbed Mount Everest (or at least K-2) to my steaming little abattoir, tore off my sports jacket, shirt, and tie, and fell into a coma-like sleep only to awake some 4 hours later to the sound of someone slamming a door, over and over, seemingly as hard as they could. It was about 2:00 am and raining so hard the water was pouring through the open window and flooding the floor and carpet. The sound was coming somewhere down the hall from one of the other units.
​
After about the 15th or 16th slam to my inner ear, I was up, as in a trance, running like a lunatic from unit to unit and window to window, covering the entire southside of the 5th floor; battening down the hatches, and getting drenched in the process. It was, how should I say: exhilaratingly infuriating. I was supposed to get up in 2 hours and commute to work in the upper peninsula.
Having unconsciously completed this Sisyphean task and realizing that there was zero chance of getting any sleep, I donned my foul weather gear, equipped my trusty baton (I used to tuck its 2 ½-foot length up my sleeve when running), and headed out the front door to Lake Merrit which was just outside the main entrance. From there, I trotted to the sidewalk circling the lake, and began to run.
​
As I ran counterclockwise against a torrential rain with a gale-force wind broken only by the occasional intermittent rainbow-hued lightning flashes which blinded me to almost everything around me, I almost ran into someone up ahead who was walking in the same direction.
​
He was hunched over against the wind and rain and wearing a long heavy winter coat. Unusual for that time of year, I thought. Whenever I would run in public, I always made it a courtesy to let people know when I was approaching especially from behind. I’d blurt out a perfunctory:
​
“Excuse me.” Followed by a conciliatory:
​
“Sorry.”
​
But apparently, the person ahead either didn’t hear me or didn’t care because, when I was about 6 feet from him, he suddenly turned around, exposing a darkened contorted face, jagged teeth, and a guttural growl that would have stopped a charging 600-pound Grizzly.
​
The sheer force of the malevolence emitted from this inhuman thing almost made me stop, but because I was moving so fast, the inertia along with the gale force wind and lightning strikes propelled me past him (or it), and fingering my steel-reinforced baton, I, in turn, steeled my nerve and kept running. I looked back only once to reassure myself that he (or it) wasn’t following.
​
Running on the leeward side now, with the rain at my back, I ran past a group of men in a circle smoking or drinking or doing whatever noxious or illicit thing I imagined, when, feeling charged with my own adrenalin, or the anger and resentment at that woman’s searing pleas for help, or the spook I’d almost run into, or just the gross injustices thrust upon the world in that dank, dark and dangerous time, I almost stopped, baton in hand, intending to take on the whole group: I may go down, I told myself, but at least I would take one or two with me.
​
Just then, the lightning struck particularly close to where I and they stood and the sheer blinding flash and concussive boom shook all of us enough to break up their conspiratorial collaboration and my righteous crusade; just enough, that is, to shove me headlong around the next bend, to the long straight full out dash to the front doors, the 5 floors, 10 landings, and 50 risers to rain-sodden home.
​
To get to work every day, I'd have to commute to the upper peninsula by using 3 buses, 1 train, and 1 cab and after a 10 or 12 or sometimes 14-hour day, I would have to take the same to get back. This meant that if I didn’t go out, make dinner, eat, or watch tv, I just might get about 4 hours sleep. Commuting took between 2 to 3 hours, one way.
​
Once on the way home, almost every stop was crowded with commuters. I was told that it was because there were so many buses down for repair. The ones still running were so filled beyond capacity, that the shocks and springs were sitting on the chassis, and stop after stop proved nearly impossible to take on any more passengers. Still, and despite the few getting out at every stop, the driver would take on even more and just pack them in.
​
I remember him yelling for people to get back behind the yellow line over and over. By then, he was long past any semblance of reason; his patience frayed to a single maniacal thought, his voice raspier and raspier, his manner, more and more brusk.
​
I can still see when he finally lost it; jumping up, out of his seat, with a nickel-plated 38 Caliber Revolver pointing at one of the passengers; an elderly woman, screaming from the top of his lungs:
​
“Get back behind the yellow line!”
​
I can still hear the woman begging the driver:
​
“Please...” while the passengers behind were practically trampling each other to get out of the line of fire.
I remember the sad, exhausted urgency in her voice; she really was trying to move back, but how could she, an old woman, do that with all those people blocking her way? Everyone knew this was an impossible task; everyone except the maddened driver. He just kept glaring, and bellowing with his gun out pointed right at her and the other passengers.
​
"Back up and make room" he yelled.
​
‘Or else what?’ I thought. ‘You're gonna kill an old woman?'
​
Getting up out of my seat, pushing my way through the throng who were pushing against me to get away, I managed to get within about 6 feet from the front when, roaring through the din and my fear and anger, I ordered the bus driver to:
​
“Put the gun down!” And again, with even more rage and authority:
“Put the gun down, now!”
​
