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[Battle] The War of Malbork Aggression, 1517
2023.05.28 08:53 Immortalsirnz [Battle] The War of Malbork Aggression, 1517
Resolution of 1516
January-April 1517, North Muscovy
The winter of 1517 was a particularly brutal winter, even by Russian standards. Both the Swedish and Livonian armies were forced to hunker down as the snows swirled around them. With both King Sten Svantesson and Wolter Von Plettenberg seeking to replenish their losses, they would have to wait until snow yielded to rain in the spring Rasputitsa. It was during this wet time that both of the reinforcement armies arrived. In this time of limited operational mobility, both armies moved to secure more of the Novgorod area. The Polish army, on the other hand, had withdrawn from the area to regroup further south, in a grand ducal army with the Lithuanians. An army from Pskov was also raised by their commanding general. Jan Radziwiłł died soon after he set out from the city, paralyzing his mourning army. By the end of April, both armies finally began their triumphal march out of their winter quarters to continue the crusade against Muscovy.
May 1517, Former Duchy of Rzhev
The two armies set out in two groups heading south east. The Swedish army's goal is the city of Tver, and the Livonian army‘s goal is the city of Rzhev. As has been a common pattern in this war so far, the scouting of the four armies is mostly lackluster. The stars had aligned so that the two Russian armies would attack the Livonian army, whose scouts were underperforming in these wide open spaces. As has also been a pattern in the war so far, the Russians fail to coordinate their attacks. Plettenberg’s army would meet Mozhaisky’s outside of Goroshin.
The First and Second Battles of Goroshin, July 1517
With both armies taking up excellent positions, the battle would begin with a textbook artillery opener from the Livonian forces. This will be followed up by a monstrous hail of arrows from the seemingly endless Muscovites archers, greatly thinning the Livonian infantry. As the terrain here around the Volga is poor for cavalry, the Livonian knights unhappily dismount to fight as heavy infantry. The Muscovites brought plenty of mounted skirmishers, but their effectiveness would be limited by the wet ground. With the knights proper dismounted off their horses, this left only the Livonian squires as the cavalry forces for the Livonians. This would prove to be an excellent move as the lighter armored cavalry men would not be slowed down by the knights’ heavy armor. The Muscovite left flank could not hold a candle to those young squires, eager to prove themselves, and they were the first to leave the field. Despite this initial victory, the Muscovites would not let them have it easy. The large numbers of Muscovites mounted skirmishers would rain javelins upon their enemies, unchallenged by the Livonians. It would, however, be the squires that once again would prove the nail in the Muscovite coffin as the Muscovite right cavalry flank was scattered by their spirited fighting. The horn to signal the retreat was soon sounded by the Muscovites, and the Muscovites made a very organized retreat away from the field, safe, but dispirited.
It is soon after this, that the second Muscovite army commanded by Shuysky, would catch up to the Livonians from behind, as part of a failed pincer movement. It is here that the Livonians, for the first time in the war, would have a rather lackluster artillery performance to open the battle. But, to their luck, the Muscovites would prove even worse. This army would prove to be very different from the one that they had just fought, as it appeared much smaller, but better armored. The Muscovites would from now on employ a different tactic against their opponents, and would use their own cavalry to merely keep the enemies off of their infantrys’ flanks, which they do well enough here. As the battle goes on, and as well as the Livonians had been fighting, they were still tired from their previous engagement, and it became clear to von Plettenberg, that he must sound the retreat in order to save his exhausted army from destruction. The Livonian retreat is not particularly well executed, as von Plettenberg is not used to retreating, but on the flipside Shuysky is not used to winning, and his pursuit of the Livonians is ineffective, who manage to get away. The Livonians retreat to Volgo, where they will spend the rest of the season recovering from a grueling gauntlet of a month, and establishing occupations to link themselves up to Lithuanian supply lines.
May-December 1517, Torzhok Area
To their north, the Swedish army under the command of Sten Svantesson attempts to march across a rather desolate area of land. After a light amount of progress, it quickly becomes apparent that their supply lines will not enable them to reach their target [<1], without linking up with the Livonians to their southwest, and the Lithuanian supplies that flow to them. The Swedes will be forced to stop in Yazhelbitsy to figure out their supply situation, and will spend time occupying lands to their north and south. To complicate matters further, the autumn Rasputitsa would be even worse than the spring, enabling a breakout of the plague in the Livonian camp. To the far north the Karelian revolts will continue to gain steam and will occupy most of traditional Karelia.
January-July 1517, Former Grand Duchy of Smolensk
Meanwhile, to the south, the king of Poland is re-organizing his armies to coalesce around the city of Smolensk. Through the winter snows and spring rains, his army gathers ready to strike. Once the rains stop in early May, the army sets out under Grand Hetman Konstanty Ostrogski and Jan Amor Tarnowski. The plan is simple: the Grand Ducal Army, a combination of Polish and Lithuanian might, shall force the Muscovites from their positions at Dorogobuzh. The ancient fortified city of the Rus lies on the Dnieper river. Overlooking the city are two heights, from which the muscovite forces have taken up a commanding view of the river valley. Grand prince Dmitri, for his part, has left a professional army under Chelyadnin and a new army under Mikahil Bulgakov to defend the city. Hearing rumblings of the Grand Ducal Army long in advance. Dmitri would also send the word south to the army at Bryansk to join the fight, in Dorogobuzh. This army would take nearly a month to make it the greater distance north, however. With ample troops to cover the hills surrounding the city, the Poles will spend the better portion of two months failing to take either hill surrounding the city.
In August, Ostrogski will take stock of the situation that he is in and make a decision to begin the Bryansk campaign early. He will send half his army south down to the aforementioned city, in order to reclaim it for the Grand duchy of Lithuania. The hope is that with less of a concentration of force on the Muscovite side, he will be able to take Dorogobuzh slowly. The new force is led by yet another Jerzy Radziwiłł, and reaches Bryansk before the Muscovites do, who are led once again by Shemyachich. The already sacked city has hastily repaired walls and a Muscovite garrison. With this in mind, it should not be a surprise that the city falls quickly after some well-placed barrages from the Polish artillery. It would be noted that the Muscovite garrison was given no quarter by the Polish and Lithuanian conquerors. Shemyachich (and Ivan V of Ryazan) have finally caught up to them however, and Radziwiłł reasons that his cavalry are better suited to the open fields rather than inside city walls.
Battle of Bryansk, September 1517
The battle of Bryansk begins with a bang. Many of them, in fact, as both of the artillery batteries roared to life, and hit true on their enemies. The rest of the battle is a much more boring affair. The infantry nearly fight to a standstill, and the Muscovite cavalry, once again, attempts and succeeds to merely draw off the Polish cavalry from inflicting too much damage on themselves or their infantry center. After several hours of grinding fighting and mounting casualties, Shemyachich sees no path to victory for the Muscovites, and orders the retreat away from the city to hopefully cross the river Desna once again, back to the safety of Muscovy.
After a short rest in Bryansk, the polls and Lithuanians continue their so-called Bryansk campaign and split up once again, confident that the Muscovites will not reengage this year. They are able to take the city of Karachev this year and reclaim the city of Trubetsk in Ruthenia. Their campaign is cut short, once again, by a particularly intense rainy season with general Stanisław Lanckoroński even going down with a minor case of illness for a few weeks due to unsanitary conditions.
August 1517, City of Dorogobuzh
Back at Dorogobuzh, Ostrogski feels confident that he can throw his weight against one of the hills and finally take it. He chooses the south hill, for no particular reason other than he has a good feeling about it. Due to yet again, another Muscovite scouting failure, he is able to assault the hill with numerical superiority. Surprising the Muscovites with a furious attack, he’s able to take the hill rather easily. The Polish at this point do not have a large contingent of siege artillery, but the defenses of the city are not well-maintained, and thus are not difficult to blast open. Ostrogskii hesitates here at the open fortifications of the city, as he knows that most of his strength is concentrated in his cavalry's superiority. He sees fit to at least attempt an assault with the famed landsknecht taking point against the inferior Muscovite infantry forces. If it does not go well, he will simply have to think of another plan. Luckily for him, it does go well, and the famed mercenaries of Germany prove their worth as they force the Muscovites out of the city for good. Chelyadnin and Bulgakov retreat from the city back towards Vyazma. Due to the onset of the rain and the slog of the month’s battles, the Grand Ducal Army is not able to make much headway into Muscovite territory. Vyazma will have to wait until next year if there is one.
Map
Casualties
Sweden
Levy Pikemen 410
Mercenary Pikemen 590
Mercenary Polearms 410
Levy Archers 410
Mercenary Crossbowmen 500
Levy Mounted Skirmishers 90
Mercenary Cavalry 230
Muscovy
Unknown
Ryazan
Unknown
Livonian Order
Von Plettenberg
Levy Pikemen 595
Levy Spearmen 595
Livonian Knights 380
Landsknecht 1,145
Levy Crossbowmen 395
Mercenary Arquebusiers 380
Levy Cavalry 395
Von Bielefeld
42%~
Poland-Lithuania
Radziwiłł
Levy Spearmen 80
Landsknecht 360
Mercenary Pikemen 180
Levy Crossbowmen 160
Mercenary Crossbowmen 300
Mercenary Arquebusiers 320
Levy Cavalry 80
Levy Mounted Skirmishers 170
Mercenary Cavalry 650
Cossacks 55
Mercenary Horse Archers 450
Lanckoroński
Levy Spearmen 45
Landsknecht 140
Mercenary Pikemen 140
Levy Crossbowmen 90
Mercenary Crossbowmen 230
Mercenary Arquebusier 230
Levy Cavalry 60
Levy Mounted Skirmishers 110
Mercenary Cavalry 360
Cossacks 30
Mercenary Horse Archers 280
Firlej
Mercenary Cavalry 365
Mercenary Horse Archers 250
Ostrogski & Tarnowski
Levy Spearmen 110
Landsknecht 330
Mercenary Pikemen 130
Levy Crossbowmen 220
Mercenary Crossbowmen 220
Mercenary Arquebusiers 285
Levy Cavalry 55
Levy Mounted Skirmishers 205
Mercenary Cavalry 515
Cossacks 25
Mercenary Horse Archers 455
Pskov
5%~
submitted by Immortalsirnz to empirepowers [link] [comments]
January-April 1517, North Muscovy
The winter of 1517 was a particularly brutal winter, even by Russian standards. Both the Swedish and Livonian armies were forced to hunker down as the snows swirled around them. With both King Sten Svantesson and Wolter Von Plettenberg seeking to replenish their losses, they would have to wait until snow yielded to rain in the spring Rasputitsa. It was during this wet time that both of the reinforcement armies arrived. In this time of limited operational mobility, both armies moved to secure more of the Novgorod area. The Polish army, on the other hand, had withdrawn from the area to regroup further south, in a grand ducal army with the Lithuanians. An army from Pskov was also raised by their commanding general. Jan Radziwiłł died soon after he set out from the city, paralyzing his mourning army. By the end of April, both armies finally began their triumphal march out of their winter quarters to continue the crusade against Muscovy.
May 1517, Former Duchy of Rzhev
The two armies set out in two groups heading south east. The Swedish army's goal is the city of Tver, and the Livonian army‘s goal is the city of Rzhev. As has been a common pattern in this war so far, the scouting of the four armies is mostly lackluster. The stars had aligned so that the two Russian armies would attack the Livonian army, whose scouts were underperforming in these wide open spaces. As has also been a pattern in the war so far, the Russians fail to coordinate their attacks. Plettenberg’s army would meet Mozhaisky’s outside of Goroshin.
The First and Second Battles of Goroshin, July 1517
With both armies taking up excellent positions, the battle would begin with a textbook artillery opener from the Livonian forces. This will be followed up by a monstrous hail of arrows from the seemingly endless Muscovites archers, greatly thinning the Livonian infantry. As the terrain here around the Volga is poor for cavalry, the Livonian knights unhappily dismount to fight as heavy infantry. The Muscovites brought plenty of mounted skirmishers, but their effectiveness would be limited by the wet ground. With the knights proper dismounted off their horses, this left only the Livonian squires as the cavalry forces for the Livonians. This would prove to be an excellent move as the lighter armored cavalry men would not be slowed down by the knights’ heavy armor. The Muscovite left flank could not hold a candle to those young squires, eager to prove themselves, and they were the first to leave the field. Despite this initial victory, the Muscovites would not let them have it easy. The large numbers of Muscovites mounted skirmishers would rain javelins upon their enemies, unchallenged by the Livonians. It would, however, be the squires that once again would prove the nail in the Muscovite coffin as the Muscovite right cavalry flank was scattered by their spirited fighting. The horn to signal the retreat was soon sounded by the Muscovites, and the Muscovites made a very organized retreat away from the field, safe, but dispirited.
It is soon after this, that the second Muscovite army commanded by Shuysky, would catch up to the Livonians from behind, as part of a failed pincer movement. It is here that the Livonians, for the first time in the war, would have a rather lackluster artillery performance to open the battle. But, to their luck, the Muscovites would prove even worse. This army would prove to be very different from the one that they had just fought, as it appeared much smaller, but better armored. The Muscovites would from now on employ a different tactic against their opponents, and would use their own cavalry to merely keep the enemies off of their infantrys’ flanks, which they do well enough here. As the battle goes on, and as well as the Livonians had been fighting, they were still tired from their previous engagement, and it became clear to von Plettenberg, that he must sound the retreat in order to save his exhausted army from destruction. The Livonian retreat is not particularly well executed, as von Plettenberg is not used to retreating, but on the flipside Shuysky is not used to winning, and his pursuit of the Livonians is ineffective, who manage to get away. The Livonians retreat to Volgo, where they will spend the rest of the season recovering from a grueling gauntlet of a month, and establishing occupations to link themselves up to Lithuanian supply lines.
May-December 1517, Torzhok Area
To their north, the Swedish army under the command of Sten Svantesson attempts to march across a rather desolate area of land. After a light amount of progress, it quickly becomes apparent that their supply lines will not enable them to reach their target [<1], without linking up with the Livonians to their southwest, and the Lithuanian supplies that flow to them. The Swedes will be forced to stop in Yazhelbitsy to figure out their supply situation, and will spend time occupying lands to their north and south. To complicate matters further, the autumn Rasputitsa would be even worse than the spring, enabling a breakout of the plague in the Livonian camp. To the far north the Karelian revolts will continue to gain steam and will occupy most of traditional Karelia.
January-July 1517, Former Grand Duchy of Smolensk
Meanwhile, to the south, the king of Poland is re-organizing his armies to coalesce around the city of Smolensk. Through the winter snows and spring rains, his army gathers ready to strike. Once the rains stop in early May, the army sets out under Grand Hetman Konstanty Ostrogski and Jan Amor Tarnowski. The plan is simple: the Grand Ducal Army, a combination of Polish and Lithuanian might, shall force the Muscovites from their positions at Dorogobuzh. The ancient fortified city of the Rus lies on the Dnieper river. Overlooking the city are two heights, from which the muscovite forces have taken up a commanding view of the river valley. Grand prince Dmitri, for his part, has left a professional army under Chelyadnin and a new army under Mikahil Bulgakov to defend the city. Hearing rumblings of the Grand Ducal Army long in advance. Dmitri would also send the word south to the army at Bryansk to join the fight, in Dorogobuzh. This army would take nearly a month to make it the greater distance north, however. With ample troops to cover the hills surrounding the city, the Poles will spend the better portion of two months failing to take either hill surrounding the city.
In August, Ostrogski will take stock of the situation that he is in and make a decision to begin the Bryansk campaign early. He will send half his army south down to the aforementioned city, in order to reclaim it for the Grand duchy of Lithuania. The hope is that with less of a concentration of force on the Muscovite side, he will be able to take Dorogobuzh slowly. The new force is led by yet another Jerzy Radziwiłł, and reaches Bryansk before the Muscovites do, who are led once again by Shemyachich. The already sacked city has hastily repaired walls and a Muscovite garrison. With this in mind, it should not be a surprise that the city falls quickly after some well-placed barrages from the Polish artillery. It would be noted that the Muscovite garrison was given no quarter by the Polish and Lithuanian conquerors. Shemyachich (and Ivan V of Ryazan) have finally caught up to them however, and Radziwiłł reasons that his cavalry are better suited to the open fields rather than inside city walls.
Battle of Bryansk, September 1517
The battle of Bryansk begins with a bang. Many of them, in fact, as both of the artillery batteries roared to life, and hit true on their enemies. The rest of the battle is a much more boring affair. The infantry nearly fight to a standstill, and the Muscovite cavalry, once again, attempts and succeeds to merely draw off the Polish cavalry from inflicting too much damage on themselves or their infantry center. After several hours of grinding fighting and mounting casualties, Shemyachich sees no path to victory for the Muscovites, and orders the retreat away from the city to hopefully cross the river Desna once again, back to the safety of Muscovy.
After a short rest in Bryansk, the polls and Lithuanians continue their so-called Bryansk campaign and split up once again, confident that the Muscovites will not reengage this year. They are able to take the city of Karachev this year and reclaim the city of Trubetsk in Ruthenia. Their campaign is cut short, once again, by a particularly intense rainy season with general Stanisław Lanckoroński even going down with a minor case of illness for a few weeks due to unsanitary conditions.
August 1517, City of Dorogobuzh
Back at Dorogobuzh, Ostrogski feels confident that he can throw his weight against one of the hills and finally take it. He chooses the south hill, for no particular reason other than he has a good feeling about it. Due to yet again, another Muscovite scouting failure, he is able to assault the hill with numerical superiority. Surprising the Muscovites with a furious attack, he’s able to take the hill rather easily. The Polish at this point do not have a large contingent of siege artillery, but the defenses of the city are not well-maintained, and thus are not difficult to blast open. Ostrogskii hesitates here at the open fortifications of the city, as he knows that most of his strength is concentrated in his cavalry's superiority. He sees fit to at least attempt an assault with the famed landsknecht taking point against the inferior Muscovite infantry forces. If it does not go well, he will simply have to think of another plan. Luckily for him, it does go well, and the famed mercenaries of Germany prove their worth as they force the Muscovites out of the city for good. Chelyadnin and Bulgakov retreat from the city back towards Vyazma. Due to the onset of the rain and the slog of the month’s battles, the Grand Ducal Army is not able to make much headway into Muscovite territory. Vyazma will have to wait until next year if there is one.
Casualties
Sweden
Levy Pikemen 410
Mercenary Pikemen 590
Mercenary Polearms 410
Levy Archers 410
Mercenary Crossbowmen 500
Levy Mounted Skirmishers 90
Mercenary Cavalry 230
Muscovy
Unknown
Ryazan
Unknown
Livonian Order
Von Plettenberg
Levy Pikemen 595
Levy Spearmen 595
Livonian Knights 380
Landsknecht 1,145
Levy Crossbowmen 395
Mercenary Arquebusiers 380
Levy Cavalry 395
Von Bielefeld
42%~
Poland-Lithuania
Radziwiłł
Levy Spearmen 80
Landsknecht 360
Mercenary Pikemen 180
Levy Crossbowmen 160
Mercenary Crossbowmen 300
Mercenary Arquebusiers 320
Levy Cavalry 80
Levy Mounted Skirmishers 170
Mercenary Cavalry 650
Cossacks 55
Mercenary Horse Archers 450
Lanckoroński
Levy Spearmen 45
Landsknecht 140
Mercenary Pikemen 140
Levy Crossbowmen 90
Mercenary Crossbowmen 230
Mercenary Arquebusier 230
Levy Cavalry 60
Levy Mounted Skirmishers 110
Mercenary Cavalry 360
Cossacks 30
Mercenary Horse Archers 280
Firlej
Mercenary Cavalry 365
Mercenary Horse Archers 250
Ostrogski & Tarnowski
Levy Spearmen 110
Landsknecht 330
Mercenary Pikemen 130
Levy Crossbowmen 220
Mercenary Crossbowmen 220
Mercenary Arquebusiers 285
Levy Cavalry 55
Levy Mounted Skirmishers 205
Mercenary Cavalry 515
Cossacks 25
Mercenary Horse Archers 455
Pskov
5%~
2023.05.28 06:04 InfernoAA God Made the World in Six Days, I’ll Perfect New Japan's on the Seventh Part Five: Destined
In Part Four, the comeback tour of rockstar Hiroshi Tanahashi was cut brutally short at the hands of the Leader of the New School, Zack Sabre Jr., who embarked on a quest to prove himself New Japan's most valuable gaijin. After beating back Will Ospreay for Royal Quest, he ran into another familiar face in Minoru Suzuki, almost clobbering him into retirement until Naomichi Marufuji made the save. Ending his saga with Just6Guys with a win over Maru, he placed a bow on the long-standing Blackpool Combat Club rivalry by besting Jon Moxley, cementing Sabre-Gun as New Japan's undisputed leaders... That is, without taking Los Ingobernables de Japon into account.
Since becoming one again, LIJ’s been on a tear through NJPW’s ranks this year in spite of Shingo Takagi dropping the belt and PAC losing the New Japan Cup Finals to the current World Champion. IWGP United States, IWGP Tag Team (Death Triangle have become LIJ affiliates through PAC), and NJPW World Television Championships in their grasps, they seek to round out the group by all holding titles simultaneously. But that begs the question – who’ll be going after the World Title? Though Shingo’s battle ready, he insists Tetsuya Naito take it this time, the Stardust Genius having worked his back off to rebound from Wrestle Kingdom. Failing every attempt in the past 3 years though, the question remains whether he can truly pull it off this time, or if it’s just not meant to be.
Kizuna Road - Night Four (July 1, 2024)
Sabre-Gun (Zack Sabre Jr. & El Phantasmo) vs Los Ingobernables de Japon (Tetsuya Naito & PAC)
With Naito confirmed as Sabre’s #1 Contender for Wrestle Dynasty, SG and LIJ have themselves a scaled-down rematch from New Year’s Dash, Zack picking his trusty right-hand man ELP, and Tetsuya bringing the US Champion, knowing PAC has unresolved issues with ZSJ from the NJC. Though it drives the Bastard to work doubly-hard, especially considering how it’ll look if he pins the World Champion, it also makes their teamwork suffer, PAC becoming self-absorbed in getting the pin. Backfiring, a Sudden Death from Phantasmo knocks his lights out, SG getting their win back from NYD and putting the challenger on the backfoot heading into Madison Square Garden!
Sabre-Gun def. Los Ingobernables de Japon (16:12)
PAC appears distraught after the match, but Naito simply tells him ‘tranquilo’, not taking it personally. Though he’d hoped to use this match to get into ZSJ’s head, it appears he’ll just have to do that himself, like he’s always done.
Wrestle Dynasty (July 14, 2024)
Also on the show:
Shota Umino (c) vs El Desperado - NEVER Openweight Championship
Just6Guys (SANADA, Taichi, Ryohei Oiwa) (c) vs Los Ingobernables de Japon (Shingo Takagi, Yota Tsuji, Titan) - NEVER Openweight 6-Man Tag Team Championship
Hiromu Takahashi (c) vs Kyle Fletcher - NJPW World Television Championship
PAC (c) vs El Phantasmo - IWGP United States Championship
The Lucha Brothers (c) vs Meiyu Tag - IWGP Tag Team Championship
Zack Sabre Jr. (c) vs Tetsuya Naito XI - IWGP World Heavyweight Championship
In what’s been a very successful night for LIJ thus far, clean-sweeping their way through the competition, it all rests on Naito’s shoulders now to bring it home. Perhaps the most unreliable man to slot in this spot, and yet, the most beloved, MSG fully invested in Tetsuya’s chase, either the grandest of celebrations or coldest of heartbreaks will end the night! Naito keeps his cool, emanating his usual larger-than-life aura as he walks out in a pristine crimson suit, paying homage to Shingo, whilst Sabre’s cockier than ever with his recent streak of huge wins, knowing he has Tetsuya doubting himself after their tag. As he hands his title over, the two come face-to-face, SABRE SPITTING GUM INTO NAITO’S FACE, but Tetsuya doesn’t let ZSJ’s tactics faze him, having come too far for too long to let mind games be his downfall.
Circling each other, Zack lunges for a lock-up but Naito walks past, smirking and stretching in the opposite corner. Sabre rolls his eyes as Tetsuya turns around and tells him ‘tranquilo’, before going for it again… Zack snatching the headlock this time as Naito tries to repeat, but Tetsuya instantly whips him to the corner, teasing the COMBINACION CABRON as ZSJ braces himself… Naito stops in front of him and does the ‘Abre los Ojos’ taunt!
Furious, Sabre piefaces him, NAITO RETURNING A FOREARM, AND WE’RE OFF! Trading strikes, Zack rocks Tetsuya with European Uppercuts, Naito returning forearms, before a Japanese Arm Drag stops Zack in his tracks! Naito goes for another, but Zack hooks onto Tetsuya’s legs, tripping him up and contorting the foot! Tetsuya boots him off with the other, a Neckbreaker and a Somersault Senton connecting, though Sabre absorbs the latter, trapping Naito’s arm onto the mat to STOMP THE HAND!
Picking him back up, he cracks Naito with chops, before whipping him at the ropes, Naito hitting off them one after the other to build momentum, teasing the Flying Forearm Zack’s expecting… only to roll into the Tranquilo pose! ZACK MEETS HIM WITH A NECK TWIST!!! Tetsuya scrambling to the corner, Sabre steps on his throat against the ropes, BEFORE SLAPPING HIM! NAITO SPITS IN ZACK’S FACE!!! A harsh uppercut knocks Tetsuya back, a Running European following and a PENALTY KICK! Naito dodges and nails the FLYING FOREARM SMASH!
Teasing the Tornado DDT, it’s cancelled by an Enzuigiri, Zack leaping for the KIMURA- NAITO COUNTERS INTO VALENTIA!!! ONE! TWO! THR-KICK OUT!!! Sending Sabre into the corner, the COMBINACION CABRON CONNECTS! AND A MISSILE DROPKICK! Naito teases the DRAGON SUPLEX, but Sabre flips through and STOMPS HIS ELBOW! SNAP GERMAN ON THE NECK FROM SABRE!!! ONE! TWO! THR-NO DICE! Naito woozy, his head’s only further knocked around by a ROLLING ELBOW! A CORNER HIGH KNEE connects, before a Hammerlock Suplex floats into a TESCO MEAL DEAL!!!
Naito’s hand flails about the mat as Sabre keeps him grounded, no Valentia escape this time, forcing Tetsuya to work the old-fashioned way to the ropes! MSG backing the Stardust Genius, after much deliberation he gets a foot on the ropes! But Zack’s right back on him, going for a NORTHERN LIGHTS SUPLEX- NAITO STANDS HIM UP WITH A SNAP DDT! An EVOLUCION’S shut down though, Sabre hitting the brakes to nail the ARM PELE! Fishing the arm, Zack tries to float into a FLYING ARTICLE 50- NAITO STUFFS HIM WITH A GLORIA!!! ONE! TWO! THR-SABRE SURVIVES!!!
Rallying momentum, Tetsuya nails the TORNADO DDT! Sabre nursing the head, a DRAGON SUPLEX FOLLOWS!!! In the drop zone, Naito tests the waters for a RUNNING DESTINO- SABRE SHUTS IT DOWN WITH A EUROPEAN CLUTCH!!! ONE! TWO! THR-NAITO’S DREAMS STAY ALIVE!!! Getting dangerously close with the flash pin, Tetsuya throws defiant forearms, Zack catching and contorting one, but a ROLLING WHEEL KICK knocks him off! ESPERANZA!!! ONE! TWO! THR-SABRE KICKS OUT!!!
Hooking the head, Naito hoists Sabre up… ZACK WITH A GUILLOTINE CHOKE MID-AIR!!! Tetsuya’s eyes bulge out his skull, looking for the nearest turnbuckle to ram Sabre into it, but ZSJ’s quicker, yanking him to the mat and transitioning into a JIM BREAKS ARMBAR!!! Brutally bending the arm at an awkward angle, there’s a manic look in Zack’s eyes as NYC desperately cheers on Naito, who does his best to hang on! Sabre keeps tugging further and further, eager to ruin Tetsuya, but it backfires, helping him stretch his leg to the ropes!
The crowd erupts as the referee forces Sabre off, though Naito’s clearly hurting all the same, a European helping no less! Zack rallies with further Uppercuts, one knocking Tetsuya down, before firing a PENALTY KICK!!! NAITO ABSORBS IT AND ROLLS THROUGH, SABRE GOING FOR SECONDS BUT HE EATS A RUNNING DESTINOOOOOOOOO!!! ONE! TWO! THR-NOOOOOOOOOO!!! Shaking himself off, Naito attempts another, though Sabre stops it with elbows, before hopping into a REAR NAKED CHOKE!
Tetsuya tries to run forwards to free himself, though ZSJ swivels on his back into a GEDO CLUTCH!!! ANOTHER FLASH PIN! BUT NAITO ROLLS THROUGH THIS TIME INTO HIS OWN – POLVO DE ESTRELLA!!! ONE! TWO! THR-SABRE STAYS IN!!! AND AN EVOLUCION!!! ONE! TWO! THR-ANOTHER KICK OUT!!! NAITO’S GOING FOR THE SWING DESTINO!!! BUT A ZACK DRIVER COUNTERS!!! ONE! TWO! THR-NOOOOOOOOOO!!!
Slapping up Naito’s neck, Sabre dumps him on it with a TIGER SUPLEX!!! Naito woozy, Zack nails the PENALTY KICK!!! NAITO’S REFUSING TO STAY DOWN! Hearing MSG’s cries, he wills himself back up as Sabre watches in fascination… ONLY FOR ANOTHER PK TO CUT HIM OFF!!! And just like the 2022 NJC Finals, he’s going to end it here with a SECOND ZACK DRIVER- NAITO NAILS A DESTINO MID-AIR!!! HE’S STILL MOVING SOMEHOW!!! Stumbling to his feet, Tetsuya measures his man… DESTINOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!! ONE! TWO! THR-SABRE’S FOOT’S ON THE ROPE!!!
Saving Naito more than once, it’s come to Zack’s aid now too! Hammering Sabre with forearms, Naito tees up another DESTINO- PELE KICK!!! Tetsuya falls forward, Zack catching him in a STRETCH MUFFLER!!! IF HE CAN JUST GRAB THE OTHER LEG, IT’S ALL OVER, COMPLETING THE ORIENTEERING WITH NAPALM DEATH!!! Zack bends Naito further and further as he tries to grab hold… TETSUYA SWINGS BACK! AGAIN AND AGAIN AND AGAIN! SABRE LETS GO!!! AND A ZACK DRIVER FROM NAITO!!!
Sabre on his back, Naito thinks about waiting for the Destino… but then he sees the top rope. The crowd cry at him not to, screwing him over time and time again, but Tetsuya can’t help it! Heading up top, the world holds their breath, NAITO SOARING THROUGH THE AIR… STARDUST PRESS CONNECTS!!! ONE! TWO! THREE!!! IT’S A MIRACLE IN MADISON SQUARE GARDEN!!! NAITO’S WORLD CHAMPION AGAIN!!!
Tetsuya Naito def. Zack Sabre Jr. (c) to win the IWGP World Heavyweight Championship (31:18)
New York LOSES their minds as Naito’s handed the title, Tetsuya himself struggling to process what just happened! But then LIJ rush out – PAC with the US Title, Hiromu with the TV Title, Shingo, Yota, and Titan with the NEVER 6-Man Titles, and even the Lucha Brothers with the Tag Titles! THEY’RE DRAPED IN GOLD, BABY! Sharing embraces all around as a dismal Sabre trudges to the back, there’s not a single dry eye in the arena as the outcasts raise their fists to the sky with one hand and their titles with the other, golden tickertape hailing down! Naito’s on top of the world after 3 long years, and it feels damn good! Doing the customary championship edition roll-call, the show fades on LIJ holding all their gold… and PAC looking over at Naito’s.
G1 Climax 34
Entering his second of fifteen G1s as the reigning champion, Naito heads B Block opposite stiff competition. Though dispatching of Hiromu in friendly competition on Night One, the two are subsequently assaulted by KONGOH post-match, allowing NOAH’s KENOH to upset him the following night! Behind the 8-ball already, Tetsuya’s motivated to make a comeback, mowing through Narita, Tanahashi, Yota, Sabre, and KENTA to take back the lead! Suffering another surprise defeat at Jeff Cobb’s hands after multiple failed attempts from the Hawaiian Hulk to best him, it opens the door for a returning JAY WHITE to spoil his final night, wrecking Naito’s legs with a ladder, allowing Zack to advance on 14 points! As for B Block, a draw between Will Ospreay and Kazuchika Okada on the final night puts the Commonwealth Kingpin through, the rivals meeting one more time! Other key underlying stories see Shibata finally beating Okada, Ospreay avenging his Takagi loss, PAC beating his fellow LIJ members but losing to SANADA, and KONGOH causing ruckus throughout the competition.
G1 Climax 34 Finals (August 19, 2024)
Also on the show:
Jay White vs BUSHI
Will Ospreay vs Zack Sabre Jr. - G1 Climax Briefcase
Los Ingobernables de Japon (Tetsuya Naito, Shingo Takagi, PAC, Hiromu Takahashi, Titan) vs KONGOH (KENOH, Manabu Soya, Masakatsu Funaki, Hi69, Shuji Kondo)
Perhaps the focal reason for Naito not making the Finals, KONGOH’s tournament chicanery, as led by KENOH, was a masterfully crafted plan. After losing to Tetsuya in last year’s LIJ vs KONGOH series at Wrestle Kingdom 17, the thought of ruining the Stardust Genius for vengeance never left the Rogue Fist’s mind, and with his win over Tetsuya in the G1, their score is now 1-1. Reigniting the intense rivalry between the two stables, they have an upgraded rematch to their Wrestle Kingdom 16 5-on-5, both sides having greatly changed since then.
Once again, PAC’s especially adamant to claim the spotlight, the loss to SANADA making him temperamental despite having the 2nd best LIJ record in this year’s tournament. An argument breaking out between PAC and Shingo as to who should get the pin is put on ice by Naito, though it doesn’t keep Titan from eating a nasty PFS from KENOH, handing the invaders the win!
KONGOH def. Los Ingobernables de Japon (19:57)
Redeeming WK16, KENOH offers the angriest of satisfied smiles, the group cackling as they gesture belts around their waists, warning that their business isn’t yet over. LIJ left behind, there’s a sour mood in the air from the loss, though when Shingo offers a fist in apology, PAC, taking a look at a nodding Naito, ultimately returns one, showing that despite popular belief, LIJ’s still fine.
Splitting off for Shingo and co. to gear up for KONGOH’s second wave whilst Naito and PAC are scheduled for AEW’s ALL IN supershow, this time taking place in Tetsuya’s home of the Tokyo Dome, both men are set for defences on the show. In PAC’s case, it’s a rematch against J6G’s SANADA, the Bastard adamant to gain Naito’s favour by beating the traitor. As for Naito, he has Jay on his tail!
Until the recent G1, White refused to show his face on any sort of NJPW programming (including Forbidden Door) since being embarrassed at Okada’s hands and having his faction torn to shreds. Leaving Japan to join AEW, no longer having connections to hide behind nor help him, he was forced to be the lone wolf for once, becoming even more merciless, knowing he’s all he has. After spreading chaos abroad, most recently coming up short in the AEW World Championship picture, trauma from his Okada loss clinging onto him anytime the stakes are raised too high again, he decided it was time to return to his roots to clear his head and eliminate any shred of weakness left in his body so that he can claim the top prize again, and there’s no better place to do so than the building his title was taken from him – the Tokyo Dome.
The last time he faced Naito in the Tokyo Dome, he had Gedo by his side, yet still lost. Now though, he declares if he’s to have this match, he wants a compensatory factor. A means of looking out for himself, like Naito has LIJ. He’s already beaten Tetsuya thrice in singles competition, knowing he’s the better wrestler, so this time… HE WANTS A LADDER MATCH!!! Japan’s become more and more geared to the Western market, the culture shifting from traditions, so unless he’s a snob like Okada, he'll embrace the new vision and accept the challenge. Jay using the perfect words to get under Tetsuya’s skin, he accepts, looking to tear down the foundations of the Rainmaker’s regime with his reign, starting with this!
RevProxNJPW 12th Anniversary Show (August 24, 2024)
Los Ingobernables de Japon (Tetsuya Naito & PAC) vs The Knight Dynasty (Ricky Knight Jr. & Zak Knight)
The night before ALL IN features a special RevPro crossover event with their partners, NJPW, the 12th Anniversary being celebrated in Japan. Naturally, Naito tags with the most RevPro familiar member of LIJ, PAC, the two champions battling the celebrated Knight Dynasty, who are considered the present and future of the promotion! What begins as a fun exhibition sees more of the differences between PAC and Naito come to light, the hot-headedness of the Bastard and the collectedness of El Ingobernable wanting different things out of the match, yet still managing to remain reasonably on the same page. A close call on a 619 from Ricky sees Naito shove PAC out the way in the nick of time, absorbing the blow himself, though without acknowledging it, PAC springs to action, a Black Arrow on Zak scoring the victory!
Los Ingobernables de Japon def. The Knight Dynasty (13:10)
As the referee approaches LIJ with their titles, PAC’s quick to receive both, Naito only recovering just in time to find the Bastard lingering for a moment as he looks between the pieces of gold, before finally handing Tetsuya’s over him and walking off, leaving the leader confused yet unconcerned.
ALL IN Tokyo (August 25, 2024)
Also on the show:
PAC (c) vs SANADA - IWGP United States Championship
The Lucha Brothers (c) vs Golden Lovers - IWGP Tag Team Championship
Tetsuya Naito (c) vs Jay White V - IWGP World Heavyweight Championship - Ladder
Stepping into the mastermind of the Switchblade, White baits Naito to play his game, the long-time rivals settling their score over a belt they both have history with. With no Gedo around, Jay’s focus is to demolish Naito’s already tattered knees with the ladder like he did to cost Tetsuya the G1, slowing down each climbing attempt bit by bit. Given the two’s creativity, it’s a sick warfare of increasingly dangerous spots, Naito taking Jay with him to neck bump city, White cruelly massacring Tetsuya’s body with reckless abandon.
White’s notably more in his element here, letting the Tokyo Dome atmosphere heal him whilst hurting Naito. A HANGING BLADE RUNNER cuts a Stardust Press attempt short, the magic only lasting once, but a ladder bridge CANADIAN DESTROYER buys Naito some momentum back! Ultimately, a war atop the ladder sees Naito boot Jay off, allowing him to unhook the gold to retain!
Tetsuya Naito (c) def. Jay White V to retain the IWGP World Heavyweight Championship (25:30)
Though Naito walks out with his belt, PAC doesn’t, making the Bastard’s issues all the more prominent, taking more frequent looks over at Tetsuya’s gold, which begs the question – was there more to PAC joining LIJ than originally thought? Still, he wishes Naito good luck for Wrestle Grand Slam, telling him he wants to see the belt on him when they go England. But for now, the end of his trilogy against KENOH awaits!
Wrestle Grand Slam (September 8, 2024)
Also on the show:
Hiromu Takahashi (c) vs KUSHIDA - NJPW World Television Championship
El Desperado (c) vs Katsuyori Shibata - NEVER Openweight Championship
Los Ingobernables de Japon (Shingo Takagi, Yota Tsuji, Titan) (c) vs KONGOH (Manabu Soya, Masakatsu Funaki, Shuji Kondo) - NEVER Openweight 6-Man Tag Team Championship
Tetsuya Naito (c) vs KENOH III - IWGP World Heavyweight Championship
For over two years, the rivalry between LIJ and KONGOH has slowly simmered to this boiling point, coming down to the leaders now to settle their 1-1 score over NJPW’s top title! With the 6-Man Titles changing hands earlier in the night, Naito must put his 200% into assuring the same doesn’t occur here, or it’ll be disaster on New Japan’s waterfront.
As two men that could not be more opposite collide, it’s an intense war over the company’s possession, everyone from fans to wrestlers on the edge of their seats as the last of the NOAH invaders try to leave their mark. KENOH shows nothing but hatred towards Naito for ruining his past chances, whilst Tetsuya savours his every moment in the Sun, having slaved away to hold this belt. A PFS almost does Naito in, whilst the DESTINO does the same for KENOH! Ragdolling the older star with Dragon Suplexes, KENOH sets up for the ENRIN… BUT IN HIS STARDUST PRESS MOMENT, HE MISSES!!! DESTINOOOOOOOOOO!!! ONE! TWO! THREE!!! New Japan remains safe in the hands of Naito!
Tetsuya Naito (c) def. KENOH to retain the IWGP World Heavyweight Championship (28:33)
Offering a handshake to KENOH out of respect for their series… the Rogue Fist declines it, though from the look in his fiery eyes, an inkling of acknowledgement is there for Tetsuya. Telling Naito to keep the belt warm for him, he declares he’ll be back sometime again, and when that happens, he’s going to usurp Naito once and for all!
And as they leave with their 50/50 successes, it’s back to LIJ to end the show on their usual note… except, PAC interrupts the tradition. He’s confused, no, he’s incredulous. What are they celebrating here? Failure? Or are they calling it ‘survival’? Is no one going to point out the elephant in the room? Just two months ago they were on top of the world, all draped in gold, but now they’re left with just Naito and the Lucha Bros’s gold. And yet, they’re celebrating? He’s been out here losing sleep over his missing US Title!
If they wish to continue to be taken seriously, they need to act the part. Luckily… he has a solution. They say iron sharpens iron, so rather than fighting these large-scale wars outside their stable… why not have a ‘friendly’ within? Naito has the title and an incredible row of suitors before him, so he should pick one to defend against! Tetsuya seems perturbed by the idea knowing what almost happened the last time LIJ fought within, but as PAC insists, even pointing out how he’s the only one with a clean record over Naito… Tetsuya turns to him and raises the title! If such claims are going to be made, they need to be backed up too! Challenging PAC with his title on the line, a grinning Bastard accepts, bumping his fist!
Burning Spirit - Night Seven (September 25, 2024)
Los Ingobernables de Japon (Tetsuya Naito, Shingo Takagi, Hiromu Takahashi) vs Death Triangle (PAC & The Lucha Brothers)
Slyly manoeuvring his way into the title rematch he’s desired ever since getting a taste of the gold against Shingo last year, this is more so PAC’s chance to prove himself over the statement he’s seeming to be making. Nonetheless, with various combinations of LIJ facing Death Triangle over the Burning Spirit tour, they supposedly rely on each other to improve their own skill, these 6 especially drawing the very best out of each other. Working more seamlessly with DT than he had LIJ as of late, the freakish chemistry between the AEW lads has a Fear FactoDouble Stomp/Black Arrow combo end Hiromu, PAC grinning as he stares down Naito, the challenge growing closer by day…
Death Triangle def. Los Ingobernables de Japon (18:24)
Giving a brief interview heading into the match at Royal Quest, Naito states that he can’t be certain on what PAC’s intentions are, but all he knows is that no matter what, LIJ sticks together. If this match is what PAC needs for his peace of mind, then it’s all his. All he can hope is the Bastard has the same idea of family in mind.
Royal Quest IV - Night Two (October 6, 2024)
Also on the show:
The Lucha Brothers (c) vs United Empire (Jeff Cobb & Great-O-Khan) - IWGP Tag Team Championship
Will Ospreay (c) vs Kazuchika Okada - G1 Climax Briefcase
Tetsuya Naito (c) vs PAC II - IWGP World Heavyweight Championship
The relationship between LIJ and PAC has developed into one of the more intriguing dynamics this year, raising a multitude of questions, but now, the true light of it all will be revealed. Whether it’s friendly fire or another coup, Naito’s ready for whatever PAC may happen to have up his sleeve, whilst the Bastard lets his actions do the talking. For once, it’s an utterly no-nonsense showdown between Los members, Tetsuya taking the threat of PAC very seriously, the Jordie clearly driven to make the grand prize his. And as the match rolls on, Naito starts to see parts of himself in PAC with each cheer or cry from his home crowd.
Just like Naito, he’s the incredibly-talented misfit who was overlooked, but unlike a young Naito, PAC doesn’t realise he has the world on his side already despite his quirks. Whilst Naito had to suffer through his changes, PAC’s a made man, and with each near-fall, the crowd see it too, becoming more and more invested in him! On the cusp of his crowning moment, PAC shows no hesitation unlike the Stardust Press, NAILING THE BLACK ARROW!!! ONE! TWO! THR-BUT NAITO KICKS OUT!!! PAC may have ‘it’, but Naito’s operating on an entirely different level as World Champion, and no matter what PAC may have thrown at him, it’s not his moment just yet. DESTINOOOOOOOO!!! ONE! TWO! THREE!!!
Tetsuya Naito (c) def. PAC to retain the IWGP World Heavyweight Championship (30:11)
Maybe a different day. Both men propped in opposite corners of the ring, they suck deep for breaths, PAC only taking his eyes off Naito when he spots the title bring brought over to him. That should’ve been his. He should’ve been champion right now, but… he starts tuning in the crowd again. A standing ovation for the hometown boy. Though he may not hold the title right now, he’s still a champion in their eyes… Solace. Always overlooked, all he needed was approval. And now more than ever, he feels he has it. Noticing PAC’s realisation, Naito grins and nods to him, the two bumping fists together, no sour ending on this one.
At least, not between LIJ… OKADA’S HERE!!! After shockingly beating Ospreay for his G1 briefcase earlier in the night, the Rainmaker has his sights on the Tokyo Dome main event, and if things are to be believed, it may be Naito defending against Kazuchika on the grand stage! The long-time WK rivals locking eyes, there’s a different atmosphere between the Ace and the Dark Ace now. No longer does Okada look upon Naito condescendingly, but with disgust. Though he failed to beat Shingo earlier in the night, Kazuchika’s been vocal all year about the damage he feels LIJ have caused the company.
Where he did everything to purify the promotion with his reign, beating away outsiders, Naito did the exact opposite, bringing them further into their ranks and breaking tradition with a ladder match. With this briefcase in his hand though, he has the power to change that… but so does he. OSPREAY JOINS IN!!! The man who lost his case earlier in front of his own family, he can’t even look the smug Okada in the eyes. Rather, turning to Naito, he declares his desire to return to WK’s main event to not be over just yet! Against better judgement, he gave Shingo a shot at this title last year and it cost him everything. All he asks is Naito returns the favour! Smirking, Tetsuya tells him ‘earn it’, WK’s main event scene growing all the more interesting!
Battle Autumn - Night Five (October 15, 2024)
Elimination: Los Ingobernables de Japon (Tetsuya Naito, Shingo Takagi, Death Triangle) vs United Empire (Will Ospreay, Jeff Cobb, Great-O-Khan, Aussie Open)
Desperation drives a man to his darkest pits, and Ospreay is very much there. Banding his troops together one year on since the last LIJ/UE tag of this magnitude, the ante’s upped even higher now, needing to survive an elimination match to receive the match of his desires. Both stables going to war here, all their integrated rivalries of the past years come to a head, the one between Ospreay and Naito lying at the centre of it all. UE get a tough break to start with when Great-O-Khan hits the deck early, Mark Davis following, though a comeback removes the Lucha Bros from the equation!
Cobb goes next, before Ospreay takes out PAC, a double countout subsequently removing the leaders from the equation! Boiling down to Shingo and Kyle, the Aussie Arrow pulls out the underdog performance of his life, channelling all of Ospreay’s moves before a GRIMSTONE ELIMINATES SHINGO! OSPREAY’S HEADED TO KOPW!!! Raising Fletcher onto their shoulders, it’s a grand celebration from UE, Will receiving one last lease on life! As for Naito, he can only stand and wait, a final challenge paved in his path to the Dome.
United Empire def. Los Ingobernables de Japon (25:33)
King of Pro-Wrestling (October 27, 2024)
Also on the show:
KUSHIDA (c) vs Taiji Ishimori - NJPW World Television Championship
Sabre-Gun (Blake Christian & Clark Connors) (c) vs Catch 22 - IWGP Junior Tag Team Championship
Kazuchika Okada (c) vs Katsuyori Shibata - G1 Climax Briefcase
Tetsuya Naito (c) vs Will Ospreay IV - IWGP World Heavyweight Championship
One year ago, Ospreay’s overzealousness cost him the chance to main event Wrestle Kingdom with the World Title, but now, as it all comes full circle, it’s official, the winner of this match defending against Okada! With that in mind, both men are equally ravenous to make the grand opportunity theirs! Their fourth match together, it’s rife with callbacks, Naito especially making sure to remind Will of the way he beat him in last year’s A Block Finals to get in his head.
To Tetsuya’s surprise though, this matured Ospreay is impervious to his strategies! No matter what the champion throws, the challenger always has an answer, their see-saw saga featuring plenty of nail-biting near-falls that could send either man through, but it’s a TRIAD OF HIDDEN BLADES that ultimately calls it, Ospreay finally reclaiming his throne, a date with destiny set in stone!
Will Ospreay def. Tetsuya Naito (c) to win the IWGP World Heavyweight Championship (35:38)
Before WK though, Power Struggle is on the calendar! Featuring the likes of Death Triangle dethroning KONGOH for the NEVER belts for PAC to fully find his place in LIJ, Ren Narita dethroning Katsuyori Shibata for the NEVER Openweight Title, and Shingo Takagi taking the US Title from SANADA, it also sees Ospreay team with Catch 22 against Okada and the two men who ended Francesco Akira and TJP’s legendary reign, SHO & Taiji Ishimori, with UE scoring the vengeful win! And on the final Road To Tokyo Dome special, Ospreay finds a surprising ally in Shibata against Okada and Tanahashi in a HUGE blockbuster tag, CHAOS getting their win back here as Shibata keeps chasing down a rematch with Tana!
Wrestle Kingdom 19 (January 4, 2025)
Also on the show:
Sabre-Gun (Blake Christian & Clark Connors) (c) vs Li-YOH - IWGP Junior Tag Team Championship
United Empire (Jeff Cobb & Great-O-Khan) (c) vs CHAOS (Shota Umino & Yuya Uemura) - IWGP Tag Team Championship
SHO (c) vs Francesco Akira - IWGP Junior Heavyweight Championship
Ren Narita (c) vs Tomohiro Ishii - NEVER Openweight Championship
Shingo Takagi (c) vs Katsuhiko Nakajima - IWGP United States Championship
Minoru Suzuki vs Taichi - Retirement
Hiroshi Tanahashi vs Katsuyori Shibata
Will Ospreay (c) vs Kazuchika Okada XII - IWGP World Heavyweight Championship
Finally, this is what it’s all led to. A story set in motion from the very first moment Ospreay set foot in NJPW under Okada’s guidance in CHAOS 9 years ago. Fighting through loss after loss after loss, he finally achieved his clean win over Okada last year to reclaim his World Championship, but now, he must accomplish an even greater task – beat the Final Boss in the Tokyo Dome itself! Failing on both occasions against Okada on NJPW’s biggest stage akin to Okada’s own chase of Tanahashi, it’s his Wrestle Kingdom 10 moment now as he walks into the Dome as the reigning champion, with the Ace as the challenger! Win and he’s immortalised in history. Lose and Okada resets the company’s entire trajectory. High stakes weighing on Will’s shoulders, it’s time to elevate under pressure!
Entering with WK level entrances to boot, Okada dripping sheer gold, and Ospreay with an entire kingdom of suited individuals accompanying him, they get underway as the bell sounds! And for the first time, it’s Ospreay controlling the opening sequence with the Tanahashi-style headlock! Big brothering Okada, he doesn’t let the Rainmaker out the gates in his own ballpark for a few minutes straight… BEFORE WILL EXPLODES FOR A HANDSPRING ENZUIGIRI!
Okada dodges, going for a GERMAN, but Will flips through, nailing the HOOK KICK, an OSCUTTER coming up empty, Kazu swinging for a ducked RAINMAKER, and it’s a stalemate! Trading forearms, a Lariat dumps Okada out, Ospreay running Kazu’s routine of the guardrail whip and Big Boot, a RUNNING CROSSBODY EATING A DROPKICK! Nailing a TOMBSTONE on the floor, Okada sets up a table at ringside before rolling Ospreay in, the MISSILE DROPKICK and AIR-RAID CRASH NECKBREAKER harping on the neck! ONE! TWO! THR-KICK OUT!
Wrenching the MONEY CLIP, it doesn’t get him far, a BRAINBUSTER catching Okada by surprise! SHOOTING STAR PRESS! ONE! TWO! THR-NO DICE! A PIP PIP CHEERIO eats a BEAUTIFUL DROPKICK, before Okada whips Ospreay at the corner, only for Will to pop him up onto the turnbuckles, slamming Kawada Kicks into his face! CHEEKY NANDOS! Ospreay tries for a LIGER BOMB through the outside table, but Okada drops to the apron! Will charges for a Yakuza Kick, but a LANDSLIDE BLOCKS!!! ONE! TWO! THR-OSPREAY STAYS IN!!!
Hammering the neck, Okada lunges for a RAINMAKER, though a SNAP CUTTER blocks! ROBINSON SPECIAL! Will winds up the CHELSEA GRIN, but it receives a slap and a JOHN WOO DROPKICK! A pair of Short-Arm Rainmakers ricochet off Ospreay, but a Rainmaker is feigned for a DDT! DIVING ELBOW DROP!!! ONE! TWO! THR-WILL KICKS OUT AGAIN!!! A TOMBSTONE is countered by knees, Ospreay whipping Okada at the ropes, Kazu countering a BACK BODY DROP OVER THE ROPES!!!
Will narrowly missing the table, Okada follows with a TOPE CON HILO… BUT OSPREAY MOVES OUT THE WAY, THE RAINMAKER EXPLODING THROUGH THE WOOD!!! Shoving Okada’s lifeless body inside, Ospreay sets up a HIDDEN BLADE!!! ONE! TWO! THR-NOOOOOOOOO!!! A STORM BREAKER is blocked, Okada nailing a sick CORNER GERMAN! Dropkick rocks Will, before the TOMBSTONE connects! RAINMAKER’s dodged, Ospreay rebounding into an OSCUTTER- DROPKICK!!! AND A RAINMAKERRRRRRRRRRRRR!!! ONE! TWO! THR-NOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!
Okada keeps the wrist, going for seconds… OSPREAY NAILS A RAINMAKER OF HIS OWN!!! Wrist still held, Will nails close-range elbows to the neck, before winding up another HIDDEN BLADE- HEAVY RAIN!!! OKADA NAILS HIS OWN HIDDEN BLADE!!! Teasing the STORM BREAKER, Ospreay spins out, dumping Kazu with a LANDSLIDE!!! AND A HIDDEN BLADE… Okada collapses! As Will tries picking him up, a DROPKICK awaits! ANOTHER DROPKICK! AZTEC SUPLEX – A LA ULTIMO DRAGON!!! ONE! TWO! THR-KICK OUT!!!
Okada decks Ospreay with a RAINMAKER, but Will doesn’t go down fully, Kazu nailing a SECOND! Going for the Ripcord this time… RAINHAM MAKER!!! ONE! TWO! THR-OKADA KICKS OUT!!! ESSEX DESTROYER!!! ONE! TWO! THR-ANOTHER KICK OUT!!! Cracking a HIDDEN BLADE off Okada’s nose, an OSCUTTER follows, before he floats into a STORM BREAKER- FALLING RAINMAKERRRRRRR!!! ONE! TWO! THR-NOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!
Okada smelling blood, he tries for another, AND A HIDDEN BLADE CONNECTS AT THE SAME TIME!!! Keeping hold, the two knock each other loopy with one free arm… OSCUTTER’S CAUGHT WITH A TOMBSTONE!!! Okada picks him back up, going for a SPINNING TOMBSTONE- OSPREAY REVERSES INTO A SPIKE PILEDRIVER!!! Ripcord… HIDDEN BLADE!!! AND A STORM BREAKER!!! Hoisting him up for one more… A SECOND STORM BREAKERRRRRRRRRRR!!! ONE! TWO! THREE!!!
Will Ospreay (c) def. Kazuchika Okada to retain the IWGP World Heavyweight Championship (40:51)
HE’S DONE IT! OSPREAY’S FINALLY SURPASSED THE ACE ON HIS OWN STAGE! No longer is Okada himself anymore, but rather the Tanahashi to Ospreay’s Okada, the cycle continuing. And like his counterpart 9 years ago, Kazu leaves as empty-handed as he walked in for the first time in a decade, the times officially changing! And as sunlight washes over the Land of the Rising Sun, a new dawn is revealed. The dawn of the Ospreay Era.
Epilogue
Heading into 2025, NJPW is rife with changes, seeing more of the once Young Lion names step up as the likes of Tanahashi and Naito begin to slow down. CHAOS features a massive shakeup the following night as Shinsuke Nakamura returns, kickstarting his road to retirement, having been vocal in his interest of facing Tanahashi, proceeding to feud with Okada over his failures. As for Ospreay, his reign runs until Sakura Genesis, where one NJC Winner Katsuyori Shibata finally dethrones him 8 years on from his loss to Okada, though Will’s time with the title is far from over yet, remaining an integral part of the picture alongside ZSJ, Shingo, and more.
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Since becoming one again, LIJ’s been on a tear through NJPW’s ranks this year in spite of Shingo Takagi dropping the belt and PAC losing the New Japan Cup Finals to the current World Champion. IWGP United States, IWGP Tag Team (Death Triangle have become LIJ affiliates through PAC), and NJPW World Television Championships in their grasps, they seek to round out the group by all holding titles simultaneously. But that begs the question – who’ll be going after the World Title? Though Shingo’s battle ready, he insists Tetsuya Naito take it this time, the Stardust Genius having worked his back off to rebound from Wrestle Kingdom. Failing every attempt in the past 3 years though, the question remains whether he can truly pull it off this time, or if it’s just not meant to be.
Kizuna Road - Night Four (July 1, 2024)
Sabre-Gun (Zack Sabre Jr. & El Phantasmo) vs Los Ingobernables de Japon (Tetsuya Naito & PAC)
With Naito confirmed as Sabre’s #1 Contender for Wrestle Dynasty, SG and LIJ have themselves a scaled-down rematch from New Year’s Dash, Zack picking his trusty right-hand man ELP, and Tetsuya bringing the US Champion, knowing PAC has unresolved issues with ZSJ from the NJC. Though it drives the Bastard to work doubly-hard, especially considering how it’ll look if he pins the World Champion, it also makes their teamwork suffer, PAC becoming self-absorbed in getting the pin. Backfiring, a Sudden Death from Phantasmo knocks his lights out, SG getting their win back from NYD and putting the challenger on the backfoot heading into Madison Square Garden!
Sabre-Gun def. Los Ingobernables de Japon (16:12)
PAC appears distraught after the match, but Naito simply tells him ‘tranquilo’, not taking it personally. Though he’d hoped to use this match to get into ZSJ’s head, it appears he’ll just have to do that himself, like he’s always done.
Wrestle Dynasty (July 14, 2024)
Also on the show:
Shota Umino (c) vs El Desperado - NEVER Openweight Championship
Just6Guys (SANADA, Taichi, Ryohei Oiwa) (c) vs Los Ingobernables de Japon (Shingo Takagi, Yota Tsuji, Titan) - NEVER Openweight 6-Man Tag Team Championship
Hiromu Takahashi (c) vs Kyle Fletcher - NJPW World Television Championship
PAC (c) vs El Phantasmo - IWGP United States Championship
The Lucha Brothers (c) vs Meiyu Tag - IWGP Tag Team Championship
Zack Sabre Jr. (c) vs Tetsuya Naito XI - IWGP World Heavyweight Championship
In what’s been a very successful night for LIJ thus far, clean-sweeping their way through the competition, it all rests on Naito’s shoulders now to bring it home. Perhaps the most unreliable man to slot in this spot, and yet, the most beloved, MSG fully invested in Tetsuya’s chase, either the grandest of celebrations or coldest of heartbreaks will end the night! Naito keeps his cool, emanating his usual larger-than-life aura as he walks out in a pristine crimson suit, paying homage to Shingo, whilst Sabre’s cockier than ever with his recent streak of huge wins, knowing he has Tetsuya doubting himself after their tag. As he hands his title over, the two come face-to-face, SABRE SPITTING GUM INTO NAITO’S FACE, but Tetsuya doesn’t let ZSJ’s tactics faze him, having come too far for too long to let mind games be his downfall.
Circling each other, Zack lunges for a lock-up but Naito walks past, smirking and stretching in the opposite corner. Sabre rolls his eyes as Tetsuya turns around and tells him ‘tranquilo’, before going for it again… Zack snatching the headlock this time as Naito tries to repeat, but Tetsuya instantly whips him to the corner, teasing the COMBINACION CABRON as ZSJ braces himself… Naito stops in front of him and does the ‘Abre los Ojos’ taunt!
Furious, Sabre piefaces him, NAITO RETURNING A FOREARM, AND WE’RE OFF! Trading strikes, Zack rocks Tetsuya with European Uppercuts, Naito returning forearms, before a Japanese Arm Drag stops Zack in his tracks! Naito goes for another, but Zack hooks onto Tetsuya’s legs, tripping him up and contorting the foot! Tetsuya boots him off with the other, a Neckbreaker and a Somersault Senton connecting, though Sabre absorbs the latter, trapping Naito’s arm onto the mat to STOMP THE HAND!
Picking him back up, he cracks Naito with chops, before whipping him at the ropes, Naito hitting off them one after the other to build momentum, teasing the Flying Forearm Zack’s expecting… only to roll into the Tranquilo pose! ZACK MEETS HIM WITH A NECK TWIST!!! Tetsuya scrambling to the corner, Sabre steps on his throat against the ropes, BEFORE SLAPPING HIM! NAITO SPITS IN ZACK’S FACE!!! A harsh uppercut knocks Tetsuya back, a Running European following and a PENALTY KICK! Naito dodges and nails the FLYING FOREARM SMASH!
Teasing the Tornado DDT, it’s cancelled by an Enzuigiri, Zack leaping for the KIMURA- NAITO COUNTERS INTO VALENTIA!!! ONE! TWO! THR-KICK OUT!!! Sending Sabre into the corner, the COMBINACION CABRON CONNECTS! AND A MISSILE DROPKICK! Naito teases the DRAGON SUPLEX, but Sabre flips through and STOMPS HIS ELBOW! SNAP GERMAN ON THE NECK FROM SABRE!!! ONE! TWO! THR-NO DICE! Naito woozy, his head’s only further knocked around by a ROLLING ELBOW! A CORNER HIGH KNEE connects, before a Hammerlock Suplex floats into a TESCO MEAL DEAL!!!
Naito’s hand flails about the mat as Sabre keeps him grounded, no Valentia escape this time, forcing Tetsuya to work the old-fashioned way to the ropes! MSG backing the Stardust Genius, after much deliberation he gets a foot on the ropes! But Zack’s right back on him, going for a NORTHERN LIGHTS SUPLEX- NAITO STANDS HIM UP WITH A SNAP DDT! An EVOLUCION’S shut down though, Sabre hitting the brakes to nail the ARM PELE! Fishing the arm, Zack tries to float into a FLYING ARTICLE 50- NAITO STUFFS HIM WITH A GLORIA!!! ONE! TWO! THR-SABRE SURVIVES!!!
Rallying momentum, Tetsuya nails the TORNADO DDT! Sabre nursing the head, a DRAGON SUPLEX FOLLOWS!!! In the drop zone, Naito tests the waters for a RUNNING DESTINO- SABRE SHUTS IT DOWN WITH A EUROPEAN CLUTCH!!! ONE! TWO! THR-NAITO’S DREAMS STAY ALIVE!!! Getting dangerously close with the flash pin, Tetsuya throws defiant forearms, Zack catching and contorting one, but a ROLLING WHEEL KICK knocks him off! ESPERANZA!!! ONE! TWO! THR-SABRE KICKS OUT!!!
Hooking the head, Naito hoists Sabre up… ZACK WITH A GUILLOTINE CHOKE MID-AIR!!! Tetsuya’s eyes bulge out his skull, looking for the nearest turnbuckle to ram Sabre into it, but ZSJ’s quicker, yanking him to the mat and transitioning into a JIM BREAKS ARMBAR!!! Brutally bending the arm at an awkward angle, there’s a manic look in Zack’s eyes as NYC desperately cheers on Naito, who does his best to hang on! Sabre keeps tugging further and further, eager to ruin Tetsuya, but it backfires, helping him stretch his leg to the ropes!
The crowd erupts as the referee forces Sabre off, though Naito’s clearly hurting all the same, a European helping no less! Zack rallies with further Uppercuts, one knocking Tetsuya down, before firing a PENALTY KICK!!! NAITO ABSORBS IT AND ROLLS THROUGH, SABRE GOING FOR SECONDS BUT HE EATS A RUNNING DESTINOOOOOOOOO!!! ONE! TWO! THR-NOOOOOOOOOO!!! Shaking himself off, Naito attempts another, though Sabre stops it with elbows, before hopping into a REAR NAKED CHOKE!
Tetsuya tries to run forwards to free himself, though ZSJ swivels on his back into a GEDO CLUTCH!!! ANOTHER FLASH PIN! BUT NAITO ROLLS THROUGH THIS TIME INTO HIS OWN – POLVO DE ESTRELLA!!! ONE! TWO! THR-SABRE STAYS IN!!! AND AN EVOLUCION!!! ONE! TWO! THR-ANOTHER KICK OUT!!! NAITO’S GOING FOR THE SWING DESTINO!!! BUT A ZACK DRIVER COUNTERS!!! ONE! TWO! THR-NOOOOOOOOOO!!!
Slapping up Naito’s neck, Sabre dumps him on it with a TIGER SUPLEX!!! Naito woozy, Zack nails the PENALTY KICK!!! NAITO’S REFUSING TO STAY DOWN! Hearing MSG’s cries, he wills himself back up as Sabre watches in fascination… ONLY FOR ANOTHER PK TO CUT HIM OFF!!! And just like the 2022 NJC Finals, he’s going to end it here with a SECOND ZACK DRIVER- NAITO NAILS A DESTINO MID-AIR!!! HE’S STILL MOVING SOMEHOW!!! Stumbling to his feet, Tetsuya measures his man… DESTINOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!! ONE! TWO! THR-SABRE’S FOOT’S ON THE ROPE!!!
Saving Naito more than once, it’s come to Zack’s aid now too! Hammering Sabre with forearms, Naito tees up another DESTINO- PELE KICK!!! Tetsuya falls forward, Zack catching him in a STRETCH MUFFLER!!! IF HE CAN JUST GRAB THE OTHER LEG, IT’S ALL OVER, COMPLETING THE ORIENTEERING WITH NAPALM DEATH!!! Zack bends Naito further and further as he tries to grab hold… TETSUYA SWINGS BACK! AGAIN AND AGAIN AND AGAIN! SABRE LETS GO!!! AND A ZACK DRIVER FROM NAITO!!!
Sabre on his back, Naito thinks about waiting for the Destino… but then he sees the top rope. The crowd cry at him not to, screwing him over time and time again, but Tetsuya can’t help it! Heading up top, the world holds their breath, NAITO SOARING THROUGH THE AIR… STARDUST PRESS CONNECTS!!! ONE! TWO! THREE!!! IT’S A MIRACLE IN MADISON SQUARE GARDEN!!! NAITO’S WORLD CHAMPION AGAIN!!!
Tetsuya Naito def. Zack Sabre Jr. (c) to win the IWGP World Heavyweight Championship (31:18)
New York LOSES their minds as Naito’s handed the title, Tetsuya himself struggling to process what just happened! But then LIJ rush out – PAC with the US Title, Hiromu with the TV Title, Shingo, Yota, and Titan with the NEVER 6-Man Titles, and even the Lucha Brothers with the Tag Titles! THEY’RE DRAPED IN GOLD, BABY! Sharing embraces all around as a dismal Sabre trudges to the back, there’s not a single dry eye in the arena as the outcasts raise their fists to the sky with one hand and their titles with the other, golden tickertape hailing down! Naito’s on top of the world after 3 long years, and it feels damn good! Doing the customary championship edition roll-call, the show fades on LIJ holding all their gold… and PAC looking over at Naito’s.
G1 Climax 34
Entering his second of fifteen G1s as the reigning champion, Naito heads B Block opposite stiff competition. Though dispatching of Hiromu in friendly competition on Night One, the two are subsequently assaulted by KONGOH post-match, allowing NOAH’s KENOH to upset him the following night! Behind the 8-ball already, Tetsuya’s motivated to make a comeback, mowing through Narita, Tanahashi, Yota, Sabre, and KENTA to take back the lead! Suffering another surprise defeat at Jeff Cobb’s hands after multiple failed attempts from the Hawaiian Hulk to best him, it opens the door for a returning JAY WHITE to spoil his final night, wrecking Naito’s legs with a ladder, allowing Zack to advance on 14 points! As for B Block, a draw between Will Ospreay and Kazuchika Okada on the final night puts the Commonwealth Kingpin through, the rivals meeting one more time! Other key underlying stories see Shibata finally beating Okada, Ospreay avenging his Takagi loss, PAC beating his fellow LIJ members but losing to SANADA, and KONGOH causing ruckus throughout the competition.
G1 Climax 34 Finals (August 19, 2024)
Also on the show:
Jay White vs BUSHI
Will Ospreay vs Zack Sabre Jr. - G1 Climax Briefcase
Los Ingobernables de Japon (Tetsuya Naito, Shingo Takagi, PAC, Hiromu Takahashi, Titan) vs KONGOH (KENOH, Manabu Soya, Masakatsu Funaki, Hi69, Shuji Kondo)
Perhaps the focal reason for Naito not making the Finals, KONGOH’s tournament chicanery, as led by KENOH, was a masterfully crafted plan. After losing to Tetsuya in last year’s LIJ vs KONGOH series at Wrestle Kingdom 17, the thought of ruining the Stardust Genius for vengeance never left the Rogue Fist’s mind, and with his win over Tetsuya in the G1, their score is now 1-1. Reigniting the intense rivalry between the two stables, they have an upgraded rematch to their Wrestle Kingdom 16 5-on-5, both sides having greatly changed since then.
Once again, PAC’s especially adamant to claim the spotlight, the loss to SANADA making him temperamental despite having the 2nd best LIJ record in this year’s tournament. An argument breaking out between PAC and Shingo as to who should get the pin is put on ice by Naito, though it doesn’t keep Titan from eating a nasty PFS from KENOH, handing the invaders the win!
KONGOH def. Los Ingobernables de Japon (19:57)
Redeeming WK16, KENOH offers the angriest of satisfied smiles, the group cackling as they gesture belts around their waists, warning that their business isn’t yet over. LIJ left behind, there’s a sour mood in the air from the loss, though when Shingo offers a fist in apology, PAC, taking a look at a nodding Naito, ultimately returns one, showing that despite popular belief, LIJ’s still fine.
Splitting off for Shingo and co. to gear up for KONGOH’s second wave whilst Naito and PAC are scheduled for AEW’s ALL IN supershow, this time taking place in Tetsuya’s home of the Tokyo Dome, both men are set for defences on the show. In PAC’s case, it’s a rematch against J6G’s SANADA, the Bastard adamant to gain Naito’s favour by beating the traitor. As for Naito, he has Jay on his tail!
Until the recent G1, White refused to show his face on any sort of NJPW programming (including Forbidden Door) since being embarrassed at Okada’s hands and having his faction torn to shreds. Leaving Japan to join AEW, no longer having connections to hide behind nor help him, he was forced to be the lone wolf for once, becoming even more merciless, knowing he’s all he has. After spreading chaos abroad, most recently coming up short in the AEW World Championship picture, trauma from his Okada loss clinging onto him anytime the stakes are raised too high again, he decided it was time to return to his roots to clear his head and eliminate any shred of weakness left in his body so that he can claim the top prize again, and there’s no better place to do so than the building his title was taken from him – the Tokyo Dome.
The last time he faced Naito in the Tokyo Dome, he had Gedo by his side, yet still lost. Now though, he declares if he’s to have this match, he wants a compensatory factor. A means of looking out for himself, like Naito has LIJ. He’s already beaten Tetsuya thrice in singles competition, knowing he’s the better wrestler, so this time… HE WANTS A LADDER MATCH!!! Japan’s become more and more geared to the Western market, the culture shifting from traditions, so unless he’s a snob like Okada, he'll embrace the new vision and accept the challenge. Jay using the perfect words to get under Tetsuya’s skin, he accepts, looking to tear down the foundations of the Rainmaker’s regime with his reign, starting with this!
RevProxNJPW 12th Anniversary Show (August 24, 2024)
Los Ingobernables de Japon (Tetsuya Naito & PAC) vs The Knight Dynasty (Ricky Knight Jr. & Zak Knight)
The night before ALL IN features a special RevPro crossover event with their partners, NJPW, the 12th Anniversary being celebrated in Japan. Naturally, Naito tags with the most RevPro familiar member of LIJ, PAC, the two champions battling the celebrated Knight Dynasty, who are considered the present and future of the promotion! What begins as a fun exhibition sees more of the differences between PAC and Naito come to light, the hot-headedness of the Bastard and the collectedness of El Ingobernable wanting different things out of the match, yet still managing to remain reasonably on the same page. A close call on a 619 from Ricky sees Naito shove PAC out the way in the nick of time, absorbing the blow himself, though without acknowledging it, PAC springs to action, a Black Arrow on Zak scoring the victory!
Los Ingobernables de Japon def. The Knight Dynasty (13:10)
As the referee approaches LIJ with their titles, PAC’s quick to receive both, Naito only recovering just in time to find the Bastard lingering for a moment as he looks between the pieces of gold, before finally handing Tetsuya’s over him and walking off, leaving the leader confused yet unconcerned.
ALL IN Tokyo (August 25, 2024)
Also on the show:
PAC (c) vs SANADA - IWGP United States Championship
The Lucha Brothers (c) vs Golden Lovers - IWGP Tag Team Championship
Tetsuya Naito (c) vs Jay White V - IWGP World Heavyweight Championship - Ladder
Stepping into the mastermind of the Switchblade, White baits Naito to play his game, the long-time rivals settling their score over a belt they both have history with. With no Gedo around, Jay’s focus is to demolish Naito’s already tattered knees with the ladder like he did to cost Tetsuya the G1, slowing down each climbing attempt bit by bit. Given the two’s creativity, it’s a sick warfare of increasingly dangerous spots, Naito taking Jay with him to neck bump city, White cruelly massacring Tetsuya’s body with reckless abandon.
White’s notably more in his element here, letting the Tokyo Dome atmosphere heal him whilst hurting Naito. A HANGING BLADE RUNNER cuts a Stardust Press attempt short, the magic only lasting once, but a ladder bridge CANADIAN DESTROYER buys Naito some momentum back! Ultimately, a war atop the ladder sees Naito boot Jay off, allowing him to unhook the gold to retain!
Tetsuya Naito (c) def. Jay White V to retain the IWGP World Heavyweight Championship (25:30)
Though Naito walks out with his belt, PAC doesn’t, making the Bastard’s issues all the more prominent, taking more frequent looks over at Tetsuya’s gold, which begs the question – was there more to PAC joining LIJ than originally thought? Still, he wishes Naito good luck for Wrestle Grand Slam, telling him he wants to see the belt on him when they go England. But for now, the end of his trilogy against KENOH awaits!
Wrestle Grand Slam (September 8, 2024)
Also on the show:
Hiromu Takahashi (c) vs KUSHIDA - NJPW World Television Championship
El Desperado (c) vs Katsuyori Shibata - NEVER Openweight Championship
Los Ingobernables de Japon (Shingo Takagi, Yota Tsuji, Titan) (c) vs KONGOH (Manabu Soya, Masakatsu Funaki, Shuji Kondo) - NEVER Openweight 6-Man Tag Team Championship
Tetsuya Naito (c) vs KENOH III - IWGP World Heavyweight Championship
For over two years, the rivalry between LIJ and KONGOH has slowly simmered to this boiling point, coming down to the leaders now to settle their 1-1 score over NJPW’s top title! With the 6-Man Titles changing hands earlier in the night, Naito must put his 200% into assuring the same doesn’t occur here, or it’ll be disaster on New Japan’s waterfront.
As two men that could not be more opposite collide, it’s an intense war over the company’s possession, everyone from fans to wrestlers on the edge of their seats as the last of the NOAH invaders try to leave their mark. KENOH shows nothing but hatred towards Naito for ruining his past chances, whilst Tetsuya savours his every moment in the Sun, having slaved away to hold this belt. A PFS almost does Naito in, whilst the DESTINO does the same for KENOH! Ragdolling the older star with Dragon Suplexes, KENOH sets up for the ENRIN… BUT IN HIS STARDUST PRESS MOMENT, HE MISSES!!! DESTINOOOOOOOOOO!!! ONE! TWO! THREE!!! New Japan remains safe in the hands of Naito!
Tetsuya Naito (c) def. KENOH to retain the IWGP World Heavyweight Championship (28:33)
Offering a handshake to KENOH out of respect for their series… the Rogue Fist declines it, though from the look in his fiery eyes, an inkling of acknowledgement is there for Tetsuya. Telling Naito to keep the belt warm for him, he declares he’ll be back sometime again, and when that happens, he’s going to usurp Naito once and for all!
And as they leave with their 50/50 successes, it’s back to LIJ to end the show on their usual note… except, PAC interrupts the tradition. He’s confused, no, he’s incredulous. What are they celebrating here? Failure? Or are they calling it ‘survival’? Is no one going to point out the elephant in the room? Just two months ago they were on top of the world, all draped in gold, but now they’re left with just Naito and the Lucha Bros’s gold. And yet, they’re celebrating? He’s been out here losing sleep over his missing US Title!
If they wish to continue to be taken seriously, they need to act the part. Luckily… he has a solution. They say iron sharpens iron, so rather than fighting these large-scale wars outside their stable… why not have a ‘friendly’ within? Naito has the title and an incredible row of suitors before him, so he should pick one to defend against! Tetsuya seems perturbed by the idea knowing what almost happened the last time LIJ fought within, but as PAC insists, even pointing out how he’s the only one with a clean record over Naito… Tetsuya turns to him and raises the title! If such claims are going to be made, they need to be backed up too! Challenging PAC with his title on the line, a grinning Bastard accepts, bumping his fist!
Burning Spirit - Night Seven (September 25, 2024)
Los Ingobernables de Japon (Tetsuya Naito, Shingo Takagi, Hiromu Takahashi) vs Death Triangle (PAC & The Lucha Brothers)
Slyly manoeuvring his way into the title rematch he’s desired ever since getting a taste of the gold against Shingo last year, this is more so PAC’s chance to prove himself over the statement he’s seeming to be making. Nonetheless, with various combinations of LIJ facing Death Triangle over the Burning Spirit tour, they supposedly rely on each other to improve their own skill, these 6 especially drawing the very best out of each other. Working more seamlessly with DT than he had LIJ as of late, the freakish chemistry between the AEW lads has a Fear FactoDouble Stomp/Black Arrow combo end Hiromu, PAC grinning as he stares down Naito, the challenge growing closer by day…
Death Triangle def. Los Ingobernables de Japon (18:24)
Giving a brief interview heading into the match at Royal Quest, Naito states that he can’t be certain on what PAC’s intentions are, but all he knows is that no matter what, LIJ sticks together. If this match is what PAC needs for his peace of mind, then it’s all his. All he can hope is the Bastard has the same idea of family in mind.
Royal Quest IV - Night Two (October 6, 2024)
Also on the show:
The Lucha Brothers (c) vs United Empire (Jeff Cobb & Great-O-Khan) - IWGP Tag Team Championship
Will Ospreay (c) vs Kazuchika Okada - G1 Climax Briefcase
Tetsuya Naito (c) vs PAC II - IWGP World Heavyweight Championship
The relationship between LIJ and PAC has developed into one of the more intriguing dynamics this year, raising a multitude of questions, but now, the true light of it all will be revealed. Whether it’s friendly fire or another coup, Naito’s ready for whatever PAC may happen to have up his sleeve, whilst the Bastard lets his actions do the talking. For once, it’s an utterly no-nonsense showdown between Los members, Tetsuya taking the threat of PAC very seriously, the Jordie clearly driven to make the grand prize his. And as the match rolls on, Naito starts to see parts of himself in PAC with each cheer or cry from his home crowd.
Just like Naito, he’s the incredibly-talented misfit who was overlooked, but unlike a young Naito, PAC doesn’t realise he has the world on his side already despite his quirks. Whilst Naito had to suffer through his changes, PAC’s a made man, and with each near-fall, the crowd see it too, becoming more and more invested in him! On the cusp of his crowning moment, PAC shows no hesitation unlike the Stardust Press, NAILING THE BLACK ARROW!!! ONE! TWO! THR-BUT NAITO KICKS OUT!!! PAC may have ‘it’, but Naito’s operating on an entirely different level as World Champion, and no matter what PAC may have thrown at him, it’s not his moment just yet. DESTINOOOOOOOO!!! ONE! TWO! THREE!!!
Tetsuya Naito (c) def. PAC to retain the IWGP World Heavyweight Championship (30:11)
Maybe a different day. Both men propped in opposite corners of the ring, they suck deep for breaths, PAC only taking his eyes off Naito when he spots the title bring brought over to him. That should’ve been his. He should’ve been champion right now, but… he starts tuning in the crowd again. A standing ovation for the hometown boy. Though he may not hold the title right now, he’s still a champion in their eyes… Solace. Always overlooked, all he needed was approval. And now more than ever, he feels he has it. Noticing PAC’s realisation, Naito grins and nods to him, the two bumping fists together, no sour ending on this one.
At least, not between LIJ… OKADA’S HERE!!! After shockingly beating Ospreay for his G1 briefcase earlier in the night, the Rainmaker has his sights on the Tokyo Dome main event, and if things are to be believed, it may be Naito defending against Kazuchika on the grand stage! The long-time WK rivals locking eyes, there’s a different atmosphere between the Ace and the Dark Ace now. No longer does Okada look upon Naito condescendingly, but with disgust. Though he failed to beat Shingo earlier in the night, Kazuchika’s been vocal all year about the damage he feels LIJ have caused the company.
Where he did everything to purify the promotion with his reign, beating away outsiders, Naito did the exact opposite, bringing them further into their ranks and breaking tradition with a ladder match. With this briefcase in his hand though, he has the power to change that… but so does he. OSPREAY JOINS IN!!! The man who lost his case earlier in front of his own family, he can’t even look the smug Okada in the eyes. Rather, turning to Naito, he declares his desire to return to WK’s main event to not be over just yet! Against better judgement, he gave Shingo a shot at this title last year and it cost him everything. All he asks is Naito returns the favour! Smirking, Tetsuya tells him ‘earn it’, WK’s main event scene growing all the more interesting!
Battle Autumn - Night Five (October 15, 2024)
Elimination: Los Ingobernables de Japon (Tetsuya Naito, Shingo Takagi, Death Triangle) vs United Empire (Will Ospreay, Jeff Cobb, Great-O-Khan, Aussie Open)
Desperation drives a man to his darkest pits, and Ospreay is very much there. Banding his troops together one year on since the last LIJ/UE tag of this magnitude, the ante’s upped even higher now, needing to survive an elimination match to receive the match of his desires. Both stables going to war here, all their integrated rivalries of the past years come to a head, the one between Ospreay and Naito lying at the centre of it all. UE get a tough break to start with when Great-O-Khan hits the deck early, Mark Davis following, though a comeback removes the Lucha Bros from the equation!
Cobb goes next, before Ospreay takes out PAC, a double countout subsequently removing the leaders from the equation! Boiling down to Shingo and Kyle, the Aussie Arrow pulls out the underdog performance of his life, channelling all of Ospreay’s moves before a GRIMSTONE ELIMINATES SHINGO! OSPREAY’S HEADED TO KOPW!!! Raising Fletcher onto their shoulders, it’s a grand celebration from UE, Will receiving one last lease on life! As for Naito, he can only stand and wait, a final challenge paved in his path to the Dome.
United Empire def. Los Ingobernables de Japon (25:33)
King of Pro-Wrestling (October 27, 2024)
Also on the show:
KUSHIDA (c) vs Taiji Ishimori - NJPW World Television Championship
Sabre-Gun (Blake Christian & Clark Connors) (c) vs Catch 22 - IWGP Junior Tag Team Championship
Kazuchika Okada (c) vs Katsuyori Shibata - G1 Climax Briefcase
Tetsuya Naito (c) vs Will Ospreay IV - IWGP World Heavyweight Championship
One year ago, Ospreay’s overzealousness cost him the chance to main event Wrestle Kingdom with the World Title, but now, as it all comes full circle, it’s official, the winner of this match defending against Okada! With that in mind, both men are equally ravenous to make the grand opportunity theirs! Their fourth match together, it’s rife with callbacks, Naito especially making sure to remind Will of the way he beat him in last year’s A Block Finals to get in his head.
To Tetsuya’s surprise though, this matured Ospreay is impervious to his strategies! No matter what the champion throws, the challenger always has an answer, their see-saw saga featuring plenty of nail-biting near-falls that could send either man through, but it’s a TRIAD OF HIDDEN BLADES that ultimately calls it, Ospreay finally reclaiming his throne, a date with destiny set in stone!
Will Ospreay def. Tetsuya Naito (c) to win the IWGP World Heavyweight Championship (35:38)
Before WK though, Power Struggle is on the calendar! Featuring the likes of Death Triangle dethroning KONGOH for the NEVER belts for PAC to fully find his place in LIJ, Ren Narita dethroning Katsuyori Shibata for the NEVER Openweight Title, and Shingo Takagi taking the US Title from SANADA, it also sees Ospreay team with Catch 22 against Okada and the two men who ended Francesco Akira and TJP’s legendary reign, SHO & Taiji Ishimori, with UE scoring the vengeful win! And on the final Road To Tokyo Dome special, Ospreay finds a surprising ally in Shibata against Okada and Tanahashi in a HUGE blockbuster tag, CHAOS getting their win back here as Shibata keeps chasing down a rematch with Tana!
Wrestle Kingdom 19 (January 4, 2025)
Also on the show:
Sabre-Gun (Blake Christian & Clark Connors) (c) vs Li-YOH - IWGP Junior Tag Team Championship
United Empire (Jeff Cobb & Great-O-Khan) (c) vs CHAOS (Shota Umino & Yuya Uemura) - IWGP Tag Team Championship
SHO (c) vs Francesco Akira - IWGP Junior Heavyweight Championship
Ren Narita (c) vs Tomohiro Ishii - NEVER Openweight Championship
Shingo Takagi (c) vs Katsuhiko Nakajima - IWGP United States Championship
Minoru Suzuki vs Taichi - Retirement
Hiroshi Tanahashi vs Katsuyori Shibata
Will Ospreay (c) vs Kazuchika Okada XII - IWGP World Heavyweight Championship
Finally, this is what it’s all led to. A story set in motion from the very first moment Ospreay set foot in NJPW under Okada’s guidance in CHAOS 9 years ago. Fighting through loss after loss after loss, he finally achieved his clean win over Okada last year to reclaim his World Championship, but now, he must accomplish an even greater task – beat the Final Boss in the Tokyo Dome itself! Failing on both occasions against Okada on NJPW’s biggest stage akin to Okada’s own chase of Tanahashi, it’s his Wrestle Kingdom 10 moment now as he walks into the Dome as the reigning champion, with the Ace as the challenger! Win and he’s immortalised in history. Lose and Okada resets the company’s entire trajectory. High stakes weighing on Will’s shoulders, it’s time to elevate under pressure!
Entering with WK level entrances to boot, Okada dripping sheer gold, and Ospreay with an entire kingdom of suited individuals accompanying him, they get underway as the bell sounds! And for the first time, it’s Ospreay controlling the opening sequence with the Tanahashi-style headlock! Big brothering Okada, he doesn’t let the Rainmaker out the gates in his own ballpark for a few minutes straight… BEFORE WILL EXPLODES FOR A HANDSPRING ENZUIGIRI!
Okada dodges, going for a GERMAN, but Will flips through, nailing the HOOK KICK, an OSCUTTER coming up empty, Kazu swinging for a ducked RAINMAKER, and it’s a stalemate! Trading forearms, a Lariat dumps Okada out, Ospreay running Kazu’s routine of the guardrail whip and Big Boot, a RUNNING CROSSBODY EATING A DROPKICK! Nailing a TOMBSTONE on the floor, Okada sets up a table at ringside before rolling Ospreay in, the MISSILE DROPKICK and AIR-RAID CRASH NECKBREAKER harping on the neck! ONE! TWO! THR-KICK OUT!
Wrenching the MONEY CLIP, it doesn’t get him far, a BRAINBUSTER catching Okada by surprise! SHOOTING STAR PRESS! ONE! TWO! THR-NO DICE! A PIP PIP CHEERIO eats a BEAUTIFUL DROPKICK, before Okada whips Ospreay at the corner, only for Will to pop him up onto the turnbuckles, slamming Kawada Kicks into his face! CHEEKY NANDOS! Ospreay tries for a LIGER BOMB through the outside table, but Okada drops to the apron! Will charges for a Yakuza Kick, but a LANDSLIDE BLOCKS!!! ONE! TWO! THR-OSPREAY STAYS IN!!!
Hammering the neck, Okada lunges for a RAINMAKER, though a SNAP CUTTER blocks! ROBINSON SPECIAL! Will winds up the CHELSEA GRIN, but it receives a slap and a JOHN WOO DROPKICK! A pair of Short-Arm Rainmakers ricochet off Ospreay, but a Rainmaker is feigned for a DDT! DIVING ELBOW DROP!!! ONE! TWO! THR-WILL KICKS OUT AGAIN!!! A TOMBSTONE is countered by knees, Ospreay whipping Okada at the ropes, Kazu countering a BACK BODY DROP OVER THE ROPES!!!
Will narrowly missing the table, Okada follows with a TOPE CON HILO… BUT OSPREAY MOVES OUT THE WAY, THE RAINMAKER EXPLODING THROUGH THE WOOD!!! Shoving Okada’s lifeless body inside, Ospreay sets up a HIDDEN BLADE!!! ONE! TWO! THR-NOOOOOOOOO!!! A STORM BREAKER is blocked, Okada nailing a sick CORNER GERMAN! Dropkick rocks Will, before the TOMBSTONE connects! RAINMAKER’s dodged, Ospreay rebounding into an OSCUTTER- DROPKICK!!! AND A RAINMAKERRRRRRRRRRRRR!!! ONE! TWO! THR-NOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!
Okada keeps the wrist, going for seconds… OSPREAY NAILS A RAINMAKER OF HIS OWN!!! Wrist still held, Will nails close-range elbows to the neck, before winding up another HIDDEN BLADE- HEAVY RAIN!!! OKADA NAILS HIS OWN HIDDEN BLADE!!! Teasing the STORM BREAKER, Ospreay spins out, dumping Kazu with a LANDSLIDE!!! AND A HIDDEN BLADE… Okada collapses! As Will tries picking him up, a DROPKICK awaits! ANOTHER DROPKICK! AZTEC SUPLEX – A LA ULTIMO DRAGON!!! ONE! TWO! THR-KICK OUT!!!
Okada decks Ospreay with a RAINMAKER, but Will doesn’t go down fully, Kazu nailing a SECOND! Going for the Ripcord this time… RAINHAM MAKER!!! ONE! TWO! THR-OKADA KICKS OUT!!! ESSEX DESTROYER!!! ONE! TWO! THR-ANOTHER KICK OUT!!! Cracking a HIDDEN BLADE off Okada’s nose, an OSCUTTER follows, before he floats into a STORM BREAKER- FALLING RAINMAKERRRRRRR!!! ONE! TWO! THR-NOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!
Okada smelling blood, he tries for another, AND A HIDDEN BLADE CONNECTS AT THE SAME TIME!!! Keeping hold, the two knock each other loopy with one free arm… OSCUTTER’S CAUGHT WITH A TOMBSTONE!!! Okada picks him back up, going for a SPINNING TOMBSTONE- OSPREAY REVERSES INTO A SPIKE PILEDRIVER!!! Ripcord… HIDDEN BLADE!!! AND A STORM BREAKER!!! Hoisting him up for one more… A SECOND STORM BREAKERRRRRRRRRRR!!! ONE! TWO! THREE!!!
Will Ospreay (c) def. Kazuchika Okada to retain the IWGP World Heavyweight Championship (40:51)
HE’S DONE IT! OSPREAY’S FINALLY SURPASSED THE ACE ON HIS OWN STAGE! No longer is Okada himself anymore, but rather the Tanahashi to Ospreay’s Okada, the cycle continuing. And like his counterpart 9 years ago, Kazu leaves as empty-handed as he walked in for the first time in a decade, the times officially changing! And as sunlight washes over the Land of the Rising Sun, a new dawn is revealed. The dawn of the Ospreay Era.
Epilogue
Heading into 2025, NJPW is rife with changes, seeing more of the once Young Lion names step up as the likes of Tanahashi and Naito begin to slow down. CHAOS features a massive shakeup the following night as Shinsuke Nakamura returns, kickstarting his road to retirement, having been vocal in his interest of facing Tanahashi, proceeding to feud with Okada over his failures. As for Ospreay, his reign runs until Sakura Genesis, where one NJC Winner Katsuyori Shibata finally dethrones him 8 years on from his loss to Okada, though Will’s time with the title is far from over yet, remaining an integral part of the picture alongside ZSJ, Shingo, and more.
2023.05.28 06:00 InfernoAA God Made the World in Six Days, I’ll Perfect New Japan's on the Seventh Part Four: Ring o' Roses
In Part Three, Shingo Takagi confronted both his duties as World Heavyweight Champion and member of Los Ingobernables de Japon, proceeding to right the wrongs of his first reign by winning the January 4 main event against Tetsuya Naito to squash their beef and become co-leaders. With PAC shockingly joining the group after having gone on a crusade against them, they seemed stronger than ever, all except for Shingo's neck. Feeling the weight of CHAOS crushing it, it took both Kazuchika Okada and Hiroshi Tanahashi to bring him to his knees, the Ace of the Universe back to his rightful spot after 5 years, restoring CHAOS’s purist regime. Ending off on keeping the riches from blood rival Katsuyori Shibata yet again, he now awaits the arrival of the 2024 New Japan Cup Winner...
New Japan Cup Finals (March 28, 2024)
“ZACK SABRE JR. HAS PAC IN HYPERNORMALISATION! PAC SUBMITS! LADIES AND GENTLEMEN, FOR THE THIRD TIME IN HISTORY OUR NEW JAPAN CUP WINNER IS ZSJ!” After two failed attempts to translate his cup success into gold, the Bone Master has another chance to fulfil his career’s greatest goal. And out walks the man he beat in the 2018 Finals for his first win, the IWGP World Heavyweight Champion, Hiroshi Tanahashi! One of Zack’s biggest rivals since coming to Japan, and one that’s had his number more time than he’s had theirs, he must beat the godly Ace of the Universe if he wishes to claim his first piece of IWGP-commissioned singles gold!
The stage set for Sakura Genesis, Sabre makes sure to rub in everyone’s faces the premonition he laid down at New Year’s Dash. He said to LIJ he’d be back for the title, and after beating one of their men, he’s made good on his claims. And now, he’s going to make ‘God’ bow to him, whether he wants to or not. When asked for his opinion on the challenger, Tanahashi says he’s amused by how earnestly the Windy Man’s tried to become a New Japan guy, moving his entire life to Japan in pursuit of the top prize. Whilst that dedication may be admirable, it’ll be for nought, Zack just another visitor to his grand kingdom, CHAOS remaining Sabre’s white whale at the end of every NJC journey.
Sakura Genesis (April 7, 2024)
Also on the show:
United Empire (Will Ospreay, Great-O-Khan, Aaron Henare) (c) vs Just6Guys (SANADA, Taichi, Ryohei Oiwa) - NEVER Openweight 6-Man Tag Team Championship
YOH (c) vs El Desperado - IWGP Junior Tag Team Championship
TMDK (c) vs Bishamon - IWGP Tag Team Championship
Hiroshi Tanahashi (c) vs Zack Sabre Jr. XI - IWGP World Heavyweight Championship
They say third time’s the charm, but that remains to be seen in Sabre’s case. Sabre-Gun with mixed successes throughout the night, El Desperado coming up short whilst TMDK kept their gold, it’s up to their leader to set an example for his group. Popping his collar, he steels his gaze on the championship as Tanahashi makes his entrance, Zack blocking out the surrounding world. Despite channelling the controversial words of the polarising Okada for the past year, Hiroshi still has Ryogoku in the palm of his hands, remaining the people’s favourite no matter the shade of grey he envelops himself in. Back to his pomp and circumstance, he gives ZSJ the full show of what a true star looks like, ready to bring Sabre back down to reality.
It's a methodical opening from the two talented grapplers, Tanahashi standing toe-to-toe with the best technical wrestler in the world with merely his sheer aura. Sabre shoots for an early Article 50, but Tana sidesteps him into the ropes, before condescendingly patting him on the cheek! Zack retaliates with a forearm, knocking Tana to the mat, a deluge of stomps raining down on his face as the Hiroshi tries to cover up!
Escaping to the ropes, Sabre charges at him with a EUROPEAN UPPERCUT! Tana evades, connecting a DRAGON-STYLE HARITE, slapping respect into the challenger! Incensed, Sabre leaves a mark with a stinging slap of his own, before nailing a chain of Uppercuts! Tana fights back for a TWIST AND SHOUT, though Sabre counters with a FLATLINER! A High-Angle German is stuffed, Zack decked with an ALL OUT and a MIDDLE-ROPE SENTON BOMB! ONE! TWO! THR-KICK OUT!
Tana guns for the leg like he did Shibata, but a Feint Roundhouse into a Legsweep from ZSJ floors him! AND A NECK TWIST!!! With Hiroshi distracted by his neck, Sabre immediately switches for the legs, applying SUNDAY RAIL ENGINEERING WORKS REPLACEMENT BUS SERVICE!!! Tana’s quick to make the ropes, though has to physically pull himself to the apron when Sabre doesn’t release! No breather for him, Zack hooks his leg in the ropes and connects a DRAGON SCREW!
Tana receiving a taste of his own medicine, Sabre slides out and scores one directly on the apron, bashing Hiroshi’s leg into the hardest part of the ring! He attempts to Irish Whip Tanahashi into the ring post, but the Once in a Century Talent nails a SLING BLADE ON THE APRON! DRAGON SUPLEX TO THE FLOOR!!! Playing the starpower card, Tana poses with a grin as the cameras catch a shot of Sabre beneath him. He doesn’t notice Zack’s little twitches though, committing to a HIGH FLY FLOW TO THE OUTSIDE!!! A POSSUM SABRE PUSHES HIM MID-AIR ONTO THE BARRICADE!!!
As Tokyo gasps, it’s academic from Sabre as he threads Tana’s leg through a steel chair, PILMANISING IT!!! Evidence long discarded by the time the referee walks over, he wraps Hiroshi’s leg around the steel post, using it to apply a SASORI-GATAME!!! Tana lets out shouts of agony, Zack milking the suffering as Hiroshi begs the referee to get the challenger to stop. Eventually letting go, he forces Tanahashi to walk himself back into the spider’s web, a SPRINGBOARD ENZUIGIRI awaiting! BRIDGING NORTHERN LIGHTS SUPLEX! ONE! TWO! THR-KICK OUT!
Swivelling into a KNEEBAR now, he rolls around with Tana’s leg in his grasp, countering Hiroshi’s each attempts at escape, before going for the SELECTED TECHNICAL WORKS VOL. 2 combination, but Tana stacks his shoulders up! ONE! TWO! THR-NO LUCK! Forced to release to kick out, he scrambles to his feet to batter Hiroshi with a elbows, a DISCUS ELBOW SMASH staggering him, but a Pele Kick is caught, Tana nailing his own DRAGON SCREW!!!
A TWIST AND SHOUT follows, before Tana wraps on the DRAGON SWING! Wrenching on the neck, he makes a good few rotations before suddenly dropping to a knee, his leg unable to hold up for too long. Going for a DRAGON SUPLEX, it’s blocked by a barrage of back elbows, though Hiroshi nails the DARUMA-SHIKI GERMAN INSTEAD!!! ONE! TWO! THR-SABRE KICKS OUT! Nursing his neck, Sabre gets no reprieve as a HASE URANAGE spikes him, and a HIGH FLY ATTACK… IS CAUGHT IN AN ANKLE LOCK!!!
Tana rolls through but Sabre rolls with him, though he can’t get the grapevine, Tana booting him off with the other leg! TWIST AND SHOUT! Sabre subdued, a SLING BLADE takes him down, a HIGH FLY FLOW FOLLOWING SUIT!!! ONE! TWO! THR-NOOOOOOOOOOO!!! Tana rushes for a TEXAS CLOVERLEAF, putting the hurt on Zack’s legs now! The Submission Master searches for escapes yet Hiroshi commits his everything to this move, not letting him free for the life of him! That is, until his own leg gives way! Grounded, he can’t stop a PENALTY KICK!!! AND A ZACK DRIVER!!! ONE! TWO! THR-TANA STAYS ALIVE!!!
Ragdolling Hiroshi with a pair of Double Underhook Suplexes, Zack puts Tana in a prone position to stomp the insides of the knees, before applying a CALF SLICER!!! Yet again, the Ace of the Universe is in trouble, his condition deteriorating with each submission. Knowing he needs to change that and fast… HE GRABS ZACK’S SKULL AND RAMS IT INTO THE MAT REPEATEDLY TO BREAK!!! Gears turning in his mind from Sabre’s tribute, HE GETS HIM UP FOR A STYLES CLASH!!! ONE! TWO! THR-SABRE SURVIVES!!!
Connecting a SLING BLADE, he dumps Zack with a DRAGON SUPLEX! ZACK RESPONDS WITH ONE OF HIS OWN! Open palm strikes from Tana light up Zack, only for him to wring out the arm for a PELE KICK!!! Sabre teases a Legsweep, but Hiroshi hops over this time and nails a GROUNDED HIGH FLY FLOW!!! Air driven out of ZSJ’s lungs, Tana hoists him up… AND NAILS A TOMBSTONE PILEDRIVER!!! SHADES OF OKADA!!! The CHAOS Leader beating him like this both past Sakura Geneses, it’s going to happen again!
Scaling the ropes, Tana crashes down with a HIGH FLY FLOWWWWWWWWWW!!! But he’s not done! Wanting to make an example out of Sabre, he takes his time posing atop the world like the star he is… BUT IT ALLOWS ZACK TO RECOVER, GRABBING HIS LEG!!! Hammering the knee before Tana has a chance to respond, he yanks him off… RUNNING LIGER BOMB!!! ONE! TWO! THR-KICK OUT!!! STRAIGHT INTO CLARKY CAT BAD BALLOON REMIX!!! Folding Tana’s leg over his shoulder, he utterly destroys the geriatric knees over the champion, who wails in agony, doing anything he can to break free… BUT HE’S TOO FAR FROM THE ROPES!!! TANAHASHI TAPS OUT!!! THIRD TIME’S THE CHARM – ZSJ’S THE NEW KING OF NEW JAPAN!!!
Zack Sabre Jr. def. Hiroshi Tanahashi (c) to win the IWGP World Heavyweight Championship (30:23)
Cutting Tanahashi’s reign brutally short, Sabre-Gun has claimed its spot on the throne! Raising up both his trophy and championship, he’s lifted onto TMDK’s shoulders, the three men flaunting their gold to the world as the remainder of the stable joins them! Tana shell-shocked, he hangs his head in shame and despair as he limps off, Ryogoku the first of many dark days for NJPW…
As the new monarch, Sabre’s first order of business is simple – kill off his counterpart. And by that he means the man who successfully defended the title against him last year, Will Ospreay. Though he may hold the title, jealousy courses through ZSJ’s veins knowing the Commonwealth Kingpin’s considered the company’s top gaijin despite Zack’s superior record over him. Wanting to change that, he calls out Ospreay, who’s fresh off dropping the NEVER 6-Man Titles to Just6Guys, having had quite the identity crisis since having the WK main event taken from him. Eager at the chance at a do-over, he accepts without hesitation.
Wrestling Hinokuni (April 27, 2024)
Sabre-Gun (Zack Sabre Jr. & TMDK) vs United Empire (Will Ospreay & Aussie Open)
Whilst Sabre and Ospreay have kept their distance since their Royal Quest match, the same can’t be said about the greater stables. World Tag League Winners TMDK taking Aussie Open’s IWGP Tag Team Championship at Wrestle Kingdom and United Empire successfully defending the NEVER Titles against Sabre-Gun at the Anniversary Show, this conclusion was only inevitable. Aussie Open also wanting a chance to get their titles back, they team with Ospreay here against the champion unit, the Commonwealth Nations going to war for supremacy.
Unlike Royal Quest, Sabre’s notably a lot surer of himself against Will here, no longer compensating by matching his striking game, rather trying to make Ospreay play his game instead. However, even with Zack being in his best possible form, SG falters against UE once more, the Coriolis to Mikey Nicholls setting the stage for Wrestling Dontaku! Zack grits his teeth as much like Tanahashi, Ospreay looks down on him.
United Empire def. Sabre-Gun (17:34)
Wrestling Dontaku (May 4, 2024)
Also on the show:
Ren Narita (c) vs Shota Umino - NEVER Openweight Championship
Taichi (c) vs Hiromu Takahashi - NJPW World Television Championship
YOH (c) vs Robbie Eagles - IWGP Junior Tag Team Championship
KENTA (c) vs PAC - IWGP United States Championship
TMDK (c) vs Aussie Open - IWGP Tag Team Championship
Zack Sabre Jr. (c) vs Will Ospreay XVII - IWGP World Heavyweight Championship
A rivalry extending back an entire decade to the UK Indies, the spot for best British wrestler in the world has long been contested between these two. Back at it again, it’s time they settle the score once more. Ospreay strides out comfortably, having been in this position plenty of times by now as a potentially soon-to-be 3x World Champion, this his domain. As for Sabre, it’s his first time defending a title of this magnitude, pressure clearly weighing on his shoulders, but taking a deep breath, he prepares himself for victory just like TMDK earlier in the night.
As the bell rings… Ospreay explodes for a DROPKICK right away – shades of NJC 2021! Zack fishes the leg out the air and applies an ANKLE LOCK, LOOKING TO TAP HIM OUT WITHIN THE FIRST FEW SECONDS OF THE MATCH! Alarmed, Ospreay thrashes with kicks from his free leg to force Sabre off, rolling to the outside to recollect himself! Sabre doesn’t let him though, nailing a Baseball Slide Dropkick, before tossing him back in and wrangling the leg again!
A roll shakes him off, a HOOK KICK following, AND AN OSCUTTER! Sabre stops it though, countering with a SNAP DRAGON SUPLEX! Will rotates through to his feet and soars for a STANDING SHOOTING STAR PRESS, but again Zack dodges! BOW & ARROW ATTEMPT! Will flips into a cover, Zack kicking out instantly! Ospreay handsprings off the ropes, teasing his signature Enzuigiri, Sabre grasping the leg mid-air, but another follows, wrapping around his neck to twist through into a CROSS ARMBREAKER FROM WILL!
Sabre gets the monkey grip, preventing full extension, BUT WILL BITES THE FINGERS TO FORCE HIM OFF, now getting the full stretch, yelling at the referee to ask Zack if he submits! Sabre refuses however, rolling onto his stomach to turn the hold over and stand up, getting his legs around Will’s neck to score a NECK TWIST, getting him to release!
Zack knowing it to be a sore spot, he gets rallying with European Uppercuts to rock it like a bobblehead, before leaping into a GUILLOTINE CHOKE! Zack tightens his grip around Will’s neck, but a BUCKLE EXPLODER SUPLEX loosens it again as Sabre’s left dangling in a Tree of Woe! Ospreay sits cross-legged in front of him and SMASHES HIS NOSE WITH FOREARMS, busting a defenceless Zack open! Fish-hooking the nose, Will shakes his head about and lets crimson droplets paint the surroundings like a psychopathic Bob Ross, before letting go, cackling.
He heads to the top rope, but Zack meets him there, pulling himself up using his core strength and crotching Will on the neighbouring rope! The two face-to-face again, Zack sitting on the turnbuckle and Will on the rope, they trade forearms, blood continuing to leak down Sabre’s face, but he doesn’t care, INSTEAD GRABBING WILL’S LEG TO SUSPEND HIM UPSIDE-DOWN WITH A HANGING SUNDAY RAIL ENGINEERING WORKS REPLACEMENT BUS SERVICE!!!
Will’s in sheer agony as Sabre contorts his limb, but he’s saved by the referee’s count, Sabre forced to let go, Ospreay slumping to the apron. Zack turns to face the apron as he collects his wits and catches his breath, whilst Will nurses his leg, being checked on by the referee to make sure he’s good to continue, hopping to his base. Sabre settles down on the apron behind Will, grabbing him from behind, TESTING AN APRON TIGER SUPLEX!
Ospreay smashes the nose with a rear headbutt to ward him off! AND HE SPRINGS OFF ONE LEG TO DROP SABRE WITH AN APRON OSCUTTER, BOTH MEN SPILLING TO THE FLOOR!!! The referee starts their count as both lay still, no sign of movement as the 10 count nears. Reaching 12 now, they finally begin to stir, getting on all fours… 13… 14… 15… OSPREAY’S LEG GIVES OUT! 16… 17… 18… BOTH MEN MAKE ONE LAST PUSH, SABRE SHOVING HIMSELF INSIDE THE RING BY 19, WHILST OSPREAY PULLS HIMSELF UP ONTO THE APRON AND SPRINGS OFF ONE LEG ON THE ROPES FOR A PIP PIP CHEERIO!!! ONE! TWO! THR-KICK OUT!!!
Coming down hard on the leg though, Ospreay writhes in pain, but with Zack down, he pulls himself up with every last bit of energy he has up for STORM BREAKER… ZACK WITH AN OCTOPUS HOLD!!! Will immediately rams him into the turnbuckle until he lets up, Sabre instead sliding down his back like a bird hitting a window, OSPREAY COLLECTING HIM TO NAIL A HITODENASHI DRIVER!!! ONE! TWO! THR-NOOOOOOOO!!!
Will shouts in frustration, having jammed the leg on the landing. Feeling victory nigh though, he preps the HIDDEN BLADE!!! SABRE SPINS AROUND AND COUNTERS WITH A ZACK DRIVER!!! ONE! TWO! THR-NO DICE!!! PENTALTY KICK! ANOTHER COVER!!! ONE! TWO! THR-STILL NO LUCK!!! NOW A NUMERO DOS A LA DESPERADO!!! Ospreay screams as Sabre tears the leg in half, Will dancing around in search of reprieve, until a FRANKENSTEINER stands ZSJ on his dome! BRAINBUSTER FOLLOWS!
Sabre rocked, Ospreay cracks the CHELSEA GRIN against his neck, before connecting the HIDDEN BLADE!!! ONE! TWO! THR-ZACK’S STILL IN IT!!! Will’s leg is falling apart as he stumbles back into the corner to try for seconds, losing balance and collapsing before he can reach his target! EUROPEAN CLUTCH FROM ZACK!!! ONE! TWO! THR-OSPREAY SURVIVES!!! BUT A PENALTY KICK TO THE SKULL! AND STRAIGHT INTO ORIENTEERING WITH NAPALM DEATH!!! OSPREAY THRASHES LIKE A MADMAN, FEELING HIS LIGAMENTS ON THE VERGE OF TEARING… AND HE TAPS!!!
Zack Sabre Jr. (c) def. Will Ospreay to retain the IWGP World Heavyweight Championship (34:18)
One more for the bad guys. Commonwealth Kingpin at his mercy, Ospreay a mess as he scrambles off, Zack’s the new Top Gaijin in town. Raising his title high from the turnbuckles, he juices every last drop out his victory, this moment perfect to him… or not. OH MY GOD IT’S MINORU SUZUKI!!! Any bit of colour that remains on ZSJ’s pale face drains off as the King’s music rings through Fukuoka, but there’s no sign of the man- WAIT, SABRE’S SPUN AROUND! KICK TO THE GUT – GOTCH-STYLE PILEDRIVER!!! HE’S HERE!!! Placing a boot on Zack’s chest, Suzuki holds the World Title high over his former stablemate’s body!
The ending of Dontaku has Japan buzzing as they question the true motive of Suzuki’s attack, and after an extended silence, the King sets the record straight. 1 ½ years ago, Suzuki-Gun was dissolved, and ever since, Sabre’s been writing checks with his mouth that he can’t cash. He walks around with the World Title like he’s the reason he even received recognition in NJPW in the first place. Suzuki gave him a home beside him, and as rapidly as he elevated Sabre, he can take it all away from him just as fast. He’s getting old and is still missing the final piece to the Japanese Triple Crown, so he plans to take that from Zack.
Sabre doesn’t take too kindly to these words, letting his actions speak for himself as he ASSAULTS SUZUKI on a Road To Dontaku show! Bringing Sabre-Gun with him, they brutalise the legend, before Zack plants his group’s flag on Suzuki’s chest! Mocking him for having no allies the next night, declaring Suzuki’s era of relevance to be long gone… this plays. SUZUKI’S HERE, AND HE’S NOT ALONE! IT’S JUST6GUYS!!! Racing to the ring, the two factions erupt in a massive brawl, bodies flying left and right! Sabre tries for a quick getaway but he’s stopped by Minoru, who gives him a devilish snarl before clobbering him with forearms until Sabre-Gun’s sent packing through the crowd, Zack yelling expletives at Suzuki as he retreats!
Back to Yokohama Arena (May 16, 2024)
Sabre-Gun (Zack Sabre Jr., El Desperado & TMDK) vs Minoru Suzuki & Just3Guys (Taichi, Yoshinobu Kanemaru, DOUKI)
With Sabre-Gun and Just6Guys feuding ever since their respective formations, switching between silent competitive warfare of racking up belts to fighting each other, notably the Sabre/Taichi saga, it all fully comes to a head in Suzuki’s home of Yokohama! With full freedom to destroy each other however they please, the two factions don’t hold back one bit, with Suzuki especially targeting ZSJ. He’s unable to give him grief the way he wishes to though, Zack tactfully hiding behind his partners until he can blindside Minoru, before scramming again. Ultimately, it’s Minoru putting Desperado away with the GOTCH PILEDRIVER, before signalling to Sabre that time’s running out for him, Suzuki to get his hands on him too soon enough!
Minoru Suzuki & J6G def. Sabre-Gun (15:03)
As much as Sabre tries to deny it, that day only speeds closer with each accusation of cowardice against the prideful champion’s name, the world questioning whether he’s afraid of Suzuki. Adamant to silence his doubters, he finally accepts Suzuki’s title challenge, setting the stage for Dominion, though promising he won’t have a career to go back to when Sabre’s done with him!
Dominion 6.2 (June 2, 2024)
Also on the show:
YOH (c) vs SHO - IWGP Junior Heavyweight Championship
Just2Guys (c) vs Sabre-Gun (Blake Christian & Clark Connors) - IWGP Junior Tag Team Championship
TMDK (c) vs The Lucha Brothers - IWGP Tag Team Championship
PAC (c) vs Katsuyori Shibata - IWGP United States Championship
Zack Sabre Jr. (c) vs Minoru Suzuki - IWGP World Heavyweight Championship
With Sabre-Gun beating Just6Guys earlier in the night, this war’s already at its boiling point by the time the main event arrives, Suzuki opting to enter second as Zack steps out- CRACK! STEEL CHAIR TO SABRE’S SPINE!!! Suzuki isn’t wasting even a second here, tearing the jacket off Sabre’s back before bending the steel over his spine! The Windy Man desperately tries to crawl away to the ring, but Suzuki steps on his ankle to stop him! Turning him around to meet his maker, MINORU GOES FOR A GOTCH PILEDRIVER ON THE CHAIR!!! LOW BLOW FROM SABRE TO COUNTER!!!
Suzuki drops to his knees as Osaka boos the smarmy champion, ZSJ now battering the King’s back, before finally sliding him in to get the match started! PENALTY KICK RIGHT AWAY!!! ONE! TWO! THR-KICK OUT!!! Sabre wrenches in a CLARKY CAT, working the arm as Suzuki writhes under him, but it’s not long before Minoru stands up out of it, hurling ZSJ to the mat! Booting him in the jaw, Suzuki backs him into the corner and tears into him with open palm strikes! He winds up a CORNER DROPKICK, but Sabre evades, blasting him with a rapid barrage of European Uppercuts against the turnbuckle!
Zack taking the run-up now, Suzuki bucks him over the ropes to the apron, SABRE BLASTING A THUMB IN HIS EYE! Minoru blinded, Zack leaps up for a SPRINGBOARD ENZUIGIRI- SUZUKI BLOCKS WITH A WILD SLAP TO THE CHEEK!!! Sabre stiffed, Suzuki applies a HANGING JUJI-GATAME FROM THE ROPES!!! Zack screams in agony as Minoru damn near rips his arm out the socket, the referee’s count the only thing keeping him from going!
Releasing, Sabre crumples to the floor, getting as far as he possibly can from Suzuki, though he’s not fast enough, Suzuki nailing a GOAL KICK to his skull from the apron! Grabbing Sabre, he HURLS him into the guardrail with it shoulder-first, the velocity sending Zack through! As he goes to collect his prey though, SABRE TOSSES A CHAIR AT HIS SKULL!!! Threading Suzuki’s arm through it, SABRE STOMPS THE ELBOW!!! AND AN ARTICLE 50!!!
Sabre abuses the legend, but he forgets about the other arm, Suzuki slapping his head in with it until Zack releases! Shaking off the arm, a BACK BODY DROP sends Sabre crashing back to ringside, Minoru following after him as ZSJ slinks inside the ring. Zack beats him to his feet though, stomping a hole through the mat with Suzuki’s skull, dribbling it! He cracks a ROLLING ELBOW off the skull, but Minoru walks through it, glaring at Sabre! Throwing an elbow of his own, it gets caught, Zack scoring the PELE KICK to the arm!
AND A KIMURA LOCK!!! Sabre brutally rips at the arm, bringing Suzuki to his knees from the pain even, but Minoru pins his shoulders to the mat! ONE! TWO! THR-SABRE RELEASES TO KICK OUT! As Zack rolls to his feet, a SHOTGUN DROPKICK awaits him! Suzuki clobbers him with slaps to the face, Sabre seeing stars as one knocks him clean off his feet! Turning to the turnbuckle… SUZUKI RIPS IT OFF!!! Steel exposed, he teases a SNAP SUPLEX INTO THE CORNER!!! SABRE COUNTERS WITH A BRAINBUSTER ON THE MAT!!! GUILLOTINE CHOKE!!!
Draining the life out of Suzuki, Sabre presses on the carotid artery, Minoru is deep trouble! BUT NOW THE KING BITES ON ZSJ’S FINGERS!!! Zack yelps and releases, allowing Suzuki to secure his wrists and STOMP HIS HEAD IN!!! Sabre catches a boot and applies SUNDAY RAIL ENGINEERING WORKS REPLACEMENT BUS SERVICE!!! ZSJ tortures Suzuki’s leg, though in doing so leaves his arm exposed, Minoru yanking off his grip and countering into HIS OWN HEEL HOOK!!!
Sabre desperately tries the same counter, but Suzuki’s grip is too tight to break, forcing Zack to roll to the ropes! SUZUKI ISN’T LETTING GO! Crawling on his hands, Sabre pulls himself to the floor and WHIPLASHES MINORU’S NECK OFF THE BOTTOM ROPE!!! Staggering about ringside on one foot, he grabs his title and rolls back in! Suzuki struggling up, Sabre tries to deck him with the belt… but the referee grabs it from behind! A tug-of-war ends in SUZUKI KNOCKING THE BELT INTO THE REF WITH AN ENZUIGIRI!
Both men hitting the deck, Minoru rocks ZSJ with a Dropkick! GOTCH PILEDRIVER ONTO THE TITLE!!! But there’s no one to count! Pissed, Suzuki limps out and abuses a couple young lions, before picking one out the crowd to toss in the ring, ripping the referee’s shirt off and telling the lion to put it on! SUZUKI COVERS! ONE! TWO! THR-NOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!! Even more livid, HE DECKS THIS LION TOO! Turning back to Zack, he notices the champion feebly reaching for the belt! Kicking it out the ring, Suzuki goes for another GOTCH PILEDRIVER!!! BACK BODY DROP COUNTER!!!
Still hurting, Sabre struggles to get a rally of strikes going, Suzuki meeting him blow for blow! BUT SABRE WHIPS THE SHOULDER INTO THE MAT! Minoru stunned, sadistic thoughts run through Sabre’s mind… TIGER SUPLEX INTO THE EXPOSED STEEL!!! AND A RUNNING LIGER BOMB – ONE OF SUZUKI’S RIVALS MOVES!!! THE REFEREE’S BACK TO CONSCIOUSNESS! NOT LIKE THIS! ONE! TWO! THR-NOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!
Sabre’s exasperated, thinking he had it! Running out of options, he teases a ZACK DRIVER, but Suzuki slips behind and applies the SLEEPER HOLD!!! Sabre’s quickly fading, frantically trying to tear the bad arm off, but Minoru doesn’t budge, shoving ZSJ to the mat for the PENALTY KICK!!! ONE! TWO! THR-ZACK KICKS OUT!!! Suzuki grabs Sabre by the chin, demanding him to strike Minoru if he thinks he’s so tough, ZSJ doing his best, but Suzuki eats it and returns a HARD SLAP! SLEEPER SUPLEX!!!
Tossing Sabre to the apron, Minoru steps onto the middle rope and cinches in an ELEVATED SLEEPER!!! Zack dangles in the air, unable to find his footing to escape, Suzuki lifting him higher and higher! Blood rushing to his legs, he needs to act fast, attacking the elbow again until the hold is finally slightly loosened! Leaning forwards, he pulls Suzuki his direction, allowing him to lower his feet onto the apron… YANKING SUZUKI INTO AN APRON ZACK DRIVER!!!
Sabre coughs up a lung as he kicks Minoru’s corpse back in, before lining up a PENALTY KICK!!! ONE! TWO! THR-SUZUKI’S ALIVE!!! Zack’s stunned as he comes face-to-face with Suzuki’s sneer, Minoru still having enough in him to throw slaps! Sabre returning Uppercuts, they go blow-for-blow until Zack collapses first, though he’s playing possum, HEADBUTTING THE SHOULDER as the King tries to grab him! He goes for YOU CAN’T PLAY CONKERS IN ENGLAND, though he’s immediately tossed down, SUZUKI NAILING A PENALTY KICK!!!
Winding up, Minoru goes for one more… ZACK SLAPS HIS HEAD OFF HIS SHOULDERS!!! Putting the head between his legs, HE NAILS A GOTCH PILEDRIVER!!! Suzuki collapses in position for a PENALTY KICK!!! AND NOW SABRE CINCHES IT IN – HURRAH! ANOTHER YEAR, SURELY THIS ONE WILL BE BETTER THAN THE LAST; THE INEXORABLE MARCH OF PROGRESS WILL LEAD US ALL TO HAPPINESS!!! Suzuki grits his teeth, trying to fight through it, Sabre keeping his eyes on his hands to see the tap… NOWHERE TO GO, MINORU FLIPS HIM OFF WITH BOTH HANDS AND VERBALLY SUBMITS!!!
Zack Sabre Jr. (c) def. Minoru Suzuki to retain the IWGP World Heavyweight Championship (32:50)
Surviving one of the toughest matches of his career, Zack’s kingdom still lives, though barely. As he’s handed his title though, he chucks it aside, this about far more than the gold to him! SABRE STOMPS OUT SUZUKI!!! Signalling to the back, out rush Sabre-Gun, coming to Sabre’s aid to conduct a mugging on the legend! SUDDEN DEATH FROM ELP! PINCHE LOCO FROM DESPERADO! THUNDER VALLEY FROM TMDK! TANDEM JEEP FLIP/DROPKICK FROM BLAKE, CONNORS AND FUJITA! And now, it's Zack’s turn. Dragging him to the concrete… HE’S GOING FOR THE GOTCH PILEDRIVER!!! HE WANTS TO RETIRE SUZUKI FOR GOOD!!!
BUT HERE COMES J6G!!! AND LANCE ARCHER TOO!!! Sabre tosses Suzuki aside to deal with the oncoming traffic, Taichi and co. putting up an honourable fight, but they’re still down a man, Sabre-Gun managing to retain their upper-hand, until… OH MY GOD, IT’S SUZUKI’S OLD TAG PARTNER NAOMICHI MARUFUJI!!! Sabre can’t even get a curse out before a KO-OH SMACKS HIM IN THE FACE!!! Marufuji beats on Zack to turn the tide, going for the POLE SHIFT, but Sabre manages to escape in the nick of time, Sabre-Gun once again sent on the retreat, the show closing on Marufuji helping Suzuki up!
NJPW/AJPW/NOAH All Together Again (June 7, 2024)
Zack Sabre Jr. vs Naomichi Marufuji
After the events of Dominion, it’s only natural these two fight, long, long overdue a one-on-one since their NOAH days together! Fighting in Suzuki’s honour, Marufuji steps to the IWGP World Heavyweight Champion and it’s like 2016 all over again the way he utterly humbles Sabre to start like he’s facing Okada! A match of two halves, it goes from Naomichi giving ZSJ the biggest whooping of his life to Sabre brutally breaking down the legend, reminding him he’s 8 years too old to still be winning these sorts of matches. Though Maru gives Zack grief one more than one occasion, he meets his demise at the hands of a CREMATION LILY, Sabre spitting on Naomichi as he leaves, declaring himself untouchable!
Zack Sabre Jr. def. Naomichi Marufuji (25:37)
With his war on J6G and friends officially behind him, Sabre sets his sights on a show he has quite some history with. Losing to Claudio Castagnoli at the first Forbidden Door, before beating Katsuyori Shibata at the second to take both the NJPW TV and ROH Pure Titles to ALL IN to submit Danielson, there’s naturally only one direction for him to head…
Dynamite (June 12, 2024)
Racking another AEW International Championship defence under his belt, Wheeler YUTA is on top of the world, and as he’s approached by Tony Schiavone for a post-match comment… WHACK! IWGP WORLD TITLE TO THE BACK OF HIS HEAD!!! SABRE-GUN’S HERE!!! Mugging Blackpool Combat Club’s young gun like they did Suzuki, a SABRE DRIVER leaves him broken on the mat as Zack yells down the camera that he wants Moxley’s head at Forbidden Door, scurrying away before BCC can make the save!
Collision (June 15, 2024)
Zack Sabre Jr. vs Wheeler YUTA
Off the back of Sabre’s assault on YUTA, a match is made between the two technically-gifted champions in a massive Collision main event! Though ZSJ’s far out his paygrade, an arrogant Wheeler does his best to knock off the Technical Wizard, impressing with a display of submissions he’s picked up from Danielson, before employing some of Claudio’s marquee athleticism and Mox’s grittiness. Never a fair match to begin with though, a TESCO MEAL DEAL cruelly silences YUTA!
Zack Sabre Jr. def. Wheeler YUTA (10:12)
Grabbing a mic, Zack runs down Moxley, reminding him how they were supposed to fight 4 years ago until the pandemic ruined that, Jon ducking him ever since. Now though, he’s the last member of BCC he needs to get through before he can shut up those babies too, so all he needs to know is if Jon is still afraid of him or not. And as Sabre awaits his response… HE RECEIVES IT IN THE FORM OF A PARADIGM SHIFT!!! Mox holds Zack’s title over his body, gaining some retribution for YUTA!
AEWxNJPW Forbidden Door (June 23, 2024)
Also on the show:
The Lucha Brothers (c) vs La Faccion Ingobernable (RUSH & Dralistico) - IWGP Tag Team Championship
PAC (c) vs Swerve Strickland - IWGP United States Championship
Tetsuya Naito vs Andrade El Idolo
Zack Sabre Jr. (c) vs Jon Moxley - IWGP World Heavyweight Championship
The final showdown of a lengthy saga, Sabre makes his third defence against New Japan’s Ace, and it’s quite literally a bloody clinic, Mox showing zero fear in the face of the Top Gaijin, who looks to plant his flag over another territory. From a Paradigm Shift to the floor to a Zack Driver through a table, both men are busted open by the surroundings, the blood loss only helping Sabre’s case when he locks in the HYPERNORMALISATION, causing Mox to pass out! Alas, ZSJ stands atop BCC, but perhaps a more personal challenge yet awaits him…
Zack Sabre Jr. (c) def. Jon Moxley to retain the IWGP World Heavyweight Championship (23:20)
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New Japan Cup Finals (March 28, 2024)
“ZACK SABRE JR. HAS PAC IN HYPERNORMALISATION! PAC SUBMITS! LADIES AND GENTLEMEN, FOR THE THIRD TIME IN HISTORY OUR NEW JAPAN CUP WINNER IS ZSJ!” After two failed attempts to translate his cup success into gold, the Bone Master has another chance to fulfil his career’s greatest goal. And out walks the man he beat in the 2018 Finals for his first win, the IWGP World Heavyweight Champion, Hiroshi Tanahashi! One of Zack’s biggest rivals since coming to Japan, and one that’s had his number more time than he’s had theirs, he must beat the godly Ace of the Universe if he wishes to claim his first piece of IWGP-commissioned singles gold!
The stage set for Sakura Genesis, Sabre makes sure to rub in everyone’s faces the premonition he laid down at New Year’s Dash. He said to LIJ he’d be back for the title, and after beating one of their men, he’s made good on his claims. And now, he’s going to make ‘God’ bow to him, whether he wants to or not. When asked for his opinion on the challenger, Tanahashi says he’s amused by how earnestly the Windy Man’s tried to become a New Japan guy, moving his entire life to Japan in pursuit of the top prize. Whilst that dedication may be admirable, it’ll be for nought, Zack just another visitor to his grand kingdom, CHAOS remaining Sabre’s white whale at the end of every NJC journey.
Sakura Genesis (April 7, 2024)
Also on the show:
United Empire (Will Ospreay, Great-O-Khan, Aaron Henare) (c) vs Just6Guys (SANADA, Taichi, Ryohei Oiwa) - NEVER Openweight 6-Man Tag Team Championship
YOH (c) vs El Desperado - IWGP Junior Tag Team Championship
TMDK (c) vs Bishamon - IWGP Tag Team Championship
Hiroshi Tanahashi (c) vs Zack Sabre Jr. XI - IWGP World Heavyweight Championship
They say third time’s the charm, but that remains to be seen in Sabre’s case. Sabre-Gun with mixed successes throughout the night, El Desperado coming up short whilst TMDK kept their gold, it’s up to their leader to set an example for his group. Popping his collar, he steels his gaze on the championship as Tanahashi makes his entrance, Zack blocking out the surrounding world. Despite channelling the controversial words of the polarising Okada for the past year, Hiroshi still has Ryogoku in the palm of his hands, remaining the people’s favourite no matter the shade of grey he envelops himself in. Back to his pomp and circumstance, he gives ZSJ the full show of what a true star looks like, ready to bring Sabre back down to reality.
It's a methodical opening from the two talented grapplers, Tanahashi standing toe-to-toe with the best technical wrestler in the world with merely his sheer aura. Sabre shoots for an early Article 50, but Tana sidesteps him into the ropes, before condescendingly patting him on the cheek! Zack retaliates with a forearm, knocking Tana to the mat, a deluge of stomps raining down on his face as the Hiroshi tries to cover up!
Escaping to the ropes, Sabre charges at him with a EUROPEAN UPPERCUT! Tana evades, connecting a DRAGON-STYLE HARITE, slapping respect into the challenger! Incensed, Sabre leaves a mark with a stinging slap of his own, before nailing a chain of Uppercuts! Tana fights back for a TWIST AND SHOUT, though Sabre counters with a FLATLINER! A High-Angle German is stuffed, Zack decked with an ALL OUT and a MIDDLE-ROPE SENTON BOMB! ONE! TWO! THR-KICK OUT!
Tana guns for the leg like he did Shibata, but a Feint Roundhouse into a Legsweep from ZSJ floors him! AND A NECK TWIST!!! With Hiroshi distracted by his neck, Sabre immediately switches for the legs, applying SUNDAY RAIL ENGINEERING WORKS REPLACEMENT BUS SERVICE!!! Tana’s quick to make the ropes, though has to physically pull himself to the apron when Sabre doesn’t release! No breather for him, Zack hooks his leg in the ropes and connects a DRAGON SCREW!
Tana receiving a taste of his own medicine, Sabre slides out and scores one directly on the apron, bashing Hiroshi’s leg into the hardest part of the ring! He attempts to Irish Whip Tanahashi into the ring post, but the Once in a Century Talent nails a SLING BLADE ON THE APRON! DRAGON SUPLEX TO THE FLOOR!!! Playing the starpower card, Tana poses with a grin as the cameras catch a shot of Sabre beneath him. He doesn’t notice Zack’s little twitches though, committing to a HIGH FLY FLOW TO THE OUTSIDE!!! A POSSUM SABRE PUSHES HIM MID-AIR ONTO THE BARRICADE!!!
As Tokyo gasps, it’s academic from Sabre as he threads Tana’s leg through a steel chair, PILMANISING IT!!! Evidence long discarded by the time the referee walks over, he wraps Hiroshi’s leg around the steel post, using it to apply a SASORI-GATAME!!! Tana lets out shouts of agony, Zack milking the suffering as Hiroshi begs the referee to get the challenger to stop. Eventually letting go, he forces Tanahashi to walk himself back into the spider’s web, a SPRINGBOARD ENZUIGIRI awaiting! BRIDGING NORTHERN LIGHTS SUPLEX! ONE! TWO! THR-KICK OUT!
Swivelling into a KNEEBAR now, he rolls around with Tana’s leg in his grasp, countering Hiroshi’s each attempts at escape, before going for the SELECTED TECHNICAL WORKS VOL. 2 combination, but Tana stacks his shoulders up! ONE! TWO! THR-NO LUCK! Forced to release to kick out, he scrambles to his feet to batter Hiroshi with a elbows, a DISCUS ELBOW SMASH staggering him, but a Pele Kick is caught, Tana nailing his own DRAGON SCREW!!!
A TWIST AND SHOUT follows, before Tana wraps on the DRAGON SWING! Wrenching on the neck, he makes a good few rotations before suddenly dropping to a knee, his leg unable to hold up for too long. Going for a DRAGON SUPLEX, it’s blocked by a barrage of back elbows, though Hiroshi nails the DARUMA-SHIKI GERMAN INSTEAD!!! ONE! TWO! THR-SABRE KICKS OUT! Nursing his neck, Sabre gets no reprieve as a HASE URANAGE spikes him, and a HIGH FLY ATTACK… IS CAUGHT IN AN ANKLE LOCK!!!
Tana rolls through but Sabre rolls with him, though he can’t get the grapevine, Tana booting him off with the other leg! TWIST AND SHOUT! Sabre subdued, a SLING BLADE takes him down, a HIGH FLY FLOW FOLLOWING SUIT!!! ONE! TWO! THR-NOOOOOOOOOOO!!! Tana rushes for a TEXAS CLOVERLEAF, putting the hurt on Zack’s legs now! The Submission Master searches for escapes yet Hiroshi commits his everything to this move, not letting him free for the life of him! That is, until his own leg gives way! Grounded, he can’t stop a PENALTY KICK!!! AND A ZACK DRIVER!!! ONE! TWO! THR-TANA STAYS ALIVE!!!
Ragdolling Hiroshi with a pair of Double Underhook Suplexes, Zack puts Tana in a prone position to stomp the insides of the knees, before applying a CALF SLICER!!! Yet again, the Ace of the Universe is in trouble, his condition deteriorating with each submission. Knowing he needs to change that and fast… HE GRABS ZACK’S SKULL AND RAMS IT INTO THE MAT REPEATEDLY TO BREAK!!! Gears turning in his mind from Sabre’s tribute, HE GETS HIM UP FOR A STYLES CLASH!!! ONE! TWO! THR-SABRE SURVIVES!!!
Connecting a SLING BLADE, he dumps Zack with a DRAGON SUPLEX! ZACK RESPONDS WITH ONE OF HIS OWN! Open palm strikes from Tana light up Zack, only for him to wring out the arm for a PELE KICK!!! Sabre teases a Legsweep, but Hiroshi hops over this time and nails a GROUNDED HIGH FLY FLOW!!! Air driven out of ZSJ’s lungs, Tana hoists him up… AND NAILS A TOMBSTONE PILEDRIVER!!! SHADES OF OKADA!!! The CHAOS Leader beating him like this both past Sakura Geneses, it’s going to happen again!
Scaling the ropes, Tana crashes down with a HIGH FLY FLOWWWWWWWWWW!!! But he’s not done! Wanting to make an example out of Sabre, he takes his time posing atop the world like the star he is… BUT IT ALLOWS ZACK TO RECOVER, GRABBING HIS LEG!!! Hammering the knee before Tana has a chance to respond, he yanks him off… RUNNING LIGER BOMB!!! ONE! TWO! THR-KICK OUT!!! STRAIGHT INTO CLARKY CAT BAD BALLOON REMIX!!! Folding Tana’s leg over his shoulder, he utterly destroys the geriatric knees over the champion, who wails in agony, doing anything he can to break free… BUT HE’S TOO FAR FROM THE ROPES!!! TANAHASHI TAPS OUT!!! THIRD TIME’S THE CHARM – ZSJ’S THE NEW KING OF NEW JAPAN!!!
Zack Sabre Jr. def. Hiroshi Tanahashi (c) to win the IWGP World Heavyweight Championship (30:23)
Cutting Tanahashi’s reign brutally short, Sabre-Gun has claimed its spot on the throne! Raising up both his trophy and championship, he’s lifted onto TMDK’s shoulders, the three men flaunting their gold to the world as the remainder of the stable joins them! Tana shell-shocked, he hangs his head in shame and despair as he limps off, Ryogoku the first of many dark days for NJPW…
As the new monarch, Sabre’s first order of business is simple – kill off his counterpart. And by that he means the man who successfully defended the title against him last year, Will Ospreay. Though he may hold the title, jealousy courses through ZSJ’s veins knowing the Commonwealth Kingpin’s considered the company’s top gaijin despite Zack’s superior record over him. Wanting to change that, he calls out Ospreay, who’s fresh off dropping the NEVER 6-Man Titles to Just6Guys, having had quite the identity crisis since having the WK main event taken from him. Eager at the chance at a do-over, he accepts without hesitation.
Wrestling Hinokuni (April 27, 2024)
Sabre-Gun (Zack Sabre Jr. & TMDK) vs United Empire (Will Ospreay & Aussie Open)
Whilst Sabre and Ospreay have kept their distance since their Royal Quest match, the same can’t be said about the greater stables. World Tag League Winners TMDK taking Aussie Open’s IWGP Tag Team Championship at Wrestle Kingdom and United Empire successfully defending the NEVER Titles against Sabre-Gun at the Anniversary Show, this conclusion was only inevitable. Aussie Open also wanting a chance to get their titles back, they team with Ospreay here against the champion unit, the Commonwealth Nations going to war for supremacy.
Unlike Royal Quest, Sabre’s notably a lot surer of himself against Will here, no longer compensating by matching his striking game, rather trying to make Ospreay play his game instead. However, even with Zack being in his best possible form, SG falters against UE once more, the Coriolis to Mikey Nicholls setting the stage for Wrestling Dontaku! Zack grits his teeth as much like Tanahashi, Ospreay looks down on him.
United Empire def. Sabre-Gun (17:34)
Wrestling Dontaku (May 4, 2024)
Also on the show:
Ren Narita (c) vs Shota Umino - NEVER Openweight Championship
Taichi (c) vs Hiromu Takahashi - NJPW World Television Championship
YOH (c) vs Robbie Eagles - IWGP Junior Tag Team Championship
KENTA (c) vs PAC - IWGP United States Championship
TMDK (c) vs Aussie Open - IWGP Tag Team Championship
Zack Sabre Jr. (c) vs Will Ospreay XVII - IWGP World Heavyweight Championship
A rivalry extending back an entire decade to the UK Indies, the spot for best British wrestler in the world has long been contested between these two. Back at it again, it’s time they settle the score once more. Ospreay strides out comfortably, having been in this position plenty of times by now as a potentially soon-to-be 3x World Champion, this his domain. As for Sabre, it’s his first time defending a title of this magnitude, pressure clearly weighing on his shoulders, but taking a deep breath, he prepares himself for victory just like TMDK earlier in the night.
As the bell rings… Ospreay explodes for a DROPKICK right away – shades of NJC 2021! Zack fishes the leg out the air and applies an ANKLE LOCK, LOOKING TO TAP HIM OUT WITHIN THE FIRST FEW SECONDS OF THE MATCH! Alarmed, Ospreay thrashes with kicks from his free leg to force Sabre off, rolling to the outside to recollect himself! Sabre doesn’t let him though, nailing a Baseball Slide Dropkick, before tossing him back in and wrangling the leg again!
A roll shakes him off, a HOOK KICK following, AND AN OSCUTTER! Sabre stops it though, countering with a SNAP DRAGON SUPLEX! Will rotates through to his feet and soars for a STANDING SHOOTING STAR PRESS, but again Zack dodges! BOW & ARROW ATTEMPT! Will flips into a cover, Zack kicking out instantly! Ospreay handsprings off the ropes, teasing his signature Enzuigiri, Sabre grasping the leg mid-air, but another follows, wrapping around his neck to twist through into a CROSS ARMBREAKER FROM WILL!
Sabre gets the monkey grip, preventing full extension, BUT WILL BITES THE FINGERS TO FORCE HIM OFF, now getting the full stretch, yelling at the referee to ask Zack if he submits! Sabre refuses however, rolling onto his stomach to turn the hold over and stand up, getting his legs around Will’s neck to score a NECK TWIST, getting him to release!
Zack knowing it to be a sore spot, he gets rallying with European Uppercuts to rock it like a bobblehead, before leaping into a GUILLOTINE CHOKE! Zack tightens his grip around Will’s neck, but a BUCKLE EXPLODER SUPLEX loosens it again as Sabre’s left dangling in a Tree of Woe! Ospreay sits cross-legged in front of him and SMASHES HIS NOSE WITH FOREARMS, busting a defenceless Zack open! Fish-hooking the nose, Will shakes his head about and lets crimson droplets paint the surroundings like a psychopathic Bob Ross, before letting go, cackling.
He heads to the top rope, but Zack meets him there, pulling himself up using his core strength and crotching Will on the neighbouring rope! The two face-to-face again, Zack sitting on the turnbuckle and Will on the rope, they trade forearms, blood continuing to leak down Sabre’s face, but he doesn’t care, INSTEAD GRABBING WILL’S LEG TO SUSPEND HIM UPSIDE-DOWN WITH A HANGING SUNDAY RAIL ENGINEERING WORKS REPLACEMENT BUS SERVICE!!!
Will’s in sheer agony as Sabre contorts his limb, but he’s saved by the referee’s count, Sabre forced to let go, Ospreay slumping to the apron. Zack turns to face the apron as he collects his wits and catches his breath, whilst Will nurses his leg, being checked on by the referee to make sure he’s good to continue, hopping to his base. Sabre settles down on the apron behind Will, grabbing him from behind, TESTING AN APRON TIGER SUPLEX!
Ospreay smashes the nose with a rear headbutt to ward him off! AND HE SPRINGS OFF ONE LEG TO DROP SABRE WITH AN APRON OSCUTTER, BOTH MEN SPILLING TO THE FLOOR!!! The referee starts their count as both lay still, no sign of movement as the 10 count nears. Reaching 12 now, they finally begin to stir, getting on all fours… 13… 14… 15… OSPREAY’S LEG GIVES OUT! 16… 17… 18… BOTH MEN MAKE ONE LAST PUSH, SABRE SHOVING HIMSELF INSIDE THE RING BY 19, WHILST OSPREAY PULLS HIMSELF UP ONTO THE APRON AND SPRINGS OFF ONE LEG ON THE ROPES FOR A PIP PIP CHEERIO!!! ONE! TWO! THR-KICK OUT!!!
Coming down hard on the leg though, Ospreay writhes in pain, but with Zack down, he pulls himself up with every last bit of energy he has up for STORM BREAKER… ZACK WITH AN OCTOPUS HOLD!!! Will immediately rams him into the turnbuckle until he lets up, Sabre instead sliding down his back like a bird hitting a window, OSPREAY COLLECTING HIM TO NAIL A HITODENASHI DRIVER!!! ONE! TWO! THR-NOOOOOOOO!!!
Will shouts in frustration, having jammed the leg on the landing. Feeling victory nigh though, he preps the HIDDEN BLADE!!! SABRE SPINS AROUND AND COUNTERS WITH A ZACK DRIVER!!! ONE! TWO! THR-NO DICE!!! PENTALTY KICK! ANOTHER COVER!!! ONE! TWO! THR-STILL NO LUCK!!! NOW A NUMERO DOS A LA DESPERADO!!! Ospreay screams as Sabre tears the leg in half, Will dancing around in search of reprieve, until a FRANKENSTEINER stands ZSJ on his dome! BRAINBUSTER FOLLOWS!
Sabre rocked, Ospreay cracks the CHELSEA GRIN against his neck, before connecting the HIDDEN BLADE!!! ONE! TWO! THR-ZACK’S STILL IN IT!!! Will’s leg is falling apart as he stumbles back into the corner to try for seconds, losing balance and collapsing before he can reach his target! EUROPEAN CLUTCH FROM ZACK!!! ONE! TWO! THR-OSPREAY SURVIVES!!! BUT A PENALTY KICK TO THE SKULL! AND STRAIGHT INTO ORIENTEERING WITH NAPALM DEATH!!! OSPREAY THRASHES LIKE A MADMAN, FEELING HIS LIGAMENTS ON THE VERGE OF TEARING… AND HE TAPS!!!
Zack Sabre Jr. (c) def. Will Ospreay to retain the IWGP World Heavyweight Championship (34:18)
One more for the bad guys. Commonwealth Kingpin at his mercy, Ospreay a mess as he scrambles off, Zack’s the new Top Gaijin in town. Raising his title high from the turnbuckles, he juices every last drop out his victory, this moment perfect to him… or not. OH MY GOD IT’S MINORU SUZUKI!!! Any bit of colour that remains on ZSJ’s pale face drains off as the King’s music rings through Fukuoka, but there’s no sign of the man- WAIT, SABRE’S SPUN AROUND! KICK TO THE GUT – GOTCH-STYLE PILEDRIVER!!! HE’S HERE!!! Placing a boot on Zack’s chest, Suzuki holds the World Title high over his former stablemate’s body!
The ending of Dontaku has Japan buzzing as they question the true motive of Suzuki’s attack, and after an extended silence, the King sets the record straight. 1 ½ years ago, Suzuki-Gun was dissolved, and ever since, Sabre’s been writing checks with his mouth that he can’t cash. He walks around with the World Title like he’s the reason he even received recognition in NJPW in the first place. Suzuki gave him a home beside him, and as rapidly as he elevated Sabre, he can take it all away from him just as fast. He’s getting old and is still missing the final piece to the Japanese Triple Crown, so he plans to take that from Zack.
Sabre doesn’t take too kindly to these words, letting his actions speak for himself as he ASSAULTS SUZUKI on a Road To Dontaku show! Bringing Sabre-Gun with him, they brutalise the legend, before Zack plants his group’s flag on Suzuki’s chest! Mocking him for having no allies the next night, declaring Suzuki’s era of relevance to be long gone… this plays. SUZUKI’S HERE, AND HE’S NOT ALONE! IT’S JUST6GUYS!!! Racing to the ring, the two factions erupt in a massive brawl, bodies flying left and right! Sabre tries for a quick getaway but he’s stopped by Minoru, who gives him a devilish snarl before clobbering him with forearms until Sabre-Gun’s sent packing through the crowd, Zack yelling expletives at Suzuki as he retreats!
Back to Yokohama Arena (May 16, 2024)
Sabre-Gun (Zack Sabre Jr., El Desperado & TMDK) vs Minoru Suzuki & Just3Guys (Taichi, Yoshinobu Kanemaru, DOUKI)
With Sabre-Gun and Just6Guys feuding ever since their respective formations, switching between silent competitive warfare of racking up belts to fighting each other, notably the Sabre/Taichi saga, it all fully comes to a head in Suzuki’s home of Yokohama! With full freedom to destroy each other however they please, the two factions don’t hold back one bit, with Suzuki especially targeting ZSJ. He’s unable to give him grief the way he wishes to though, Zack tactfully hiding behind his partners until he can blindside Minoru, before scramming again. Ultimately, it’s Minoru putting Desperado away with the GOTCH PILEDRIVER, before signalling to Sabre that time’s running out for him, Suzuki to get his hands on him too soon enough!
Minoru Suzuki & J6G def. Sabre-Gun (15:03)
As much as Sabre tries to deny it, that day only speeds closer with each accusation of cowardice against the prideful champion’s name, the world questioning whether he’s afraid of Suzuki. Adamant to silence his doubters, he finally accepts Suzuki’s title challenge, setting the stage for Dominion, though promising he won’t have a career to go back to when Sabre’s done with him!
Dominion 6.2 (June 2, 2024)
Also on the show:
YOH (c) vs SHO - IWGP Junior Heavyweight Championship
Just2Guys (c) vs Sabre-Gun (Blake Christian & Clark Connors) - IWGP Junior Tag Team Championship
TMDK (c) vs The Lucha Brothers - IWGP Tag Team Championship
PAC (c) vs Katsuyori Shibata - IWGP United States Championship
Zack Sabre Jr. (c) vs Minoru Suzuki - IWGP World Heavyweight Championship
With Sabre-Gun beating Just6Guys earlier in the night, this war’s already at its boiling point by the time the main event arrives, Suzuki opting to enter second as Zack steps out- CRACK! STEEL CHAIR TO SABRE’S SPINE!!! Suzuki isn’t wasting even a second here, tearing the jacket off Sabre’s back before bending the steel over his spine! The Windy Man desperately tries to crawl away to the ring, but Suzuki steps on his ankle to stop him! Turning him around to meet his maker, MINORU GOES FOR A GOTCH PILEDRIVER ON THE CHAIR!!! LOW BLOW FROM SABRE TO COUNTER!!!
Suzuki drops to his knees as Osaka boos the smarmy champion, ZSJ now battering the King’s back, before finally sliding him in to get the match started! PENALTY KICK RIGHT AWAY!!! ONE! TWO! THR-KICK OUT!!! Sabre wrenches in a CLARKY CAT, working the arm as Suzuki writhes under him, but it’s not long before Minoru stands up out of it, hurling ZSJ to the mat! Booting him in the jaw, Suzuki backs him into the corner and tears into him with open palm strikes! He winds up a CORNER DROPKICK, but Sabre evades, blasting him with a rapid barrage of European Uppercuts against the turnbuckle!
Zack taking the run-up now, Suzuki bucks him over the ropes to the apron, SABRE BLASTING A THUMB IN HIS EYE! Minoru blinded, Zack leaps up for a SPRINGBOARD ENZUIGIRI- SUZUKI BLOCKS WITH A WILD SLAP TO THE CHEEK!!! Sabre stiffed, Suzuki applies a HANGING JUJI-GATAME FROM THE ROPES!!! Zack screams in agony as Minoru damn near rips his arm out the socket, the referee’s count the only thing keeping him from going!
Releasing, Sabre crumples to the floor, getting as far as he possibly can from Suzuki, though he’s not fast enough, Suzuki nailing a GOAL KICK to his skull from the apron! Grabbing Sabre, he HURLS him into the guardrail with it shoulder-first, the velocity sending Zack through! As he goes to collect his prey though, SABRE TOSSES A CHAIR AT HIS SKULL!!! Threading Suzuki’s arm through it, SABRE STOMPS THE ELBOW!!! AND AN ARTICLE 50!!!
Sabre abuses the legend, but he forgets about the other arm, Suzuki slapping his head in with it until Zack releases! Shaking off the arm, a BACK BODY DROP sends Sabre crashing back to ringside, Minoru following after him as ZSJ slinks inside the ring. Zack beats him to his feet though, stomping a hole through the mat with Suzuki’s skull, dribbling it! He cracks a ROLLING ELBOW off the skull, but Minoru walks through it, glaring at Sabre! Throwing an elbow of his own, it gets caught, Zack scoring the PELE KICK to the arm!
AND A KIMURA LOCK!!! Sabre brutally rips at the arm, bringing Suzuki to his knees from the pain even, but Minoru pins his shoulders to the mat! ONE! TWO! THR-SABRE RELEASES TO KICK OUT! As Zack rolls to his feet, a SHOTGUN DROPKICK awaits him! Suzuki clobbers him with slaps to the face, Sabre seeing stars as one knocks him clean off his feet! Turning to the turnbuckle… SUZUKI RIPS IT OFF!!! Steel exposed, he teases a SNAP SUPLEX INTO THE CORNER!!! SABRE COUNTERS WITH A BRAINBUSTER ON THE MAT!!! GUILLOTINE CHOKE!!!
Draining the life out of Suzuki, Sabre presses on the carotid artery, Minoru is deep trouble! BUT NOW THE KING BITES ON ZSJ’S FINGERS!!! Zack yelps and releases, allowing Suzuki to secure his wrists and STOMP HIS HEAD IN!!! Sabre catches a boot and applies SUNDAY RAIL ENGINEERING WORKS REPLACEMENT BUS SERVICE!!! ZSJ tortures Suzuki’s leg, though in doing so leaves his arm exposed, Minoru yanking off his grip and countering into HIS OWN HEEL HOOK!!!
Sabre desperately tries the same counter, but Suzuki’s grip is too tight to break, forcing Zack to roll to the ropes! SUZUKI ISN’T LETTING GO! Crawling on his hands, Sabre pulls himself to the floor and WHIPLASHES MINORU’S NECK OFF THE BOTTOM ROPE!!! Staggering about ringside on one foot, he grabs his title and rolls back in! Suzuki struggling up, Sabre tries to deck him with the belt… but the referee grabs it from behind! A tug-of-war ends in SUZUKI KNOCKING THE BELT INTO THE REF WITH AN ENZUIGIRI!
Both men hitting the deck, Minoru rocks ZSJ with a Dropkick! GOTCH PILEDRIVER ONTO THE TITLE!!! But there’s no one to count! Pissed, Suzuki limps out and abuses a couple young lions, before picking one out the crowd to toss in the ring, ripping the referee’s shirt off and telling the lion to put it on! SUZUKI COVERS! ONE! TWO! THR-NOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!! Even more livid, HE DECKS THIS LION TOO! Turning back to Zack, he notices the champion feebly reaching for the belt! Kicking it out the ring, Suzuki goes for another GOTCH PILEDRIVER!!! BACK BODY DROP COUNTER!!!
Still hurting, Sabre struggles to get a rally of strikes going, Suzuki meeting him blow for blow! BUT SABRE WHIPS THE SHOULDER INTO THE MAT! Minoru stunned, sadistic thoughts run through Sabre’s mind… TIGER SUPLEX INTO THE EXPOSED STEEL!!! AND A RUNNING LIGER BOMB – ONE OF SUZUKI’S RIVALS MOVES!!! THE REFEREE’S BACK TO CONSCIOUSNESS! NOT LIKE THIS! ONE! TWO! THR-NOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!
Sabre’s exasperated, thinking he had it! Running out of options, he teases a ZACK DRIVER, but Suzuki slips behind and applies the SLEEPER HOLD!!! Sabre’s quickly fading, frantically trying to tear the bad arm off, but Minoru doesn’t budge, shoving ZSJ to the mat for the PENALTY KICK!!! ONE! TWO! THR-ZACK KICKS OUT!!! Suzuki grabs Sabre by the chin, demanding him to strike Minoru if he thinks he’s so tough, ZSJ doing his best, but Suzuki eats it and returns a HARD SLAP! SLEEPER SUPLEX!!!
Tossing Sabre to the apron, Minoru steps onto the middle rope and cinches in an ELEVATED SLEEPER!!! Zack dangles in the air, unable to find his footing to escape, Suzuki lifting him higher and higher! Blood rushing to his legs, he needs to act fast, attacking the elbow again until the hold is finally slightly loosened! Leaning forwards, he pulls Suzuki his direction, allowing him to lower his feet onto the apron… YANKING SUZUKI INTO AN APRON ZACK DRIVER!!!
Sabre coughs up a lung as he kicks Minoru’s corpse back in, before lining up a PENALTY KICK!!! ONE! TWO! THR-SUZUKI’S ALIVE!!! Zack’s stunned as he comes face-to-face with Suzuki’s sneer, Minoru still having enough in him to throw slaps! Sabre returning Uppercuts, they go blow-for-blow until Zack collapses first, though he’s playing possum, HEADBUTTING THE SHOULDER as the King tries to grab him! He goes for YOU CAN’T PLAY CONKERS IN ENGLAND, though he’s immediately tossed down, SUZUKI NAILING A PENALTY KICK!!!
Winding up, Minoru goes for one more… ZACK SLAPS HIS HEAD OFF HIS SHOULDERS!!! Putting the head between his legs, HE NAILS A GOTCH PILEDRIVER!!! Suzuki collapses in position for a PENALTY KICK!!! AND NOW SABRE CINCHES IT IN – HURRAH! ANOTHER YEAR, SURELY THIS ONE WILL BE BETTER THAN THE LAST; THE INEXORABLE MARCH OF PROGRESS WILL LEAD US ALL TO HAPPINESS!!! Suzuki grits his teeth, trying to fight through it, Sabre keeping his eyes on his hands to see the tap… NOWHERE TO GO, MINORU FLIPS HIM OFF WITH BOTH HANDS AND VERBALLY SUBMITS!!!
Zack Sabre Jr. (c) def. Minoru Suzuki to retain the IWGP World Heavyweight Championship (32:50)
Surviving one of the toughest matches of his career, Zack’s kingdom still lives, though barely. As he’s handed his title though, he chucks it aside, this about far more than the gold to him! SABRE STOMPS OUT SUZUKI!!! Signalling to the back, out rush Sabre-Gun, coming to Sabre’s aid to conduct a mugging on the legend! SUDDEN DEATH FROM ELP! PINCHE LOCO FROM DESPERADO! THUNDER VALLEY FROM TMDK! TANDEM JEEP FLIP/DROPKICK FROM BLAKE, CONNORS AND FUJITA! And now, it's Zack’s turn. Dragging him to the concrete… HE’S GOING FOR THE GOTCH PILEDRIVER!!! HE WANTS TO RETIRE SUZUKI FOR GOOD!!!
BUT HERE COMES J6G!!! AND LANCE ARCHER TOO!!! Sabre tosses Suzuki aside to deal with the oncoming traffic, Taichi and co. putting up an honourable fight, but they’re still down a man, Sabre-Gun managing to retain their upper-hand, until… OH MY GOD, IT’S SUZUKI’S OLD TAG PARTNER NAOMICHI MARUFUJI!!! Sabre can’t even get a curse out before a KO-OH SMACKS HIM IN THE FACE!!! Marufuji beats on Zack to turn the tide, going for the POLE SHIFT, but Sabre manages to escape in the nick of time, Sabre-Gun once again sent on the retreat, the show closing on Marufuji helping Suzuki up!
NJPW/AJPW/NOAH All Together Again (June 7, 2024)
Zack Sabre Jr. vs Naomichi Marufuji
After the events of Dominion, it’s only natural these two fight, long, long overdue a one-on-one since their NOAH days together! Fighting in Suzuki’s honour, Marufuji steps to the IWGP World Heavyweight Champion and it’s like 2016 all over again the way he utterly humbles Sabre to start like he’s facing Okada! A match of two halves, it goes from Naomichi giving ZSJ the biggest whooping of his life to Sabre brutally breaking down the legend, reminding him he’s 8 years too old to still be winning these sorts of matches. Though Maru gives Zack grief one more than one occasion, he meets his demise at the hands of a CREMATION LILY, Sabre spitting on Naomichi as he leaves, declaring himself untouchable!
Zack Sabre Jr. def. Naomichi Marufuji (25:37)
With his war on J6G and friends officially behind him, Sabre sets his sights on a show he has quite some history with. Losing to Claudio Castagnoli at the first Forbidden Door, before beating Katsuyori Shibata at the second to take both the NJPW TV and ROH Pure Titles to ALL IN to submit Danielson, there’s naturally only one direction for him to head…
Dynamite (June 12, 2024)
Racking another AEW International Championship defence under his belt, Wheeler YUTA is on top of the world, and as he’s approached by Tony Schiavone for a post-match comment… WHACK! IWGP WORLD TITLE TO THE BACK OF HIS HEAD!!! SABRE-GUN’S HERE!!! Mugging Blackpool Combat Club’s young gun like they did Suzuki, a SABRE DRIVER leaves him broken on the mat as Zack yells down the camera that he wants Moxley’s head at Forbidden Door, scurrying away before BCC can make the save!
Collision (June 15, 2024)
Zack Sabre Jr. vs Wheeler YUTA
Off the back of Sabre’s assault on YUTA, a match is made between the two technically-gifted champions in a massive Collision main event! Though ZSJ’s far out his paygrade, an arrogant Wheeler does his best to knock off the Technical Wizard, impressing with a display of submissions he’s picked up from Danielson, before employing some of Claudio’s marquee athleticism and Mox’s grittiness. Never a fair match to begin with though, a TESCO MEAL DEAL cruelly silences YUTA!
Zack Sabre Jr. def. Wheeler YUTA (10:12)
Grabbing a mic, Zack runs down Moxley, reminding him how they were supposed to fight 4 years ago until the pandemic ruined that, Jon ducking him ever since. Now though, he’s the last member of BCC he needs to get through before he can shut up those babies too, so all he needs to know is if Jon is still afraid of him or not. And as Sabre awaits his response… HE RECEIVES IT IN THE FORM OF A PARADIGM SHIFT!!! Mox holds Zack’s title over his body, gaining some retribution for YUTA!
AEWxNJPW Forbidden Door (June 23, 2024)
Also on the show:
The Lucha Brothers (c) vs La Faccion Ingobernable (RUSH & Dralistico) - IWGP Tag Team Championship
PAC (c) vs Swerve Strickland - IWGP United States Championship
Tetsuya Naito vs Andrade El Idolo
Zack Sabre Jr. (c) vs Jon Moxley - IWGP World Heavyweight Championship
The final showdown of a lengthy saga, Sabre makes his third defence against New Japan’s Ace, and it’s quite literally a bloody clinic, Mox showing zero fear in the face of the Top Gaijin, who looks to plant his flag over another territory. From a Paradigm Shift to the floor to a Zack Driver through a table, both men are busted open by the surroundings, the blood loss only helping Sabre’s case when he locks in the HYPERNORMALISATION, causing Mox to pass out! Alas, ZSJ stands atop BCC, but perhaps a more personal challenge yet awaits him…
Zack Sabre Jr. (c) def. Jon Moxley to retain the IWGP World Heavyweight Championship (23:20)
2023.05.27 23:41 yournailsupplier Nine Things to Avoid at the Nail Salon
 | Clients are completely unaware of numerous unwritten laws that apply to nail salons, although nail techs wish they were aware of them. Wouldn't it be fantastic to know exactly what you should not do at the nail salon since customers frequently nails art blog make the mistake of doing the incorrect things when they visit? submitted by yournailsupplier to u/yournailsupplier [link] [comments] The following is a list of the top 10 things you should try to stay away from doing at the manicure salon:
Why The Nail Salon Has A Big Problem With These NineThingsAvoid disturbing other salon patrons by not talking on the phone or using video chat without earbuds, or by watching videos at a loud volume. People nearby who want to unwind at the nail salon will be disturbed if you are talking on the phone too loudly or if the audio volume is cranked up too high. While being worked on, talking on the phone is acceptable as long as you are mindful of your voice volume.Bringing a wailing infant and neglecting to watch your kids - It is understood that there may be times when you are forced to bring your baby to the nail salon; however, you should be aware that when your baby is sobbing nonstop, it causes a lot of disruption for everyone there. While you are getting serviced, you can either pick a better time to come when you have a babysitter or ask a family member or friend to come with you to help watch the infant. mynailsart It is acceptable to bring your kids to the manicure salon, but make sure you keep a tight eye on them. In the salon, be sure to keep kids from running around or touching and playing with objects. Don't let them hold without thinking. Eating and drinking while having one's nails painted: Please don't eat or drink while having your nails painted. Particularly when you are constantly in contact with your nail tech's hands, it is quite unhygienic. Consider the quantity of flying nail dust or the possibility of chemicals like acetone being sprayed and perhaps landing on your food. So hold off on eating until after you are finished because this could lead to major health issues down the road. When they have a lid or are consumed when you are having a pedicure, drinks aren't as unpleasant. If not, there's a good chance that nail dust will end up on your straw or possibly inside your beverage. Just save the trouble for later and spare yourself the trouble. Speaking poorly about previous nail shops you've visited - The fact that you visited XYZ salon and had a negative experience there is probably irrelevant to your nail technician. Your nail technician will be extra cautious when working on you if you frequently discuss a negative experience you had at another nail shop. This is to ensure that they don't make a mistake. They will be concerned that you would do the same thing and make negative remarks about them at another salon. ConclusionYour nail technician will really love doing your nails when you come in for a visit now that you are more aware of the things you shouldn't do at the manicure salon. You should aim to follow these guidelines everywhere you go because they are generally cute easy nails applicable to nail salons. If you've disregarded one of these rules, it's entirely acceptable. Just make an effort to learn from your error and do better moving forward. |
2023.05.27 23:20 Acceptable-Friend-92 An Exciting Sneak Peek into India's 2023 Car Lineup: Key Insights and Details on 206 Upcoming Models!
I've compiled a comprehensive list of the upcoming cars for 2023 in India. It's an exciting time as we have as many as 206 upcoming cars from 42 different manufacturers. From the modest yet reliable Toyota Vitz, priced at ₹505,000.00 being the most affordable model, to the high-end, luxury models, there's a car for every budget and preference. Hold on to your seat belts, because next month itself will witness about 59 new launches.
Here are ome of the upcoming models:
Furthermore, a diversity of fuel options is apparent, with cars like Tata Punch CNG and Toyota Urban Cruiser Hyryder CNG joining the lineup. It seems manufacturers are addressing consumer needs for alternative, potentially more economical fuel options.
From a price perspective, we have a broad range, starting from ₹505,000.00 for the Toyota Vitz, going up to ₹3.50 Cr for the high-end Maserati MC 20. There's something for every pocket.
On the luxury end, brands like Jaguar, BMW, and Maserati are launching new models like Jaguar F-Type R Dynamic Black, BMW X8, and Maserati MC 20. These high-end cars add a touch of luxury and advanced technology to the mix.
In terms of manufacturers, Hyundai, Tata, and Maruti have multiple entries in the upcoming releases, indicating a robust competitive scenario in the Indian market.
To all the petrol heads out there, June 2023 seems to be the month to watch out for with a variety of models launching, including the likes of Tata HEXA, KIA Sorento, Jaguar E Pace, and the highly anticipated Tesla Model X.
In conclusion, 2023 appears to be an exciting year for car enthusiasts in India, with a wide range of cars expected to hit the market. Whether you are a fan of compact cars, SUVs, luxury vehicles, or environmentally friendly EVs, there is something for everyone.
submitted by Acceptable-Friend-92 to CarsIndia [link] [comments]
Here are ome of the upcoming models:
- Hyundai Exter, Expected Launch Date: June 2023, Expected Price: ₹6.00 Lakh
- Hyundai Casper, Expected Launch Date: March 2024, Expected Price: ₹5.50 Lakh
- Tata Blackbird, Expected Launch Date: July 2023, Expected Price: ₹11.00 Lakh
- Tata Punch CNG, Expected Launch Date: November 2023, Expected Price: ₹6.50 Lakh
- Maruti Jimny, Expected Launch Date: June 2023, Expected Price: ₹9.00 Lakh
- 📷📷Hyundai Exter₹ 6.00 Lakh - ₹ 9.00 Lakh**Expected pricePetrolExpected Launch Date - June 2023
- 📷📷Hyundai Casper₹ 5.50 Lakh - ₹ 8.00 Lakh**Expected pricePetrolExpected Launch Date - March 2024
- 📷📷Tata Blackbird₹ 11.00 Lakh - ₹ 15.00 Lakh**Expected pricePetrol DieselExpected Launch Date - July 2023
- 📷📷Tata Punch CNG₹ 6.50 Lakh - ₹ 8.00 Lakh**Expected priceCNGExpected Launch Date - November 2023
- 📷📷Maruti Jimny₹ 9.00 Lakh - ₹ 12.50 Lakh**Expected price14 kmplPetrolExpected Launch Date - June 2023
- 📷📷Maruti Jimny EV ₹ 14.00 Lakh**Expected price400 km/chargeElectricExpected Launch Date - June 2023
- 📷📷Maruti XL7₹ 12.00 Lakh - ₹ 13.00 Lakh**Expected pricePetrolExpected Launch Date - November 2023
- 📷📷Jeep Grand Wagoneer₹ 65.00 Lakh**Expected priceDieselExpected Launch Date - May 2023
- 📷📷Nissan Sunny₹ 8.50 Lakh**Expected priceDieselExpected Launch Date - May 2023
- 📷📷Toyota Urban Cruiser 2023₹ 8.80 Lakh**Expected pricePetrolExpected Launch Date - May 2023
- 📷📷MG Astor 2023₹ 11.00 Lakh**Expected pricePetrolExpected Launch Date - May 2023
- 📷📷KIA Niro EV ₹ 15.00 Lakh - ₹ 20.00 Lakh**Expected priceElectricExpected Launch Date - June 2023
- 📷📷Jeep Sub 4 meter SUV₹ 15.00 Lakh**Expected priceDieselExpected Launch Date - June 2023
- 📷📷Tata HEXA₹ 14.00 Lakh - ₹ 20.00 Lakh**Expected priceDieselExpected Launch Date - June 2023
- 📷📷KIA Sorento₹ 25.00 Lakh**Expected pricePetrolExpected Launch Date - June 2023
- 📷📷Jaguar F-Type R Dynamic Black₹ 1.37 Cr**Expected pricePetrolExpected Launch Date - June 2023
- 📷📷Jaguar E Pace ₹ 45.00 Lakh**Expected priceElectricExpected Launch Date - June 2023
- 📷📷KIA Sportage₹ 25.00 Lakh**Expected priceDiesel PetrolExpected Launch Date - June 2023
- 📷📷Toyota Corolla₹ 20.00 Lakh**Expected pricePetrolExpected Launch Date - June 2023
- 📷📷Honda Elevate₹ 11.00 Lakh**Expected pricePetrolExpected Launch Date - June 2023
- 📷📷Citroen C3 Aircross₹ 7.00 Lakh**Expected pricePetrolExpected Launch Date - June 2023
- 📷📷Jeep Cherokee₹ 50.00 Lakh**Expected priceDieselExpected Launch Date - June 2023
- 📷📷Volkswagen Vento 2023₹ 13.00 Lakh**Expected pricePetrolExpected Launch Date - June 2023
- 📷📷Jeep 7 Seater SUV₹ 30.00 Lakh**Expected priceDieselExpected Launch Date - June 2023
- 📷📷Haval H9₹ 25.00 Lakh**Expected priceDieselExpected Launch Date - June 2023
- 📷📷Honda HR-V₹ 14.00 Lakh**Expected priceDieselExpected Launch Date - June 2023
- 📷📷Toyota C-HR₹ 17.00 Lakh**Expected pricePetrolExpected Launch Date - June 2023
- 📷📷Tesla Model X ₹ 2.00 Cr**Expected priceUpto 524 km/chargeElectricExpected Launch Date - June 2023
- 📷📷Land Rover Defender 5-door Hybrid X-Dynamic HSE₹ 1.10 Cr**Expected pricePetrolExpected Launch Date - June 2023
- 📷📷BMW X8₹ 2.50 Cr**Expected pricePetrolExpected Launch Date - June 2023
- 📷📷Maruti S-Cross 2023₹ 10.00 Lakh - ₹ 16.00 Lakh**Expected pricePetrolExpected Launch Date - June 2023
- 📷📷Mahindra S204₹ 12.00 Lakh**Expected priceDieselExpected Launch Date - June 2023
- 📷📷Maserati MC 20₹ 3.50 Cr**Expected pricePetrolExpected Launch Date - June 2023
- 📷📷Renault Zoe ₹ 8.00 Lakh**Expected price394 km/chargeElectricExpected Launch Date - June 2023
- 📷📷Skoda Fabia 2023₹ 7.00 Lakh**Expected pricePetrolExpected Launch Date - June 2023
- 📷📷Hyundai Stargazer₹ 10.99 Lakh - ₹ 15.99 Lakh**Expected pricePetrol DieselExpected Launch Date - June 2023
- 📷📷MG ZS EV 2023 ₹ 25.00 Lakh**Expected priceElectricExpected Launch Date - June 2023
- 📷📷KIA Rio₹ 8.00 Lakh**Expected price23.75 kmplPetrolExpected Launch Date - June 2023
- 📷📷Jeep Avenger₹ 8.00 Lakh - ₹ 12.00 Lakh**Expected pricePetrolExpected Launch Date - June 2023
- 📷📷DC TCA₹ 25.00 Lakh**Expected pricePetrolExpected Launch Date - June 2023
- 📷📷Porsche 911 GT3₹ 2.50 Cr - ₹ 3.00 Cr**Expected pricePetrolExpected Launch Date - June 2023
- 📷📷Hyundai Nexo₹ 65.00 Lakh**Expected pricePetrolExpected Launch Date - June 2023
- 📷📷Maruti Swift 2023₹ 9.00 Lakh**Expected pricePetrolExpected Launch Date - June 2023
- 📷📷Skoda Enyaq iV ₹ 35.00 Lakh - ₹ 40.00 Lakh**Expected priceElectricExpected Launch Date - June 2023
- 📷📷Tata Altroz EV ₹ 12.00 Lakh**Expected price250 to 300 km/chargeElectricExpected Launch Date - June 2023
- 📷📷Nissan Qashqai₹ 16.00 Lakh**Expected priceDieselExpected Launch Date - June 2023
- 📷📷Lexus RZ 450e ₹ 60.00 Lakh - ₹ 70.00 Lakh**Expected price600 km/chargeElectricLaunch Date - 15 June 2023
- 📷📷Mahindra eKUV100 ₹ 10.00 Lakh**Expected price150 km/chargeElectricExpected Launch Date - June 2023
- 📷📷Maserati Grecale ₹ 48.47 Lakh - ₹ 60.22 Lakh**Expected price418 km/chargeElectricExpected Launch Date - June 2023
- 📷📷Mercedes-Benz VISION EQXX ₹ 2.00 Cr - ₹ 2.50 Cr**Expected priceElectricExpected Launch Date - June 2023
- 📷📷Mini Aceman EV ₹ 50.00 Lakh**Expected priceElectricExpected Launch Date - June 2023
- 📷📷Skoda Octavia VRS Hybrid₹ 41.00 Lakh**Expected pricePetrolExpected Launch Date - June 2023
- 📷📷Maruti Solio₹ 6.00 Lakh**Expected pricePetrol CNGExpected Launch Date - June 2023
- 📷📷Toyota Urban Cruiser Hyryder CNG₹ 13.23 Lakh - ₹ 15.29 Lakh**Expected price26.1 Km/kgCNGExpected Launch Date - June 2023
- 📷📷Renault K ZE ₹ 10.00 Lakh - ₹ 12.00 Lakh**Expected price350 km/chargeElectricExpected Launch Date - June 2023
- 📷📷ORA R2 ₹ 10.00 Lakh**Expected price401 km/chargeElectricExpected Launch Date - June 2023
- 📷📷KIA Carens CNG₹ 10.00 Lakh - ₹ 15.00 Lakh**Expected priceCNGExpected Launch Date - June 2023
- 📷📷Toyota Taisor₹ 15.00 Lakh**Expected pricePetrolExpected Launch Date - June 2023
- 📷📷Haima Bird Electric Ev1 ₹ 10.00 Lakh - ₹ 12.00 Lakh**Expected price200 km/chargeElectricExpected Launch Date - June 2023
- 📷📷MG One SUV₹ 13.00 Lakh - ₹ 17.00 Lakh**Expected priceExpected Launch Date - June 2023
- 📷📷Bugatti Chiron₹ 19.21 Cr - ₹ 21.22 Cr**Expected price5.95 kmplPetrolExpected Launch Date - June 2023
- 📷📷Hyundai Ioniq 6 ₹ 60.00 Lakh - ₹ 70.00 Lakh**Expected priceElectricExpected Launch Date - June 2023
- 📷📷Audi A3 2023₹ 35.00 Lakh**Expected price20.37 kmplPetrolExpected Launch Date - July 2023
- 📷📷Lexus UX₹ 40.00 Lakh**Expected pricePetrolExpected Launch Date - July 2023
- 📷📷BMW iX1 ₹ 60.00 Lakh**Expected priceElectricExpected Launch Date - July 2023
- 📷📷Tata Punch EV ₹ 12.00 Lakh**Expected priceElectricExpected Launch Date - July 2023
- 📷📷Hyundai Santa Fe 2023₹ 25.00 Lakh - ₹ 30.00 Lakh**Expected priceDieselExpected Launch Date - July 2023
- 📷📷BMW X6 M50i₹ 1.39 Cr**Expected pricePetrolExpected Launch Date - July 2023
- 📷📷Haval F7₹ 11.50 Lakh**Expected pricePetrolExpected Launch Date - July 2023
- 📷📷KIA Seltos 2023₹ 10.00 Lakh**Expected pricePetrolExpected Launch Date - July 2023
- 📷📷Honda CR-V 2023₹ 32.00 Lakh - ₹ 35.00 Lakh**Expected pricePetrolExpected Launch Date - July 2023
- 📷📷Hyundai i20 2023₹ 7.00 Lakh - ₹ 9.00 Lakh**Expected pricePetrolExpected Launch Date - July 2023
- 📷📷Hyundai Elantra 2023₹ 15.00 Lakh**Expected price14.62 kmplPetrolExpected Launch Date - July 2023
- 📷📷Ford Mustang Mach E ₹ 70.00 Lakh**Expected priceElectricExpected Launch Date - July 2023
- 📷📷Jeep Renegade₹ 18.00 Lakh - ₹ 25.00 Lakh**Expected pricePetrolExpected Launch Date - July 2023
- 📷📷Hyundai Kona Electric 2023 ₹ 24.75 Lakh - ₹ 25.75 Lakh**Expected priceElectricExpected Launch Date - July 2023
- 📷📷Mahindra Thar 5-door₹ 15.00 Lakh**Expected priceDieselExpected Launch Date - July 2023
- 📷📷Hyundai Alcazar CNG₹ 15.00 Lakh - ₹ 20.00 Lakh**Expected priceCNGExpected Launch Date - July 2023
- 📷📷Aston Martin DBS Superleggera₹ 5.00 Cr**Expected price7.1 kmplPetrolExpected Launch Date - July 2023
- 📷📷KIA 2023 Carnival (KA4)₹ 26.00 Lakh - ₹ 30.00 Lakh**Expected priceDieselExpected Launch Date - July 2023
- 📷📷Nissan Juke₹ 12.00 Lakh**Expected priceDieselExpected Launch Date - July 2023
- 📷📷Toyota Belta₹ 8.80 Lakh - ₹ 11.70 Lakh**Expected pricePetrolExpected Launch Date - July 2023
- 📷📷Land Rover Defender 5-door Hybrid X₹ 1.10 Cr**Expected pricePetrolExpected Launch Date - July 2023
- 📷📷Citroen Berlingo₹ 10.00 Lakh - ₹ 15.00 Lakh**Expected pricePetrol DieselExpected Launch Date - July 2023
- 📷📷Tata Safari Petrol₹ 14.25 Lakh - ₹ 17.25 Lakh**Expected pricePetrolExpected Launch Date - July 2023
- 📷📷Tata Harrier Petrol₹ 12.50 Lakh - ₹ 15.50 Lakh**Expected pricePetrolExpected Launch Date - July 2023
- 📷📷Hyundai 2023 Creta₹ 10.50 Lakh - ₹ 16.00 Lakh**Expected pricePetrol DieselExpected Launch Date - July 2023
- 📷📷MG 5 EV ₹ 19.00 Lakh - ₹ 21.00 Lakh**Expected priceElectricExpected Launch Date - July 2023
- 📷📷Hyundai Genesis₹ 35.00 Lakh**Expected priceExpected Launch Date - July 2023
- 📷📷Maruti Suzuki Engage₹ 17.00 Lakh - ₹ 1.80 Lakh**Expected pricePetrolExpected Launch Date - July 2023
- 📷📷BMW 4 Series Gran Coupe₹ 55.00 Lakh**Expected price14.8 kmplPetrolExpected Launch Date - July 2023
- 📷📷Tata Harrier 2023₹ 15.00 Lakh**Expected priceDieselExpected Launch Date - July 2023
- 📷📷BMW i3 ₹ 1.00 Cr**Expected price246 km/chargeElectricExpected Launch Date - July 2023
- 📷📷Hyundai Palisade₹ 40.00 Lakh**Expected pricePetrol DieselExpected Launch Date - July 2023
- 📷📷Hyundai Sonata₹ 20.77 Lakh**Expected pricePetrol DieselExpected Launch Date - July 2023
- 📷📷Mitsubishi Eclipse Cross₹ 28.00 Lakh - ₹ 30.00 Lakh**Expected priceDieselExpected Launch Date - July 2023
- 📷📷Nissan Terra₹ 25.00 Lakh - ₹ 32.00 Lakh**Expected priceDieselExpected Launch Date - August 2023
- 📷📷Honda WR-V 2023₹ 9.00 Lakh - ₹ 13.00 Lakh**Expected pricePetrol DieselExpected Launch Date - August 2023
- 📷📷VW Tiguan All Space 2023₹ 35.00 Lakh**Expected pricePetrolExpected Launch Date - August 2023
- 📷📷Maruti Futuro E ₹ 9.00 Lakh - ₹ 11.00 Lakh**Expected price130 km/chargeElectricExpected Launch Date - August 2023
Furthermore, a diversity of fuel options is apparent, with cars like Tata Punch CNG and Toyota Urban Cruiser Hyryder CNG joining the lineup. It seems manufacturers are addressing consumer needs for alternative, potentially more economical fuel options.