The bus driver shocked that it might be a cop, or worse, shakily, put his gun back in his concealed carry holster and hypnotically sat back down. He resumed driving without saying another word. I got out at the next stop, along with the elderly woman. She was so shaken, that she busted out crying. I held her still fuming despite the close call because I would now have to wait for another bus and after that, 2 more; the train and a cab to get home. I wasn’t going to make it until well after 8:00 pm. As soon as I got home, I reported the bus number and the driver to Muni.
​
Many of the commuters I'd see day to day, or share a seat with were victims of the purge just trying to get out of the rain or the cold, or the wind, or the sun, even for just a little while. For them, it was easing the agony of living on the street, even just a little. For many of us regular commuters, during those dark times, it proved to be the same.
​
On one of the final buses that would take me to the train and across the bay, I remember standing, with about 50 others, on Market Street waiting. Like ours, stop after stop was so packed with people, some were standing in the street because there was simply not enough room on the sidewalk. The ones in the street would stay where they were for fear of losing their place and missing their connection and having to wait another hour, or more, to catch another.
​
Because the rapidly descending elevation of the southbound streets ending at Market Street from the upper peninsula were so steep and the transverse angle of the turn so sharp, some of the buses would skirt the edge of the curb, sometimes rolling up over it onto the sidewalk putting them dangerously close to the commuters waiting on the other side.
​
If there were any people in the street, especially the old or the infirm, they would either have to get out of the way and lose their place in line or hope the bus driver stopped before completing the turn. Most of the drivers would. Once there was one who didn’t.
​
I remember the television and newspaper account about an elderly woman waiting at one of the stops during the pm rush hour. When the bus made the oblique turn way too fast at 25 miles per hour she was either too close to the edge or standing in the street when she was hit by the side view mirror across the face and the left side of her head.
​
She went down under the wheels and her body got hung up under the chassis. The bus driver too full of passengers to stop, or late for his break, or just too coked up to notice, kept on heading for the Embarcadero before he realized something was wrong. By then, the woman had been dragged over a quarter of a mile. No one knew for sure whether the concussion from the mirror or the relentless dragging was the cause of death. I guess it didn’t matter to her anymore, one way or the other. It mattered to a lot of those who witnessed the whole thing though; screaming and yelling, block after block, trying to get the bus driver to stop.
​
To get across the Bay to San Francisco from Oakland or back, one alternative to the nightmare bus commute was the B.A.R.T (Bay Area Rapid Transit). It was quiet, clean, air-conditioned, and fast. Traveling under the Bay, it could span the 13 miles in minutes. Once I’d reach the train station, by bus, from the Oakland side, I’d descend one of the many street-level entries to the below-ground turnstiles which led to the train platform. Of course, there were always hundreds of derelicts, homeless, hustlers, etc., hanging out by the turnstiles waiting for their chance to slip through and get on any one of the many trains that serviced the Bay Area, but sometimes, especially after a scuffle with B.A.R.T. Security or the San Francisco/Oakland Police, they’d scatter to the winds (or the shadows as it were) until everything calmed down and then they'd be back at it again, day and night.
​
Almost every week I'd hear about someone falling, or being pushed, or jumping down onto the third rail, which would either short-circuit the line and knock out the power or if it was particularly grisly, halt service entirely. Because service resumption could take hours, waiting passengers would have to go back up and out onto the street and catch another train, take a cab or a bus or just walk or, as was often the case for me, run.
​
Once, I remember running to the next stop when I was ascending to the upper peninsula because the previous connection didn’t show up which meant it would have added another 45 minutes to my commute. The choice was obvious and inevitable: I could either
“wait to be late” or go for it. I chose the latter.
​
You just can't imagine what it’s like to run at a 20-degree angle uphill for about 2 miles while wearing dress slacks, dress shoes, a white shirt and tie, and a sports jacket, in San Francisco, during the summer, with the humidity until you’ve tried it. It’s, how should I say: exhilaratingly infuriating.
​
Running, I came upon a stand-alone, transmission shop, right in the middle of a residential area. The owners must have paid a pretty penny to get away with that one. There were police cars, the fire department, a metro ambulance, the San Francisco Chronicle, and a marked County Coroner’s Office vehicle scattered around the shop.
Some people along with some of the employees: their first names embroidered on their shirts, were standing on the sidewalk just outside the property watching. They’d been there for about an hour when I stopped to ask one of them (Bob) what happened.
​
Wearily he said:
​
“The girl who worked in the office answering the phone and typing up orders was shot to death by her boyfriend. The boyfriend got away but she was still down there being processed. God, she was only 24 years old. They’ll catch him, though. He hasn’t got a chance.”
​
'Nope,' I thought.
'In this town, I don’t expect he would.'
​
I was late again when I got home. Vaulting the 5 floors to reach our loft, I held my friend close, the entire night. She was ok with that. So was I.=