From a price perspective, we have a broad range, starting from ₹505,000.00 for the Toyota Vitz, going up to ₹3.50 Cr for the high-end Maserati MC 20. There's something for every pocket.
On the luxury end, brands like Jaguar, BMW, and Maserati are launching new models like Jaguar F-Type R Dynamic Black, BMW X8, and Maserati MC 20. These high-end cars add a touch of luxury and advanced technology to the mix.
In terms of manufacturers, Hyundai, Tata, and Maruti have multiple entries in the upcoming releases, indicating a robust competitive scenario in the Indian market.
To all the petrol heads out there, June 2023 seems to be the month to watch out for with a variety of models launching, including the likes of Tata HEXA, KIA Sorento, Jaguar E Pace, and the highly anticipated Tesla Model X.
In conclusion, 2023 appears to be an exciting year for car enthusiasts in India, with a wide range of cars expected to hit the market. Whether you are a fan of compact cars, SUVs, luxury vehicles, or environmentally friendly EVs, there is something for everyone.
2023.05.27 06:09 HPCthulhu1 Concerns For the Fate of Older TW Titles (Warning Long Essay)
Purpose:
I have been a Total War fan for as long as I remember, and I was enamored and still am enamored by the franchise. The reason why I am writing this is because I feel like all of the old legacy titles are being treated unfairly as of late and I do not understand why older titles do not receive any support.
Introduction:
I know CA has accomplished so much over the past decade and has evolved greatly as a franchise. Warhammer especially expanded the limits and scope of what Total War can do, and for that I am grateful! It is without a doubt that the Total War community has grown beyond measure. The reason for this growth lies in the fact that for the past seven years, the fantasy/mythology genre has been the focus of Total War. This in itself is not a bad thing, in fact, it was very fascinating and exciting to see how the franchise developed and grew with this new genre! The problem is that many of the older titles seemed to not receive as much love or support, and thus the historical community felt somewhat neglected during this time.
Lack of Support for Older Titles:
An observation that I feel all Total War fans can agree on is that support for a Total War title seems to end once a new Total War title emerges. I know there have been exceptions, but generally, this observation holds true. In some sort of sense, each title, whether it be fantasy or history, seems to be incomplete either content-wise (missing core historical/fantasy lore content) or mechanics-wise (core problems/glitches persisting to exist). Legacy titles (Empire, Napoleon, Shogun 2, Rome 2, etc..) in particular have been severely affected by this lack of continued support. In fact, more recent titles, most notably Three Kingdoms, are also heavily affected by this lack of support (This is especially sad for TW3K as the Three Kingdoms period is not even featured in the game).
Removal of Chat System from Legacy Titles:
The final nail in the coffin seems to be the removal of the chat systems for legacy titles (Empire, Napoleon, and now Shogun 2). I now fear that Attila and Rome 2 will suffer the same fate! Fans of these titles already knew that their beloved games will not receive any new content or support, but they never imagined that core features/content will be removed! This is just very sad. Part of the reason why these titles retained their popularity all these years has been due to the multiplayer system. Removing the chat system threatens the player base of these titles. I do not understand why older titles are treated in this manner. It’s not as if there are few players actively playing these games. In fact, Steam Statistics show the contrary, with Titles such as Napoleon, Shogun 2, Attila, and especially Rome 2 and 3 Kingdoms still retaining a high weekly player base. In the update message that coincided with the removal of the chat in Shogun 2, it is stated that: “It is necessary for us to remove those services from Shogun 2 and our other legacy titles. We are, however, continuing to investigate ways to implement and support chat in our future projects…”. This message implies that the chat feature is permanently removed from old titles and that the developers will focus on implementing chat systems in future titles rather than trying to find ways to re-implement them in their already developed titles.
Why End Support for Older Games?
What I do not understand is why Older Total War titles are treated in this way. Why end support for games that are still loved and played by the community? I wish to reiterate that I am grateful for all that CA does and accomplishes, but as a fan, I want to express this view that many TW players currently have.
It’s not uncommon to see developers go back to their older titles and add new content. If done properly, new content to older games can gain tremendous popular support from the player community while also achieving financial gain. Paradox, for example, has continuously been releasing DLC for old titles such as EU4 and HOI4. The amazing thing is that even if they developed new titles, such as CK3, they continued providing new DLC and support for their other titles. We only see support for a title ending when a sequel emerges. For example, support for CK2 ended once CK3 took its place. Why not implement this same policy in Total War?
Total War has every ability to continuously support all of their games, and rely on numerous DLC. The Warhammer Trilogy has shown us how successful such a system is. With numerous DLC and expansions, the Total War Warhammer community has stayed vibrant and ever-growing for the past seven years! Older titles equally have such potential, and we saw this with Rome 2 in 2018. When Rise of the Republic, Empire Divided, and Desert Kingdoms DLCs came out, they were incredibly popular, well received, and saw tremendous support from the Rome 2 community.
I know that CA has many groups working on different projects at the same time. Why not create a group whose purpose is going back to older titles, adding new content in the form of DLC, and fixing known issues? I feel the wider community as a whole would rejoice to know that their favorite games will receive continued love and support. New Games will be created, while older games continue to be expanded. In this way, the wider audience of Total War will consistently grow and retain its vibrant nature.
What Hypothetical Support in Older Games Could Look Like (Skip straight to the conclusion if you don’t feel like reading this. I sort of talk about personal DLC Ideas here).
Below I have some basic DLC ideas for older Total War Titles which could coincide with major updates to them. These are by no means original ideas, it’s more of a hypothetical vision of how support for older games could look like. I won’t go into too much detail about each one as it would dissuade from the purpose of this essay.
In conclusion, I feel saddened that many older titles have lost support and have had core features removed from them. I do not understand, why CA chooses to not support their older titles, especially as there is a large loyal community that still plays and enjoys them.
Adding DLC and support to all older titles, fantasy and historical alike, will be met with much positivity and all players will feel that their games receive a sense of care and closure that they desperately need. I have faith that this endeavor has much promise, and can easily build up a wonderful and vibrant community.
As a fan, I can’t wait to see what the future of Total War holds! I am eager to play the upcoming Total War Pharaoh, and I am looking forward to all the new forthcoming titles. Yet, despite my excitement, I had to share my concern and ideas on the fate of the Older TW Titles. I hope I did not bore you guys, and if you made it this far thank you for reading all that I had to say!
submitted by HPCthulhu1 to totalwar [link] [comments]
I have been a Total War fan for as long as I remember, and I was enamored and still am enamored by the franchise. The reason why I am writing this is because I feel like all of the old legacy titles are being treated unfairly as of late and I do not understand why older titles do not receive any support.
Introduction:
I know CA has accomplished so much over the past decade and has evolved greatly as a franchise. Warhammer especially expanded the limits and scope of what Total War can do, and for that I am grateful! It is without a doubt that the Total War community has grown beyond measure. The reason for this growth lies in the fact that for the past seven years, the fantasy/mythology genre has been the focus of Total War. This in itself is not a bad thing, in fact, it was very fascinating and exciting to see how the franchise developed and grew with this new genre! The problem is that many of the older titles seemed to not receive as much love or support, and thus the historical community felt somewhat neglected during this time.
Lack of Support for Older Titles:
An observation that I feel all Total War fans can agree on is that support for a Total War title seems to end once a new Total War title emerges. I know there have been exceptions, but generally, this observation holds true. In some sort of sense, each title, whether it be fantasy or history, seems to be incomplete either content-wise (missing core historical/fantasy lore content) or mechanics-wise (core problems/glitches persisting to exist). Legacy titles (Empire, Napoleon, Shogun 2, Rome 2, etc..) in particular have been severely affected by this lack of continued support. In fact, more recent titles, most notably Three Kingdoms, are also heavily affected by this lack of support (This is especially sad for TW3K as the Three Kingdoms period is not even featured in the game).
Removal of Chat System from Legacy Titles:
The final nail in the coffin seems to be the removal of the chat systems for legacy titles (Empire, Napoleon, and now Shogun 2). I now fear that Attila and Rome 2 will suffer the same fate! Fans of these titles already knew that their beloved games will not receive any new content or support, but they never imagined that core features/content will be removed! This is just very sad. Part of the reason why these titles retained their popularity all these years has been due to the multiplayer system. Removing the chat system threatens the player base of these titles. I do not understand why older titles are treated in this manner. It’s not as if there are few players actively playing these games. In fact, Steam Statistics show the contrary, with Titles such as Napoleon, Shogun 2, Attila, and especially Rome 2 and 3 Kingdoms still retaining a high weekly player base. In the update message that coincided with the removal of the chat in Shogun 2, it is stated that: “It is necessary for us to remove those services from Shogun 2 and our other legacy titles. We are, however, continuing to investigate ways to implement and support chat in our future projects…”. This message implies that the chat feature is permanently removed from old titles and that the developers will focus on implementing chat systems in future titles rather than trying to find ways to re-implement them in their already developed titles.
Why End Support for Older Games?
What I do not understand is why Older Total War titles are treated in this way. Why end support for games that are still loved and played by the community? I wish to reiterate that I am grateful for all that CA does and accomplishes, but as a fan, I want to express this view that many TW players currently have.
It’s not uncommon to see developers go back to their older titles and add new content. If done properly, new content to older games can gain tremendous popular support from the player community while also achieving financial gain. Paradox, for example, has continuously been releasing DLC for old titles such as EU4 and HOI4. The amazing thing is that even if they developed new titles, such as CK3, they continued providing new DLC and support for their other titles. We only see support for a title ending when a sequel emerges. For example, support for CK2 ended once CK3 took its place. Why not implement this same policy in Total War?
Total War has every ability to continuously support all of their games, and rely on numerous DLC. The Warhammer Trilogy has shown us how successful such a system is. With numerous DLC and expansions, the Total War Warhammer community has stayed vibrant and ever-growing for the past seven years! Older titles equally have such potential, and we saw this with Rome 2 in 2018. When Rise of the Republic, Empire Divided, and Desert Kingdoms DLCs came out, they were incredibly popular, well received, and saw tremendous support from the Rome 2 community.
I know that CA has many groups working on different projects at the same time. Why not create a group whose purpose is going back to older titles, adding new content in the form of DLC, and fixing known issues? I feel the wider community as a whole would rejoice to know that their favorite games will receive continued love and support. New Games will be created, while older games continue to be expanded. In this way, the wider audience of Total War will consistently grow and retain its vibrant nature.
What Hypothetical Support in Older Games Could Look Like (Skip straight to the conclusion if you don’t feel like reading this. I sort of talk about personal DLC Ideas here).
Below I have some basic DLC ideas for older Total War Titles which could coincide with major updates to them. These are by no means original ideas, it’s more of a hypothetical vision of how support for older games could look like. I won’t go into too much detail about each one as it would dissuade from the purpose of this essay.
Expanded Nations DLC (Napoleon): This DLC would add new factions, new units to present factions, and new battlefield maps. The primary purpose of this DLC would be to diversify custom and multiplayer battles. The factions that would be introduced here, do not require a relative campaign to go with them. The Napoleonic Era had many theaters of war, thus there are many nations that could be included here. The ones I had in mind are (Sardinia-Piedmont, Swiss Confederation, Saxony, Bavaria, Duchy of Warsaw, Greek and Serbian Revolutionaries, Eyalet of Egypt, Barbary States, Qajar Persia, Maratha Empire, and Kingdom of Nepal). This DLC could coincide with the re-implementation of the chat system in Empire and Napoleon Total War.Conclusion:
War of 1812 DLC (Napoleon): If there is one theater of war that deserves a campaign, it is that of the War of 1812. This DLC would come as a surprise to many in the historical community; especially those historical TW players who lost hope of seeing the US as a playable faction again. A map that resembles the American map of Empire Total War is the best option for this DLC, with the exception that regions such as Mexico and Eastern America should receive more provinces. USA, Mexican Revolutionaries, Haiti, Tecumseh’s Confederacy, Red Sticks, Great Britain, and Spanish Royalists should be the playable factions in the campaign. The Seminoles, Comanche, Gran Colombia, United Provinces of Rio de l Plata, and Empire of Brazil, could be added as factions in custom/multiplayer battle. This DLC could coincide with a potential graphical update to Napoleon Total War.
Imjin War DLC (Shogun 2): The Imjin War, or the Japanese Invasion of Korea, was one of the most pivotal moments of the Sengoku Jidai, and it is still not featured in Shogun 2. Such a campaign would mean creating a map centered around the Korean Peninsula and Northern China, and would also entail introducing new cultures such as Korea, China, and Jurchen Tribes. As a project, it might be somewhat difficult, as it would mean creating a whole new map and creating culture unique cities, forts, unit rosters, and languages. Despite these difficulties, I can see many players flocking to buy this DLC! First, it would feature other Asian factions which have never been featured before in Total War, namely Korea and Jurchens, and second, is a period of history featuring prominent figures such as Yi Sun-sin and Toyotomi Hideyoshi. The Playable factions here would be, the Japanese Shogunate, Ming Empire, Great Joseon State, and Jianzhou Jurchens. This DLC could coincide with the reimplementation of the chat system in Shogun 2 Total War as well as a graphical update.
Break the Chains DLC (Rome 2): The theme that emanates from this DLC pack, is that of rebellion. This DLC pack could add 6 factions all of whom have either rebelled or given Rome a hard time at some point. Of the 6 factions, two could have a Grand Campaign starting position (Etruscan league, Cimbri), two could have an Emperor Augustus Campaign starting position (Hasmonean Kingdom, Cherusci), and two will only be accessible via custom battle (Sertorian Rebels, Servile Rebels). This DLC could also coincide with new unique city maps for Jerusalem, Syracuse, and Sarmizegetusa (all cities that have rebelled against Rome). An idea that I have is potentially adding unique Archimedes contraptions to Syracuse, where they can be placed on walls similar to how artillery is when defending. A few Historical Battles could be added here too (such as the Silarius River, Carrhae, and Watling Street). To be honest there are tons of directions one can go with this. As this DLC relates to rebellion, it could come with some sort of rework of the public orderebellion system in Rome 2.
Civil Wars Immersion Pack (Rome 2): This is not meant to be really an expansive DLC, it’s more of an aesthetic one. Here players could have the ability to recolor their army during custom or multiplayer battles. There are many times when more than two people use the same faction during a multiplayer battle, such as Rome. The idea is that each player can choose to recolor their army in order to reduce the monotony such a circumstance may cause. In other words, the addition of a color palette. Such a feature would definitely diversify the R2 multiplayer community. I think a color pallet fits well with the theme of this DLC pack, due to the many civil wars Rome has had over the centuries, filled with colorful banners and shields. This DLC could also include several Historical Battles relating to Roman civil wars (such as Pharsalus, Zela, Thapsus, and Actium). This DLC could potentially add cool siege maps for multiplayer such as Dyrrachium, or Gregovia. Shogun 2 has a color palette, so I do not think it is a bad idea to see it used in Rome 2. This DLC could coincide with a graphical update to Rome 2.
Alexander and the Diadochi DLC (Rome 2):
In ancient antiquity, three generals are the most famous; Julius Caesar, Hannibal, and Alexander the Great. Currently, the game almost continuously spans from the Peloponnesian War until the Crisis of the Third Century. The only historical gap that exists in this timeline is that of the Campaigns of Alexander and the Diadochi. In other words, an Alexander campaign is greatly needed. There are thousands of TW historical fans who still long for an Alexander campaign, including myself. I envision this DLC having two campaigns that use the same map, but different periods. One campaign will be focused on the campaigns of Alexander, while the other will be focused on the Wars of the Diadochi. The map itself can span from the Balkans and Southern Italy, all the way to the entirety of Northern India. The first campaign would have one playable faction (Alexander), while the second campaign would feature six factions/leaders (Cassander, Lysimachus, Ptolemy I, Antigonus I, Seleucus I, Chandragupta Maurya).
There are many mechanics and avenues you can go with this DLC. I feel that both campaigns should focus on achieving cultural victories and having the spread of Greek culture be of great importance. The inclusion of new Indian cities, factions, and religions (Hinduism, Buddhism, Jainism) should also be introduced. Hellenistic events and religious fusion mechanics should be depicted as well.
I have a lot of additional ideas here, like narrative-driven events/dilemmas for the Alexander Campaign, as well as a Hegemon mechanic, similar to that of Shogun 2, for the Diadochi Campaign. One additional idea that I have, specifically for the Diadochi campaign, is having unlockable end-game crisis mechanics, where during the late game, depending on where on the map the player has expanded, they would have to face one or multiple sudden crises. Some end-game crises for the Diadochi campaign I could think of include: the Celtic Invasion of the Balkans, the Egyptian Revolt, the Secession of the Greco-Bactrian Kingdom, and the Roman Invasion of Magna Graecia.
Some complementary things that could be included in the DLC are the inclusion of a few historical battles (Such as, Gaugamela, Hydaspes, and Ipsus). Rhodes, Media, and Persis could be added as free FLC factions to the grand campaign. The Wrath of Sparta campaign could receive an update as well, potentially adding new mechanics to that campaign and also adding some missing units, like the Sacred Band of Thebes. This DLC could coincide with a rework of the subject mechanic, potentially adding new interactions with Satraps, Client States, and Tributaries, while also including an annexation mechanic.
Rise of Islam FLC (Attila): In the timeline of Total War Attila, there exists a historical gap in the 7th and early 8th centuries. This period was defined by the expansion of Islam, and the establishment of new regional powers. I envision this campaign to work similarly to how Imperator Augustus FLC worked for Rome 2, where all R2 players received a free grand-scale campaign set in a different era. In this case, the campaign can be free for those who own the Age of Charlemagne and the Last Roman DLCs and can include a similar map to the main grand campaign, just set in the 7th century. The Muslim Invasions marked a pivotal point in world history. Some Important factions include Rashidun Caliphate (which becomes Umayyad), Sassanid Empire, Eastern Roman Empire, Frankish Kingdom, Visigothic Kingdom, Bulgars, Avar Khaganate, and Göktürk Empire. There are many more minor factions, but I will not list them here. This DLC could coincide with a Graphical Update for Attila.
Medieval 2 Remaster (Medieval 2): Essentially a Remaster of the entire M2 game. This endeavor is one of the most requested by the entire TW community.
In conclusion, I feel saddened that many older titles have lost support and have had core features removed from them. I do not understand, why CA chooses to not support their older titles, especially as there is a large loyal community that still plays and enjoys them.
Adding DLC and support to all older titles, fantasy and historical alike, will be met with much positivity and all players will feel that their games receive a sense of care and closure that they desperately need. I have faith that this endeavor has much promise, and can easily build up a wonderful and vibrant community.
As a fan, I can’t wait to see what the future of Total War holds! I am eager to play the upcoming Total War Pharaoh, and I am looking forward to all the new forthcoming titles. Yet, despite my excitement, I had to share my concern and ideas on the fate of the Older TW Titles. I hope I did not bore you guys, and if you made it this far thank you for reading all that I had to say!
2023.05.27 02:55 juliusaeneas Need some created team ideas for SMB4?
Since we will all be re-creating our teams from scratch in SMB4, here’s 70 (yes 70!) created team concepts that I made over the years of SMB3. I hope this saves you all some time researching names for your teams and also spawns some ideas for jersey and logo designs.
Each division link below has 4 screenshots for each team: logo, uniform, player ratings, player cards. Ratings and positions are based on imagining each player’s baseball aptitude.
Happy creating everyone!
Movie Baseball Division: https://postimg.cc/gallery/VcsmxMX Bad News Bears, Backyard Baseball (characters from the video game), Cleveland Indians (from the movie Major League) Hollywood Sluggers (fictional movie baseball players), Rockford Peaches (from the movie A League of Their Own), Sandlot
Wrestling Division: https://postimg.cc/gallery/pv0KbZr WWF Superstars (80’s), WWE Raw (90’s), WWE Smackdown (2000’s), ECW, WCW, NWO, Slobberknockers (announcers/commentators), American Gladiators
Rap Division: https://postimg.cc/gallery/vBv3N2w New York Emcees (rappers from NY), Southern Crunk (rappers from the South and FL), Westside Connection (rappers from CA), Midwest Swang (rappers from the Midwest), Mid-Atlantic Mics (rappers from PA, VA, MD), Old School OG’s (old school rappers from the 80s), The Underground (conscious rappers from the 90s/00s), Hip Hop Queens (female rappers)
Genius Division: https://postimg.cc/gallery/wLLMQnm Bad Ass Bitches (female pioneers/legends), Explorers (famous land explorers), Folk Heroes (tall tale/fables legends), House of Fashion (famous fashion designers), Maestros (famous classical composers), NASA (famous astronauts), Painters (famous artists), US Presidents, Scientific Theory (Famous scientists)
TV Series Division: https://postimg.cc/gallery/mgyr576 Bayside Tigers (Saved by the Bell characters), MTV (former VJs and personalities), Quahog Clams (Family Guy characters), Schitt’s Creek (characters from the Netflix Series), Scrubs (characters from the Comedy Central show), Springfield Isotopes (Simpsons characters), Trash Pandas (trashy reality stars/actors)
Video Games Division: https://postimg.cc/gallery/MKZrhQ5 Street Fighter, Mortal Kombat, Streets of Rage, Eternal Champions, Grand Theft Auto, Pit-Fighter, Super Mario Bros, World Heroes Jet
Heroes Division: https://postimg.cc/gallery/6XkqR0m GI Joe, Cobra, Disney Princesses, Gotham City (Batman characters), X-Men (heroes), Mutant Brotherhood (X-Men villains), Star Trek: The Next Generation, Star Wars
Crime Division: https://postimg.cc/gallery/381s6kw Narcos Colombia, Narcos Mexico, Peaky Blinders, The Matrix, Mafia (famous gangsters), Law and Order: SVU, Deadly Viper Squad (Kill Bill characters)
Miscellaneous Division: https://postimg.cc/gallery/Xy9HHyr Arsenal Legends, ESPN (reporters and on-air personalities), Pittsburgh Pirates 1971, Pittsburgh Pirates 1991, Danger Noodles (last names are all noodle types)
submitted by juliusaeneas to SuperMegaBaseball [link] [comments]
Each division link below has 4 screenshots for each team: logo, uniform, player ratings, player cards. Ratings and positions are based on imagining each player’s baseball aptitude.
Happy creating everyone!
Movie Baseball Division: https://postimg.cc/gallery/VcsmxMX Bad News Bears, Backyard Baseball (characters from the video game), Cleveland Indians (from the movie Major League) Hollywood Sluggers (fictional movie baseball players), Rockford Peaches (from the movie A League of Their Own), Sandlot
Wrestling Division: https://postimg.cc/gallery/pv0KbZr WWF Superstars (80’s), WWE Raw (90’s), WWE Smackdown (2000’s), ECW, WCW, NWO, Slobberknockers (announcers/commentators), American Gladiators
Rap Division: https://postimg.cc/gallery/vBv3N2w New York Emcees (rappers from NY), Southern Crunk (rappers from the South and FL), Westside Connection (rappers from CA), Midwest Swang (rappers from the Midwest), Mid-Atlantic Mics (rappers from PA, VA, MD), Old School OG’s (old school rappers from the 80s), The Underground (conscious rappers from the 90s/00s), Hip Hop Queens (female rappers)
Genius Division: https://postimg.cc/gallery/wLLMQnm Bad Ass Bitches (female pioneers/legends), Explorers (famous land explorers), Folk Heroes (tall tale/fables legends), House of Fashion (famous fashion designers), Maestros (famous classical composers), NASA (famous astronauts), Painters (famous artists), US Presidents, Scientific Theory (Famous scientists)
TV Series Division: https://postimg.cc/gallery/mgyr576 Bayside Tigers (Saved by the Bell characters), MTV (former VJs and personalities), Quahog Clams (Family Guy characters), Schitt’s Creek (characters from the Netflix Series), Scrubs (characters from the Comedy Central show), Springfield Isotopes (Simpsons characters), Trash Pandas (trashy reality stars/actors)
Video Games Division: https://postimg.cc/gallery/MKZrhQ5 Street Fighter, Mortal Kombat, Streets of Rage, Eternal Champions, Grand Theft Auto, Pit-Fighter, Super Mario Bros, World Heroes Jet
Heroes Division: https://postimg.cc/gallery/6XkqR0m GI Joe, Cobra, Disney Princesses, Gotham City (Batman characters), X-Men (heroes), Mutant Brotherhood (X-Men villains), Star Trek: The Next Generation, Star Wars
Crime Division: https://postimg.cc/gallery/381s6kw Narcos Colombia, Narcos Mexico, Peaky Blinders, The Matrix, Mafia (famous gangsters), Law and Order: SVU, Deadly Viper Squad (Kill Bill characters)
Miscellaneous Division: https://postimg.cc/gallery/Xy9HHyr Arsenal Legends, ESPN (reporters and on-air personalities), Pittsburgh Pirates 1971, Pittsburgh Pirates 1991, Danger Noodles (last names are all noodle types)
2023.05.26 22:34 jravitz [WTS] 260+ Bottles - Niche, Designer, Vintage, Hard to Find and Discontinued - Le Labo, Creed, MFK, Mind Games, Chanel, Dior, Kilian, Amouage, Byredo, Gucci, YSL, More! (Bottle)
Post here and/or PM me with any questions. Shipping is $5. International is available, please discuss. Free samples with every purchase! Payment is by Venmo, CashApp or Zelle; PayPal must inquire.
All of my contact info as well as all of my bottles for sale, are available in my spreadsheet which you should bookmark and look at for a more updated inventory
Spreadsheet
submitted by jravitz to fragranceswap [link] [comments]
All of my contact info as well as all of my bottles for sale, are available in my spreadsheet which you should bookmark and look at for a more updated inventory
Spreadsheet
| HOUSE | FRAGRANCE | SIZE | REMAINING | Notes/Condition | Price | Type | |
|---|---|---|---|---|---|---|---|
| 1 | Amouage | Incense Rori Attar | 12mL | 100% Full | Brand New, Sealed | $439 | Niche |
| 2 | Amouage | Material (Woman) | 100mL | 100% Full | Tester; No Box; Tester Cap | $145 | Niche |
| 3 | Amouage | Orris Wakan Attar | 12mL | 99% Full | Full Presentation | $419 | Niche |
| 4 | Amouage | Rose Aqor Attar | 12mL | 99% Full | Full Presentation | $419 | Niche |
| 5 | Amouage | Vanilla Barka Attar | 12mL | 99% Full | Full Presentation | $419 | Niche |
| 6 | Andy Tauer | Cologne du Maghreb | 50mL | 99% Full | First Release, Rectangular Clear Bottle; With box | $95 | Niche |
| 7 | Bond No. 9 | Madison Square Park | 100mL | 100% Full | Tester; No Box, No Cap | $135 | Niche |
| 8 | By Kilian | Apple Brandy on the Rocks | 50mL | 99% Full | Full Presentation, Box has some wear. | $160 | Niche |
| 9 | By Kilian | Bamboo Harmony | 100mL | 100% Full | Tester Refill (No Spray) | $209 | Niche |
| 10 | By Kilian | Black Phantom | 100mL | 100% Full | Tester Refill (No Spray) | $215 | Niche |
| 11 | By Kilian | Gold Knight | 100mL | 100% Full | Tester Refill (No Spray) | $209 | Niche |
| 12 | By Kilian | Good Girl Gone Bad | 250mL | 99% Full | Decanter; No Box | $800 | Niche |
| 13 | By Kilian | Intoxicated | 100mL | 100% Full | Tester Refill (No Spray) | $209 | Niche |
| 14 | By Kilian | Love Don't be Shy | 50mL | 99% Full | Full Presentation, Box has some wear. | $160 | Niche |
| 15 | By Kilian | Love Don't Be Shy Extreme | 50mL | 100% Full | Brand New, Sealed | $190 | Niche |
| 16 | Byredo | Infloresence | 100mL | 100% Full | Tester; No Box | $135 | Niche |
| 17 | Byredo | Lil Fleur | 100mL | 100% Full | Tester; No Box | $135 | Niche |
| 18 | Byredo | Mixed Emotions | 100mL | 100% Full | Tester; No Box | $135 | Niche |
| 19 | Byredo | Mumbai Noise | 100mL | 100% Full | Tester; No Box | $135 | Niche |
| 20 | Byredo | Sunday Cologne | 100mL | 100% Full | Tester; No Box | $135 | Niche |
| 21 | Chanel Exclusif | Cuir de Russie EdT | 200mL | 95% Full | No Box; Tester | $725 | Niche |
| 22 | Chanel Exclusif | Misia EdT | 200mL | 98% Full | Vintage Discontinued Formula; No Box | $380 | Niche |
| 23 | Chanel Exclusif | No. 22 EdT | 200mL | 97% Full | $550 | Niche | |
| 24 | Christian Dior / Dior Privee | Bois D'Argent | 7.5mL | 100% Full | Official Mini | $30 | Niche |
| 25 | Christian Dior / Dior Privee | Bois D'Argent | 5mL | 100% Full | Official Mini - Batch Code 0V01 (2010 Production Date) - Price includes shipping | $35 | Niche |
| 26 | Christian Dior / Dior Privee | Cologne Royale | 5mL | 100% Full | Official Mini - Batch Code 1X01 (2011 Production Date) - Price includes shipping | $30 | Niche |
| 27 | Christian Dior / Dior Privee | Diorissima | 7.5mL | 100% Full | Official Mini; No Cannister - Price includes shipping | $30 | Niche |
| 28 | Christian Dior / Dior Privee | Eau Noire | 5mL | 100% Full | Official Mini - Batch Code 1R01 (2011 Production Date) - Price includes shipping | $35 | Niche |
| 29 | Christian Dior / Dior Privee | Eden Roc | 7.5mL | 100% Full | Official Mini - Price includes shipping | $30 | Niche |
| 30 | Christian Dior / Dior Privee | Granville | 5mL | 100% Full | Official Mini - Batch Code 0V01 (2010 Production Date) - Price includes shipping | $35 | Niche |
| 31 | Christian Dior / Dior Privee | Milly-La-Foret | 5mL | 100% Full | Official Mini - Batch Code 0W01 (2010 Production Date) - Price includes shipping | $30 | Niche |
| 32 | Christian Dior / Dior Privee | Mitzah | 5mL | 100% Full | Official Mini - Batch Code 1W01 (2011 Production Date) - Price includes shipping | $35 | Niche |
| 33 | Christian Dior / Dior Privee | New Look 1947 | 5mL | 100% Full | Official Mini - Batch Code 1R01 (2011 Production Date) - Price includes shipping | $30 | Niche |
| 34 | Clive Christian | I Pour Femme (Woody Floral with Vintage Rose) | 50mL | 99% Full | No Box | $180 | Niche |
| 35 | Clive Christian | Rock Rose | 50mL | 100% Full | Brand New, Sealed | $289 | Niche |
| 36 | Creed | Acqua Florentina - F Batch | 75mL | 95% Full | Box, Can add a Creed Cap as well | $175 | Niche |
| 37 | Creed | Aventus - 22A11A | 100mL | 100% Full | Full Presentation | $250 | Niche |
| 38 | Creed | Aventus Cologne - 2022 Batch | 100mL | 100% Full | Tester with Cap | $234 | Niche |
| 39 | Creed | Aventus Cologne - F Batch (Plastic Cap) | 100mL | 100% Full | Brand New, Sealed in Box | $239 | Niche |
| 40 | Creed | Aventus for Her - F567 | 75mL | 100% Full | Tester with Cap | $190 | Niche |
| 41 | Creed | Erolfa - 15X01 | 120mL | 100% Full | Tester with Cap | $369 | Niche |
| 42 | Creed | Erolfa - F Batch | 100mL | 100% Full | Tester; No Box, No Cap | $160 | Niche |
| 43 | Creed | Green Irish Tweed - 19U11 | 50mL | 99% Full | Full presentation with Box | $160 | Niche |
| 44 | Creed | Green Irish Tweed - 2022 Batch | 100mL | 98% Full | Full Presentation | $195 | Niche |
| 45 | Creed | Himalaya - 22B01A | 100mL | 100% Full | Tester with Square Style Cap | $175 | Niche |
| 46 | Creed | Millesime Imperial - F Batch | 100mL | 100% Full | Comes with Box and SQUARE Older Style Cap. | $180 | Niche |
| 47 | Creed | Neroli Sauvage - F241 | 100mL | 100% Full | Comes with Box and SQUARE Older Style Cap. | $180 | Niche |
| 48 | Creed | Original Santal - F511 | 100mL | 100% Full | Tester with Cap | $185 | Niche |
| 49 | Creed | Original Vetiver - 16A01 | 120mL | 100% Full | Tester with Cap | $249 | Niche |
| 50 | Creed | Royal Mayfair - 15R01 | 120mL | 100% Full | Tester with Cap | $229 | Niche |
| 51 | Creed | Royal Oud - F BATCH | 100mL | 100% Full | Tester with Cap | $289 | Niche |
| 52 | Creed | Royal Water - 20C01N | 100mL | 100% Full | Tester with Square Style Cap | $175 | Niche |
| 53 | Creed | Silver Mountain Water - 21V01A | 100mL | 100% Full | Tester with Square Style Cap | $175 | Niche |
| 54 | Creed | Spring Flowers 2023 | 75mL | 100% Full | Tester with Cap | $225 | Niche |
| 55 | Creed | Tabarome - 21Y01A | 100mL | 100% Full | Tester; No Box; No Cap | $149 | Niche |
| 56 | Creed | Virgin Island Water - F473 | 100mL | 100% Full | Tester with Cap | $195 | Niche |
| 57 | Creed | White Amber - 17W01 | 75mL | 100% Full | Tester; No Box; No Cap | $149 | Niche |
| 58 | Creed | Wind Flowers - 22C01B | 75mL | 100% Full | Tester with Cap | $199 | Niche |
| 59 | Diptyque | Do Son Eau de Toilette | 100mL | 100% Full | Brand New, Sealed | $99 | Niche |
| 60 | DS & DURGA | Amber Kiso | 100mL | 100% Full | New, No Box | $125 | Niche |
| 61 | Frederic Malle | Eau de Magnolia | 10mL | 100% Full | Official Travel Spray | $55 | Niche |
| 62 | Gallagher | Bergamot Silk | 100mL | 99% Full | $84 | Niche | |
| 63 | Giorgio Armani / Armani Prive | Gardenia Antigua | 100mL | 100% Full | Tester; No Box | $155 | Niche |
| 64 | Giorgio Armani / Armani Prive | Pierre de Lune | 100mL | 100% Full | Tester; No Box | $155 | Niche |
| 65 | Giorgio Armani / Armani Prive | Rose Alexandrie | 100mL | 100% Full | Tester; No Box | $155 | Niche |
| 66 | Guerlain | Angelique Noire | 30mL | 100% Full | Mini Bee Bottle Decant | $215 | Niche |
| 67 | Guerlain | Angelique Noire | 10mL | 100% Full | Tall Glass Decant | $55 | Niche |
| 68 | Guerlain | Bois D'Armenie | 200mL | 100% Full | Brand New, Sealed | $379 | Niche |
| 69 | Guerlain | Cherry Oud | 100mL | 100% Full | Brand New, Sealed | $279 | Niche |
| 70 | Guerlain | Cruel Gardenia | 200mL | 100% Full | Brand new tester without box | $329 | Niche |
| 71 | Guerlain | Embruns D'Ylang | 200mL | 100% Full | Tester; No Box | $339 | Niche |
| 72 | Guerlain | Epices Volee | 200mL | 100% Full | Tester; No Box | $339 | Niche |
| 73 | Guerlain | Gourmand Coquin | 10mL | 100% Full | Tall Glass Decant | $60 | Niche |
| 74 | Guerlain | Herbes Troublantes | 200mL | 100% Full | Tester; No Box | $339 | Niche |
| 75 | Guerlain | Joyeuse Tuberuese | 200mL | 100% Full | Tester; No Box | $349 | Niche |
| 76 | Guerlain | Musc Outreblanc | 200mL | 100% Full | Tester; No Box | $349 | Niche |
| 77 | Guerlain | Oeillet Pourpre | 200mL | 100% Full | Tester; No Box | $339 | Niche |
| 78 | Guerlain | Oud Nude | 200mL | 95% Full | Tester; No Box | $369 | Niche |
| 79 | Guerlain | Rose Barbare | 200mL | 100% Full | Tester; No Box | $339 | Niche |
| 80 | Guerlain | Rose Barbare | 200mL | 90% Full | DECANTED - NO ORIGINAL BOTTLE | $250 | Niche |
| 81 | Guerlain | Santal Pao Rosa | 200mL | 100% Full | Tester (No Box) | $349 | Niche |
| 82 | Guerlain | Tonka Imperiale | 30mL | 100% Full | Mini Bee Bottle Decant | $199 | Niche |
| 83 | Guerlain | Tonka Imperiale | 10mL | 100% Full | Tall Glass Decant | $55 | Niche |
| 84 | Hermes / Hermessence | Agar Ebene | 100mL | 100% Full | Tester; No Box, No Cap | $135 | Niche |
| 85 | Hermes / Hermessence | Epice Marine | 100mL | 100% Full | Tester; No Box | $145 | Niche |
| 86 | Hermes / Hermessence | Iris Ukiyoe | 100mL | 100% Full | Tester; No Box, No Cap | $145 | Niche |
| 87 | Hermes / Hermessence | Osmanthe Yunnan | 100mL | 100% Full | Tester; No Box, No Cap | $145 | Niche |
| 88 | Hermes / Hermessence | Paprika Brasil | 100mL | 100% Full | Tester; No Box. | $165 | Niche |
| 89 | Hermes / Hermessence | Santal Massoia | 100mL | 100% Full | No Box | $199 | Niche |
| 90 | Hermes / Hermessence | Vanille Galante | 100mL | 100% Full | Tester; No Box, No Cap | $135 | Niche |
| 91 | Hermes / Hermessence | Vetiver Tonka | 100mL | 100% Full | Tester; No Box, No Cap | $155 | Niche |
| 92 | Hermes / Hermessence | Vetiver Tonka | 200mL | 100% Full | Full Presentation, Brand New. | $399 | Niche |
| 93 | Hiram Green | Vetiver | 50mL | 95% Full | Full Presentation | $130 | Niche |
| 94 | House of Sillage | Hufflepuff | 75mL | 100% Full | Brand New, Sealed | $330 | Niche |
| 95 | House of Sillage | Nouez Moi | 75mL | 99% Full | Tester | $120 | Niche |
| 96 | I Profumi di Firenze | Caterina De Medici | 50mL | 99% Full | No Box | $35 | Niche |
| 97 | Initio | Musk Therapy | 90mL | 99% Full | Full presentation with Box | $200 | Niche |
| 98 | Initio | Side Effect | 10mL | 100% Full | Official Travel Atomizer | $75 | Niche |
| 99 | Knize | Knize Ten | 125mL | 99% Full | No Box | $110 | Niche |
| 100 | Le Labo | Another 13 | 50mL | 100% Full | Brand New, Sealed | $189 | Niche |
| 101 | Le Labo | Baie 19 | 100mL | 99% Full | Sprayed Once to Test / Brand New; No Box | $225 | Niche |
| 102 | Le Labo | Cedrat 37 – Berlin City Exclusive | 100mL | 99% Full | Sprayed Once to Test / Brand New; No Box | $275 | Niche |
| 103 | Le Labo | Cedrat 37 – Berlin City Exclusive | 50mL | 99% Full | Sprayed Once to Test / Brand New; No Box | $225 | Niche |
| 104 | Le Labo | Gaiac 10 – Tokyo City Exclusive | 100mL | 99% Full | Sprayed Once to Test / Brand New; No Box | $400 | Niche |
| 105 | Le Labo | Mousse de Chene 30 - Amsterdam City Exclusive | 50mL | 99% Full | Sprayed Once to Test / Brand New; No Box | $300 | Niche |
| 106 | Le Labo | Musc 25 – Los Angeles City Exclusive | 50mL | 99% Full | Sprayed Once to Test / Brand New; No Box | $250 | Niche |
| 107 | Le Labo | Rose 31 | 50mL | 99% Full | Sprayed Once to Test / Brand New; No Box | $175 | Niche |
| 108 | Le Labo | Santal 33 | 100mL | 99% Full | No Box | $199 | Niche |
| 109 | Le Labo | Tabac 28 – Miami City Exclusive | 50mL | 99% Full | Sprayed Once to Test / Brand New; No Box | $250 | Niche |
| 110 | Le Labo | The Noir 29 | 50mL | 99% Full | Sprayed Once to Test / Brand New; No Box | $175 | Niche |
| 111 | Maison Crivelli | Bois Datchai | 100mL | 100% Full | Brand New, Sealed | $169 | Niche |
| 112 | Maison Crivelli | Rose Saltifolia | 100mL | 100% Full | Tester; No Box | $159 | Niche |
| 113 | Maison Francis Kurkdjian | 724 | 200mL | 100% Full | Tester; No Box | $365 | Niche |
| 114 | Maison Francis Kurkdjian | Amyris Femme | 70mL | 100% Full | Tester; No Box | $139 | Niche |
| 115 | Maison Francis Kurkdjian | Amyris Femme Extrait | 70mL | 100% Full | Tester; No Box | $165 | Niche |
| 116 | Maison Francis Kurkdjian | Amyris Femme Extrait Special Edition Bottle | 70mL | 100% Full | Tester; No Box | $245 | Niche |
| 117 | Maison Francis Kurkdjian | Aqua Celestia | 70mL | 100% Full | Tester; No Box | $115 | Niche |
| 118 | Maison Francis Kurkdjian | Aqua Celestia Cologne Forte | 200mL | 100% Full | Brand New, Sealed | $279 | Niche |
| 119 | Maison Francis Kurkdjian | Aqua Celestia Cologne Forte | 70mL | 100% Full | Tester; No Box | $149 | Niche |
| 120 | Maison Francis Kurkdjian | Aqua Celestia Forte | 70mL | 100% Full | Tester; No Box | $159 | Niche |
| 121 | Maison Francis Kurkdjian | Aqua Media Cologne Forte | 70mL | 100% Full | Tester; No Box. | $175 | Niche |
| 122 | Maison Francis Kurkdjian | Aqua Universalis Cologne Forte | 70mL | 100% Full | Tester; No Box | $119 | Niche |
| 123 | Maison Francis Kurkdjian | Aqua Universalis EdT | 200mL | 100% Full | Tester; No Box | $219 | Niche |
| 124 | Maison Francis Kurkdjian | Aqua Vitae | 200mL | 100% Full | Tester; No Box | $219 | Niche |
| 125 | Maison Francis Kurkdjian | Aqua Vitae Cologne Forte | 70mL | 100% Full | Tester; No Box | $119 | Niche |
| 126 | Maison Francis Kurkdjian | Aqua Vitae Forte EdP | 70mL | 100% Full | Tester; No Box | $159 | Niche |
| 127 | Maison Francis Kurkdjian | Baccarat Rouge 540 EdP | 70mL | 100% Full | Tester; No Box | $205 | Niche |
| 128 | Maison Francis Kurkdjian | Gentle Fluidity Gold | 70mL | 100% Full | Tester; No Box | $165 | Niche |
| 129 | Maison Francis Kurkdjian | Grand Soir | 70mL | 100% Full | Tester; No Box | $170 | Niche |
| 130 | Maison Francis Kurkdjian | L'eau a La Rose | 70mL | 100% Full | Tester; No Box | $129 | Niche |
| 131 | Maison Francis Kurkdjian | L'eau a la Rose | 35mL | 100% Full | Tester; No Box. | $90 | Niche |
| 132 | Maison Francis Kurkdjian | L'homme A la Rose | 70mL | 100% Full | Tester; No Box | $159 | Niche |
| 133 | Maison Francis Kurkdjian | Oud EdP | 70mL | 100% Full | Tester; No Box | $170 | Niche |
| 134 | Maison Francis Kurkdjian | Oud Extrait | 10mL | 100% Full | Tester; No Box | $35 | Niche |
| 135 | Maison Francis Kurkdjian | Oud Satin Mood EdP | 70mL | 100% Full | Tester; No Box. | $190 | Niche |
| 136 | Maison Francis Kurkdjian | Petit Matin | 70mL | 100% Full | Tester; No Box | $145 | Niche |
| 137 | Maison Francis Kurkdjian | Petit Matin | 200mL | 100% Full | Tester; No Box | $350 | Niche |
| 138 | Mark Birley | Charles Street | 75mL | 97% Full | Travel Version | $90 | Niche |
| 139 | Masque Milano | Tango | 35mL | 99% Full | $90 | Niche | |
| 140 | Memo Paris | French Leather | 75mL | 100% Full | Tester; No Cap | $135 | Niche |
| 141 | Memo Paris | Inle | 75mL | 100% Full | Tester; No Cap | $135 | Niche |
| 142 | Memo Paris | Italian Leather | 75mL | 100% Full | Tester; No Box or Cap | $135 | Niche |
| 143 | Memo Paris | Lailabella | 75mL | 100% Full | Tester; No Box; No Cap | $135 | Niche |
| 144 | Memo Paris | Marfa | 75mL | 100% Full | Tester; No Box; No Cap | $135 | Niche |
| 145 | Memo Paris | Moon Fever | 75mL | 100% Full | Tester; No Box; No Cap | $135 | Niche |
| 146 | Memo Paris | Oriental Leather | 75mL | 100% Full | Tester; No Box; No Cap | $135 | Niche |
| 147 | Mind Games | Caissa | 100mL | 100% Full | Tester; No Box | $250 | Niche |
| 148 | Mind Games | Gardez (Black Queen) | 100mL | 100% Full | Tester; No Box | $225 | Niche |
| 149 | Mind Games | J'Adoube | 100mL | 100% Full | Brand New, Sealed | $299 | Niche |
| 150 | Mind Games | Scholar's Mate | 100mL | 100% Full | Tester; No Box | $225 | Niche |
| 151 | Mizensir | Cologne de Figuer | 100mL | 100% Full | Tester; No Box. | $175 | Niche |
| 152 | Mizensir | Cologne de Matte | 100mL | 100% Full | Tester; No Box. | $175 | Niche |
| 153 | Mizensir | Ideal Oud | 100mL | 100% Full | Tester; No Box | $165 | Niche |
| 154 | Mizensir | Mythique Vetiver | 100mL | 100% Full | Tester; No Box. | $175 | Niche |
| 155 | Mizensir | Sweet Prailine | 100mL | 100% Full | Tester; No Box | $165 | Niche |
| 156 | Mizensir | Bois de Mysore | 100mL | 100% Full | Tester; No Box | $165 | Niche |
| 157 | Mona di Orio | Cuir | 75mL | 99% Full | No Box | $120 | Niche |
| 158 | Oliver and Co. | M.O.U.S.S.E. | 50mL | 99% Full | Limited Edition 87/133 | $110 | Niche |
| 159 | Parfums de Nicolai | Patchouli Intense | 100mL | 98% Full | Full Presentation | $119 | Niche |
| 160 | Perris Monte Carlo | Tuberuese Absolue | 100mL | 99% Full | No Box | $99 | Niche |
| 161 | Pomare's Stolen Perfume | Angel's Share | 9mL | 70% Full | No Box | $40 | Niche |
| 162 | Roja Dove | Apex Discovery Atomizer | 7.5mL | 99% Full | $50 | Niche | |
| 163 | Roja Dove | Creation-E Essence de Parfum | 100mL | 100% Full | Tester; No Box | $165 | Niche |
| 164 | Roja Dove | Scandal Essence de Parfum | 100mL | 100% Full | Tester; No Box | $165 | Niche |
| 165 | Roman Monegal | L'eau de Rose | 50mL | 97% Full | $70 | Niche | |
| 166 | Santa Maria Novella | Sandalo | 100mL | 95% Full | No Box | $80 | Niche |
| 167 | The Harmonist | Desired Earth Eau de Parfum | 50mL | 100% Full | Brand new, Sealed | $219 | Niche |
| 168 | The Harmonist | Magnetic Wood Parfum | 50mL | 100% Full | BNIB Sealed | $229 | Niche |
| 169 | Tom Ford | Beau de Jour | 1000mL | 100% Full | Sealed Dramming Bottle | $1,000 | Niche |
| 170 | Tom Ford | Ebene Fume | 250mL | 99% Full | Decanter; No Box | $750 | Niche |
| 171 | Tom Ford | Ebene Fume | 50mL | 100% Full | Brand New, Sealed | $170 | Niche |
| 172 | Tom Ford | Fougere Platine | 250mL | 90% Full | Decanter; No Box | $625 | Niche |
| 173 | Tom Ford | Fougere Platine | 1000mL | 100% Full | Sealed Dramming Bottle | $1,000 | Niche |
| 174 | Tom Ford | Fucking Fabulous | 250mL | 99% Full | Decanter; No Box | $750 | Niche |
| 175 | Tom Ford | Fucking Fabulous | 50mL | 100% Full | Brand New, Sealed | $180 | Niche |
| 176 | Tom Ford | Grey Vetiver Parfum | 100mL | 100% Full | Sealed, New in Box | $170 | Niche |
| 177 | Tom Ford | Oud Fleur | 1000mL | 100% Full | Sealed Dramming Bottle | $1,000 | Niche |
| 178 | Tom Ford | Oud Wood | 250mL | 99% Full | Decanter; No Box | $750 | Niche |
| 179 | Tom Ford | Rose de Chine | 50mL | 100% Full | Brand New, Sealed | $175 | Niche |
| 180 | Tom Ford | Rose Prick | 100mL | 100% Full | Brand New, Sealed | $269 | Niche |
| 181 | Tom Ford | Soleil Blanc EdP | 50mL | 100% Full | Brand New, Sealed | $140 | Niche |
| 182 | Tom Ford | Soleil Brulant | 50mL | 100% Full | Brand New, Sealed | $145 | Niche |
| 183 | Tom Ford | Soleil Neige | 1000mL | 100% Full | Sealed Dramming Bottle | $850 | Niche |
| 184 | Tom Ford | Tobacco Oud | 50mL | 95% Full | No Box | $180 | Niche |
| 185 | Tom Ford | Tobacco Vanille | 50mL | 90% Full | Full Presentation with Box | $155 | Niche |
| 186 | Tom Ford | Tuscan Leather | 50mL | 100% Full | Magnetic Cap Decant | $115 | Niche |
| 187 | Tom Ford | Vert des Bois | 1000mL | 100% Full | Sealed Dramming Bottle | $900 | Niche |
| 188 | Tom Ford | White Suede | 1000mL | 100% Full | Sealed Dramming Bottle | $850 | Niche |
| 189 | TVGA | Milestones Extrait | 9mL | 90% Full | No Box | $40 | Niche |
| 190 | Washington Tremlett | Black Tie | 100mL | 95% Full | $125 | Niche | |
| 191 | Yves Saint Laurent | Tuxedo | 250mL | 100% Full | Brand New, Sealed | $375 | Niche |
| 192 | Acqua di Parma | Arancia Di Capri | 150mL | 100% Full | Tester; No Box | $65 | Designer |
| 193 | Acqua di Parma | Colonia EdC | 100mL | 100% Full | Brand New, Sealed | $75 | Designer |
| 194 | Acqua di Parma | Colonia Intensa | 100mL | 100% Full | Tester; No Box | $65 | Designer |
| 195 | Aqua di Parma | Magnolia Nobile | 100mL | 100% Full | Tester; No Box | $115 | Designer |
| 196 | Caron | Pour un Homme de Caron Le Matin | 125mL | 100% Full | Opened to test, sprayed once | $69 | Designer |
| 197 | Caron | Pour un Homme de Caron Le Soir | 125mL | 100% Full | Opened to test, sprayed once | $69 | Designer |
| 198 | Caron | Pour Un Homme Impact Parfum | 75mL | 97% Full | No Box | $175 | Designer |
| 199 | Chanel | Allure Homme Sport - Aftershave Balm | 100mL | 99% Full | No Box | $65 | Designer |
| 200 | Chanel | Allure Pour Femme EdT | 100mL | 100% Full | Tester; No Box | $65 | Designer |
| 201 | Chanel | Antaeus | 100mL | 85% Full | Silver Sprayer | $125 | Designer |
| 202 | Chanel | Bleu de Chanel - Aftershave Balm | 100mL | 99% Full | No Box, Minor Cosmetic Damage | $55 | Designer |
| 203 | Chanel | Bleu de Chanel - Aftershave Lotion | 100mL | 99% Full | No Box, Minor Cosmetic Damage | $55 | Designer |
| 204 | Chanel | Bleu de Chanel Parfum | 100mL | 100% Full | Tester; No Box | $130 | Designer |
| 205 | Chanel | Chance Eau Tendre EdP | 50mL | 90% Full | Tester; No Box | $90 | Designer |
| 206 | Chanel | Chance Eau Tendre EdT | 150mL | 99% Full | Tester; No Box | $120 | Designer |
| 207 | Chanel | Coco EdP | 100mL | 100% Full | Tester; No Box | $85 | Designer |
| 208 | Chanel | Coco Mademoiselle - Moisturizing Body Lotion | 200mL | 99% Full | No Box | $55 | Designer |
| 209 | Chanel | Coco Mademoiselle EdP | 100mL | 100% Full | Tester; No Box | $90 | Designer |
| 210 | Chanel | Coco Mademoiselle EdT | 100mL | 100% Full | Tester; No Box | $65 | Designer |
| 211 | Chanel | Coco Mademoiselle L'eau Privee | 100mL | 100% Full | Tester; No Box | $90 | Designer |
| 212 | Chanel | Cristalle Eau Vert EdT Concentree | 100mL | 100% Full | Tester; No Box | $135 | Designer |
| 213 | Chanel | Cristalle EdP | 50mL | 95% Full | Tester; No Box | $135 | Designer |
| 214 | Chanel | No. 19 | 100mL | 100% Full | Tester; No Box | $115 | Designer |
| 215 | Chanel | No. 5 Eau Premiere | 100mL | 100% Full | Tester; No Box | $85 | Designer |
| 216 | Chanel | No. 5 EdP | 100mL | 100% Full | Tester; No Box | $85 | Designer |
| 217 | Chanel | Platinum Egoiste | 75mL | 99% Full | SPLASH, NOT SPRAY Older Formulation | $125 | Designer |
| 218 | Christian Dior | Dior Homme Sport - 2017 Version | 125mL | 99% Full | Tester; No Box Batch Code is 6Y02 | $89 | Designer |
| 219 | Christian Dior | J'adore in Joy EdT | 100mL | 100% Full | Tester with Cap, No Box | $60 | Designer |
| 220 | Floris | 007 | 100mL | 100% Full | Tester with Cap, No Box | $100 | Designer |
| 221 | Floris | A Rose For... | 100mL | 100% Full | Tester; No Box. | $65 | Designer |
| 222 | Floris | Cefiro | 100mL | 100% Full | Tester with Cap, No Box | $59 | Designer |
| 223 | Floris | Lily of the Valley | 100mL | 100% Full | Tester; No Box. | $65 | Designer |
| 224 | Gucci | Gucci Guilty Absolute | 90mL | 100% Full | Tester; No Box | $70 | Designer |
| 225 | Guerlain | Habit Rouge L'instinct | 100mL | 99% Full | Sprayed once | $84 | Designer |
| 226 | Guerlain | L'instant de Guerlain Pour Homme EXTREME | 10mL | 100% Full | VINTAGE BLACK RIM - DECANT | $50 | Designer |
| 227 | Hermes | Twilly | 80mL | 100% Full | Tester; No Box | $65 | Designer |
| 228 | Jo Malone | Amber & Lavender | 30mL | 90% Full | No Box | $52 | Designer |
| 229 | Jo Malone | English Oak & Redcurrant | 30mL | 80% Full | No Box | $49 | Designer |
| 230 | Jo Malone | English Pear & Freesia | 100mL | 100% Full | Brand New with Gift Box and Gift Set (Body Wash, Body Lotion) | $180 | Designer |
| 231 | Jo Malone | Rose & White Musk Absolu | 100mL | 100% Full | No Box | $180 | Designer |
| 232 | Jo Malone | Velvet Rose and Oud Cologne Intense | 50mL | 99% Full | Tester; No Box | $90 | Designer |
| 233 | Thierry Mugler | A*MEN | 100mL | 99% Full | Rubber Flask; No Box | $75 | Designer |
| 234 | Thierry Mugler | A*MEN Ultra Zest | 100mL | 85-90% Full | Rubber Flask; No Box | $250 | Designer |
| 235 | Tom Ford | Costa Azzura Parfum | 50mL | 100% Full | Brand New, Sealed | $130 | Designer |
| 236 | Amouage | Cristal and Gold Ladies | 50mL | 95% Full | Vintage, Incredibly hard to find. Full presentation in nice condition | $399 | Vintage |
| 237 | Cartier | Santos EdT | 100mL | 60% Full | Splash; Refillable; Original Formulation; No Box; Some Wear on Case | $149 | Vintage |
| 238 | Chanel | Egoiste Cologne Concentree | 100mL | 97% Full | Bottle Only | $399 | Vintage |
| 239 | Chanel | Gardenia EdT | 100mL | 100% Full | Vintage; Sealed | $390 | Vintage |
| 240 | Crabtree & Evelyn | Crabtree & Evelyn Extract of West Indian and Sicilian Limes | 125mL | 100% Full | Full presentation with Box | $209 | Vintage |
| 241 | Dior | Jules | 100mL | 95% Full | Vintage; Ribbed Bottle; No Box | $264 | Vintage |
| 242 | Dunhill | Cologne | 125mL | 99% Full | Vintage; Splash | $100 | Vintage |
| 243 | Escada | Pour Homme Aftershave | 75mL | 100% Full | BNIB Sealed | $165 | Vintage |
| 244 | Escada | Pour Homme Aftershave | 125mL | 100% Full | BNIB Sealed | $240 | Vintage |
| 245 | Floris | Bay Rum | 3.5 Oz | 97% Full | Vintage; Splash. "Use as a cologne, after shave lotion, or hair lotion." | $84 | Vintage |
| 246 | Floris | Special 127 | 100mL | 98% Full | Vintage; Dark Blue Box., 2 Royal Warrants, Vintage Version | $70 | Vintage |
| 247 | Fragonard | Zizanie | 240mL | 80% Full | Shaker bottle (Splash, not spray) no box. At least 80% Full. | $240 | Vintage |
| 248 | Geo F Trumper | Ajaccio Violets | 100mL | 99% Full | $40 | Vintage | |
| 249 | Gucci | Envy Aftershave | 50mL | 100% Full | BNIB Sealed | $140 | Vintage |
| 250 | Gucci | Envy Aftershave | 100mL | 100% Full | BNIB Sealed | $215 | Vintage |
| 251 | Gucci | Rush for Men | 50mL | 100% Full | Full Presentation; These do not come fully filled | $190 | Vintage |
| 252 | Gucci | Rush for Men Aftershave | 100mL | 100% Full | BNIB Sealed | $140 | Vintage |
| 253 | Guerlain | Heritage EdT | 200mL | 100% Full | New; Vintage; Splash. 1991 Bottle. | $225 | Vintage |
| 254 | Guerlain | Samrasa EdP | 50mL | 100% Full | No Box | $109 | Vintage |
| 255 | Guerlain | Samsara EdT 1992-1993 Formulation | 100mL | 100% Full | Tester; No Cap; No Box | $109 | Vintage |
| 256 | Jean Desprez | Bal a Versailles | 9 Oz | 70% Full | Vintage; Splash; No Box Open to offers on this enormous bottle. | $135 | Vintage |
| 257 | Lacoste | Eau de Sport Vivifiante | 100mL | 99% Full | No Box | $110 | Vintage |
| 258 | Lacoste | Land | 100mL | 99% Full | $130 | Vintage | |
| 259 | Nino Cerruti | Fair Play Pour Homme | 100mL | 99% Full | Full presentation with Box | $275 | Vintage |
| 260 | Paco Rabanne | Eau de Metal | 20mL | 100% Full | Vintage; Mini | $15 | Vintage |
| 261 | Ralph Lauren | Silver Romance for Men | 100mL | 80% Full | No Box, No Cap | $145 | Vintage |
| 262 | Revillon | Pour Homme Eau de Toilette Super Concentrate | 60mL | 99% Full | Atomizer | $190 | Vintage |
| 263 | Revillon | Pour Homme Eau de Toilette Super Concentrate | 90mL | 99% Full | Atomizer | $290 | Vintage |
2023.05.26 21:25 judasweeps It will never get better.
I don't know where to start.
I'm a 20 year old trans man. I came out almost a year ago. It took my ex girlfriend, who was also trans, explaining to me what it meant to be trans. And it has been both hell and heaven since when it comes to my identity.
Said girlfriend lived with me and my mom, brought in by the best friend I housed. His mother stopped paying the bills so I decided why the fuck not, y'know? Just this February, however, girlfriend decided to run off with my best friend. It was devastating. Best friend also ran off with one of my mother's parrots. This parrot is valued at a whopping $10 grand. He was a yellow named amazon, and to my knowledge, those things are endangered. So that's extra lame. She still yells at me for that like it's my fault.My mother does things like that often, blows up over the dumbest things. Such as, for instance, I dyed my hair with the help of a friend. They got dye on their hands and washed them off in the sink. This left blue specks in the sink. My mother came home and decided to start screaming at me. Even tried to swing on me. She has a habit of overreacting.
"But OP, if your mother is so terrible, why don't you move out? Aren't you 20 years old? Are you just a deadbeat?"
Not because I want to be.
I want more than anything to be self sufficient. I'm tired of living off of handouts. And do you wanna know the reason why I can't be as such?
My mother.
When my father died when I was 14, she made it her number one goal to keep me in the house forever. She's the reason I can't drive, can't find a job. She's been threatening recently to stop paying the Wi-Fi bill because I'm an "inconsiderate little shit." She told me this after I told her I was looking for an at-home job.
I can't find any on-site positions because of my inability to drive my own car. Oh, did I mention I have a car? For a while, I was given $2,000 a month because of VA benefits. My father was in Vietnam and huffed a lungful of Agent Orange, so I got a pretty big payout. But before it started being put into my bank account, it was all going to my mother, who would use it all on shitty booze. I didn't see a cent of it until I really started fighting her tooth and nail for it. And when I finally got my hands on my benefits, she demanded a good chunk out of it every month.
I saved up a couple months' worth of money and bought myself a van. However, when Fuckshit #1 and Dickass #2 left, they decided to use it to move. And I should mention, it was in best friend's name because he wanted to fix it up for me. When they brought it back, they decided to rip the fusebox out of the thing, cut my ignition line and stole my fuses. And they knew I couldn't do anything about it because it was in his name. Ever since I was 17, I've wanted to learn how to drive, so I can land myself a job and start being self-sufficient. But I run into setback after fucking setback. And most of the time, it's my mother's fault. She tells me I'm to stupid to learn how to drive, or pulls it out of her ass that she'd be the one paying for my insurance. I'm 20 years old, and if I was able to find myself a job, I'd be able to fund my own insurance. I'm genuinely convinced I'll never be able to be an adult. I'll be stuck here with my mom forever. Let me tell you a bit more about my mom. On top of being overreactive, she gaslights me into thinking I'm the controlling one - when most of the time I'm just standing up for myself -, she calls me names on a regular basis, and whenever she's mad at me, she stops buying me food. And because of the recent Blue Sink Incident, she has cut me off from my friends and my girlfriend. She has told me that I am no longer to see my girlfriend. Because I'm not 20 to her, I am a mere teenager, right? I've even caught her trying to pull the power cable out of my PC, she's tried it while it was running too.
I'm sick of this. I don't know what to do anymore. I have no friends anymore apart from my girlfriend and one other, the one other being my ex of 3 years, who knows very well how my mother is. My girlfriend knows this as well, as I've known her as long as I've known him. They've been the only people to stick with me despite my mother. She's decimated my relationships with everyone else. She's rendered me incapable of being on my own in any capacity whatsoever. I don't know what to do. I have never felt more alone or more hopeless in my entire life. I feel on the end of my rope. I can't do this anymore.
submitted by judasweeps to offmychest [link] [comments]
I'm a 20 year old trans man. I came out almost a year ago. It took my ex girlfriend, who was also trans, explaining to me what it meant to be trans. And it has been both hell and heaven since when it comes to my identity.
Said girlfriend lived with me and my mom, brought in by the best friend I housed. His mother stopped paying the bills so I decided why the fuck not, y'know? Just this February, however, girlfriend decided to run off with my best friend. It was devastating. Best friend also ran off with one of my mother's parrots. This parrot is valued at a whopping $10 grand. He was a yellow named amazon, and to my knowledge, those things are endangered. So that's extra lame. She still yells at me for that like it's my fault.My mother does things like that often, blows up over the dumbest things. Such as, for instance, I dyed my hair with the help of a friend. They got dye on their hands and washed them off in the sink. This left blue specks in the sink. My mother came home and decided to start screaming at me. Even tried to swing on me. She has a habit of overreacting.
"But OP, if your mother is so terrible, why don't you move out? Aren't you 20 years old? Are you just a deadbeat?"
Not because I want to be.
I want more than anything to be self sufficient. I'm tired of living off of handouts. And do you wanna know the reason why I can't be as such?
My mother.
When my father died when I was 14, she made it her number one goal to keep me in the house forever. She's the reason I can't drive, can't find a job. She's been threatening recently to stop paying the Wi-Fi bill because I'm an "inconsiderate little shit." She told me this after I told her I was looking for an at-home job.
I can't find any on-site positions because of my inability to drive my own car. Oh, did I mention I have a car? For a while, I was given $2,000 a month because of VA benefits. My father was in Vietnam and huffed a lungful of Agent Orange, so I got a pretty big payout. But before it started being put into my bank account, it was all going to my mother, who would use it all on shitty booze. I didn't see a cent of it until I really started fighting her tooth and nail for it. And when I finally got my hands on my benefits, she demanded a good chunk out of it every month.
I saved up a couple months' worth of money and bought myself a van. However, when Fuckshit #1 and Dickass #2 left, they decided to use it to move. And I should mention, it was in best friend's name because he wanted to fix it up for me. When they brought it back, they decided to rip the fusebox out of the thing, cut my ignition line and stole my fuses. And they knew I couldn't do anything about it because it was in his name. Ever since I was 17, I've wanted to learn how to drive, so I can land myself a job and start being self-sufficient. But I run into setback after fucking setback. And most of the time, it's my mother's fault. She tells me I'm to stupid to learn how to drive, or pulls it out of her ass that she'd be the one paying for my insurance. I'm 20 years old, and if I was able to find myself a job, I'd be able to fund my own insurance. I'm genuinely convinced I'll never be able to be an adult. I'll be stuck here with my mom forever. Let me tell you a bit more about my mom. On top of being overreactive, she gaslights me into thinking I'm the controlling one - when most of the time I'm just standing up for myself -, she calls me names on a regular basis, and whenever she's mad at me, she stops buying me food. And because of the recent Blue Sink Incident, she has cut me off from my friends and my girlfriend. She has told me that I am no longer to see my girlfriend. Because I'm not 20 to her, I am a mere teenager, right? I've even caught her trying to pull the power cable out of my PC, she's tried it while it was running too.
I'm sick of this. I don't know what to do anymore. I have no friends anymore apart from my girlfriend and one other, the one other being my ex of 3 years, who knows very well how my mother is. My girlfriend knows this as well, as I've known her as long as I've known him. They've been the only people to stick with me despite my mother. She's decimated my relationships with everyone else. She's rendered me incapable of being on my own in any capacity whatsoever. I don't know what to do. I have never felt more alone or more hopeless in my entire life. I feel on the end of my rope. I can't do this anymore.
2023.05.26 19:18 breadnbutter66 The Desolate Blade (Medieval Dark Fantasy)—Prologue: The Birth of the Unborn
Warning: This chapter contains Gore—Extreme Violence. Read at your own discretion.
Read on RoyalRoad, (7+ chapters ahead)
—
A place, full of darkness.
So obscured, that discerning the area is close to impossible. The only things visible being the cold, stone surface that is dimly lit by a solemn speck of Light shining through the thick layers of shadows.
What is Light?
Where does Light come from?
Why is there Light here?
Here, in a place devoid of Light?
It shines on something else in this space.
A woman.
She is dressed in soft, loose white robes that encompasses her slender outlines.
Her hair is as white as the coldest winter. Her skin as pale as the very idea of devoidness of life.
She is on her knees, seemingly worshipping the dim Light that shines through this place of darkness. Muttering the same phrase over and over with her eyes closed:
“I await you, I await you, I await you.”
This goes on for a long time, until suddenly…
You walk towards her.
You cannot depict Your very own entirety. However, You are cognizant that You are holding a sword overlapped by its scabbard.
You unveil the sword from its scabbard, revealing a blissful, mourning light being shone upon the blade. Your footsteps grow heavier as You take a deep breath, Your eyes fixated on the Woman, her back still turned away from You.
The Woman notices Your arrival, as her chant strangely differs, and she opens her luminous silver eyes, crying out black tears that taint her pale face. She looks upward and begins to smile, chanting in a muttered tone:
“Oh, Thy Light, I have completed my duty. It is I, the Mother of Desolation who hath brought upon the Child of Darkness. My unholiness, admits to your Will. My unholiness, brings forth, the salvation of humanity!”
The black tears intensify.
It begins to cover most of her jowls.
You get closer to her. With each step You take, her voice grows louder in apprehension. She does not turn to You but rather stays in a prayer-like position.
She repeats the same chant over, and over.
“…who hath brought upon the Child of Darkness…”
You get closer.
“…my unholiness…!”
Your blade starts to glow even brighter in the dim Light, as You have stepped within the same area as the Woman kneeling right before You. Her voice grows even louder; almost sounding grotesque. As if she is no longer hiding the fear and despair she has been feeling all this time.
“…brings forth….!”
You hold Your sword in the air and aim it at her back. The sword now fully encapsulated by the Light. The sharp edges appearing even more forbidding.
“…the salvation…”
You stand right behind her, and pierce her heart with Your blade. The woman’s position remains unchanged, her back still facing You as the violet red blood descends from her mouth, and the gape in her chest spills out blood over the stone-cold surface.
The blood spreads everywhere.
It begins to cultivate a voice.
The voice talks to You, “The Flow of Luminosity shall bring us together, as that has become the will of The Light. I shall see you soon, oh Child of Darkness, the unborn…”
—
The chilling night air hung heavy over the land of Aradon as the Holy Church’s assembly set forth on their solemn march. The moon cast an eerie glow upon the armored figures, their faces obscured by helmets adorned with sacred symbols. The rhythmic trudge of their footsteps echoed through the darkness, harmonizing with the fervent chants that filled the air.
“Thy Light, guide us,”
“Worship the Divine Trinity,”
“For through The Light, we shall prevail!”
“Through the Light, darkness shall disappear!”
“Through the Light, we shall bring an end to the Child of Darkness!”
This march held a greater significance, for it was not merely a patrol duty or a local objective they sought to accomplish. It was a pivotal moment in their grand design—to reclaim the Sanctuary of the Southern Will and establish the dominion of the Holy Church throughout all of Aradon. The very thought of this achievement fueled their hearts with fervor, igniting an unquenchable flame of pride.
As their numbers swelled, their voices rose in unison, creating a thunderous symphony of devotion. The resolute echoes of their chants reverberated through the night, a testament to their unwavering dedication and resolve.
With each resounding step, they pressed forward, unwavering in their conviction. The march of the Knights continued an unyielding tide of faith and determination, poised to sweep away the forces of darkness that stood in their path.
Marching alongside them, was a cunning young man named Donathan. A charismatic individual whose presence commanding attention even amidst the sea of armored figures. His brown disheveled hair slightly covered his face filled with fervor. His jade green eyes set dreadfully in their sockets.
“We draw near, Serpio,” Donathan proclaimed, his words carrying the weight of their final opportunity. “This is our moment, our chance to avenge our dear Mother!”
A steely resolve gleamed in Serpio’s eyes as he nodded in agreement. "Indeed, brother. We shall not squander this precious opportunity. Our Mother’s sacrifice demands nothing less than absolute victory!”
“So it is written. Let us skew his heart, tainted by Evilness. Dear Father will be oh so proud!”
“So it is written!”
Besides Donathan was another young man named Serpio, who was noticeably shorter than his older brother. He was adorned with a graceful smile that brought a serene contrast to his white-silver hair and blue eyes. A very optimistic person, you could say. The two brothers were esteemed members of the assembly of Eden. The one who governs the seventh Division of the Holy Church, the Sacred Flames. Tasked with identifying heresy, enforcing dogma, and maintaining the purity of faith.
Ever since the death of their mother, they both decided to live their life to their fullest and center their entirety on the dreams of their parents of becoming esteemed members of the Sacred Flames. Serpio was arguably someone more predicated on the morality practiced by more specifically the Sacred Flames, while Donathan was someone who was known to follow his righteous heart full of good ambitions. While the two displayed evident differences, they were inseparable, and were, if fought together, a force to be reckoned with.
Despite their contrasting appearances, they shared an unbreakable bond as brothers. Donathan, the towering figure with broad shoulders and a rugged exterior, was known for his unwavering bravery and protective nature. His motivation stemmed from a deep sense of duty to keep his younger brother safe, as if it were his life’s purpose. On the other hand, Serpio, with his lean frame and sharp features, possessed a quick wit and a keen intellect. While he admired Donathan’s physical prowess, Serpio felt burdened by the constant need to prove himself and live up to his brother’s heroic reputation. He harbored an internal conflict—a desire to establish his own identity and prove his worth beyond being the ‘younger brother.’
Together, they formed an unbreakable team, each contributing their unique strengths and overcoming their own inner conflicts in the face of the horrors that awaited them. However, the horror that would await them this time, was something unmatched from its predecessors…
"The voices of Fate are crying out her tears. Prepare yourselves for battle, brethren!” Exclaimed their Lieutenant Cassius, jumping off his horse as all Knights present unsheathed their blades. As each second passed, the tension grew higher. The two brothers were visibly more apprehensive than ever, as they could feel that the presence they have been searching for most of their life was amidst the area.
They all stood in front of a grandiose building that homed the Sanctuary of the Southern Will. Ever since it was overtaken by the Fallen Ones, it became one of many Sanctuaries the Holy Church sought to retake. The door was slightly left ajar, indicating that their arrival was already anticipated. It was now or never, or so the two brothers thought.
And at the peak of the tension, Cassius shouted like a thousand clashes of thunder: “In the name of the Eternal Light, we shall vanquish the shadows! Death to the unborn, death to the Fallen Ones!”
As they made their way through the labyrinthine corridors of the fallen sanctuary, the air grew heavy with a palpable sense of danger. The flickering torches cast eerie shadows on the crumbling walls, while the distant echoes of their footsteps amplified the silence that enveloped them.
Donathan’s heart pounded in his chest as they approached a massive iron door. He could feel the weight of anticipation, knowing that whatever lay beyond those doors would test their courage and skills to the limit. He exchanged a glance with Serpio, their eyes reflecting a mix of determination and trepidation.
With a creaking sound, the doors swung open, revealing a dimly lit chamber. The air was thick with the acrid scent of decay and the faint rustle of unseen creatures. As they stepped inside, their senses heightened, every nerve alert to the imminent danger that awaited them.
The tension mounted as they moved deeper into the chamber. Each step echoed ominously, causing their hearts to race. Suddenly, a low growl reverberated through the room, freezing them in their tracks. They turned, their weapons at the ready, only to be met with a pair of glowing eyes in the darkness.
“Death to the Fallen Ones!” everyone roared in unison, as the Fallen Ones charged for combat. Donathan and Serpio, united by their shared purpose and the memory of their fallen mother, push forward with a mix of apprehension and unwavering resolve. The towering arches of the ancient structure loomed above them, casting eerie shadows on the worn stone floor. Dust particles danced in the dim light that filtered through stained glass windows, giving the air a hushed, otherworldly quality. The echoes of their footsteps reverberated through the vast halls. They encountered fierce resistance from the Fallen Ones as the clashes of steel reverberated as the Knights and the Fallen Ones engaged in a deadly dance. Donathan and Serpio fight side by side, with their hearts set aflame.
“Look out!” Donathan exclaimed, his voice booming over the chaos of battle. With a burst of immense strength, he propelled Serpio out of harm’s way, shielding him from the oncoming attack. The Fallen Ones’ soldier, a towering behemoth, brandished a massive hammer that only someone of equal stature and power could wield. The very sight of it sent shivers down the spine of any who dared face him, for it was a weapon forged for destruction, carried effortlessly in his formidable grip.
The force of the enemy’s strike landed squarely on Donathan’s valiant frame, a bone-crushing impact that reverberated through his body. In an instant, he was launched through the air like a ragdoll, hurtling towards the Sanctuary they had set out to protect. The impact upon arrival was cataclysmic, the ancient structure trembling beneath the weight of his collision.
“Donathan!" Serpio cried out in anguish, torn between his concern for his fallen brother and the relentless assault of the hulking berserker. The foe’s irregular yet mighty swings threatened to crush him, but Serpio’s nimbleness and agility were his saving grace. Like a shadow, he danced and weaved, narrowly evading each thunderous blow. With every passing moment, the berserker’s strikes grew more ferocious, as if fueled by an unhinged fury.
Serpio recognized his advantage in speed, a slender figure pitted against an imposing mountain of muscle. He exploited the hulking man’s cumbersome movements, his blade slashing relentlessly against the berserker’s impenetrable armor. The clash of metal rang out like a symphony of war, each strike leaving its mark upon the unyielding surface. Then, amidst the flurry of desperate blows, Serpio seized an opportunity. With unwavering precision, his blade found a narrow gap in the berserker’s defenses and pierced through, sinking deep into the flesh beneath.
The hulking man’s gargantuan body crumpled to its knees, a mountain brought low by a single, decisive strike. Veins bulged and pulsed beneath the strain, his very life force pouring out through the wound. The air grew heavy with the weight of his defeat, as his labored breaths merged with the fading echoes of battle.
He wasted no second and immediately turned to his brother, yet little did he know…
“Donathan!!”
Donathan lay unconscious on the ground, his gaze fixed upward in despair, as he beheld the Child of Darkness standing beside him. The figure was shrouded in a black coat that seemed to devour the light, lending an air of ominous mystery. Every movement was marked by an uncanny grace, as if He belonged to a realm beyond mortal comprehension. A black hood concealed most of His face, casting a shadow that obscured His features, except for his piercing silver eyes that radiated with an unearthly luminosity amidst the darkness. Donathan’s voice trembled as he muttered brokenly, “Serpio…”
Overwhelmed by a surge of anger, Serpio charged towards the Child of Darkness, tears streaming down his face. “You will pay for your sins, you UNBORN!” he cried out, his voice laced with fury. He swung his weapon recklessly, pouring all his strength into the attack, but his strikes proved futile. In a swift motion, the Child of Darkness unsheathed His crescent moon sword and with a single swing, shattered Serpio’s blade into irreparable fragments. The force of the blow severed Serpio’s arm, leaving him stunned and disarmed, unable to comprehend the sudden turn of events. Before he could react, the Child of Darkness closed His grip around Serpio’s throat, lifting him off the ground. Gasping and grunting for breath, Serpio locked eyes with his immobilized brother, tears mixing with his anguished cries.
“Serpio…!”
It was already too late.
He positioned His sword in front of Serpio’s chest, and with a remorseful whisper of “I’m sorry, brother…” Serpio’s final words escaped his lips. The blade pierced through his armor, and a gush of blood spilled from his mouth as he coughed his last breath. His head drooped slowly, his eyes devoid of life.
“SERPIO!! Nghh…!” Donathan exclaimed as the only thing he could do is watch the gruesome death of his brother in terror. His body was completely numb, he lost a part of his sanity and did not hear the clashes of swords in the background anymore. His eyes began to blur, and Child of Darkness stepped toward Donathan, Kneeling before Donathan, He sneered, “You did not deserve to be birthed. Your father did not deserve to give birth to such weak men who are not even able to take revenge for those they loved. Your existence is pitiful.”
“My… existence…” he murmured as Child of Darkness impaled his heart with his crescent moon sword. Blood gushed from his mouth as he succumbed to the darkness, With the only remnants of his sadness and despair being his last thoughts:
“…Is pit… iful……”
The Knights had suffered a crushing defeat in their patrol. Overpowered by the relentless onslaught of the Fallen Ones, the once noble warriors now lay mangled and lifeless, their limbs and entrails scattered across the battleground. Cassius roared his regret out, his voice laced with frustration and melancholy: “We have been overthrown, retreat!” as he, with no hesitation killed off the enemies that were latched on him, and stepped outside the building; followed by the remaining Knights. Surprisingly, all of them were able to escape the building unscathed. None of the Fallen Ones decided to hunt them down as they wordlessly spectated the fleeing Knights that turned their backs on them, a silent testimony to the carnage they had unleashed.
“Lieutenant, it must be because He was alongside them!”
The lieutenant furrowed his brow, scanning the chaotic scene. “Are you correct? I did not notice him!”
“I am! He was amidst both Serpio and Donathan!”
“Where are they?!”
“I… I don’t know, sir!”
The lieutenant clenched his fists, determination etched on his face. “Nghh!! Go! I shall bring them back!”
“What? Sir, please don’t! At least let us go with you!”
“Don’t make me repeat myself,” the lieutenant said firmly, his voice brooking no argument. “I shall see you at our site shortly. Just go already!”
The Knight did not want to disobey his Lieutenant.
He wordlessly turned away, following the other fleeing Knights with tears welling up in his eyes. His demeanor was solemn, as Cassius took a moment to gasp for air. Sweat and blood descended his face, his head began to feel extremely light, and he lost his composure. The only sound bringing him back to reality being the sudden screams filled with despair from the remaining comrades.
He mindlessly turned around, and it was then that he witnessed his abdomen had been pierced, lowering his gaze in shock as he held his hand on the gape. Drenching it with his warm blood.
He did not know what to think anymore and decided to follow the sounds of his Knights. Stumbling through the forest, trenches and branches whipped against his face, but he could only deflect them with one hand, desperately clutching his mortal wound with the other. “Brothers… Brothers!”
“Haah……”
“Brothers……”
…
The screams ceased.
They were replaced by gurgling noises that echoed through the air like a macabre symphony. Cassius’s steps faltered as he reached the horrific tableau that lay before him. The remnants of his fellow knights lay lifeless, their bodies severed from their heads in a grotesque display. The look of terror and despair etched upon their faces, their eyes frozen in a haunting gaze.
“H- huh……”
Before Cassius could process what was going on,
his head was decapitated with great velocity. So much so that he was able to mutter, “Uh……” before his head came tumbling down on the ground. The one standing atop his body was a pale, skinny figure, who was, much like Him, coated with a black hood that obscured most of her face. She was dressed in a black robe that covered her entire body, and she wore various garments ranging from necklaces to rings and wristbands. Her nails were painted black and her tresses were as white as snow. Her eyes were the same as Him, luminous silver that could pierce your very soul.
She wordlessly ambled her way back to the building, where the Fallen Ones awaited her return.
“I have extinguished the remnants of Light, my Lord,” she said to Him, as she, as well as every other Fallen, fell onto their knees and bowed before Him, the Child of Darkness, Imbra.
Amidst the kneeling members, there was one other woman who was very apparent to the woman in black robes. While was also adorned with the same eyes, as well as the garments, she wore an all-white robe and covered her face with a white hood. She was the only one that did not kneel before Imbra, yet stood right in front of him. Imbra looked down on her, as she, with a cold, broken voice proclaimed:
“I, Luminia, who has been incarnated into Aradon as a manifestation of The Light, its Will rejects my worship, as everything is destined to dance with the Flow of Luminosity…”
submitted by breadnbutter66 to HFY [link] [comments]
Read on RoyalRoad, (7+ chapters ahead)
—
A place, full of darkness.
So obscured, that discerning the area is close to impossible. The only things visible being the cold, stone surface that is dimly lit by a solemn speck of Light shining through the thick layers of shadows.
What is Light?
Where does Light come from?
Why is there Light here?
Here, in a place devoid of Light?
It shines on something else in this space.
A woman.
She is dressed in soft, loose white robes that encompasses her slender outlines.
Her hair is as white as the coldest winter. Her skin as pale as the very idea of devoidness of life.
She is on her knees, seemingly worshipping the dim Light that shines through this place of darkness. Muttering the same phrase over and over with her eyes closed:
“I await you, I await you, I await you.”
This goes on for a long time, until suddenly…
You walk towards her.
You cannot depict Your very own entirety. However, You are cognizant that You are holding a sword overlapped by its scabbard.
You unveil the sword from its scabbard, revealing a blissful, mourning light being shone upon the blade. Your footsteps grow heavier as You take a deep breath, Your eyes fixated on the Woman, her back still turned away from You.
The Woman notices Your arrival, as her chant strangely differs, and she opens her luminous silver eyes, crying out black tears that taint her pale face. She looks upward and begins to smile, chanting in a muttered tone:
“Oh, Thy Light, I have completed my duty. It is I, the Mother of Desolation who hath brought upon the Child of Darkness. My unholiness, admits to your Will. My unholiness, brings forth, the salvation of humanity!”
The black tears intensify.
It begins to cover most of her jowls.
You get closer to her. With each step You take, her voice grows louder in apprehension. She does not turn to You but rather stays in a prayer-like position.
She repeats the same chant over, and over.
“…who hath brought upon the Child of Darkness…”
You get closer.
“…my unholiness…!”
Your blade starts to glow even brighter in the dim Light, as You have stepped within the same area as the Woman kneeling right before You. Her voice grows even louder; almost sounding grotesque. As if she is no longer hiding the fear and despair she has been feeling all this time.
“…brings forth….!”
You hold Your sword in the air and aim it at her back. The sword now fully encapsulated by the Light. The sharp edges appearing even more forbidding.
“…the salvation…”
You stand right behind her, and pierce her heart with Your blade. The woman’s position remains unchanged, her back still facing You as the violet red blood descends from her mouth, and the gape in her chest spills out blood over the stone-cold surface.
The blood spreads everywhere.
It begins to cultivate a voice.
The voice talks to You, “The Flow of Luminosity shall bring us together, as that has become the will of The Light. I shall see you soon, oh Child of Darkness, the unborn…”
—
The chilling night air hung heavy over the land of Aradon as the Holy Church’s assembly set forth on their solemn march. The moon cast an eerie glow upon the armored figures, their faces obscured by helmets adorned with sacred symbols. The rhythmic trudge of their footsteps echoed through the darkness, harmonizing with the fervent chants that filled the air.
“Thy Light, guide us,”
“Worship the Divine Trinity,”
“For through The Light, we shall prevail!”
“Through the Light, darkness shall disappear!”
“Through the Light, we shall bring an end to the Child of Darkness!”
This march held a greater significance, for it was not merely a patrol duty or a local objective they sought to accomplish. It was a pivotal moment in their grand design—to reclaim the Sanctuary of the Southern Will and establish the dominion of the Holy Church throughout all of Aradon. The very thought of this achievement fueled their hearts with fervor, igniting an unquenchable flame of pride.
As their numbers swelled, their voices rose in unison, creating a thunderous symphony of devotion. The resolute echoes of their chants reverberated through the night, a testament to their unwavering dedication and resolve.
With each resounding step, they pressed forward, unwavering in their conviction. The march of the Knights continued an unyielding tide of faith and determination, poised to sweep away the forces of darkness that stood in their path.
Marching alongside them, was a cunning young man named Donathan. A charismatic individual whose presence commanding attention even amidst the sea of armored figures. His brown disheveled hair slightly covered his face filled with fervor. His jade green eyes set dreadfully in their sockets.
“We draw near, Serpio,” Donathan proclaimed, his words carrying the weight of their final opportunity. “This is our moment, our chance to avenge our dear Mother!”
A steely resolve gleamed in Serpio’s eyes as he nodded in agreement. "Indeed, brother. We shall not squander this precious opportunity. Our Mother’s sacrifice demands nothing less than absolute victory!”
“So it is written. Let us skew his heart, tainted by Evilness. Dear Father will be oh so proud!”
“So it is written!”
Besides Donathan was another young man named Serpio, who was noticeably shorter than his older brother. He was adorned with a graceful smile that brought a serene contrast to his white-silver hair and blue eyes. A very optimistic person, you could say. The two brothers were esteemed members of the assembly of Eden. The one who governs the seventh Division of the Holy Church, the Sacred Flames. Tasked with identifying heresy, enforcing dogma, and maintaining the purity of faith.
Ever since the death of their mother, they both decided to live their life to their fullest and center their entirety on the dreams of their parents of becoming esteemed members of the Sacred Flames. Serpio was arguably someone more predicated on the morality practiced by more specifically the Sacred Flames, while Donathan was someone who was known to follow his righteous heart full of good ambitions. While the two displayed evident differences, they were inseparable, and were, if fought together, a force to be reckoned with.