Hello
Im debating between buying one of the above products. I can't afford both and because I live outside the US i cant afford the shipping to buy the other one if i end up needing it. I wont itemize it but with all three plus shipping it comes out to 150 USD. I cant afford that so i need to cut one. Which one should I buy?
I've also orded Diomatecous Earth (idk if i spelled that right sorry), roach bait, and rosemary and cedarwood essentials oils to dilute with water and use when cleaning surfaces and around pet food and water
Also literally all food stuffs are packed into containers. And so are all my books and papers.
Further context for those interested:
I dont think context is necessary but for those who want it I live in a small studio apartment with a cat. Yes, pest control has already come through but they havent even left bait, just sprayed and left traps. They've already been through multiple times and I'm still seeing the occasional roach. The traps are empty still and I have never found eggs or larvae so I dont think the infestation is in my apartment, probably somehwere else in the building. I'd like to keep it that way. At this point it would cost me more to board my cat for pest control to pointlessly spray again than to just get lower toxicity materials that she and I can be exposed to and use them continuously to keep them at bay. Its also worth noting that the company that owns my building is known around the city i live in to not handle roach problems effectively so i really have no hope of them resolving this at this point. I can't afford to move.
I also struggle with executive dysfunction (which i wont go into detail about here) but it basically means its hard to get myself to execute tasks sometimes. So every time pest control has come through i have had to put all my stuff in the middle of my apartment, and then it sits there for weeks because im too busy and tired to deal with it so then I just end up living in an obstacle course. Between that and then feeling like all that stress and money to board my cat was pointless because im still seeing the damn roaches, my mental health has declined a lot and I'm struggling to eat and shower and otherwise take care of myself.
If I see a larvae or an egg ill call for pest control again but for the sake of my mental and financial health I'd rather just try to deal with it myself

Summer is upon us and I want to find one secret friend to romance and make feel special for a time. I mean what are we going to do, run away and get married?
I want to find someone to do nice little sweet gestures for and to make smile. Ideally you're someone I'd want to have sex with but I won't pressure you and we don't have to. But dates and fun and touching and long conversations in person would be essential. Enough emotional intimacy that I miss you when you dump me as planned and move on with your regularly scheduled life.
You are intellectually curious about something, sweet when the mood calls for it, playful even if it takes a while, and able to make your own demands. We don't need to have the same hobbies and interests as long we're able to talk about them, but for what it's worth I am well-read and have lived in different hemispheres. Be attractive even if quirky, ready even if awkward and nervous, and for crying out freakin loud a good and consistent communicator as I will not afford patience for low effort responses initially and thenceforth. Please respond with an introduction that includes your location and be more specific than telling me you're in the Bay Area. Tell me your city, county, or neighborhood. I am in the East Bay, in The 510.
I do not "do this kind of thing" with any regularity. See my oldest post. That was my one exception. I really like people and especially women. I'm just under 5'11" and mostly white. I do solo backpacking but I'm not a hunk. I am very good with secrets. I am accustomed to cultural differences in all my interpersonal relationships so I'm open on your ethnicity and age.

It ranks in the top 50 most dangerous cities in this state! Specifically 41st overall in violent crimes with cities like Antigo, Green Bay, Milwaukee and Sparta (pop 9,800) having higher violent crime rates
https://www.populationu.com/gen/most-dangerous-cities-wisconsin

Are Solas props any good? I found one on Amazon that is the right pitch and diameter but am wondering if it will work. Because I bought a Michigan wheel prop that was the right pitch and diameter but completely changed my rpms and revved way too high. I bought a black max on eBay thinking this was the best option and got scammed out 200 dollars and never got the prop. I don’t really feel like spending that again on a blackmax so ideally I’d get a Solas.

DC Next presents:

Suicide Squad

Issue Thirty-Four: Brains Scrambled.:maxbytes(150000):strip_icc()/optaboutcomcoeusresourcescontent_migrationsimply_recipesuploads201005_chili-dog-horiz-a-1600-1a1f025054124cd886baab5b14d8d5b6.jpg)
Arc: Road Trip!
Written by Deadislandman1
Edited by UpinthatBuckethead
 
 
The high pitched whine of the cargo plane slowly wound down, its turbine-assisted wings quieting with the shutdown of the behemoth’s engine. The denizens inside, the remaining members of the Suicide Squad, took this as a sign that they had finally made it to their destination. Flag grabbed a duffel bag, which contained what was left of his belongings after they had totalled their RVs, while the squad simply collected themselves, preparing to step off the plane. The bay door unlocked, slowly lowered until it hit the runway, and the Squad was hit by that familiar mix of heat and humidity.
“Goddamn,” said Raptor, a heavy sense of exhaustion in his voice. “It sucks to be back.”
Flag sighed before stepping off the plane and onto the runway, making the long walk towards a boat set to take them to the prison proper. They had landed on a secret runway out in the swamp, and now it was time to make the final leg of the journey. The rest of the squad followed suit, though in a variety of different states. Dante had ditched his metal suit with the return to a climate with more moisture, yet he also wasn’t entirely covered up in bandages. He allowed his skin to be out and about…free. He didn’t care that the gym shorts and white t-shirt seemed strange when set with his long scarred flesh, he was just happy to feel a bit more like himself again. A bit more normal.
Nicholas was carrying Adella on his back. She had fallen asleep on the flight over, and he didn’t want to wake her. It wasn’t much of an effort, he could flip a car with the flick of a finger, but being gentle, being delicate…that was something he was never taught. Weapons are crafted to harm, not to comfort, Nicholas found he took to the task surprisingly well.
Raptor was sweating up a storm, begrudgingly flipping back his hood to make sure he wasn’t being oven-roasted. The journey had been a rocky one for most, and Raptor couldn’t lie, the road trip over the past month had been one of the bumpiest rides he’d ever had, but truth be told, a part of him was probably going to remember most of it fondly. Still, the remaining bits would also be tainted permanently by Mitchell Mayo’s demise. He hadn’t gotten to know him super well, but he considered him to be a good guy.
Croc felt similarly, though right now he was feeling a lot better about the heat. This was his kind of climate, just like back home where he grew up. If it weren’t for the bomb in his neck, he’d jump into the river for a dip, like a kid rushing into the ocean for the first time. It was almost a pity that they only really ended up near a few city rivers, where the water would probably cause you to grow an extra toe or two.
And then there was Harley, who was clearly not as relieved as everyone else for the trip to be over. Her partner was gone, and while she knew that the team was there for her, it was going to take a damn long time to work through what happened. She could barely feel the heat as she got onto the boat, grabbing a more cushioned seat before lying down in it. Flag dropped his bag to the side and took the helm, starting the engine as everyone else piled in.
Flag himself was, to put it mildly, weary. A kernel of anger had made its home at the back of his brain, a fury at the fact that Waller had yet again refused to tell him everything. However, he wasn’t chomping at the bit to get some answers at the moment, because he felt like he could drop dead at any moment. It was probably unsafe for him to even be driving the boat, but hell, they were almost there. He’d make it to his bed.
The boat slowed to a stop at the dock, and while the Belle Reve guards came out with tasers and batons, Flag simply waved his hand at them, “Relax, they know the drill. No need to be rough.”
As the team got out of the boat, led back into the concrete fortress that was, begrudgingly, their home, Flag grabbed his bag and stepped onto the dock. Realizing something, he called out to one of the guards, “Hey, let Waller know I’m here and that I wanna talk….but not today. I wanna meet tomorrow, because today’s been about a thousand miles of traveling.”
 