Despite their contrasting appearances, they shared an unbreakable bond as brothers. Donathan, the towering figure with broad shoulders and a rugged exterior, was known for his unwavering bravery and protective nature. His motivation stemmed from a deep sense of duty to keep his younger brother safe, as if it were his life’s purpose. On the other hand, Serpio, with his lean frame and sharp features, possessed a quick wit and a keen intellect. While he admired Donathan’s physical prowess, Serpio felt burdened by the constant need to prove himself and live up to his brother’s heroic reputation. He harbored an internal conflict—a desire to establish his own identity and prove his worth beyond being the ‘younger brother.’
Together, they formed an unbreakable team, each contributing their unique strengths and overcoming their own inner conflicts in the face of the horrors that awaited them. However, the horror that would await them this time, was something unmatched from its predecessors…
"The voices of Fate are crying out her tears. Prepare yourselves for battle, brethren!” Exclaimed their Lieutenant Cassius, jumping off his horse as all Knights present unsheathed their blades. As each second passed, the tension grew higher. The two brothers were visibly more apprehensive than ever, as they could feel that the presence they have been searching for most of their life was amidst the area.
They all stood in front of a grandiose building that homed the Sanctuary of the Southern Will. Ever since it was overtaken by the Fallen Ones, it became one of many Sanctuaries the Holy Church sought to retake. The door was slightly left ajar, indicating that their arrival was already anticipated. It was now or never, or so the two brothers thought.
And at the peak of the tension, Cassius shouted like a thousand clashes of thunder: “In the name of the Eternal Light, we shall vanquish the shadows! Death to the unborn, death to the Fallen Ones!”
As they made their way through the labyrinthine corridors of the fallen sanctuary, the air grew heavy with a palpable sense of danger. The flickering torches cast eerie shadows on the crumbling walls, while the distant echoes of their footsteps amplified the silence that enveloped them.
Donathan’s heart pounded in his chest as they approached a massive iron door. He could feel the weight of anticipation, knowing that whatever lay beyond those doors would test their courage and skills to the limit. He exchanged a glance with Serpio, their eyes reflecting a mix of determination and trepidation.
With a creaking sound, the doors swung open, revealing a dimly lit chamber. The air was thick with the acrid scent of decay and the faint rustle of unseen creatures. As they stepped inside, their senses heightened, every nerve alert to the imminent danger that awaited them.
The tension mounted as they moved deeper into the chamber. Each step echoed ominously, causing their hearts to race. Suddenly, a low growl reverberated through the room, freezing them in their tracks. They turned, their weapons at the ready, only to be met with a pair of glowing eyes in the darkness.
“Death to the Fallen Ones!” everyone roared in unison, as the Fallen Ones charged for combat. Donathan and Serpio, united by their shared purpose and the memory of their fallen mother, push forward with a mix of apprehension and unwavering resolve. The towering arches of the ancient structure loomed above them, casting eerie shadows on the worn stone floor. Dust particles danced in the dim light that filtered through stained glass windows, giving the air a hushed, otherworldly quality. The echoes of their footsteps reverberated through the vast halls. They encountered fierce resistance from the Fallen Ones as the clashes of steel reverberated as the Knights and the Fallen Ones engaged in a deadly dance. Donathan and Serpio fight side by side, with their hearts set aflame.
“Look out!” Donathan exclaimed, his voice booming over the chaos of battle. With a burst of immense strength, he propelled Serpio out of harm’s way, shielding him from the oncoming attack. The Fallen Ones’ soldier, a towering behemoth, brandished a massive hammer that only someone of equal stature and power could wield. The very sight of it sent shivers down the spine of any who dared face him, for it was a weapon forged for destruction, carried effortlessly in his formidable grip.
The force of the enemy’s strike landed squarely on Donathan’s valiant frame, a bone-crushing impact that reverberated through his body. In an instant, he was launched through the air like a ragdoll, hurtling towards the Sanctuary they had set out to protect. The impact upon arrival was cataclysmic, the ancient structure trembling beneath the weight of his collision.
“Donathan!" Serpio cried out in anguish, torn between his concern for his fallen brother and the relentless assault of the hulking berserker. The foe’s irregular yet mighty swings threatened to crush him, but Serpio’s nimbleness and agility were his saving grace. Like a shadow, he danced and weaved, narrowly evading each thunderous blow. With every passing moment, the berserker’s strikes grew more ferocious, as if fueled by an unhinged fury.
Serpio recognized his advantage in speed, a slender figure pitted against an imposing mountain of muscle. He exploited the hulking man’s cumbersome movements, his blade slashing relentlessly against the berserker’s impenetrable armor. The clash of metal rang out like a symphony of war, each strike leaving its mark upon the unyielding surface. Then, amidst the flurry of desperate blows, Serpio seized an opportunity. With unwavering precision, his blade found a narrow gap in the berserker’s defenses and pierced through, sinking deep into the flesh beneath.
The hulking man’s gargantuan body crumpled to its knees, a mountain brought low by a single, decisive strike. Veins bulged and pulsed beneath the strain, his very life force pouring out through the wound. The air grew heavy with the weight of his defeat, as his labored breaths merged with the fading echoes of battle.
He wasted no second and immediately turned to his brother, yet little did he know…
“Donathan!!”
Donathan lay unconscious on the ground, his gaze fixed upward in despair, as he beheld the Child of Darkness standing beside him. The figure was shrouded in a black coat that seemed to devour the light, lending an air of ominous mystery. Every movement was marked by an uncanny grace, as if He belonged to a realm beyond mortal comprehension. A black hood concealed most of His face, casting a shadow that obscured His features, except for his piercing silver eyes that radiated with an unearthly luminosity amidst the darkness. Donathan’s voice trembled as he muttered brokenly, “Serpio…”
Overwhelmed by a surge of anger, Serpio charged towards the Child of Darkness, tears streaming down his face. “You will pay for your sins, you UNBORN!” he cried out, his voice laced with fury. He swung his weapon recklessly, pouring all his strength into the attack, but his strikes proved futile. In a swift motion, the Child of Darkness unsheathed His crescent moon sword and with a single swing, shattered Serpio’s blade into irreparable fragments. The force of the blow severed Serpio’s arm, leaving him stunned and disarmed, unable to comprehend the sudden turn of events. Before he could react, the Child of Darkness closed His grip around Serpio’s throat, lifting him off the ground. Gasping and grunting for breath, Serpio locked eyes with his immobilized brother, tears mixing with his anguished cries.
“Serpio…!”
It was already too late.
He positioned His sword in front of Serpio’s chest, and with a remorseful whisper of “I’m sorry, brother…” Serpio’s final words escaped his lips. The blade pierced through his armor, and a gush of blood spilled from his mouth as he coughed his last breath. His head drooped slowly, his eyes devoid of life.
“SERPIO!! Nghh…!” Donathan exclaimed as the only thing he could do is watch the gruesome death of his brother in terror. His body was completely numb, he lost a part of his sanity and did not hear the clashes of swords in the background anymore. His eyes began to blur, and Child of Darkness stepped toward Donathan, Kneeling before Donathan, He sneered, “You did not deserve to be birthed. Your father did not deserve to give birth to such weak men who are not even able to take revenge for those they loved. Your existence is pitiful.”
“My… existence…” he murmured as Child of Darkness impaled his heart with his crescent moon sword. Blood gushed from his mouth as he succumbed to the darkness, With the only remnants of his sadness and despair being his last thoughts:
“…Is pit… iful……”
The Knights had suffered a crushing defeat in their patrol. Overpowered by the relentless onslaught of the Fallen Ones, the once noble warriors now lay mangled and lifeless, their limbs and entrails scattered across the battleground. Cassius roared his regret out, his voice laced with frustration and melancholy: “We have been overthrown, retreat!” as he, with no hesitation killed off the enemies that were latched on him, and stepped outside the building; followed by the remaining Knights. Surprisingly, all of them were able to escape the building unscathed. None of the Fallen Ones decided to hunt them down as they wordlessly spectated the fleeing Knights that turned their backs on them, a silent testimony to the carnage they had unleashed.
“Lieutenant, it must be because He was alongside them!”
The lieutenant furrowed his brow, scanning the chaotic scene. “Are you correct? I did not notice him!”
“I am! He was amidst both Serpio and Donathan!”
“Where are they?!”
“I… I don’t know, sir!”
The lieutenant clenched his fists, determination etched on his face. “Nghh!! Go! I shall bring them back!”
“What? Sir, please don’t! At least let us go with you!”
“Don’t make me repeat myself,” the lieutenant said firmly, his voice brooking no argument. “I shall see you at our site shortly. Just go already!”
The Knight did not want to disobey his Lieutenant.
He wordlessly turned away, following the other fleeing Knights with tears welling up in his eyes. His demeanor was solemn, as Cassius took a moment to gasp for air. Sweat and blood descended his face, his head began to feel extremely light, and he lost his composure. The only sound bringing him back to reality being the sudden screams filled with despair from the remaining comrades.
He mindlessly turned around, and it was then that he witnessed his abdomen had been pierced, lowering his gaze in shock as he held his hand on the gape. Drenching it with his warm blood.
He did not know what to think anymore and decided to follow the sounds of his Knights. Stumbling through the forest, trenches and branches whipped against his face, but he could only deflect them with one hand, desperately clutching his mortal wound with the other. “Brothers… Brothers!”
“Haah……”
“Brothers……”
…
The screams ceased.
They were replaced by gurgling noises that echoed through the air like a macabre symphony. Cassius’s steps faltered as he reached the horrific tableau that lay before him. The remnants of his fellow knights lay lifeless, their bodies severed from their heads in a grotesque display. The look of terror and despair etched upon their faces, their eyes frozen in a haunting gaze.
“H- huh……”
Before Cassius could process what was going on,
his head was decapitated with great velocity. So much so that he was able to mutter, “Uh……” before his head came tumbling down on the ground. The one standing atop his body was a pale, skinny figure, who was, much like Him, coated with a black hood that obscured most of her face. She was dressed in a black robe that covered her entire body, and she wore various garments ranging from necklaces to rings and wristbands. Her nails were painted black and her tresses were as white as snow. Her eyes were the same as Him, luminous silver that could pierce your very soul.
She wordlessly ambled her way back to the building, where the Fallen Ones awaited her return.
“I have extinguished the remnants of Light, my Lord,” she said to Him, as she, as well as every other Fallen, fell onto their knees and bowed before Him, the Child of Darkness, Imbra.
Amidst the kneeling members, there was one other woman who was very apparent to the woman in black robes. While was also adorned with the same eyes, as well as the garments, she wore an all-white robe and covered her face with a white hood. She was the only one that did not kneel before Imbra, yet stood right in front of him. Imbra looked down on her, as she, with a cold, broken voice proclaimed:
“I, Luminia, who has been incarnated into Aradon as a manifestation of The Light, its Will rejects my worship, as everything is destined to dance with the Flow of Luminosity…”
2023.05.25 23:15 AggravatingSearch334 RE-RE-RE-WRITING MIDNIGHT WARRIORS PART ONE
I'm going to do this in parts so yall can help me out in the comments with the next parts each time
Chapter One: How it all began
The story of the midnight warriors begins in a high school in Portland Oregon. Four girls meet for the first time and this friendship will forever change their lives. Dream was always an outcast that was made fun of in school for her greasy appearing hair. She didn't understand why everyone called her hair greasy though, to her it was "sexy AF". Dream had just moved to Portland from Kansas and it was her very first day of senior year at a new school. She wondered if this school she would also be made fun of for her greasy hair or if maybe by chance people in Portland understood her style and finally appreciate her very sexy hair. She gets herself ready for her first day at a new school by taking a 30 second shower, swishing some mouth wash around because she hadn't found her toothbrush from unpacking yet and adding in some extra hair oil to her already greasy looking hair that she skipped washing as well. She looks in the mirror and says "wow Dream your hair is gorgeous" and leaves to catch the bus. Dream is sad to learn though, that in Portland the other students still called her hair greasy and not sexy like she had hoped. The end of the day was approaching and her last class was about to start as she sees 3 girls walking together hand in hand giggling to each other about something. Dream wished she could be a part of a group so badly, she always felt different but never understood why. She takes her seat in class in the only empty seat that happened to be next to one of the girls she saw so happily walking in with her friends. Maybe this is Dreams chance at a true friendship finally. These girls seemed so cool to Dream so she wanted to be their friends but thought maybe her greasy hair would make them dislike her. The class was about Greek mythology, something Dream always felt oddly close to. Anytime she read about Greek mythology she could imagine the stories so vividly as if she was actually there. She couldn't do this with any other subject but something about Greek mythology really connected with her. As Dream grabs her notebook to take notes she realizes she lost her only pencil. Now she has to build up the courage to talk to this girl who seems so cool sitting next to her, she knows this is her chance to make a good first impression so she takes a moment to think of something cool and smart to say to her. "Hello, excuse me, do you have an extra writing apparatus? Greek mythology is required to be my favorite subject I don't want to miss anything" Dream says with poise to her classmate. The girl sharply glares at her, Dream thinks oh no I sounded too smart she thinks I'm a nerd I bet. But then the girl smiles slightly and says "no way?! Greek mythology is required my favorite subject as well!". Dream sighs in relief to learn this. "My name is Angelafina, meet us at the coffee shop next door after class we need to talk!" says the cool mysterious girl beside her. Dream thinks to herself, wow, I love Portland, I already have more friends than I've ever had in my entire life. Dream meets her new friend at the coffee shop and notices she has the other two girls with her. She nervously approaches them trying to think of what she wants to say to introduce herself. Luckily Angelafina excitedly jumps up from her seat saying "Guys this is Dream, the new girl in school, she's a huge fan of Greek mythology as well and I invited her to join our group". The other girls introduce themselves as Sky and Nikki. Angelafina meekly says to Dream, "we are all outcasts, I get made fun of for my crooked teeth that are also turning black and breaking off, Sky gets made fun of for wearing the same outfit every day without washing it and using her sleeves as napkins, Nikki gets made fun of for her grand delusions of thinking she's a celebrity because she posts videos online and has a few thousand followers, and you Dream, well no offense but on your first day all anyone could talk about was how greasy your hair was, so we just knew you belonged in our group." And from that day forward the 4 girls were the best of friends. They spent every day together after school at the coffee shop studying up on their Greek mythology and making plans for after graduation. After the girls all graduated they made a deal to meet at the coffee shop once a week and continue their Greek mythology study group because it brought them so much joy. The girls kept their promise and every Friday at 3pm they'd all meet up to drink their coffee and catch up. However, they begin to notice a man that seems to always be there at the same time and day as them for weeks. They found it odd but since the man seemed to ignore them they wrote it off as a coincidence. Maybe the man worked close by and takes his breaks here. Months go by though and the man is there every time that they are. Dream mentions it to the other girls and they laugh it off telling her to not be paranoid. Dream can't help but feel as if he's there because of them though and feels a bit uneasy. Sky exclaims "he's kind of hot with his porn star mustache and baseball cap". Maybe Sky said it a bit too loud because the man moves his attention to us after she says this. Feeling embarrassed Dream buried her head in her hands avoiding the glare of the mysterious man. All of the sudden though Dream feels something hit her in the head. She sits up confused looking around and sees a paper airplane that landed next to her after bouncing off her head. Great, she thinks to herself, my hair oil got all over the paper and now I have to pick it up and try to read it as there was clearly writing on the inside folds. They notice the man is now gone, where did he go? No one even saw him leave, what is going on here? Nikki squeals, "open the note Dream! None of us want to touch it now that it has your hair oils all over it no offense". Dream slowly opens the note worried what will be inside. But it's just an address? Now the girls are left with a decision. Should they go to the address that the mysterious man with the porn star stache gave them? Or should they ignore it and find a new place to meet for coffee? Their lives are pretty mundane right now, perhaps a change would be nice? The discussion begins to figure out what they will do next. No matter what they do though, they know they need to get Dreams hair fixed because the extra oils were becoming an issue. So they all head to the hair salon to surprise Dream with a hair make over while they discuss their next move.
submitted by AggravatingSearch334 to kaelamedlersnark [link] [comments]
Chapter One: How it all began
The story of the midnight warriors begins in a high school in Portland Oregon. Four girls meet for the first time and this friendship will forever change their lives. Dream was always an outcast that was made fun of in school for her greasy appearing hair. She didn't understand why everyone called her hair greasy though, to her it was "sexy AF". Dream had just moved to Portland from Kansas and it was her very first day of senior year at a new school. She wondered if this school she would also be made fun of for her greasy hair or if maybe by chance people in Portland understood her style and finally appreciate her very sexy hair. She gets herself ready for her first day at a new school by taking a 30 second shower, swishing some mouth wash around because she hadn't found her toothbrush from unpacking yet and adding in some extra hair oil to her already greasy looking hair that she skipped washing as well. She looks in the mirror and says "wow Dream your hair is gorgeous" and leaves to catch the bus. Dream is sad to learn though, that in Portland the other students still called her hair greasy and not sexy like she had hoped. The end of the day was approaching and her last class was about to start as she sees 3 girls walking together hand in hand giggling to each other about something. Dream wished she could be a part of a group so badly, she always felt different but never understood why. She takes her seat in class in the only empty seat that happened to be next to one of the girls she saw so happily walking in with her friends. Maybe this is Dreams chance at a true friendship finally. These girls seemed so cool to Dream so she wanted to be their friends but thought maybe her greasy hair would make them dislike her. The class was about Greek mythology, something Dream always felt oddly close to. Anytime she read about Greek mythology she could imagine the stories so vividly as if she was actually there. She couldn't do this with any other subject but something about Greek mythology really connected with her. As Dream grabs her notebook to take notes she realizes she lost her only pencil. Now she has to build up the courage to talk to this girl who seems so cool sitting next to her, she knows this is her chance to make a good first impression so she takes a moment to think of something cool and smart to say to her. "Hello, excuse me, do you have an extra writing apparatus? Greek mythology is required to be my favorite subject I don't want to miss anything" Dream says with poise to her classmate. The girl sharply glares at her, Dream thinks oh no I sounded too smart she thinks I'm a nerd I bet. But then the girl smiles slightly and says "no way?! Greek mythology is required my favorite subject as well!". Dream sighs in relief to learn this. "My name is Angelafina, meet us at the coffee shop next door after class we need to talk!" says the cool mysterious girl beside her. Dream thinks to herself, wow, I love Portland, I already have more friends than I've ever had in my entire life. Dream meets her new friend at the coffee shop and notices she has the other two girls with her. She nervously approaches them trying to think of what she wants to say to introduce herself. Luckily Angelafina excitedly jumps up from her seat saying "Guys this is Dream, the new girl in school, she's a huge fan of Greek mythology as well and I invited her to join our group". The other girls introduce themselves as Sky and Nikki. Angelafina meekly says to Dream, "we are all outcasts, I get made fun of for my crooked teeth that are also turning black and breaking off, Sky gets made fun of for wearing the same outfit every day without washing it and using her sleeves as napkins, Nikki gets made fun of for her grand delusions of thinking she's a celebrity because she posts videos online and has a few thousand followers, and you Dream, well no offense but on your first day all anyone could talk about was how greasy your hair was, so we just knew you belonged in our group." And from that day forward the 4 girls were the best of friends. They spent every day together after school at the coffee shop studying up on their Greek mythology and making plans for after graduation. After the girls all graduated they made a deal to meet at the coffee shop once a week and continue their Greek mythology study group because it brought them so much joy. The girls kept their promise and every Friday at 3pm they'd all meet up to drink their coffee and catch up. However, they begin to notice a man that seems to always be there at the same time and day as them for weeks. They found it odd but since the man seemed to ignore them they wrote it off as a coincidence. Maybe the man worked close by and takes his breaks here. Months go by though and the man is there every time that they are. Dream mentions it to the other girls and they laugh it off telling her to not be paranoid. Dream can't help but feel as if he's there because of them though and feels a bit uneasy. Sky exclaims "he's kind of hot with his porn star mustache and baseball cap". Maybe Sky said it a bit too loud because the man moves his attention to us after she says this. Feeling embarrassed Dream buried her head in her hands avoiding the glare of the mysterious man. All of the sudden though Dream feels something hit her in the head. She sits up confused looking around and sees a paper airplane that landed next to her after bouncing off her head. Great, she thinks to herself, my hair oil got all over the paper and now I have to pick it up and try to read it as there was clearly writing on the inside folds. They notice the man is now gone, where did he go? No one even saw him leave, what is going on here? Nikki squeals, "open the note Dream! None of us want to touch it now that it has your hair oils all over it no offense". Dream slowly opens the note worried what will be inside. But it's just an address? Now the girls are left with a decision. Should they go to the address that the mysterious man with the porn star stache gave them? Or should they ignore it and find a new place to meet for coffee? Their lives are pretty mundane right now, perhaps a change would be nice? The discussion begins to figure out what they will do next. No matter what they do though, they know they need to get Dreams hair fixed because the extra oils were becoming an issue. So they all head to the hair salon to surprise Dream with a hair make over while they discuss their next move.
2023.05.25 09:35 __DraGooN_ What kind of language is this? Look at this unhinged rant by the mod. It feels like some teenager or someone with the brain development of a teenager is flexing his power by banning everyone he does not agree with.
 | submitted by __DraGooN_ to indiadiscussion [link] [comments] |
2023.05.25 05:33 whirlpool4 Events for Fri 5/26 - Mon 5/29 (Memorial Day Weekend)
** Fri 5/26 *\*
Fri 10:30 - 11:30 AM Mindful Movement - Yoga in the Park North Domingo Baca Park, 7521 Carmel Ave NE Come break a sweat, get a deep stretch in, and then grab lunch at one of the food trucks afterwards! Meet us on the small grassy area just west of the dog park. Bring your own mat and water! See you there!
Fri 12 PM Pistachio Cream Ale Release Tractor Brewing Company, 118 Tulane Dr. NE We’ve been holding off releasing this one of a kind brew specifically for ABQ Beer Week! Inspired by pistachios produced right here in New Mexico this brew is as smooth as silk and as tasty and a fresh roasted pistachio. This is a very limited one off for us, so come and get you a pint or growler while supplies last
Fri 1- 6 PM Tap Takeover Tap N Taco, 1120 State Hwy 528 NE, Rio Rancho Stop by during ABQ Beer Week from 1-6 p.m. for some of the best tacos in town and a pint of Steel Bender beer...we're taking over their taps! COMPA Blue Corn Lager, Raspberry DYNAMITE, Mañana Hazy IPA, and Hefe Lifting will be available
Fri 5 - 10 PM Friday Night Fever Vol. 1 Expo NM Home of the NM State Fair, 300 San Pedro Dr. NE Local favorites edition! Come enjoy some of the cities favorite artists in a variety of genres, dance, shop and have fun •Modified Car Show! *please respect the spot, no burnouts, revving, etc.* FREE ADMISSION INTO EVENT. $7 parking charge. Event is hosted exclusively by Desert Sun Event Productions DBA Delectable baking Co in partnership with EXPO NM
Fri 6 - 9 PM Variety Dance CSP Dance Studios, 1624 Eubank Blvd. NE Welcome to the city's biggest variety dance! We'll be playing all kinds of music: ballroom, latin, country, swing, you name it! $10 cash/check at the door (sorry, no card or Venmo, CashApp, etc.) Welcome lesson from 6:00-6:30pm
Fri 6 - 10 PM Luau Disco Night Tractor Brewing Company - Westside, 5720 McMahon Blvd., Bldg 5, Ste A We're celebrating the start of summer on our patio with DJ Fishbowl for Luau Disco Night! Come dig in on some tiki drink specials, old and new age disco tunes, eats from RioTacos and if you wear your best Hawaiian shirt enjoy dollar off drinks!
Fri 7 - 11:30 PM Steely Dead a Sonic Fusion of Steely Dan & The Grateful Dead Lobo Theater, 3013 Central Ave NE Steely Dead: A National Touring Band with a Unique Fusion of Grateful Dead and Steely Dan. Hailing from the vibrant music scene of Denver, Colorado, Steely Dead is a national touring band that has captured the hearts of music lovers with their unique blend of Grateful Dead jams and Steely Dan grooves. Comprised of four exceptionally talented musicians - Dave Abear on guitar, Matt Abear on bass, Chris Sheldon on drums, and Dylan Teifer on keys - Steely Dead has gained a dedicated following with their electrifying performances and soulful interpretations of classic tunes. Get ready for a night of musical magic as the Lonn Calanca Band takes the stage to deliver their impeccable interpretations of classic Jerry Garcia Band jams in support of Steeley Dead! With the incredible talents of Kelly Wilson, Josh English, Tony Orant, and Rachel Ross, this show promises to be a delectable feast for the senses. So whether you're a devoted dead head or a lover of all types of music, prepare yourself for a savory and thoroughly satisfying night that's guaranteed to fill you with good vibes and good times (tickets)
Fri 8 - 9 PM Club Fuego Cake Nightclub, 515 Central Ave NW Introducing the new club Fuego every Friday night live. Every Friday night we will be spinning the top latin hits from DJ Julio and other top DJs. To kick it off, we are having no cover charge and drink specials all night long. Join us for $4 Dos Equis, $ Lone River Ranch Ritas, and $5 shots of Patron.Checkout our second floor with local DJ's playing top 40 and hip hop hits
Fri 8 - 10 PM Magic & Comedy Night Beer Week Edition Tractor Brewing - Wells Park, 1800 4th St. NW Dave Grimm is New Mexico's favorite bearded, balded, fake shaman-man! The night will feature his interactive close-up bar magic, yes with our beer in his tricks, and a stage show where he will make you think he can read your mind (can he?). Joining Dave will be two of Albuquerque's top comedians: Caleb Mulkey and Bryan Andrew Lambe! For this special edition we’ll be doing some sweet Tractor giveaways as well!
Fri 8 PM - 1 AM Disko Rumba Sister, 407 Central Ave NW Cumbia, Retro Reggaeton, Merengue, Dembow, Y Mas! Puro Pinche Pari! Sounds by Priejo! (tickets)
Fri 9 PM - 2 AM Synergy Effex, 420 Central Ave *All 3 levels of Effex Nightclub* UKO Records & Pirate Radio have curated this beautifully unique combination of artists to synergistically envelope you into a brand new soundscape. Activate your senses in a personal one on one session with Satya’s Meditative Light Therapy for a cosmic experience. Shop local designer Disco Liquid Studio. QuannumThrow will take you on a visual journey to enhance the synergistic soundscape (click link for full schedule and lineup)
Fri 10:30 PM The Third Saturday in October - throwback tribute to 80s slasher flicks with deranged love & humor! The Guild Cinema, 3405 Central Ave NE BONUS! PRODUCER FRANK CRAFTS AND THE ART DIRECTOR ELLAR COLTRANE (OF BOYHOOD FAME!) WILL BE IN PERSON FOR TALK/Q&A! Friday 10:30pm ONLY! Check out the trailer. Jay Burleson - 2023 - 99m - ALL SEATS $8. October 1979. Ricky Dean is a man on a mission. Years ago, he lost a child at the hands of a psychopathic killer named Jakkariah Harding. When Harding escapes Death Row, Ricky Dean throws himself into the line of fire to stop him from killing again as Harding preys upon a group of friends gathered to watch a college football game. An authentic throwback to the golden age of the slasher genre, THE THIRD SATURDAY IN OCTOBER is both a loving tribute to the films that created the horror franchises we know and love as well as an effectively creepy chiller for the modern age
** BOTH SAT 5/27 AND SUN 5/28 *\*
Sabaku Con 2023 Albuquerque Marriott Pyramid North, 5151 San Francisco Rd. NE Don't miss Albuquerque's largest and longest running Anime and Gaming convention. Held at the Marriott Pyramid Albuquerque over Memorial Day weekend (more info and tickets)
** SAT 5/27 - MON 5/29 *\*
New Mexico Wine Fest Balloon Fiesta Park, 5500 Balloon Fiesta Pkwy An annual Memorial Day weekend tradition, with over 20 wineries, great food and live local music, what's not to love. This is our second year featuring our garden theme, and we welcome you to wander in the wine garden with us and enjoy the beautiful New Mexico sunshine (more info and tickets)
** Sat 5/27 *\*
Sat 9 - 10 AM U.S.S. Bullhead Memorial Clean Up! 1606 San Pedro Dr. SE Albuquerque is worth the work to keep beautiful! Please join me fellow Burqueños at the U.S.S. Bullhead Memorial park litter clean up! Trash bags and gloves will be provided to you at the 9AM check-in; please meet in the parking lot. There are also 4 extra litter pick up sticks to loan for the hour so be there early to grab yours! Please remind your family and friends not to litter!
Sat 9 AM - 4 PM Refuge Scavenger Hunt Valle de Oro National Wildlife Refuge, 7851 2nd St. SW Stop by the refuge's visitor center any time between 9AM and 4PM to take a scavenger hunt walk and receive a prize upon completion. Fun for all ages and FREE! (Prizes will be given out while supplies last)
Sat 9 AM - 6 PM Customer Appreciation Day! Osuna Nursery, 501 Osuna Rd. NE We love our customers! Join us for our annual Customer Appreciation Day at Osuna Nursery!
Sat 10 AM - 3 PM Car Wash + Dine to Donate Gecko's Bar And Tapas Too, 5801 Academy Rd. NE Help the Atomic Sisters Rugby Team get to the National Championship! We travel to St. Louis, MO June 2nd-5th for the Final Four and a shot at the title. Join us for a car wash PLUS a dine-to-donate fundraiser (25% of all food sales go to the Sisters)! Car wash will run 10am-3pm and dine-to-donate will run all day! Thank you for your support!
Sat 10:30 - 11:30 AM Mindful Movement - Yoga in the Park North Domingo Baca Park, 7521 Carmel Ave NE Break a sweat, get a deep stretch in and grab lunch at a food truck afterwards! Meet us on the grassy area just west of the dog park. Bring your own yoga mat
Sat 10:30 AM - 12 PM Wellness Schedule Casa Rondeña Winery, 733 Chavez Rd. NW, Los Ranchos Open to people of all skill levels, Wellness + Wine is a one-hour, outdoor practice, followed by a glass of wine or Sangria, and an invitation to stay and relax on the grounds of the beautiful Casa Rondeña Winery. This experience is $25, and includes glass of wine. Discounts apply for winery members. Reservations are required to participate
Sat 11:30 AM - 12:30 PM New Mexico Entertainment's Morning Toons The Guild Cinema, 3405 Central Ave NE Grab your pajamas and your blanket, and take part in this Saturday morning event with your family and friends. New Mexico Entertainment Magazine brings you cartoons from your childhood on the big screen at The Guild Cinema. Kick back, have some breakfast, and enjoy the toons! The ticket includes admission and breakfast. Morning Toons is a LIMITED seat event
Sat 12 - 11 PM Ciderday Night Fever Space Disco Tractor Brewing Company, 118 Tulane Dr. SE We're featuring some of our amazing delicious ciders in flights and of course in goblets for you goblins. This year we’ll be featuring four limited one off ciders made by us, then at 8pm DJ Ren will be laying down some psychedelic disco on the ones and twos to get your apple tree shaking!
Sat 12 - 6 PM Bear Fest 2023 Boxing Bear Brewing Co., 8420 Firestone Ln. NE Music, Samples & Pints, Craft Vendors and Food Trucks. This is a 21+ event. Please leave your kids at home. Parents with kids under 21 will not be allowed entry to the festival. Get a babysitter and enjoy yourself! Tickets are available exclusively on Eventbrite. Purchase online before coming to the gate. GENERAL ADMISSION $25.00 - Available two weeks before the festival and at the gate - Includes entry to the festival , Commemorative BEAR FEST pint glass, four 4oz sample tickets and one full pint of your choice. DESIGNATED DRIVER $10.00 - Entry to the festival only, Designated driver wrist band, must still be 21+ to enter (click event link for list of participating breweries, vendors, and music lineup)
Sat 1 - 9 PM Party in the Park - Focus Edition Roosevelt Park, 500 Spruce St. SE Now that the weather has gotten better, it's time that the Focus fam gets back together for another Party in the Park. We've missed getting friends and family together and coming together for the love of the music and our DJs. This is a family-friendly event and open to all of our friends and relations (click link for full lineup)
Sat 1 PM Family Art Workshop Albuquerque Museum, 2000 Mountain Rd. NW Inspired by Ronald Rael's installation Glass Scaffold in the atrium courtyard we will make our own geometric sculptures. Use toothpicks, colored popsicle sticks, and glue to create a mini-masterpiece
Sat 2 - 5 PM Rebel Paws Rescue is hosting a FUNDRAISER Lizard Tail Brewing Industrial, 3351 Columbia Dr. NE Come out and help homeless dogs with your donation of a water bowl and help raise money for your own health with Evolution Strength and Conditioning Gym, Albuquerque’s premier LBGTAI+ gym!
Sat 2 - 6 PM Flying Legends Cutter Aviation, 2502 Clark Carr Loop SE The Flying Legends event will be held at Cutter Aviation at the Albuquerque International Sunport, and will feature the B-25 Mitchell "Maid in the Shade". Enjoy networking with Women in Aviation, Land of Enchantment chapter members and spread the word about our chapter at our booth! We would like to have volunteers at our booth in two shifts, from 2pm-4pm and from 4pm-6pm (more info)
Sat 2:30 - 4:30 PM Argentine Tango Practica Albuquerque Square Dance Club, 4915 Hawkins St. NE Presented by the Tango Club of ABQ (TCA), a nonprofit dance club. Tango practica is great for practicing Argentine tango, vals, and milonga, meeting other tango dancers, having fun, and being part of the tango dancing community. No partner necessary. Open to everyone, all skill levels. 2nd and 4th Sundays from May to Oct: Milonga at the Old Town Gazebo, Romero St. NW and San Felipe St. NW
Sat 4 - 5 PM East Coast Swing Group Class Enchantment Dancing, 337 San Pedro Dr. NE Welcome to our Bronze American East Coast Swing Class! Whether you are a newbie stepping on to the dance floor for the first time or a seasoned professional wanting to brush up on basics, as well as anyone in-between, this class is for you! East Coast Swing is an exciting, up-beat dance that is endlessly versatile! No partner necessary, and dropping in is fine! Class cost is only $10, and a punch card for 6 classes is $50
Sat 4 - 8 PM Pop Up Market Vegan Village, 1321 Eubank Blvd. NE Join us for another evening of fun, live music, DJ, drinks, great eats and sweets! We will also have a great variety of vendors for everyone to visit throughout the evening. Family friendly and companion animal friendly as well! Don't miss out on the most unique eats in town! Everyone is welcome! Make sure to RSVP on our eventbrite page to be entered for any giveaways and to let us know you are coming! Live music by the band Baracutanga! Special guest DJ Nalgona Superstar!
Sat 7 - 10 PM Night In The Sound Garden Drag Show Revel, 4720 Alexander Blvd. NE Drag Brunch Wasn't Enough? The Haus Of Attack Has Your Back! Join Us For An Evening Of Memories, Fun, And DRAG! Your Favorite HOA Is Back In The Sound Garden! Bringing You A Fierce Cast, Jessica K. Daniels, Trey C. Michaels, Divyne Intervention, and Busy B! Hosted By Your Favorite Duo, Assma Attack and ViLette Stratton. Seating For This Event Will Be Open Seating Unless Reserved VIP Lounge Seating Is Purchased
Sat 7:30 PM Road Warrior Comedy Show Dry Heat Comedy Club, 521 Central Ave NW, Ste G Chuck Parker Comedy and Crosslines Media present another edition of the Road Warrior Comedy Show! May’s show is sponsored by Red Door Brewing Company (downtown)! Featuring hardened standup veterans from all over the country! This month's headliner: Zach Abeyta was voted Albuquerque The Magazine’s ‘Best in the City’ in the category of comedian! This show WILL sell out, so get your tickets now! Featuring Benny Martinez & Kate Anella With your host Chuck Parker
Sat 9:30 PM - 1 AM Sabor Latin Nights Damacio's Bar & Tapas, 722 Central Ave SW Join us for Albuquerque's hottest Saturday Salsa / Latin Dancing night! Music by DJ GABRIEL GOZA. Free Salsa/Bachata lesson @ 9:30pm. Mixing up los sabores de Salsa, Bachata, Timba, Reggaeton, Mambo y mas! Full Bar / 21 & Over / $10 cover / Kitchen open until 9:30
Sat 10:30 PM Rosemary's Baby Guild Cinema, 3405 Central Ave NE God is dead. Satan lives. Advance tickets automatically entered for giveaways from Spectral Youth and Dark Room Horror
** Sun 5/28 *\*
Sun 10 AM - 2 PM Block Party 2469 Corrales Rd., Corrales *Open to the community!* We are proud to host a community block party in celebration of our practice's one year anniversary! *Food truck (The Munchie Truck) *Drinks *Yard games *Bounce House *Silent Auction benefiting local student scholarship funds *Community and networking. Hosted by Enchantment Upper Cervical Chiropractic
Sun 10 AM - 2 PM Star Wars Historic Lobo Theater, 3013 Central Ave NE THE HISTORIC LOBO THEATER along with Albuquerque Film & Music Experience is excited to bring Star Wars back to the big screen! Showing Starts at11:30AM Tickets are ONLY $10 for General Admission Brunch and a ticket is ONLY $21. Exclusive brunch menu: made-to-order pancakes, mimosas, and more! 10% off if you come in your pajamas!
Sun 12 - 2 PM Family Paint Party Urban 360 Pizza Grill and Tap House, 2119 Menaul Blvd. NE Join Hannah and in just about two hours, while you’re sipping on a glass of wine, beer, or drink of your choice*, our performing artist will guide you through a painting step-by-step. At the end of the night, take home your own unique masterpiece - you will be amazed by what you can do! We provide everything you will need for use at the event: canvas, paints, brushes and even a smock. You just bring your fun-loving friends and have a few drinks! Please arrive 15-30 minutes prior to start time, especially if you have a large group. This will secure seating with your friends and allow you to order your drink before the event begins. **Event is for 16 and over. Must be 21+ purchase alcohol. No children allowed
Sun 12 - 5 PM The GameTime Trade Show Hinkle Fun Center, 12931 Indian School Rd. NE Attention, Sports and Pokémon Collectors – The Countdown is On! The 28th of May is about to become your favorite day of the year! The GameTime Trade Show is landing at Hinkle Family Fun Center! We're going full throttle with epic card trades, camaraderie with fellow collectors, and treasure hunting for your next favorite addition! Ready to cash in on your card stash? Get your spot in line by dialing GameTime at (505) 294-3087. Join the excitement, amplify your collection, and mingle with the best in the business!
Sun 12:30 - 10 PM Memorial Day Sunday - Veterans Play for Free Empire Board Game Library, 3503 Central Ave NE Military members current and former come in and play for free on the Sunday preceding Memorial Day
Sun 3:15 - 6:15 PM Tablao Flamenco Albuquerque Matinee Show Hotel Albuquerque at Old Town, 800 Rio Grande Blvd. NW Tickets. Doors open at 3:15 pm. Performance begins at 4:00 pm. Albuquerque, NM, is the Flamenco Capitol of the United States. Immerse yourself in this deep, culturally significant art form every Friday & Saturday night, and Sunday afternoon at Hotel Albuquerque. Through a unique partnership based on cultural preservation, Heritage Hotels and Resorts and the nonprofit National Institute of Flamenco have joined efforts to create Tablao Flamenco Albuquerque. At Tablao Flamenco, the passion and energy of flamenco come alive as you experience flamenco in its most intimate, powerful setting in the heart of historic Old Town. Featuring a world-class line-up of artists, the Tablao Flamenco presents a dynamic schedule of performances, featuring premier artists from Spain and the United States
Sun 4 PM Bad Bunny Day Party Effex Rooftop, 420 Central Ave Back again with a Bad Bunny DAY PARTY! Bad Bunny themed drinks by Beto The Bartender & Bad Bunny Music ALL DAY LONG! DJ Spunjy in the mix!
Sun 7 PM DYSTOPIA Industrial Dance Party JUNO, 1501 1st St. NW Monthly industrial dance party returns! Dj $uspence and red-209 bring the latest and greatest in industrial dance! It's a DYSTOPIA, dress and dance accordingly!
** Mon 5/29 *\*
Mon 5 - 9 PM Adult Coloring Night Tractor Brewing Company - Westside, 5720 McMahon Blvd., Bldg 5, Ste A Come color with us! We got the sheets, markers, pencils, and crayons! ALL FREE! Every Monday
Mon 6 - 7:30 PM Cuban Salsa National Hispanic Cultural Center (upstairs), 1701 4th St. SW This is a weekly Casino (Cuban) Salsa course focusing on techniques, figures, rhythms, music and body movements of Cuban Salsa. Basic Pasos 6PM - 6:30PM. Figures/Combinations 6:30PM-7:30PM. Cost: $60 /Month paid up front or $20 drop in rate per class. No Partner or previous experience necessary, just desire to learn, have fun, and dance with amazing people interested in dancing Casino Salsa! WE WILL: * Learn important fundamental elements (patterns, steps, and musicality) for a solid foundation in Casino. Salsa * familiarize ourselves with music and rhythms (clave) * start with basics Casino steps and incorporate new basic elements each week * learn the roles and responsibilities for Lead / Follow so each person understands the importance of their part * incorporate dancing separate from your partner (Salsa suelta aka shines) * Further in our progress we will incorporate Cuban Rumba and Afro-Cuban dances influenced by folkloric traditions in Cuba * learn figuras (combinations) that are usually identified by colorful Spanish words that characterize or describe the movement, for example: the call “Sombrero” refers to the HAT figure * dancing "a tiempo" or "contra tiempo" (with time or against time) or dancing with "the melody" or with "the clave". Faster Timba music is usually danced "a tiempo". Slower music like Son is danced "contra tiempo" Salsa is unique to each person.. so bring your sabor and vamoooos a bailar!
submitted by whirlpool4 to Albuquerque [link] [comments]
Fri 10:30 - 11:30 AM Mindful Movement - Yoga in the Park North Domingo Baca Park, 7521 Carmel Ave NE Come break a sweat, get a deep stretch in, and then grab lunch at one of the food trucks afterwards! Meet us on the small grassy area just west of the dog park. Bring your own mat and water! See you there!
Fri 12 PM Pistachio Cream Ale Release Tractor Brewing Company, 118 Tulane Dr. NE We’ve been holding off releasing this one of a kind brew specifically for ABQ Beer Week! Inspired by pistachios produced right here in New Mexico this brew is as smooth as silk and as tasty and a fresh roasted pistachio. This is a very limited one off for us, so come and get you a pint or growler while supplies last
Fri 1- 6 PM Tap Takeover Tap N Taco, 1120 State Hwy 528 NE, Rio Rancho Stop by during ABQ Beer Week from 1-6 p.m. for some of the best tacos in town and a pint of Steel Bender beer...we're taking over their taps! COMPA Blue Corn Lager, Raspberry DYNAMITE, Mañana Hazy IPA, and Hefe Lifting will be available
Fri 5 - 10 PM Friday Night Fever Vol. 1 Expo NM Home of the NM State Fair, 300 San Pedro Dr. NE Local favorites edition! Come enjoy some of the cities favorite artists in a variety of genres, dance, shop and have fun •Modified Car Show! *please respect the spot, no burnouts, revving, etc.* FREE ADMISSION INTO EVENT. $7 parking charge. Event is hosted exclusively by Desert Sun Event Productions DBA Delectable baking Co in partnership with EXPO NM
Fri 6 - 9 PM Variety Dance CSP Dance Studios, 1624 Eubank Blvd. NE Welcome to the city's biggest variety dance! We'll be playing all kinds of music: ballroom, latin, country, swing, you name it! $10 cash/check at the door (sorry, no card or Venmo, CashApp, etc.) Welcome lesson from 6:00-6:30pm
Fri 6 - 10 PM Luau Disco Night Tractor Brewing Company - Westside, 5720 McMahon Blvd., Bldg 5, Ste A We're celebrating the start of summer on our patio with DJ Fishbowl for Luau Disco Night! Come dig in on some tiki drink specials, old and new age disco tunes, eats from RioTacos and if you wear your best Hawaiian shirt enjoy dollar off drinks!
Fri 7 - 11:30 PM Steely Dead a Sonic Fusion of Steely Dan & The Grateful Dead Lobo Theater, 3013 Central Ave NE Steely Dead: A National Touring Band with a Unique Fusion of Grateful Dead and Steely Dan. Hailing from the vibrant music scene of Denver, Colorado, Steely Dead is a national touring band that has captured the hearts of music lovers with their unique blend of Grateful Dead jams and Steely Dan grooves. Comprised of four exceptionally talented musicians - Dave Abear on guitar, Matt Abear on bass, Chris Sheldon on drums, and Dylan Teifer on keys - Steely Dead has gained a dedicated following with their electrifying performances and soulful interpretations of classic tunes. Get ready for a night of musical magic as the Lonn Calanca Band takes the stage to deliver their impeccable interpretations of classic Jerry Garcia Band jams in support of Steeley Dead! With the incredible talents of Kelly Wilson, Josh English, Tony Orant, and Rachel Ross, this show promises to be a delectable feast for the senses. So whether you're a devoted dead head or a lover of all types of music, prepare yourself for a savory and thoroughly satisfying night that's guaranteed to fill you with good vibes and good times (tickets)
Fri 8 - 9 PM Club Fuego Cake Nightclub, 515 Central Ave NW Introducing the new club Fuego every Friday night live. Every Friday night we will be spinning the top latin hits from DJ Julio and other top DJs. To kick it off, we are having no cover charge and drink specials all night long. Join us for $4 Dos Equis, $ Lone River Ranch Ritas, and $5 shots of Patron.Checkout our second floor with local DJ's playing top 40 and hip hop hits
Fri 8 - 10 PM Magic & Comedy Night Beer Week Edition Tractor Brewing - Wells Park, 1800 4th St. NW Dave Grimm is New Mexico's favorite bearded, balded, fake shaman-man! The night will feature his interactive close-up bar magic, yes with our beer in his tricks, and a stage show where he will make you think he can read your mind (can he?). Joining Dave will be two of Albuquerque's top comedians: Caleb Mulkey and Bryan Andrew Lambe! For this special edition we’ll be doing some sweet Tractor giveaways as well!
Fri 8 PM - 1 AM Disko Rumba Sister, 407 Central Ave NW Cumbia, Retro Reggaeton, Merengue, Dembow, Y Mas! Puro Pinche Pari! Sounds by Priejo! (tickets)
Fri 9 PM - 2 AM Synergy Effex, 420 Central Ave *All 3 levels of Effex Nightclub* UKO Records & Pirate Radio have curated this beautifully unique combination of artists to synergistically envelope you into a brand new soundscape. Activate your senses in a personal one on one session with Satya’s Meditative Light Therapy for a cosmic experience. Shop local designer Disco Liquid Studio. QuannumThrow will take you on a visual journey to enhance the synergistic soundscape (click link for full schedule and lineup)
Fri 10:30 PM The Third Saturday in October - throwback tribute to 80s slasher flicks with deranged love & humor! The Guild Cinema, 3405 Central Ave NE BONUS! PRODUCER FRANK CRAFTS AND THE ART DIRECTOR ELLAR COLTRANE (OF BOYHOOD FAME!) WILL BE IN PERSON FOR TALK/Q&A! Friday 10:30pm ONLY! Check out the trailer. Jay Burleson - 2023 - 99m - ALL SEATS $8. October 1979. Ricky Dean is a man on a mission. Years ago, he lost a child at the hands of a psychopathic killer named Jakkariah Harding. When Harding escapes Death Row, Ricky Dean throws himself into the line of fire to stop him from killing again as Harding preys upon a group of friends gathered to watch a college football game. An authentic throwback to the golden age of the slasher genre, THE THIRD SATURDAY IN OCTOBER is both a loving tribute to the films that created the horror franchises we know and love as well as an effectively creepy chiller for the modern age
** BOTH SAT 5/27 AND SUN 5/28 *\*
Sabaku Con 2023 Albuquerque Marriott Pyramid North, 5151 San Francisco Rd. NE Don't miss Albuquerque's largest and longest running Anime and Gaming convention. Held at the Marriott Pyramid Albuquerque over Memorial Day weekend (more info and tickets)
** SAT 5/27 - MON 5/29 *\*
New Mexico Wine Fest Balloon Fiesta Park, 5500 Balloon Fiesta Pkwy An annual Memorial Day weekend tradition, with over 20 wineries, great food and live local music, what's not to love. This is our second year featuring our garden theme, and we welcome you to wander in the wine garden with us and enjoy the beautiful New Mexico sunshine (more info and tickets)
** Sat 5/27 *\*
Sat 9 - 10 AM U.S.S. Bullhead Memorial Clean Up! 1606 San Pedro Dr. SE Albuquerque is worth the work to keep beautiful! Please join me fellow Burqueños at the U.S.S. Bullhead Memorial park litter clean up! Trash bags and gloves will be provided to you at the 9AM check-in; please meet in the parking lot. There are also 4 extra litter pick up sticks to loan for the hour so be there early to grab yours! Please remind your family and friends not to litter!
Sat 9 AM - 4 PM Refuge Scavenger Hunt Valle de Oro National Wildlife Refuge, 7851 2nd St. SW Stop by the refuge's visitor center any time between 9AM and 4PM to take a scavenger hunt walk and receive a prize upon completion. Fun for all ages and FREE! (Prizes will be given out while supplies last)
Sat 9 AM - 6 PM Customer Appreciation Day! Osuna Nursery, 501 Osuna Rd. NE We love our customers! Join us for our annual Customer Appreciation Day at Osuna Nursery!
Sat 10 AM - 3 PM Car Wash + Dine to Donate Gecko's Bar And Tapas Too, 5801 Academy Rd. NE Help the Atomic Sisters Rugby Team get to the National Championship! We travel to St. Louis, MO June 2nd-5th for the Final Four and a shot at the title. Join us for a car wash PLUS a dine-to-donate fundraiser (25% of all food sales go to the Sisters)! Car wash will run 10am-3pm and dine-to-donate will run all day! Thank you for your support!
Sat 10:30 - 11:30 AM Mindful Movement - Yoga in the Park North Domingo Baca Park, 7521 Carmel Ave NE Break a sweat, get a deep stretch in and grab lunch at a food truck afterwards! Meet us on the grassy area just west of the dog park. Bring your own yoga mat
Sat 10:30 AM - 12 PM Wellness Schedule Casa Rondeña Winery, 733 Chavez Rd. NW, Los Ranchos Open to people of all skill levels, Wellness + Wine is a one-hour, outdoor practice, followed by a glass of wine or Sangria, and an invitation to stay and relax on the grounds of the beautiful Casa Rondeña Winery. This experience is $25, and includes glass of wine. Discounts apply for winery members. Reservations are required to participate
Sat 11:30 AM - 12:30 PM New Mexico Entertainment's Morning Toons The Guild Cinema, 3405 Central Ave NE Grab your pajamas and your blanket, and take part in this Saturday morning event with your family and friends. New Mexico Entertainment Magazine brings you cartoons from your childhood on the big screen at The Guild Cinema. Kick back, have some breakfast, and enjoy the toons! The ticket includes admission and breakfast. Morning Toons is a LIMITED seat event
Sat 12 - 11 PM Ciderday Night Fever Space Disco Tractor Brewing Company, 118 Tulane Dr. SE We're featuring some of our amazing delicious ciders in flights and of course in goblets for you goblins. This year we’ll be featuring four limited one off ciders made by us, then at 8pm DJ Ren will be laying down some psychedelic disco on the ones and twos to get your apple tree shaking!
Sat 12 - 6 PM Bear Fest 2023 Boxing Bear Brewing Co., 8420 Firestone Ln. NE Music, Samples & Pints, Craft Vendors and Food Trucks. This is a 21+ event. Please leave your kids at home. Parents with kids under 21 will not be allowed entry to the festival. Get a babysitter and enjoy yourself! Tickets are available exclusively on Eventbrite. Purchase online before coming to the gate. GENERAL ADMISSION $25.00 - Available two weeks before the festival and at the gate - Includes entry to the festival , Commemorative BEAR FEST pint glass, four 4oz sample tickets and one full pint of your choice. DESIGNATED DRIVER $10.00 - Entry to the festival only, Designated driver wrist band, must still be 21+ to enter (click event link for list of participating breweries, vendors, and music lineup)
Sat 1 - 9 PM Party in the Park - Focus Edition Roosevelt Park, 500 Spruce St. SE Now that the weather has gotten better, it's time that the Focus fam gets back together for another Party in the Park. We've missed getting friends and family together and coming together for the love of the music and our DJs. This is a family-friendly event and open to all of our friends and relations (click link for full lineup)
Sat 1 PM Family Art Workshop Albuquerque Museum, 2000 Mountain Rd. NW Inspired by Ronald Rael's installation Glass Scaffold in the atrium courtyard we will make our own geometric sculptures. Use toothpicks, colored popsicle sticks, and glue to create a mini-masterpiece
Sat 2 - 5 PM Rebel Paws Rescue is hosting a FUNDRAISER Lizard Tail Brewing Industrial, 3351 Columbia Dr. NE Come out and help homeless dogs with your donation of a water bowl and help raise money for your own health with Evolution Strength and Conditioning Gym, Albuquerque’s premier LBGTAI+ gym!
Sat 2 - 6 PM Flying Legends Cutter Aviation, 2502 Clark Carr Loop SE The Flying Legends event will be held at Cutter Aviation at the Albuquerque International Sunport, and will feature the B-25 Mitchell "Maid in the Shade". Enjoy networking with Women in Aviation, Land of Enchantment chapter members and spread the word about our chapter at our booth! We would like to have volunteers at our booth in two shifts, from 2pm-4pm and from 4pm-6pm (more info)
Sat 2:30 - 4:30 PM Argentine Tango Practica Albuquerque Square Dance Club, 4915 Hawkins St. NE Presented by the Tango Club of ABQ (TCA), a nonprofit dance club. Tango practica is great for practicing Argentine tango, vals, and milonga, meeting other tango dancers, having fun, and being part of the tango dancing community. No partner necessary. Open to everyone, all skill levels. 2nd and 4th Sundays from May to Oct: Milonga at the Old Town Gazebo, Romero St. NW and San Felipe St. NW
Sat 4 - 5 PM East Coast Swing Group Class Enchantment Dancing, 337 San Pedro Dr. NE Welcome to our Bronze American East Coast Swing Class! Whether you are a newbie stepping on to the dance floor for the first time or a seasoned professional wanting to brush up on basics, as well as anyone in-between, this class is for you! East Coast Swing is an exciting, up-beat dance that is endlessly versatile! No partner necessary, and dropping in is fine! Class cost is only $10, and a punch card for 6 classes is $50
Sat 4 - 8 PM Pop Up Market Vegan Village, 1321 Eubank Blvd. NE Join us for another evening of fun, live music, DJ, drinks, great eats and sweets! We will also have a great variety of vendors for everyone to visit throughout the evening. Family friendly and companion animal friendly as well! Don't miss out on the most unique eats in town! Everyone is welcome! Make sure to RSVP on our eventbrite page to be entered for any giveaways and to let us know you are coming! Live music by the band Baracutanga! Special guest DJ Nalgona Superstar!
Sat 7 - 10 PM Night In The Sound Garden Drag Show Revel, 4720 Alexander Blvd. NE Drag Brunch Wasn't Enough? The Haus Of Attack Has Your Back! Join Us For An Evening Of Memories, Fun, And DRAG! Your Favorite HOA Is Back In The Sound Garden! Bringing You A Fierce Cast, Jessica K. Daniels, Trey C. Michaels, Divyne Intervention, and Busy B! Hosted By Your Favorite Duo, Assma Attack and ViLette Stratton. Seating For This Event Will Be Open Seating Unless Reserved VIP Lounge Seating Is Purchased
Sat 7:30 PM Road Warrior Comedy Show Dry Heat Comedy Club, 521 Central Ave NW, Ste G Chuck Parker Comedy and Crosslines Media present another edition of the Road Warrior Comedy Show! May’s show is sponsored by Red Door Brewing Company (downtown)! Featuring hardened standup veterans from all over the country! This month's headliner: Zach Abeyta was voted Albuquerque The Magazine’s ‘Best in the City’ in the category of comedian! This show WILL sell out, so get your tickets now! Featuring Benny Martinez & Kate Anella With your host Chuck Parker
Sat 9:30 PM - 1 AM Sabor Latin Nights Damacio's Bar & Tapas, 722 Central Ave SW Join us for Albuquerque's hottest Saturday Salsa / Latin Dancing night! Music by DJ GABRIEL GOZA. Free Salsa/Bachata lesson @ 9:30pm. Mixing up los sabores de Salsa, Bachata, Timba, Reggaeton, Mambo y mas! Full Bar / 21 & Over / $10 cover / Kitchen open until 9:30
Sat 10:30 PM Rosemary's Baby Guild Cinema, 3405 Central Ave NE God is dead. Satan lives. Advance tickets automatically entered for giveaways from Spectral Youth and Dark Room Horror
** Sun 5/28 *\*
Sun 10 AM - 2 PM Block Party 2469 Corrales Rd., Corrales *Open to the community!* We are proud to host a community block party in celebration of our practice's one year anniversary! *Food truck (The Munchie Truck) *Drinks *Yard games *Bounce House *Silent Auction benefiting local student scholarship funds *Community and networking. Hosted by Enchantment Upper Cervical Chiropractic
Sun 10 AM - 2 PM Star Wars Historic Lobo Theater, 3013 Central Ave NE THE HISTORIC LOBO THEATER along with Albuquerque Film & Music Experience is excited to bring Star Wars back to the big screen! Showing Starts at11:30AM Tickets are ONLY $10 for General Admission Brunch and a ticket is ONLY $21. Exclusive brunch menu: made-to-order pancakes, mimosas, and more! 10% off if you come in your pajamas!
Sun 12 - 2 PM Family Paint Party Urban 360 Pizza Grill and Tap House, 2119 Menaul Blvd. NE Join Hannah and in just about two hours, while you’re sipping on a glass of wine, beer, or drink of your choice*, our performing artist will guide you through a painting step-by-step. At the end of the night, take home your own unique masterpiece - you will be amazed by what you can do! We provide everything you will need for use at the event: canvas, paints, brushes and even a smock. You just bring your fun-loving friends and have a few drinks! Please arrive 15-30 minutes prior to start time, especially if you have a large group. This will secure seating with your friends and allow you to order your drink before the event begins. **Event is for 16 and over. Must be 21+ purchase alcohol. No children allowed
Sun 12 - 5 PM The GameTime Trade Show Hinkle Fun Center, 12931 Indian School Rd. NE Attention, Sports and Pokémon Collectors – The Countdown is On! The 28th of May is about to become your favorite day of the year! The GameTime Trade Show is landing at Hinkle Family Fun Center! We're going full throttle with epic card trades, camaraderie with fellow collectors, and treasure hunting for your next favorite addition! Ready to cash in on your card stash? Get your spot in line by dialing GameTime at (505) 294-3087. Join the excitement, amplify your collection, and mingle with the best in the business!
Sun 12:30 - 10 PM Memorial Day Sunday - Veterans Play for Free Empire Board Game Library, 3503 Central Ave NE Military members current and former come in and play for free on the Sunday preceding Memorial Day
Sun 3:15 - 6:15 PM Tablao Flamenco Albuquerque Matinee Show Hotel Albuquerque at Old Town, 800 Rio Grande Blvd. NW Tickets. Doors open at 3:15 pm. Performance begins at 4:00 pm. Albuquerque, NM, is the Flamenco Capitol of the United States. Immerse yourself in this deep, culturally significant art form every Friday & Saturday night, and Sunday afternoon at Hotel Albuquerque. Through a unique partnership based on cultural preservation, Heritage Hotels and Resorts and the nonprofit National Institute of Flamenco have joined efforts to create Tablao Flamenco Albuquerque. At Tablao Flamenco, the passion and energy of flamenco come alive as you experience flamenco in its most intimate, powerful setting in the heart of historic Old Town. Featuring a world-class line-up of artists, the Tablao Flamenco presents a dynamic schedule of performances, featuring premier artists from Spain and the United States
Sun 4 PM Bad Bunny Day Party Effex Rooftop, 420 Central Ave Back again with a Bad Bunny DAY PARTY! Bad Bunny themed drinks by Beto The Bartender & Bad Bunny Music ALL DAY LONG! DJ Spunjy in the mix!
Sun 7 PM DYSTOPIA Industrial Dance Party JUNO, 1501 1st St. NW Monthly industrial dance party returns! Dj $uspence and red-209 bring the latest and greatest in industrial dance! It's a DYSTOPIA, dress and dance accordingly!
** Mon 5/29 *\*
Mon 5 - 9 PM Adult Coloring Night Tractor Brewing Company - Westside, 5720 McMahon Blvd., Bldg 5, Ste A Come color with us! We got the sheets, markers, pencils, and crayons! ALL FREE! Every Monday
Mon 6 - 7:30 PM Cuban Salsa National Hispanic Cultural Center (upstairs), 1701 4th St. SW This is a weekly Casino (Cuban) Salsa course focusing on techniques, figures, rhythms, music and body movements of Cuban Salsa. Basic Pasos 6PM - 6:30PM. Figures/Combinations 6:30PM-7:30PM. Cost: $60 /Month paid up front or $20 drop in rate per class. No Partner or previous experience necessary, just desire to learn, have fun, and dance with amazing people interested in dancing Casino Salsa! WE WILL: * Learn important fundamental elements (patterns, steps, and musicality) for a solid foundation in Casino. Salsa * familiarize ourselves with music and rhythms (clave) * start with basics Casino steps and incorporate new basic elements each week * learn the roles and responsibilities for Lead / Follow so each person understands the importance of their part * incorporate dancing separate from your partner (Salsa suelta aka shines) * Further in our progress we will incorporate Cuban Rumba and Afro-Cuban dances influenced by folkloric traditions in Cuba * learn figuras (combinations) that are usually identified by colorful Spanish words that characterize or describe the movement, for example: the call “Sombrero” refers to the HAT figure * dancing "a tiempo" or "contra tiempo" (with time or against time) or dancing with "the melody" or with "the clave". Faster Timba music is usually danced "a tiempo". Slower music like Son is danced "contra tiempo" Salsa is unique to each person.. so bring your sabor and vamoooos a bailar!
2023.05.24 18:00 Unlikely-Alt-9383 I am 53 years old, make $255,000 base (~400K total comp), live in Brooklyn, work as a UX design manager, and this week I accidentally crashed a first date
Section One: Assets and Debt
Retirement/Investments Balance: $2.6 million, which is still mind-boggling to me, even as I know that with better choices I might have even more. More about that later. $1500 in my HSA, $519,000 in traditional IRAs, about half of that in a Beneficiary IRA from my late mother, $10K in a Roth IRA, $40,000 in my employer’s stock from RSUs, $145,000 in my 401K, $990,000 in an unmanaged taxable account, and $920,000 in a managed one.
Equity: Probably about $500,000. I bought my co-op apartment for $500K in 2008, and put in $120K worth of renovations in 2019. I still owe $251,000 on a 3.75% refi, but it’s probably worth close to $800,000 with the updates and as the neighborhood has continued to gentrify; it was assessed at $720,000 when I took out a HELOC for the renovations. I was able to make the 20% downpayment of $100,000 the co-op required because of the money my mom left me; she was very clear that she wanted to enable me to buy a home, and we’d even discussed her helping with a future downpayment before she passed.
Savings account balance: $60,000 in a HYSA. Some of that is earmarked for quarterly taxes, further renovations, and self-care but I try to always have $30,000 which is about 4 months’ expenses available as an “emergency fund.” I also have a non-high-yield savings account, which has some funds earmarked for my nephew’s bar mitzvah but is mostly used as a transfer point between other accounts until I get my act together and close it: current non-earmarked balance of $2000.
Primary checking account balance: $4800. My first post-grad school checking account required a $2K balance for no fee on ATM transactions, and I still try to keep a $2K balance in checking. I tell myself it’s so nothing ever bounces, but actually it’s a mix of habit and superstition.
Secondary checking account: $9,000. This account is funded mostly from dividends from my REIT shares (see below) and used to pay the co-op maintenance fees. I keep saying I should combine the two accounts now that I could theoretically pay the maintenance out of my take-home instead, but I am lazy!
Credit card debt: None currently. I pay my cards every month, though because it’s not automated I fuck up maybe once a year or so.
Student loan debt: I graduated college with about $12,000 in debt, but my grandparents died while I was in college and my mom paid it off from her inheritance, saying “I got this money when I don’t need it, you should have it now when you do.” My siblings and I plan to pay off my nieces/nephews’ college debt in turn to pay it forward. I didn’t take on grad school debt -- never take out loans to get a humanities advanced degree! -- but I racked up $10,000 worth of credit card debt in grad school because I made so little money. I paid it off with work for an early dot-com while I was still in school.
Anything else that's applicable to you: my siblings and I inherited shares in a private company that later sold off assets and turned itself into a REIT. My mom said “never sell those shares!” and even though that company doesn’t exist anymore, we haven't, and selling private REIT shares is a PITA anyhow.
Section Two: Income
Income Progression: I've been working in my field for 23 years, my starting salary was $50,000
I was originally going to be a humanities academic, and went to graduate school in the Midwest in the 90s. For most of my 20s, I lived on around $20, $25K a year, eating a lot of beans and rice and sharing a house with lots of roommates. I did a bunch of early digital archive work, so when the web really took off and I realized that I didn’t want to be a professor after all, I had a few skills and some options. It was a big shift, though!
I grew up in the NYC area, but I got my first web job in NYC through the Internet. It was running the website for a magazine. I was 29 and I made $50,000: what one of my still in grad school friends called “grown-up money.” I was able to find a rent-stabilized apartment and live by myself. When my mom, who had raised us with help from her parents, was diagnosed with cancer, I was very glad to be close to home while she fought it into remission.
That job fell apart after a year and a half -- pay attention, it’s a theme! -- because the magazine didn’t really understand what going digital meant and had second thoughts (They have since gone out of business). I saw this coming and had already been networking hard, so I was able, through friends of friends, to land a job doing information architecture for a legacy technology company. That was my first job in UX and really where I count the start of my current career. The starting pay there was $77K, which went up to $85K: I learned they’d started me low because they weren’t sure I could do the job.
Between 9/11 and the dot-com crash I got laid off a year and a half in. Then followed another year and a half of scrounging for freelance work and relying on the occasional help from Mom to get by; according to my records, I was averaging about $40K a year in income.
I had a favorite client -- a small design firm that did very cool stuff -- and I worked hard to stay in touch with them even when they had no work for me. Eventually, that paid off in a longer-term freelance job. I was hoping to get hired there but also actively interviewing when my mom died: she hadn’t told us her cancer had returned until very late. When the design firm offered me a job, I took it, because I knew I would be a mess for a while and they already knew and trusted me and my work.
Starting pay at that job was $80K. I loved it until I hit the glass ceiling, which was unfortunately during the ‘08 recession, so I stayed a little longer than I would have liked. Final pay when I left after 6 years was $115K.
I joined Startup A as their first full-time UX person and design manager. We structured the pay so that while I started at $110K, when they got their B-round funding a few months later, it went up to $120. I got a raise to $130 before I and most of my team got laid off after, yes, a year and a half.
At this point, I knew more people in the NYC UX community so getting freelance work was a bit easier, and I thought about just going freelance for good. I had one great long-term client, let’s call them Client X, that I did most of my work for, and also did some stuff for big name companies. I was making about $120K as a freelancer and doing well.
I got an opportunity that I can’t be specific about, because it’s extremely dox-able, but it was a long-term project that took up 2013 and 2014, into the first months of 2015. It paid $150K/yr, plus I did a little extra work on the side for Client X, an additional $5K/yr. On the long-term project, I was a creative lead, but not a design manager, which was what I wanted to be doing, so when I had a chance to renew my contract, I didn’t re-up. I thought I had a design leadership role lined up, but it fell through, and I fell into a burn-out depression that led me back into therapy and onto meds for the first time.
I kept interviewing for leadership roles and not getting them, and went back to doing work for Client X as well as other freelancing. It didn’t go as well this time. My freelance income in 2015 was $80K and for 2016 it was only $50K. I had to break into my emergency savings.
Client X was falling apart, and I needed a new job, stat. I spoke to a former manager who had followed a similar in-house-freelance-in-house career path, and they told me to look for an individual contributor role rather than a leadership role, and transition once I was inside. So I changed the way I was looking, and eventually opportunity knocked.
In 2017, a professional friend who was at Startup B, in a job I’d applied for and not gotten, reached out and asked me if I would be interested in joining his team. B has a complex enterprise product and he knew I was good at products like that. I asked if there would be leadership opportunities in the future and he said it was a possibility, so I took the job. (I probably would have taken it even if he hadn’t, tbh, I was broke!). It paid $160K, so I felt like I was making progress again.
The professional friend left, I got the lateral move to manager, and I had a fantastic team I really liked. I also had a narcissistic boss, so that job ended in tears a year and a half later. (I really do have a pattern!) My salary was at $168K by then.
Since I started interviewing before I was actually fired, I was pretty far along in the interview process when it actually happened. For the first time in a long time, I didn’t have a long painful job search: in fact a job doing what I’d already been doing, for a large public company, had been posted in an online community I was part of, and I got referred in by someone I didn’t know (but who I am still friendly with now!). I was out of work for only about six weeks.
My starting salary at Company C in 2019 was $202K, with a 15% bonus and $100,000 in RSUs over 4 years. I was so wowed I didn’t even negotiate, though now I realize I still should have. With a promotion and other annual salary increases, my base salary is now $255K, with a 20% bonus. I have gotten RSU refreshes three of the four years I’ve been at this job. Between those and the ESPP discounts, my W2 shows about $400K the last two years.
I should also note that this job is fully remote, and my team is distributed across multiple cities and timezones. My apartment is a two-bedroom, and I use the second bedroom as a guest room/home office.
Main Job Monthly Take Home:
My take-home pay is $9100/month. That’s after $7200 in taxes, $2800 into my 401K, $125 into my HSA, $100 for dental/vision/high-deductible medical insurance, $18/month for the company's legal plan, $30 to my commuter plan, and $1600/month into my ESPP.
Any Other Monthly Income: Not monthly but quarterly: The REIT mentioned above pays dividends of about $10K a year, but this year and last there has been an extra payment of $5K. Starting back in the days when I first bought my apartment and could barely afford to make the mortgage payments, I have set this money aside for the co-op maintenance fees.
I also get a 401K match up to $5000, and a HSA match of $1000 from my employer annually.
Section Three: Expenses
Mortgage: My monthly mortgage payment is $1690, to which I add $140/month in additional principal payment so it’s $1830.
Co-op maintenance (which includes gas, heating, and property tax as well as property management) is $1100.
Co-op insurance: $185/month
Savings contribution: $800/month
Investment contribution: $800/month, plus any RSUs/ESPP shares as they vest: I still have some shares from when I was holding long-term, but now I sell at or close to vest.
HELOC: I took out a $50K HELOC to help pay for the renovation of my kitchen and bathroom in 2019. I’m listing it because I just paid the last of it off a few weeks ago with $10,000 from RSUs. Until then I was paying about $200 a month plus an additional $200 to the principal. It was an adjustable-rate loan so the amount I was paying had gone up to almost 9%, so paying it off ASAP made sense.
Donations. This past year my charitable donations were almost 1% of my W2 AGI, and my goal for 2023 is to reach at least that 1%. My donations include:
Groceries: average $500/month
Wifi/Cable/Landline: $200/month, of which my employer subsidizes $50. I’ve been planning to downgrade but keep putting it off because I don’t want to deal.
Cellphone: I have a corporate-subsidized AT&T plan for $80 with unlimited data. I have been considering switching to Mint: any NYC folks who have it, I’d love to hear your thoughts!
Subscriptions: $30/month on Patreon; $28.53/month for an All Access subscription to the New York Times, $10/month for Spotify with bonus Hulu, $21.76/month for Netflix (shared with my siblings). I have annual subscriptions to the Washington Post, the Atlantic, Disney+, FreshDirect, One Medical, a couple of Substacks, Duolingo, and CityMapper. I also have the Lyft All-Access plan because it comes with Citibike membership.
Gym membership: I will be paying $180/month when the gym I joined opens near me, unless I cancel in the first week they’re open.
Pet expenses: My pup is expensive! $40/month for pet insurance; $800/quarter for doggy daycare 2x/week; $40/month for food and treats; $115 every other month for grooming. She also gets boarded once or twice a year while I travel, which is $75/day plus transportation.
Car payment: None! One of the upsides of NYC living. I do budget $75/month for Lyft and most months don’t spend even that much.
Regular therapy: Right now, I am seeing a therapist through a company-provided service. I’m almost out of sessions though and need to figure out next steps.
Cleaning: every other week at $150 per visit. (just raised from $140 when I got a raise)
BONUS QUESTIONS:
Did your parent/guardian(s) educate you about finances?
My mom and my grandparents taught me to save, and to pay my bills on time, but they never taught me to invest: my mom’s idea of teaching me to invest was getting mad that I wasn’t, and telling me I needed to buy a specific index fund without explaining why or how, before there were things like e*Trade. When she died, I was still getting used to making a middle-class living for myself, and I was thrown into this situation where I had money and no idea how to manage it.
Did you worry about money growing up? Do you worry about it now?
Growing up, I was always aware that we needed to be on a budget, that my dad was cheap about giving money to things outside of the basics of child support, and my mom worked two jobs sometimes to make sure we could do extra things like go to camp. My grandparents helped a lot, both on money and on child care, and their Depression-era mentality about money definitely is part of my psyche now: I get stressed when I don’t have a full pantry, even though I live alone!
I get very anxious about money and spending, which is part of the reason I wanted to write this up to be honest. I have almost all of my bills on autopay because before autopay, I would joke that I paid my bills “every other month like clockwork.” Maybe it’s my family, maybe it’s how little money I had for most of my 20s, but I still get freaked out by an unexpected bill, even though there’s plenty of money to pay for it.
Tell us more about those bad financial decisions you referred to earlier?
Mom had bought some bonds with an investment manager she liked, but he had retired, and the person his office assigned us to in his stead really didn’t know what he was doing -- he knew how to sell annuities to senior citizens and that was about it. When we realized this was a problem, we got a referral through one of my siblings’ coworkers to someone else, who unwound our previous mistakes but made new ones. My siblings managed their own money (with or without partners) but I stayed with that financial advisor, who liked selling options and calls. Tl,dr: I missed basic growth for years because he was focused on short-term wins. At a certain point I knew enough to tell him to stop doing that and start focusing on long-term index funds, but I didn’t know enough to pick low-cost ones. The only good decision I made at that time was that I also told him to hold onto the Apple stock he was selling calls on: 12 years later, an investment of $57,000 is worth nearly $500,000.
When I worked at Startup B, I got options, and on the advice of a smart friend, I bought them, selling a little of the Apple stock to cover it. Startup B went public during the final days of the latest tech boom, and for a brief period my $60,000 investment in those options was worth over $3 million (!!). I wanted to be smart about the tax implications of selling my shares so I decided to wait until 2022 to start doing that, and of course the tech market collapsed: shares were down over 80% at one point. They’re better now but still below IPO price. Right now I’m holding on at $800,000 because the company’s basic business model still makes sense, but the regret is real, not to mention that it’s stressful to have nearly half of my holdings in just two companies!
I had stopped working with my previous financial advisor when Startup B went public because it was clear he really didn’t know how to help, and I found a tax-knowledgeable advisor who set me up with something closer to Boglehead strategy.
I have been thinking it’s time to stop working with that third advisor because basically I’m not going to need the help until I’m ready to retire (hopefully not more than 10-15 years from now!) and the fees stress me out, but my general tendency towards avoidance of all things financial is making this hard.
MONEY DIARY
Day 1, Friday:
I wake up before 6 because I’m out of town on a work trip and need to catch an early train home. I did most of my packing the night before so it’s just a little stumbling around the hotel room, leaving a tip for the maid ($20), checking out and getting in an Uber ($16.67, on company card). Not a lot is open at the train station but thank God the Dunkin’ Donuts is, so I get a medium coffee and a blueberry donut ($6.36, on company card). I’m listed as out of office on my calendar and Slack, but I do some time-sensitive work on the train and call it a week.
At Penn, I’m really tempted to take one last eye-wateringly expensive cab ride on the company dime, but I can’t bring myself to do it when it’s a straight shot on the subway instead ($2.75, prepaid on my commuter card). I get home and maybe because I know I’m reporting to you all, I unpack and get everything put away with record speed. I should do these diaries more often!
It’s a beautiful, unseasonably warm day in NYC, and everyone is out. The place I’d been planning to go for lunch is packed, the cafe I tried next was sold out of pastries and sandwiches, even the bagel joint is low on bagels! I finally get a BLT on a brioche roll and a Diet Coke at the bagel joint ($15) and I sit in their street seating and eat and read my library book on my phone.
Finally, the reason why I wanted to eat on this particular corner happens: the van from the dog boarding facility where my pup has been while I’m traveling shows up. My doodle (let’s call her Ada) and I have our little reunion on the street-corner, and then I walk her home. She runs around the apartment making sure everything is right where she left it, and then she eats some food. We have plans tonight so we both take a nap.
My friend K is having a birthday party in an outdoors venue, and I know she will want to see Ada. If I were going alone I would take a Citibike ebike (presuming one was available), because getting there by train from my place means switching trains or taking a bus to the right subway station. But I have great plans to take Ada on the bus/train route! Of course, those plans fall apart after the nap, when I recognize just how beat I am. I get a “wait & save” Lyft to the venue that shows up while I’m still looking for my keys, put Ada in her bag, and we go ($26 including tip). The venue has non-alcoholic frozen drinks, so I get one of those and a fancy grilled cheese ($29.50).
It’s great to see the birthday girl and our closest mutual friend H, who is also a UXer. H and I talk shop for a bit, catch up, and make plans for a day trip to Beacon over Memorial Day weekend. K is one of those people who is always out doing something, going to art shows or playing sports, and has a wide range of friends at her party. One of them is a guy I knew from abortion clinic defense work when I was 22, the year between college and grad school, and who got me some freelance work when I was starting out. We are surprised to see each other but eventually remember that we both knew we each knew K! It’s been a while. We catch up and he tells me about his current job. Someone else mentions his book and so he admits he has published a graphic design book since we last saw each other. He tells me to check out the website because I’ll get a kick out of it. When I get home ($26 again) I buy the book on Amazon ($23.50) to support him.
Total: $140, plus $2.75 pre-paid and $23 on the corporate card
Day 2, Saturday:
Both Ada and I are up unusually early today and it’s a nice day. I get her into a harness, and we head towards Grand Army Plaza. I’m carrying a big FreshDirect bag full of clothes to donate, which slows me down a bit, but we still get there before off-leash hours end and I get a donation receipt.
I drink a La Coulombe canned latte (which I keep for mornings like this) while Ada plays and rolls around in the grass. She’s not usually all that interested in playing fetch, but she will happily wander the paths of the park with me, occasionally chasing a bird or squirrel who can handily outrun her. She’s wearing a new Wild Ones harness that is too big for her -- I make a mental note to look up their return policy.
I take a couple of wrong turns and we spend longer than I’d planned in the park, but it’s hardly a problem to be outside on a nice day. On the walk back, we spot one of our neighbors, who’s set up a stand among the group just outside the Greenmarket. I didn’t know they had a side gig, so I stop to chat with them for a bit, and I buy (let’s call it a soap) for $6.
Back at the Greenmarket, I make a beeline for the Ronnybrook Dairy stand, where I get 6 drinkable yogurts for $2.50 each, which is $1.50 less than the regular price at stores, and even $.50 less than the on-sale price at FreshDirect. I also buy one of their new no-added-sugar drinkable yogurts in a smaller size for $1 ($17 total, including tip). Next it’s to Roaming Acres for their smoked bones for Ada -- the ostrich ones still aren’t in, which are the best, but we get 2 of the bison bones for $26.13. It’s pricey, but they last her for weeks. I also get 2 bunches of Swiss chard for $8, and stop at Bread Alone for a ciabatta roll and a piece of lemon-poppy pound cake. I throw in a loaf of sliced peasant bread because I’m just in the zone by this point ($10.50). The pound cake prevents me from stopping for something else to eat on the walk home, much to Ada’s dismay.
When we get back, I feed her, have the no-sugar-added yogurt and the pound cake, and put stuff away. I also take out her old harness and open the straps as wide as they will possibly go, hoping she can wear it again.
It’s only 11am and I’ve put nearly 9,000 steps on the ol’ pedometer, so it’s time for another nap.
Much of the rest of the day is spent lazing about, scrolling through Reddit and doing the Sunday crossword. I get a notification that my domain name has renewed ($17.17). I make a pasta dish with one bunch of the chard for dinner. We go for a decently long walk after dinner and the harness seems to be fitting her fine. I do my Duolingo practice in bed.
Total $84.80
Day 3, Sunday
Mother’s Day is fraught when your mom is gone and you don’t have kids. I’m happy to hang out in bed till 10:30, and thankfully so is Ada. She’s had a hectic week too! We do our walk and I make two slices of toast from the Greenmarket peasant bread for breakfast.
I call my aunt, my sister with kids, and my female cousin. My cousin and I discuss my BIL’s upcoming birthday party on Saturday, and the logistics of getting to the party in the suburbs. I don’t know what I’m going to do about Ada, either then or next weekend when I have told H I’ll go to Beacon for a day.
It’s a beautiful day, so I figure a shortish afternoon walk or just hanging out outside the local cafe would be nice. I buy the cafe’s iced tea special ($6 including tip) and am ready to stroll or sit, but Ada is not having it and literally pulls me back towards my building. I decide to take the hint, and go home. I measure Ada to pick out a new harness, order one on Amazon that the Wirecutter recommends for small dogs ($18.21), and spend an afternoon reading with a dog on my lap.
For dinner, I order Indian food. I have a Seamless promo, so I get enough for a few meals ($35.60). I clean up a little for the dishwasher repair tech who’ll be coming tomorrow, and watch Succession. I’d forgotten it was going to be the election episode, so I’m completely nerve-jangled at what’s supposed to be bedtime. Walk, crossword, Duolingo, and a little more reading in bed. I finish the book (don’t like it so I won’t mention the title).
Total: $41.60
Day 4, Monday
Before I left for my work trip, the upscale dishwasher I bought for my kitchen renovation stopped working and was throwing an error code in its display screen. I called the manufacturer and scheduled a service call for as soon as possible after I got back, and that was this morning. The technician arrives as I’m coming back from Ada’s morning walk.
I describe the problem to him and he’s unable to reproduce it. He runs the dishwasher for a while, shows me how to restart it when there’s an error, and listens to it run for a bit. He thinks that leaving it unplugged and open while I was away allowed the water that wasn’t draining right before to drain. It’s still a bit noisier than it was before, but I can’t deny that it’s actually working. An expensive lesson in how “have you tried turning it off and on again” almost always works -- $150 for the visit plus half an hour on site. He can’t get through to the office to process my credit card number so I have to write him a check ($260.21).
My first meeting of the day is canceled and my next one, our group leadership meeting, is just me and my boss. We compare notes on our respective travels over the last week -- she twisted her ankle -- and talk about some of the ideas that came out of our meetings. She tells me about the very nice cane she bought at CVS -- a collaboration with the Michael Graves studio, which has done some great stuff for people with disabilities -- and I look it up online. I have a cane I bought when I broke my ankle, and I’ve kept it because you never know, but now I’m tempted to replace it. Oh great, I think, I’m going to make people believe that your 50s are about impulse-purchasing canes!
My team has our weekly sync, and then I have a lot of email to catch up on, mostly bureaucratic stuff. There’s an invite to an event next week featuring an old professional friend: I RSVP yes, because networking is more fun when people you like are involved.
Lunch is some soup I defrosted and the ciabatta roll from the Greenmarket, reheated. In the late afternoon, I have a telehealth therapy session, and afterwards, I take a long walk with the dog. As we head out, we see several of the building’s other dogs, and the pre-schooler who Ada is special friends with. It’s extremely wholesome.
We pass a local restaurant where an old friend is eating outside with someone I don’t know. I catch her eye and we exchange a look, and I’m certain she’s on a date until she gets up and greets me and invites me and Ada to join them. I order the same drink the guy she’s with is having, talk to them both, and I’m relaxing a bit until I ask him how he knows her and yep, it’s a first date. Both of them seem totally fine with having me there, though I don’t stay for another round. I try to pay for my drink and they both refuse. He seems nice, and he liked my dog: if they end up dating I’ll have a funny story to tell.
I go home, heat up a meal I took out of the freezer back on Friday, and have dinner. I’m still a little tipsy so I drink water and eat Trader Joe’s lentil curls till the feeling subsides. I get a notification that a Substack I forgot to cancel just charged me the monthly subscription fee ($6). I cancel it moving forward immediately.
Walk the dog, crossword, Duolingo. In bed, I start a new library book: Scorched Grace, a mystery that got a rave review in the NYT, about a punk queer turned novice nun, investigating an arson at the school where she teaches.
Total: $266.21
Day 5, Tuesday
My super is at the door at 8:30 am, delighting Ada -- they are besties. He has a package that has his name on it but the number of an apartment in the building: a mystery! I point out that the apartment on the address label is not mine, but the same line, a floor down. I joke that he just wanted to come see Ada, who does in turn want to follow him to his next stop. I put on street clothes and take her for her walk.
Coffee and toast for breakfast again. I notice my AmEx payment has cleared, and schedule payments for the two credit cards (Chase and Apple Card) that I pay at the end of the month. I don’t like to set credit cards to auto-pay, because I like to keep an eye on my spending, but I do like to set up payments in advance. I do a little quick math with the help of the iPhone calculator and work out that even with my savings deductions, I should have about $500 extra left at the end of the month. When I have over $1K extra it will go into investments.
My first meeting of the day is with my favorite colleague J, and we catch up on some organizational challenges and talk about next steps on a project that she is leading. I’m really excited about how much positive attention her work has already gotten.
Lunch is some of the Indian leftovers. Then there’s a boring status meeting, and then I have a one-on-one with one of my direct reports. I’m very serious about making sure I do these every week, because I have had so many bad managers who didn’t. He suggests that he try working on something that I was hoping he could work on, so I am thrilled that he volunteered and tell him what a good idea he has.
My team member mentions that he needs some coffee, and I remember that I’m running low on beans. I click over to Fresh Direct and order coffee beans, a 12-pack of Sprite Zero cans, and a bunch of on-sale yogurts to be delivered same-day. ($45.22) I go through so much Sprite Zero. I got spoiled having free soda at office jobs, and now I probably drink 2-3 cans of soda a day at home. I also finalize my CookUnity order for next week, which I think will be a busy one: 8 meals for $91.17.
I have a meeting with the most senior designers across my boss’s organization, and we talk about holding an internal conference to align on a long-term UX vision. It’s an idea that I brought to my boss, though I give my team credit in the meeting, and I’m happy to see her want to invest in it.
Between meetings, I’m scrolling through Twitter and I see an old friend retweet her friend’s GoFundMe for his mom to help her keep her house. I’m moved by it, so I donate $18 (in Hebrew, letters=numbers and the number 18 has the same letters as the word for “life” so 18 or multiples of 18 are typical Jewish donation/gift amounts). Then I see a GoFundMe for a former colleague who has a lot of mental and health issues and is living out of their car. I donate $100 to that one rather than trying to work out the correct multiple of 18. ($120 total including GoFundMe “tips”)
My last meeting isn’t until dinnertime (the joy of working across time zones!) so I have to feed the dog as soon as I’m done. For myself, I heat up the leftover pasta and fry an egg to go on top. I put all the dishes in the dishwasher and set it to run overnight. By the time the FreshDirect delivery arrives, I’ve forgotten I ordered it!
When I check my email there is already a thank-you note from the friend of a friend whose GoFundMe I contributed to. I click over to his fundraiser, which has gone up a bit in the hours since I donated, and then also to my former co-worker’s, which has already met its goal! I scroll through the list of donors, seeing many familiar names. Most of our former colleagues who have donated have given more than I did: $200, $300 and the like. One, who was always prone to extravagant gestures, gave $1,000! I find myself second-guessing myself and wondering if I’m too cheap -- not just in this case but in general.
Crossword, Duolingo, bed. Whether it’s because of my worries or the lack of exercise I’ve been getting after a very active week last week, I don’t sleep well.
Total: $256.39
Day 6, Wednesday
Toast and coffee for breakfast again. I start my day with a few team one-on-ones. Then I have a meeting with other UX managers about our new talent management system: fun stuff. There’s some talk about how it might impact bonuses for next year, which is depressing. I use part of the meeting to buy new jeans, since the ones I’m wearing have the inevitable thigh rip, and while I’m on the Everlane site I see a gorgeous spring coat on sale and add that too ($244.05).
I check my personal email and there’s a pub announcement for a book on leadership from a design press. I meant to pre-order it, but I guess it’s too late! I buy directly from their website because they offer an ebook/print copy bundle, plus I always order directly from small presses when I can ($36.98).
Microwave mac and cheese for lunch. I take Ada out, planning to walk her to her doggy daycare, but about halfway there, she starts pulling emphatically towards home. Again, I take the hint, and we go home so she can sleep. I email them to let them know we will only be in once this week, and apologize for the short notice.
When I get home, I review my order from Saturday for a new harness. It’s not coming until Friday and I could still cancel it, since the old one is working for her again. I decide not to, since she may need a light-weight harness when it’s really hot out. I also check on an order which never showed up, and learn that it got returned to Amazon. I reorder the dog treats and Vitamin D ($26.14).
The afternoon is taken up by a complete clusterf**k at work, where different teams are working on related products and not working together. One of those teams now wants to launch their product in a couple of months, even though it’s a mess. We talk about it in my team crit, since one of my designers has been asked to do a heuristic review of the product. The designer who asks “Two questions. First of all, why?” makes me lolsob. My manager and I spend our entire one-on-one discussing it, agreeing we are hosed (and agreeing that we can only say “hosed” to each other since none of our younger colleagues use the term). My colleague J and I have a “wtf” moment about it in a meeting that’s supposed to be about something else. Lots of Slack messages going back and forth all afternoon as well. It sometimes feels like this job is just one firedrill after another.
I decide to order in dinner: a carne asada bowl and a side of chips and guacamole from Dos Toros ($33.91). The bowl comes without guacamole, and I get a $4.97 credit from DoorDash for my troubles. I give Ada a bunch of the chips.
I show up for my monthly Zoom call with a small group of professional friends and no one else is there. This used to be a monthly after-work drinks thing that my friend H organized. It went online with COVID and it was just easier to keep online, and it’s been a great way to keep in touch with people whose opinions I value. H doesn’t always come anymore but there’s usually at least three of us. I missed the last one myself so I’m hoping this is a one-off.