 
It took Flag no time at all to navigate the halls of Belle Reve, making his way through the bones of such a vast beast of a prison. There weren’t too many faces to his surprise, but there were quite a lot of renovations happening. Entire cell blocks and research wings were being converted, though Flag had no clue what they would be after construction, and frankly he couldn’t give a damn at the moment. He just wanted to lie down and go to sleep.
Eventually, he rounded the corner to the hall with his room, occupied solely by a man in a doctor’s coat. As Flag approached the door, the man noticed him, jumping in front of the Colonel, “Oh! I’m sorry sir, but you can’t go in there.”
Flag shouldered his duffle bag, grunting in annoyance, “Why not, it’s my room.”
“Well, it’s because-”
“Nevermind, I don’t give a shit,” said Flag, “You have two seconds to get out of my way before your teeth take a trip down your throat.”
“Urk-” The doctor stepped out of the way, and Flag trudged through the door, happy that the final obstacle to rest had been dealt with. Closing the door behind him, he dropped the duffle bag on the ground, kicked his boots off, and promptly fell into his bed. He groaned, shifting to let himself sink into the mattress.
“Uhhhh.”
“Oh for the love of - ” growled Flag. “Listen buddy, I don’t care if they decided you could room here. It’s my place, now skedaddle.”
“Uh, alright Colonel! I know they took my bomb out, but you’re the boss!”
“Took your…” Flag turned his head to face the voice, finding the one eyed Mitchell Mayo sitting at his desk, a pen in his hand. Flag grunted, “Are you real…I think sleep deprivation’s taking its toll on me.”
“No, I’m real,” said Mayo. “I know Waller said I was dead, but really, I’m not!”
“...I don’t believe you. You’re a figment of my imagination,” said Flag, who lied down again. “Gonna catch my z’s now.”
“Wait, no! I am real,” said Mayo. “ust lemme prove it to you.”
“Good luck with that.”
Flag turned away from Mayo again, prompting Mayo to quickly grab a glass of water from the desk, dipping his fingers in it. Then, he trudged over to the bed and dripped the water onto Flag. Flag immediately cringed at the touch of the liquid, jumping out of bed in anger. Mayo quickly backed up, though he found himself against a wall fairly quickly.
“What the fuck?!” growled Flag.
“I know I know! I’m sorry!” said Mayo. “But look! You’re wet…literally, not the figurative way! I’m real, because who else would put the water on you.”
Flag wiped his face, realizing that there was truth to Mayo’s words, “You’re…you’re not dead. You’re actually-”
Mayo rubbed the back of his head, turning away sheepishly, “Here? Yeah, yeah! Apparently Waller lied to you guys about me surviving, though it’s hard to remember how I-”
Without warning, Flag grabbed Mayo and pulled him into a hug, squeezing him tight. There was a shakiness to his voice, but Mayo could tell that Flag was just…so incredibly overwhelmed.
“You’re… still here,” said Flag.
“Yup! Still here! Loving the hug,” said Mayo. “But I think I’m good now.”
Flag continued to hug Mayo.
“Flag? Flag?” Mayo began to tap on Flag’s shoulder, his voice becoming more of a wheeze as the hug grew tighter. “Flag! Lemme tap out! I can’t breathe, you’re gonna put me in the hospital again! Flaaaaag!”
At that final screech, Flag finally let go, allowing Mayo to catch his breath. The Colonel took a seat on the bed, amazed, “I…this…this feels like a goddamn miracle. I mean, when do any of us catch a break?”
“Catch a break? I mean, I lost an eye,” said Mayo. “But I’m not dead, so I’ll call it a pyrrhic victory.”
“Shit. I’ve got more to say to Waller now,” said Flag. “But that can wait. How have things been?”