Instead, I continue reading Scorched Grace (a banger), play with Ada, and then take her for a walk. (Assume that this walk, like all Ada walks, includes chatting with her friends, talking with people who want to pet her, talking with people who she wants to have pet her. She’s a very sociable dog for an introvert to hang out with!)
When I get home, I check the mailroom and there is a package from my dad -- a god-awful sculpture/lamp thing that looks like a cricket. Apparently, it’s made by an old friend of his who’s an artist in a touristy part of the South. He calls it “a gift of the heart” and thoughtfully includes the receipt -- which says “exchanges only.” Sigh.
Evening routine as per usual.
Total: $341.08
Day 7, Thursday
I oversleep and feel groggy all morning. Luckily, Ada is not a morning dog, and she’s still pretty wiped out from her week at boarding: usually she’d be climbing the walls not having been to daycare all week.
Toast and coffee again. Today I mix it up with some of the last of last year’s homemade jam.
More meetings about the clusterf**k and it’s all going to get argued out well above my head. Lunch is the last of the Indian food, plus the last of the Dos Toros chips and guac. It’s international!
An old friend is speaking at a local conference, and had asked if I wanted to be her guest: the invite from the conference organizers finally arrives and I accept. I’m reminded that the two of us had agreed to see Just For Us during its Broadway run (I saw it off-Broadway and loved it!), so I text her to find out when she’s in town. We quickly agree on a night and I buy the tickets ($279 including fees). She’ll pay me back for half, or buy dinner on the night.
I call my dad to thank him for the gift, and we talk about British mysteries on PBS. Dinner is a peppers, onion, and mushroom omelette. I should use the second bunch of chard, especially since I know I’ll be dining out Friday and Saturday, but I’m too tired to be creative.
I spend the rest of the evening tidying up for the cleaner who will come in the morning and then doing the evening routine.
Total: $279
Categorized Expenses for the Week:
Food + Drink: $262.40
Fun / Entertainment: $314.50
Home + Health: $267.21
Clothes + Beauty: $244.05
Transport: $52
Books: $50.48
Dog: $62.34
Other $143.17
Lastly, reflect on your diary!
My week totals out to about $1400, which is more than I would ideally like, but with the dishwasher repair, the Broadway tickets, and buying food for next week via Cook Unity, it doesn’t feel wildly off. I did notice a lot of quasi-impulse buys -- “oh, I just remembered this, need to buy it now!” -- which is something I should be more mindful of. It makes me more confident in my budgeting to know that even when I’m not watching my money I’m spending reasonably (except perhaps too much on Ada? Never!).
I’m still pretty anxious when I have to think about larger financial decisions, but at least about the day to day, I think I’m doing mostly all right!
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Retirement/Investments Balance: $2.6 million, which is still mind-boggling to me, even as I know that with better choices I might have even more. More about that later. $1500 in my HSA, $519,000 in traditional IRAs, about half of that in a Beneficiary IRA from my late mother, $10K in a Roth IRA, $40,000 in my employer’s stock from RSUs, $145,000 in my 401K, $990,000 in an unmanaged taxable account, and $920,000 in a managed one.
Equity: Probably about $500,000. I bought my co-op apartment for $500K in 2008, and put in $120K worth of renovations in 2019. I still owe $251,000 on a 3.75% refi, but it’s probably worth close to $800,000 with the updates and as the neighborhood has continued to gentrify; it was assessed at $720,000 when I took out a HELOC for the renovations. I was able to make the 20% downpayment of $100,000 the co-op required because of the money my mom left me; she was very clear that she wanted to enable me to buy a home, and we’d even discussed her helping with a future downpayment before she passed.
Savings account balance: $60,000 in a HYSA. Some of that is earmarked for quarterly taxes, further renovations, and self-care but I try to always have $30,000 which is about 4 months’ expenses available as an “emergency fund.” I also have a non-high-yield savings account, which has some funds earmarked for my nephew’s bar mitzvah but is mostly used as a transfer point between other accounts until I get my act together and close it: current non-earmarked balance of $2000.
Primary checking account balance: $4800. My first post-grad school checking account required a $2K balance for no fee on ATM transactions, and I still try to keep a $2K balance in checking. I tell myself it’s so nothing ever bounces, but actually it’s a mix of habit and superstition.
Secondary checking account: $9,000. This account is funded mostly from dividends from my REIT shares (see below) and used to pay the co-op maintenance fees. I keep saying I should combine the two accounts now that I could theoretically pay the maintenance out of my take-home instead, but I am lazy!
Credit card debt: None currently. I pay my cards every month, though because it’s not automated I fuck up maybe once a year or so.
Student loan debt: I graduated college with about $12,000 in debt, but my grandparents died while I was in college and my mom paid it off from her inheritance, saying “I got this money when I don’t need it, you should have it now when you do.” My siblings and I plan to pay off my nieces/nephews’ college debt in turn to pay it forward. I didn’t take on grad school debt -- never take out loans to get a humanities advanced degree! -- but I racked up $10,000 worth of credit card debt in grad school because I made so little money. I paid it off with work for an early dot-com while I was still in school.
Anything else that's applicable to you: my siblings and I inherited shares in a private company that later sold off assets and turned itself into a REIT. My mom said “never sell those shares!” and even though that company doesn’t exist anymore, we haven't, and selling private REIT shares is a PITA anyhow.
Section Two: Income
Income Progression: I've been working in my field for 23 years, my starting salary was $50,000
I was originally going to be a humanities academic, and went to graduate school in the Midwest in the 90s. For most of my 20s, I lived on around $20, $25K a year, eating a lot of beans and rice and sharing a house with lots of roommates. I did a bunch of early digital archive work, so when the web really took off and I realized that I didn’t want to be a professor after all, I had a few skills and some options. It was a big shift, though!
I grew up in the NYC area, but I got my first web job in NYC through the Internet. It was running the website for a magazine. I was 29 and I made $50,000: what one of my still in grad school friends called “grown-up money.” I was able to find a rent-stabilized apartment and live by myself. When my mom, who had raised us with help from her parents, was diagnosed with cancer, I was very glad to be close to home while she fought it into remission.
That job fell apart after a year and a half -- pay attention, it’s a theme! -- because the magazine didn’t really understand what going digital meant and had second thoughts (They have since gone out of business). I saw this coming and had already been networking hard, so I was able, through friends of friends, to land a job doing information architecture for a legacy technology company. That was my first job in UX and really where I count the start of my current career. The starting pay there was $77K, which went up to $85K: I learned they’d started me low because they weren’t sure I could do the job.
Between 9/11 and the dot-com crash I got laid off a year and a half in. Then followed another year and a half of scrounging for freelance work and relying on the occasional help from Mom to get by; according to my records, I was averaging about $40K a year in income.
I had a favorite client -- a small design firm that did very cool stuff -- and I worked hard to stay in touch with them even when they had no work for me. Eventually, that paid off in a longer-term freelance job. I was hoping to get hired there but also actively interviewing when my mom died: she hadn’t told us her cancer had returned until very late. When the design firm offered me a job, I took it, because I knew I would be a mess for a while and they already knew and trusted me and my work.
Starting pay at that job was $80K. I loved it until I hit the glass ceiling, which was unfortunately during the ‘08 recession, so I stayed a little longer than I would have liked. Final pay when I left after 6 years was $115K.
I joined Startup A as their first full-time UX person and design manager. We structured the pay so that while I started at $110K, when they got their B-round funding a few months later, it went up to $120. I got a raise to $130 before I and most of my team got laid off after, yes, a year and a half.
At this point, I knew more people in the NYC UX community so getting freelance work was a bit easier, and I thought about just going freelance for good. I had one great long-term client, let’s call them Client X, that I did most of my work for, and also did some stuff for big name companies. I was making about $120K as a freelancer and doing well.
I got an opportunity that I can’t be specific about, because it’s extremely dox-able, but it was a long-term project that took up 2013 and 2014, into the first months of 2015. It paid $150K/yr, plus I did a little extra work on the side for Client X, an additional $5K/yr. On the long-term project, I was a creative lead, but not a design manager, which was what I wanted to be doing, so when I had a chance to renew my contract, I didn’t re-up. I thought I had a design leadership role lined up, but it fell through, and I fell into a burn-out depression that led me back into therapy and onto meds for the first time.
I kept interviewing for leadership roles and not getting them, and went back to doing work for Client X as well as other freelancing. It didn’t go as well this time. My freelance income in 2015 was $80K and for 2016 it was only $50K. I had to break into my emergency savings.
Client X was falling apart, and I needed a new job, stat. I spoke to a former manager who had followed a similar in-house-freelance-in-house career path, and they told me to look for an individual contributor role rather than a leadership role, and transition once I was inside. So I changed the way I was looking, and eventually opportunity knocked.
In 2017, a professional friend who was at Startup B, in a job I’d applied for and not gotten, reached out and asked me if I would be interested in joining his team. B has a complex enterprise product and he knew I was good at products like that. I asked if there would be leadership opportunities in the future and he said it was a possibility, so I took the job. (I probably would have taken it even if he hadn’t, tbh, I was broke!). It paid $160K, so I felt like I was making progress again.
The professional friend left, I got the lateral move to manager, and I had a fantastic team I really liked. I also had a narcissistic boss, so that job ended in tears a year and a half later. (I really do have a pattern!) My salary was at $168K by then.
Since I started interviewing before I was actually fired, I was pretty far along in the interview process when it actually happened. For the first time in a long time, I didn’t have a long painful job search: in fact a job doing what I’d already been doing, for a large public company, had been posted in an online community I was part of, and I got referred in by someone I didn’t know (but who I am still friendly with now!). I was out of work for only about six weeks.
My starting salary at Company C in 2019 was $202K, with a 15% bonus and $100,000 in RSUs over 4 years. I was so wowed I didn’t even negotiate, though now I realize I still should have. With a promotion and other annual salary increases, my base salary is now $255K, with a 20% bonus. I have gotten RSU refreshes three of the four years I’ve been at this job. Between those and the ESPP discounts, my W2 shows about $400K the last two years.
I should also note that this job is fully remote, and my team is distributed across multiple cities and timezones. My apartment is a two-bedroom, and I use the second bedroom as a guest room/home office.
Main Job Monthly Take Home:
My take-home pay is $9100/month. That’s after $7200 in taxes, $2800 into my 401K, $125 into my HSA, $100 for dental/vision/high-deductible medical insurance, $18/month for the company's legal plan, $30 to my commuter plan, and $1600/month into my ESPP.
Any Other Monthly Income: Not monthly but quarterly: The REIT mentioned above pays dividends of about $10K a year, but this year and last there has been an extra payment of $5K. Starting back in the days when I first bought my apartment and could barely afford to make the mortgage payments, I have set this money aside for the co-op maintenance fees.
I also get a 401K match up to $5000, and a HSA match of $1000 from my employer annually.
Section Three: Expenses
Mortgage: My monthly mortgage payment is $1690, to which I add $140/month in additional principal payment so it’s $1830.
Co-op maintenance (which includes gas, heating, and property tax as well as property management) is $1100.
Co-op insurance: $185/month
Savings contribution: $800/month
Investment contribution: $800/month, plus any RSUs/ESPP shares as they vest: I still have some shares from when I was holding long-term, but now I sell at or close to vest.
HELOC: I took out a $50K HELOC to help pay for the renovation of my kitchen and bathroom in 2019. I’m listing it because I just paid the last of it off a few weeks ago with $10,000 from RSUs. Until then I was paying about $200 a month plus an additional $200 to the principal. It was an adjustable-rate loan so the amount I was paying had gone up to almost 9%, so paying it off ASAP made sense.
Donations. This past year my charitable donations were almost 1% of my W2 AGI, and my goal for 2023 is to reach at least that 1%. My donations include:
- Monthly donations: $10 to the Human Utility (paying water bills for low-income families in Detroit and Baltimore); $15 to WNYC public radio; $5 each to a couple of different not-for-profit publications; $10 to the YIVO Institute for Jewish Research, $5 to NY Common Pantry every time I order from FreshDirect.
- Annual donations: $250 in museum memberships, $50 to Transportation Alternatives, a local activist organization, $1200 to my synagogue, $100 to the New York Public Library. This year I gave $500 to a center at my alma mater, and have also donated $100 so far to Donors Choose and $130 to City Harvest. The first $2K of donations above $50 are matched by my employer.
- I also volunteer for my synagogue helping events run smoothly, maybe 5-10 hours a year, and having volunteered last year for a Housing Works benefit, I want to do that again.
- I also make small recurring non-deductible donations to the Wisconsin Democratic Party, Run for Something, and some local electeds.
Groceries: average $500/month
Wifi/Cable/Landline: $200/month, of which my employer subsidizes $50. I’ve been planning to downgrade but keep putting it off because I don’t want to deal.
Cellphone: I have a corporate-subsidized AT&T plan for $80 with unlimited data. I have been considering switching to Mint: any NYC folks who have it, I’d love to hear your thoughts!
Subscriptions: $30/month on Patreon; $28.53/month for an All Access subscription to the New York Times, $10/month for Spotify with bonus Hulu, $21.76/month for Netflix (shared with my siblings). I have annual subscriptions to the Washington Post, the Atlantic, Disney+, FreshDirect, One Medical, a couple of Substacks, Duolingo, and CityMapper. I also have the Lyft All-Access plan because it comes with Citibike membership.
Gym membership: I will be paying $180/month when the gym I joined opens near me, unless I cancel in the first week they’re open.
Pet expenses: My pup is expensive! $40/month for pet insurance; $800/quarter for doggy daycare 2x/week; $40/month for food and treats; $115 every other month for grooming. She also gets boarded once or twice a year while I travel, which is $75/day plus transportation.
Car payment: None! One of the upsides of NYC living. I do budget $75/month for Lyft and most months don’t spend even that much.
Regular therapy: Right now, I am seeing a therapist through a company-provided service. I’m almost out of sessions though and need to figure out next steps.
Cleaning: every other week at $150 per visit. (just raised from $140 when I got a raise)
BONUS QUESTIONS:
Did your parent/guardian(s) educate you about finances?
My mom and my grandparents taught me to save, and to pay my bills on time, but they never taught me to invest: my mom’s idea of teaching me to invest was getting mad that I wasn’t, and telling me I needed to buy a specific index fund without explaining why or how, before there were things like e*Trade. When she died, I was still getting used to making a middle-class living for myself, and I was thrown into this situation where I had money and no idea how to manage it.
Did you worry about money growing up? Do you worry about it now?
Growing up, I was always aware that we needed to be on a budget, that my dad was cheap about giving money to things outside of the basics of child support, and my mom worked two jobs sometimes to make sure we could do extra things like go to camp. My grandparents helped a lot, both on money and on child care, and their Depression-era mentality about money definitely is part of my psyche now: I get stressed when I don’t have a full pantry, even though I live alone!
I get very anxious about money and spending, which is part of the reason I wanted to write this up to be honest. I have almost all of my bills on autopay because before autopay, I would joke that I paid my bills “every other month like clockwork.” Maybe it’s my family, maybe it’s how little money I had for most of my 20s, but I still get freaked out by an unexpected bill, even though there’s plenty of money to pay for it.
Tell us more about those bad financial decisions you referred to earlier?
Mom had bought some bonds with an investment manager she liked, but he had retired, and the person his office assigned us to in his stead really didn’t know what he was doing -- he knew how to sell annuities to senior citizens and that was about it. When we realized this was a problem, we got a referral through one of my siblings’ coworkers to someone else, who unwound our previous mistakes but made new ones. My siblings managed their own money (with or without partners) but I stayed with that financial advisor, who liked selling options and calls. Tl,dr: I missed basic growth for years because he was focused on short-term wins. At a certain point I knew enough to tell him to stop doing that and start focusing on long-term index funds, but I didn’t know enough to pick low-cost ones. The only good decision I made at that time was that I also told him to hold onto the Apple stock he was selling calls on: 12 years later, an investment of $57,000 is worth nearly $500,000.
When I worked at Startup B, I got options, and on the advice of a smart friend, I bought them, selling a little of the Apple stock to cover it. Startup B went public during the final days of the latest tech boom, and for a brief period my $60,000 investment in those options was worth over $3 million (!!). I wanted to be smart about the tax implications of selling my shares so I decided to wait until 2022 to start doing that, and of course the tech market collapsed: shares were down over 80% at one point. They’re better now but still below IPO price. Right now I’m holding on at $800,000 because the company’s basic business model still makes sense, but the regret is real, not to mention that it’s stressful to have nearly half of my holdings in just two companies!
I had stopped working with my previous financial advisor when Startup B went public because it was clear he really didn’t know how to help, and I found a tax-knowledgeable advisor who set me up with something closer to Boglehead strategy.
I have been thinking it’s time to stop working with that third advisor because basically I’m not going to need the help until I’m ready to retire (hopefully not more than 10-15 years from now!) and the fees stress me out, but my general tendency towards avoidance of all things financial is making this hard.
MONEY DIARY
Day 1, Friday:
I wake up before 6 because I’m out of town on a work trip and need to catch an early train home. I did most of my packing the night before so it’s just a little stumbling around the hotel room, leaving a tip for the maid ($20), checking out and getting in an Uber ($16.67, on company card). Not a lot is open at the train station but thank God the Dunkin’ Donuts is, so I get a medium coffee and a blueberry donut ($6.36, on company card). I’m listed as out of office on my calendar and Slack, but I do some time-sensitive work on the train and call it a week.
At Penn, I’m really tempted to take one last eye-wateringly expensive cab ride on the company dime, but I can’t bring myself to do it when it’s a straight shot on the subway instead ($2.75, prepaid on my commuter card). I get home and maybe because I know I’m reporting to you all, I unpack and get everything put away with record speed. I should do these diaries more often!
It’s a beautiful, unseasonably warm day in NYC, and everyone is out. The place I’d been planning to go for lunch is packed, the cafe I tried next was sold out of pastries and sandwiches, even the bagel joint is low on bagels! I finally get a BLT on a brioche roll and a Diet Coke at the bagel joint ($15) and I sit in their street seating and eat and read my library book on my phone.
Finally, the reason why I wanted to eat on this particular corner happens: the van from the dog boarding facility where my pup has been while I’m traveling shows up. My doodle (let’s call her Ada) and I have our little reunion on the street-corner, and then I walk her home. She runs around the apartment making sure everything is right where she left it, and then she eats some food. We have plans tonight so we both take a nap.
My friend K is having a birthday party in an outdoors venue, and I know she will want to see Ada. If I were going alone I would take a Citibike ebike (presuming one was available), because getting there by train from my place means switching trains or taking a bus to the right subway station. But I have great plans to take Ada on the bus/train route! Of course, those plans fall apart after the nap, when I recognize just how beat I am. I get a “wait & save” Lyft to the venue that shows up while I’m still looking for my keys, put Ada in her bag, and we go ($26 including tip). The venue has non-alcoholic frozen drinks, so I get one of those and a fancy grilled cheese ($29.50).
It’s great to see the birthday girl and our closest mutual friend H, who is also a UXer. H and I talk shop for a bit, catch up, and make plans for a day trip to Beacon over Memorial Day weekend. K is one of those people who is always out doing something, going to art shows or playing sports, and has a wide range of friends at her party. One of them is a guy I knew from abortion clinic defense work when I was 22, the year between college and grad school, and who got me some freelance work when I was starting out. We are surprised to see each other but eventually remember that we both knew we each knew K! It’s been a while. We catch up and he tells me about his current job. Someone else mentions his book and so he admits he has published a graphic design book since we last saw each other. He tells me to check out the website because I’ll get a kick out of it. When I get home ($26 again) I buy the book on Amazon ($23.50) to support him.
Total: $140, plus $2.75 pre-paid and $23 on the corporate card
Day 2, Saturday:
Both Ada and I are up unusually early today and it’s a nice day. I get her into a harness, and we head towards Grand Army Plaza. I’m carrying a big FreshDirect bag full of clothes to donate, which slows me down a bit, but we still get there before off-leash hours end and I get a donation receipt.
I drink a La Coulombe canned latte (which I keep for mornings like this) while Ada plays and rolls around in the grass. She’s not usually all that interested in playing fetch, but she will happily wander the paths of the park with me, occasionally chasing a bird or squirrel who can handily outrun her. She’s wearing a new Wild Ones harness that is too big for her -- I make a mental note to look up their return policy.
I take a couple of wrong turns and we spend longer than I’d planned in the park, but it’s hardly a problem to be outside on a nice day. On the walk back, we spot one of our neighbors, who’s set up a stand among the group just outside the Greenmarket. I didn’t know they had a side gig, so I stop to chat with them for a bit, and I buy (let’s call it a soap) for $6.
Back at the Greenmarket, I make a beeline for the Ronnybrook Dairy stand, where I get 6 drinkable yogurts for $2.50 each, which is $1.50 less than the regular price at stores, and even $.50 less than the on-sale price at FreshDirect. I also buy one of their new no-added-sugar drinkable yogurts in a smaller size for $1 ($17 total, including tip). Next it’s to Roaming Acres for their smoked bones for Ada -- the ostrich ones still aren’t in, which are the best, but we get 2 of the bison bones for $26.13. It’s pricey, but they last her for weeks. I also get 2 bunches of Swiss chard for $8, and stop at Bread Alone for a ciabatta roll and a piece of lemon-poppy pound cake. I throw in a loaf of sliced peasant bread because I’m just in the zone by this point ($10.50). The pound cake prevents me from stopping for something else to eat on the walk home, much to Ada’s dismay.
When we get back, I feed her, have the no-sugar-added yogurt and the pound cake, and put stuff away. I also take out her old harness and open the straps as wide as they will possibly go, hoping she can wear it again.
It’s only 11am and I’ve put nearly 9,000 steps on the ol’ pedometer, so it’s time for another nap.
Much of the rest of the day is spent lazing about, scrolling through Reddit and doing the Sunday crossword. I get a notification that my domain name has renewed ($17.17). I make a pasta dish with one bunch of the chard for dinner. We go for a decently long walk after dinner and the harness seems to be fitting her fine. I do my Duolingo practice in bed.
Total $84.80
Day 3, Sunday
Mother’s Day is fraught when your mom is gone and you don’t have kids. I’m happy to hang out in bed till 10:30, and thankfully so is Ada. She’s had a hectic week too! We do our walk and I make two slices of toast from the Greenmarket peasant bread for breakfast.
I call my aunt, my sister with kids, and my female cousin. My cousin and I discuss my BIL’s upcoming birthday party on Saturday, and the logistics of getting to the party in the suburbs. I don’t know what I’m going to do about Ada, either then or next weekend when I have told H I’ll go to Beacon for a day.
It’s a beautiful day, so I figure a shortish afternoon walk or just hanging out outside the local cafe would be nice. I buy the cafe’s iced tea special ($6 including tip) and am ready to stroll or sit, but Ada is not having it and literally pulls me back towards my building. I decide to take the hint, and go home. I measure Ada to pick out a new harness, order one on Amazon that the Wirecutter recommends for small dogs ($18.21), and spend an afternoon reading with a dog on my lap.
For dinner, I order Indian food. I have a Seamless promo, so I get enough for a few meals ($35.60). I clean up a little for the dishwasher repair tech who’ll be coming tomorrow, and watch Succession. I’d forgotten it was going to be the election episode, so I’m completely nerve-jangled at what’s supposed to be bedtime. Walk, crossword, Duolingo, and a little more reading in bed. I finish the book (don’t like it so I won’t mention the title).
Total: $41.60
Day 4, Monday
Before I left for my work trip, the upscale dishwasher I bought for my kitchen renovation stopped working and was throwing an error code in its display screen. I called the manufacturer and scheduled a service call for as soon as possible after I got back, and that was this morning. The technician arrives as I’m coming back from Ada’s morning walk.
I describe the problem to him and he’s unable to reproduce it. He runs the dishwasher for a while, shows me how to restart it when there’s an error, and listens to it run for a bit. He thinks that leaving it unplugged and open while I was away allowed the water that wasn’t draining right before to drain. It’s still a bit noisier than it was before, but I can’t deny that it’s actually working. An expensive lesson in how “have you tried turning it off and on again” almost always works -- $150 for the visit plus half an hour on site. He can’t get through to the office to process my credit card number so I have to write him a check ($260.21).
My first meeting of the day is canceled and my next one, our group leadership meeting, is just me and my boss. We compare notes on our respective travels over the last week -- she twisted her ankle -- and talk about some of the ideas that came out of our meetings. She tells me about the very nice cane she bought at CVS -- a collaboration with the Michael Graves studio, which has done some great stuff for people with disabilities -- and I look it up online. I have a cane I bought when I broke my ankle, and I’ve kept it because you never know, but now I’m tempted to replace it. Oh great, I think, I’m going to make people believe that your 50s are about impulse-purchasing canes!
My team has our weekly sync, and then I have a lot of email to catch up on, mostly bureaucratic stuff. There’s an invite to an event next week featuring an old professional friend: I RSVP yes, because networking is more fun when people you like are involved.
Lunch is some soup I defrosted and the ciabatta roll from the Greenmarket, reheated. In the late afternoon, I have a telehealth therapy session, and afterwards, I take a long walk with the dog. As we head out, we see several of the building’s other dogs, and the pre-schooler who Ada is special friends with. It’s extremely wholesome.
We pass a local restaurant where an old friend is eating outside with someone I don’t know. I catch her eye and we exchange a look, and I’m certain she’s on a date until she gets up and greets me and invites me and Ada to join them. I order the same drink the guy she’s with is having, talk to them both, and I’m relaxing a bit until I ask him how he knows her and yep, it’s a first date. Both of them seem totally fine with having me there, though I don’t stay for another round. I try to pay for my drink and they both refuse. He seems nice, and he liked my dog: if they end up dating I’ll have a funny story to tell.
I go home, heat up a meal I took out of the freezer back on Friday, and have dinner. I’m still a little tipsy so I drink water and eat Trader Joe’s lentil curls till the feeling subsides. I get a notification that a Substack I forgot to cancel just charged me the monthly subscription fee ($6). I cancel it moving forward immediately.
Walk the dog, crossword, Duolingo. In bed, I start a new library book: Scorched Grace, a mystery that got a rave review in the NYT, about a punk queer turned novice nun, investigating an arson at the school where she teaches.
Total: $266.21
Day 5, Tuesday
My super is at the door at 8:30 am, delighting Ada -- they are besties. He has a package that has his name on it but the number of an apartment in the building: a mystery! I point out that the apartment on the address label is not mine, but the same line, a floor down. I joke that he just wanted to come see Ada, who does in turn want to follow him to his next stop. I put on street clothes and take her for her walk.
Coffee and toast for breakfast again. I notice my AmEx payment has cleared, and schedule payments for the two credit cards (Chase and Apple Card) that I pay at the end of the month. I don’t like to set credit cards to auto-pay, because I like to keep an eye on my spending, but I do like to set up payments in advance. I do a little quick math with the help of the iPhone calculator and work out that even with my savings deductions, I should have about $500 extra left at the end of the month. When I have over $1K extra it will go into investments.
My first meeting of the day is with my favorite colleague J, and we catch up on some organizational challenges and talk about next steps on a project that she is leading. I’m really excited about how much positive attention her work has already gotten.
Lunch is some of the Indian leftovers. Then there’s a boring status meeting, and then I have a one-on-one with one of my direct reports. I’m very serious about making sure I do these every week, because I have had so many bad managers who didn’t. He suggests that he try working on something that I was hoping he could work on, so I am thrilled that he volunteered and tell him what a good idea he has.
My team member mentions that he needs some coffee, and I remember that I’m running low on beans. I click over to Fresh Direct and order coffee beans, a 12-pack of Sprite Zero cans, and a bunch of on-sale yogurts to be delivered same-day. ($45.22) I go through so much Sprite Zero. I got spoiled having free soda at office jobs, and now I probably drink 2-3 cans of soda a day at home. I also finalize my CookUnity order for next week, which I think will be a busy one: 8 meals for $91.17.
I have a meeting with the most senior designers across my boss’s organization, and we talk about holding an internal conference to align on a long-term UX vision. It’s an idea that I brought to my boss, though I give my team credit in the meeting, and I’m happy to see her want to invest in it.
Between meetings, I’m scrolling through Twitter and I see an old friend retweet her friend’s GoFundMe for his mom to help her keep her house. I’m moved by it, so I donate $18 (in Hebrew, letters=numbers and the number 18 has the same letters as the word for “life” so 18 or multiples of 18 are typical Jewish donation/gift amounts). Then I see a GoFundMe for a former colleague who has a lot of mental and health issues and is living out of their car. I donate $100 to that one rather than trying to work out the correct multiple of 18. ($120 total including GoFundMe “tips”)
My last meeting isn’t until dinnertime (the joy of working across time zones!) so I have to feed the dog as soon as I’m done. For myself, I heat up the leftover pasta and fry an egg to go on top. I put all the dishes in the dishwasher and set it to run overnight. By the time the FreshDirect delivery arrives, I’ve forgotten I ordered it!
When I check my email there is already a thank-you note from the friend of a friend whose GoFundMe I contributed to. I click over to his fundraiser, which has gone up a bit in the hours since I donated, and then also to my former co-worker’s, which has already met its goal! I scroll through the list of donors, seeing many familiar names. Most of our former colleagues who have donated have given more than I did: $200, $300 and the like. One, who was always prone to extravagant gestures, gave $1,000! I find myself second-guessing myself and wondering if I’m too cheap -- not just in this case but in general.
Crossword, Duolingo, bed. Whether it’s because of my worries or the lack of exercise I’ve been getting after a very active week last week, I don’t sleep well.
Total: $256.39
Day 6, Wednesday
Toast and coffee for breakfast again. I start my day with a few team one-on-ones. Then I have a meeting with other UX managers about our new talent management system: fun stuff. There’s some talk about how it might impact bonuses for next year, which is depressing. I use part of the meeting to buy new jeans, since the ones I’m wearing have the inevitable thigh rip, and while I’m on the Everlane site I see a gorgeous spring coat on sale and add that too ($244.05).
I check my personal email and there’s a pub announcement for a book on leadership from a design press. I meant to pre-order it, but I guess it’s too late! I buy directly from their website because they offer an ebook/print copy bundle, plus I always order directly from small presses when I can ($36.98).
Microwave mac and cheese for lunch. I take Ada out, planning to walk her to her doggy daycare, but about halfway there, she starts pulling emphatically towards home. Again, I take the hint, and we go home so she can sleep. I email them to let them know we will only be in once this week, and apologize for the short notice.
When I get home, I review my order from Saturday for a new harness. It’s not coming until Friday and I could still cancel it, since the old one is working for her again. I decide not to, since she may need a light-weight harness when it’s really hot out. I also check on an order which never showed up, and learn that it got returned to Amazon. I reorder the dog treats and Vitamin D ($26.14).
The afternoon is taken up by a complete clusterf**k at work, where different teams are working on related products and not working together. One of those teams now wants to launch their product in a couple of months, even though it’s a mess. We talk about it in my team crit, since one of my designers has been asked to do a heuristic review of the product. The designer who asks “Two questions. First of all, why?” makes me lolsob. My manager and I spend our entire one-on-one discussing it, agreeing we are hosed (and agreeing that we can only say “hosed” to each other since none of our younger colleagues use the term). My colleague J and I have a “wtf” moment about it in a meeting that’s supposed to be about something else. Lots of Slack messages going back and forth all afternoon as well. It sometimes feels like this job is just one firedrill after another.
I decide to order in dinner: a carne asada bowl and a side of chips and guacamole from Dos Toros ($33.91). The bowl comes without guacamole, and I get a $4.97 credit from DoorDash for my troubles. I give Ada a bunch of the chips.
I show up for my monthly Zoom call with a small group of professional friends and no one else is there. This used to be a monthly after-work drinks thing that my friend H organized. It went online with COVID and it was just easier to keep online, and it’s been a great way to keep in touch with people whose opinions I value. H doesn’t always come anymore but there’s usually at least three of us. I missed the last one myself so I’m hoping this is a one-off.
Instead, I continue reading Scorched Grace (a banger), play with Ada, and then take her for a walk. (Assume that this walk, like all Ada walks, includes chatting with her friends, talking with people who want to pet her, talking with people who she wants to have pet her. She’s a very sociable dog for an introvert to hang out with!)
When I get home, I check the mailroom and there is a package from my dad -- a god-awful sculpture/lamp thing that looks like a cricket. Apparently, it’s made by an old friend of his who’s an artist in a touristy part of the South. He calls it “a gift of the heart” and thoughtfully includes the receipt -- which says “exchanges only.” Sigh.
Evening routine as per usual.
Total: $341.08
Day 7, Thursday
I oversleep and feel groggy all morning. Luckily, Ada is not a morning dog, and she’s still pretty wiped out from her week at boarding: usually she’d be climbing the walls not having been to daycare all week.
Toast and coffee again. Today I mix it up with some of the last of last year’s homemade jam.
More meetings about the clusterf**k and it’s all going to get argued out well above my head. Lunch is the last of the Indian food, plus the last of the Dos Toros chips and guac. It’s international!
An old friend is speaking at a local conference, and had asked if I wanted to be her guest: the invite from the conference organizers finally arrives and I accept. I’m reminded that the two of us had agreed to see Just For Us during its Broadway run (I saw it off-Broadway and loved it!), so I text her to find out when she’s in town. We quickly agree on a night and I buy the tickets ($279 including fees). She’ll pay me back for half, or buy dinner on the night.
I call my dad to thank him for the gift, and we talk about British mysteries on PBS. Dinner is a peppers, onion, and mushroom omelette. I should use the second bunch of chard, especially since I know I’ll be dining out Friday and Saturday, but I’m too tired to be creative.
I spend the rest of the evening tidying up for the cleaner who will come in the morning and then doing the evening routine.
Total: $279
Categorized Expenses for the Week:
Food + Drink: $262.40
Fun / Entertainment: $314.50
Home + Health: $267.21
Clothes + Beauty: $244.05
Transport: $52
Books: $50.48
Dog: $62.34
Other $143.17
Lastly, reflect on your diary!
My week totals out to about $1400, which is more than I would ideally like, but with the dishwasher repair, the Broadway tickets, and buying food for next week via Cook Unity, it doesn’t feel wildly off. I did notice a lot of quasi-impulse buys -- “oh, I just remembered this, need to buy it now!” -- which is something I should be more mindful of. It makes me more confident in my budgeting to know that even when I’m not watching my money I’m spending reasonably (except perhaps too much on Ada? Never!).
I’m still pretty anxious when I have to think about larger financial decisions, but at least about the day to day, I think I’m doing mostly all right!
2023.05.24 14:37 Erutious The Sweetest Nectar
Dylan drummed his fingers on the desk as he stared at the blank screen.
The Darrow Feuds
By Dylan Mandrey
He had been looking at that title for three months, and it was starting to grind against his sanity. He needed this book to come together, but he just didn't have the words. The sequel to Darrow Farm had been highly anticipated after the first one had spent six weeks on the New York Times Best Seller List. It had been a somber tale of pioneers looking for a fresh start and the strange and frightening neighbors they had found in the woods around Utah's Helmen Valley. People had loved his depiction of the farmers' daughters, especially Gloria, who had ultimately been tempted by the strange creatures who resided within the forest and decided to leave the safety of her protestant father and his homestead. They had wanted to know what happened next for the pioneer family, and Dylan's agent had been absolutely feral for his notes on the next part of the series.
Dylan was getting pretty interested in those notes too, wherever they were.
The fact of the matter was that Dylan had begun to come to terms with the idea that he might not have another book in him.
It hadn't been so bad at first. The book was successful, selling something like six thousand copies in its first week. He had been happy, his publisher had been happy, and his agent had been all smiles when he congratulated him on making the list. This was amazing for a first-time author, but when the book sold another six thousand copies the week after that, Dylan was taken by surprise. Suddenly his book was being read by book clubs, discussed on literary blogs, and his agent called to tell him that the prime-time show Calder Mane Tonight wanted to offer him a guest spot on his show for Friday.
"It's a small segment, no more than ten minutes, but it's huge for a first-time writer." his agent had assured him.
After the interview, he'd gone on to sell something like fifty thousand copies, and that's when the networks had taken notice.
Four months ago, he'd signed a contract with Amazon for the first season of Darrow Farm and cashed a check larger than anything he'd ever seen. Suddenly he could do no wrong. Suddenly he was the industry's gold boy, and everyone wanted a word with him. He made the circuit with the show's director, and book sales continued to soar. He was on Calder Mane again, plugging the show, when the notion of a sequel was first pitched, and it had been his utter ruination.
"So, with the success of your first book, how long before we see a sequel?"
Dylan had been unable to answer, gaping like a fish before he tried to formulate something witty that wouldn't sound too unsure.
"I'm working on the first draft as we speak," he said, flashing the serpent's grin that seems to be the providence of all successful writers.
Who had said all writers were liars? Probably many people, most of them as big, if not bigger, liars than he was. Here he sat three months after making such a pompous claim with nothing to show for it but a title and a working title at that. He was no closer to finishing this book than he was to finishing the first chapter, and as Dylan sighed and put his head in his hands, he came to terms with the hard truth.
He would never finish this book, and when the curtain fell on season one of Darrow Farm, there would never be a season two.
"Now, now," said a voice from the chair in front of him, and Dylan sat up quickly as he looked at the odd man who was suddenly in his study, "that's a bit bleak for someone your age."
Dylan took in the odd man, his mind stuck in that strange limbo between fear and anger. How had this man come to be in his study, a room that existed behind two locked doors? The locks had seemed a little needless until this point. Dylan lived in a fairly upscale neighborhood, in a three-bedroom loft that he would probably have to move out of in the next five years if he didn't get something written. He couldn't remember the last time he had heard sirens on his street, let alone heard about a break-in.
The man didn't appear to need any of his stuff, however. He looked more like a carnival barker in his long black coat, the white shirt beneath looking crisp enough to cut. One polished boot was perched on a knee, and his blonde hair looked odd as it hung over his mirrored sunglasses. He was holding a copy of Darrow Farm, which he snapped shut as Dylan looked at him. The book was a prop, much like his attire, and Dylan suddenly felt the worm of curiosity poking to the surface.
"Who the hell are you?" Dylan asked, the words sounding way more confident than he felt.
"I am Richard T Sereph, and I am a blessing to men like you." said the man, flashing an obscene amount of pearly white teeth as he smiled.
"Men like me?" Dylan asked, "I assume you mean writers?"
"I was speaking of desperate men, but I often find that the two go hand in hand."
Dylan sighed, "I don't know how you got in here, but I want you out of my study before I call the police. I am hard at work, and you,"
"Oh, I can tell," the man said, tossing the book onto the glass top of Dylan's coffee table, "You've been hard at work for the last three months. Procrastination is a full-time job, isn't it, Mr. Mandry."
"Now, just who the hell do you,"
"If you were a man of lesser means, I'd offer to pay you for your talent and take my leave, but you have something that many don't, and it makes the world go round."
Dylan stood up, confident that he understood where this was going now.
This huckster was after his money, and Dylan was in no mood to indulge him.
"Get the hell out of my house. At this point, I don't think I need to call the police. If you keep moving on this course, I'll toss you out myself."
The man smiled his predatory smile and reached into his coat. Dylan's compass suddenly swung around to fear again, and he took a step back as he tensed for the shot. The man would shoot him now, Dylan could already see the gun coming out, and he wondered what the news would make of his death? Famous writer killed before his time, they would say, and when the thud hit his desk, he could already feel the burning in his chest.
Instead, he opened his eyes to find a small leather-bound book sitting on the edge of his desk.
"For those with so much imagination, your kind always seems to need proof."
The book wasn't large, no great demonic tomb or heavy arcane bit of binding. It was about the size of an average paperback, about two hundred pages, but the leather covering it looked ancient. It was cracked, the symbols on the cover broken by jagged rifts, and the spine bore neither name nor legend. As it sat there, Dylan felt like something on that cover was watching him, something that did not love him.
"What is that?" Dylan asked, the man already crossing to the door.
"A book," he said, as though it should be obvious, "a very special one. It will give you what you need, and when you have it, don't hesitate to call me for more."
He took a normal-looking business card from the front pocket of his coat and laid it on the end table beside the door.
He left then, but when Dylan got up to follow him out, he found his hallway empty. He searched the house, but it was occupied by only one slightly ruffled writer and one strange little black book. Dylan checked the doors, returning to his work when he was certain that no one was lurking in his home.
He sat in front of the computer, but his heart wasn't in it.
His eyes kept straying to that little book, and with every glance, his curiosity grew. It was nothing, just an old book, but his mind refused to believe it. It was a mystery, something new, a Pandora's box just waiting to be opened. He typed a few sentences but immediately deleted them afterward. He'd been doing that for months, the words sounding lame as they sat like slugs on the page.
He floundered in this way for most of the afternoon, the book judging him as he played at work. More than once, he started to reach for it, always thinking better. More than once, he started to simply push it off the desk, but he felt sure that it would open its pages and there would be teeth waiting to bite him. In the end, he wasted another short time, and as the sun set and the day died, Dylan finally took the book in hand.
He couldn't stand it anymore, and when he opened it up, he was suddenly sorry he had given in.
The book made a hollow sound as it landed on the ground, but Dylan was suddenly rendered blind. An icepick had lodged itself between his eyes, and the sudden and blinding revelation made him glad he had been sitting. He had experienced insight before, but this was akin to the most intimate of defilement. If he could find the strength to lift his hand, Dylan imagined that he would feel his brains pattering to the carpet where a bullet had ripped through his skull. He was falling, falling, falling into some bright abyss from which there was no escape, and then, suddenly, it was all gone.
He was sitting in his chair, his hands empty but his mind full.
He wrote the rest of that day and well into the next, and when he emailed his agent the first ten chapters of what he'd written, his response was one of bemused confusion.
"This is not a sequel to Darrow Farm," he said when he called him three hours later.
"Is that a problem?" Dylan asked, already guessing the answer.
"If the other chapters are as good as these? I doubt it will be," he said, and Dylan could hear the smile in his voice.
* * * * *
He was sitting at his laptop again, waiting to be inspired.
Roland's War had been the story of a cavalry deserter who defends the town he has settled in from a group of his old army brothers turned outlaw. It was well received, outselling Darrow Farm and earning a movie this time instead of a tv show. Kurt Russel had even been cast as Roland, the main character, and the check they had cut him that time was even bigger than the one before. The royalties from the Darrow Farm tv show had also been substantial, and that's why he found himself here again.
Amazon wanted a season two, his publisher wanted a sequel, and Dylan, yet again, found himself trying to create gold from straw.
He had written a few sentences that he liked and a few paragraphs that he felt confident about, but he knew he would delete most of it later. The book was DOA, and he knew the likelihood of it all coming together was slim to nil. He might as well try to write a sequel to Roland's War for all the good it would do him.
As he wrote and erased, he thought again about the man in the black coat. He had looked at the business card more than once since that day a year ago, and he opened his desk drawer as he took it out, and looked at it again. Richard T Sereph and Libras Talent were printed on the front, along with a phone number. He could call him again, Dylan knew, but he had resisted up until now. He had no proof that Roland's War had anything to do with the book Sereph had left behind.
But, he thought as he hit the delete key on the better part of an hour's work, he didn't have any proof that it hadn't.
The phone rang only once before Dylan heard that smooth, oily voice waft through his ears.
"Why, Mr. Mandrey. To what do we owe the pleasure?"
Dylan gulped; the man knew his number.
A number he had never given him.
"I need more," he half whispered, and he could hear the muscles in the old demon's face as they creaked into a grin.
"The price is one hundred thousand. Send it to the account I am about to message you."
A text popped up with the information to a private bank account.
"And when do I," but Sereph cut him off.
"When the money is transferred, you will receive your book."
"But how long?" Dylan asked, his fingers dancing over the keys as he finished the operation.
He had hit send on the money when a cheery ding dong came from downstairs.
There was a box on the doorstep, and inside was another leather-bound book.
Mr. Sereph had already hung up.
* * * * *
After eight years, Dylan was still looking at an empty screen with the words Darrows Feud on them.
In those eight years, he had written five more books and made five more payments to Mr. Sereph.
In five years, he had written two more cowboy dramas, a sci-fi novel that had shocked and impressed his agent and his peers, a Slice of Life drama they had turned into a successful tv series, and a Fantasy novel that had even George R raving. They had bred three more movies as well and book sails in the hundreds of thousands. The name Dylan Mandry was synonymous with innovation and flexibility, and he had offers from as many colleges as he did conventions. None of the big ivy league ones, of course, but Dartmouth had offered him a very comfortable position if he was interested in relocating. They wanted him to teach his technique to aspiring writers, which was why Dylan had to turn them down.
It would be difficult to teach a class on "Get rich and outsource your ideas to a magic man with books that scrambled your brains 101."
His agent and his publisher had long ago stopped asking for a sequel to Darrow Farm. They had decided that he was a one-book man, and they had both made enough money off him to be satisfied with his writing process. They were happy to take his work and a portion of his royalties, and these days the checks were sizeable indeed.
Though, Dylan knew that soon they wouldn't be enough.
Mr. Sereph's prices were akin to the pushers he had seen in his neighborhood when he was a kid. The first taste was always free, and then they had a customer for life. Sereph's prices seemed to double with every call. One hundred grand became two hundred grand became four hundred grand, became eight hundred grand, became one million dollars. "I rounded it down since you're a frequent customer," he'd said, and Dylan had paid it even though it hurt to part with it. Despite being successful, he wasn't as rich as everyone thought. Giving Sereph several million dollars had hurt, and if the next payment followed suit, he would be nearly broke.
The richest beggar in literature, no wonder most of them just drank it all away.
He tried to resist the urge to call this time, watching the cursor blink as he tried to make the words come. Had it all been a fluke? Had he really thought he had another book in him? Had he been so foolish as to think he could write something that good a second time? No, he thought, the magic was still in there; it was him that was broken. He had gotten so used to taking the easy way that he'd forgotten how the craft worked. Mr. Sereph was just another pusher, and Dylan was his loyal junkie who just kept coming back for another hit.
He stared at the blinking cursor for another ten minutes, feeling his time ticking away, before finally calling Mr. Sereph.
"Well, well, well, if it isn't the writer of the decade. I've heard your name bandied about with great expectations lately."
"Yeah, thanks for all that, but I need help with this next book."
"You know the price," Sereph said, "two million in my account, then you,"
"I, uh, I need help with a specific story this time."
Sereph was quiet for so long that Dylan thought the line had gone dead.
"Hello?" Dylan asked, desperately hoping he hadn't offended the man somehow, "Hello? Are you there? I just need,"
"I'm sorry, Mr. Mandrey, but that's not how it works."
Dylan was speechless for a moment, "How what works?"
"I can limit you to a specific genre if you like, most of your fame has been in frontier dramas, but I can't help you with a particular story. It doesn't work like that."
Dylan wanted to get angry, he wanted to rant and rail at this man who had taken so much money from him, but the curiosity that had brought him to writing in the first place made him ask the question that was rolling inside his head.
"How does it work?"
That same muscle-tightening sound, like old ropes on a mast, could be heard as Mr. Sereph flashed his crest kid smile from the other side of the phone.
"Do you care?"
Dylan did, but he said no.
Some things were better left unsaid.
* * * * *
"Mr. Mandrey, how do you write across multiple genres like that? Where do you find the inspiration?"
Dylan hoped they couldn't see him hide his guilty smile as he buried it.
"Well, I find that inspiration is fickle. Sometimes it gives you a bounty, but not always what you need. I have been hoping to recapture that inspiration soon, but so far, it eludes me."
Class was almost over, and he always let the students pick his brain at the end. Dartmouth had been glad to have him, and the move to New Hampshire had been easy. Dylan had been able to pack all of his possessions into a suitcase, the ones he hadn't sold. He had kept two suits, some day wear, his laptop, and a few books. He had come to a new city with little but the clothes on his back.
If the five years before had been tumultuous, then the five that came after had been turbulent. He still had no sequel to Darrow Farm, but he had published two more best-sellers. Both had been two years apart, and both had been the sort of Oat Operas that he had started with. The first was the best of them, Flanders Holdfast, and when Amazon had asked if they could adapt it into a series, he had told them to go right ahead. They had asked if he would mind helping them with a second season when all was said and done, and he had also agreed to that. Whatever magic had produced Darrow Farm had dried up, and he had come to terms with the fact that he was dry too.
The second had been only the year before, and that was when he had come to terms with the fact that he had a problem.
Margarette's Sache had sold decently, but it had come nowhere near the cost of it. That had been when Dylan had sold all his things and moved to New Hampshire. The loft he lived in, the first eds he'd collected in college, the Dicken's third eds that had been his fathers, his clothes, his signature, his blood, his sperm, whatever it took to get that next hit of success. He had long ago given up on the idea that one of these hits would be the sequel he wanted, but that hardly mattered. He wanted the high of seeing his name in print, the euphoria of being in the mouths of every important person in his circle, the dizzying feeling as he looked down from his ivory tower at all the little people who wished they could be him.
That's why he was working here.
He needed the money, he needed it bad, and if he intended to feel that jolt again before he died, he would pay for another hit of that sweetest nectar.
He realized he'd been staring out the window and pointed to a young man in the front row. He thought his name might be Max or maybe Phillip, but after the number on the roster passed ten, Dylan had trouble remembering everyone unless they made an impression. He regretted calling on him when he stood up, that hateful artifact clutched in his hand like a crucifix. He wondered if Dracula had looked at crosses the way he now looked at copies of Darrow Farm, and as the boy's teeth fixed into a flattered grin, Dylan tried to make his own do likewise.
"I just wanted to tell you what this book meant to me when I was a kid. I loved all your books, and I'm not a sci-fi reader usually, but this one really spoke to me. I know you must hear it all the time, but do you think you'll ever do a sequel to Darrow Farm?"
Dylan thought about how to answer the question tactfully and finally decided on the truth.
"No, probably not. I've been trying for years, and I just can't make it work."
They dispersed then, seeming to understand that this was a good time to make themselves scarce. He reminded them to work on their chapters for peer proofing tomorrow and sat heavily in his chair as he thought again about Darrow Feud. It had been eleven years. If he hadn't done it now, he supposed he never would.
"Mr. Mandrey?"
Dylan looked up to see the same kid who'd asked the question, remembering suddenly that his name was Malcolm.
"Sorry to bother you, sir, but I was wondering if," he floundered a little, setting the copy of Darrow Farm on Dylan's desk.
He would want an autograph; they always did. He had turned to dig in his bag, looking for a pen, Dylan had no doubt. Dylan tried not to sigh as he reached into his desk and took out his own pen, signing the dust jacket as he slid it back to him. He tried to smile, but it was so hard with the proof of his failure sitting right in his face.
"There ya go, kid. I usually charge twenty-five bucks for one of those, but your tuition keeps me warm, so this one is on the house."
Malcolm smiled, but when his hand came out of the bag, he was holding a sheaf of papers.
"Thank you, sir, but I'd like to know if you'd take a look at something I've been writing.
His hands were shaking a little, and Dylan looked at the clock before taking the offered pages. Malcolm's class was his last class of the day, and he had a few minutes to look over the kid's notes. He wasn't in a hurry to return to his dreary little condo, only having an evening of looking at the blinking cursor ahead of him or the equally bleak numbers in his bank account that never seemed to rise high enough. He laid the notes out, scanning them in a perfunctory way, but the farther in he got, the more interested he became.
"I hope it's not too forward, but I just loved your book so much. I know it's rough, but it could be something if I had your help. If not the actual sequel to Darrow Farm, perhaps the spiritual successor?"
Dylan devoured the pages as he read, his anger beginning to kindle. Who the hell did this kid think he was? This was plagiarism! This was theft! He'd see this boy thrown out of college, out of New Hampshire, but the most galling part was that it was good. He could have overlooked it if it had been trash, but Malcolm had written something great. To hell with Darrow Farm. This was something better than it could ever be. He only had a few chapters, but they continued the pioneer families' story flawlessly. The more he read, the less angry he became, and the more curiosity took over.
"Do you like it, sir?" Malcolm asked, and Dylan's face must have looked ghastly because he had taken a step back from the desk, "I know it's pretty rough, but I think, with your help,"
"This is astonishing," Dylan breathed, looking up at Malcolm as if he couldn't believe the boy was real, "You wrote this?"
Malcolm's smile was back in force, "I did. I wrote it because you inspired me, sir. Do you really like it?"
Dylan almost didn't trust himself to talk. He loved it. He wanted to help Malcolm make it great, he wanted to introduce him to his agent and tell him that there would finally be a sequel to Darrow Farm, maybe even two, he wanted to smash this boy's head in and take his notes and leave him for dead, he wanted to rip his skull open and eat his brains like some cannibal trying to get at his thoughts.
The last image gave him an idea, however, and his smile was genuine when he looked back up at the smiling young man whose future would likely be so much brighter than his.
Or, it might have been.
"How would you like to have dinner with me, Malcolm? We'll talk about your book, and then you can come back to my apartment and compare notes. I love what you have here, and I'm excited to get started right away."
Malcolm looked as though Christmas had come early, "I would love to, sir. Wow, you have no idea how much of a dream come true this is."
"Likewise," Dylan said, and as he rose, the two walked and chatted as Dylan made plans just below the surface.
* * * * *
"What have you done?" Sereph asked as he stood in Dylan's dingy apartment and looked at the comatose form of his student.
Dylan didn't think it took much imagination to see what he'd done. He'd fed the kid, they'd talked about his book, and while he was in the bathroom, Dylan had slipped something extra into his drink. It hadn't been anything too insidious, some sleeping pills his doctor had prescribed him a few years ago, but when Malcomn had started stumbling on the way to his apartment, he had wondered if the dosage had been too high.
He had called Mr. Sereph after putting the sleeping kid on the couch, telling him that he had his payment, but he would need to come and get it this time.
"I don't accept cash or checks, you know that. Transfer the money into my account and,"
"You'll want to come to get this payment, Mr. Sereph. Trust me."
Sereph had seemed eager to see what Dylan had for him, but now he looked mad enough to chew iron and spit nails, as Dylan's Grandfather had often said.
"Is this your idea of a joke?" Said Sereph, and suddenly he was in Dylan's face, the eyes behind his mirrored shades the color of piss.
"No, far from it," Said Dylan, standing his ground, "you told me once that, with my talent, you would have just paid me for it and been done with me, but I had money, so I could afford what others couldn't."
"Get to the point." Sereph spat, his face still very close to Dylans, close enough to make him afraid he would bite him.
"I take that to mean that you take these stories from other writers. I want his story. You can keep whatever else he has in there, but I want Darrow Feud. Take the rest, take him, take whatever you need, but I need that story!"
It was Mr. Serephs turn to take a step back, but his smile had returned.
"Wake him up before whatever you gave him wears off," he said as he took a familiar-looking book from his coat, "It might help if he's a little groggy when he makes this deal."
* * * * *
Calder Mane smiled as the lights came up, and Dylan was once again bathed in their glow.
He was back, riding the euphoria of his high, and he never wanted to come down. He had finally done it. He had conquered his white whale, and as the crowd stopped clapping and the house band quieted, Calder Mane turned to fix his regard on him.
"I never thought I'd say this, but it's a pleasure to have you on the show again, Mr. Mandrey, with your sequel to Darrow Farm."
The crowd clapped again, and Dylan gave them a peek at the first cover.
It had been the greatest six months of his life. He had received Malcolm's story in the usual way, but Mr. Sereph had refused any sort of payment. The book, oozing whatever it was that made up a person's talent, went into his coat, and out came a smaller one, which he handed to Dylan.
"The boy's talent was substantial. This will help other writers and more than makes up for your foolishness. I had never considered doing business like this, but you humans are always so inventive when it comes to the old sins. Please let me know if you stumble across any other tasty morsels in that class you teach. The writing world truly is a tank of sharks, and their hunger is wide and deep."
Malcolm had dropped out of his class the following week, and Dylan saw that he had left the university all together.
He hoped the boy found something to take up his empty hours but didn't really think about what he had done past that.
All writers were liars, after all, and lying to themselves was no exception.
"So it's been a decade since you sat in that very spot and brought us Darrow Farm. What led you to write a sequel after so long away from the source material?"
"Well, Calder, inspiration is a fickle business. Sometimes, it truly finds you when you least expect it."
submitted by Erutious to TalesOfDarkness [link] [comments]
The Darrow Feuds
By Dylan Mandrey
He had been looking at that title for three months, and it was starting to grind against his sanity. He needed this book to come together, but he just didn't have the words. The sequel to Darrow Farm had been highly anticipated after the first one had spent six weeks on the New York Times Best Seller List. It had been a somber tale of pioneers looking for a fresh start and the strange and frightening neighbors they had found in the woods around Utah's Helmen Valley. People had loved his depiction of the farmers' daughters, especially Gloria, who had ultimately been tempted by the strange creatures who resided within the forest and decided to leave the safety of her protestant father and his homestead. They had wanted to know what happened next for the pioneer family, and Dylan's agent had been absolutely feral for his notes on the next part of the series.
Dylan was getting pretty interested in those notes too, wherever they were.
The fact of the matter was that Dylan had begun to come to terms with the idea that he might not have another book in him.
It hadn't been so bad at first. The book was successful, selling something like six thousand copies in its first week. He had been happy, his publisher had been happy, and his agent had been all smiles when he congratulated him on making the list. This was amazing for a first-time author, but when the book sold another six thousand copies the week after that, Dylan was taken by surprise. Suddenly his book was being read by book clubs, discussed on literary blogs, and his agent called to tell him that the prime-time show Calder Mane Tonight wanted to offer him a guest spot on his show for Friday.
"It's a small segment, no more than ten minutes, but it's huge for a first-time writer." his agent had assured him.
After the interview, he'd gone on to sell something like fifty thousand copies, and that's when the networks had taken notice.
Four months ago, he'd signed a contract with Amazon for the first season of Darrow Farm and cashed a check larger than anything he'd ever seen. Suddenly he could do no wrong. Suddenly he was the industry's gold boy, and everyone wanted a word with him. He made the circuit with the show's director, and book sales continued to soar. He was on Calder Mane again, plugging the show, when the notion of a sequel was first pitched, and it had been his utter ruination.
"So, with the success of your first book, how long before we see a sequel?"
Dylan had been unable to answer, gaping like a fish before he tried to formulate something witty that wouldn't sound too unsure.
"I'm working on the first draft as we speak," he said, flashing the serpent's grin that seems to be the providence of all successful writers.
Who had said all writers were liars? Probably many people, most of them as big, if not bigger, liars than he was. Here he sat three months after making such a pompous claim with nothing to show for it but a title and a working title at that. He was no closer to finishing this book than he was to finishing the first chapter, and as Dylan sighed and put his head in his hands, he came to terms with the hard truth.
He would never finish this book, and when the curtain fell on season one of Darrow Farm, there would never be a season two.
"Now, now," said a voice from the chair in front of him, and Dylan sat up quickly as he looked at the odd man who was suddenly in his study, "that's a bit bleak for someone your age."
Dylan took in the odd man, his mind stuck in that strange limbo between fear and anger. How had this man come to be in his study, a room that existed behind two locked doors? The locks had seemed a little needless until this point. Dylan lived in a fairly upscale neighborhood, in a three-bedroom loft that he would probably have to move out of in the next five years if he didn't get something written. He couldn't remember the last time he had heard sirens on his street, let alone heard about a break-in.
The man didn't appear to need any of his stuff, however. He looked more like a carnival barker in his long black coat, the white shirt beneath looking crisp enough to cut. One polished boot was perched on a knee, and his blonde hair looked odd as it hung over his mirrored sunglasses. He was holding a copy of Darrow Farm, which he snapped shut as Dylan looked at him. The book was a prop, much like his attire, and Dylan suddenly felt the worm of curiosity poking to the surface.
"Who the hell are you?" Dylan asked, the words sounding way more confident than he felt.
"I am Richard T Sereph, and I am a blessing to men like you." said the man, flashing an obscene amount of pearly white teeth as he smiled.
"Men like me?" Dylan asked, "I assume you mean writers?"
"I was speaking of desperate men, but I often find that the two go hand in hand."
Dylan sighed, "I don't know how you got in here, but I want you out of my study before I call the police. I am hard at work, and you,"
"Oh, I can tell," the man said, tossing the book onto the glass top of Dylan's coffee table, "You've been hard at work for the last three months. Procrastination is a full-time job, isn't it, Mr. Mandry."
"Now, just who the hell do you,"
"If you were a man of lesser means, I'd offer to pay you for your talent and take my leave, but you have something that many don't, and it makes the world go round."
Dylan stood up, confident that he understood where this was going now.
This huckster was after his money, and Dylan was in no mood to indulge him.
"Get the hell out of my house. At this point, I don't think I need to call the police. If you keep moving on this course, I'll toss you out myself."
The man smiled his predatory smile and reached into his coat. Dylan's compass suddenly swung around to fear again, and he took a step back as he tensed for the shot. The man would shoot him now, Dylan could already see the gun coming out, and he wondered what the news would make of his death? Famous writer killed before his time, they would say, and when the thud hit his desk, he could already feel the burning in his chest.
Instead, he opened his eyes to find a small leather-bound book sitting on the edge of his desk.
"For those with so much imagination, your kind always seems to need proof."
The book wasn't large, no great demonic tomb or heavy arcane bit of binding. It was about the size of an average paperback, about two hundred pages, but the leather covering it looked ancient. It was cracked, the symbols on the cover broken by jagged rifts, and the spine bore neither name nor legend. As it sat there, Dylan felt like something on that cover was watching him, something that did not love him.
"What is that?" Dylan asked, the man already crossing to the door.
"A book," he said, as though it should be obvious, "a very special one. It will give you what you need, and when you have it, don't hesitate to call me for more."
He took a normal-looking business card from the front pocket of his coat and laid it on the end table beside the door.
He left then, but when Dylan got up to follow him out, he found his hallway empty. He searched the house, but it was occupied by only one slightly ruffled writer and one strange little black book. Dylan checked the doors, returning to his work when he was certain that no one was lurking in his home.
He sat in front of the computer, but his heart wasn't in it.
His eyes kept straying to that little book, and with every glance, his curiosity grew. It was nothing, just an old book, but his mind refused to believe it. It was a mystery, something new, a Pandora's box just waiting to be opened. He typed a few sentences but immediately deleted them afterward. He'd been doing that for months, the words sounding lame as they sat like slugs on the page.
He floundered in this way for most of the afternoon, the book judging him as he played at work. More than once, he started to reach for it, always thinking better. More than once, he started to simply push it off the desk, but he felt sure that it would open its pages and there would be teeth waiting to bite him. In the end, he wasted another short time, and as the sun set and the day died, Dylan finally took the book in hand.
He couldn't stand it anymore, and when he opened it up, he was suddenly sorry he had given in.
The book made a hollow sound as it landed on the ground, but Dylan was suddenly rendered blind. An icepick had lodged itself between his eyes, and the sudden and blinding revelation made him glad he had been sitting. He had experienced insight before, but this was akin to the most intimate of defilement. If he could find the strength to lift his hand, Dylan imagined that he would feel his brains pattering to the carpet where a bullet had ripped through his skull. He was falling, falling, falling into some bright abyss from which there was no escape, and then, suddenly, it was all gone.
He was sitting in his chair, his hands empty but his mind full.
He wrote the rest of that day and well into the next, and when he emailed his agent the first ten chapters of what he'd written, his response was one of bemused confusion.
"This is not a sequel to Darrow Farm," he said when he called him three hours later.
"Is that a problem?" Dylan asked, already guessing the answer.
"If the other chapters are as good as these? I doubt it will be," he said, and Dylan could hear the smile in his voice.
* * * * *
He was sitting at his laptop again, waiting to be inspired.
Roland's War had been the story of a cavalry deserter who defends the town he has settled in from a group of his old army brothers turned outlaw. It was well received, outselling Darrow Farm and earning a movie this time instead of a tv show. Kurt Russel had even been cast as Roland, the main character, and the check they had cut him that time was even bigger than the one before. The royalties from the Darrow Farm tv show had also been substantial, and that's why he found himself here again.
Amazon wanted a season two, his publisher wanted a sequel, and Dylan, yet again, found himself trying to create gold from straw.
He had written a few sentences that he liked and a few paragraphs that he felt confident about, but he knew he would delete most of it later. The book was DOA, and he knew the likelihood of it all coming together was slim to nil. He might as well try to write a sequel to Roland's War for all the good it would do him.
As he wrote and erased, he thought again about the man in the black coat. He had looked at the business card more than once since that day a year ago, and he opened his desk drawer as he took it out, and looked at it again. Richard T Sereph and Libras Talent were printed on the front, along with a phone number. He could call him again, Dylan knew, but he had resisted up until now. He had no proof that Roland's War had anything to do with the book Sereph had left behind.
But, he thought as he hit the delete key on the better part of an hour's work, he didn't have any proof that it hadn't.
The phone rang only once before Dylan heard that smooth, oily voice waft through his ears.
"Why, Mr. Mandrey. To what do we owe the pleasure?"
Dylan gulped; the man knew his number.
A number he had never given him.
"I need more," he half whispered, and he could hear the muscles in the old demon's face as they creaked into a grin.
"The price is one hundred thousand. Send it to the account I am about to message you."
A text popped up with the information to a private bank account.
"And when do I," but Sereph cut him off.
"When the money is transferred, you will receive your book."
"But how long?" Dylan asked, his fingers dancing over the keys as he finished the operation.
He had hit send on the money when a cheery ding dong came from downstairs.
There was a box on the doorstep, and inside was another leather-bound book.
Mr. Sereph had already hung up.
* * * * *
After eight years, Dylan was still looking at an empty screen with the words Darrows Feud on them.
In those eight years, he had written five more books and made five more payments to Mr. Sereph.
In five years, he had written two more cowboy dramas, a sci-fi novel that had shocked and impressed his agent and his peers, a Slice of Life drama they had turned into a successful tv series, and a Fantasy novel that had even George R raving. They had bred three more movies as well and book sails in the hundreds of thousands. The name Dylan Mandry was synonymous with innovation and flexibility, and he had offers from as many colleges as he did conventions. None of the big ivy league ones, of course, but Dartmouth had offered him a very comfortable position if he was interested in relocating. They wanted him to teach his technique to aspiring writers, which was why Dylan had to turn them down.
It would be difficult to teach a class on "Get rich and outsource your ideas to a magic man with books that scrambled your brains 101."
His agent and his publisher had long ago stopped asking for a sequel to Darrow Farm. They had decided that he was a one-book man, and they had both made enough money off him to be satisfied with his writing process. They were happy to take his work and a portion of his royalties, and these days the checks were sizeable indeed.
Though, Dylan knew that soon they wouldn't be enough.
Mr. Sereph's prices were akin to the pushers he had seen in his neighborhood when he was a kid. The first taste was always free, and then they had a customer for life. Sereph's prices seemed to double with every call. One hundred grand became two hundred grand became four hundred grand, became eight hundred grand, became one million dollars. "I rounded it down since you're a frequent customer," he'd said, and Dylan had paid it even though it hurt to part with it. Despite being successful, he wasn't as rich as everyone thought. Giving Sereph several million dollars had hurt, and if the next payment followed suit, he would be nearly broke.
The richest beggar in literature, no wonder most of them just drank it all away.
He tried to resist the urge to call this time, watching the cursor blink as he tried to make the words come. Had it all been a fluke? Had he really thought he had another book in him? Had he been so foolish as to think he could write something that good a second time? No, he thought, the magic was still in there; it was him that was broken. He had gotten so used to taking the easy way that he'd forgotten how the craft worked. Mr. Sereph was just another pusher, and Dylan was his loyal junkie who just kept coming back for another hit.
He stared at the blinking cursor for another ten minutes, feeling his time ticking away, before finally calling Mr. Sereph.
"Well, well, well, if it isn't the writer of the decade. I've heard your name bandied about with great expectations lately."
"Yeah, thanks for all that, but I need help with this next book."
"You know the price," Sereph said, "two million in my account, then you,"
"I, uh, I need help with a specific story this time."
Sereph was quiet for so long that Dylan thought the line had gone dead.
"Hello?" Dylan asked, desperately hoping he hadn't offended the man somehow, "Hello? Are you there? I just need,"
"I'm sorry, Mr. Mandrey, but that's not how it works."
Dylan was speechless for a moment, "How what works?"
"I can limit you to a specific genre if you like, most of your fame has been in frontier dramas, but I can't help you with a particular story. It doesn't work like that."
Dylan wanted to get angry, he wanted to rant and rail at this man who had taken so much money from him, but the curiosity that had brought him to writing in the first place made him ask the question that was rolling inside his head.
"How does it work?"
That same muscle-tightening sound, like old ropes on a mast, could be heard as Mr. Sereph flashed his crest kid smile from the other side of the phone.
"Do you care?"
Dylan did, but he said no.
Some things were better left unsaid.
* * * * *
"Mr. Mandrey, how do you write across multiple genres like that? Where do you find the inspiration?"
Dylan hoped they couldn't see him hide his guilty smile as he buried it.
"Well, I find that inspiration is fickle. Sometimes it gives you a bounty, but not always what you need. I have been hoping to recapture that inspiration soon, but so far, it eludes me."
Class was almost over, and he always let the students pick his brain at the end. Dartmouth had been glad to have him, and the move to New Hampshire had been easy. Dylan had been able to pack all of his possessions into a suitcase, the ones he hadn't sold. He had kept two suits, some day wear, his laptop, and a few books. He had come to a new city with little but the clothes on his back.
If the five years before had been tumultuous, then the five that came after had been turbulent. He still had no sequel to Darrow Farm, but he had published two more best-sellers. Both had been two years apart, and both had been the sort of Oat Operas that he had started with. The first was the best of them, Flanders Holdfast, and when Amazon had asked if they could adapt it into a series, he had told them to go right ahead. They had asked if he would mind helping them with a second season when all was said and done, and he had also agreed to that. Whatever magic had produced Darrow Farm had dried up, and he had come to terms with the fact that he was dry too.
The second had been only the year before, and that was when he had come to terms with the fact that he had a problem.
Margarette's Sache had sold decently, but it had come nowhere near the cost of it. That had been when Dylan had sold all his things and moved to New Hampshire. The loft he lived in, the first eds he'd collected in college, the Dicken's third eds that had been his fathers, his clothes, his signature, his blood, his sperm, whatever it took to get that next hit of success. He had long ago given up on the idea that one of these hits would be the sequel he wanted, but that hardly mattered. He wanted the high of seeing his name in print, the euphoria of being in the mouths of every important person in his circle, the dizzying feeling as he looked down from his ivory tower at all the little people who wished they could be him.
That's why he was working here.
He needed the money, he needed it bad, and if he intended to feel that jolt again before he died, he would pay for another hit of that sweetest nectar.
He realized he'd been staring out the window and pointed to a young man in the front row. He thought his name might be Max or maybe Phillip, but after the number on the roster passed ten, Dylan had trouble remembering everyone unless they made an impression. He regretted calling on him when he stood up, that hateful artifact clutched in his hand like a crucifix. He wondered if Dracula had looked at crosses the way he now looked at copies of Darrow Farm, and as the boy's teeth fixed into a flattered grin, Dylan tried to make his own do likewise.
"I just wanted to tell you what this book meant to me when I was a kid. I loved all your books, and I'm not a sci-fi reader usually, but this one really spoke to me. I know you must hear it all the time, but do you think you'll ever do a sequel to Darrow Farm?"
Dylan thought about how to answer the question tactfully and finally decided on the truth.
"No, probably not. I've been trying for years, and I just can't make it work."
They dispersed then, seeming to understand that this was a good time to make themselves scarce. He reminded them to work on their chapters for peer proofing tomorrow and sat heavily in his chair as he thought again about Darrow Feud. It had been eleven years. If he hadn't done it now, he supposed he never would.
"Mr. Mandrey?"
Dylan looked up to see the same kid who'd asked the question, remembering suddenly that his name was Malcolm.
"Sorry to bother you, sir, but I was wondering if," he floundered a little, setting the copy of Darrow Farm on Dylan's desk.
He would want an autograph; they always did. He had turned to dig in his bag, looking for a pen, Dylan had no doubt. Dylan tried not to sigh as he reached into his desk and took out his own pen, signing the dust jacket as he slid it back to him. He tried to smile, but it was so hard with the proof of his failure sitting right in his face.
"There ya go, kid. I usually charge twenty-five bucks for one of those, but your tuition keeps me warm, so this one is on the house."
Malcolm smiled, but when his hand came out of the bag, he was holding a sheaf of papers.
"Thank you, sir, but I'd like to know if you'd take a look at something I've been writing.
His hands were shaking a little, and Dylan looked at the clock before taking the offered pages. Malcolm's class was his last class of the day, and he had a few minutes to look over the kid's notes. He wasn't in a hurry to return to his dreary little condo, only having an evening of looking at the blinking cursor ahead of him or the equally bleak numbers in his bank account that never seemed to rise high enough. He laid the notes out, scanning them in a perfunctory way, but the farther in he got, the more interested he became.
"I hope it's not too forward, but I just loved your book so much. I know it's rough, but it could be something if I had your help. If not the actual sequel to Darrow Farm, perhaps the spiritual successor?"
Dylan devoured the pages as he read, his anger beginning to kindle. Who the hell did this kid think he was? This was plagiarism! This was theft! He'd see this boy thrown out of college, out of New Hampshire, but the most galling part was that it was good. He could have overlooked it if it had been trash, but Malcolm had written something great. To hell with Darrow Farm. This was something better than it could ever be. He only had a few chapters, but they continued the pioneer families' story flawlessly. The more he read, the less angry he became, and the more curiosity took over.
"Do you like it, sir?" Malcolm asked, and Dylan's face must have looked ghastly because he had taken a step back from the desk, "I know it's pretty rough, but I think, with your help,"
"This is astonishing," Dylan breathed, looking up at Malcolm as if he couldn't believe the boy was real, "You wrote this?"
Malcolm's smile was back in force, "I did. I wrote it because you inspired me, sir. Do you really like it?"
Dylan almost didn't trust himself to talk. He loved it. He wanted to help Malcolm make it great, he wanted to introduce him to his agent and tell him that there would finally be a sequel to Darrow Farm, maybe even two, he wanted to smash this boy's head in and take his notes and leave him for dead, he wanted to rip his skull open and eat his brains like some cannibal trying to get at his thoughts.
The last image gave him an idea, however, and his smile was genuine when he looked back up at the smiling young man whose future would likely be so much brighter than his.
Or, it might have been.
"How would you like to have dinner with me, Malcolm? We'll talk about your book, and then you can come back to my apartment and compare notes. I love what you have here, and I'm excited to get started right away."
Malcolm looked as though Christmas had come early, "I would love to, sir. Wow, you have no idea how much of a dream come true this is."
"Likewise," Dylan said, and as he rose, the two walked and chatted as Dylan made plans just below the surface.
* * * * *
"What have you done?" Sereph asked as he stood in Dylan's dingy apartment and looked at the comatose form of his student.
Dylan didn't think it took much imagination to see what he'd done. He'd fed the kid, they'd talked about his book, and while he was in the bathroom, Dylan had slipped something extra into his drink. It hadn't been anything too insidious, some sleeping pills his doctor had prescribed him a few years ago, but when Malcomn had started stumbling on the way to his apartment, he had wondered if the dosage had been too high.
He had called Mr. Sereph after putting the sleeping kid on the couch, telling him that he had his payment, but he would need to come and get it this time.
"I don't accept cash or checks, you know that. Transfer the money into my account and,"
"You'll want to come to get this payment, Mr. Sereph. Trust me."
Sereph had seemed eager to see what Dylan had for him, but now he looked mad enough to chew iron and spit nails, as Dylan's Grandfather had often said.
"Is this your idea of a joke?" Said Sereph, and suddenly he was in Dylan's face, the eyes behind his mirrored shades the color of piss.
"No, far from it," Said Dylan, standing his ground, "you told me once that, with my talent, you would have just paid me for it and been done with me, but I had money, so I could afford what others couldn't."
"Get to the point." Sereph spat, his face still very close to Dylans, close enough to make him afraid he would bite him.
"I take that to mean that you take these stories from other writers. I want his story. You can keep whatever else he has in there, but I want Darrow Feud. Take the rest, take him, take whatever you need, but I need that story!"
It was Mr. Serephs turn to take a step back, but his smile had returned.
"Wake him up before whatever you gave him wears off," he said as he took a familiar-looking book from his coat, "It might help if he's a little groggy when he makes this deal."
* * * * *
Calder Mane smiled as the lights came up, and Dylan was once again bathed in their glow.
He was back, riding the euphoria of his high, and he never wanted to come down. He had finally done it. He had conquered his white whale, and as the crowd stopped clapping and the house band quieted, Calder Mane turned to fix his regard on him.
"I never thought I'd say this, but it's a pleasure to have you on the show again, Mr. Mandrey, with your sequel to Darrow Farm."
The crowd clapped again, and Dylan gave them a peek at the first cover.
It had been the greatest six months of his life. He had received Malcolm's story in the usual way, but Mr. Sereph had refused any sort of payment. The book, oozing whatever it was that made up a person's talent, went into his coat, and out came a smaller one, which he handed to Dylan.
"The boy's talent was substantial. This will help other writers and more than makes up for your foolishness. I had never considered doing business like this, but you humans are always so inventive when it comes to the old sins. Please let me know if you stumble across any other tasty morsels in that class you teach. The writing world truly is a tank of sharks, and their hunger is wide and deep."
Malcolm had dropped out of his class the following week, and Dylan saw that he had left the university all together.
He hoped the boy found something to take up his empty hours but didn't really think about what he had done past that.
All writers were liars, after all, and lying to themselves was no exception.
"So it's been a decade since you sat in that very spot and brought us Darrow Farm. What led you to write a sequel after so long away from the source material?"
"Well, Calder, inspiration is a fickle business. Sometimes, it truly finds you when you least expect it."
2023.05.24 14:37 Erutious The Sweetest Nectar
Dylan drummed his fingers on the desk as he stared at the blank screen.
The Darrow Feuds
By Dylan Mandrey
He had been looking at that title for three months, and it was starting to grind against his sanity. He needed this book to come together, but he just didn't have the words. The sequel to Darrow Farm had been highly anticipated after the first one had spent six weeks on the New York Times Best Seller List. It had been a somber tale of pioneers looking for a fresh start and the strange and frightening neighbors they had found in the woods around Utah's Helmen Valley. People had loved his depiction of the farmers' daughters, especially Gloria, who had ultimately been tempted by the strange creatures who resided within the forest and decided to leave the safety of her protestant father and his homestead. They had wanted to know what happened next for the pioneer family, and Dylan's agent had been absolutely feral for his notes on the next part of the series.
Dylan was getting pretty interested in those notes too, wherever they were.
The fact of the matter was that Dylan had begun to come to terms with the idea that he might not have another book in him.
It hadn't been so bad at first. The book was successful, selling something like six thousand copies in its first week. He had been happy, his publisher had been happy, and his agent had been all smiles when he congratulated him on making the list. This was amazing for a first-time author, but when the book sold another six thousand copies the week after that, Dylan was taken by surprise. Suddenly his book was being read by book clubs, discussed on literary blogs, and his agent called to tell him that the prime-time show Calder Mane Tonight wanted to offer him a guest spot on his show for Friday.
"It's a small segment, no more than ten minutes, but it's huge for a first-time writer." his agent had assured him.
After the interview, he'd gone on to sell something like fifty thousand copies, and that's when the networks had taken notice.
Four months ago, he'd signed a contract with Amazon for the first season of Darrow Farm and cashed a check larger than anything he'd ever seen. Suddenly he could do no wrong. Suddenly he was the industry's gold boy, and everyone wanted a word with him. He made the circuit with the show's director, and book sales continued to soar. He was on Calder Mane again, plugging the show, when the notion of a sequel was first pitched, and it had been his utter ruination.
"So, with the success of your first book, how long before we see a sequel?"
Dylan had been unable to answer, gaping like a fish before he tried to formulate something witty that wouldn't sound too unsure.
"I'm working on the first draft as we speak," he said, flashing the serpent's grin that seems to be the providence of all successful writers.
Who had said all writers were liars? Probably many people, most of them as big, if not bigger, liars than he was. Here he sat three months after making such a pompous claim with nothing to show for it but a title and a working title at that. He was no closer to finishing this book than he was to finishing the first chapter, and as Dylan sighed and put his head in his hands, he came to terms with the hard truth.
He would never finish this book, and when the curtain fell on season one of Darrow Farm, there would never be a season two.
"Now, now," said a voice from the chair in front of him, and Dylan sat up quickly as he looked at the odd man who was suddenly in his study, "that's a bit bleak for someone your age."
Dylan took in the odd man, his mind stuck in that strange limbo between fear and anger. How had this man come to be in his study, a room that existed behind two locked doors? The locks had seemed a little needless until this point. Dylan lived in a fairly upscale neighborhood, in a three-bedroom loft that he would probably have to move out of in the next five years if he didn't get something written. He couldn't remember the last time he had heard sirens on his street, let alone heard about a break-in.
The man didn't appear to need any of his stuff, however. He looked more like a carnival barker in his long black coat, the white shirt beneath looking crisp enough to cut. One polished boot was perched on a knee, and his blonde hair looked odd as it hung over his mirrored sunglasses. He was holding a copy of Darrow Farm, which he snapped shut as Dylan looked at him. The book was a prop, much like his attire, and Dylan suddenly felt the worm of curiosity poking to the surface.
"Who the hell are you?" Dylan asked, the words sounding way more confident than he felt.
"I am Richard T Sereph, and I am a blessing to men like you." said the man, flashing an obscene amount of pearly white teeth as he smiled.
"Men like me?" Dylan asked, "I assume you mean writers?"
"I was speaking of desperate men, but I often find that the two go hand in hand."
Dylan sighed, "I don't know how you got in here, but I want you out of my study before I call the police. I am hard at work, and you,"
"Oh, I can tell," the man said, tossing the book onto the glass top of Dylan's coffee table, "You've been hard at work for the last three months. Procrastination is a full-time job, isn't it, Mr. Mandry."
"Now, just who the hell do you,"
"If you were a man of lesser means, I'd offer to pay you for your talent and take my leave, but you have something that many don't, and it makes the world go round."
Dylan stood up, confident that he understood where this was going now.
This huckster was after his money, and Dylan was in no mood to indulge him.
"Get the hell out of my house. At this point, I don't think I need to call the police. If you keep moving on this course, I'll toss you out myself."
The man smiled his predatory smile and reached into his coat. Dylan's compass suddenly swung around to fear again, and he took a step back as he tensed for the shot. The man would shoot him now, Dylan could already see the gun coming out, and he wondered what the news would make of his death? Famous writer killed before his time, they would say, and when the thud hit his desk, he could already feel the burning in his chest.
Instead, he opened his eyes to find a small leather-bound book sitting on the edge of his desk.
"For those with so much imagination, your kind always seems to need proof."
The book wasn't large, no great demonic tomb or heavy arcane bit of binding. It was about the size of an average paperback, about two hundred pages, but the leather covering it looked ancient. It was cracked, the symbols on the cover broken by jagged rifts, and the spine bore neither name nor legend. As it sat there, Dylan felt like something on that cover was watching him, something that did not love him.
"What is that?" Dylan asked, the man already crossing to the door.
"A book," he said, as though it should be obvious, "a very special one. It will give you what you need, and when you have it, don't hesitate to call me for more."
He took a normal-looking business card from the front pocket of his coat and laid it on the end table beside the door.
He left then, but when Dylan got up to follow him out, he found his hallway empty. He searched the house, but it was occupied by only one slightly ruffled writer and one strange little black book. Dylan checked the doors, returning to his work when he was certain that no one was lurking in his home.
He sat in front of the computer, but his heart wasn't in it.
His eyes kept straying to that little book, and with every glance, his curiosity grew. It was nothing, just an old book, but his mind refused to believe it. It was a mystery, something new, a Pandora's box just waiting to be opened. He typed a few sentences but immediately deleted them afterward. He'd been doing that for months, the words sounding lame as they sat like slugs on the page.
He floundered in this way for most of the afternoon, the book judging him as he played at work. More than once, he started to reach for it, always thinking better. More than once, he started to simply push it off the desk, but he felt sure that it would open its pages and there would be teeth waiting to bite him. In the end, he wasted another short time, and as the sun set and the day died, Dylan finally took the book in hand.
He couldn't stand it anymore, and when he opened it up, he was suddenly sorry he had given in.
The book made a hollow sound as it landed on the ground, but Dylan was suddenly rendered blind. An icepick had lodged itself between his eyes, and the sudden and blinding revelation made him glad he had been sitting. He had experienced insight before, but this was akin to the most intimate of defilement. If he could find the strength to lift his hand, Dylan imagined that he would feel his brains pattering to the carpet where a bullet had ripped through his skull. He was falling, falling, falling into some bright abyss from which there was no escape, and then, suddenly, it was all gone.
He was sitting in his chair, his hands empty but his mind full.
He wrote the rest of that day and well into the next, and when he emailed his agent the first ten chapters of what he'd written, his response was one of bemused confusion.
"This is not a sequel to Darrow Farm," he said when he called him three hours later.
"Is that a problem?" Dylan asked, already guessing the answer.
"If the other chapters are as good as these? I doubt it will be," he said, and Dylan could hear the smile in his voice.
* * * * *
He was sitting at his laptop again, waiting to be inspired.
Roland's War had been the story of a cavalry deserter who defends the town he has settled in from a group of his old army brothers turned outlaw. It was well received, outselling Darrow Farm and earning a movie this time instead of a tv show. Kurt Russel had even been cast as Roland, the main character, and the check they had cut him that time was even bigger than the one before. The royalties from the Darrow Farm tv show had also been substantial, and that's why he found himself here again.
Amazon wanted a season two, his publisher wanted a sequel, and Dylan, yet again, found himself trying to create gold from straw.
He had written a few sentences that he liked and a few paragraphs that he felt confident about, but he knew he would delete most of it later. The book was DOA, and he knew the likelihood of it all coming together was slim to nil. He might as well try to write a sequel to Roland's War for all the good it would do him.
As he wrote and erased, he thought again about the man in the black coat. He had looked at the business card more than once since that day a year ago, and he opened his desk drawer as he took it out, and looked at it again. Richard T Sereph and Libras Talent were printed on the front, along with a phone number. He could call him again, Dylan knew, but he had resisted up until now. He had no proof that Roland's War had anything to do with the book Sereph had left behind.
But, he thought as he hit the delete key on the better part of an hour's work, he didn't have any proof that it hadn't.
The phone rang only once before Dylan heard that smooth, oily voice waft through his ears.
"Why, Mr. Mandrey. To what do we owe the pleasure?"
Dylan gulped; the man knew his number.
A number he had never given him.
"I need more," he half whispered, and he could hear the muscles in the old demon's face as they creaked into a grin.
"The price is one hundred thousand. Send it to the account I am about to message you."
A text popped up with the information to a private bank account.
"And when do I," but Sereph cut him off.
"When the money is transferred, you will receive your book."
"But how long?" Dylan asked, his fingers dancing over the keys as he finished the operation.
He had hit send on the money when a cheery ding dong came from downstairs.
There was a box on the doorstep, and inside was another leather-bound book.
Mr. Sereph had already hung up.
* * * * *
After eight years, Dylan was still looking at an empty screen with the words Darrows Feud on them.
In those eight years, he had written five more books and made five more payments to Mr. Sereph.
In five years, he had written two more cowboy dramas, a sci-fi novel that had shocked and impressed his agent and his peers, a Slice of Life drama they had turned into a successful tv series, and a Fantasy novel that had even George R raving. They had bred three more movies as well and book sails in the hundreds of thousands. The name Dylan Mandry was synonymous with innovation and flexibility, and he had offers from as many colleges as he did conventions. None of the big ivy league ones, of course, but Dartmouth had offered him a very comfortable position if he was interested in relocating. They wanted him to teach his technique to aspiring writers, which was why Dylan had to turn them down.
It would be difficult to teach a class on "Get rich and outsource your ideas to a magic man with books that scrambled your brains 101."
His agent and his publisher had long ago stopped asking for a sequel to Darrow Farm. They had decided that he was a one-book man, and they had both made enough money off him to be satisfied with his writing process. They were happy to take his work and a portion of his royalties, and these days the checks were sizeable indeed.
Though, Dylan knew that soon they wouldn't be enough.
Mr. Sereph's prices were akin to the pushers he had seen in his neighborhood when he was a kid. The first taste was always free, and then they had a customer for life. Sereph's prices seemed to double with every call. One hundred grand became two hundred grand became four hundred grand, became eight hundred grand, became one million dollars. "I rounded it down since you're a frequent customer," he'd said, and Dylan had paid it even though it hurt to part with it. Despite being successful, he wasn't as rich as everyone thought. Giving Sereph several million dollars had hurt, and if the next payment followed suit, he would be nearly broke.
The richest beggar in literature, no wonder most of them just drank it all away.
He tried to resist the urge to call this time, watching the cursor blink as he tried to make the words come. Had it all been a fluke? Had he really thought he had another book in him? Had he been so foolish as to think he could write something that good a second time? No, he thought, the magic was still in there; it was him that was broken. He had gotten so used to taking the easy way that he'd forgotten how the craft worked. Mr. Sereph was just another pusher, and Dylan was his loyal junkie who just kept coming back for another hit.
He stared at the blinking cursor for another ten minutes, feeling his time ticking away, before finally calling Mr. Sereph.
"Well, well, well, if it isn't the writer of the decade. I've heard your name bandied about with great expectations lately."
"Yeah, thanks for all that, but I need help with this next book."
"You know the price," Sereph said, "two million in my account, then you,"
"I, uh, I need help with a specific story this time."
Sereph was quiet for so long that Dylan thought the line had gone dead.
"Hello?" Dylan asked, desperately hoping he hadn't offended the man somehow, "Hello? Are you there? I just need,"
"I'm sorry, Mr. Mandrey, but that's not how it works."
Dylan was speechless for a moment, "How what works?"
"I can limit you to a specific genre if you like, most of your fame has been in frontier dramas, but I can't help you with a particular story. It doesn't work like that."
Dylan wanted to get angry, he wanted to rant and rail at this man who had taken so much money from him, but the curiosity that had brought him to writing in the first place made him ask the question that was rolling inside his head.
"How does it work?"
That same muscle-tightening sound, like old ropes on a mast, could be heard as Mr. Sereph flashed his crest kid smile from the other side of the phone.
"Do you care?"
Dylan did, but he said no.
Some things were better left unsaid.
* * * * *
"Mr. Mandrey, how do you write across multiple genres like that? Where do you find the inspiration?"
Dylan hoped they couldn't see him hide his guilty smile as he buried it.
"Well, I find that inspiration is fickle. Sometimes it gives you a bounty, but not always what you need. I have been hoping to recapture that inspiration soon, but so far, it eludes me."
Class was almost over, and he always let the students pick his brain at the end. Dartmouth had been glad to have him, and the move to New Hampshire had been easy. Dylan had been able to pack all of his possessions into a suitcase, the ones he hadn't sold. He had kept two suits, some day wear, his laptop, and a few books. He had come to a new city with little but the clothes on his back.
If the five years before had been tumultuous, then the five that came after had been turbulent. He still had no sequel to Darrow Farm, but he had published two more best-sellers. Both had been two years apart, and both had been the sort of Oat Operas that he had started with. The first was the best of them, Flanders Holdfast, and when Amazon had asked if they could adapt it into a series, he had told them to go right ahead. They had asked if he would mind helping them with a second season when all was said and done, and he had also agreed to that. Whatever magic had produced Darrow Farm had dried up, and he had come to terms with the fact that he was dry too.
The second had been only the year before, and that was when he had come to terms with the fact that he had a problem.
Margarette's Sache had sold decently, but it had come nowhere near the cost of it. That had been when Dylan had sold all his things and moved to New Hampshire. The loft he lived in, the first eds he'd collected in college, the Dicken's third eds that had been his fathers, his clothes, his signature, his blood, his sperm, whatever it took to get that next hit of success. He had long ago given up on the idea that one of these hits would be the sequel he wanted, but that hardly mattered. He wanted the high of seeing his name in print, the euphoria of being in the mouths of every important person in his circle, the dizzying feeling as he looked down from his ivory tower at all the little people who wished they could be him.
That's why he was working here.
He needed the money, he needed it bad, and if he intended to feel that jolt again before he died, he would pay for another hit of that sweetest nectar.
He realized he'd been staring out the window and pointed to a young man in the front row. He thought his name might be Max or maybe Phillip, but after the number on the roster passed ten, Dylan had trouble remembering everyone unless they made an impression. He regretted calling on him when he stood up, that hateful artifact clutched in his hand like a crucifix. He wondered if Dracula had looked at crosses the way he now looked at copies of Darrow Farm, and as the boy's teeth fixed into a flattered grin, Dylan tried to make his own do likewise.
"I just wanted to tell you what this book meant to me when I was a kid. I loved all your books, and I'm not a sci-fi reader usually, but this one really spoke to me. I know you must hear it all the time, but do you think you'll ever do a sequel to Darrow Farm?"
Dylan thought about how to answer the question tactfully and finally decided on the truth.
"No, probably not. I've been trying for years, and I just can't make it work."
They dispersed then, seeming to understand that this was a good time to make themselves scarce. He reminded them to work on their chapters for peer proofing tomorrow and sat heavily in his chair as he thought again about Darrow Feud. It had been eleven years. If he hadn't done it now, he supposed he never would.
"Mr. Mandrey?"
Dylan looked up to see the same kid who'd asked the question, remembering suddenly that his name was Malcolm.
"Sorry to bother you, sir, but I was wondering if," he floundered a little, setting the copy of Darrow Farm on Dylan's desk.
He would want an autograph; they always did. He had turned to dig in his bag, looking for a pen, Dylan had no doubt. Dylan tried not to sigh as he reached into his desk and took out his own pen, signing the dust jacket as he slid it back to him. He tried to smile, but it was so hard with the proof of his failure sitting right in his face.
"There ya go, kid. I usually charge twenty-five bucks for one of those, but your tuition keeps me warm, so this one is on the house."
Malcolm smiled, but when his hand came out of the bag, he was holding a sheaf of papers.
"Thank you, sir, but I'd like to know if you'd take a look at something I've been writing.
His hands were shaking a little, and Dylan looked at the clock before taking the offered pages. Malcolm's class was his last class of the day, and he had a few minutes to look over the kid's notes. He wasn't in a hurry to return to his dreary little condo, only having an evening of looking at the blinking cursor ahead of him or the equally bleak numbers in his bank account that never seemed to rise high enough. He laid the notes out, scanning them in a perfunctory way, but the farther in he got, the more interested he became.
"I hope it's not too forward, but I just loved your book so much. I know it's rough, but it could be something if I had your help. If not the actual sequel to Darrow Farm, perhaps the spiritual successor?"
Dylan devoured the pages as he read, his anger beginning to kindle. Who the hell did this kid think he was? This was plagiarism! This was theft! He'd see this boy thrown out of college, out of New Hampshire, but the most galling part was that it was good. He could have overlooked it if it had been trash, but Malcolm had written something great. To hell with Darrow Farm. This was something better than it could ever be. He only had a few chapters, but they continued the pioneer families' story flawlessly. The more he read, the less angry he became, and the more curiosity took over.
"Do you like it, sir?" Malcolm asked, and Dylan's face must have looked ghastly because he had taken a step back from the desk, "I know it's pretty rough, but I think, with your help,"
"This is astonishing," Dylan breathed, looking up at Malcolm as if he couldn't believe the boy was real, "You wrote this?"
Malcolm's smile was back in force, "I did. I wrote it because you inspired me, sir. Do you really like it?"
Dylan almost didn't trust himself to talk. He loved it. He wanted to help Malcolm make it great, he wanted to introduce him to his agent and tell him that there would finally be a sequel to Darrow Farm, maybe even two, he wanted to smash this boy's head in and take his notes and leave him for dead, he wanted to rip his skull open and eat his brains like some cannibal trying to get at his thoughts.
The last image gave him an idea, however, and his smile was genuine when he looked back up at the smiling young man whose future would likely be so much brighter than his.
Or, it might have been.
"How would you like to have dinner with me, Malcolm? We'll talk about your book, and then you can come back to my apartment and compare notes. I love what you have here, and I'm excited to get started right away."
Malcolm looked as though Christmas had come early, "I would love to, sir. Wow, you have no idea how much of a dream come true this is."
"Likewise," Dylan said, and as he rose, the two walked and chatted as Dylan made plans just below the surface.
* * * * *
"What have you done?" Sereph asked as he stood in Dylan's dingy apartment and looked at the comatose form of his student.
Dylan didn't think it took much imagination to see what he'd done. He'd fed the kid, they'd talked about his book, and while he was in the bathroom, Dylan had slipped something extra into his drink. It hadn't been anything too insidious, some sleeping pills his doctor had prescribed him a few years ago, but when Malcomn had started stumbling on the way to his apartment, he had wondered if the dosage had been too high.
He had called Mr. Sereph after putting the sleeping kid on the couch, telling him that he had his payment, but he would need to come and get it this time.
"I don't accept cash or checks, you know that. Transfer the money into my account and,"
"You'll want to come to get this payment, Mr. Sereph. Trust me."
Sereph had seemed eager to see what Dylan had for him, but now he looked mad enough to chew iron and spit nails, as Dylan's Grandfather had often said.
"Is this your idea of a joke?" Said Sereph, and suddenly he was in Dylan's face, the eyes behind his mirrored shades the color of piss.
"No, far from it," Said Dylan, standing his ground, "you told me once that, with my talent, you would have just paid me for it and been done with me, but I had money, so I could afford what others couldn't."
"Get to the point." Sereph spat, his face still very close to Dylans, close enough to make him afraid he would bite him.
"I take that to mean that you take these stories from other writers. I want his story. You can keep whatever else he has in there, but I want Darrow Feud. Take the rest, take him, take whatever you need, but I need that story!"
It was Mr. Serephs turn to take a step back, but his smile had returned.
"Wake him up before whatever you gave him wears off," he said as he took a familiar-looking book from his coat, "It might help if he's a little groggy when he makes this deal."
* * * * *
Calder Mane smiled as the lights came up, and Dylan was once again bathed in their glow.
He was back, riding the euphoria of his high, and he never wanted to come down. He had finally done it. He had conquered his white whale, and as the crowd stopped clapping and the house band quieted, Calder Mane turned to fix his regard on him.
"I never thought I'd say this, but it's a pleasure to have you on the show again, Mr. Mandrey, with your sequel to Darrow Farm."
The crowd clapped again, and Dylan gave them a peek at the first cover.
It had been the greatest six months of his life. He had received Malcolm's story in the usual way, but Mr. Sereph had refused any sort of payment. The book, oozing whatever it was that made up a person's talent, went into his coat, and out came a smaller one, which he handed to Dylan.
"The boy's talent was substantial. This will help other writers and more than makes up for your foolishness. I had never considered doing business like this, but you humans are always so inventive when it comes to the old sins. Please let me know if you stumble across any other tasty morsels in that class you teach. The writing world truly is a tank of sharks, and their hunger is wide and deep."
Malcolm had dropped out of his class the following week, and Dylan saw that he had left the university all together.
He hoped the boy found something to take up his empty hours but didn't really think about what he had done past that.
All writers were liars, after all, and lying to themselves was no exception.
"So it's been a decade since you sat in that very spot and brought us Darrow Farm. What led you to write a sequel after so long away from the source material?"
"Well, Calder, inspiration is a fickle business. Sometimes, it truly finds you when you least expect it."
submitted by Erutious to stayawake [link] [comments]
The Darrow Feuds
By Dylan Mandrey
He had been looking at that title for three months, and it was starting to grind against his sanity. He needed this book to come together, but he just didn't have the words. The sequel to Darrow Farm had been highly anticipated after the first one had spent six weeks on the New York Times Best Seller List. It had been a somber tale of pioneers looking for a fresh start and the strange and frightening neighbors they had found in the woods around Utah's Helmen Valley. People had loved his depiction of the farmers' daughters, especially Gloria, who had ultimately been tempted by the strange creatures who resided within the forest and decided to leave the safety of her protestant father and his homestead. They had wanted to know what happened next for the pioneer family, and Dylan's agent had been absolutely feral for his notes on the next part of the series.
Dylan was getting pretty interested in those notes too, wherever they were.
The fact of the matter was that Dylan had begun to come to terms with the idea that he might not have another book in him.
It hadn't been so bad at first. The book was successful, selling something like six thousand copies in its first week. He had been happy, his publisher had been happy, and his agent had been all smiles when he congratulated him on making the list. This was amazing for a first-time author, but when the book sold another six thousand copies the week after that, Dylan was taken by surprise. Suddenly his book was being read by book clubs, discussed on literary blogs, and his agent called to tell him that the prime-time show Calder Mane Tonight wanted to offer him a guest spot on his show for Friday.
"It's a small segment, no more than ten minutes, but it's huge for a first-time writer." his agent had assured him.
After the interview, he'd gone on to sell something like fifty thousand copies, and that's when the networks had taken notice.
Four months ago, he'd signed a contract with Amazon for the first season of Darrow Farm and cashed a check larger than anything he'd ever seen. Suddenly he could do no wrong. Suddenly he was the industry's gold boy, and everyone wanted a word with him. He made the circuit with the show's director, and book sales continued to soar. He was on Calder Mane again, plugging the show, when the notion of a sequel was first pitched, and it had been his utter ruination.
"So, with the success of your first book, how long before we see a sequel?"
Dylan had been unable to answer, gaping like a fish before he tried to formulate something witty that wouldn't sound too unsure.
"I'm working on the first draft as we speak," he said, flashing the serpent's grin that seems to be the providence of all successful writers.
Who had said all writers were liars? Probably many people, most of them as big, if not bigger, liars than he was. Here he sat three months after making such a pompous claim with nothing to show for it but a title and a working title at that. He was no closer to finishing this book than he was to finishing the first chapter, and as Dylan sighed and put his head in his hands, he came to terms with the hard truth.
He would never finish this book, and when the curtain fell on season one of Darrow Farm, there would never be a season two.
"Now, now," said a voice from the chair in front of him, and Dylan sat up quickly as he looked at the odd man who was suddenly in his study, "that's a bit bleak for someone your age."
Dylan took in the odd man, his mind stuck in that strange limbo between fear and anger. How had this man come to be in his study, a room that existed behind two locked doors? The locks had seemed a little needless until this point. Dylan lived in a fairly upscale neighborhood, in a three-bedroom loft that he would probably have to move out of in the next five years if he didn't get something written. He couldn't remember the last time he had heard sirens on his street, let alone heard about a break-in.
The man didn't appear to need any of his stuff, however. He looked more like a carnival barker in his long black coat, the white shirt beneath looking crisp enough to cut. One polished boot was perched on a knee, and his blonde hair looked odd as it hung over his mirrored sunglasses. He was holding a copy of Darrow Farm, which he snapped shut as Dylan looked at him. The book was a prop, much like his attire, and Dylan suddenly felt the worm of curiosity poking to the surface.
"Who the hell are you?" Dylan asked, the words sounding way more confident than he felt.
"I am Richard T Sereph, and I am a blessing to men like you." said the man, flashing an obscene amount of pearly white teeth as he smiled.
"Men like me?" Dylan asked, "I assume you mean writers?"
"I was speaking of desperate men, but I often find that the two go hand in hand."
Dylan sighed, "I don't know how you got in here, but I want you out of my study before I call the police. I am hard at work, and you,"
"Oh, I can tell," the man said, tossing the book onto the glass top of Dylan's coffee table, "You've been hard at work for the last three months. Procrastination is a full-time job, isn't it, Mr. Mandry."
"Now, just who the hell do you,"
"If you were a man of lesser means, I'd offer to pay you for your talent and take my leave, but you have something that many don't, and it makes the world go round."
Dylan stood up, confident that he understood where this was going now.
This huckster was after his money, and Dylan was in no mood to indulge him.
"Get the hell out of my house. At this point, I don't think I need to call the police. If you keep moving on this course, I'll toss you out myself."
The man smiled his predatory smile and reached into his coat. Dylan's compass suddenly swung around to fear again, and he took a step back as he tensed for the shot. The man would shoot him now, Dylan could already see the gun coming out, and he wondered what the news would make of his death? Famous writer killed before his time, they would say, and when the thud hit his desk, he could already feel the burning in his chest.
Instead, he opened his eyes to find a small leather-bound book sitting on the edge of his desk.
"For those with so much imagination, your kind always seems to need proof."
The book wasn't large, no great demonic tomb or heavy arcane bit of binding. It was about the size of an average paperback, about two hundred pages, but the leather covering it looked ancient. It was cracked, the symbols on the cover broken by jagged rifts, and the spine bore neither name nor legend. As it sat there, Dylan felt like something on that cover was watching him, something that did not love him.
"What is that?" Dylan asked, the man already crossing to the door.
"A book," he said, as though it should be obvious, "a very special one. It will give you what you need, and when you have it, don't hesitate to call me for more."
He took a normal-looking business card from the front pocket of his coat and laid it on the end table beside the door.
He left then, but when Dylan got up to follow him out, he found his hallway empty. He searched the house, but it was occupied by only one slightly ruffled writer and one strange little black book. Dylan checked the doors, returning to his work when he was certain that no one was lurking in his home.
He sat in front of the computer, but his heart wasn't in it.
His eyes kept straying to that little book, and with every glance, his curiosity grew. It was nothing, just an old book, but his mind refused to believe it. It was a mystery, something new, a Pandora's box just waiting to be opened. He typed a few sentences but immediately deleted them afterward. He'd been doing that for months, the words sounding lame as they sat like slugs on the page.
He floundered in this way for most of the afternoon, the book judging him as he played at work. More than once, he started to reach for it, always thinking better. More than once, he started to simply push it off the desk, but he felt sure that it would open its pages and there would be teeth waiting to bite him. In the end, he wasted another short time, and as the sun set and the day died, Dylan finally took the book in hand.
He couldn't stand it anymore, and when he opened it up, he was suddenly sorry he had given in.
The book made a hollow sound as it landed on the ground, but Dylan was suddenly rendered blind. An icepick had lodged itself between his eyes, and the sudden and blinding revelation made him glad he had been sitting. He had experienced insight before, but this was akin to the most intimate of defilement. If he could find the strength to lift his hand, Dylan imagined that he would feel his brains pattering to the carpet where a bullet had ripped through his skull. He was falling, falling, falling into some bright abyss from which there was no escape, and then, suddenly, it was all gone.
He was sitting in his chair, his hands empty but his mind full.
He wrote the rest of that day and well into the next, and when he emailed his agent the first ten chapters of what he'd written, his response was one of bemused confusion.
"This is not a sequel to Darrow Farm," he said when he called him three hours later.
"Is that a problem?" Dylan asked, already guessing the answer.
"If the other chapters are as good as these? I doubt it will be," he said, and Dylan could hear the smile in his voice.
* * * * *
He was sitting at his laptop again, waiting to be inspired.
Roland's War had been the story of a cavalry deserter who defends the town he has settled in from a group of his old army brothers turned outlaw. It was well received, outselling Darrow Farm and earning a movie this time instead of a tv show. Kurt Russel had even been cast as Roland, the main character, and the check they had cut him that time was even bigger than the one before. The royalties from the Darrow Farm tv show had also been substantial, and that's why he found himself here again.
Amazon wanted a season two, his publisher wanted a sequel, and Dylan, yet again, found himself trying to create gold from straw.
He had written a few sentences that he liked and a few paragraphs that he felt confident about, but he knew he would delete most of it later. The book was DOA, and he knew the likelihood of it all coming together was slim to nil. He might as well try to write a sequel to Roland's War for all the good it would do him.
As he wrote and erased, he thought again about the man in the black coat. He had looked at the business card more than once since that day a year ago, and he opened his desk drawer as he took it out, and looked at it again. Richard T Sereph and Libras Talent were printed on the front, along with a phone number. He could call him again, Dylan knew, but he had resisted up until now. He had no proof that Roland's War had anything to do with the book Sereph had left behind.
But, he thought as he hit the delete key on the better part of an hour's work, he didn't have any proof that it hadn't.
The phone rang only once before Dylan heard that smooth, oily voice waft through his ears.
"Why, Mr. Mandrey. To what do we owe the pleasure?"
Dylan gulped; the man knew his number.
A number he had never given him.
"I need more," he half whispered, and he could hear the muscles in the old demon's face as they creaked into a grin.
"The price is one hundred thousand. Send it to the account I am about to message you."
A text popped up with the information to a private bank account.
"And when do I," but Sereph cut him off.
"When the money is transferred, you will receive your book."
"But how long?" Dylan asked, his fingers dancing over the keys as he finished the operation.
He had hit send on the money when a cheery ding dong came from downstairs.
There was a box on the doorstep, and inside was another leather-bound book.
Mr. Sereph had already hung up.
* * * * *
After eight years, Dylan was still looking at an empty screen with the words Darrows Feud on them.
In those eight years, he had written five more books and made five more payments to Mr. Sereph.
In five years, he had written two more cowboy dramas, a sci-fi novel that had shocked and impressed his agent and his peers, a Slice of Life drama they had turned into a successful tv series, and a Fantasy novel that had even George R raving. They had bred three more movies as well and book sails in the hundreds of thousands. The name Dylan Mandry was synonymous with innovation and flexibility, and he had offers from as many colleges as he did conventions. None of the big ivy league ones, of course, but Dartmouth had offered him a very comfortable position if he was interested in relocating. They wanted him to teach his technique to aspiring writers, which was why Dylan had to turn them down.
It would be difficult to teach a class on "Get rich and outsource your ideas to a magic man with books that scrambled your brains 101."
His agent and his publisher had long ago stopped asking for a sequel to Darrow Farm. They had decided that he was a one-book man, and they had both made enough money off him to be satisfied with his writing process. They were happy to take his work and a portion of his royalties, and these days the checks were sizeable indeed.
Though, Dylan knew that soon they wouldn't be enough.
Mr. Sereph's prices were akin to the pushers he had seen in his neighborhood when he was a kid. The first taste was always free, and then they had a customer for life. Sereph's prices seemed to double with every call. One hundred grand became two hundred grand became four hundred grand, became eight hundred grand, became one million dollars. "I rounded it down since you're a frequent customer," he'd said, and Dylan had paid it even though it hurt to part with it. Despite being successful, he wasn't as rich as everyone thought. Giving Sereph several million dollars had hurt, and if the next payment followed suit, he would be nearly broke.
The richest beggar in literature, no wonder most of them just drank it all away.
He tried to resist the urge to call this time, watching the cursor blink as he tried to make the words come. Had it all been a fluke? Had he really thought he had another book in him? Had he been so foolish as to think he could write something that good a second time? No, he thought, the magic was still in there; it was him that was broken. He had gotten so used to taking the easy way that he'd forgotten how the craft worked. Mr. Sereph was just another pusher, and Dylan was his loyal junkie who just kept coming back for another hit.
He stared at the blinking cursor for another ten minutes, feeling his time ticking away, before finally calling Mr. Sereph.
"Well, well, well, if it isn't the writer of the decade. I've heard your name bandied about with great expectations lately."
"Yeah, thanks for all that, but I need help with this next book."
"You know the price," Sereph said, "two million in my account, then you,"
"I, uh, I need help with a specific story this time."
Sereph was quiet for so long that Dylan thought the line had gone dead.
"Hello?" Dylan asked, desperately hoping he hadn't offended the man somehow, "Hello? Are you there? I just need,"
"I'm sorry, Mr. Mandrey, but that's not how it works."
Dylan was speechless for a moment, "How what works?"
"I can limit you to a specific genre if you like, most of your fame has been in frontier dramas, but I can't help you with a particular story. It doesn't work like that."
Dylan wanted to get angry, he wanted to rant and rail at this man who had taken so much money from him, but the curiosity that had brought him to writing in the first place made him ask the question that was rolling inside his head.
"How does it work?"
That same muscle-tightening sound, like old ropes on a mast, could be heard as Mr. Sereph flashed his crest kid smile from the other side of the phone.
"Do you care?"
Dylan did, but he said no.
Some things were better left unsaid.
* * * * *
"Mr. Mandrey, how do you write across multiple genres like that? Where do you find the inspiration?"
Dylan hoped they couldn't see him hide his guilty smile as he buried it.
"Well, I find that inspiration is fickle. Sometimes it gives you a bounty, but not always what you need. I have been hoping to recapture that inspiration soon, but so far, it eludes me."
Class was almost over, and he always let the students pick his brain at the end. Dartmouth had been glad to have him, and the move to New Hampshire had been easy. Dylan had been able to pack all of his possessions into a suitcase, the ones he hadn't sold. He had kept two suits, some day wear, his laptop, and a few books. He had come to a new city with little but the clothes on his back.
If the five years before had been tumultuous, then the five that came after had been turbulent. He still had no sequel to Darrow Farm, but he had published two more best-sellers. Both had been two years apart, and both had been the sort of Oat Operas that he had started with. The first was the best of them, Flanders Holdfast, and when Amazon had asked if they could adapt it into a series, he had told them to go right ahead. They had asked if he would mind helping them with a second season when all was said and done, and he had also agreed to that. Whatever magic had produced Darrow Farm had dried up, and he had come to terms with the fact that he was dry too.
The second had been only the year before, and that was when he had come to terms with the fact that he had a problem.
Margarette's Sache had sold decently, but it had come nowhere near the cost of it. That had been when Dylan had sold all his things and moved to New Hampshire. The loft he lived in, the first eds he'd collected in college, the Dicken's third eds that had been his fathers, his clothes, his signature, his blood, his sperm, whatever it took to get that next hit of success. He had long ago given up on the idea that one of these hits would be the sequel he wanted, but that hardly mattered. He wanted the high of seeing his name in print, the euphoria of being in the mouths of every important person in his circle, the dizzying feeling as he looked down from his ivory tower at all the little people who wished they could be him.
That's why he was working here.
He needed the money, he needed it bad, and if he intended to feel that jolt again before he died, he would pay for another hit of that sweetest nectar.
He realized he'd been staring out the window and pointed to a young man in the front row. He thought his name might be Max or maybe Phillip, but after the number on the roster passed ten, Dylan had trouble remembering everyone unless they made an impression. He regretted calling on him when he stood up, that hateful artifact clutched in his hand like a crucifix. He wondered if Dracula had looked at crosses the way he now looked at copies of Darrow Farm, and as the boy's teeth fixed into a flattered grin, Dylan tried to make his own do likewise.
"I just wanted to tell you what this book meant to me when I was a kid. I loved all your books, and I'm not a sci-fi reader usually, but this one really spoke to me. I know you must hear it all the time, but do you think you'll ever do a sequel to Darrow Farm?"
Dylan thought about how to answer the question tactfully and finally decided on the truth.
"No, probably not. I've been trying for years, and I just can't make it work."
They dispersed then, seeming to understand that this was a good time to make themselves scarce. He reminded them to work on their chapters for peer proofing tomorrow and sat heavily in his chair as he thought again about Darrow Feud. It had been eleven years. If he hadn't done it now, he supposed he never would.
"Mr. Mandrey?"
Dylan looked up to see the same kid who'd asked the question, remembering suddenly that his name was Malcolm.
"Sorry to bother you, sir, but I was wondering if," he floundered a little, setting the copy of Darrow Farm on Dylan's desk.
He would want an autograph; they always did. He had turned to dig in his bag, looking for a pen, Dylan had no doubt. Dylan tried not to sigh as he reached into his desk and took out his own pen, signing the dust jacket as he slid it back to him. He tried to smile, but it was so hard with the proof of his failure sitting right in his face.
"There ya go, kid. I usually charge twenty-five bucks for one of those, but your tuition keeps me warm, so this one is on the house."
Malcolm smiled, but when his hand came out of the bag, he was holding a sheaf of papers.
"Thank you, sir, but I'd like to know if you'd take a look at something I've been writing.
His hands were shaking a little, and Dylan looked at the clock before taking the offered pages. Malcolm's class was his last class of the day, and he had a few minutes to look over the kid's notes. He wasn't in a hurry to return to his dreary little condo, only having an evening of looking at the blinking cursor ahead of him or the equally bleak numbers in his bank account that never seemed to rise high enough. He laid the notes out, scanning them in a perfunctory way, but the farther in he got, the more interested he became.
"I hope it's not too forward, but I just loved your book so much. I know it's rough, but it could be something if I had your help. If not the actual sequel to Darrow Farm, perhaps the spiritual successor?"
Dylan devoured the pages as he read, his anger beginning to kindle. Who the hell did this kid think he was? This was plagiarism! This was theft! He'd see this boy thrown out of college, out of New Hampshire, but the most galling part was that it was good. He could have overlooked it if it had been trash, but Malcolm had written something great. To hell with Darrow Farm. This was something better than it could ever be. He only had a few chapters, but they continued the pioneer families' story flawlessly. The more he read, the less angry he became, and the more curiosity took over.
"Do you like it, sir?" Malcolm asked, and Dylan's face must have looked ghastly because he had taken a step back from the desk, "I know it's pretty rough, but I think, with your help,"
"This is astonishing," Dylan breathed, looking up at Malcolm as if he couldn't believe the boy was real, "You wrote this?"
Malcolm's smile was back in force, "I did. I wrote it because you inspired me, sir. Do you really like it?"
Dylan almost didn't trust himself to talk. He loved it. He wanted to help Malcolm make it great, he wanted to introduce him to his agent and tell him that there would finally be a sequel to Darrow Farm, maybe even two, he wanted to smash this boy's head in and take his notes and leave him for dead, he wanted to rip his skull open and eat his brains like some cannibal trying to get at his thoughts.
The last image gave him an idea, however, and his smile was genuine when he looked back up at the smiling young man whose future would likely be so much brighter than his.
Or, it might have been.
"How would you like to have dinner with me, Malcolm? We'll talk about your book, and then you can come back to my apartment and compare notes. I love what you have here, and I'm excited to get started right away."
Malcolm looked as though Christmas had come early, "I would love to, sir. Wow, you have no idea how much of a dream come true this is."
"Likewise," Dylan said, and as he rose, the two walked and chatted as Dylan made plans just below the surface.
* * * * *
"What have you done?" Sereph asked as he stood in Dylan's dingy apartment and looked at the comatose form of his student.
Dylan didn't think it took much imagination to see what he'd done. He'd fed the kid, they'd talked about his book, and while he was in the bathroom, Dylan had slipped something extra into his drink. It hadn't been anything too insidious, some sleeping pills his doctor had prescribed him a few years ago, but when Malcomn had started stumbling on the way to his apartment, he had wondered if the dosage had been too high.
He had called Mr. Sereph after putting the sleeping kid on the couch, telling him that he had his payment, but he would need to come and get it this time.
"I don't accept cash or checks, you know that. Transfer the money into my account and,"
"You'll want to come to get this payment, Mr. Sereph. Trust me."
Sereph had seemed eager to see what Dylan had for him, but now he looked mad enough to chew iron and spit nails, as Dylan's Grandfather had often said.
"Is this your idea of a joke?" Said Sereph, and suddenly he was in Dylan's face, the eyes behind his mirrored shades the color of piss.
"No, far from it," Said Dylan, standing his ground, "you told me once that, with my talent, you would have just paid me for it and been done with me, but I had money, so I could afford what others couldn't."
"Get to the point." Sereph spat, his face still very close to Dylans, close enough to make him afraid he would bite him.
"I take that to mean that you take these stories from other writers. I want his story. You can keep whatever else he has in there, but I want Darrow Feud. Take the rest, take him, take whatever you need, but I need that story!"
It was Mr. Serephs turn to take a step back, but his smile had returned.
"Wake him up before whatever you gave him wears off," he said as he took a familiar-looking book from his coat, "It might help if he's a little groggy when he makes this deal."
* * * * *
Calder Mane smiled as the lights came up, and Dylan was once again bathed in their glow.
He was back, riding the euphoria of his high, and he never wanted to come down. He had finally done it. He had conquered his white whale, and as the crowd stopped clapping and the house band quieted, Calder Mane turned to fix his regard on him.
"I never thought I'd say this, but it's a pleasure to have you on the show again, Mr. Mandrey, with your sequel to Darrow Farm."
The crowd clapped again, and Dylan gave them a peek at the first cover.
It had been the greatest six months of his life. He had received Malcolm's story in the usual way, but Mr. Sereph had refused any sort of payment. The book, oozing whatever it was that made up a person's talent, went into his coat, and out came a smaller one, which he handed to Dylan.
"The boy's talent was substantial. This will help other writers and more than makes up for your foolishness. I had never considered doing business like this, but you humans are always so inventive when it comes to the old sins. Please let me know if you stumble across any other tasty morsels in that class you teach. The writing world truly is a tank of sharks, and their hunger is wide and deep."
Malcolm had dropped out of his class the following week, and Dylan saw that he had left the university all together.
He hoped the boy found something to take up his empty hours but didn't really think about what he had done past that.
All writers were liars, after all, and lying to themselves was no exception.
"So it's been a decade since you sat in that very spot and brought us Darrow Farm. What led you to write a sequel after so long away from the source material?"
"Well, Calder, inspiration is a fickle business. Sometimes, it truly finds you when you least expect it."
2023.05.24 14:37 Erutious The Sweetest Nectar
Dylan drummed his fingers on the desk as he stared at the blank screen.
The Darrow Feuds
By Dylan Mandrey
He had been looking at that title for three months, and it was starting to grind against his sanity. He needed this book to come together, but he just didn't have the words. The sequel to Darrow Farm had been highly anticipated after the first one had spent six weeks on the New York Times Best Seller List. It had been a somber tale of pioneers looking for a fresh start and the strange and frightening neighbors they had found in the woods around Utah's Helmen Valley. People had loved his depiction of the farmers' daughters, especially Gloria, who had ultimately been tempted by the strange creatures who resided within the forest and decided to leave the safety of her protestant father and his homestead. They had wanted to know what happened next for the pioneer family, and Dylan's agent had been absolutely feral for his notes on the next part of the series.
Dylan was getting pretty interested in those notes too, wherever they were.
The fact of the matter was that Dylan had begun to come to terms with the idea that he might not have another book in him.
It hadn't been so bad at first. The book was successful, selling something like six thousand copies in its first week. He had been happy, his publisher had been happy, and his agent had been all smiles when he congratulated him on making the list. This was amazing for a first-time author, but when the book sold another six thousand copies the week after that, Dylan was taken by surprise. Suddenly his book was being read by book clubs, discussed on literary blogs, and his agent called to tell him that the prime-time show Calder Mane Tonight wanted to offer him a guest spot on his show for Friday.
"It's a small segment, no more than ten minutes, but it's huge for a first-time writer." his agent had assured him.
After the interview, he'd gone on to sell something like fifty thousand copies, and that's when the networks had taken notice.
Four months ago, he'd signed a contract with Amazon for the first season of Darrow Farm and cashed a check larger than anything he'd ever seen. Suddenly he could do no wrong. Suddenly he was the industry's gold boy, and everyone wanted a word with him. He made the circuit with the show's director, and book sales continued to soar. He was on Calder Mane again, plugging the show, when the notion of a sequel was first pitched, and it had been his utter ruination.
"So, with the success of your first book, how long before we see a sequel?"
Dylan had been unable to answer, gaping like a fish before he tried to formulate something witty that wouldn't sound too unsure.
"I'm working on the first draft as we speak," he said, flashing the serpent's grin that seems to be the providence of all successful writers.
Who had said all writers were liars? Probably many people, most of them as big, if not bigger, liars than he was. Here he sat three months after making such a pompous claim with nothing to show for it but a title and a working title at that. He was no closer to finishing this book than he was to finishing the first chapter, and as Dylan sighed and put his head in his hands, he came to terms with the hard truth.
He would never finish this book, and when the curtain fell on season one of Darrow Farm, there would never be a season two.
"Now, now," said a voice from the chair in front of him, and Dylan sat up quickly as he looked at the odd man who was suddenly in his study, "that's a bit bleak for someone your age."
Dylan took in the odd man, his mind stuck in that strange limbo between fear and anger. How had this man come to be in his study, a room that existed behind two locked doors? The locks had seemed a little needless until this point. Dylan lived in a fairly upscale neighborhood, in a three-bedroom loft that he would probably have to move out of in the next five years if he didn't get something written. He couldn't remember the last time he had heard sirens on his street, let alone heard about a break-in.
The man didn't appear to need any of his stuff, however. He looked more like a carnival barker in his long black coat, the white shirt beneath looking crisp enough to cut. One polished boot was perched on a knee, and his blonde hair looked odd as it hung over his mirrored sunglasses. He was holding a copy of Darrow Farm, which he snapped shut as Dylan looked at him. The book was a prop, much like his attire, and Dylan suddenly felt the worm of curiosity poking to the surface.
"Who the hell are you?" Dylan asked, the words sounding way more confident than he felt.
"I am Richard T Sereph, and I am a blessing to men like you." said the man, flashing an obscene amount of pearly white teeth as he smiled.
"Men like me?" Dylan asked, "I assume you mean writers?"
"I was speaking of desperate men, but I often find that the two go hand in hand."
Dylan sighed, "I don't know how you got in here, but I want you out of my study before I call the police. I am hard at work, and you,"
"Oh, I can tell," the man said, tossing the book onto the glass top of Dylan's coffee table, "You've been hard at work for the last three months. Procrastination is a full-time job, isn't it, Mr. Mandry."
"Now, just who the hell do you,"
"If you were a man of lesser means, I'd offer to pay you for your talent and take my leave, but you have something that many don't, and it makes the world go round."
Dylan stood up, confident that he understood where this was going now.
This huckster was after his money, and Dylan was in no mood to indulge him.
"Get the hell out of my house. At this point, I don't think I need to call the police. If you keep moving on this course, I'll toss you out myself."
The man smiled his predatory smile and reached into his coat. Dylan's compass suddenly swung around to fear again, and he took a step back as he tensed for the shot. The man would shoot him now, Dylan could already see the gun coming out, and he wondered what the news would make of his death? Famous writer killed before his time, they would say, and when the thud hit his desk, he could already feel the burning in his chest.
Instead, he opened his eyes to find a small leather-bound book sitting on the edge of his desk.
"For those with so much imagination, your kind always seems to need proof."
The book wasn't large, no great demonic tomb or heavy arcane bit of binding. It was about the size of an average paperback, about two hundred pages, but the leather covering it looked ancient. It was cracked, the symbols on the cover broken by jagged rifts, and the spine bore neither name nor legend. As it sat there, Dylan felt like something on that cover was watching him, something that did not love him.
"What is that?" Dylan asked, the man already crossing to the door.
"A book," he said, as though it should be obvious, "a very special one. It will give you what you need, and when you have it, don't hesitate to call me for more."
He took a normal-looking business card from the front pocket of his coat and laid it on the end table beside the door.
He left then, but when Dylan got up to follow him out, he found his hallway empty. He searched the house, but it was occupied by only one slightly ruffled writer and one strange little black book. Dylan checked the doors, returning to his work when he was certain that no one was lurking in his home.
He sat in front of the computer, but his heart wasn't in it.
His eyes kept straying to that little book, and with every glance, his curiosity grew. It was nothing, just an old book, but his mind refused to believe it. It was a mystery, something new, a Pandora's box just waiting to be opened. He typed a few sentences but immediately deleted them afterward. He'd been doing that for months, the words sounding lame as they sat like slugs on the page.
He floundered in this way for most of the afternoon, the book judging him as he played at work. More than once, he started to reach for it, always thinking better. More than once, he started to simply push it off the desk, but he felt sure that it would open its pages and there would be teeth waiting to bite him. In the end, he wasted another short time, and as the sun set and the day died, Dylan finally took the book in hand.
He couldn't stand it anymore, and when he opened it up, he was suddenly sorry he had given in.
The book made a hollow sound as it landed on the ground, but Dylan was suddenly rendered blind. An icepick had lodged itself between his eyes, and the sudden and blinding revelation made him glad he had been sitting. He had experienced insight before, but this was akin to the most intimate of defilement. If he could find the strength to lift his hand, Dylan imagined that he would feel his brains pattering to the carpet where a bullet had ripped through his skull. He was falling, falling, falling into some bright abyss from which there was no escape, and then, suddenly, it was all gone.
He was sitting in his chair, his hands empty but his mind full.
He wrote the rest of that day and well into the next, and when he emailed his agent the first ten chapters of what he'd written, his response was one of bemused confusion.
"This is not a sequel to Darrow Farm," he said when he called him three hours later.
"Is that a problem?" Dylan asked, already guessing the answer.
"If the other chapters are as good as these? I doubt it will be," he said, and Dylan could hear the smile in his voice.
* * * * *
He was sitting at his laptop again, waiting to be inspired.
Roland's War had been the story of a cavalry deserter who defends the town he has settled in from a group of his old army brothers turned outlaw. It was well received, outselling Darrow Farm and earning a movie this time instead of a tv show. Kurt Russel had even been cast as Roland, the main character, and the check they had cut him that time was even bigger than the one before. The royalties from the Darrow Farm tv show had also been substantial, and that's why he found himself here again.
Amazon wanted a season two, his publisher wanted a sequel, and Dylan, yet again, found himself trying to create gold from straw.
He had written a few sentences that he liked and a few paragraphs that he felt confident about, but he knew he would delete most of it later. The book was DOA, and he knew the likelihood of it all coming together was slim to nil. He might as well try to write a sequel to Roland's War for all the good it would do him.
As he wrote and erased, he thought again about the man in the black coat. He had looked at the business card more than once since that day a year ago, and he opened his desk drawer as he took it out, and looked at it again. Richard T Sereph and Libras Talent were printed on the front, along with a phone number. He could call him again, Dylan knew, but he had resisted up until now. He had no proof that Roland's War had anything to do with the book Sereph had left behind.
But, he thought as he hit the delete key on the better part of an hour's work, he didn't have any proof that it hadn't.
The phone rang only once before Dylan heard that smooth, oily voice waft through his ears.
"Why, Mr. Mandrey. To what do we owe the pleasure?"
Dylan gulped; the man knew his number.
A number he had never given him.
"I need more," he half whispered, and he could hear the muscles in the old demon's face as they creaked into a grin.
"The price is one hundred thousand. Send it to the account I am about to message you."
A text popped up with the information to a private bank account.
"And when do I," but Sereph cut him off.
"When the money is transferred, you will receive your book."
"But how long?" Dylan asked, his fingers dancing over the keys as he finished the operation.
He had hit send on the money when a cheery ding dong came from downstairs.
There was a box on the doorstep, and inside was another leather-bound book.
Mr. Sereph had already hung up.
* * * * *
After eight years, Dylan was still looking at an empty screen with the words Darrows Feud on them.
In those eight years, he had written five more books and made five more payments to Mr. Sereph.
In five years, he had written two more cowboy dramas, a sci-fi novel that had shocked and impressed his agent and his peers, a Slice of Life drama they had turned into a successful tv series, and a Fantasy novel that had even George R raving. They had bred three more movies as well and book sails in the hundreds of thousands. The name Dylan Mandry was synonymous with innovation and flexibility, and he had offers from as many colleges as he did conventions. None of the big ivy league ones, of course, but Dartmouth had offered him a very comfortable position if he was interested in relocating. They wanted him to teach his technique to aspiring writers, which was why Dylan had to turn them down.
It would be difficult to teach a class on "Get rich and outsource your ideas to a magic man with books that scrambled your brains 101."
His agent and his publisher had long ago stopped asking for a sequel to Darrow Farm. They had decided that he was a one-book man, and they had both made enough money off him to be satisfied with his writing process. They were happy to take his work and a portion of his royalties, and these days the checks were sizeable indeed.
Though, Dylan knew that soon they wouldn't be enough.
Mr. Sereph's prices were akin to the pushers he had seen in his neighborhood when he was a kid. The first taste was always free, and then they had a customer for life. Sereph's prices seemed to double with every call. One hundred grand became two hundred grand became four hundred grand, became eight hundred grand, became one million dollars. "I rounded it down since you're a frequent customer," he'd said, and Dylan had paid it even though it hurt to part with it. Despite being successful, he wasn't as rich as everyone thought. Giving Sereph several million dollars had hurt, and if the next payment followed suit, he would be nearly broke.
The richest beggar in literature, no wonder most of them just drank it all away.
He tried to resist the urge to call this time, watching the cursor blink as he tried to make the words come. Had it all been a fluke? Had he really thought he had another book in him? Had he been so foolish as to think he could write something that good a second time? No, he thought, the magic was still in there; it was him that was broken. He had gotten so used to taking the easy way that he'd forgotten how the craft worked. Mr. Sereph was just another pusher, and Dylan was his loyal junkie who just kept coming back for another hit.
He stared at the blinking cursor for another ten minutes, feeling his time ticking away, before finally calling Mr. Sereph.
"Well, well, well, if it isn't the writer of the decade. I've heard your name bandied about with great expectations lately."
"Yeah, thanks for all that, but I need help with this next book."
"You know the price," Sereph said, "two million in my account, then you,"
"I, uh, I need help with a specific story this time."
Sereph was quiet for so long that Dylan thought the line had gone dead.
"Hello?" Dylan asked, desperately hoping he hadn't offended the man somehow, "Hello? Are you there? I just need,"
"I'm sorry, Mr. Mandrey, but that's not how it works."
Dylan was speechless for a moment, "How what works?"
"I can limit you to a specific genre if you like, most of your fame has been in frontier dramas, but I can't help you with a particular story. It doesn't work like that."
Dylan wanted to get angry, he wanted to rant and rail at this man who had taken so much money from him, but the curiosity that had brought him to writing in the first place made him ask the question that was rolling inside his head.
"How does it work?"
That same muscle-tightening sound, like old ropes on a mast, could be heard as Mr. Sereph flashed his crest kid smile from the other side of the phone.
"Do you care?"
Dylan did, but he said no.
Some things were better left unsaid.
* * * * *
"Mr. Mandrey, how do you write across multiple genres like that? Where do you find the inspiration?"
Dylan hoped they couldn't see him hide his guilty smile as he buried it.
"Well, I find that inspiration is fickle. Sometimes it gives you a bounty, but not always what you need. I have been hoping to recapture that inspiration soon, but so far, it eludes me."
Class was almost over, and he always let the students pick his brain at the end. Dartmouth had been glad to have him, and the move to New Hampshire had been easy. Dylan had been able to pack all of his possessions into a suitcase, the ones he hadn't sold. He had kept two suits, some day wear, his laptop, and a few books. He had come to a new city with little but the clothes on his back.
If the five years before had been tumultuous, then the five that came after had been turbulent. He still had no sequel to Darrow Farm, but he had published two more best-sellers. Both had been two years apart, and both had been the sort of Oat Operas that he had started with. The first was the best of them, Flanders Holdfast, and when Amazon had asked if they could adapt it into a series, he had told them to go right ahead. They had asked if he would mind helping them with a second season when all was said and done, and he had also agreed to that. Whatever magic had produced Darrow Farm had dried up, and he had come to terms with the fact that he was dry too.
The second had been only the year before, and that was when he had come to terms with the fact that he had a problem.
Margarette's Sache had sold decently, but it had come nowhere near the cost of it. That had been when Dylan had sold all his things and moved to New Hampshire. The loft he lived in, the first eds he'd collected in college, the Dicken's third eds that had been his fathers, his clothes, his signature, his blood, his sperm, whatever it took to get that next hit of success. He had long ago given up on the idea that one of these hits would be the sequel he wanted, but that hardly mattered. He wanted the high of seeing his name in print, the euphoria of being in the mouths of every important person in his circle, the dizzying feeling as he looked down from his ivory tower at all the little people who wished they could be him.
That's why he was working here.
He needed the money, he needed it bad, and if he intended to feel that jolt again before he died, he would pay for another hit of that sweetest nectar.
He realized he'd been staring out the window and pointed to a young man in the front row. He thought his name might be Max or maybe Phillip, but after the number on the roster passed ten, Dylan had trouble remembering everyone unless they made an impression. He regretted calling on him when he stood up, that hateful artifact clutched in his hand like a crucifix. He wondered if Dracula had looked at crosses the way he now looked at copies of Darrow Farm, and as the boy's teeth fixed into a flattered grin, Dylan tried to make his own do likewise.
"I just wanted to tell you what this book meant to me when I was a kid. I loved all your books, and I'm not a sci-fi reader usually, but this one really spoke to me. I know you must hear it all the time, but do you think you'll ever do a sequel to Darrow Farm?"
Dylan thought about how to answer the question tactfully and finally decided on the truth.
"No, probably not. I've been trying for years, and I just can't make it work."
They dispersed then, seeming to understand that this was a good time to make themselves scarce. He reminded them to work on their chapters for peer proofing tomorrow and sat heavily in his chair as he thought again about Darrow Feud. It had been eleven years. If he hadn't done it now, he supposed he never would.
"Mr. Mandrey?"
Dylan looked up to see the same kid who'd asked the question, remembering suddenly that his name was Malcolm.
"Sorry to bother you, sir, but I was wondering if," he floundered a little, setting the copy of Darrow Farm on Dylan's desk.
He would want an autograph; they always did. He had turned to dig in his bag, looking for a pen, Dylan had no doubt. Dylan tried not to sigh as he reached into his desk and took out his own pen, signing the dust jacket as he slid it back to him. He tried to smile, but it was so hard with the proof of his failure sitting right in his face.
"There ya go, kid. I usually charge twenty-five bucks for one of those, but your tuition keeps me warm, so this one is on the house."
Malcolm smiled, but when his hand came out of the bag, he was holding a sheaf of papers.
"Thank you, sir, but I'd like to know if you'd take a look at something I've been writing.
His hands were shaking a little, and Dylan looked at the clock before taking the offered pages. Malcolm's class was his last class of the day, and he had a few minutes to look over the kid's notes. He wasn't in a hurry to return to his dreary little condo, only having an evening of looking at the blinking cursor ahead of him or the equally bleak numbers in his bank account that never seemed to rise high enough. He laid the notes out, scanning them in a perfunctory way, but the farther in he got, the more interested he became.
"I hope it's not too forward, but I just loved your book so much. I know it's rough, but it could be something if I had your help. If not the actual sequel to Darrow Farm, perhaps the spiritual successor?"
Dylan devoured the pages as he read, his anger beginning to kindle. Who the hell did this kid think he was? This was plagiarism! This was theft! He'd see this boy thrown out of college, out of New Hampshire, but the most galling part was that it was good. He could have overlooked it if it had been trash, but Malcolm had written something great. To hell with Darrow Farm. This was something better than it could ever be. He only had a few chapters, but they continued the pioneer families' story flawlessly. The more he read, the less angry he became, and the more curiosity took over.
"Do you like it, sir?" Malcolm asked, and Dylan's face must have looked ghastly because he had taken a step back from the desk, "I know it's pretty rough, but I think, with your help,"
"This is astonishing," Dylan breathed, looking up at Malcolm as if he couldn't believe the boy was real, "You wrote this?"
Malcolm's smile was back in force, "I did. I wrote it because you inspired me, sir. Do you really like it?"
Dylan almost didn't trust himself to talk. He loved it. He wanted to help Malcolm make it great, he wanted to introduce him to his agent and tell him that there would finally be a sequel to Darrow Farm, maybe even two, he wanted to smash this boy's head in and take his notes and leave him for dead, he wanted to rip his skull open and eat his brains like some cannibal trying to get at his thoughts.
The last image gave him an idea, however, and his smile was genuine when he looked back up at the smiling young man whose future would likely be so much brighter than his.
Or, it might have been.
"How would you like to have dinner with me, Malcolm? We'll talk about your book, and then you can come back to my apartment and compare notes. I love what you have here, and I'm excited to get started right away."
Malcolm looked as though Christmas had come early, "I would love to, sir. Wow, you have no idea how much of a dream come true this is."
"Likewise," Dylan said, and as he rose, the two walked and chatted as Dylan made plans just below the surface.
* * * * *
"What have you done?" Sereph asked as he stood in Dylan's dingy apartment and looked at the comatose form of his student.
Dylan didn't think it took much imagination to see what he'd done. He'd fed the kid, they'd talked about his book, and while he was in the bathroom, Dylan had slipped something extra into his drink. It hadn't been anything too insidious, some sleeping pills his doctor had prescribed him a few years ago, but when Malcomn had started stumbling on the way to his apartment, he had wondered if the dosage had been too high.
He had called Mr. Sereph after putting the sleeping kid on the couch, telling him that he had his payment, but he would need to come and get it this time.
"I don't accept cash or checks, you know that. Transfer the money into my account and,"
"You'll want to come to get this payment, Mr. Sereph. Trust me."
Sereph had seemed eager to see what Dylan had for him, but now he looked mad enough to chew iron and spit nails, as Dylan's Grandfather had often said.
"Is this your idea of a joke?" Said Sereph, and suddenly he was in Dylan's face, the eyes behind his mirrored shades the color of piss.
"No, far from it," Said Dylan, standing his ground, "you told me once that, with my talent, you would have just paid me for it and been done with me, but I had money, so I could afford what others couldn't."
"Get to the point." Sereph spat, his face still very close to Dylans, close enough to make him afraid he would bite him.
"I take that to mean that you take these stories from other writers. I want his story. You can keep whatever else he has in there, but I want Darrow Feud. Take the rest, take him, take whatever you need, but I need that story!"
It was Mr. Serephs turn to take a step back, but his smile had returned.
"Wake him up before whatever you gave him wears off," he said as he took a familiar-looking book from his coat, "It might help if he's a little groggy when he makes this deal."
* * * * *
Calder Mane smiled as the lights came up, and Dylan was once again bathed in their glow.
He was back, riding the euphoria of his high, and he never wanted to come down. He had finally done it. He had conquered his white whale, and as the crowd stopped clapping and the house band quieted, Calder Mane turned to fix his regard on him.
"I never thought I'd say this, but it's a pleasure to have you on the show again, Mr. Mandrey, with your sequel to Darrow Farm."
The crowd clapped again, and Dylan gave them a peek at the first cover.
It had been the greatest six months of his life. He had received Malcolm's story in the usual way, but Mr. Sereph had refused any sort of payment. The book, oozing whatever it was that made up a person's talent, went into his coat, and out came a smaller one, which he handed to Dylan.
"The boy's talent was substantial. This will help other writers and more than makes up for your foolishness. I had never considered doing business like this, but you humans are always so inventive when it comes to the old sins. Please let me know if you stumble across any other tasty morsels in that class you teach. The writing world truly is a tank of sharks, and their hunger is wide and deep."
Malcolm had dropped out of his class the following week, and Dylan saw that he had left the university all together.
He hoped the boy found something to take up his empty hours but didn't really think about what he had done past that.
All writers were liars, after all, and lying to themselves was no exception.
"So it's been a decade since you sat in that very spot and brought us Darrow Farm. What led you to write a sequel after so long away from the source material?"
"Well, Calder, inspiration is a fickle business. Sometimes, it truly finds you when you least expect it."
submitted by Erutious to spooky_stories [link] [comments]
The Darrow Feuds
By Dylan Mandrey
He had been looking at that title for three months, and it was starting to grind against his sanity. He needed this book to come together, but he just didn't have the words. The sequel to Darrow Farm had been highly anticipated after the first one had spent six weeks on the New York Times Best Seller List. It had been a somber tale of pioneers looking for a fresh start and the strange and frightening neighbors they had found in the woods around Utah's Helmen Valley. People had loved his depiction of the farmers' daughters, especially Gloria, who had ultimately been tempted by the strange creatures who resided within the forest and decided to leave the safety of her protestant father and his homestead. They had wanted to know what happened next for the pioneer family, and Dylan's agent had been absolutely feral for his notes on the next part of the series.
Dylan was getting pretty interested in those notes too, wherever they were.
The fact of the matter was that Dylan had begun to come to terms with the idea that he might not have another book in him.
It hadn't been so bad at first. The book was successful, selling something like six thousand copies in its first week. He had been happy, his publisher had been happy, and his agent had been all smiles when he congratulated him on making the list. This was amazing for a first-time author, but when the book sold another six thousand copies the week after that, Dylan was taken by surprise. Suddenly his book was being read by book clubs, discussed on literary blogs, and his agent called to tell him that the prime-time show Calder Mane Tonight wanted to offer him a guest spot on his show for Friday.
"It's a small segment, no more than ten minutes, but it's huge for a first-time writer." his agent had assured him.
After the interview, he'd gone on to sell something like fifty thousand copies, and that's when the networks had taken notice.
Four months ago, he'd signed a contract with Amazon for the first season of Darrow Farm and cashed a check larger than anything he'd ever seen. Suddenly he could do no wrong. Suddenly he was the industry's gold boy, and everyone wanted a word with him. He made the circuit with the show's director, and book sales continued to soar. He was on Calder Mane again, plugging the show, when the notion of a sequel was first pitched, and it had been his utter ruination.
"So, with the success of your first book, how long before we see a sequel?"
Dylan had been unable to answer, gaping like a fish before he tried to formulate something witty that wouldn't sound too unsure.
"I'm working on the first draft as we speak," he said, flashing the serpent's grin that seems to be the providence of all successful writers.
Who had said all writers were liars? Probably many people, most of them as big, if not bigger, liars than he was. Here he sat three months after making such a pompous claim with nothing to show for it but a title and a working title at that. He was no closer to finishing this book than he was to finishing the first chapter, and as Dylan sighed and put his head in his hands, he came to terms with the hard truth.
He would never finish this book, and when the curtain fell on season one of Darrow Farm, there would never be a season two.
"Now, now," said a voice from the chair in front of him, and Dylan sat up quickly as he looked at the odd man who was suddenly in his study, "that's a bit bleak for someone your age."
Dylan took in the odd man, his mind stuck in that strange limbo between fear and anger. How had this man come to be in his study, a room that existed behind two locked doors? The locks had seemed a little needless until this point. Dylan lived in a fairly upscale neighborhood, in a three-bedroom loft that he would probably have to move out of in the next five years if he didn't get something written. He couldn't remember the last time he had heard sirens on his street, let alone heard about a break-in.
The man didn't appear to need any of his stuff, however. He looked more like a carnival barker in his long black coat, the white shirt beneath looking crisp enough to cut. One polished boot was perched on a knee, and his blonde hair looked odd as it hung over his mirrored sunglasses. He was holding a copy of Darrow Farm, which he snapped shut as Dylan looked at him. The book was a prop, much like his attire, and Dylan suddenly felt the worm of curiosity poking to the surface.
"Who the hell are you?" Dylan asked, the words sounding way more confident than he felt.
"I am Richard T Sereph, and I am a blessing to men like you." said the man, flashing an obscene amount of pearly white teeth as he smiled.
"Men like me?" Dylan asked, "I assume you mean writers?"
"I was speaking of desperate men, but I often find that the two go hand in hand."
Dylan sighed, "I don't know how you got in here, but I want you out of my study before I call the police. I am hard at work, and you,"
"Oh, I can tell," the man said, tossing the book onto the glass top of Dylan's coffee table, "You've been hard at work for the last three months. Procrastination is a full-time job, isn't it, Mr. Mandry."
"Now, just who the hell do you,"
"If you were a man of lesser means, I'd offer to pay you for your talent and take my leave, but you have something that many don't, and it makes the world go round."
Dylan stood up, confident that he understood where this was going now.
This huckster was after his money, and Dylan was in no mood to indulge him.
"Get the hell out of my house. At this point, I don't think I need to call the police. If you keep moving on this course, I'll toss you out myself."
The man smiled his predatory smile and reached into his coat. Dylan's compass suddenly swung around to fear again, and he took a step back as he tensed for the shot. The man would shoot him now, Dylan could already see the gun coming out, and he wondered what the news would make of his death? Famous writer killed before his time, they would say, and when the thud hit his desk, he could already feel the burning in his chest.
Instead, he opened his eyes to find a small leather-bound book sitting on the edge of his desk.
"For those with so much imagination, your kind always seems to need proof."
The book wasn't large, no great demonic tomb or heavy arcane bit of binding. It was about the size of an average paperback, about two hundred pages, but the leather covering it looked ancient. It was cracked, the symbols on the cover broken by jagged rifts, and the spine bore neither name nor legend. As it sat there, Dylan felt like something on that cover was watching him, something that did not love him.
"What is that?" Dylan asked, the man already crossing to the door.
"A book," he said, as though it should be obvious, "a very special one. It will give you what you need, and when you have it, don't hesitate to call me for more."
He took a normal-looking business card from the front pocket of his coat and laid it on the end table beside the door.
He left then, but when Dylan got up to follow him out, he found his hallway empty. He searched the house, but it was occupied by only one slightly ruffled writer and one strange little black book. Dylan checked the doors, returning to his work when he was certain that no one was lurking in his home.
He sat in front of the computer, but his heart wasn't in it.
His eyes kept straying to that little book, and with every glance, his curiosity grew. It was nothing, just an old book, but his mind refused to believe it. It was a mystery, something new, a Pandora's box just waiting to be opened. He typed a few sentences but immediately deleted them afterward. He'd been doing that for months, the words sounding lame as they sat like slugs on the page.
He floundered in this way for most of the afternoon, the book judging him as he played at work. More than once, he started to reach for it, always thinking better. More than once, he started to simply push it off the desk, but he felt sure that it would open its pages and there would be teeth waiting to bite him. In the end, he wasted another short time, and as the sun set and the day died, Dylan finally took the book in hand.
He couldn't stand it anymore, and when he opened it up, he was suddenly sorry he had given in.
The book made a hollow sound as it landed on the ground, but Dylan was suddenly rendered blind. An icepick had lodged itself between his eyes, and the sudden and blinding revelation made him glad he had been sitting. He had experienced insight before, but this was akin to the most intimate of defilement. If he could find the strength to lift his hand, Dylan imagined that he would feel his brains pattering to the carpet where a bullet had ripped through his skull. He was falling, falling, falling into some bright abyss from which there was no escape, and then, suddenly, it was all gone.
He was sitting in his chair, his hands empty but his mind full.
He wrote the rest of that day and well into the next, and when he emailed his agent the first ten chapters of what he'd written, his response was one of bemused confusion.
"This is not a sequel to Darrow Farm," he said when he called him three hours later.
"Is that a problem?" Dylan asked, already guessing the answer.
"If the other chapters are as good as these? I doubt it will be," he said, and Dylan could hear the smile in his voice.
* * * * *
He was sitting at his laptop again, waiting to be inspired.
Roland's War had been the story of a cavalry deserter who defends the town he has settled in from a group of his old army brothers turned outlaw. It was well received, outselling Darrow Farm and earning a movie this time instead of a tv show. Kurt Russel had even been cast as Roland, the main character, and the check they had cut him that time was even bigger than the one before. The royalties from the Darrow Farm tv show had also been substantial, and that's why he found himself here again.
Amazon wanted a season two, his publisher wanted a sequel, and Dylan, yet again, found himself trying to create gold from straw.
He had written a few sentences that he liked and a few paragraphs that he felt confident about, but he knew he would delete most of it later. The book was DOA, and he knew the likelihood of it all coming together was slim to nil. He might as well try to write a sequel to Roland's War for all the good it would do him.
As he wrote and erased, he thought again about the man in the black coat. He had looked at the business card more than once since that day a year ago, and he opened his desk drawer as he took it out, and looked at it again. Richard T Sereph and Libras Talent were printed on the front, along with a phone number. He could call him again, Dylan knew, but he had resisted up until now. He had no proof that Roland's War had anything to do with the book Sereph had left behind.
But, he thought as he hit the delete key on the better part of an hour's work, he didn't have any proof that it hadn't.
The phone rang only once before Dylan heard that smooth, oily voice waft through his ears.
"Why, Mr. Mandrey. To what do we owe the pleasure?"
Dylan gulped; the man knew his number.
A number he had never given him.
"I need more," he half whispered, and he could hear the muscles in the old demon's face as they creaked into a grin.
"The price is one hundred thousand. Send it to the account I am about to message you."
A text popped up with the information to a private bank account.
"And when do I," but Sereph cut him off.
"When the money is transferred, you will receive your book."
"But how long?" Dylan asked, his fingers dancing over the keys as he finished the operation.
He had hit send on the money when a cheery ding dong came from downstairs.
There was a box on the doorstep, and inside was another leather-bound book.
Mr. Sereph had already hung up.
* * * * *
After eight years, Dylan was still looking at an empty screen with the words Darrows Feud on them.
In those eight years, he had written five more books and made five more payments to Mr. Sereph.
In five years, he had written two more cowboy dramas, a sci-fi novel that had shocked and impressed his agent and his peers, a Slice of Life drama they had turned into a successful tv series, and a Fantasy novel that had even George R raving. They had bred three more movies as well and book sails in the hundreds of thousands. The name Dylan Mandry was synonymous with innovation and flexibility, and he had offers from as many colleges as he did conventions. None of the big ivy league ones, of course, but Dartmouth had offered him a very comfortable position if he was interested in relocating. They wanted him to teach his technique to aspiring writers, which was why Dylan had to turn them down.
It would be difficult to teach a class on "Get rich and outsource your ideas to a magic man with books that scrambled your brains 101."
His agent and his publisher had long ago stopped asking for a sequel to Darrow Farm. They had decided that he was a one-book man, and they had both made enough money off him to be satisfied with his writing process. They were happy to take his work and a portion of his royalties, and these days the checks were sizeable indeed.
Though, Dylan knew that soon they wouldn't be enough.
Mr. Sereph's prices were akin to the pushers he had seen in his neighborhood when he was a kid. The first taste was always free, and then they had a customer for life. Sereph's prices seemed to double with every call. One hundred grand became two hundred grand became four hundred grand, became eight hundred grand, became one million dollars. "I rounded it down since you're a frequent customer," he'd said, and Dylan had paid it even though it hurt to part with it. Despite being successful, he wasn't as rich as everyone thought. Giving Sereph several million dollars had hurt, and if the next payment followed suit, he would be nearly broke.
The richest beggar in literature, no wonder most of them just drank it all away.
He tried to resist the urge to call this time, watching the cursor blink as he tried to make the words come. Had it all been a fluke? Had he really thought he had another book in him? Had he been so foolish as to think he could write something that good a second time? No, he thought, the magic was still in there; it was him that was broken. He had gotten so used to taking the easy way that he'd forgotten how the craft worked. Mr. Sereph was just another pusher, and Dylan was his loyal junkie who just kept coming back for another hit.
He stared at the blinking cursor for another ten minutes, feeling his time ticking away, before finally calling Mr. Sereph.
"Well, well, well, if it isn't the writer of the decade. I've heard your name bandied about with great expectations lately."
"Yeah, thanks for all that, but I need help with this next book."
"You know the price," Sereph said, "two million in my account, then you,"
"I, uh, I need help with a specific story this time."
Sereph was quiet for so long that Dylan thought the line had gone dead.
"Hello?" Dylan asked, desperately hoping he hadn't offended the man somehow, "Hello? Are you there? I just need,"
"I'm sorry, Mr. Mandrey, but that's not how it works."
Dylan was speechless for a moment, "How what works?"
"I can limit you to a specific genre if you like, most of your fame has been in frontier dramas, but I can't help you with a particular story. It doesn't work like that."
Dylan wanted to get angry, he wanted to rant and rail at this man who had taken so much money from him, but the curiosity that had brought him to writing in the first place made him ask the question that was rolling inside his head.
"How does it work?"
That same muscle-tightening sound, like old ropes on a mast, could be heard as Mr. Sereph flashed his crest kid smile from the other side of the phone.
"Do you care?"
Dylan did, but he said no.
Some things were better left unsaid.
* * * * *
"Mr. Mandrey, how do you write across multiple genres like that? Where do you find the inspiration?"
Dylan hoped they couldn't see him hide his guilty smile as he buried it.
"Well, I find that inspiration is fickle. Sometimes it gives you a bounty, but not always what you need. I have been hoping to recapture that inspiration soon, but so far, it eludes me."
Class was almost over, and he always let the students pick his brain at the end. Dartmouth had been glad to have him, and the move to New Hampshire had been easy. Dylan had been able to pack all of his possessions into a suitcase, the ones he hadn't sold. He had kept two suits, some day wear, his laptop, and a few books. He had come to a new city with little but the clothes on his back.
If the five years before had been tumultuous, then the five that came after had been turbulent. He still had no sequel to Darrow Farm, but he had published two more best-sellers. Both had been two years apart, and both had been the sort of Oat Operas that he had started with. The first was the best of them, Flanders Holdfast, and when Amazon had asked if they could adapt it into a series, he had told them to go right ahead. They had asked if he would mind helping them with a second season when all was said and done, and he had also agreed to that. Whatever magic had produced Darrow Farm had dried up, and he had come to terms with the fact that he was dry too.
The second had been only the year before, and that was when he had come to terms with the fact that he had a problem.
Margarette's Sache had sold decently, but it had come nowhere near the cost of it. That had been when Dylan had sold all his things and moved to New Hampshire. The loft he lived in, the first eds he'd collected in college, the Dicken's third eds that had been his fathers, his clothes, his signature, his blood, his sperm, whatever it took to get that next hit of success. He had long ago given up on the idea that one of these hits would be the sequel he wanted, but that hardly mattered. He wanted the high of seeing his name in print, the euphoria of being in the mouths of every important person in his circle, the dizzying feeling as he looked down from his ivory tower at all the little people who wished they could be him.
That's why he was working here.
He needed the money, he needed it bad, and if he intended to feel that jolt again before he died, he would pay for another hit of that sweetest nectar.
He realized he'd been staring out the window and pointed to a young man in the front row. He thought his name might be Max or maybe Phillip, but after the number on the roster passed ten, Dylan had trouble remembering everyone unless they made an impression. He regretted calling on him when he stood up, that hateful artifact clutched in his hand like a crucifix. He wondered if Dracula had looked at crosses the way he now looked at copies of Darrow Farm, and as the boy's teeth fixed into a flattered grin, Dylan tried to make his own do likewise.
"I just wanted to tell you what this book meant to me when I was a kid. I loved all your books, and I'm not a sci-fi reader usually, but this one really spoke to me. I know you must hear it all the time, but do you think you'll ever do a sequel to Darrow Farm?"
Dylan thought about how to answer the question tactfully and finally decided on the truth.
"No, probably not. I've been trying for years, and I just can't make it work."
They dispersed then, seeming to understand that this was a good time to make themselves scarce. He reminded them to work on their chapters for peer proofing tomorrow and sat heavily in his chair as he thought again about Darrow Feud. It had been eleven years. If he hadn't done it now, he supposed he never would.
"Mr. Mandrey?"
Dylan looked up to see the same kid who'd asked the question, remembering suddenly that his name was Malcolm.
"Sorry to bother you, sir, but I was wondering if," he floundered a little, setting the copy of Darrow Farm on Dylan's desk.
He would want an autograph; they always did. He had turned to dig in his bag, looking for a pen, Dylan had no doubt. Dylan tried not to sigh as he reached into his desk and took out his own pen, signing the dust jacket as he slid it back to him. He tried to smile, but it was so hard with the proof of his failure sitting right in his face.
"There ya go, kid. I usually charge twenty-five bucks for one of those, but your tuition keeps me warm, so this one is on the house."
Malcolm smiled, but when his hand came out of the bag, he was holding a sheaf of papers.
"Thank you, sir, but I'd like to know if you'd take a look at something I've been writing.
His hands were shaking a little, and Dylan looked at the clock before taking the offered pages. Malcolm's class was his last class of the day, and he had a few minutes to look over the kid's notes. He wasn't in a hurry to return to his dreary little condo, only having an evening of looking at the blinking cursor ahead of him or the equally bleak numbers in his bank account that never seemed to rise high enough. He laid the notes out, scanning them in a perfunctory way, but the farther in he got, the more interested he became.
"I hope it's not too forward, but I just loved your book so much. I know it's rough, but it could be something if I had your help. If not the actual sequel to Darrow Farm, perhaps the spiritual successor?"
Dylan devoured the pages as he read, his anger beginning to kindle. Who the hell did this kid think he was? This was plagiarism! This was theft! He'd see this boy thrown out of college, out of New Hampshire, but the most galling part was that it was good. He could have overlooked it if it had been trash, but Malcolm had written something great. To hell with Darrow Farm. This was something better than it could ever be. He only had a few chapters, but they continued the pioneer families' story flawlessly. The more he read, the less angry he became, and the more curiosity took over.
"Do you like it, sir?" Malcolm asked, and Dylan's face must have looked ghastly because he had taken a step back from the desk, "I know it's pretty rough, but I think, with your help,"
"This is astonishing," Dylan breathed, looking up at Malcolm as if he couldn't believe the boy was real, "You wrote this?"
Malcolm's smile was back in force, "I did. I wrote it because you inspired me, sir. Do you really like it?"
Dylan almost didn't trust himself to talk. He loved it. He wanted to help Malcolm make it great, he wanted to introduce him to his agent and tell him that there would finally be a sequel to Darrow Farm, maybe even two, he wanted to smash this boy's head in and take his notes and leave him for dead, he wanted to rip his skull open and eat his brains like some cannibal trying to get at his thoughts.
The last image gave him an idea, however, and his smile was genuine when he looked back up at the smiling young man whose future would likely be so much brighter than his.
Or, it might have been.
"How would you like to have dinner with me, Malcolm? We'll talk about your book, and then you can come back to my apartment and compare notes. I love what you have here, and I'm excited to get started right away."
Malcolm looked as though Christmas had come early, "I would love to, sir. Wow, you have no idea how much of a dream come true this is."
"Likewise," Dylan said, and as he rose, the two walked and chatted as Dylan made plans just below the surface.
* * * * *
"What have you done?" Sereph asked as he stood in Dylan's dingy apartment and looked at the comatose form of his student.
Dylan didn't think it took much imagination to see what he'd done. He'd fed the kid, they'd talked about his book, and while he was in the bathroom, Dylan had slipped something extra into his drink. It hadn't been anything too insidious, some sleeping pills his doctor had prescribed him a few years ago, but when Malcomn had started stumbling on the way to his apartment, he had wondered if the dosage had been too high.
He had called Mr. Sereph after putting the sleeping kid on the couch, telling him that he had his payment, but he would need to come and get it this time.
"I don't accept cash or checks, you know that. Transfer the money into my account and,"
"You'll want to come to get this payment, Mr. Sereph. Trust me."
Sereph had seemed eager to see what Dylan had for him, but now he looked mad enough to chew iron and spit nails, as Dylan's Grandfather had often said.
"Is this your idea of a joke?" Said Sereph, and suddenly he was in Dylan's face, the eyes behind his mirrored shades the color of piss.
"No, far from it," Said Dylan, standing his ground, "you told me once that, with my talent, you would have just paid me for it and been done with me, but I had money, so I could afford what others couldn't."
"Get to the point." Sereph spat, his face still very close to Dylans, close enough to make him afraid he would bite him.
"I take that to mean that you take these stories from other writers. I want his story. You can keep whatever else he has in there, but I want Darrow Feud. Take the rest, take him, take whatever you need, but I need that story!"
It was Mr. Serephs turn to take a step back, but his smile had returned.
"Wake him up before whatever you gave him wears off," he said as he took a familiar-looking book from his coat, "It might help if he's a little groggy when he makes this deal."
* * * * *
Calder Mane smiled as the lights came up, and Dylan was once again bathed in their glow.
He was back, riding the euphoria of his high, and he never wanted to come down. He had finally done it. He had conquered his white whale, and as the crowd stopped clapping and the house band quieted, Calder Mane turned to fix his regard on him.
"I never thought I'd say this, but it's a pleasure to have you on the show again, Mr. Mandrey, with your sequel to Darrow Farm."
The crowd clapped again, and Dylan gave them a peek at the first cover.
It had been the greatest six months of his life. He had received Malcolm's story in the usual way, but Mr. Sereph had refused any sort of payment. The book, oozing whatever it was that made up a person's talent, went into his coat, and out came a smaller one, which he handed to Dylan.
"The boy's talent was substantial. This will help other writers and more than makes up for your foolishness. I had never considered doing business like this, but you humans are always so inventive when it comes to the old sins. Please let me know if you stumble across any other tasty morsels in that class you teach. The writing world truly is a tank of sharks, and their hunger is wide and deep."
Malcolm had dropped out of his class the following week, and Dylan saw that he had left the university all together.
He hoped the boy found something to take up his empty hours but didn't really think about what he had done past that.
All writers were liars, after all, and lying to themselves was no exception.
"So it's been a decade since you sat in that very spot and brought us Darrow Farm. What led you to write a sequel after so long away from the source material?"
"Well, Calder, inspiration is a fickle business. Sometimes, it truly finds you when you least expect it."
2023.05.24 14:36 Erutious The Sweetest Nectar
Dylan drummed his fingers on the desk as he stared at the blank screen.
The Darrow Feuds
By Dylan Mandrey
He had been looking at that title for three months, and it was starting to grind against his sanity. He needed this book to come together, but he just didn't have the words. The sequel to Darrow Farm had been highly anticipated after the first one had spent six weeks on the New York Times Best Seller List. It had been a somber tale of pioneers looking for a fresh start and the strange and frightening neighbors they had found in the woods around Utah's Helmen Valley. People had loved his depiction of the farmers' daughters, especially Gloria, who had ultimately been tempted by the strange creatures who resided within the forest and decided to leave the safety of her protestant father and his homestead. They had wanted to know what happened next for the pioneer family, and Dylan's agent had been absolutely feral for his notes on the next part of the series.
Dylan was getting pretty interested in those notes too, wherever they were.
The fact of the matter was that Dylan had begun to come to terms with the idea that he might not have another book in him.
It hadn't been so bad at first. The book was successful, selling something like six thousand copies in its first week. He had been happy, his publisher had been happy, and his agent had been all smiles when he congratulated him on making the list. This was amazing for a first-time author, but when the book sold another six thousand copies the week after that, Dylan was taken by surprise. Suddenly his book was being read by book clubs, discussed on literary blogs, and his agent called to tell him that the prime-time show Calder Mane Tonight wanted to offer him a guest spot on his show for Friday.
"It's a small segment, no more than ten minutes, but it's huge for a first-time writer." his agent had assured him.
After the interview, he'd gone on to sell something like fifty thousand copies, and that's when the networks had taken notice.
Four months ago, he'd signed a contract with Amazon for the first season of Darrow Farm and cashed a check larger than anything he'd ever seen. Suddenly he could do no wrong. Suddenly he was the industry's gold boy, and everyone wanted a word with him. He made the circuit with the show's director, and book sales continued to soar. He was on Calder Mane again, plugging the show, when the notion of a sequel was first pitched, and it had been his utter ruination.
"So, with the success of your first book, how long before we see a sequel?"
Dylan had been unable to answer, gaping like a fish before he tried to formulate something witty that wouldn't sound too unsure.
"I'm working on the first draft as we speak," he said, flashing the serpent's grin that seems to be the providence of all successful writers.
Who had said all writers were liars? Probably many people, most of them as big, if not bigger, liars than he was. Here he sat three months after making such a pompous claim with nothing to show for it but a title and a working title at that. He was no closer to finishing this book than he was to finishing the first chapter, and as Dylan sighed and put his head in his hands, he came to terms with the hard truth.
He would never finish this book, and when the curtain fell on season one of Darrow Farm, there would never be a season two.
"Now, now," said a voice from the chair in front of him, and Dylan sat up quickly as he looked at the odd man who was suddenly in his study, "that's a bit bleak for someone your age."
Dylan took in the odd man, his mind stuck in that strange limbo between fear and anger. How had this man come to be in his study, a room that existed behind two locked doors? The locks had seemed a little needless until this point. Dylan lived in a fairly upscale neighborhood, in a three-bedroom loft that he would probably have to move out of in the next five years if he didn't get something written. He couldn't remember the last time he had heard sirens on his street, let alone heard about a break-in.
The man didn't appear to need any of his stuff, however. He looked more like a carnival barker in his long black coat, the white shirt beneath looking crisp enough to cut. One polished boot was perched on a knee, and his blonde hair looked odd as it hung over his mirrored sunglasses. He was holding a copy of Darrow Farm, which he snapped shut as Dylan looked at him. The book was a prop, much like his attire, and Dylan suddenly felt the worm of curiosity poking to the surface.
"Who the hell are you?" Dylan asked, the words sounding way more confident than he felt.
"I am Richard T Sereph, and I am a blessing to men like you." said the man, flashing an obscene amount of pearly white teeth as he smiled.
"Men like me?" Dylan asked, "I assume you mean writers?"
"I was speaking of desperate men, but I often find that the two go hand in hand."
Dylan sighed, "I don't know how you got in here, but I want you out of my study before I call the police. I am hard at work, and you,"
"Oh, I can tell," the man said, tossing the book onto the glass top of Dylan's coffee table, "You've been hard at work for the last three months. Procrastination is a full-time job, isn't it, Mr. Mandry."
"Now, just who the hell do you,"
"If you were a man of lesser means, I'd offer to pay you for your talent and take my leave, but you have something that many don't, and it makes the world go round."
Dylan stood up, confident that he understood where this was going now.
This huckster was after his money, and Dylan was in no mood to indulge him.
"Get the hell out of my house. At this point, I don't think I need to call the police. If you keep moving on this course, I'll toss you out myself."
The man smiled his predatory smile and reached into his coat. Dylan's compass suddenly swung around to fear again, and he took a step back as he tensed for the shot. The man would shoot him now, Dylan could already see the gun coming out, and he wondered what the news would make of his death? Famous writer killed before his time, they would say, and when the thud hit his desk, he could already feel the burning in his chest.
Instead, he opened his eyes to find a small leather-bound book sitting on the edge of his desk.
"For those with so much imagination, your kind always seems to need proof."
The book wasn't large, no great demonic tomb or heavy arcane bit of binding. It was about the size of an average paperback, about two hundred pages, but the leather covering it looked ancient. It was cracked, the symbols on the cover broken by jagged rifts, and the spine bore neither name nor legend. As it sat there, Dylan felt like something on that cover was watching him, something that did not love him.
"What is that?" Dylan asked, the man already crossing to the door.
"A book," he said, as though it should be obvious, "a very special one. It will give you what you need, and when you have it, don't hesitate to call me for more."
He took a normal-looking business card from the front pocket of his coat and laid it on the end table beside the door.
He left then, but when Dylan got up to follow him out, he found his hallway empty. He searched the house, but it was occupied by only one slightly ruffled writer and one strange little black book. Dylan checked the doors, returning to his work when he was certain that no one was lurking in his home.
He sat in front of the computer, but his heart wasn't in it.
His eyes kept straying to that little book, and with every glance, his curiosity grew. It was nothing, just an old book, but his mind refused to believe it. It was a mystery, something new, a Pandora's box just waiting to be opened. He typed a few sentences but immediately deleted them afterward. He'd been doing that for months, the words sounding lame as they sat like slugs on the page.
He floundered in this way for most of the afternoon, the book judging him as he played at work. More than once, he started to reach for it, always thinking better. More than once, he started to simply push it off the desk, but he felt sure that it would open its pages and there would be teeth waiting to bite him. In the end, he wasted another short time, and as the sun set and the day died, Dylan finally took the book in hand.
He couldn't stand it anymore, and when he opened it up, he was suddenly sorry he had given in.
The book made a hollow sound as it landed on the ground, but Dylan was suddenly rendered blind. An icepick had lodged itself between his eyes, and the sudden and blinding revelation made him glad he had been sitting. He had experienced insight before, but this was akin to the most intimate of defilement. If he could find the strength to lift his hand, Dylan imagined that he would feel his brains pattering to the carpet where a bullet had ripped through his skull. He was falling, falling, falling into some bright abyss from which there was no escape, and then, suddenly, it was all gone.
He was sitting in his chair, his hands empty but his mind full.
He wrote the rest of that day and well into the next, and when he emailed his agent the first ten chapters of what he'd written, his response was one of bemused confusion.
"This is not a sequel to Darrow Farm," he said when he called him three hours later.
"Is that a problem?" Dylan asked, already guessing the answer.
"If the other chapters are as good as these? I doubt it will be," he said, and Dylan could hear the smile in his voice.
* * * * *
He was sitting at his laptop again, waiting to be inspired.
Roland's War had been the story of a cavalry deserter who defends the town he has settled in from a group of his old army brothers turned outlaw. It was well received, outselling Darrow Farm and earning a movie this time instead of a tv show. Kurt Russel had even been cast as Roland, the main character, and the check they had cut him that time was even bigger than the one before. The royalties from the Darrow Farm tv show had also been substantial, and that's why he found himself here again.
Amazon wanted a season two, his publisher wanted a sequel, and Dylan, yet again, found himself trying to create gold from straw.
He had written a few sentences that he liked and a few paragraphs that he felt confident about, but he knew he would delete most of it later. The book was DOA, and he knew the likelihood of it all coming together was slim to nil. He might as well try to write a sequel to Roland's War for all the good it would do him.
As he wrote and erased, he thought again about the man in the black coat. He had looked at the business card more than once since that day a year ago, and he opened his desk drawer as he took it out, and looked at it again. Richard T Sereph and Libras Talent were printed on the front, along with a phone number. He could call him again, Dylan knew, but he had resisted up until now. He had no proof that Roland's War had anything to do with the book Sereph had left behind.
But, he thought as he hit the delete key on the better part of an hour's work, he didn't have any proof that it hadn't.
The phone rang only once before Dylan heard that smooth, oily voice waft through his ears.
"Why, Mr. Mandrey. To what do we owe the pleasure?"
Dylan gulped; the man knew his number.
A number he had never given him.
"I need more," he half whispered, and he could hear the muscles in the old demon's face as they creaked into a grin.
"The price is one hundred thousand. Send it to the account I am about to message you."
A text popped up with the information to a private bank account.
"And when do I," but Sereph cut him off.
"When the money is transferred, you will receive your book."
"But how long?" Dylan asked, his fingers dancing over the keys as he finished the operation.
He had hit send on the money when a cheery ding dong came from downstairs.
There was a box on the doorstep, and inside was another leather-bound book.
Mr. Sereph had already hung up.
* * * * *
After eight years, Dylan was still looking at an empty screen with the words Darrows Feud on them.
In those eight years, he had written five more books and made five more payments to Mr. Sereph.
In five years, he had written two more cowboy dramas, a sci-fi novel that had shocked and impressed his agent and his peers, a Slice of Life drama they had turned into a successful tv series, and a Fantasy novel that had even George R raving. They had bred three more movies as well and book sails in the hundreds of thousands. The name Dylan Mandry was synonymous with innovation and flexibility, and he had offers from as many colleges as he did conventions. None of the big ivy league ones, of course, but Dartmouth had offered him a very comfortable position if he was interested in relocating. They wanted him to teach his technique to aspiring writers, which was why Dylan had to turn them down.
It would be difficult to teach a class on "Get rich and outsource your ideas to a magic man with books that scrambled your brains 101."
His agent and his publisher had long ago stopped asking for a sequel to Darrow Farm. They had decided that he was a one-book man, and they had both made enough money off him to be satisfied with his writing process. They were happy to take his work and a portion of his royalties, and these days the checks were sizeable indeed.
Though, Dylan knew that soon they wouldn't be enough.
Mr. Sereph's prices were akin to the pushers he had seen in his neighborhood when he was a kid. The first taste was always free, and then they had a customer for life. Sereph's prices seemed to double with every call. One hundred grand became two hundred grand became four hundred grand, became eight hundred grand, became one million dollars. "I rounded it down since you're a frequent customer," he'd said, and Dylan had paid it even though it hurt to part with it. Despite being successful, he wasn't as rich as everyone thought. Giving Sereph several million dollars had hurt, and if the next payment followed suit, he would be nearly broke.
The richest beggar in literature, no wonder most of them just drank it all away.
He tried to resist the urge to call this time, watching the cursor blink as he tried to make the words come. Had it all been a fluke? Had he really thought he had another book in him? Had he been so foolish as to think he could write something that good a second time? No, he thought, the magic was still in there; it was him that was broken. He had gotten so used to taking the easy way that he'd forgotten how the craft worked. Mr. Sereph was just another pusher, and Dylan was his loyal junkie who just kept coming back for another hit.
He stared at the blinking cursor for another ten minutes, feeling his time ticking away, before finally calling Mr. Sereph.
"Well, well, well, if it isn't the writer of the decade. I've heard your name bandied about with great expectations lately."
"Yeah, thanks for all that, but I need help with this next book."
"You know the price," Sereph said, "two million in my account, then you,"
"I, uh, I need help with a specific story this time."
Sereph was quiet for so long that Dylan thought the line had gone dead.
"Hello?" Dylan asked, desperately hoping he hadn't offended the man somehow, "Hello? Are you there? I just need,"
"I'm sorry, Mr. Mandrey, but that's not how it works."
Dylan was speechless for a moment, "How what works?"
"I can limit you to a specific genre if you like, most of your fame has been in frontier dramas, but I can't help you with a particular story. It doesn't work like that."
Dylan wanted to get angry, he wanted to rant and rail at this man who had taken so much money from him, but the curiosity that had brought him to writing in the first place made him ask the question that was rolling inside his head.
"How does it work?"
That same muscle-tightening sound, like old ropes on a mast, could be heard as Mr. Sereph flashed his crest kid smile from the other side of the phone.
"Do you care?"
Dylan did, but he said no.
Some things were better left unsaid.
* * * * *
"Mr. Mandrey, how do you write across multiple genres like that? Where do you find the inspiration?"
Dylan hoped they couldn't see him hide his guilty smile as he buried it.
"Well, I find that inspiration is fickle. Sometimes it gives you a bounty, but not always what you need. I have been hoping to recapture that inspiration soon, but so far, it eludes me."
Class was almost over, and he always let the students pick his brain at the end. Dartmouth had been glad to have him, and the move to New Hampshire had been easy. Dylan had been able to pack all of his possessions into a suitcase, the ones he hadn't sold. He had kept two suits, some day wear, his laptop, and a few books. He had come to a new city with little but the clothes on his back.
If the five years before had been tumultuous, then the five that came after had been turbulent. He still had no sequel to Darrow Farm, but he had published two more best-sellers. Both had been two years apart, and both had been the sort of Oat Operas that he had started with. The first was the best of them, Flanders Holdfast, and when Amazon had asked if they could adapt it into a series, he had told them to go right ahead. They had asked if he would mind helping them with a second season when all was said and done, and he had also agreed to that. Whatever magic had produced Darrow Farm had dried up, and he had come to terms with the fact that he was dry too.
The second had been only the year before, and that was when he had come to terms with the fact that he had a problem.
Margarette's Sache had sold decently, but it had come nowhere near the cost of it. That had been when Dylan had sold all his things and moved to New Hampshire. The loft he lived in, the first eds he'd collected in college, the Dicken's third eds that had been his fathers, his clothes, his signature, his blood, his sperm, whatever it took to get that next hit of success. He had long ago given up on the idea that one of these hits would be the sequel he wanted, but that hardly mattered. He wanted the high of seeing his name in print, the euphoria of being in the mouths of every important person in his circle, the dizzying feeling as he looked down from his ivory tower at all the little people who wished they could be him.
That's why he was working here.
He needed the money, he needed it bad, and if he intended to feel that jolt again before he died, he would pay for another hit of that sweetest nectar.
He realized he'd been staring out the window and pointed to a young man in the front row. He thought his name might be Max or maybe Phillip, but after the number on the roster passed ten, Dylan had trouble remembering everyone unless they made an impression. He regretted calling on him when he stood up, that hateful artifact clutched in his hand like a crucifix. He wondered if Dracula had looked at crosses the way he now looked at copies of Darrow Farm, and as the boy's teeth fixed into a flattered grin, Dylan tried to make his own do likewise.
"I just wanted to tell you what this book meant to me when I was a kid. I loved all your books, and I'm not a sci-fi reader usually, but this one really spoke to me. I know you must hear it all the time, but do you think you'll ever do a sequel to Darrow Farm?"
Dylan thought about how to answer the question tactfully and finally decided on the truth.
"No, probably not. I've been trying for years, and I just can't make it work."
They dispersed then, seeming to understand that this was a good time to make themselves scarce. He reminded them to work on their chapters for peer proofing tomorrow and sat heavily in his chair as he thought again about Darrow Feud. It had been eleven years. If he hadn't done it now, he supposed he never would.
"Mr. Mandrey?"
Dylan looked up to see the same kid who'd asked the question, remembering suddenly that his name was Malcolm.
"Sorry to bother you, sir, but I was wondering if," he floundered a little, setting the copy of Darrow Farm on Dylan's desk.
He would want an autograph; they always did. He had turned to dig in his bag, looking for a pen, Dylan had no doubt. Dylan tried not to sigh as he reached into his desk and took out his own pen, signing the dust jacket as he slid it back to him. He tried to smile, but it was so hard with the proof of his failure sitting right in his face.