“Well, aside from adjusting to the fact that I don’t have depth perception anymore,” said Mayo. “I’m mostly just trying to figure out more life stuff. I was writing down some recipes for different marination sauces.”
“You cook here?” asked Flag.
“They let me into the kitchen sometimes. I’ve had a lot of the flavorless goop when I lived in the cells, so I thought I’d try making something with taste,” said Mayo. “I managed to make some really good Huli-Huli chicken, some chili cheese dogs. I’d love to make more than the others.”
“I’m sure they’d appreciate it!” said Flag. “Though you being alive is already gonna make ‘em happy, Harley especially.”
At Harley’s mention, Mayo’s cheery expression wavered, and his gaze drifted away from Flag’s eyes, “Oh, yeah! Harley.”
Flag raised an eyebrow, “Mitch? What’s wrong?”
“I,” Mayo sighed. “Listen, it’s probably occurred to you that I’m not really a normal prisoner anymore. I don’t have my bomb, and they put me up in your room.”
“Right…”
“And it’s because…it’s because Waller doesn’t think she needs me anymore,” said Mayo. “This cooking stuff? It’s my way of having a skill set for the outside. I say the word, and I’ll be able to head out and grab a job at some top military general’s favorite food joint. Job’s waiting, and I won’t even have to do any parole stuff. It'd be an early release, no strings attached.”
“Shit,” Flag’s eyes widened. “That’s a hell of a deal.”
“Yeah, but I haven’t taken it because…”
“Harley?”
Mayo sighed, “Because of everyone. If I take it, I don’t think I’d be able to face them, Harley especially.”
Flag crossed his arms, “Well…after you said what you said to her, I think you should talk to her either way.”
“After what I said?” Mayo frowned. “What did I say?”
“You…” Flag shook his head. “Wait, you don’t remember?”
“I don’t remember anything from about a week before I was in the hospital,” said Mayo. “The Doctors told me this was lucky though. I got shot in the head, could’ve been really really bad. I could’ve lost all my memories, or my cognitive abilities….or y’know. I could’ve straight up died.”
“So you don’t remember-”
“No,” said Mayo. “Which is why I need you to tell me what I said.”
Flag grimaced, “I don’t think it’s my place to say.”
“What, why?!”
“Because you said some very personal things to her,” said Flag. “If you talk to anyone about what’s going on with you, you should talk to her.”
“Ah jeez.” Mayo shook his head, sitting down at the desk, “I just…god I don’t know what to do. I don’t want to be here anymore, even in my current circumstances. But I also don’t want to leave anyone behind.”
Flag took a seat on the bed, across from Mayo. “Then talk to them, tell them this stuff yourself. They might think differently.”
“I don’t know if I can face them, knowing I can leave at any time and they can’t.” said Mayo.
“I can be there,” said Flag. “And trust me when I say that whatever choice you make…it should be your choice only. Don’t let anyone else tell you otherwise. They might be giving their opinions, but it’s your ticket, and you can do what you want with it.”
Mayo smiled, “Thanks Flag, I think I needed to hear that.”
“Good, then get ready, because tomorrow you’ll be able to see them,” said Flag. “Not now though. Now is when I hit the sack.”
Without another word, Flag laid down in bed again, closing his eyes. Sleep came almost instantly. Nodding to himself, Mayo turned back to his desk, writing down some extra notes for his recipe. Tomorrow was now potentially one of the biggest days of his life, and he had to be prepared to say what he wanted to say to everyone else. Yawning, he put down his pen and got out of his chair, deciding that it was time for bed. Looking at the occupied mattress, Mayo suddenly realized something, “Shit…now where am I gonna sleep.”
 