"There ya go, kid. I usually charge twenty-five bucks for one of those, but your tuition keeps me warm, so this one is on the house."
Malcolm smiled, but when his hand came out of the bag, he was holding a sheaf of papers.
"Thank you, sir, but I'd like to know if you'd take a look at something I've been writing.
His hands were shaking a little, and Dylan looked at the clock before taking the offered pages. Malcolm's class was his last class of the day, and he had a few minutes to look over the kid's notes. He wasn't in a hurry to return to his dreary little condo, only having an evening of looking at the blinking cursor ahead of him or the equally bleak numbers in his bank account that never seemed to rise high enough. He laid the notes out, scanning them in a perfunctory way, but the farther in he got, the more interested he became.
"I hope it's not too forward, but I just loved your book so much. I know it's rough, but it could be something if I had your help. If not the actual sequel to Darrow Farm, perhaps the spiritual successor?"
Dylan devoured the pages as he read, his anger beginning to kindle. Who the hell did this kid think he was? This was plagiarism! This was theft! He'd see this boy thrown out of college, out of New Hampshire, but the most galling part was that it was good. He could have overlooked it if it had been trash, but Malcolm had written something great. To hell with Darrow Farm. This was something better than it could ever be. He only had a few chapters, but they continued the pioneer families' story flawlessly. The more he read, the less angry he became, and the more curiosity took over.
"Do you like it, sir?" Malcolm asked, and Dylan's face must have looked ghastly because he had taken a step back from the desk, "I know it's pretty rough, but I think, with your help,"
"This is astonishing," Dylan breathed, looking up at Malcolm as if he couldn't believe the boy was real, "You wrote this?"
Malcolm's smile was back in force, "I did. I wrote it because you inspired me, sir. Do you really like it?"
Dylan almost didn't trust himself to talk. He loved it. He wanted to help Malcolm make it great, he wanted to introduce him to his agent and tell him that there would finally be a sequel to Darrow Farm, maybe even two, he wanted to smash this boy's head in and take his notes and leave him for dead, he wanted to rip his skull open and eat his brains like some cannibal trying to get at his thoughts.
The last image gave him an idea, however, and his smile was genuine when he looked back up at the smiling young man whose future would likely be so much brighter than his.
Or, it might have been.
"How would you like to have dinner with me, Malcolm? We'll talk about your book, and then you can come back to my apartment and compare notes. I love what you have here, and I'm excited to get started right away."
Malcolm looked as though Christmas had come early, "I would love to, sir. Wow, you have no idea how much of a dream come true this is."
"Likewise," Dylan said, and as he rose, the two walked and chatted as Dylan made plans just below the surface.
* * * * *
"What have you done?" Sereph asked as he stood in Dylan's dingy apartment and looked at the comatose form of his student.
Dylan didn't think it took much imagination to see what he'd done. He'd fed the kid, they'd talked about his book, and while he was in the bathroom, Dylan had slipped something extra into his drink. It hadn't been anything too insidious, some sleeping pills his doctor had prescribed him a few years ago, but when Malcomn had started stumbling on the way to his apartment, he had wondered if the dosage had been too high.
He had called Mr. Sereph after putting the sleeping kid on the couch, telling him that he had his payment, but he would need to come and get it this time.
"I don't accept cash or checks, you know that. Transfer the money into my account and,"
"You'll want to come to get this payment, Mr. Sereph. Trust me."
Sereph had seemed eager to see what Dylan had for him, but now he looked mad enough to chew iron and spit nails, as Dylan's Grandfather had often said.
"Is this your idea of a joke?" Said Sereph, and suddenly he was in Dylan's face, the eyes behind his mirrored shades the color of piss.
"No, far from it," Said Dylan, standing his ground, "you told me once that, with my talent, you would have just paid me for it and been done with me, but I had money, so I could afford what others couldn't."
"Get to the point." Sereph spat, his face still very close to Dylans, close enough to make him afraid he would bite him.
"I take that to mean that you take these stories from other writers. I want his story. You can keep whatever else he has in there, but I want Darrow Feud. Take the rest, take him, take whatever you need, but I need that story!"
It was Mr. Serephs turn to take a step back, but his smile had returned.
"Wake him up before whatever you gave him wears off," he said as he took a familiar-looking book from his coat, "It might help if he's a little groggy when he makes this deal."
* * * * *
Calder Mane smiled as the lights came up, and Dylan was once again bathed in their glow.
He was back, riding the euphoria of his high, and he never wanted to come down. He had finally done it. He had conquered his white whale, and as the crowd stopped clapping and the house band quieted, Calder Mane turned to fix his regard on him.
"I never thought I'd say this, but it's a pleasure to have you on the show again, Mr. Mandrey, with your sequel to Darrow Farm."
The crowd clapped again, and Dylan gave them a peek at the first cover.
It had been the greatest six months of his life. He had received Malcolm's story in the usual way, but Mr. Sereph had refused any sort of payment. The book, oozing whatever it was that made up a person's talent, went into his coat, and out came a smaller one, which he handed to Dylan.
"The boy's talent was substantial. This will help other writers and more than makes up for your foolishness. I had never considered doing business like this, but you humans are always so inventive when it comes to the old sins. Please let me know if you stumble across any other tasty morsels in that class you teach. The writing world truly is a tank of sharks, and their hunger is wide and deep."
Malcolm had dropped out of his class the following week, and Dylan saw that he had left the university all together.
He hoped the boy found something to take up his empty hours but didn't really think about what he had done past that.
All writers were liars, after all, and lying to themselves was no exception.
"So it's been a decade since you sat in that very spot and brought us Darrow Farm. What led you to write a sequel after so long away from the source material?"
"Well, Calder, inspiration is a fickle business. Sometimes, it truly finds you when you least expect it."
submitted by Erutious to SignalHorrorFiction [link] [comments]
The Darrow Feuds
By Dylan Mandrey
He had been looking at that title for three months, and it was starting to grind against his sanity. He needed this book to come together, but he just didn't have the words. The sequel to Darrow Farm had been highly anticipated after the first one had spent six weeks on the New York Times Best Seller List. It had been a somber tale of pioneers looking for a fresh start and the strange and frightening neighbors they had found in the woods around Utah's Helmen Valley. People had loved his depiction of the farmers' daughters, especially Gloria, who had ultimately been tempted by the strange creatures who resided within the forest and decided to leave the safety of her protestant father and his homestead. They had wanted to know what happened next for the pioneer family, and Dylan's agent had been absolutely feral for his notes on the next part of the series.
Dylan was getting pretty interested in those notes too, wherever they were.
The fact of the matter was that Dylan had begun to come to terms with the idea that he might not have another book in him.
It hadn't been so bad at first. The book was successful, selling something like six thousand copies in its first week. He had been happy, his publisher had been happy, and his agent had been all smiles when he congratulated him on making the list. This was amazing for a first-time author, but when the book sold another six thousand copies the week after that, Dylan was taken by surprise. Suddenly his book was being read by book clubs, discussed on literary blogs, and his agent called to tell him that the prime-time show Calder Mane Tonight wanted to offer him a guest spot on his show for Friday.
"It's a small segment, no more than ten minutes, but it's huge for a first-time writer." his agent had assured him.
After the interview, he'd gone on to sell something like fifty thousand copies, and that's when the networks had taken notice.
Four months ago, he'd signed a contract with Amazon for the first season of Darrow Farm and cashed a check larger than anything he'd ever seen. Suddenly he could do no wrong. Suddenly he was the industry's gold boy, and everyone wanted a word with him. He made the circuit with the show's director, and book sales continued to soar. He was on Calder Mane again, plugging the show, when the notion of a sequel was first pitched, and it had been his utter ruination.
"So, with the success of your first book, how long before we see a sequel?"
Dylan had been unable to answer, gaping like a fish before he tried to formulate something witty that wouldn't sound too unsure.
"I'm working on the first draft as we speak," he said, flashing the serpent's grin that seems to be the providence of all successful writers.
Who had said all writers were liars? Probably many people, most of them as big, if not bigger, liars than he was. Here he sat three months after making such a pompous claim with nothing to show for it but a title and a working title at that. He was no closer to finishing this book than he was to finishing the first chapter, and as Dylan sighed and put his head in his hands, he came to terms with the hard truth.
He would never finish this book, and when the curtain fell on season one of Darrow Farm, there would never be a season two.
"Now, now," said a voice from the chair in front of him, and Dylan sat up quickly as he looked at the odd man who was suddenly in his study, "that's a bit bleak for someone your age."
Dylan took in the odd man, his mind stuck in that strange limbo between fear and anger. How had this man come to be in his study, a room that existed behind two locked doors? The locks had seemed a little needless until this point. Dylan lived in a fairly upscale neighborhood, in a three-bedroom loft that he would probably have to move out of in the next five years if he didn't get something written. He couldn't remember the last time he had heard sirens on his street, let alone heard about a break-in.
The man didn't appear to need any of his stuff, however. He looked more like a carnival barker in his long black coat, the white shirt beneath looking crisp enough to cut. One polished boot was perched on a knee, and his blonde hair looked odd as it hung over his mirrored sunglasses. He was holding a copy of Darrow Farm, which he snapped shut as Dylan looked at him. The book was a prop, much like his attire, and Dylan suddenly felt the worm of curiosity poking to the surface.
"Who the hell are you?" Dylan asked, the words sounding way more confident than he felt.
"I am Richard T Sereph, and I am a blessing to men like you." said the man, flashing an obscene amount of pearly white teeth as he smiled.
"Men like me?" Dylan asked, "I assume you mean writers?"
"I was speaking of desperate men, but I often find that the two go hand in hand."
Dylan sighed, "I don't know how you got in here, but I want you out of my study before I call the police. I am hard at work, and you,"
"Oh, I can tell," the man said, tossing the book onto the glass top of Dylan's coffee table, "You've been hard at work for the last three months. Procrastination is a full-time job, isn't it, Mr. Mandry."
"Now, just who the hell do you,"
"If you were a man of lesser means, I'd offer to pay you for your talent and take my leave, but you have something that many don't, and it makes the world go round."
Dylan stood up, confident that he understood where this was going now.
This huckster was after his money, and Dylan was in no mood to indulge him.
"Get the hell out of my house. At this point, I don't think I need to call the police. If you keep moving on this course, I'll toss you out myself."
The man smiled his predatory smile and reached into his coat. Dylan's compass suddenly swung around to fear again, and he took a step back as he tensed for the shot. The man would shoot him now, Dylan could already see the gun coming out, and he wondered what the news would make of his death? Famous writer killed before his time, they would say, and when the thud hit his desk, he could already feel the burning in his chest.
Instead, he opened his eyes to find a small leather-bound book sitting on the edge of his desk.
"For those with so much imagination, your kind always seems to need proof."
The book wasn't large, no great demonic tomb or heavy arcane bit of binding. It was about the size of an average paperback, about two hundred pages, but the leather covering it looked ancient. It was cracked, the symbols on the cover broken by jagged rifts, and the spine bore neither name nor legend. As it sat there, Dylan felt like something on that cover was watching him, something that did not love him.
"What is that?" Dylan asked, the man already crossing to the door.
"A book," he said, as though it should be obvious, "a very special one. It will give you what you need, and when you have it, don't hesitate to call me for more."
He took a normal-looking business card from the front pocket of his coat and laid it on the end table beside the door.
He left then, but when Dylan got up to follow him out, he found his hallway empty. He searched the house, but it was occupied by only one slightly ruffled writer and one strange little black book. Dylan checked the doors, returning to his work when he was certain that no one was lurking in his home.
He sat in front of the computer, but his heart wasn't in it.
His eyes kept straying to that little book, and with every glance, his curiosity grew. It was nothing, just an old book, but his mind refused to believe it. It was a mystery, something new, a Pandora's box just waiting to be opened. He typed a few sentences but immediately deleted them afterward. He'd been doing that for months, the words sounding lame as they sat like slugs on the page.
He floundered in this way for most of the afternoon, the book judging him as he played at work. More than once, he started to reach for it, always thinking better. More than once, he started to simply push it off the desk, but he felt sure that it would open its pages and there would be teeth waiting to bite him. In the end, he wasted another short time, and as the sun set and the day died, Dylan finally took the book in hand.
He couldn't stand it anymore, and when he opened it up, he was suddenly sorry he had given in.
The book made a hollow sound as it landed on the ground, but Dylan was suddenly rendered blind. An icepick had lodged itself between his eyes, and the sudden and blinding revelation made him glad he had been sitting. He had experienced insight before, but this was akin to the most intimate of defilement. If he could find the strength to lift his hand, Dylan imagined that he would feel his brains pattering to the carpet where a bullet had ripped through his skull. He was falling, falling, falling into some bright abyss from which there was no escape, and then, suddenly, it was all gone.
He was sitting in his chair, his hands empty but his mind full.
He wrote the rest of that day and well into the next, and when he emailed his agent the first ten chapters of what he'd written, his response was one of bemused confusion.
"This is not a sequel to Darrow Farm," he said when he called him three hours later.
"Is that a problem?" Dylan asked, already guessing the answer.
"If the other chapters are as good as these? I doubt it will be," he said, and Dylan could hear the smile in his voice.
* * * * *
He was sitting at his laptop again, waiting to be inspired.
Roland's War had been the story of a cavalry deserter who defends the town he has settled in from a group of his old army brothers turned outlaw. It was well received, outselling Darrow Farm and earning a movie this time instead of a tv show. Kurt Russel had even been cast as Roland, the main character, and the check they had cut him that time was even bigger than the one before. The royalties from the Darrow Farm tv show had also been substantial, and that's why he found himself here again.
Amazon wanted a season two, his publisher wanted a sequel, and Dylan, yet again, found himself trying to create gold from straw.
He had written a few sentences that he liked and a few paragraphs that he felt confident about, but he knew he would delete most of it later. The book was DOA, and he knew the likelihood of it all coming together was slim to nil. He might as well try to write a sequel to Roland's War for all the good it would do him.
As he wrote and erased, he thought again about the man in the black coat. He had looked at the business card more than once since that day a year ago, and he opened his desk drawer as he took it out, and looked at it again. Richard T Sereph and Libras Talent were printed on the front, along with a phone number. He could call him again, Dylan knew, but he had resisted up until now. He had no proof that Roland's War had anything to do with the book Sereph had left behind.
But, he thought as he hit the delete key on the better part of an hour's work, he didn't have any proof that it hadn't.
The phone rang only once before Dylan heard that smooth, oily voice waft through his ears.
"Why, Mr. Mandrey. To what do we owe the pleasure?"
Dylan gulped; the man knew his number.
A number he had never given him.
"I need more," he half whispered, and he could hear the muscles in the old demon's face as they creaked into a grin.
"The price is one hundred thousand. Send it to the account I am about to message you."
A text popped up with the information to a private bank account.
"And when do I," but Sereph cut him off.
"When the money is transferred, you will receive your book."
"But how long?" Dylan asked, his fingers dancing over the keys as he finished the operation.
He had hit send on the money when a cheery ding dong came from downstairs.
There was a box on the doorstep, and inside was another leather-bound book.
Mr. Sereph had already hung up.
* * * * *
After eight years, Dylan was still looking at an empty screen with the words Darrows Feud on them.
In those eight years, he had written five more books and made five more payments to Mr. Sereph.
In five years, he had written two more cowboy dramas, a sci-fi novel that had shocked and impressed his agent and his peers, a Slice of Life drama they had turned into a successful tv series, and a Fantasy novel that had even George R raving. They had bred three more movies as well and book sails in the hundreds of thousands. The name Dylan Mandry was synonymous with innovation and flexibility, and he had offers from as many colleges as he did conventions. None of the big ivy league ones, of course, but Dartmouth had offered him a very comfortable position if he was interested in relocating. They wanted him to teach his technique to aspiring writers, which was why Dylan had to turn them down.
It would be difficult to teach a class on "Get rich and outsource your ideas to a magic man with books that scrambled your brains 101."
His agent and his publisher had long ago stopped asking for a sequel to Darrow Farm. They had decided that he was a one-book man, and they had both made enough money off him to be satisfied with his writing process. They were happy to take his work and a portion of his royalties, and these days the checks were sizeable indeed.
Though, Dylan knew that soon they wouldn't be enough.
Mr. Sereph's prices were akin to the pushers he had seen in his neighborhood when he was a kid. The first taste was always free, and then they had a customer for life. Sereph's prices seemed to double with every call. One hundred grand became two hundred grand became four hundred grand, became eight hundred grand, became one million dollars. "I rounded it down since you're a frequent customer," he'd said, and Dylan had paid it even though it hurt to part with it. Despite being successful, he wasn't as rich as everyone thought. Giving Sereph several million dollars had hurt, and if the next payment followed suit, he would be nearly broke.
The richest beggar in literature, no wonder most of them just drank it all away.
He tried to resist the urge to call this time, watching the cursor blink as he tried to make the words come. Had it all been a fluke? Had he really thought he had another book in him? Had he been so foolish as to think he could write something that good a second time? No, he thought, the magic was still in there; it was him that was broken. He had gotten so used to taking the easy way that he'd forgotten how the craft worked. Mr. Sereph was just another pusher, and Dylan was his loyal junkie who just kept coming back for another hit.
He stared at the blinking cursor for another ten minutes, feeling his time ticking away, before finally calling Mr. Sereph.
"Well, well, well, if it isn't the writer of the decade. I've heard your name bandied about with great expectations lately."
"Yeah, thanks for all that, but I need help with this next book."
"You know the price," Sereph said, "two million in my account, then you,"
"I, uh, I need help with a specific story this time."
Sereph was quiet for so long that Dylan thought the line had gone dead.
"Hello?" Dylan asked, desperately hoping he hadn't offended the man somehow, "Hello? Are you there? I just need,"
"I'm sorry, Mr. Mandrey, but that's not how it works."
Dylan was speechless for a moment, "How what works?"
"I can limit you to a specific genre if you like, most of your fame has been in frontier dramas, but I can't help you with a particular story. It doesn't work like that."
Dylan wanted to get angry, he wanted to rant and rail at this man who had taken so much money from him, but the curiosity that had brought him to writing in the first place made him ask the question that was rolling inside his head.
"How does it work?"
That same muscle-tightening sound, like old ropes on a mast, could be heard as Mr. Sereph flashed his crest kid smile from the other side of the phone.
"Do you care?"
Dylan did, but he said no.
Some things were better left unsaid.
* * * * *
"Mr. Mandrey, how do you write across multiple genres like that? Where do you find the inspiration?"
Dylan hoped they couldn't see him hide his guilty smile as he buried it.
"Well, I find that inspiration is fickle. Sometimes it gives you a bounty, but not always what you need. I have been hoping to recapture that inspiration soon, but so far, it eludes me."
Class was almost over, and he always let the students pick his brain at the end. Dartmouth had been glad to have him, and the move to New Hampshire had been easy. Dylan had been able to pack all of his possessions into a suitcase, the ones he hadn't sold. He had kept two suits, some day wear, his laptop, and a few books. He had come to a new city with little but the clothes on his back.
If the five years before had been tumultuous, then the five that came after had been turbulent. He still had no sequel to Darrow Farm, but he had published two more best-sellers. Both had been two years apart, and both had been the sort of Oat Operas that he had started with. The first was the best of them, Flanders Holdfast, and when Amazon had asked if they could adapt it into a series, he had told them to go right ahead. They had asked if he would mind helping them with a second season when all was said and done, and he had also agreed to that. Whatever magic had produced Darrow Farm had dried up, and he had come to terms with the fact that he was dry too.
The second had been only the year before, and that was when he had come to terms with the fact that he had a problem.
Margarette's Sache had sold decently, but it had come nowhere near the cost of it. That had been when Dylan had sold all his things and moved to New Hampshire. The loft he lived in, the first eds he'd collected in college, the Dicken's third eds that had been his fathers, his clothes, his signature, his blood, his sperm, whatever it took to get that next hit of success. He had long ago given up on the idea that one of these hits would be the sequel he wanted, but that hardly mattered. He wanted the high of seeing his name in print, the euphoria of being in the mouths of every important person in his circle, the dizzying feeling as he looked down from his ivory tower at all the little people who wished they could be him.
That's why he was working here.
He needed the money, he needed it bad, and if he intended to feel that jolt again before he died, he would pay for another hit of that sweetest nectar.
He realized he'd been staring out the window and pointed to a young man in the front row. He thought his name might be Max or maybe Phillip, but after the number on the roster passed ten, Dylan had trouble remembering everyone unless they made an impression. He regretted calling on him when he stood up, that hateful artifact clutched in his hand like a crucifix. He wondered if Dracula had looked at crosses the way he now looked at copies of Darrow Farm, and as the boy's teeth fixed into a flattered grin, Dylan tried to make his own do likewise.
"I just wanted to tell you what this book meant to me when I was a kid. I loved all your books, and I'm not a sci-fi reader usually, but this one really spoke to me. I know you must hear it all the time, but do you think you'll ever do a sequel to Darrow Farm?"
Dylan thought about how to answer the question tactfully and finally decided on the truth.
"No, probably not. I've been trying for years, and I just can't make it work."
They dispersed then, seeming to understand that this was a good time to make themselves scarce. He reminded them to work on their chapters for peer proofing tomorrow and sat heavily in his chair as he thought again about Darrow Feud. It had been eleven years. If he hadn't done it now, he supposed he never would.
"Mr. Mandrey?"
Dylan looked up to see the same kid who'd asked the question, remembering suddenly that his name was Malcolm.
"Sorry to bother you, sir, but I was wondering if," he floundered a little, setting the copy of Darrow Farm on Dylan's desk.
He would want an autograph; they always did. He had turned to dig in his bag, looking for a pen, Dylan had no doubt. Dylan tried not to sigh as he reached into his desk and took out his own pen, signing the dust jacket as he slid it back to him. He tried to smile, but it was so hard with the proof of his failure sitting right in his face.
"There ya go, kid. I usually charge twenty-five bucks for one of those, but your tuition keeps me warm, so this one is on the house."
Malcolm smiled, but when his hand came out of the bag, he was holding a sheaf of papers.
"Thank you, sir, but I'd like to know if you'd take a look at something I've been writing.
His hands were shaking a little, and Dylan looked at the clock before taking the offered pages. Malcolm's class was his last class of the day, and he had a few minutes to look over the kid's notes. He wasn't in a hurry to return to his dreary little condo, only having an evening of looking at the blinking cursor ahead of him or the equally bleak numbers in his bank account that never seemed to rise high enough. He laid the notes out, scanning them in a perfunctory way, but the farther in he got, the more interested he became.
"I hope it's not too forward, but I just loved your book so much. I know it's rough, but it could be something if I had your help. If not the actual sequel to Darrow Farm, perhaps the spiritual successor?"
Dylan devoured the pages as he read, his anger beginning to kindle. Who the hell did this kid think he was? This was plagiarism! This was theft! He'd see this boy thrown out of college, out of New Hampshire, but the most galling part was that it was good. He could have overlooked it if it had been trash, but Malcolm had written something great. To hell with Darrow Farm. This was something better than it could ever be. He only had a few chapters, but they continued the pioneer families' story flawlessly. The more he read, the less angry he became, and the more curiosity took over.
"Do you like it, sir?" Malcolm asked, and Dylan's face must have looked ghastly because he had taken a step back from the desk, "I know it's pretty rough, but I think, with your help,"
"This is astonishing," Dylan breathed, looking up at Malcolm as if he couldn't believe the boy was real, "You wrote this?"
Malcolm's smile was back in force, "I did. I wrote it because you inspired me, sir. Do you really like it?"
Dylan almost didn't trust himself to talk. He loved it. He wanted to help Malcolm make it great, he wanted to introduce him to his agent and tell him that there would finally be a sequel to Darrow Farm, maybe even two, he wanted to smash this boy's head in and take his notes and leave him for dead, he wanted to rip his skull open and eat his brains like some cannibal trying to get at his thoughts.
The last image gave him an idea, however, and his smile was genuine when he looked back up at the smiling young man whose future would likely be so much brighter than his.
Or, it might have been.
"How would you like to have dinner with me, Malcolm? We'll talk about your book, and then you can come back to my apartment and compare notes. I love what you have here, and I'm excited to get started right away."
Malcolm looked as though Christmas had come early, "I would love to, sir. Wow, you have no idea how much of a dream come true this is."
"Likewise," Dylan said, and as he rose, the two walked and chatted as Dylan made plans just below the surface.
* * * * *
"What have you done?" Sereph asked as he stood in Dylan's dingy apartment and looked at the comatose form of his student.
Dylan didn't think it took much imagination to see what he'd done. He'd fed the kid, they'd talked about his book, and while he was in the bathroom, Dylan had slipped something extra into his drink. It hadn't been anything too insidious, some sleeping pills his doctor had prescribed him a few years ago, but when Malcomn had started stumbling on the way to his apartment, he had wondered if the dosage had been too high.
He had called Mr. Sereph after putting the sleeping kid on the couch, telling him that he had his payment, but he would need to come and get it this time.
"I don't accept cash or checks, you know that. Transfer the money into my account and,"
"You'll want to come to get this payment, Mr. Sereph. Trust me."
Sereph had seemed eager to see what Dylan had for him, but now he looked mad enough to chew iron and spit nails, as Dylan's Grandfather had often said.
"Is this your idea of a joke?" Said Sereph, and suddenly he was in Dylan's face, the eyes behind his mirrored shades the color of piss.
"No, far from it," Said Dylan, standing his ground, "you told me once that, with my talent, you would have just paid me for it and been done with me, but I had money, so I could afford what others couldn't."
"Get to the point." Sereph spat, his face still very close to Dylans, close enough to make him afraid he would bite him.
"I take that to mean that you take these stories from other writers. I want his story. You can keep whatever else he has in there, but I want Darrow Feud. Take the rest, take him, take whatever you need, but I need that story!"
It was Mr. Serephs turn to take a step back, but his smile had returned.
"Wake him up before whatever you gave him wears off," he said as he took a familiar-looking book from his coat, "It might help if he's a little groggy when he makes this deal."
* * * * *
Calder Mane smiled as the lights came up, and Dylan was once again bathed in their glow.
He was back, riding the euphoria of his high, and he never wanted to come down. He had finally done it. He had conquered his white whale, and as the crowd stopped clapping and the house band quieted, Calder Mane turned to fix his regard on him.
"I never thought I'd say this, but it's a pleasure to have you on the show again, Mr. Mandrey, with your sequel to Darrow Farm."
The crowd clapped again, and Dylan gave them a peek at the first cover.
It had been the greatest six months of his life. He had received Malcolm's story in the usual way, but Mr. Sereph had refused any sort of payment. The book, oozing whatever it was that made up a person's talent, went into his coat, and out came a smaller one, which he handed to Dylan.
"The boy's talent was substantial. This will help other writers and more than makes up for your foolishness. I had never considered doing business like this, but you humans are always so inventive when it comes to the old sins. Please let me know if you stumble across any other tasty morsels in that class you teach. The writing world truly is a tank of sharks, and their hunger is wide and deep."
Malcolm had dropped out of his class the following week, and Dylan saw that he had left the university all together.
He hoped the boy found something to take up his empty hours but didn't really think about what he had done past that.
All writers were liars, after all, and lying to themselves was no exception.
"So it's been a decade since you sat in that very spot and brought us Darrow Farm. What led you to write a sequel after so long away from the source material?"
"Well, Calder, inspiration is a fickle business. Sometimes, it truly finds you when you least expect it."
2023.05.24 14:36 Erutious The Sweetest Nectar
Dylan drummed his fingers on the desk as he stared at the blank screen.
The Darrow Feuds
By Dylan Mandrey
He had been looking at that title for three months, and it was starting to grind against his sanity. He needed this book to come together, but he just didn't have the words. The sequel to Darrow Farm had been highly anticipated after the first one had spent six weeks on the New York Times Best Seller List. It had been a somber tale of pioneers looking for a fresh start and the strange and frightening neighbors they had found in the woods around Utah's Helmen Valley. People had loved his depiction of the farmers' daughters, especially Gloria, who had ultimately been tempted by the strange creatures who resided within the forest and decided to leave the safety of her protestant father and his homestead. They had wanted to know what happened next for the pioneer family, and Dylan's agent had been absolutely feral for his notes on the next part of the series.
Dylan was getting pretty interested in those notes too, wherever they were.
The fact of the matter was that Dylan had begun to come to terms with the idea that he might not have another book in him.
It hadn't been so bad at first. The book was successful, selling something like six thousand copies in its first week. He had been happy, his publisher had been happy, and his agent had been all smiles when he congratulated him on making the list. This was amazing for a first-time author, but when the book sold another six thousand copies the week after that, Dylan was taken by surprise. Suddenly his book was being read by book clubs, discussed on literary blogs, and his agent called to tell him that the prime-time show Calder Mane Tonight wanted to offer him a guest spot on his show for Friday.
"It's a small segment, no more than ten minutes, but it's huge for a first-time writer." his agent had assured him.
After the interview, he'd gone on to sell something like fifty thousand copies, and that's when the networks had taken notice.
Four months ago, he'd signed a contract with Amazon for the first season of Darrow Farm and cashed a check larger than anything he'd ever seen. Suddenly he could do no wrong. Suddenly he was the industry's gold boy, and everyone wanted a word with him. He made the circuit with the show's director, and book sales continued to soar. He was on Calder Mane again, plugging the show, when the notion of a sequel was first pitched, and it had been his utter ruination.
"So, with the success of your first book, how long before we see a sequel?"
Dylan had been unable to answer, gaping like a fish before he tried to formulate something witty that wouldn't sound too unsure.
"I'm working on the first draft as we speak," he said, flashing the serpent's grin that seems to be the providence of all successful writers.
Who had said all writers were liars? Probably many people, most of them as big, if not bigger, liars than he was. Here he sat three months after making such a pompous claim with nothing to show for it but a title and a working title at that. He was no closer to finishing this book than he was to finishing the first chapter, and as Dylan sighed and put his head in his hands, he came to terms with the hard truth.
He would never finish this book, and when the curtain fell on season one of Darrow Farm, there would never be a season two.
"Now, now," said a voice from the chair in front of him, and Dylan sat up quickly as he looked at the odd man who was suddenly in his study, "that's a bit bleak for someone your age."
Dylan took in the odd man, his mind stuck in that strange limbo between fear and anger. How had this man come to be in his study, a room that existed behind two locked doors? The locks had seemed a little needless until this point. Dylan lived in a fairly upscale neighborhood, in a three-bedroom loft that he would probably have to move out of in the next five years if he didn't get something written. He couldn't remember the last time he had heard sirens on his street, let alone heard about a break-in.
The man didn't appear to need any of his stuff, however. He looked more like a carnival barker in his long black coat, the white shirt beneath looking crisp enough to cut. One polished boot was perched on a knee, and his blonde hair looked odd as it hung over his mirrored sunglasses. He was holding a copy of Darrow Farm, which he snapped shut as Dylan looked at him. The book was a prop, much like his attire, and Dylan suddenly felt the worm of curiosity poking to the surface.
"Who the hell are you?" Dylan asked, the words sounding way more confident than he felt.
"I am Richard T Sereph, and I am a blessing to men like you." said the man, flashing an obscene amount of pearly white teeth as he smiled.
"Men like me?" Dylan asked, "I assume you mean writers?"
"I was speaking of desperate men, but I often find that the two go hand in hand."
Dylan sighed, "I don't know how you got in here, but I want you out of my study before I call the police. I am hard at work, and you,"
"Oh, I can tell," the man said, tossing the book onto the glass top of Dylan's coffee table, "You've been hard at work for the last three months. Procrastination is a full-time job, isn't it, Mr. Mandry."
"Now, just who the hell do you,"
"If you were a man of lesser means, I'd offer to pay you for your talent and take my leave, but you have something that many don't, and it makes the world go round."
Dylan stood up, confident that he understood where this was going now.
This huckster was after his money, and Dylan was in no mood to indulge him.
"Get the hell out of my house. At this point, I don't think I need to call the police. If you keep moving on this course, I'll toss you out myself."
The man smiled his predatory smile and reached into his coat. Dylan's compass suddenly swung around to fear again, and he took a step back as he tensed for the shot. The man would shoot him now, Dylan could already see the gun coming out, and he wondered what the news would make of his death? Famous writer killed before his time, they would say, and when the thud hit his desk, he could already feel the burning in his chest.
Instead, he opened his eyes to find a small leather-bound book sitting on the edge of his desk.
"For those with so much imagination, your kind always seems to need proof."
The book wasn't large, no great demonic tomb or heavy arcane bit of binding. It was about the size of an average paperback, about two hundred pages, but the leather covering it looked ancient. It was cracked, the symbols on the cover broken by jagged rifts, and the spine bore neither name nor legend. As it sat there, Dylan felt like something on that cover was watching him, something that did not love him.
"What is that?" Dylan asked, the man already crossing to the door.
"A book," he said, as though it should be obvious, "a very special one. It will give you what you need, and when you have it, don't hesitate to call me for more."
He took a normal-looking business card from the front pocket of his coat and laid it on the end table beside the door.
He left then, but when Dylan got up to follow him out, he found his hallway empty. He searched the house, but it was occupied by only one slightly ruffled writer and one strange little black book. Dylan checked the doors, returning to his work when he was certain that no one was lurking in his home.
He sat in front of the computer, but his heart wasn't in it.
His eyes kept straying to that little book, and with every glance, his curiosity grew. It was nothing, just an old book, but his mind refused to believe it. It was a mystery, something new, a Pandora's box just waiting to be opened. He typed a few sentences but immediately deleted them afterward. He'd been doing that for months, the words sounding lame as they sat like slugs on the page.
He floundered in this way for most of the afternoon, the book judging him as he played at work. More than once, he started to reach for it, always thinking better. More than once, he started to simply push it off the desk, but he felt sure that it would open its pages and there would be teeth waiting to bite him. In the end, he wasted another short time, and as the sun set and the day died, Dylan finally took the book in hand.
He couldn't stand it anymore, and when he opened it up, he was suddenly sorry he had given in.
The book made a hollow sound as it landed on the ground, but Dylan was suddenly rendered blind. An icepick had lodged itself between his eyes, and the sudden and blinding revelation made him glad he had been sitting. He had experienced insight before, but this was akin to the most intimate of defilement. If he could find the strength to lift his hand, Dylan imagined that he would feel his brains pattering to the carpet where a bullet had ripped through his skull. He was falling, falling, falling into some bright abyss from which there was no escape, and then, suddenly, it was all gone.
He was sitting in his chair, his hands empty but his mind full.
He wrote the rest of that day and well into the next, and when he emailed his agent the first ten chapters of what he'd written, his response was one of bemused confusion.
"This is not a sequel to Darrow Farm," he said when he called him three hours later.
"Is that a problem?" Dylan asked, already guessing the answer.
"If the other chapters are as good as these? I doubt it will be," he said, and Dylan could hear the smile in his voice.
* * * * *
He was sitting at his laptop again, waiting to be inspired.
Roland's War had been the story of a cavalry deserter who defends the town he has settled in from a group of his old army brothers turned outlaw. It was well received, outselling Darrow Farm and earning a movie this time instead of a tv show. Kurt Russel had even been cast as Roland, the main character, and the check they had cut him that time was even bigger than the one before. The royalties from the Darrow Farm tv show had also been substantial, and that's why he found himself here again.
Amazon wanted a season two, his publisher wanted a sequel, and Dylan, yet again, found himself trying to create gold from straw.
He had written a few sentences that he liked and a few paragraphs that he felt confident about, but he knew he would delete most of it later. The book was DOA, and he knew the likelihood of it all coming together was slim to nil. He might as well try to write a sequel to Roland's War for all the good it would do him.
As he wrote and erased, he thought again about the man in the black coat. He had looked at the business card more than once since that day a year ago, and he opened his desk drawer as he took it out, and looked at it again. Richard T Sereph and Libras Talent were printed on the front, along with a phone number. He could call him again, Dylan knew, but he had resisted up until now. He had no proof that Roland's War had anything to do with the book Sereph had left behind.
But, he thought as he hit the delete key on the better part of an hour's work, he didn't have any proof that it hadn't.
The phone rang only once before Dylan heard that smooth, oily voice waft through his ears.
"Why, Mr. Mandrey. To what do we owe the pleasure?"
Dylan gulped; the man knew his number.
A number he had never given him.
"I need more," he half whispered, and he could hear the muscles in the old demon's face as they creaked into a grin.
"The price is one hundred thousand. Send it to the account I am about to message you."
A text popped up with the information to a private bank account.
"And when do I," but Sereph cut him off.
"When the money is transferred, you will receive your book."
"But how long?" Dylan asked, his fingers dancing over the keys as he finished the operation.
He had hit send on the money when a cheery ding dong came from downstairs.
There was a box on the doorstep, and inside was another leather-bound book.
Mr. Sereph had already hung up.
* * * * *
After eight years, Dylan was still looking at an empty screen with the words Darrows Feud on them.
In those eight years, he had written five more books and made five more payments to Mr. Sereph.
In five years, he had written two more cowboy dramas, a sci-fi novel that had shocked and impressed his agent and his peers, a Slice of Life drama they had turned into a successful tv series, and a Fantasy novel that had even George R raving. They had bred three more movies as well and book sails in the hundreds of thousands. The name Dylan Mandry was synonymous with innovation and flexibility, and he had offers from as many colleges as he did conventions. None of the big ivy league ones, of course, but Dartmouth had offered him a very comfortable position if he was interested in relocating. They wanted him to teach his technique to aspiring writers, which was why Dylan had to turn them down.
It would be difficult to teach a class on "Get rich and outsource your ideas to a magic man with books that scrambled your brains 101."
His agent and his publisher had long ago stopped asking for a sequel to Darrow Farm. They had decided that he was a one-book man, and they had both made enough money off him to be satisfied with his writing process. They were happy to take his work and a portion of his royalties, and these days the checks were sizeable indeed.
Though, Dylan knew that soon they wouldn't be enough.
Mr. Sereph's prices were akin to the pushers he had seen in his neighborhood when he was a kid. The first taste was always free, and then they had a customer for life. Sereph's prices seemed to double with every call. One hundred grand became two hundred grand became four hundred grand, became eight hundred grand, became one million dollars. "I rounded it down since you're a frequent customer," he'd said, and Dylan had paid it even though it hurt to part with it. Despite being successful, he wasn't as rich as everyone thought. Giving Sereph several million dollars had hurt, and if the next payment followed suit, he would be nearly broke.
The richest beggar in literature, no wonder most of them just drank it all away.
He tried to resist the urge to call this time, watching the cursor blink as he tried to make the words come. Had it all been a fluke? Had he really thought he had another book in him? Had he been so foolish as to think he could write something that good a second time? No, he thought, the magic was still in there; it was him that was broken. He had gotten so used to taking the easy way that he'd forgotten how the craft worked. Mr. Sereph was just another pusher, and Dylan was his loyal junkie who just kept coming back for another hit.
He stared at the blinking cursor for another ten minutes, feeling his time ticking away, before finally calling Mr. Sereph.
"Well, well, well, if it isn't the writer of the decade. I've heard your name bandied about with great expectations lately."
"Yeah, thanks for all that, but I need help with this next book."
"You know the price," Sereph said, "two million in my account, then you,"
"I, uh, I need help with a specific story this time."
Sereph was quiet for so long that Dylan thought the line had gone dead.
"Hello?" Dylan asked, desperately hoping he hadn't offended the man somehow, "Hello? Are you there? I just need,"
"I'm sorry, Mr. Mandrey, but that's not how it works."
Dylan was speechless for a moment, "How what works?"
"I can limit you to a specific genre if you like, most of your fame has been in frontier dramas, but I can't help you with a particular story. It doesn't work like that."
Dylan wanted to get angry, he wanted to rant and rail at this man who had taken so much money from him, but the curiosity that had brought him to writing in the first place made him ask the question that was rolling inside his head.
"How does it work?"
That same muscle-tightening sound, like old ropes on a mast, could be heard as Mr. Sereph flashed his crest kid smile from the other side of the phone.
"Do you care?"
Dylan did, but he said no.
Some things were better left unsaid.
* * * * *
"Mr. Mandrey, how do you write across multiple genres like that? Where do you find the inspiration?"
Dylan hoped they couldn't see him hide his guilty smile as he buried it.
"Well, I find that inspiration is fickle. Sometimes it gives you a bounty, but not always what you need. I have been hoping to recapture that inspiration soon, but so far, it eludes me."
Class was almost over, and he always let the students pick his brain at the end. Dartmouth had been glad to have him, and the move to New Hampshire had been easy. Dylan had been able to pack all of his possessions into a suitcase, the ones he hadn't sold. He had kept two suits, some day wear, his laptop, and a few books. He had come to a new city with little but the clothes on his back.
If the five years before had been tumultuous, then the five that came after had been turbulent. He still had no sequel to Darrow Farm, but he had published two more best-sellers. Both had been two years apart, and both had been the sort of Oat Operas that he had started with. The first was the best of them, Flanders Holdfast, and when Amazon had asked if they could adapt it into a series, he had told them to go right ahead. They had asked if he would mind helping them with a second season when all was said and done, and he had also agreed to that. Whatever magic had produced Darrow Farm had dried up, and he had come to terms with the fact that he was dry too.
The second had been only the year before, and that was when he had come to terms with the fact that he had a problem.
Margarette's Sache had sold decently, but it had come nowhere near the cost of it. That had been when Dylan had sold all his things and moved to New Hampshire. The loft he lived in, the first eds he'd collected in college, the Dicken's third eds that had been his fathers, his clothes, his signature, his blood, his sperm, whatever it took to get that next hit of success. He had long ago given up on the idea that one of these hits would be the sequel he wanted, but that hardly mattered. He wanted the high of seeing his name in print, the euphoria of being in the mouths of every important person in his circle, the dizzying feeling as he looked down from his ivory tower at all the little people who wished they could be him.
That's why he was working here.
He needed the money, he needed it bad, and if he intended to feel that jolt again before he died, he would pay for another hit of that sweetest nectar.
He realized he'd been staring out the window and pointed to a young man in the front row. He thought his name might be Max or maybe Phillip, but after the number on the roster passed ten, Dylan had trouble remembering everyone unless they made an impression. He regretted calling on him when he stood up, that hateful artifact clutched in his hand like a crucifix. He wondered if Dracula had looked at crosses the way he now looked at copies of Darrow Farm, and as the boy's teeth fixed into a flattered grin, Dylan tried to make his own do likewise.
"I just wanted to tell you what this book meant to me when I was a kid. I loved all your books, and I'm not a sci-fi reader usually, but this one really spoke to me. I know you must hear it all the time, but do you think you'll ever do a sequel to Darrow Farm?"
Dylan thought about how to answer the question tactfully and finally decided on the truth.
"No, probably not. I've been trying for years, and I just can't make it work."
They dispersed then, seeming to understand that this was a good time to make themselves scarce. He reminded them to work on their chapters for peer proofing tomorrow and sat heavily in his chair as he thought again about Darrow Feud. It had been eleven years. If he hadn't done it now, he supposed he never would.
"Mr. Mandrey?"
Dylan looked up to see the same kid who'd asked the question, remembering suddenly that his name was Malcolm.
"Sorry to bother you, sir, but I was wondering if," he floundered a little, setting the copy of Darrow Farm on Dylan's desk.
He would want an autograph; they always did. He had turned to dig in his bag, looking for a pen, Dylan had no doubt. Dylan tried not to sigh as he reached into his desk and took out his own pen, signing the dust jacket as he slid it back to him. He tried to smile, but it was so hard with the proof of his failure sitting right in his face.
"There ya go, kid. I usually charge twenty-five bucks for one of those, but your tuition keeps me warm, so this one is on the house."
Malcolm smiled, but when his hand came out of the bag, he was holding a sheaf of papers.
"Thank you, sir, but I'd like to know if you'd take a look at something I've been writing.
His hands were shaking a little, and Dylan looked at the clock before taking the offered pages. Malcolm's class was his last class of the day, and he had a few minutes to look over the kid's notes. He wasn't in a hurry to return to his dreary little condo, only having an evening of looking at the blinking cursor ahead of him or the equally bleak numbers in his bank account that never seemed to rise high enough. He laid the notes out, scanning them in a perfunctory way, but the farther in he got, the more interested he became.
"I hope it's not too forward, but I just loved your book so much. I know it's rough, but it could be something if I had your help. If not the actual sequel to Darrow Farm, perhaps the spiritual successor?"
Dylan devoured the pages as he read, his anger beginning to kindle. Who the hell did this kid think he was? This was plagiarism! This was theft! He'd see this boy thrown out of college, out of New Hampshire, but the most galling part was that it was good. He could have overlooked it if it had been trash, but Malcolm had written something great. To hell with Darrow Farm. This was something better than it could ever be. He only had a few chapters, but they continued the pioneer families' story flawlessly. The more he read, the less angry he became, and the more curiosity took over.
"Do you like it, sir?" Malcolm asked, and Dylan's face must have looked ghastly because he had taken a step back from the desk, "I know it's pretty rough, but I think, with your help,"
"This is astonishing," Dylan breathed, looking up at Malcolm as if he couldn't believe the boy was real, "You wrote this?"
Malcolm's smile was back in force, "I did. I wrote it because you inspired me, sir. Do you really like it?"
Dylan almost didn't trust himself to talk. He loved it. He wanted to help Malcolm make it great, he wanted to introduce him to his agent and tell him that there would finally be a sequel to Darrow Farm, maybe even two, he wanted to smash this boy's head in and take his notes and leave him for dead, he wanted to rip his skull open and eat his brains like some cannibal trying to get at his thoughts.
The last image gave him an idea, however, and his smile was genuine when he looked back up at the smiling young man whose future would likely be so much brighter than his.
Or, it might have been.
"How would you like to have dinner with me, Malcolm? We'll talk about your book, and then you can come back to my apartment and compare notes. I love what you have here, and I'm excited to get started right away."
Malcolm looked as though Christmas had come early, "I would love to, sir. Wow, you have no idea how much of a dream come true this is."
"Likewise," Dylan said, and as he rose, the two walked and chatted as Dylan made plans just below the surface.
* * * * *
"What have you done?" Sereph asked as he stood in Dylan's dingy apartment and looked at the comatose form of his student.
Dylan didn't think it took much imagination to see what he'd done. He'd fed the kid, they'd talked about his book, and while he was in the bathroom, Dylan had slipped something extra into his drink. It hadn't been anything too insidious, some sleeping pills his doctor had prescribed him a few years ago, but when Malcomn had started stumbling on the way to his apartment, he had wondered if the dosage had been too high.
He had called Mr. Sereph after putting the sleeping kid on the couch, telling him that he had his payment, but he would need to come and get it this time.
"I don't accept cash or checks, you know that. Transfer the money into my account and,"
"You'll want to come to get this payment, Mr. Sereph. Trust me."
Sereph had seemed eager to see what Dylan had for him, but now he looked mad enough to chew iron and spit nails, as Dylan's Grandfather had often said.
"Is this your idea of a joke?" Said Sereph, and suddenly he was in Dylan's face, the eyes behind his mirrored shades the color of piss.
"No, far from it," Said Dylan, standing his ground, "you told me once that, with my talent, you would have just paid me for it and been done with me, but I had money, so I could afford what others couldn't."
"Get to the point." Sereph spat, his face still very close to Dylans, close enough to make him afraid he would bite him.
"I take that to mean that you take these stories from other writers. I want his story. You can keep whatever else he has in there, but I want Darrow Feud. Take the rest, take him, take whatever you need, but I need that story!"
It was Mr. Serephs turn to take a step back, but his smile had returned.
"Wake him up before whatever you gave him wears off," he said as he took a familiar-looking book from his coat, "It might help if he's a little groggy when he makes this deal."
* * * * *
Calder Mane smiled as the lights came up, and Dylan was once again bathed in their glow.
He was back, riding the euphoria of his high, and he never wanted to come down. He had finally done it. He had conquered his white whale, and as the crowd stopped clapping and the house band quieted, Calder Mane turned to fix his regard on him.
"I never thought I'd say this, but it's a pleasure to have you on the show again, Mr. Mandrey, with your sequel to Darrow Farm."
The crowd clapped again, and Dylan gave them a peek at the first cover.
It had been the greatest six months of his life. He had received Malcolm's story in the usual way, but Mr. Sereph had refused any sort of payment. The book, oozing whatever it was that made up a person's talent, went into his coat, and out came a smaller one, which he handed to Dylan.
"The boy's talent was substantial. This will help other writers and more than makes up for your foolishness. I had never considered doing business like this, but you humans are always so inventive when it comes to the old sins. Please let me know if you stumble across any other tasty morsels in that class you teach. The writing world truly is a tank of sharks, and their hunger is wide and deep."
Malcolm had dropped out of his class the following week, and Dylan saw that he had left the university all together.
He hoped the boy found something to take up his empty hours but didn't really think about what he had done past that.
All writers were liars, after all, and lying to themselves was no exception.
"So it's been a decade since you sat in that very spot and brought us Darrow Farm. What led you to write a sequel after so long away from the source material?"
"Well, Calder, inspiration is a fickle business. Sometimes, it truly finds you when you least expect it."
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The Darrow Feuds
By Dylan Mandrey
He had been looking at that title for three months, and it was starting to grind against his sanity. He needed this book to come together, but he just didn't have the words. The sequel to Darrow Farm had been highly anticipated after the first one had spent six weeks on the New York Times Best Seller List. It had been a somber tale of pioneers looking for a fresh start and the strange and frightening neighbors they had found in the woods around Utah's Helmen Valley. People had loved his depiction of the farmers' daughters, especially Gloria, who had ultimately been tempted by the strange creatures who resided within the forest and decided to leave the safety of her protestant father and his homestead. They had wanted to know what happened next for the pioneer family, and Dylan's agent had been absolutely feral for his notes on the next part of the series.
Dylan was getting pretty interested in those notes too, wherever they were.
The fact of the matter was that Dylan had begun to come to terms with the idea that he might not have another book in him.
It hadn't been so bad at first. The book was successful, selling something like six thousand copies in its first week. He had been happy, his publisher had been happy, and his agent had been all smiles when he congratulated him on making the list. This was amazing for a first-time author, but when the book sold another six thousand copies the week after that, Dylan was taken by surprise. Suddenly his book was being read by book clubs, discussed on literary blogs, and his agent called to tell him that the prime-time show Calder Mane Tonight wanted to offer him a guest spot on his show for Friday.
"It's a small segment, no more than ten minutes, but it's huge for a first-time writer." his agent had assured him.
After the interview, he'd gone on to sell something like fifty thousand copies, and that's when the networks had taken notice.
Four months ago, he'd signed a contract with Amazon for the first season of Darrow Farm and cashed a check larger than anything he'd ever seen. Suddenly he could do no wrong. Suddenly he was the industry's gold boy, and everyone wanted a word with him. He made the circuit with the show's director, and book sales continued to soar. He was on Calder Mane again, plugging the show, when the notion of a sequel was first pitched, and it had been his utter ruination.
"So, with the success of your first book, how long before we see a sequel?"
Dylan had been unable to answer, gaping like a fish before he tried to formulate something witty that wouldn't sound too unsure.
"I'm working on the first draft as we speak," he said, flashing the serpent's grin that seems to be the providence of all successful writers.
Who had said all writers were liars? Probably many people, most of them as big, if not bigger, liars than he was. Here he sat three months after making such a pompous claim with nothing to show for it but a title and a working title at that. He was no closer to finishing this book than he was to finishing the first chapter, and as Dylan sighed and put his head in his hands, he came to terms with the hard truth.
He would never finish this book, and when the curtain fell on season one of Darrow Farm, there would never be a season two.
"Now, now," said a voice from the chair in front of him, and Dylan sat up quickly as he looked at the odd man who was suddenly in his study, "that's a bit bleak for someone your age."
Dylan took in the odd man, his mind stuck in that strange limbo between fear and anger. How had this man come to be in his study, a room that existed behind two locked doors? The locks had seemed a little needless until this point. Dylan lived in a fairly upscale neighborhood, in a three-bedroom loft that he would probably have to move out of in the next five years if he didn't get something written. He couldn't remember the last time he had heard sirens on his street, let alone heard about a break-in.
The man didn't appear to need any of his stuff, however. He looked more like a carnival barker in his long black coat, the white shirt beneath looking crisp enough to cut. One polished boot was perched on a knee, and his blonde hair looked odd as it hung over his mirrored sunglasses. He was holding a copy of Darrow Farm, which he snapped shut as Dylan looked at him. The book was a prop, much like his attire, and Dylan suddenly felt the worm of curiosity poking to the surface.
"Who the hell are you?" Dylan asked, the words sounding way more confident than he felt.
"I am Richard T Sereph, and I am a blessing to men like you." said the man, flashing an obscene amount of pearly white teeth as he smiled.
"Men like me?" Dylan asked, "I assume you mean writers?"
"I was speaking of desperate men, but I often find that the two go hand in hand."
Dylan sighed, "I don't know how you got in here, but I want you out of my study before I call the police. I am hard at work, and you,"
"Oh, I can tell," the man said, tossing the book onto the glass top of Dylan's coffee table, "You've been hard at work for the last three months. Procrastination is a full-time job, isn't it, Mr. Mandry."
"Now, just who the hell do you,"
"If you were a man of lesser means, I'd offer to pay you for your talent and take my leave, but you have something that many don't, and it makes the world go round."
Dylan stood up, confident that he understood where this was going now.
This huckster was after his money, and Dylan was in no mood to indulge him.
"Get the hell out of my house. At this point, I don't think I need to call the police. If you keep moving on this course, I'll toss you out myself."
The man smiled his predatory smile and reached into his coat. Dylan's compass suddenly swung around to fear again, and he took a step back as he tensed for the shot. The man would shoot him now, Dylan could already see the gun coming out, and he wondered what the news would make of his death? Famous writer killed before his time, they would say, and when the thud hit his desk, he could already feel the burning in his chest.
Instead, he opened his eyes to find a small leather-bound book sitting on the edge of his desk.
"For those with so much imagination, your kind always seems to need proof."
The book wasn't large, no great demonic tomb or heavy arcane bit of binding. It was about the size of an average paperback, about two hundred pages, but the leather covering it looked ancient. It was cracked, the symbols on the cover broken by jagged rifts, and the spine bore neither name nor legend. As it sat there, Dylan felt like something on that cover was watching him, something that did not love him.
"What is that?" Dylan asked, the man already crossing to the door.
"A book," he said, as though it should be obvious, "a very special one. It will give you what you need, and when you have it, don't hesitate to call me for more."
He took a normal-looking business card from the front pocket of his coat and laid it on the end table beside the door.
He left then, but when Dylan got up to follow him out, he found his hallway empty. He searched the house, but it was occupied by only one slightly ruffled writer and one strange little black book. Dylan checked the doors, returning to his work when he was certain that no one was lurking in his home.
He sat in front of the computer, but his heart wasn't in it.
His eyes kept straying to that little book, and with every glance, his curiosity grew. It was nothing, just an old book, but his mind refused to believe it. It was a mystery, something new, a Pandora's box just waiting to be opened. He typed a few sentences but immediately deleted them afterward. He'd been doing that for months, the words sounding lame as they sat like slugs on the page.
He floundered in this way for most of the afternoon, the book judging him as he played at work. More than once, he started to reach for it, always thinking better. More than once, he started to simply push it off the desk, but he felt sure that it would open its pages and there would be teeth waiting to bite him. In the end, he wasted another short time, and as the sun set and the day died, Dylan finally took the book in hand.
He couldn't stand it anymore, and when he opened it up, he was suddenly sorry he had given in.
The book made a hollow sound as it landed on the ground, but Dylan was suddenly rendered blind. An icepick had lodged itself between his eyes, and the sudden and blinding revelation made him glad he had been sitting. He had experienced insight before, but this was akin to the most intimate of defilement. If he could find the strength to lift his hand, Dylan imagined that he would feel his brains pattering to the carpet where a bullet had ripped through his skull. He was falling, falling, falling into some bright abyss from which there was no escape, and then, suddenly, it was all gone.
He was sitting in his chair, his hands empty but his mind full.
He wrote the rest of that day and well into the next, and when he emailed his agent the first ten chapters of what he'd written, his response was one of bemused confusion.
"This is not a sequel to Darrow Farm," he said when he called him three hours later.
"Is that a problem?" Dylan asked, already guessing the answer.
"If the other chapters are as good as these? I doubt it will be," he said, and Dylan could hear the smile in his voice.
* * * * *
He was sitting at his laptop again, waiting to be inspired.
Roland's War had been the story of a cavalry deserter who defends the town he has settled in from a group of his old army brothers turned outlaw. It was well received, outselling Darrow Farm and earning a movie this time instead of a tv show. Kurt Russel had even been cast as Roland, the main character, and the check they had cut him that time was even bigger than the one before. The royalties from the Darrow Farm tv show had also been substantial, and that's why he found himself here again.
Amazon wanted a season two, his publisher wanted a sequel, and Dylan, yet again, found himself trying to create gold from straw.
He had written a few sentences that he liked and a few paragraphs that he felt confident about, but he knew he would delete most of it later. The book was DOA, and he knew the likelihood of it all coming together was slim to nil. He might as well try to write a sequel to Roland's War for all the good it would do him.
As he wrote and erased, he thought again about the man in the black coat. He had looked at the business card more than once since that day a year ago, and he opened his desk drawer as he took it out, and looked at it again. Richard T Sereph and Libras Talent were printed on the front, along with a phone number. He could call him again, Dylan knew, but he had resisted up until now. He had no proof that Roland's War had anything to do with the book Sereph had left behind.
But, he thought as he hit the delete key on the better part of an hour's work, he didn't have any proof that it hadn't.
The phone rang only once before Dylan heard that smooth, oily voice waft through his ears.
"Why, Mr. Mandrey. To what do we owe the pleasure?"
Dylan gulped; the man knew his number.
A number he had never given him.
"I need more," he half whispered, and he could hear the muscles in the old demon's face as they creaked into a grin.
"The price is one hundred thousand. Send it to the account I am about to message you."
A text popped up with the information to a private bank account.
"And when do I," but Sereph cut him off.
"When the money is transferred, you will receive your book."
"But how long?" Dylan asked, his fingers dancing over the keys as he finished the operation.
He had hit send on the money when a cheery ding dong came from downstairs.
There was a box on the doorstep, and inside was another leather-bound book.
Mr. Sereph had already hung up.
* * * * *
After eight years, Dylan was still looking at an empty screen with the words Darrows Feud on them.
In those eight years, he had written five more books and made five more payments to Mr. Sereph.
In five years, he had written two more cowboy dramas, a sci-fi novel that had shocked and impressed his agent and his peers, a Slice of Life drama they had turned into a successful tv series, and a Fantasy novel that had even George R raving. They had bred three more movies as well and book sails in the hundreds of thousands. The name Dylan Mandry was synonymous with innovation and flexibility, and he had offers from as many colleges as he did conventions. None of the big ivy league ones, of course, but Dartmouth had offered him a very comfortable position if he was interested in relocating. They wanted him to teach his technique to aspiring writers, which was why Dylan had to turn them down.
It would be difficult to teach a class on "Get rich and outsource your ideas to a magic man with books that scrambled your brains 101."
His agent and his publisher had long ago stopped asking for a sequel to Darrow Farm. They had decided that he was a one-book man, and they had both made enough money off him to be satisfied with his writing process. They were happy to take his work and a portion of his royalties, and these days the checks were sizeable indeed.
Though, Dylan knew that soon they wouldn't be enough.
Mr. Sereph's prices were akin to the pushers he had seen in his neighborhood when he was a kid. The first taste was always free, and then they had a customer for life. Sereph's prices seemed to double with every call. One hundred grand became two hundred grand became four hundred grand, became eight hundred grand, became one million dollars. "I rounded it down since you're a frequent customer," he'd said, and Dylan had paid it even though it hurt to part with it. Despite being successful, he wasn't as rich as everyone thought. Giving Sereph several million dollars had hurt, and if the next payment followed suit, he would be nearly broke.
The richest beggar in literature, no wonder most of them just drank it all away.
He tried to resist the urge to call this time, watching the cursor blink as he tried to make the words come. Had it all been a fluke? Had he really thought he had another book in him? Had he been so foolish as to think he could write something that good a second time? No, he thought, the magic was still in there; it was him that was broken. He had gotten so used to taking the easy way that he'd forgotten how the craft worked. Mr. Sereph was just another pusher, and Dylan was his loyal junkie who just kept coming back for another hit.
He stared at the blinking cursor for another ten minutes, feeling his time ticking away, before finally calling Mr. Sereph.
"Well, well, well, if it isn't the writer of the decade. I've heard your name bandied about with great expectations lately."
"Yeah, thanks for all that, but I need help with this next book."
"You know the price," Sereph said, "two million in my account, then you,"
"I, uh, I need help with a specific story this time."
Sereph was quiet for so long that Dylan thought the line had gone dead.
"Hello?" Dylan asked, desperately hoping he hadn't offended the man somehow, "Hello? Are you there? I just need,"
"I'm sorry, Mr. Mandrey, but that's not how it works."
Dylan was speechless for a moment, "How what works?"
"I can limit you to a specific genre if you like, most of your fame has been in frontier dramas, but I can't help you with a particular story. It doesn't work like that."
Dylan wanted to get angry, he wanted to rant and rail at this man who had taken so much money from him, but the curiosity that had brought him to writing in the first place made him ask the question that was rolling inside his head.
"How does it work?"
That same muscle-tightening sound, like old ropes on a mast, could be heard as Mr. Sereph flashed his crest kid smile from the other side of the phone.
"Do you care?"
Dylan did, but he said no.
Some things were better left unsaid.
* * * * *
"Mr. Mandrey, how do you write across multiple genres like that? Where do you find the inspiration?"
Dylan hoped they couldn't see him hide his guilty smile as he buried it.
"Well, I find that inspiration is fickle. Sometimes it gives you a bounty, but not always what you need. I have been hoping to recapture that inspiration soon, but so far, it eludes me."
Class was almost over, and he always let the students pick his brain at the end. Dartmouth had been glad to have him, and the move to New Hampshire had been easy. Dylan had been able to pack all of his possessions into a suitcase, the ones he hadn't sold. He had kept two suits, some day wear, his laptop, and a few books. He had come to a new city with little but the clothes on his back.
If the five years before had been tumultuous, then the five that came after had been turbulent. He still had no sequel to Darrow Farm, but he had published two more best-sellers. Both had been two years apart, and both had been the sort of Oat Operas that he had started with. The first was the best of them, Flanders Holdfast, and when Amazon had asked if they could adapt it into a series, he had told them to go right ahead. They had asked if he would mind helping them with a second season when all was said and done, and he had also agreed to that. Whatever magic had produced Darrow Farm had dried up, and he had come to terms with the fact that he was dry too.
The second had been only the year before, and that was when he had come to terms with the fact that he had a problem.
Margarette's Sache had sold decently, but it had come nowhere near the cost of it. That had been when Dylan had sold all his things and moved to New Hampshire. The loft he lived in, the first eds he'd collected in college, the Dicken's third eds that had been his fathers, his clothes, his signature, his blood, his sperm, whatever it took to get that next hit of success. He had long ago given up on the idea that one of these hits would be the sequel he wanted, but that hardly mattered. He wanted the high of seeing his name in print, the euphoria of being in the mouths of every important person in his circle, the dizzying feeling as he looked down from his ivory tower at all the little people who wished they could be him.
That's why he was working here.
He needed the money, he needed it bad, and if he intended to feel that jolt again before he died, he would pay for another hit of that sweetest nectar.
He realized he'd been staring out the window and pointed to a young man in the front row. He thought his name might be Max or maybe Phillip, but after the number on the roster passed ten, Dylan had trouble remembering everyone unless they made an impression. He regretted calling on him when he stood up, that hateful artifact clutched in his hand like a crucifix. He wondered if Dracula had looked at crosses the way he now looked at copies of Darrow Farm, and as the boy's teeth fixed into a flattered grin, Dylan tried to make his own do likewise.
"I just wanted to tell you what this book meant to me when I was a kid. I loved all your books, and I'm not a sci-fi reader usually, but this one really spoke to me. I know you must hear it all the time, but do you think you'll ever do a sequel to Darrow Farm?"
Dylan thought about how to answer the question tactfully and finally decided on the truth.
"No, probably not. I've been trying for years, and I just can't make it work."
They dispersed then, seeming to understand that this was a good time to make themselves scarce. He reminded them to work on their chapters for peer proofing tomorrow and sat heavily in his chair as he thought again about Darrow Feud. It had been eleven years. If he hadn't done it now, he supposed he never would.
"Mr. Mandrey?"
Dylan looked up to see the same kid who'd asked the question, remembering suddenly that his name was Malcolm.
"Sorry to bother you, sir, but I was wondering if," he floundered a little, setting the copy of Darrow Farm on Dylan's desk.
He would want an autograph; they always did. He had turned to dig in his bag, looking for a pen, Dylan had no doubt. Dylan tried not to sigh as he reached into his desk and took out his own pen, signing the dust jacket as he slid it back to him. He tried to smile, but it was so hard with the proof of his failure sitting right in his face.
"There ya go, kid. I usually charge twenty-five bucks for one of those, but your tuition keeps me warm, so this one is on the house."
Malcolm smiled, but when his hand came out of the bag, he was holding a sheaf of papers.
"Thank you, sir, but I'd like to know if you'd take a look at something I've been writing.
His hands were shaking a little, and Dylan looked at the clock before taking the offered pages. Malcolm's class was his last class of the day, and he had a few minutes to look over the kid's notes. He wasn't in a hurry to return to his dreary little condo, only having an evening of looking at the blinking cursor ahead of him or the equally bleak numbers in his bank account that never seemed to rise high enough. He laid the notes out, scanning them in a perfunctory way, but the farther in he got, the more interested he became.
"I hope it's not too forward, but I just loved your book so much. I know it's rough, but it could be something if I had your help. If not the actual sequel to Darrow Farm, perhaps the spiritual successor?"
Dylan devoured the pages as he read, his anger beginning to kindle. Who the hell did this kid think he was? This was plagiarism! This was theft! He'd see this boy thrown out of college, out of New Hampshire, but the most galling part was that it was good. He could have overlooked it if it had been trash, but Malcolm had written something great. To hell with Darrow Farm. This was something better than it could ever be. He only had a few chapters, but they continued the pioneer families' story flawlessly. The more he read, the less angry he became, and the more curiosity took over.
"Do you like it, sir?" Malcolm asked, and Dylan's face must have looked ghastly because he had taken a step back from the desk, "I know it's pretty rough, but I think, with your help,"
"This is astonishing," Dylan breathed, looking up at Malcolm as if he couldn't believe the boy was real, "You wrote this?"
Malcolm's smile was back in force, "I did. I wrote it because you inspired me, sir. Do you really like it?"
Dylan almost didn't trust himself to talk. He loved it. He wanted to help Malcolm make it great, he wanted to introduce him to his agent and tell him that there would finally be a sequel to Darrow Farm, maybe even two, he wanted to smash this boy's head in and take his notes and leave him for dead, he wanted to rip his skull open and eat his brains like some cannibal trying to get at his thoughts.
The last image gave him an idea, however, and his smile was genuine when he looked back up at the smiling young man whose future would likely be so much brighter than his.
Or, it might have been.
"How would you like to have dinner with me, Malcolm? We'll talk about your book, and then you can come back to my apartment and compare notes. I love what you have here, and I'm excited to get started right away."
Malcolm looked as though Christmas had come early, "I would love to, sir. Wow, you have no idea how much of a dream come true this is."
"Likewise," Dylan said, and as he rose, the two walked and chatted as Dylan made plans just below the surface.
* * * * *
"What have you done?" Sereph asked as he stood in Dylan's dingy apartment and looked at the comatose form of his student.
Dylan didn't think it took much imagination to see what he'd done. He'd fed the kid, they'd talked about his book, and while he was in the bathroom, Dylan had slipped something extra into his drink. It hadn't been anything too insidious, some sleeping pills his doctor had prescribed him a few years ago, but when Malcomn had started stumbling on the way to his apartment, he had wondered if the dosage had been too high.
He had called Mr. Sereph after putting the sleeping kid on the couch, telling him that he had his payment, but he would need to come and get it this time.
"I don't accept cash or checks, you know that. Transfer the money into my account and,"
"You'll want to come to get this payment, Mr. Sereph. Trust me."
Sereph had seemed eager to see what Dylan had for him, but now he looked mad enough to chew iron and spit nails, as Dylan's Grandfather had often said.
"Is this your idea of a joke?" Said Sereph, and suddenly he was in Dylan's face, the eyes behind his mirrored shades the color of piss.
"No, far from it," Said Dylan, standing his ground, "you told me once that, with my talent, you would have just paid me for it and been done with me, but I had money, so I could afford what others couldn't."
"Get to the point." Sereph spat, his face still very close to Dylans, close enough to make him afraid he would bite him.
"I take that to mean that you take these stories from other writers. I want his story. You can keep whatever else he has in there, but I want Darrow Feud. Take the rest, take him, take whatever you need, but I need that story!"
It was Mr. Serephs turn to take a step back, but his smile had returned.
"Wake him up before whatever you gave him wears off," he said as he took a familiar-looking book from his coat, "It might help if he's a little groggy when he makes this deal."
* * * * *
Calder Mane smiled as the lights came up, and Dylan was once again bathed in their glow.
He was back, riding the euphoria of his high, and he never wanted to come down. He had finally done it. He had conquered his white whale, and as the crowd stopped clapping and the house band quieted, Calder Mane turned to fix his regard on him.
"I never thought I'd say this, but it's a pleasure to have you on the show again, Mr. Mandrey, with your sequel to Darrow Farm."
The crowd clapped again, and Dylan gave them a peek at the first cover.
It had been the greatest six months of his life. He had received Malcolm's story in the usual way, but Mr. Sereph had refused any sort of payment. The book, oozing whatever it was that made up a person's talent, went into his coat, and out came a smaller one, which he handed to Dylan.
"The boy's talent was substantial. This will help other writers and more than makes up for your foolishness. I had never considered doing business like this, but you humans are always so inventive when it comes to the old sins. Please let me know if you stumble across any other tasty morsels in that class you teach. The writing world truly is a tank of sharks, and their hunger is wide and deep."
Malcolm had dropped out of his class the following week, and Dylan saw that he had left the university all together.
He hoped the boy found something to take up his empty hours but didn't really think about what he had done past that.
All writers were liars, after all, and lying to themselves was no exception.
"So it's been a decade since you sat in that very spot and brought us Darrow Farm. What led you to write a sequel after so long away from the source material?"
"Well, Calder, inspiration is a fickle business. Sometimes, it truly finds you when you least expect it."
2023.05.24 14:35 Erutious The Sweetest Nectar
Dylan drummed his fingers on the desk as he stared at the blank screen.
The Darrow Feuds
By Dylan Mandrey
He had been looking at that title for three months, and it was starting to grind against his sanity. He needed this book to come together, but he just didn't have the words. The sequel to Darrow Farm had been highly anticipated after the first one had spent six weeks on the New York Times Best Seller List. It had been a somber tale of pioneers looking for a fresh start and the strange and frightening neighbors they had found in the woods around Utah's Helmen Valley. People had loved his depiction of the farmers' daughters, especially Gloria, who had ultimately been tempted by the strange creatures who resided within the forest and decided to leave the safety of her protestant father and his homestead. They had wanted to know what happened next for the pioneer family, and Dylan's agent had been absolutely feral for his notes on the next part of the series.
Dylan was getting pretty interested in those notes too, wherever they were.
The fact of the matter was that Dylan had begun to come to terms with the idea that he might not have another book in him.
It hadn't been so bad at first. The book was successful, selling something like six thousand copies in its first week. He had been happy, his publisher had been happy, and his agent had been all smiles when he congratulated him on making the list. This was amazing for a first-time author, but when the book sold another six thousand copies the week after that, Dylan was taken by surprise. Suddenly his book was being read by book clubs, discussed on literary blogs, and his agent called to tell him that the prime-time show Calder Mane Tonight wanted to offer him a guest spot on his show for Friday.
"It's a small segment, no more than ten minutes, but it's huge for a first-time writer." his agent had assured him.
After the interview, he'd gone on to sell something like fifty thousand copies, and that's when the networks had taken notice.
Four months ago, he'd signed a contract with Amazon for the first season of Darrow Farm and cashed a check larger than anything he'd ever seen. Suddenly he could do no wrong. Suddenly he was the industry's gold boy, and everyone wanted a word with him. He made the circuit with the show's director, and book sales continued to soar. He was on Calder Mane again, plugging the show, when the notion of a sequel was first pitched, and it had been his utter ruination.
"So, with the success of your first book, how long before we see a sequel?"
Dylan had been unable to answer, gaping like a fish before he tried to formulate something witty that wouldn't sound too unsure.
"I'm working on the first draft as we speak," he said, flashing the serpent's grin that seems to be the providence of all successful writers.
Who had said all writers were liars? Probably many people, most of them as big, if not bigger, liars than he was. Here he sat three months after making such a pompous claim with nothing to show for it but a title and a working title at that. He was no closer to finishing this book than he was to finishing the first chapter, and as Dylan sighed and put his head in his hands, he came to terms with the hard truth.
He would never finish this book, and when the curtain fell on season one of Darrow Farm, there would never be a season two.
"Now, now," said a voice from the chair in front of him, and Dylan sat up quickly as he looked at the odd man who was suddenly in his study, "that's a bit bleak for someone your age."
Dylan took in the odd man, his mind stuck in that strange limbo between fear and anger. How had this man come to be in his study, a room that existed behind two locked doors? The locks had seemed a little needless until this point. Dylan lived in a fairly upscale neighborhood, in a three-bedroom loft that he would probably have to move out of in the next five years if he didn't get something written. He couldn't remember the last time he had heard sirens on his street, let alone heard about a break-in.
The man didn't appear to need any of his stuff, however. He looked more like a carnival barker in his long black coat, the white shirt beneath looking crisp enough to cut. One polished boot was perched on a knee, and his blonde hair looked odd as it hung over his mirrored sunglasses. He was holding a copy of Darrow Farm, which he snapped shut as Dylan looked at him. The book was a prop, much like his attire, and Dylan suddenly felt the worm of curiosity poking to the surface.
"Who the hell are you?" Dylan asked, the words sounding way more confident than he felt.
"I am Richard T Sereph, and I am a blessing to men like you." said the man, flashing an obscene amount of pearly white teeth as he smiled.
"Men like me?" Dylan asked, "I assume you mean writers?"
"I was speaking of desperate men, but I often find that the two go hand in hand."
Dylan sighed, "I don't know how you got in here, but I want you out of my study before I call the police. I am hard at work, and you,"
"Oh, I can tell," the man said, tossing the book onto the glass top of Dylan's coffee table, "You've been hard at work for the last three months. Procrastination is a full-time job, isn't it, Mr. Mandry."
"Now, just who the hell do you,"
"If you were a man of lesser means, I'd offer to pay you for your talent and take my leave, but you have something that many don't, and it makes the world go round."
Dylan stood up, confident that he understood where this was going now.
This huckster was after his money, and Dylan was in no mood to indulge him.
"Get the hell out of my house. At this point, I don't think I need to call the police. If you keep moving on this course, I'll toss you out myself."
The man smiled his predatory smile and reached into his coat. Dylan's compass suddenly swung around to fear again, and he took a step back as he tensed for the shot. The man would shoot him now, Dylan could already see the gun coming out, and he wondered what the news would make of his death? Famous writer killed before his time, they would say, and when the thud hit his desk, he could already feel the burning in his chest.
Instead, he opened his eyes to find a small leather-bound book sitting on the edge of his desk.
"For those with so much imagination, your kind always seems to need proof."
The book wasn't large, no great demonic tomb or heavy arcane bit of binding. It was about the size of an average paperback, about two hundred pages, but the leather covering it looked ancient. It was cracked, the symbols on the cover broken by jagged rifts, and the spine bore neither name nor legend. As it sat there, Dylan felt like something on that cover was watching him, something that did not love him.
"What is that?" Dylan asked, the man already crossing to the door.
"A book," he said, as though it should be obvious, "a very special one. It will give you what you need, and when you have it, don't hesitate to call me for more."
He took a normal-looking business card from the front pocket of his coat and laid it on the end table beside the door.
He left then, but when Dylan got up to follow him out, he found his hallway empty. He searched the house, but it was occupied by only one slightly ruffled writer and one strange little black book. Dylan checked the doors, returning to his work when he was certain that no one was lurking in his home.
He sat in front of the computer, but his heart wasn't in it.
His eyes kept straying to that little book, and with every glance, his curiosity grew. It was nothing, just an old book, but his mind refused to believe it. It was a mystery, something new, a Pandora's box just waiting to be opened. He typed a few sentences but immediately deleted them afterward. He'd been doing that for months, the words sounding lame as they sat like slugs on the page.
He floundered in this way for most of the afternoon, the book judging him as he played at work. More than once, he started to reach for it, always thinking better. More than once, he started to simply push it off the desk, but he felt sure that it would open its pages and there would be teeth waiting to bite him. In the end, he wasted another short time, and as the sun set and the day died, Dylan finally took the book in hand.
He couldn't stand it anymore, and when he opened it up, he was suddenly sorry he had given in.
The book made a hollow sound as it landed on the ground, but Dylan was suddenly rendered blind. An icepick had lodged itself between his eyes, and the sudden and blinding revelation made him glad he had been sitting. He had experienced insight before, but this was akin to the most intimate of defilement. If he could find the strength to lift his hand, Dylan imagined that he would feel his brains pattering to the carpet where a bullet had ripped through his skull. He was falling, falling, falling into some bright abyss from which there was no escape, and then, suddenly, it was all gone.
He was sitting in his chair, his hands empty but his mind full.
He wrote the rest of that day and well into the next, and when he emailed his agent the first ten chapters of what he'd written, his response was one of bemused confusion.
"This is not a sequel to Darrow Farm," he said when he called him three hours later.
"Is that a problem?" Dylan asked, already guessing the answer.
"If the other chapters are as good as these? I doubt it will be," he said, and Dylan could hear the smile in his voice.
* * * * *
He was sitting at his laptop again, waiting to be inspired.
Roland's War had been the story of a cavalry deserter who defends the town he has settled in from a group of his old army brothers turned outlaw. It was well received, outselling Darrow Farm and earning a movie this time instead of a tv show. Kurt Russel had even been cast as Roland, the main character, and the check they had cut him that time was even bigger than the one before. The royalties from the Darrow Farm tv show had also been substantial, and that's why he found himself here again.
Amazon wanted a season two, his publisher wanted a sequel, and Dylan, yet again, found himself trying to create gold from straw.
He had written a few sentences that he liked and a few paragraphs that he felt confident about, but he knew he would delete most of it later. The book was DOA, and he knew the likelihood of it all coming together was slim to nil. He might as well try to write a sequel to Roland's War for all the good it would do him.
As he wrote and erased, he thought again about the man in the black coat. He had looked at the business card more than once since that day a year ago, and he opened his desk drawer as he took it out, and looked at it again. Richard T Sereph and Libras Talent were printed on the front, along with a phone number. He could call him again, Dylan knew, but he had resisted up until now. He had no proof that Roland's War had anything to do with the book Sereph had left behind.
But, he thought as he hit the delete key on the better part of an hour's work, he didn't have any proof that it hadn't.
The phone rang only once before Dylan heard that smooth, oily voice waft through his ears.
"Why, Mr. Mandrey. To what do we owe the pleasure?"
Dylan gulped; the man knew his number.
A number he had never given him.
"I need more," he half whispered, and he could hear the muscles in the old demon's face as they creaked into a grin.
"The price is one hundred thousand. Send it to the account I am about to message you."
A text popped up with the information to a private bank account.
"And when do I," but Sereph cut him off.
"When the money is transferred, you will receive your book."
"But how long?" Dylan asked, his fingers dancing over the keys as he finished the operation.
He had hit send on the money when a cheery ding dong came from downstairs.
There was a box on the doorstep, and inside was another leather-bound book.
Mr. Sereph had already hung up.
* * * * *
After eight years, Dylan was still looking at an empty screen with the words Darrows Feud on them.
In those eight years, he had written five more books and made five more payments to Mr. Sereph.
In five years, he had written two more cowboy dramas, a sci-fi novel that had shocked and impressed his agent and his peers, a Slice of Life drama they had turned into a successful tv series, and a Fantasy novel that had even George R raving. They had bred three more movies as well and book sails in the hundreds of thousands. The name Dylan Mandry was synonymous with innovation and flexibility, and he had offers from as many colleges as he did conventions. None of the big ivy league ones, of course, but Dartmouth had offered him a very comfortable position if he was interested in relocating. They wanted him to teach his technique to aspiring writers, which was why Dylan had to turn them down.
It would be difficult to teach a class on "Get rich and outsource your ideas to a magic man with books that scrambled your brains 101."
His agent and his publisher had long ago stopped asking for a sequel to Darrow Farm. They had decided that he was a one-book man, and they had both made enough money off him to be satisfied with his writing process. They were happy to take his work and a portion of his royalties, and these days the checks were sizeable indeed.
Though, Dylan knew that soon they wouldn't be enough.
Mr. Sereph's prices were akin to the pushers he had seen in his neighborhood when he was a kid. The first taste was always free, and then they had a customer for life. Sereph's prices seemed to double with every call. One hundred grand became two hundred grand became four hundred grand, became eight hundred grand, became one million dollars. "I rounded it down since you're a frequent customer," he'd said, and Dylan had paid it even though it hurt to part with it. Despite being successful, he wasn't as rich as everyone thought. Giving Sereph several million dollars had hurt, and if the next payment followed suit, he would be nearly broke.
The richest beggar in literature, no wonder most of them just drank it all away.
He tried to resist the urge to call this time, watching the cursor blink as he tried to make the words come. Had it all been a fluke? Had he really thought he had another book in him? Had he been so foolish as to think he could write something that good a second time? No, he thought, the magic was still in there; it was him that was broken. He had gotten so used to taking the easy way that he'd forgotten how the craft worked. Mr. Sereph was just another pusher, and Dylan was his loyal junkie who just kept coming back for another hit.
He stared at the blinking cursor for another ten minutes, feeling his time ticking away, before finally calling Mr. Sereph.
"Well, well, well, if it isn't the writer of the decade. I've heard your name bandied about with great expectations lately."
"Yeah, thanks for all that, but I need help with this next book."
"You know the price," Sereph said, "two million in my account, then you,"
"I, uh, I need help with a specific story this time."
Sereph was quiet for so long that Dylan thought the line had gone dead.
"Hello?" Dylan asked, desperately hoping he hadn't offended the man somehow, "Hello? Are you there? I just need,"
"I'm sorry, Mr. Mandrey, but that's not how it works."
Dylan was speechless for a moment, "How what works?"
"I can limit you to a specific genre if you like, most of your fame has been in frontier dramas, but I can't help you with a particular story. It doesn't work like that."
Dylan wanted to get angry, he wanted to rant and rail at this man who had taken so much money from him, but the curiosity that had brought him to writing in the first place made him ask the question that was rolling inside his head.
"How does it work?"
That same muscle-tightening sound, like old ropes on a mast, could be heard as Mr. Sereph flashed his crest kid smile from the other side of the phone.
"Do you care?"
Dylan did, but he said no.
Some things were better left unsaid.
* * * * *
"Mr. Mandrey, how do you write across multiple genres like that? Where do you find the inspiration?"
Dylan hoped they couldn't see him hide his guilty smile as he buried it.
"Well, I find that inspiration is fickle. Sometimes it gives you a bounty, but not always what you need. I have been hoping to recapture that inspiration soon, but so far, it eludes me."
Class was almost over, and he always let the students pick his brain at the end. Dartmouth had been glad to have him, and the move to New Hampshire had been easy. Dylan had been able to pack all of his possessions into a suitcase, the ones he hadn't sold. He had kept two suits, some day wear, his laptop, and a few books. He had come to a new city with little but the clothes on his back.
If the five years before had been tumultuous, then the five that came after had been turbulent. He still had no sequel to Darrow Farm, but he had published two more best-sellers. Both had been two years apart, and both had been the sort of Oat Operas that he had started with. The first was the best of them, Flanders Holdfast, and when Amazon had asked if they could adapt it into a series, he had told them to go right ahead. They had asked if he would mind helping them with a second season when all was said and done, and he had also agreed to that. Whatever magic had produced Darrow Farm had dried up, and he had come to terms with the fact that he was dry too.
The second had been only the year before, and that was when he had come to terms with the fact that he had a problem.
Margarette's Sache had sold decently, but it had come nowhere near the cost of it. That had been when Dylan had sold all his things and moved to New Hampshire. The loft he lived in, the first eds he'd collected in college, the Dicken's third eds that had been his fathers, his clothes, his signature, his blood, his sperm, whatever it took to get that next hit of success. He had long ago given up on the idea that one of these hits would be the sequel he wanted, but that hardly mattered. He wanted the high of seeing his name in print, the euphoria of being in the mouths of every important person in his circle, the dizzying feeling as he looked down from his ivory tower at all the little people who wished they could be him.
That's why he was working here.
He needed the money, he needed it bad, and if he intended to feel that jolt again before he died, he would pay for another hit of that sweetest nectar.
He realized he'd been staring out the window and pointed to a young man in the front row. He thought his name might be Max or maybe Phillip, but after the number on the roster passed ten, Dylan had trouble remembering everyone unless they made an impression. He regretted calling on him when he stood up, that hateful artifact clutched in his hand like a crucifix. He wondered if Dracula had looked at crosses the way he now looked at copies of Darrow Farm, and as the boy's teeth fixed into a flattered grin, Dylan tried to make his own do likewise.
"I just wanted to tell you what this book meant to me when I was a kid. I loved all your books, and I'm not a sci-fi reader usually, but this one really spoke to me. I know you must hear it all the time, but do you think you'll ever do a sequel to Darrow Farm?"
Dylan thought about how to answer the question tactfully and finally decided on the truth.
"No, probably not. I've been trying for years, and I just can't make it work."
They dispersed then, seeming to understand that this was a good time to make themselves scarce. He reminded them to work on their chapters for peer proofing tomorrow and sat heavily in his chair as he thought again about Darrow Feud. It had been eleven years. If he hadn't done it now, he supposed he never would.
"Mr. Mandrey?"
Dylan looked up to see the same kid who'd asked the question, remembering suddenly that his name was Malcolm.
"Sorry to bother you, sir, but I was wondering if," he floundered a little, setting the copy of Darrow Farm on Dylan's desk.
He would want an autograph; they always did. He had turned to dig in his bag, looking for a pen, Dylan had no doubt. Dylan tried not to sigh as he reached into his desk and took out his own pen, signing the dust jacket as he slid it back to him. He tried to smile, but it was so hard with the proof of his failure sitting right in his face.
"There ya go, kid. I usually charge twenty-five bucks for one of those, but your tuition keeps me warm, so this one is on the house."
Malcolm smiled, but when his hand came out of the bag, he was holding a sheaf of papers.
"Thank you, sir, but I'd like to know if you'd take a look at something I've been writing.
His hands were shaking a little, and Dylan looked at the clock before taking the offered pages. Malcolm's class was his last class of the day, and he had a few minutes to look over the kid's notes. He wasn't in a hurry to return to his dreary little condo, only having an evening of looking at the blinking cursor ahead of him or the equally bleak numbers in his bank account that never seemed to rise high enough. He laid the notes out, scanning them in a perfunctory way, but the farther in he got, the more interested he became.
"I hope it's not too forward, but I just loved your book so much. I know it's rough, but it could be something if I had your help. If not the actual sequel to Darrow Farm, perhaps the spiritual successor?"
Dylan devoured the pages as he read, his anger beginning to kindle. Who the hell did this kid think he was? This was plagiarism! This was theft! He'd see this boy thrown out of college, out of New Hampshire, but the most galling part was that it was good. He could have overlooked it if it had been trash, but Malcolm had written something great. To hell with Darrow Farm. This was something better than it could ever be. He only had a few chapters, but they continued the pioneer families' story flawlessly. The more he read, the less angry he became, and the more curiosity took over.
"Do you like it, sir?" Malcolm asked, and Dylan's face must have looked ghastly because he had taken a step back from the desk, "I know it's pretty rough, but I think, with your help,"
"This is astonishing," Dylan breathed, looking up at Malcolm as if he couldn't believe the boy was real, "You wrote this?"
Malcolm's smile was back in force, "I did. I wrote it because you inspired me, sir. Do you really like it?"
Dylan almost didn't trust himself to talk. He loved it. He wanted to help Malcolm make it great, he wanted to introduce him to his agent and tell him that there would finally be a sequel to Darrow Farm, maybe even two, he wanted to smash this boy's head in and take his notes and leave him for dead, he wanted to rip his skull open and eat his brains like some cannibal trying to get at his thoughts.
The last image gave him an idea, however, and his smile was genuine when he looked back up at the smiling young man whose future would likely be so much brighter than his.
Or, it might have been.
"How would you like to have dinner with me, Malcolm? We'll talk about your book, and then you can come back to my apartment and compare notes. I love what you have here, and I'm excited to get started right away."
Malcolm looked as though Christmas had come early, "I would love to, sir. Wow, you have no idea how much of a dream come true this is."
"Likewise," Dylan said, and as he rose, the two walked and chatted as Dylan made plans just below the surface.
* * * * *
"What have you done?" Sereph asked as he stood in Dylan's dingy apartment and looked at the comatose form of his student.
Dylan didn't think it took much imagination to see what he'd done. He'd fed the kid, they'd talked about his book, and while he was in the bathroom, Dylan had slipped something extra into his drink. It hadn't been anything too insidious, some sleeping pills his doctor had prescribed him a few years ago, but when Malcomn had started stumbling on the way to his apartment, he had wondered if the dosage had been too high.
He had called Mr. Sereph after putting the sleeping kid on the couch, telling him that he had his payment, but he would need to come and get it this time.
"I don't accept cash or checks, you know that. Transfer the money into my account and,"
"You'll want to come to get this payment, Mr. Sereph. Trust me."
Sereph had seemed eager to see what Dylan had for him, but now he looked mad enough to chew iron and spit nails, as Dylan's Grandfather had often said.
"Is this your idea of a joke?" Said Sereph, and suddenly he was in Dylan's face, the eyes behind his mirrored shades the color of piss.
"No, far from it," Said Dylan, standing his ground, "you told me once that, with my talent, you would have just paid me for it and been done with me, but I had money, so I could afford what others couldn't."