Next Issue: Will he remain?
 

I have been to SF, Oakland, & Berkeley twice in the past. I have been poor most of my life & unable to travel much so when I travel I really want to make it count. I'll be going up to the Bay Area in July & am having a hard time deciding what to do & where to go. Here are places I am trying to decide between: Monterey, Carmel, Santa Cruz, San Luis Obispo, etc. I'd like to spend 2 or 3 days going to one or two of those places, and then spend 5 days in the SF area. Does anyone have advice for which place to visit? Which is the most beautiful? Do any of them have cute vintage stores or good record stores?
In SF I've been to House of Nanking, City Lights Bookstore, Amoeba, etc. I'm into punk music, old hippie culture, the Blank Panthers, etc. Any advice for places to visit?

I have been to SF, Oakland, & Berkeley twice in the past. I have been poor most of my life & unable to travel much so when I travel I really want to make it count. I'll be going up to the Bay Area in July & am having a hard time deciding what to do & where to go. Here are places I am trying to decide between: Monterey, Carmel, Santa Cruz, San Luis Obispo, etc. I'd like to spend 2 or 3 days going to one or two of those places, and then spend 5 days in the SF area. Does anyone have advice for which place to visit? Which is the most beautiful? Do any of them have cute vintage stores or good record stores?
In SF I've been to House of Nanking, City Lights Bookstore, Amoeba, etc. I'm into punk music, old hippie culture, the Blank Panthers, etc. Any advice for places to visit?

MSummer is upon us and I want to find one secret friend to romance and make feel special for a time. I mean what are we going to do, run away and get married?
I want to find someone to do nice little sweet gestures for and to make smile. Ideally you're someone I'd want to have sex with but I won't pressure you and we don't have to. But dates and fun and touching and long conversations in person would be essential. Enough emotional intimacy that I miss you when you dump me as planned and move on with your regularly scheduled life.
You are intellectually curious about something, sweet when the mood calls for it, playful even if it takes a while, and able to make your own demands. We don't need to have the same hobbies and interests as long we're able to talk about them, but for what it's worth I am well-read and have lived in different hemispheres. Be attractive even if quirky, ready even if awkward and nervous, and for crying out freakin loud a good and consistent communicator as I will not afford patience for low effort responses initially and thenceforth. Please respond with an introduction that includes your location and be more specific than telling me you're in the Bay Area. Tell me your city, county, or neighborhood. I am in the East Bay, in The 510.
I do not "do this kind of thing" with any regularity. See my oldest post. That was my one exception. I really like people and especially women. I'm just under 5'11" and mostly white. I do solo backpacking but I'm not a hunk. I am very good with secrets. I am accustomed to cultural differences in all my interpersonal relationships so I'm open on your ethnicity and age.