"Get to the point." Sereph spat, his face still very close to Dylans, close enough to make him afraid he would bite him.
"I take that to mean that you take these stories from other writers. I want his story. You can keep whatever else he has in there, but I want Darrow Feud. Take the rest, take him, take whatever you need, but I need that story!"
It was Mr. Serephs turn to take a step back, but his smile had returned.
"Wake him up before whatever you gave him wears off," he said as he took a familiar-looking book from his coat, "It might help if he's a little groggy when he makes this deal."
* * * * *
Calder Mane smiled as the lights came up, and Dylan was once again bathed in their glow.
He was back, riding the euphoria of his high, and he never wanted to come down. He had finally done it. He had conquered his white whale, and as the crowd stopped clapping and the house band quieted, Calder Mane turned to fix his regard on him.
"I never thought I'd say this, but it's a pleasure to have you on the show again, Mr. Mandrey, with your sequel to Darrow Farm."
The crowd clapped again, and Dylan gave them a peek at the first cover.
It had been the greatest six months of his life. He had received Malcolm's story in the usual way, but Mr. Sereph had refused any sort of payment. The book, oozing whatever it was that made up a person's talent, went into his coat, and out came a smaller one, which he handed to Dylan.
"The boy's talent was substantial. This will help other writers and more than makes up for your foolishness. I had never considered doing business like this, but you humans are always so inventive when it comes to the old sins. Please let me know if you stumble across any other tasty morsels in that class you teach. The writing world truly is a tank of sharks, and their hunger is wide and deep."
Malcolm had dropped out of his class the following week, and Dylan saw that he had left the university all together.
He hoped the boy found something to take up his empty hours but didn't really think about what he had done past that.
All writers were liars, after all, and lying to themselves was no exception.
"So it's been a decade since you sat in that very spot and brought us Darrow Farm. What led you to write a sequel after so long away from the source material?"
"Well, Calder, inspiration is a fickle business. Sometimes, it truly finds you when you least expect it."
submitted by Erutious to Nonsleep [link] [comments]
The Darrow Feuds
By Dylan Mandrey
He had been looking at that title for three months, and it was starting to grind against his sanity. He needed this book to come together, but he just didn't have the words. The sequel to Darrow Farm had been highly anticipated after the first one had spent six weeks on the New York Times Best Seller List. It had been a somber tale of pioneers looking for a fresh start and the strange and frightening neighbors they had found in the woods around Utah's Helmen Valley. People had loved his depiction of the farmers' daughters, especially Gloria, who had ultimately been tempted by the strange creatures who resided within the forest and decided to leave the safety of her protestant father and his homestead. They had wanted to know what happened next for the pioneer family, and Dylan's agent had been absolutely feral for his notes on the next part of the series.
Dylan was getting pretty interested in those notes too, wherever they were.
The fact of the matter was that Dylan had begun to come to terms with the idea that he might not have another book in him.
It hadn't been so bad at first. The book was successful, selling something like six thousand copies in its first week. He had been happy, his publisher had been happy, and his agent had been all smiles when he congratulated him on making the list. This was amazing for a first-time author, but when the book sold another six thousand copies the week after that, Dylan was taken by surprise. Suddenly his book was being read by book clubs, discussed on literary blogs, and his agent called to tell him that the prime-time show Calder Mane Tonight wanted to offer him a guest spot on his show for Friday.
"It's a small segment, no more than ten minutes, but it's huge for a first-time writer." his agent had assured him.
After the interview, he'd gone on to sell something like fifty thousand copies, and that's when the networks had taken notice.
Four months ago, he'd signed a contract with Amazon for the first season of Darrow Farm and cashed a check larger than anything he'd ever seen. Suddenly he could do no wrong. Suddenly he was the industry's gold boy, and everyone wanted a word with him. He made the circuit with the show's director, and book sales continued to soar. He was on Calder Mane again, plugging the show, when the notion of a sequel was first pitched, and it had been his utter ruination.
"So, with the success of your first book, how long before we see a sequel?"
Dylan had been unable to answer, gaping like a fish before he tried to formulate something witty that wouldn't sound too unsure.
"I'm working on the first draft as we speak," he said, flashing the serpent's grin that seems to be the providence of all successful writers.
Who had said all writers were liars? Probably many people, most of them as big, if not bigger, liars than he was. Here he sat three months after making such a pompous claim with nothing to show for it but a title and a working title at that. He was no closer to finishing this book than he was to finishing the first chapter, and as Dylan sighed and put his head in his hands, he came to terms with the hard truth.
He would never finish this book, and when the curtain fell on season one of Darrow Farm, there would never be a season two.
"Now, now," said a voice from the chair in front of him, and Dylan sat up quickly as he looked at the odd man who was suddenly in his study, "that's a bit bleak for someone your age."
Dylan took in the odd man, his mind stuck in that strange limbo between fear and anger. How had this man come to be in his study, a room that existed behind two locked doors? The locks had seemed a little needless until this point. Dylan lived in a fairly upscale neighborhood, in a three-bedroom loft that he would probably have to move out of in the next five years if he didn't get something written. He couldn't remember the last time he had heard sirens on his street, let alone heard about a break-in.
The man didn't appear to need any of his stuff, however. He looked more like a carnival barker in his long black coat, the white shirt beneath looking crisp enough to cut. One polished boot was perched on a knee, and his blonde hair looked odd as it hung over his mirrored sunglasses. He was holding a copy of Darrow Farm, which he snapped shut as Dylan looked at him. The book was a prop, much like his attire, and Dylan suddenly felt the worm of curiosity poking to the surface.
"Who the hell are you?" Dylan asked, the words sounding way more confident than he felt.
"I am Richard T Sereph, and I am a blessing to men like you." said the man, flashing an obscene amount of pearly white teeth as he smiled.
"Men like me?" Dylan asked, "I assume you mean writers?"
"I was speaking of desperate men, but I often find that the two go hand in hand."
Dylan sighed, "I don't know how you got in here, but I want you out of my study before I call the police. I am hard at work, and you,"
"Oh, I can tell," the man said, tossing the book onto the glass top of Dylan's coffee table, "You've been hard at work for the last three months. Procrastination is a full-time job, isn't it, Mr. Mandry."
"Now, just who the hell do you,"
"If you were a man of lesser means, I'd offer to pay you for your talent and take my leave, but you have something that many don't, and it makes the world go round."
Dylan stood up, confident that he understood where this was going now.
This huckster was after his money, and Dylan was in no mood to indulge him.
"Get the hell out of my house. At this point, I don't think I need to call the police. If you keep moving on this course, I'll toss you out myself."
The man smiled his predatory smile and reached into his coat. Dylan's compass suddenly swung around to fear again, and he took a step back as he tensed for the shot. The man would shoot him now, Dylan could already see the gun coming out, and he wondered what the news would make of his death? Famous writer killed before his time, they would say, and when the thud hit his desk, he could already feel the burning in his chest.
Instead, he opened his eyes to find a small leather-bound book sitting on the edge of his desk.
"For those with so much imagination, your kind always seems to need proof."
The book wasn't large, no great demonic tomb or heavy arcane bit of binding. It was about the size of an average paperback, about two hundred pages, but the leather covering it looked ancient. It was cracked, the symbols on the cover broken by jagged rifts, and the spine bore neither name nor legend. As it sat there, Dylan felt like something on that cover was watching him, something that did not love him.
"What is that?" Dylan asked, the man already crossing to the door.
"A book," he said, as though it should be obvious, "a very special one. It will give you what you need, and when you have it, don't hesitate to call me for more."
He took a normal-looking business card from the front pocket of his coat and laid it on the end table beside the door.
He left then, but when Dylan got up to follow him out, he found his hallway empty. He searched the house, but it was occupied by only one slightly ruffled writer and one strange little black book. Dylan checked the doors, returning to his work when he was certain that no one was lurking in his home.
He sat in front of the computer, but his heart wasn't in it.
His eyes kept straying to that little book, and with every glance, his curiosity grew. It was nothing, just an old book, but his mind refused to believe it. It was a mystery, something new, a Pandora's box just waiting to be opened. He typed a few sentences but immediately deleted them afterward. He'd been doing that for months, the words sounding lame as they sat like slugs on the page.
He floundered in this way for most of the afternoon, the book judging him as he played at work. More than once, he started to reach for it, always thinking better. More than once, he started to simply push it off the desk, but he felt sure that it would open its pages and there would be teeth waiting to bite him. In the end, he wasted another short time, and as the sun set and the day died, Dylan finally took the book in hand.
He couldn't stand it anymore, and when he opened it up, he was suddenly sorry he had given in.
The book made a hollow sound as it landed on the ground, but Dylan was suddenly rendered blind. An icepick had lodged itself between his eyes, and the sudden and blinding revelation made him glad he had been sitting. He had experienced insight before, but this was akin to the most intimate of defilement. If he could find the strength to lift his hand, Dylan imagined that he would feel his brains pattering to the carpet where a bullet had ripped through his skull. He was falling, falling, falling into some bright abyss from which there was no escape, and then, suddenly, it was all gone.
He was sitting in his chair, his hands empty but his mind full.
He wrote the rest of that day and well into the next, and when he emailed his agent the first ten chapters of what he'd written, his response was one of bemused confusion.
"This is not a sequel to Darrow Farm," he said when he called him three hours later.
"Is that a problem?" Dylan asked, already guessing the answer.
"If the other chapters are as good as these? I doubt it will be," he said, and Dylan could hear the smile in his voice.
* * * * *
He was sitting at his laptop again, waiting to be inspired.
Roland's War had been the story of a cavalry deserter who defends the town he has settled in from a group of his old army brothers turned outlaw. It was well received, outselling Darrow Farm and earning a movie this time instead of a tv show. Kurt Russel had even been cast as Roland, the main character, and the check they had cut him that time was even bigger than the one before. The royalties from the Darrow Farm tv show had also been substantial, and that's why he found himself here again.
Amazon wanted a season two, his publisher wanted a sequel, and Dylan, yet again, found himself trying to create gold from straw.
He had written a few sentences that he liked and a few paragraphs that he felt confident about, but he knew he would delete most of it later. The book was DOA, and he knew the likelihood of it all coming together was slim to nil. He might as well try to write a sequel to Roland's War for all the good it would do him.
As he wrote and erased, he thought again about the man in the black coat. He had looked at the business card more than once since that day a year ago, and he opened his desk drawer as he took it out, and looked at it again. Richard T Sereph and Libras Talent were printed on the front, along with a phone number. He could call him again, Dylan knew, but he had resisted up until now. He had no proof that Roland's War had anything to do with the book Sereph had left behind.
But, he thought as he hit the delete key on the better part of an hour's work, he didn't have any proof that it hadn't.
The phone rang only once before Dylan heard that smooth, oily voice waft through his ears.
"Why, Mr. Mandrey. To what do we owe the pleasure?"
Dylan gulped; the man knew his number.
A number he had never given him.
"I need more," he half whispered, and he could hear the muscles in the old demon's face as they creaked into a grin.
"The price is one hundred thousand. Send it to the account I am about to message you."
A text popped up with the information to a private bank account.
"And when do I," but Sereph cut him off.
"When the money is transferred, you will receive your book."
"But how long?" Dylan asked, his fingers dancing over the keys as he finished the operation.
He had hit send on the money when a cheery ding dong came from downstairs.
There was a box on the doorstep, and inside was another leather-bound book.
Mr. Sereph had already hung up.
* * * * *
After eight years, Dylan was still looking at an empty screen with the words Darrows Feud on them.
In those eight years, he had written five more books and made five more payments to Mr. Sereph.
In five years, he had written two more cowboy dramas, a sci-fi novel that had shocked and impressed his agent and his peers, a Slice of Life drama they had turned into a successful tv series, and a Fantasy novel that had even George R raving. They had bred three more movies as well and book sails in the hundreds of thousands. The name Dylan Mandry was synonymous with innovation and flexibility, and he had offers from as many colleges as he did conventions. None of the big ivy league ones, of course, but Dartmouth had offered him a very comfortable position if he was interested in relocating. They wanted him to teach his technique to aspiring writers, which was why Dylan had to turn them down.
It would be difficult to teach a class on "Get rich and outsource your ideas to a magic man with books that scrambled your brains 101."
His agent and his publisher had long ago stopped asking for a sequel to Darrow Farm. They had decided that he was a one-book man, and they had both made enough money off him to be satisfied with his writing process. They were happy to take his work and a portion of his royalties, and these days the checks were sizeable indeed.
Though, Dylan knew that soon they wouldn't be enough.
Mr. Sereph's prices were akin to the pushers he had seen in his neighborhood when he was a kid. The first taste was always free, and then they had a customer for life. Sereph's prices seemed to double with every call. One hundred grand became two hundred grand became four hundred grand, became eight hundred grand, became one million dollars. "I rounded it down since you're a frequent customer," he'd said, and Dylan had paid it even though it hurt to part with it. Despite being successful, he wasn't as rich as everyone thought. Giving Sereph several million dollars had hurt, and if the next payment followed suit, he would be nearly broke.
The richest beggar in literature, no wonder most of them just drank it all away.
He tried to resist the urge to call this time, watching the cursor blink as he tried to make the words come. Had it all been a fluke? Had he really thought he had another book in him? Had he been so foolish as to think he could write something that good a second time? No, he thought, the magic was still in there; it was him that was broken. He had gotten so used to taking the easy way that he'd forgotten how the craft worked. Mr. Sereph was just another pusher, and Dylan was his loyal junkie who just kept coming back for another hit.
He stared at the blinking cursor for another ten minutes, feeling his time ticking away, before finally calling Mr. Sereph.
"Well, well, well, if it isn't the writer of the decade. I've heard your name bandied about with great expectations lately."
"Yeah, thanks for all that, but I need help with this next book."
"You know the price," Sereph said, "two million in my account, then you,"
"I, uh, I need help with a specific story this time."
Sereph was quiet for so long that Dylan thought the line had gone dead.
"Hello?" Dylan asked, desperately hoping he hadn't offended the man somehow, "Hello? Are you there? I just need,"
"I'm sorry, Mr. Mandrey, but that's not how it works."
Dylan was speechless for a moment, "How what works?"
"I can limit you to a specific genre if you like, most of your fame has been in frontier dramas, but I can't help you with a particular story. It doesn't work like that."
Dylan wanted to get angry, he wanted to rant and rail at this man who had taken so much money from him, but the curiosity that had brought him to writing in the first place made him ask the question that was rolling inside his head.
"How does it work?"
That same muscle-tightening sound, like old ropes on a mast, could be heard as Mr. Sereph flashed his crest kid smile from the other side of the phone.
"Do you care?"
Dylan did, but he said no.
Some things were better left unsaid.
* * * * *
"Mr. Mandrey, how do you write across multiple genres like that? Where do you find the inspiration?"
Dylan hoped they couldn't see him hide his guilty smile as he buried it.
"Well, I find that inspiration is fickle. Sometimes it gives you a bounty, but not always what you need. I have been hoping to recapture that inspiration soon, but so far, it eludes me."
Class was almost over, and he always let the students pick his brain at the end. Dartmouth had been glad to have him, and the move to New Hampshire had been easy. Dylan had been able to pack all of his possessions into a suitcase, the ones he hadn't sold. He had kept two suits, some day wear, his laptop, and a few books. He had come to a new city with little but the clothes on his back.
If the five years before had been tumultuous, then the five that came after had been turbulent. He still had no sequel to Darrow Farm, but he had published two more best-sellers. Both had been two years apart, and both had been the sort of Oat Operas that he had started with. The first was the best of them, Flanders Holdfast, and when Amazon had asked if they could adapt it into a series, he had told them to go right ahead. They had asked if he would mind helping them with a second season when all was said and done, and he had also agreed to that. Whatever magic had produced Darrow Farm had dried up, and he had come to terms with the fact that he was dry too.
The second had been only the year before, and that was when he had come to terms with the fact that he had a problem.
Margarette's Sache had sold decently, but it had come nowhere near the cost of it. That had been when Dylan had sold all his things and moved to New Hampshire. The loft he lived in, the first eds he'd collected in college, the Dicken's third eds that had been his fathers, his clothes, his signature, his blood, his sperm, whatever it took to get that next hit of success. He had long ago given up on the idea that one of these hits would be the sequel he wanted, but that hardly mattered. He wanted the high of seeing his name in print, the euphoria of being in the mouths of every important person in his circle, the dizzying feeling as he looked down from his ivory tower at all the little people who wished they could be him.
That's why he was working here.
He needed the money, he needed it bad, and if he intended to feel that jolt again before he died, he would pay for another hit of that sweetest nectar.
He realized he'd been staring out the window and pointed to a young man in the front row. He thought his name might be Max or maybe Phillip, but after the number on the roster passed ten, Dylan had trouble remembering everyone unless they made an impression. He regretted calling on him when he stood up, that hateful artifact clutched in his hand like a crucifix. He wondered if Dracula had looked at crosses the way he now looked at copies of Darrow Farm, and as the boy's teeth fixed into a flattered grin, Dylan tried to make his own do likewise.
"I just wanted to tell you what this book meant to me when I was a kid. I loved all your books, and I'm not a sci-fi reader usually, but this one really spoke to me. I know you must hear it all the time, but do you think you'll ever do a sequel to Darrow Farm?"
Dylan thought about how to answer the question tactfully and finally decided on the truth.
"No, probably not. I've been trying for years, and I just can't make it work."
They dispersed then, seeming to understand that this was a good time to make themselves scarce. He reminded them to work on their chapters for peer proofing tomorrow and sat heavily in his chair as he thought again about Darrow Feud. It had been eleven years. If he hadn't done it now, he supposed he never would.
"Mr. Mandrey?"
Dylan looked up to see the same kid who'd asked the question, remembering suddenly that his name was Malcolm.
"Sorry to bother you, sir, but I was wondering if," he floundered a little, setting the copy of Darrow Farm on Dylan's desk.
He would want an autograph; they always did. He had turned to dig in his bag, looking for a pen, Dylan had no doubt. Dylan tried not to sigh as he reached into his desk and took out his own pen, signing the dust jacket as he slid it back to him. He tried to smile, but it was so hard with the proof of his failure sitting right in his face.
"There ya go, kid. I usually charge twenty-five bucks for one of those, but your tuition keeps me warm, so this one is on the house."
Malcolm smiled, but when his hand came out of the bag, he was holding a sheaf of papers.
"Thank you, sir, but I'd like to know if you'd take a look at something I've been writing.
His hands were shaking a little, and Dylan looked at the clock before taking the offered pages. Malcolm's class was his last class of the day, and he had a few minutes to look over the kid's notes. He wasn't in a hurry to return to his dreary little condo, only having an evening of looking at the blinking cursor ahead of him or the equally bleak numbers in his bank account that never seemed to rise high enough. He laid the notes out, scanning them in a perfunctory way, but the farther in he got, the more interested he became.
"I hope it's not too forward, but I just loved your book so much. I know it's rough, but it could be something if I had your help. If not the actual sequel to Darrow Farm, perhaps the spiritual successor?"
Dylan devoured the pages as he read, his anger beginning to kindle. Who the hell did this kid think he was? This was plagiarism! This was theft! He'd see this boy thrown out of college, out of New Hampshire, but the most galling part was that it was good. He could have overlooked it if it had been trash, but Malcolm had written something great. To hell with Darrow Farm. This was something better than it could ever be. He only had a few chapters, but they continued the pioneer families' story flawlessly. The more he read, the less angry he became, and the more curiosity took over.
"Do you like it, sir?" Malcolm asked, and Dylan's face must have looked ghastly because he had taken a step back from the desk, "I know it's pretty rough, but I think, with your help,"
"This is astonishing," Dylan breathed, looking up at Malcolm as if he couldn't believe the boy was real, "You wrote this?"
Malcolm's smile was back in force, "I did. I wrote it because you inspired me, sir. Do you really like it?"
Dylan almost didn't trust himself to talk. He loved it. He wanted to help Malcolm make it great, he wanted to introduce him to his agent and tell him that there would finally be a sequel to Darrow Farm, maybe even two, he wanted to smash this boy's head in and take his notes and leave him for dead, he wanted to rip his skull open and eat his brains like some cannibal trying to get at his thoughts.
The last image gave him an idea, however, and his smile was genuine when he looked back up at the smiling young man whose future would likely be so much brighter than his.
Or, it might have been.
"How would you like to have dinner with me, Malcolm? We'll talk about your book, and then you can come back to my apartment and compare notes. I love what you have here, and I'm excited to get started right away."
Malcolm looked as though Christmas had come early, "I would love to, sir. Wow, you have no idea how much of a dream come true this is."
"Likewise," Dylan said, and as he rose, the two walked and chatted as Dylan made plans just below the surface.
* * * * *
"What have you done?" Sereph asked as he stood in Dylan's dingy apartment and looked at the comatose form of his student.
Dylan didn't think it took much imagination to see what he'd done. He'd fed the kid, they'd talked about his book, and while he was in the bathroom, Dylan had slipped something extra into his drink. It hadn't been anything too insidious, some sleeping pills his doctor had prescribed him a few years ago, but when Malcomn had started stumbling on the way to his apartment, he had wondered if the dosage had been too high.
He had called Mr. Sereph after putting the sleeping kid on the couch, telling him that he had his payment, but he would need to come and get it this time.
"I don't accept cash or checks, you know that. Transfer the money into my account and,"
"You'll want to come to get this payment, Mr. Sereph. Trust me."
Sereph had seemed eager to see what Dylan had for him, but now he looked mad enough to chew iron and spit nails, as Dylan's Grandfather had often said.
"Is this your idea of a joke?" Said Sereph, and suddenly he was in Dylan's face, the eyes behind his mirrored shades the color of piss.
"No, far from it," Said Dylan, standing his ground, "you told me once that, with my talent, you would have just paid me for it and been done with me, but I had money, so I could afford what others couldn't."
"Get to the point." Sereph spat, his face still very close to Dylans, close enough to make him afraid he would bite him.
"I take that to mean that you take these stories from other writers. I want his story. You can keep whatever else he has in there, but I want Darrow Feud. Take the rest, take him, take whatever you need, but I need that story!"
It was Mr. Serephs turn to take a step back, but his smile had returned.
"Wake him up before whatever you gave him wears off," he said as he took a familiar-looking book from his coat, "It might help if he's a little groggy when he makes this deal."
* * * * *
Calder Mane smiled as the lights came up, and Dylan was once again bathed in their glow.
He was back, riding the euphoria of his high, and he never wanted to come down. He had finally done it. He had conquered his white whale, and as the crowd stopped clapping and the house band quieted, Calder Mane turned to fix his regard on him.
"I never thought I'd say this, but it's a pleasure to have you on the show again, Mr. Mandrey, with your sequel to Darrow Farm."
The crowd clapped again, and Dylan gave them a peek at the first cover.
It had been the greatest six months of his life. He had received Malcolm's story in the usual way, but Mr. Sereph had refused any sort of payment. The book, oozing whatever it was that made up a person's talent, went into his coat, and out came a smaller one, which he handed to Dylan.
"The boy's talent was substantial. This will help other writers and more than makes up for your foolishness. I had never considered doing business like this, but you humans are always so inventive when it comes to the old sins. Please let me know if you stumble across any other tasty morsels in that class you teach. The writing world truly is a tank of sharks, and their hunger is wide and deep."
Malcolm had dropped out of his class the following week, and Dylan saw that he had left the university all together.
He hoped the boy found something to take up his empty hours but didn't really think about what he had done past that.
All writers were liars, after all, and lying to themselves was no exception.
"So it's been a decade since you sat in that very spot and brought us Darrow Farm. What led you to write a sequel after so long away from the source material?"
"Well, Calder, inspiration is a fickle business. Sometimes, it truly finds you when you least expect it."
2023.05.24 14:35 Erutious The Sweetest Nectar
Dylan drummed his fingers on the desk as he stared at the blank screen.
The Darrow Feuds
By Dylan Mandrey
He had been looking at that title for three months, and it was starting to grind against his sanity. He needed this book to come together, but he just didn't have the words. The sequel to Darrow Farm had been highly anticipated after the first one had spent six weeks on the New York Times Best Seller List. It had been a somber tale of pioneers looking for a fresh start and the strange and frightening neighbors they had found in the woods around Utah's Helmen Valley. People had loved his depiction of the farmers' daughters, especially Gloria, who had ultimately been tempted by the strange creatures who resided within the forest and decided to leave the safety of her protestant father and his homestead. They had wanted to know what happened next for the pioneer family, and Dylan's agent had been absolutely feral for his notes on the next part of the series.
Dylan was getting pretty interested in those notes too, wherever they were.
The fact of the matter was that Dylan had begun to come to terms with the idea that he might not have another book in him.
It hadn't been so bad at first. The book was successful, selling something like six thousand copies in its first week. He had been happy, his publisher had been happy, and his agent had been all smiles when he congratulated him on making the list. This was amazing for a first-time author, but when the book sold another six thousand copies the week after that, Dylan was taken by surprise. Suddenly his book was being read by book clubs, discussed on literary blogs, and his agent called to tell him that the prime-time show Calder Mane Tonight wanted to offer him a guest spot on his show for Friday.
"It's a small segment, no more than ten minutes, but it's huge for a first-time writer." his agent had assured him.
After the interview, he'd gone on to sell something like fifty thousand copies, and that's when the networks had taken notice.
Four months ago, he'd signed a contract with Amazon for the first season of Darrow Farm and cashed a check larger than anything he'd ever seen. Suddenly he could do no wrong. Suddenly he was the industry's gold boy, and everyone wanted a word with him. He made the circuit with the show's director, and book sales continued to soar. He was on Calder Mane again, plugging the show, when the notion of a sequel was first pitched, and it had been his utter ruination.
"So, with the success of your first book, how long before we see a sequel?"
Dylan had been unable to answer, gaping like a fish before he tried to formulate something witty that wouldn't sound too unsure.
"I'm working on the first draft as we speak," he said, flashing the serpent's grin that seems to be the providence of all successful writers.
Who had said all writers were liars? Probably many people, most of them as big, if not bigger, liars than he was. Here he sat three months after making such a pompous claim with nothing to show for it but a title and a working title at that. He was no closer to finishing this book than he was to finishing the first chapter, and as Dylan sighed and put his head in his hands, he came to terms with the hard truth.
He would never finish this book, and when the curtain fell on season one of Darrow Farm, there would never be a season two.
"Now, now," said a voice from the chair in front of him, and Dylan sat up quickly as he looked at the odd man who was suddenly in his study, "that's a bit bleak for someone your age."
Dylan took in the odd man, his mind stuck in that strange limbo between fear and anger. How had this man come to be in his study, a room that existed behind two locked doors? The locks had seemed a little needless until this point. Dylan lived in a fairly upscale neighborhood, in a three-bedroom loft that he would probably have to move out of in the next five years if he didn't get something written. He couldn't remember the last time he had heard sirens on his street, let alone heard about a break-in.
The man didn't appear to need any of his stuff, however. He looked more like a carnival barker in his long black coat, the white shirt beneath looking crisp enough to cut. One polished boot was perched on a knee, and his blonde hair looked odd as it hung over his mirrored sunglasses. He was holding a copy of Darrow Farm, which he snapped shut as Dylan looked at him. The book was a prop, much like his attire, and Dylan suddenly felt the worm of curiosity poking to the surface.
"Who the hell are you?" Dylan asked, the words sounding way more confident than he felt.
"I am Richard T Sereph, and I am a blessing to men like you." said the man, flashing an obscene amount of pearly white teeth as he smiled.
"Men like me?" Dylan asked, "I assume you mean writers?"
"I was speaking of desperate men, but I often find that the two go hand in hand."
Dylan sighed, "I don't know how you got in here, but I want you out of my study before I call the police. I am hard at work, and you,"
"Oh, I can tell," the man said, tossing the book onto the glass top of Dylan's coffee table, "You've been hard at work for the last three months. Procrastination is a full-time job, isn't it, Mr. Mandry."
"Now, just who the hell do you,"
"If you were a man of lesser means, I'd offer to pay you for your talent and take my leave, but you have something that many don't, and it makes the world go round."
Dylan stood up, confident that he understood where this was going now.
This huckster was after his money, and Dylan was in no mood to indulge him.
"Get the hell out of my house. At this point, I don't think I need to call the police. If you keep moving on this course, I'll toss you out myself."
The man smiled his predatory smile and reached into his coat. Dylan's compass suddenly swung around to fear again, and he took a step back as he tensed for the shot. The man would shoot him now, Dylan could already see the gun coming out, and he wondered what the news would make of his death? Famous writer killed before his time, they would say, and when the thud hit his desk, he could already feel the burning in his chest.
Instead, he opened his eyes to find a small leather-bound book sitting on the edge of his desk.
"For those with so much imagination, your kind always seems to need proof."
The book wasn't large, no great demonic tomb or heavy arcane bit of binding. It was about the size of an average paperback, about two hundred pages, but the leather covering it looked ancient. It was cracked, the symbols on the cover broken by jagged rifts, and the spine bore neither name nor legend. As it sat there, Dylan felt like something on that cover was watching him, something that did not love him.
"What is that?" Dylan asked, the man already crossing to the door.
"A book," he said, as though it should be obvious, "a very special one. It will give you what you need, and when you have it, don't hesitate to call me for more."
He took a normal-looking business card from the front pocket of his coat and laid it on the end table beside the door.
He left then, but when Dylan got up to follow him out, he found his hallway empty. He searched the house, but it was occupied by only one slightly ruffled writer and one strange little black book. Dylan checked the doors, returning to his work when he was certain that no one was lurking in his home.
He sat in front of the computer, but his heart wasn't in it.
His eyes kept straying to that little book, and with every glance, his curiosity grew. It was nothing, just an old book, but his mind refused to believe it. It was a mystery, something new, a Pandora's box just waiting to be opened. He typed a few sentences but immediately deleted them afterward. He'd been doing that for months, the words sounding lame as they sat like slugs on the page.
He floundered in this way for most of the afternoon, the book judging him as he played at work. More than once, he started to reach for it, always thinking better. More than once, he started to simply push it off the desk, but he felt sure that it would open its pages and there would be teeth waiting to bite him. In the end, he wasted another short time, and as the sun set and the day died, Dylan finally took the book in hand.
He couldn't stand it anymore, and when he opened it up, he was suddenly sorry he had given in.
The book made a hollow sound as it landed on the ground, but Dylan was suddenly rendered blind. An icepick had lodged itself between his eyes, and the sudden and blinding revelation made him glad he had been sitting. He had experienced insight before, but this was akin to the most intimate of defilement. If he could find the strength to lift his hand, Dylan imagined that he would feel his brains pattering to the carpet where a bullet had ripped through his skull. He was falling, falling, falling into some bright abyss from which there was no escape, and then, suddenly, it was all gone.
He was sitting in his chair, his hands empty but his mind full.
He wrote the rest of that day and well into the next, and when he emailed his agent the first ten chapters of what he'd written, his response was one of bemused confusion.
"This is not a sequel to Darrow Farm," he said when he called him three hours later.
"Is that a problem?" Dylan asked, already guessing the answer.
"If the other chapters are as good as these? I doubt it will be," he said, and Dylan could hear the smile in his voice.
* * * * *
He was sitting at his laptop again, waiting to be inspired.
Roland's War had been the story of a cavalry deserter who defends the town he has settled in from a group of his old army brothers turned outlaw. It was well received, outselling Darrow Farm and earning a movie this time instead of a tv show. Kurt Russel had even been cast as Roland, the main character, and the check they had cut him that time was even bigger than the one before. The royalties from the Darrow Farm tv show had also been substantial, and that's why he found himself here again.
Amazon wanted a season two, his publisher wanted a sequel, and Dylan, yet again, found himself trying to create gold from straw.
He had written a few sentences that he liked and a few paragraphs that he felt confident about, but he knew he would delete most of it later. The book was DOA, and he knew the likelihood of it all coming together was slim to nil. He might as well try to write a sequel to Roland's War for all the good it would do him.
As he wrote and erased, he thought again about the man in the black coat. He had looked at the business card more than once since that day a year ago, and he opened his desk drawer as he took it out, and looked at it again. Richard T Sereph and Libras Talent were printed on the front, along with a phone number. He could call him again, Dylan knew, but he had resisted up until now. He had no proof that Roland's War had anything to do with the book Sereph had left behind.
But, he thought as he hit the delete key on the better part of an hour's work, he didn't have any proof that it hadn't.
The phone rang only once before Dylan heard that smooth, oily voice waft through his ears.
"Why, Mr. Mandrey. To what do we owe the pleasure?"
Dylan gulped; the man knew his number.
A number he had never given him.
"I need more," he half whispered, and he could hear the muscles in the old demon's face as they creaked into a grin.
"The price is one hundred thousand. Send it to the account I am about to message you."
A text popped up with the information to a private bank account.
"And when do I," but Sereph cut him off.
"When the money is transferred, you will receive your book."
"But how long?" Dylan asked, his fingers dancing over the keys as he finished the operation.
He had hit send on the money when a cheery ding dong came from downstairs.
There was a box on the doorstep, and inside was another leather-bound book.
Mr. Sereph had already hung up.
* * * * *
After eight years, Dylan was still looking at an empty screen with the words Darrows Feud on them.
In those eight years, he had written five more books and made five more payments to Mr. Sereph.
In five years, he had written two more cowboy dramas, a sci-fi novel that had shocked and impressed his agent and his peers, a Slice of Life drama they had turned into a successful tv series, and a Fantasy novel that had even George R raving. They had bred three more movies as well and book sails in the hundreds of thousands. The name Dylan Mandry was synonymous with innovation and flexibility, and he had offers from as many colleges as he did conventions. None of the big ivy league ones, of course, but Dartmouth had offered him a very comfortable position if he was interested in relocating. They wanted him to teach his technique to aspiring writers, which was why Dylan had to turn them down.
It would be difficult to teach a class on "Get rich and outsource your ideas to a magic man with books that scrambled your brains 101."
His agent and his publisher had long ago stopped asking for a sequel to Darrow Farm. They had decided that he was a one-book man, and they had both made enough money off him to be satisfied with his writing process. They were happy to take his work and a portion of his royalties, and these days the checks were sizeable indeed.
Though, Dylan knew that soon they wouldn't be enough.
Mr. Sereph's prices were akin to the pushers he had seen in his neighborhood when he was a kid. The first taste was always free, and then they had a customer for life. Sereph's prices seemed to double with every call. One hundred grand became two hundred grand became four hundred grand, became eight hundred grand, became one million dollars. "I rounded it down since you're a frequent customer," he'd said, and Dylan had paid it even though it hurt to part with it. Despite being successful, he wasn't as rich as everyone thought. Giving Sereph several million dollars had hurt, and if the next payment followed suit, he would be nearly broke.
The richest beggar in literature, no wonder most of them just drank it all away.
He tried to resist the urge to call this time, watching the cursor blink as he tried to make the words come. Had it all been a fluke? Had he really thought he had another book in him? Had he been so foolish as to think he could write something that good a second time? No, he thought, the magic was still in there; it was him that was broken. He had gotten so used to taking the easy way that he'd forgotten how the craft worked. Mr. Sereph was just another pusher, and Dylan was his loyal junkie who just kept coming back for another hit.
He stared at the blinking cursor for another ten minutes, feeling his time ticking away, before finally calling Mr. Sereph.
"Well, well, well, if it isn't the writer of the decade. I've heard your name bandied about with great expectations lately."
"Yeah, thanks for all that, but I need help with this next book."
"You know the price," Sereph said, "two million in my account, then you,"
"I, uh, I need help with a specific story this time."
Sereph was quiet for so long that Dylan thought the line had gone dead.
"Hello?" Dylan asked, desperately hoping he hadn't offended the man somehow, "Hello? Are you there? I just need,"
"I'm sorry, Mr. Mandrey, but that's not how it works."
Dylan was speechless for a moment, "How what works?"
"I can limit you to a specific genre if you like, most of your fame has been in frontier dramas, but I can't help you with a particular story. It doesn't work like that."
Dylan wanted to get angry, he wanted to rant and rail at this man who had taken so much money from him, but the curiosity that had brought him to writing in the first place made him ask the question that was rolling inside his head.
"How does it work?"
That same muscle-tightening sound, like old ropes on a mast, could be heard as Mr. Sereph flashed his crest kid smile from the other side of the phone.
"Do you care?"
Dylan did, but he said no.
Some things were better left unsaid.
* * * * *
"Mr. Mandrey, how do you write across multiple genres like that? Where do you find the inspiration?"
Dylan hoped they couldn't see him hide his guilty smile as he buried it.
"Well, I find that inspiration is fickle. Sometimes it gives you a bounty, but not always what you need. I have been hoping to recapture that inspiration soon, but so far, it eludes me."
Class was almost over, and he always let the students pick his brain at the end. Dartmouth had been glad to have him, and the move to New Hampshire had been easy. Dylan had been able to pack all of his possessions into a suitcase, the ones he hadn't sold. He had kept two suits, some day wear, his laptop, and a few books. He had come to a new city with little but the clothes on his back.
If the five years before had been tumultuous, then the five that came after had been turbulent. He still had no sequel to Darrow Farm, but he had published two more best-sellers. Both had been two years apart, and both had been the sort of Oat Operas that he had started with. The first was the best of them, Flanders Holdfast, and when Amazon had asked if they could adapt it into a series, he had told them to go right ahead. They had asked if he would mind helping them with a second season when all was said and done, and he had also agreed to that. Whatever magic had produced Darrow Farm had dried up, and he had come to terms with the fact that he was dry too.
The second had been only the year before, and that was when he had come to terms with the fact that he had a problem.
Margarette's Sache had sold decently, but it had come nowhere near the cost of it. That had been when Dylan had sold all his things and moved to New Hampshire. The loft he lived in, the first eds he'd collected in college, the Dicken's third eds that had been his fathers, his clothes, his signature, his blood, his sperm, whatever it took to get that next hit of success. He had long ago given up on the idea that one of these hits would be the sequel he wanted, but that hardly mattered. He wanted the high of seeing his name in print, the euphoria of being in the mouths of every important person in his circle, the dizzying feeling as he looked down from his ivory tower at all the little people who wished they could be him.
That's why he was working here.
He needed the money, he needed it bad, and if he intended to feel that jolt again before he died, he would pay for another hit of that sweetest nectar.
He realized he'd been staring out the window and pointed to a young man in the front row. He thought his name might be Max or maybe Phillip, but after the number on the roster passed ten, Dylan had trouble remembering everyone unless they made an impression. He regretted calling on him when he stood up, that hateful artifact clutched in his hand like a crucifix. He wondered if Dracula had looked at crosses the way he now looked at copies of Darrow Farm, and as the boy's teeth fixed into a flattered grin, Dylan tried to make his own do likewise.
"I just wanted to tell you what this book meant to me when I was a kid. I loved all your books, and I'm not a sci-fi reader usually, but this one really spoke to me. I know you must hear it all the time, but do you think you'll ever do a sequel to Darrow Farm?"
Dylan thought about how to answer the question tactfully and finally decided on the truth.
"No, probably not. I've been trying for years, and I just can't make it work."
They dispersed then, seeming to understand that this was a good time to make themselves scarce. He reminded them to work on their chapters for peer proofing tomorrow and sat heavily in his chair as he thought again about Darrow Feud. It had been eleven years. If he hadn't done it now, he supposed he never would.
"Mr. Mandrey?"
Dylan looked up to see the same kid who'd asked the question, remembering suddenly that his name was Malcolm.
"Sorry to bother you, sir, but I was wondering if," he floundered a little, setting the copy of Darrow Farm on Dylan's desk.
He would want an autograph; they always did. He had turned to dig in his bag, looking for a pen, Dylan had no doubt. Dylan tried not to sigh as he reached into his desk and took out his own pen, signing the dust jacket as he slid it back to him. He tried to smile, but it was so hard with the proof of his failure sitting right in his face.
"There ya go, kid. I usually charge twenty-five bucks for one of those, but your tuition keeps me warm, so this one is on the house."
Malcolm smiled, but when his hand came out of the bag, he was holding a sheaf of papers.
"Thank you, sir, but I'd like to know if you'd take a look at something I've been writing.
His hands were shaking a little, and Dylan looked at the clock before taking the offered pages. Malcolm's class was his last class of the day, and he had a few minutes to look over the kid's notes. He wasn't in a hurry to return to his dreary little condo, only having an evening of looking at the blinking cursor ahead of him or the equally bleak numbers in his bank account that never seemed to rise high enough. He laid the notes out, scanning them in a perfunctory way, but the farther in he got, the more interested he became.
"I hope it's not too forward, but I just loved your book so much. I know it's rough, but it could be something if I had your help. If not the actual sequel to Darrow Farm, perhaps the spiritual successor?"
Dylan devoured the pages as he read, his anger beginning to kindle. Who the hell did this kid think he was? This was plagiarism! This was theft! He'd see this boy thrown out of college, out of New Hampshire, but the most galling part was that it was good. He could have overlooked it if it had been trash, but Malcolm had written something great. To hell with Darrow Farm. This was something better than it could ever be. He only had a few chapters, but they continued the pioneer families' story flawlessly. The more he read, the less angry he became, and the more curiosity took over.
"Do you like it, sir?" Malcolm asked, and Dylan's face must have looked ghastly because he had taken a step back from the desk, "I know it's pretty rough, but I think, with your help,"
"This is astonishing," Dylan breathed, looking up at Malcolm as if he couldn't believe the boy was real, "You wrote this?"
Malcolm's smile was back in force, "I did. I wrote it because you inspired me, sir. Do you really like it?"
Dylan almost didn't trust himself to talk. He loved it. He wanted to help Malcolm make it great, he wanted to introduce him to his agent and tell him that there would finally be a sequel to Darrow Farm, maybe even two, he wanted to smash this boy's head in and take his notes and leave him for dead, he wanted to rip his skull open and eat his brains like some cannibal trying to get at his thoughts.
The last image gave him an idea, however, and his smile was genuine when he looked back up at the smiling young man whose future would likely be so much brighter than his.
Or, it might have been.
"How would you like to have dinner with me, Malcolm? We'll talk about your book, and then you can come back to my apartment and compare notes. I love what you have here, and I'm excited to get started right away."
Malcolm looked as though Christmas had come early, "I would love to, sir. Wow, you have no idea how much of a dream come true this is."
"Likewise," Dylan said, and as he rose, the two walked and chatted as Dylan made plans just below the surface.
* * * * *
"What have you done?" Sereph asked as he stood in Dylan's dingy apartment and looked at the comatose form of his student.
Dylan didn't think it took much imagination to see what he'd done. He'd fed the kid, they'd talked about his book, and while he was in the bathroom, Dylan had slipped something extra into his drink. It hadn't been anything too insidious, some sleeping pills his doctor had prescribed him a few years ago, but when Malcomn had started stumbling on the way to his apartment, he had wondered if the dosage had been too high.
He had called Mr. Sereph after putting the sleeping kid on the couch, telling him that he had his payment, but he would need to come and get it this time.
"I don't accept cash or checks, you know that. Transfer the money into my account and,"
"You'll want to come to get this payment, Mr. Sereph. Trust me."
Sereph had seemed eager to see what Dylan had for him, but now he looked mad enough to chew iron and spit nails, as Dylan's Grandfather had often said.
"Is this your idea of a joke?" Said Sereph, and suddenly he was in Dylan's face, the eyes behind his mirrored shades the color of piss.
"No, far from it," Said Dylan, standing his ground, "you told me once that, with my talent, you would have just paid me for it and been done with me, but I had money, so I could afford what others couldn't."
"Get to the point." Sereph spat, his face still very close to Dylans, close enough to make him afraid he would bite him.
"I take that to mean that you take these stories from other writers. I want his story. You can keep whatever else he has in there, but I want Darrow Feud. Take the rest, take him, take whatever you need, but I need that story!"
It was Mr. Serephs turn to take a step back, but his smile had returned.
"Wake him up before whatever you gave him wears off," he said as he took a familiar-looking book from his coat, "It might help if he's a little groggy when he makes this deal."
* * * * *
Calder Mane smiled as the lights came up, and Dylan was once again bathed in their glow.
He was back, riding the euphoria of his high, and he never wanted to come down. He had finally done it. He had conquered his white whale, and as the crowd stopped clapping and the house band quieted, Calder Mane turned to fix his regard on him.
"I never thought I'd say this, but it's a pleasure to have you on the show again, Mr. Mandrey, with your sequel to Darrow Farm."
The crowd clapped again, and Dylan gave them a peek at the first cover.
It had been the greatest six months of his life. He had received Malcolm's story in the usual way, but Mr. Sereph had refused any sort of payment. The book, oozing whatever it was that made up a person's talent, went into his coat, and out came a smaller one, which he handed to Dylan.
"The boy's talent was substantial. This will help other writers and more than makes up for your foolishness. I had never considered doing business like this, but you humans are always so inventive when it comes to the old sins. Please let me know if you stumble across any other tasty morsels in that class you teach. The writing world truly is a tank of sharks, and their hunger is wide and deep."
Malcolm had dropped out of his class the following week, and Dylan saw that he had left the university all together.
He hoped the boy found something to take up his empty hours but didn't really think about what he had done past that.
All writers were liars, after all, and lying to themselves was no exception.
"So it's been a decade since you sat in that very spot and brought us Darrow Farm. What led you to write a sequel after so long away from the source material?"
"Well, Calder, inspiration is a fickle business. Sometimes, it truly finds you when you least expect it."
submitted by Erutious to MecThology [link] [comments]
The Darrow Feuds
By Dylan Mandrey
He had been looking at that title for three months, and it was starting to grind against his sanity. He needed this book to come together, but he just didn't have the words. The sequel to Darrow Farm had been highly anticipated after the first one had spent six weeks on the New York Times Best Seller List. It had been a somber tale of pioneers looking for a fresh start and the strange and frightening neighbors they had found in the woods around Utah's Helmen Valley. People had loved his depiction of the farmers' daughters, especially Gloria, who had ultimately been tempted by the strange creatures who resided within the forest and decided to leave the safety of her protestant father and his homestead. They had wanted to know what happened next for the pioneer family, and Dylan's agent had been absolutely feral for his notes on the next part of the series.
Dylan was getting pretty interested in those notes too, wherever they were.
The fact of the matter was that Dylan had begun to come to terms with the idea that he might not have another book in him.
It hadn't been so bad at first. The book was successful, selling something like six thousand copies in its first week. He had been happy, his publisher had been happy, and his agent had been all smiles when he congratulated him on making the list. This was amazing for a first-time author, but when the book sold another six thousand copies the week after that, Dylan was taken by surprise. Suddenly his book was being read by book clubs, discussed on literary blogs, and his agent called to tell him that the prime-time show Calder Mane Tonight wanted to offer him a guest spot on his show for Friday.
"It's a small segment, no more than ten minutes, but it's huge for a first-time writer." his agent had assured him.
After the interview, he'd gone on to sell something like fifty thousand copies, and that's when the networks had taken notice.
Four months ago, he'd signed a contract with Amazon for the first season of Darrow Farm and cashed a check larger than anything he'd ever seen. Suddenly he could do no wrong. Suddenly he was the industry's gold boy, and everyone wanted a word with him. He made the circuit with the show's director, and book sales continued to soar. He was on Calder Mane again, plugging the show, when the notion of a sequel was first pitched, and it had been his utter ruination.
"So, with the success of your first book, how long before we see a sequel?"
Dylan had been unable to answer, gaping like a fish before he tried to formulate something witty that wouldn't sound too unsure.
"I'm working on the first draft as we speak," he said, flashing the serpent's grin that seems to be the providence of all successful writers.
Who had said all writers were liars? Probably many people, most of them as big, if not bigger, liars than he was. Here he sat three months after making such a pompous claim with nothing to show for it but a title and a working title at that. He was no closer to finishing this book than he was to finishing the first chapter, and as Dylan sighed and put his head in his hands, he came to terms with the hard truth.
He would never finish this book, and when the curtain fell on season one of Darrow Farm, there would never be a season two.
"Now, now," said a voice from the chair in front of him, and Dylan sat up quickly as he looked at the odd man who was suddenly in his study, "that's a bit bleak for someone your age."
Dylan took in the odd man, his mind stuck in that strange limbo between fear and anger. How had this man come to be in his study, a room that existed behind two locked doors? The locks had seemed a little needless until this point. Dylan lived in a fairly upscale neighborhood, in a three-bedroom loft that he would probably have to move out of in the next five years if he didn't get something written. He couldn't remember the last time he had heard sirens on his street, let alone heard about a break-in.
The man didn't appear to need any of his stuff, however. He looked more like a carnival barker in his long black coat, the white shirt beneath looking crisp enough to cut. One polished boot was perched on a knee, and his blonde hair looked odd as it hung over his mirrored sunglasses. He was holding a copy of Darrow Farm, which he snapped shut as Dylan looked at him. The book was a prop, much like his attire, and Dylan suddenly felt the worm of curiosity poking to the surface.
"Who the hell are you?" Dylan asked, the words sounding way more confident than he felt.
"I am Richard T Sereph, and I am a blessing to men like you." said the man, flashing an obscene amount of pearly white teeth as he smiled.
"Men like me?" Dylan asked, "I assume you mean writers?"
"I was speaking of desperate men, but I often find that the two go hand in hand."
Dylan sighed, "I don't know how you got in here, but I want you out of my study before I call the police. I am hard at work, and you,"
"Oh, I can tell," the man said, tossing the book onto the glass top of Dylan's coffee table, "You've been hard at work for the last three months. Procrastination is a full-time job, isn't it, Mr. Mandry."
"Now, just who the hell do you,"
"If you were a man of lesser means, I'd offer to pay you for your talent and take my leave, but you have something that many don't, and it makes the world go round."
Dylan stood up, confident that he understood where this was going now.
This huckster was after his money, and Dylan was in no mood to indulge him.
"Get the hell out of my house. At this point, I don't think I need to call the police. If you keep moving on this course, I'll toss you out myself."
The man smiled his predatory smile and reached into his coat. Dylan's compass suddenly swung around to fear again, and he took a step back as he tensed for the shot. The man would shoot him now, Dylan could already see the gun coming out, and he wondered what the news would make of his death? Famous writer killed before his time, they would say, and when the thud hit his desk, he could already feel the burning in his chest.
Instead, he opened his eyes to find a small leather-bound book sitting on the edge of his desk.
"For those with so much imagination, your kind always seems to need proof."
The book wasn't large, no great demonic tomb or heavy arcane bit of binding. It was about the size of an average paperback, about two hundred pages, but the leather covering it looked ancient. It was cracked, the symbols on the cover broken by jagged rifts, and the spine bore neither name nor legend. As it sat there, Dylan felt like something on that cover was watching him, something that did not love him.
"What is that?" Dylan asked, the man already crossing to the door.
"A book," he said, as though it should be obvious, "a very special one. It will give you what you need, and when you have it, don't hesitate to call me for more."
He took a normal-looking business card from the front pocket of his coat and laid it on the end table beside the door.
He left then, but when Dylan got up to follow him out, he found his hallway empty. He searched the house, but it was occupied by only one slightly ruffled writer and one strange little black book. Dylan checked the doors, returning to his work when he was certain that no one was lurking in his home.
He sat in front of the computer, but his heart wasn't in it.
His eyes kept straying to that little book, and with every glance, his curiosity grew. It was nothing, just an old book, but his mind refused to believe it. It was a mystery, something new, a Pandora's box just waiting to be opened. He typed a few sentences but immediately deleted them afterward. He'd been doing that for months, the words sounding lame as they sat like slugs on the page.
He floundered in this way for most of the afternoon, the book judging him as he played at work. More than once, he started to reach for it, always thinking better. More than once, he started to simply push it off the desk, but he felt sure that it would open its pages and there would be teeth waiting to bite him. In the end, he wasted another short time, and as the sun set and the day died, Dylan finally took the book in hand.
He couldn't stand it anymore, and when he opened it up, he was suddenly sorry he had given in.
The book made a hollow sound as it landed on the ground, but Dylan was suddenly rendered blind. An icepick had lodged itself between his eyes, and the sudden and blinding revelation made him glad he had been sitting. He had experienced insight before, but this was akin to the most intimate of defilement. If he could find the strength to lift his hand, Dylan imagined that he would feel his brains pattering to the carpet where a bullet had ripped through his skull. He was falling, falling, falling into some bright abyss from which there was no escape, and then, suddenly, it was all gone.
He was sitting in his chair, his hands empty but his mind full.
He wrote the rest of that day and well into the next, and when he emailed his agent the first ten chapters of what he'd written, his response was one of bemused confusion.
"This is not a sequel to Darrow Farm," he said when he called him three hours later.
"Is that a problem?" Dylan asked, already guessing the answer.
"If the other chapters are as good as these? I doubt it will be," he said, and Dylan could hear the smile in his voice.
* * * * *
He was sitting at his laptop again, waiting to be inspired.
Roland's War had been the story of a cavalry deserter who defends the town he has settled in from a group of his old army brothers turned outlaw. It was well received, outselling Darrow Farm and earning a movie this time instead of a tv show. Kurt Russel had even been cast as Roland, the main character, and the check they had cut him that time was even bigger than the one before. The royalties from the Darrow Farm tv show had also been substantial, and that's why he found himself here again.
Amazon wanted a season two, his publisher wanted a sequel, and Dylan, yet again, found himself trying to create gold from straw.
He had written a few sentences that he liked and a few paragraphs that he felt confident about, but he knew he would delete most of it later. The book was DOA, and he knew the likelihood of it all coming together was slim to nil. He might as well try to write a sequel to Roland's War for all the good it would do him.
As he wrote and erased, he thought again about the man in the black coat. He had looked at the business card more than once since that day a year ago, and he opened his desk drawer as he took it out, and looked at it again. Richard T Sereph and Libras Talent were printed on the front, along with a phone number. He could call him again, Dylan knew, but he had resisted up until now. He had no proof that Roland's War had anything to do with the book Sereph had left behind.
But, he thought as he hit the delete key on the better part of an hour's work, he didn't have any proof that it hadn't.
The phone rang only once before Dylan heard that smooth, oily voice waft through his ears.
"Why, Mr. Mandrey. To what do we owe the pleasure?"
Dylan gulped; the man knew his number.
A number he had never given him.
"I need more," he half whispered, and he could hear the muscles in the old demon's face as they creaked into a grin.
"The price is one hundred thousand. Send it to the account I am about to message you."
A text popped up with the information to a private bank account.
"And when do I," but Sereph cut him off.
"When the money is transferred, you will receive your book."
"But how long?" Dylan asked, his fingers dancing over the keys as he finished the operation.
He had hit send on the money when a cheery ding dong came from downstairs.
There was a box on the doorstep, and inside was another leather-bound book.
Mr. Sereph had already hung up.
* * * * *
After eight years, Dylan was still looking at an empty screen with the words Darrows Feud on them.
In those eight years, he had written five more books and made five more payments to Mr. Sereph.
In five years, he had written two more cowboy dramas, a sci-fi novel that had shocked and impressed his agent and his peers, a Slice of Life drama they had turned into a successful tv series, and a Fantasy novel that had even George R raving. They had bred three more movies as well and book sails in the hundreds of thousands. The name Dylan Mandry was synonymous with innovation and flexibility, and he had offers from as many colleges as he did conventions. None of the big ivy league ones, of course, but Dartmouth had offered him a very comfortable position if he was interested in relocating. They wanted him to teach his technique to aspiring writers, which was why Dylan had to turn them down.
It would be difficult to teach a class on "Get rich and outsource your ideas to a magic man with books that scrambled your brains 101."
His agent and his publisher had long ago stopped asking for a sequel to Darrow Farm. They had decided that he was a one-book man, and they had both made enough money off him to be satisfied with his writing process. They were happy to take his work and a portion of his royalties, and these days the checks were sizeable indeed.
Though, Dylan knew that soon they wouldn't be enough.
Mr. Sereph's prices were akin to the pushers he had seen in his neighborhood when he was a kid. The first taste was always free, and then they had a customer for life. Sereph's prices seemed to double with every call. One hundred grand became two hundred grand became four hundred grand, became eight hundred grand, became one million dollars. "I rounded it down since you're a frequent customer," he'd said, and Dylan had paid it even though it hurt to part with it. Despite being successful, he wasn't as rich as everyone thought. Giving Sereph several million dollars had hurt, and if the next payment followed suit, he would be nearly broke.
The richest beggar in literature, no wonder most of them just drank it all away.
He tried to resist the urge to call this time, watching the cursor blink as he tried to make the words come. Had it all been a fluke? Had he really thought he had another book in him? Had he been so foolish as to think he could write something that good a second time? No, he thought, the magic was still in there; it was him that was broken. He had gotten so used to taking the easy way that he'd forgotten how the craft worked. Mr. Sereph was just another pusher, and Dylan was his loyal junkie who just kept coming back for another hit.
He stared at the blinking cursor for another ten minutes, feeling his time ticking away, before finally calling Mr. Sereph.
"Well, well, well, if it isn't the writer of the decade. I've heard your name bandied about with great expectations lately."
"Yeah, thanks for all that, but I need help with this next book."
"You know the price," Sereph said, "two million in my account, then you,"
"I, uh, I need help with a specific story this time."
Sereph was quiet for so long that Dylan thought the line had gone dead.
"Hello?" Dylan asked, desperately hoping he hadn't offended the man somehow, "Hello? Are you there? I just need,"
"I'm sorry, Mr. Mandrey, but that's not how it works."
Dylan was speechless for a moment, "How what works?"
"I can limit you to a specific genre if you like, most of your fame has been in frontier dramas, but I can't help you with a particular story. It doesn't work like that."
Dylan wanted to get angry, he wanted to rant and rail at this man who had taken so much money from him, but the curiosity that had brought him to writing in the first place made him ask the question that was rolling inside his head.
"How does it work?"
That same muscle-tightening sound, like old ropes on a mast, could be heard as Mr. Sereph flashed his crest kid smile from the other side of the phone.
"Do you care?"
Dylan did, but he said no.
Some things were better left unsaid.
* * * * *
"Mr. Mandrey, how do you write across multiple genres like that? Where do you find the inspiration?"
Dylan hoped they couldn't see him hide his guilty smile as he buried it.
"Well, I find that inspiration is fickle. Sometimes it gives you a bounty, but not always what you need. I have been hoping to recapture that inspiration soon, but so far, it eludes me."
Class was almost over, and he always let the students pick his brain at the end. Dartmouth had been glad to have him, and the move to New Hampshire had been easy. Dylan had been able to pack all of his possessions into a suitcase, the ones he hadn't sold. He had kept two suits, some day wear, his laptop, and a few books. He had come to a new city with little but the clothes on his back.
If the five years before had been tumultuous, then the five that came after had been turbulent. He still had no sequel to Darrow Farm, but he had published two more best-sellers. Both had been two years apart, and both had been the sort of Oat Operas that he had started with. The first was the best of them, Flanders Holdfast, and when Amazon had asked if they could adapt it into a series, he had told them to go right ahead. They had asked if he would mind helping them with a second season when all was said and done, and he had also agreed to that. Whatever magic had produced Darrow Farm had dried up, and he had come to terms with the fact that he was dry too.
The second had been only the year before, and that was when he had come to terms with the fact that he had a problem.
Margarette's Sache had sold decently, but it had come nowhere near the cost of it. That had been when Dylan had sold all his things and moved to New Hampshire. The loft he lived in, the first eds he'd collected in college, the Dicken's third eds that had been his fathers, his clothes, his signature, his blood, his sperm, whatever it took to get that next hit of success. He had long ago given up on the idea that one of these hits would be the sequel he wanted, but that hardly mattered. He wanted the high of seeing his name in print, the euphoria of being in the mouths of every important person in his circle, the dizzying feeling as he looked down from his ivory tower at all the little people who wished they could be him.
That's why he was working here.
He needed the money, he needed it bad, and if he intended to feel that jolt again before he died, he would pay for another hit of that sweetest nectar.
He realized he'd been staring out the window and pointed to a young man in the front row. He thought his name might be Max or maybe Phillip, but after the number on the roster passed ten, Dylan had trouble remembering everyone unless they made an impression. He regretted calling on him when he stood up, that hateful artifact clutched in his hand like a crucifix. He wondered if Dracula had looked at crosses the way he now looked at copies of Darrow Farm, and as the boy's teeth fixed into a flattered grin, Dylan tried to make his own do likewise.
"I just wanted to tell you what this book meant to me when I was a kid. I loved all your books, and I'm not a sci-fi reader usually, but this one really spoke to me. I know you must hear it all the time, but do you think you'll ever do a sequel to Darrow Farm?"
Dylan thought about how to answer the question tactfully and finally decided on the truth.
"No, probably not. I've been trying for years, and I just can't make it work."
They dispersed then, seeming to understand that this was a good time to make themselves scarce. He reminded them to work on their chapters for peer proofing tomorrow and sat heavily in his chair as he thought again about Darrow Feud. It had been eleven years. If he hadn't done it now, he supposed he never would.
"Mr. Mandrey?"
Dylan looked up to see the same kid who'd asked the question, remembering suddenly that his name was Malcolm.
"Sorry to bother you, sir, but I was wondering if," he floundered a little, setting the copy of Darrow Farm on Dylan's desk.
He would want an autograph; they always did. He had turned to dig in his bag, looking for a pen, Dylan had no doubt. Dylan tried not to sigh as he reached into his desk and took out his own pen, signing the dust jacket as he slid it back to him. He tried to smile, but it was so hard with the proof of his failure sitting right in his face.
"There ya go, kid. I usually charge twenty-five bucks for one of those, but your tuition keeps me warm, so this one is on the house."
Malcolm smiled, but when his hand came out of the bag, he was holding a sheaf of papers.
"Thank you, sir, but I'd like to know if you'd take a look at something I've been writing.
His hands were shaking a little, and Dylan looked at the clock before taking the offered pages. Malcolm's class was his last class of the day, and he had a few minutes to look over the kid's notes. He wasn't in a hurry to return to his dreary little condo, only having an evening of looking at the blinking cursor ahead of him or the equally bleak numbers in his bank account that never seemed to rise high enough. He laid the notes out, scanning them in a perfunctory way, but the farther in he got, the more interested he became.
"I hope it's not too forward, but I just loved your book so much. I know it's rough, but it could be something if I had your help. If not the actual sequel to Darrow Farm, perhaps the spiritual successor?"
Dylan devoured the pages as he read, his anger beginning to kindle. Who the hell did this kid think he was? This was plagiarism! This was theft! He'd see this boy thrown out of college, out of New Hampshire, but the most galling part was that it was good. He could have overlooked it if it had been trash, but Malcolm had written something great. To hell with Darrow Farm. This was something better than it could ever be. He only had a few chapters, but they continued the pioneer families' story flawlessly. The more he read, the less angry he became, and the more curiosity took over.
"Do you like it, sir?" Malcolm asked, and Dylan's face must have looked ghastly because he had taken a step back from the desk, "I know it's pretty rough, but I think, with your help,"
"This is astonishing," Dylan breathed, looking up at Malcolm as if he couldn't believe the boy was real, "You wrote this?"
Malcolm's smile was back in force, "I did. I wrote it because you inspired me, sir. Do you really like it?"
Dylan almost didn't trust himself to talk. He loved it. He wanted to help Malcolm make it great, he wanted to introduce him to his agent and tell him that there would finally be a sequel to Darrow Farm, maybe even two, he wanted to smash this boy's head in and take his notes and leave him for dead, he wanted to rip his skull open and eat his brains like some cannibal trying to get at his thoughts.
The last image gave him an idea, however, and his smile was genuine when he looked back up at the smiling young man whose future would likely be so much brighter than his.
Or, it might have been.
"How would you like to have dinner with me, Malcolm? We'll talk about your book, and then you can come back to my apartment and compare notes. I love what you have here, and I'm excited to get started right away."
Malcolm looked as though Christmas had come early, "I would love to, sir. Wow, you have no idea how much of a dream come true this is."
"Likewise," Dylan said, and as he rose, the two walked and chatted as Dylan made plans just below the surface.
* * * * *
"What have you done?" Sereph asked as he stood in Dylan's dingy apartment and looked at the comatose form of his student.
Dylan didn't think it took much imagination to see what he'd done. He'd fed the kid, they'd talked about his book, and while he was in the bathroom, Dylan had slipped something extra into his drink. It hadn't been anything too insidious, some sleeping pills his doctor had prescribed him a few years ago, but when Malcomn had started stumbling on the way to his apartment, he had wondered if the dosage had been too high.
He had called Mr. Sereph after putting the sleeping kid on the couch, telling him that he had his payment, but he would need to come and get it this time.
"I don't accept cash or checks, you know that. Transfer the money into my account and,"
"You'll want to come to get this payment, Mr. Sereph. Trust me."
Sereph had seemed eager to see what Dylan had for him, but now he looked mad enough to chew iron and spit nails, as Dylan's Grandfather had often said.
"Is this your idea of a joke?" Said Sereph, and suddenly he was in Dylan's face, the eyes behind his mirrored shades the color of piss.
"No, far from it," Said Dylan, standing his ground, "you told me once that, with my talent, you would have just paid me for it and been done with me, but I had money, so I could afford what others couldn't."
"Get to the point." Sereph spat, his face still very close to Dylans, close enough to make him afraid he would bite him.
"I take that to mean that you take these stories from other writers. I want his story. You can keep whatever else he has in there, but I want Darrow Feud. Take the rest, take him, take whatever you need, but I need that story!"
It was Mr. Serephs turn to take a step back, but his smile had returned.
"Wake him up before whatever you gave him wears off," he said as he took a familiar-looking book from his coat, "It might help if he's a little groggy when he makes this deal."
* * * * *
Calder Mane smiled as the lights came up, and Dylan was once again bathed in their glow.
He was back, riding the euphoria of his high, and he never wanted to come down. He had finally done it. He had conquered his white whale, and as the crowd stopped clapping and the house band quieted, Calder Mane turned to fix his regard on him.
"I never thought I'd say this, but it's a pleasure to have you on the show again, Mr. Mandrey, with your sequel to Darrow Farm."
The crowd clapped again, and Dylan gave them a peek at the first cover.
It had been the greatest six months of his life. He had received Malcolm's story in the usual way, but Mr. Sereph had refused any sort of payment. The book, oozing whatever it was that made up a person's talent, went into his coat, and out came a smaller one, which he handed to Dylan.
"The boy's talent was substantial. This will help other writers and more than makes up for your foolishness. I had never considered doing business like this, but you humans are always so inventive when it comes to the old sins. Please let me know if you stumble across any other tasty morsels in that class you teach. The writing world truly is a tank of sharks, and their hunger is wide and deep."
Malcolm had dropped out of his class the following week, and Dylan saw that he had left the university all together.
He hoped the boy found something to take up his empty hours but didn't really think about what he had done past that.
All writers were liars, after all, and lying to themselves was no exception.
"So it's been a decade since you sat in that very spot and brought us Darrow Farm. What led you to write a sequel after so long away from the source material?"
"Well, Calder, inspiration is a fickle business. Sometimes, it truly finds you when you least expect it."
2023.05.24 14:31 Erutious The Sweetest Nectar
Dylan drummed his fingers on the desk as he stared at the blank screen.
The Darrow Feuds
By Dylan Mandrey
He had been looking at that title for three months, and it was starting to grind against his sanity. He needed this book to come together, but he just didn't have the words. The sequel to Darrow Farm had been highly anticipated after the first one had spent six weeks on the New York Times Best Seller List. It had been a somber tale of pioneers looking for a fresh start and the strange and frightening neighbors they had found in the woods around Utah's Helmen Valley. People had loved his depiction of the farmers' daughters, especially Gloria, who had ultimately been tempted by the strange creatures who resided within the forest and decided to leave the safety of her protestant father and his homestead. They had wanted to know what happened next for the pioneer family, and Dylan's agent had been absolutely feral for his notes on the next part of the series.
Dylan was getting pretty interested in those notes too, wherever they were.
The fact of the matter was that Dylan had begun to come to terms with the idea that he might not have another book in him.
It hadn't been so bad at first. The book was successful, selling something like six thousand copies in its first week. He had been happy, his publisher had been happy, and his agent had been all smiles when he congratulated him on making the list. This was amazing for a first-time author, but when the book sold another six thousand copies the week after that, Dylan was taken by surprise. Suddenly his book was being read by book clubs, discussed on literary blogs, and his agent called to tell him that the prime-time show Calder Mane Tonight wanted to offer him a guest spot on his show for Friday.
"It's a small segment, no more than ten minutes, but it's huge for a first-time writer." his agent had assured him.
After the interview, he'd gone on to sell something like fifty thousand copies, and that's when the networks had taken notice.
Four months ago, he'd signed a contract with Amazon for the first season of Darrow Farm and cashed a check larger than anything he'd ever seen. Suddenly he could do no wrong. Suddenly he was the industry's gold boy, and everyone wanted a word with him. He made the circuit with the show's director, and book sales continued to soar. He was on Calder Mane again, plugging the show, when the notion of a sequel was first pitched, and it had been his utter ruination.
"So, with the success of your first book, how long before we see a sequel?"
Dylan had been unable to answer, gaping like a fish before he tried to formulate something witty that wouldn't sound too unsure.
"I'm working on the first draft as we speak," he said, flashing the serpent's grin that seems to be the providence of all successful writers.
Who had said all writers were liars? Probably many people, most of them as big, if not bigger, liars than he was. Here he sat three months after making such a pompous claim with nothing to show for it but a title and a working title at that. He was no closer to finishing this book than he was to finishing the first chapter, and as Dylan sighed and put his head in his hands, he came to terms with the hard truth.
He would never finish this book, and when the curtain fell on season one of Darrow Farm, there would never be a season two.
"Now, now," said a voice from the chair in front of him, and Dylan sat up quickly as he looked at the odd man who was suddenly in his study, "that's a bit bleak for someone your age."
Dylan took in the odd man, his mind stuck in that strange limbo between fear and anger. How had this man come to be in his study, a room that existed behind two locked doors? The locks had seemed a little needless until this point. Dylan lived in a fairly upscale neighborhood, in a three-bedroom loft that he would probably have to move out of in the next five years if he didn't get something written. He couldn't remember the last time he had heard sirens on his street, let alone heard about a break-in.
The man didn't appear to need any of his stuff, however. He looked more like a carnival barker in his long black coat, the white shirt beneath looking crisp enough to cut. One polished boot was perched on a knee, and his blonde hair looked odd as it hung over his mirrored sunglasses. He was holding a copy of Darrow Farm, which he snapped shut as Dylan looked at him. The book was a prop, much like his attire, and Dylan suddenly felt the worm of curiosity poking to the surface.
"Who the hell are you?" Dylan asked, the words sounding way more confident than he felt.
"I am Richard T Sereph, and I am a blessing to men like you." said the man, flashing an obscene amount of pearly white teeth as he smiled.
"Men like me?" Dylan asked, "I assume you mean writers?"
"I was speaking of desperate men, but I often find that the two go hand in hand."
Dylan sighed, "I don't know how you got in here, but I want you out of my study before I call the police. I am hard at work, and you,"
"Oh, I can tell," the man said, tossing the book onto the glass top of Dylan's coffee table, "You've been hard at work for the last three months. Procrastination is a full-time job, isn't it, Mr. Mandry."
"Now, just who the hell do you,"
"If you were a man of lesser means, I'd offer to pay you for your talent and take my leave, but you have something that many don't, and it makes the world go round."
Dylan stood up, confident that he understood where this was going now.
This huckster was after his money, and Dylan was in no mood to indulge him.
"Get the hell out of my house. At this point, I don't think I need to call the police. If you keep moving on this course, I'll toss you out myself."
The man smiled his predatory smile and reached into his coat. Dylan's compass suddenly swung around to fear again, and he took a step back as he tensed for the shot. The man would shoot him now, Dylan could already see the gun coming out, and he wondered what the news would make of his death? Famous writer killed before his time, they would say, and when the thud hit his desk, he could already feel the burning in his chest.
Instead, he opened his eyes to find a small leather-bound book sitting on the edge of his desk.
"For those with so much imagination, your kind always seems to need proof."
The book wasn't large, no great demonic tomb or heavy arcane bit of binding. It was about the size of an average paperback, about two hundred pages, but the leather covering it looked ancient. It was cracked, the symbols on the cover broken by jagged rifts, and the spine bore neither name nor legend. As it sat there, Dylan felt like something on that cover was watching him, something that did not love him.
"What is that?" Dylan asked, the man already crossing to the door.
"A book," he said, as though it should be obvious, "a very special one. It will give you what you need, and when you have it, don't hesitate to call me for more."
He took a normal-looking business card from the front pocket of his coat and laid it on the end table beside the door.
He left then, but when Dylan got up to follow him out, he found his hallway empty. He searched the house, but it was occupied by only one slightly ruffled writer and one strange little black book. Dylan checked the doors, returning to his work when he was certain that no one was lurking in his home.
He sat in front of the computer, but his heart wasn't in it.
His eyes kept straying to that little book, and with every glance, his curiosity grew. It was nothing, just an old book, but his mind refused to believe it. It was a mystery, something new, a Pandora's box just waiting to be opened. He typed a few sentences but immediately deleted them afterward. He'd been doing that for months, the words sounding lame as they sat like slugs on the page.
He floundered in this way for most of the afternoon, the book judging him as he played at work. More than once, he started to reach for it, always thinking better. More than once, he started to simply push it off the desk, but he felt sure that it would open its pages and there would be teeth waiting to bite him. In the end, he wasted another short time, and as the sun set and the day died, Dylan finally took the book in hand.
He couldn't stand it anymore, and when he opened it up, he was suddenly sorry he had given in.
The book made a hollow sound as it landed on the ground, but Dylan was suddenly rendered blind. An icepick had lodged itself between his eyes, and the sudden and blinding revelation made him glad he had been sitting. He had experienced insight before, but this was akin to the most intimate of defilement. If he could find the strength to lift his hand, Dylan imagined that he would feel his brains pattering to the carpet where a bullet had ripped through his skull. He was falling, falling, falling into some bright abyss from which there was no escape, and then, suddenly, it was all gone.
He was sitting in his chair, his hands empty but his mind full.
He wrote the rest of that day and well into the next, and when he emailed his agent the first ten chapters of what he'd written, his response was one of bemused confusion.
"This is not a sequel to Darrow Farm," he said when he called him three hours later.
"Is that a problem?" Dylan asked, already guessing the answer.
"If the other chapters are as good as these? I doubt it will be," he said, and Dylan could hear the smile in his voice.
* * * * *
He was sitting at his laptop again, waiting to be inspired.
Roland's War had been the story of a cavalry deserter who defends the town he has settled in from a group of his old army brothers turned outlaw. It was well received, outselling Darrow Farm and earning a movie this time instead of a tv show. Kurt Russel had even been cast as Roland, the main character, and the check they had cut him that time was even bigger than the one before. The royalties from the Darrow Farm tv show had also been substantial, and that's why he found himself here again.
Amazon wanted a season two, his publisher wanted a sequel, and Dylan, yet again, found himself trying to create gold from straw.
He had written a few sentences that he liked and a few paragraphs that he felt confident about, but he knew he would delete most of it later. The book was DOA, and he knew the likelihood of it all coming together was slim to nil. He might as well try to write a sequel to Roland's War for all the good it would do him.
As he wrote and erased, he thought again about the man in the black coat. He had looked at the business card more than once since that day a year ago, and he opened his desk drawer as he took it out, and looked at it again. Richard T Sereph and Libras Talent were printed on the front, along with a phone number. He could call him again, Dylan knew, but he had resisted up until now. He had no proof that Roland's War had anything to do with the book Sereph had left behind.
But, he thought as he hit the delete key on the better part of an hour's work, he didn't have any proof that it hadn't.
The phone rang only once before Dylan heard that smooth, oily voice waft through his ears.
"Why, Mr. Mandrey. To what do we owe the pleasure?"
Dylan gulped; the man knew his number.
A number he had never given him.
"I need more," he half whispered, and he could hear the muscles in the old demon's face as they creaked into a grin.
"The price is one hundred thousand. Send it to the account I am about to message you."
A text popped up with the information to a private bank account.
"And when do I," but Sereph cut him off.
"When the money is transferred, you will receive your book."
"But how long?" Dylan asked, his fingers dancing over the keys as he finished the operation.
He had hit send on the money when a cheery ding dong came from downstairs.
There was a box on the doorstep, and inside was another leather-bound book.
Mr. Sereph had already hung up.
* * * * *
After eight years, Dylan was still looking at an empty screen with the words Darrows Feud on them.
In those eight years, he had written five more books and made five more payments to Mr. Sereph.
In five years, he had written two more cowboy dramas, a sci-fi novel that had shocked and impressed his agent and his peers, a Slice of Life drama they had turned into a successful tv series, and a Fantasy novel that had even George R raving. They had bred three more movies as well and book sails in the hundreds of thousands. The name Dylan Mandry was synonymous with innovation and flexibility, and he had offers from as many colleges as he did conventions. None of the big ivy league ones, of course, but Dartmouth had offered him a very comfortable position if he was interested in relocating. They wanted him to teach his technique to aspiring writers, which was why Dylan had to turn them down.
It would be difficult to teach a class on "Get rich and outsource your ideas to a magic man with books that scrambled your brains 101."
His agent and his publisher had long ago stopped asking for a sequel to Darrow Farm. They had decided that he was a one-book man, and they had both made enough money off him to be satisfied with his writing process. They were happy to take his work and a portion of his royalties, and these days the checks were sizeable indeed.
Though, Dylan knew that soon they wouldn't be enough.
Mr. Sereph's prices were akin to the pushers he had seen in his neighborhood when he was a kid. The first taste was always free, and then they had a customer for life. Sereph's prices seemed to double with every call. One hundred grand became two hundred grand became four hundred grand, became eight hundred grand, became one million dollars. "I rounded it down since you're a frequent customer," he'd said, and Dylan had paid it even though it hurt to part with it. Despite being successful, he wasn't as rich as everyone thought. Giving Sereph several million dollars had hurt, and if the next payment followed suit, he would be nearly broke.
The richest beggar in literature, no wonder most of them just drank it all away.
He tried to resist the urge to call this time, watching the cursor blink as he tried to make the words come. Had it all been a fluke? Had he really thought he had another book in him? Had he been so foolish as to think he could write something that good a second time? No, he thought, the magic was still in there; it was him that was broken. He had gotten so used to taking the easy way that he'd forgotten how the craft worked. Mr. Sereph was just another pusher, and Dylan was his loyal junkie who just kept coming back for another hit.
He stared at the blinking cursor for another ten minutes, feeling his time ticking away, before finally calling Mr. Sereph.
"Well, well, well, if it isn't the writer of the decade. I've heard your name bandied about with great expectations lately."
"Yeah, thanks for all that, but I need help with this next book."
"You know the price," Sereph said, "two million in my account, then you,"
"I, uh, I need help with a specific story this time."
Sereph was quiet for so long that Dylan thought the line had gone dead.
"Hello?" Dylan asked, desperately hoping he hadn't offended the man somehow, "Hello? Are you there? I just need,"
"I'm sorry, Mr. Mandrey, but that's not how it works."
Dylan was speechless for a moment, "How what works?"
"I can limit you to a specific genre if you like, most of your fame has been in frontier dramas, but I can't help you with a particular story. It doesn't work like that."
Dylan wanted to get angry, he wanted to rant and rail at this man who had taken so much money from him, but the curiosity that had brought him to writing in the first place made him ask the question that was rolling inside his head.
"How does it work?"
That same muscle-tightening sound, like old ropes on a mast, could be heard as Mr. Sereph flashed his crest kid smile from the other side of the phone.
"Do you care?"
Dylan did, but he said no.
Some things were better left unsaid.
* * * * *
"Mr. Mandrey, how do you write across multiple genres like that? Where do you find the inspiration?"
Dylan hoped they couldn't see him hide his guilty smile as he buried it.
"Well, I find that inspiration is fickle. Sometimes it gives you a bounty, but not always what you need. I have been hoping to recapture that inspiration soon, but so far, it eludes me."
Class was almost over, and he always let the students pick his brain at the end. Dartmouth had been glad to have him, and the move to New Hampshire had been easy. Dylan had been able to pack all of his possessions into a suitcase, the ones he hadn't sold. He had kept two suits, some day wear, his laptop, and a few books. He had come to a new city with little but the clothes on his back.
If the five years before had been tumultuous, then the five that came after had been turbulent. He still had no sequel to Darrow Farm, but he had published two more best-sellers. Both had been two years apart, and both had been the sort of Oat Operas that he had started with. The first was the best of them, Flanders Holdfast, and when Amazon had asked if they could adapt it into a series, he had told them to go right ahead. They had asked if he would mind helping them with a second season when all was said and done, and he had also agreed to that. Whatever magic had produced Darrow Farm had dried up, and he had come to terms with the fact that he was dry too.
The second had been only the year before, and that was when he had come to terms with the fact that he had a problem.
Margarette's Sache had sold decently, but it had come nowhere near the cost of it. That had been when Dylan had sold all his things and moved to New Hampshire. The loft he lived in, the first eds he'd collected in college, the Dicken's third eds that had been his fathers, his clothes, his signature, his blood, his sperm, whatever it took to get that next hit of success. He had long ago given up on the idea that one of these hits would be the sequel he wanted, but that hardly mattered. He wanted the high of seeing his name in print, the euphoria of being in the mouths of every important person in his circle, the dizzying feeling as he looked down from his ivory tower at all the little people who wished they could be him.
That's why he was working here.
He needed the money, he needed it bad, and if he intended to feel that jolt again before he died, he would pay for another hit of that sweetest nectar.
He realized he'd been staring out the window and pointed to a young man in the front row. He thought his name might be Max or maybe Phillip, but after the number on the roster passed ten, Dylan had trouble remembering everyone unless they made an impression. He regretted calling on him when he stood up, that hateful artifact clutched in his hand like a crucifix. He wondered if Dracula had looked at crosses the way he now looked at copies of Darrow Farm, and as the boy's teeth fixed into a flattered grin, Dylan tried to make his own do likewise.
"I just wanted to tell you what this book meant to me when I was a kid. I loved all your books, and I'm not a sci-fi reader usually, but this one really spoke to me. I know you must hear it all the time, but do you think you'll ever do a sequel to Darrow Farm?"
Dylan thought about how to answer the question tactfully and finally decided on the truth.
"No, probably not. I've been trying for years, and I just can't make it work."
They dispersed then, seeming to understand that this was a good time to make themselves scarce. He reminded them to work on their chapters for peer proofing tomorrow and sat heavily in his chair as he thought again about Darrow Feud. It had been eleven years. If he hadn't done it now, he supposed he never would.
"Mr. Mandrey?"
Dylan looked up to see the same kid who'd asked the question, remembering suddenly that his name was Malcolm.
"Sorry to bother you, sir, but I was wondering if," he floundered a little, setting the copy of Darrow Farm on Dylan's desk.
He would want an autograph; they always did. He had turned to dig in his bag, looking for a pen, Dylan had no doubt. Dylan tried not to sigh as he reached into his desk and took out his own pen, signing the dust jacket as he slid it back to him. He tried to smile, but it was so hard with the proof of his failure sitting right in his face.
"There ya go, kid. I usually charge twenty-five bucks for one of those, but your tuition keeps me warm, so this one is on the house."
Malcolm smiled, but when his hand came out of the bag, he was holding a sheaf of papers.
"Thank you, sir, but I'd like to know if you'd take a look at something I've been writing.
His hands were shaking a little, and Dylan looked at the clock before taking the offered pages. Malcolm's class was his last class of the day, and he had a few minutes to look over the kid's notes. He wasn't in a hurry to return to his dreary little condo, only having an evening of looking at the blinking cursor ahead of him or the equally bleak numbers in his bank account that never seemed to rise high enough. He laid the notes out, scanning them in a perfunctory way, but the farther in he got, the more interested he became.
"I hope it's not too forward, but I just loved your book so much. I know it's rough, but it could be something if I had your help. If not the actual sequel to Darrow Farm, perhaps the spiritual successor?"
Dylan devoured the pages as he read, his anger beginning to kindle. Who the hell did this kid think he was? This was plagiarism! This was theft! He'd see this boy thrown out of college, out of New Hampshire, but the most galling part was that it was good. He could have overlooked it if it had been trash, but Malcolm had written something great. To hell with Darrow Farm. This was something better than it could ever be. He only had a few chapters, but they continued the pioneer families' story flawlessly. The more he read, the less angry he became, and the more curiosity took over.
"Do you like it, sir?" Malcolm asked, and Dylan's face must have looked ghastly because he had taken a step back from the desk, "I know it's pretty rough, but I think, with your help,"
"This is astonishing," Dylan breathed, looking up at Malcolm as if he couldn't believe the boy was real, "You wrote this?"
Malcolm's smile was back in force, "I did. I wrote it because you inspired me, sir. Do you really like it?"
Dylan almost didn't trust himself to talk. He loved it. He wanted to help Malcolm make it great, he wanted to introduce him to his agent and tell him that there would finally be a sequel to Darrow Farm, maybe even two, he wanted to smash this boy's head in and take his notes and leave him for dead, he wanted to rip his skull open and eat his brains like some cannibal trying to get at his thoughts.
The last image gave him an idea, however, and his smile was genuine when he looked back up at the smiling young man whose future would likely be so much brighter than his.
Or, it might have been.
"How would you like to have dinner with me, Malcolm? We'll talk about your book, and then you can come back to my apartment and compare notes. I love what you have here, and I'm excited to get started right away."
Malcolm looked as though Christmas had come early, "I would love to, sir. Wow, you have no idea how much of a dream come true this is."
"Likewise," Dylan said, and as he rose, the two walked and chatted as Dylan made plans just below the surface.
* * * * *
"What have you done?" Sereph asked as he stood in Dylan's dingy apartment and looked at the comatose form of his student.
Dylan didn't think it took much imagination to see what he'd done. He'd fed the kid, they'd talked about his book, and while he was in the bathroom, Dylan had slipped something extra into his drink. It hadn't been anything too insidious, some sleeping pills his doctor had prescribed him a few years ago, but when Malcomn had started stumbling on the way to his apartment, he had wondered if the dosage had been too high.
He had called Mr. Sereph after putting the sleeping kid on the couch, telling him that he had his payment, but he would need to come and get it this time.
"I don't accept cash or checks, you know that. Transfer the money into my account and,"
"You'll want to come to get this payment, Mr. Sereph. Trust me."
Sereph had seemed eager to see what Dylan had for him, but now he looked mad enough to chew iron and spit nails, as Dylan's Grandfather had often said.
"Is this your idea of a joke?" Said Sereph, and suddenly he was in Dylan's face, the eyes behind his mirrored shades the color of piss.
"No, far from it," Said Dylan, standing his ground, "you told me once that, with my talent, you would have just paid me for it and been done with me, but I had money, so I could afford what others couldn't."
"Get to the point." Sereph spat, his face still very close to Dylans, close enough to make him afraid he would bite him.
"I take that to mean that you take these stories from other writers. I want his story. You can keep whatever else he has in there, but I want Darrow Feud. Take the rest, take him, take whatever you need, but I need that story!"
It was Mr. Serephs turn to take a step back, but his smile had returned.
"Wake him up before whatever you gave him wears off," he said as he took a familiar-looking book from his coat, "It might help if he's a little groggy when he makes this deal."
* * * * *
Calder Mane smiled as the lights came up, and Dylan was once again bathed in their glow.
He was back, riding the euphoria of his high, and he never wanted to come down. He had finally done it. He had conquered his white whale, and as the crowd stopped clapping and the house band quieted, Calder Mane turned to fix his regard on him.
"I never thought I'd say this, but it's a pleasure to have you on the show again, Mr. Mandrey, with your sequel to Darrow Farm."
The crowd clapped again, and Dylan gave them a peek at the first cover.
It had been the greatest six months of his life. He had received Malcolm's story in the usual way, but Mr. Sereph had refused any sort of payment. The book, oozing whatever it was that made up a person's talent, went into his coat, and out came a smaller one, which he handed to Dylan.
"The boy's talent was substantial. This will help other writers and more than makes up for your foolishness. I had never considered doing business like this, but you humans are always so inventive when it comes to the old sins. Please let me know if you stumble across any other tasty morsels in that class you teach. The writing world truly is a tank of sharks, and their hunger is wide and deep."
Malcolm had dropped out of his class the following week, and Dylan saw that he had left the university all together.
He hoped the boy found something to take up his empty hours but didn't really think about what he had done past that.
All writers were liars, after all, and lying to themselves was no exception.
"So it's been a decade since you sat in that very spot and brought us Darrow Farm. What led you to write a sequel after so long away from the source material?"
"Well, Calder, inspiration is a fickle business. Sometimes, it truly finds you when you least expect it."
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Dylan drummed his fingers on the desk as he stared at the blank screen.
The Darrow Feuds
By Dylan Mandrey
He had been looking at that title for three months, and it was starting to grind against his sanity. He needed this book to come together, but he just didn't have the words. The sequel to Darrow Farm had been highly anticipated after the first one had spent six weeks on the New York Times Best Seller List. It had been a somber tale of pioneers looking for a fresh start and the strange and frightening neighbors they had found in the woods around Utah's Helmen Valley. People had loved his depiction of the farmers' daughters, especially Gloria, who had ultimately been tempted by the strange creatures who resided within the forest and decided to leave the safety of her protestant father and his homestead. They had wanted to know what happened next for the pioneer family, and Dylan's agent had been absolutely feral for his notes on the next part of the series.
Dylan was getting pretty interested in those notes too, wherever they were.
The fact of the matter was that Dylan had begun to come to terms with the idea that he might not have another book in him.
It hadn't been so bad at first. The book was successful, selling something like six thousand copies in its first week. He had been happy, his publisher had been happy, and his agent had been all smiles when he congratulated him on making the list. This was amazing for a first-time author, but when the book sold another six thousand copies the week after that, Dylan was taken by surprise. Suddenly his book was being read by book clubs, discussed on literary blogs, and his agent called to tell him that the prime-time show Calder Mane Tonight wanted to offer him a guest spot on his show for Friday.
"It's a small segment, no more than ten minutes, but it's huge for a first-time writer." his agent had assured him.
After the interview, he'd gone on to sell something like fifty thousand copies, and that's when the networks had taken notice.
Four months ago, he'd signed a contract with Amazon for the first season of Darrow Farm and cashed a check larger than anything he'd ever seen. Suddenly he could do no wrong. Suddenly he was the industry's gold boy, and everyone wanted a word with him. He made the circuit with the show's director, and book sales continued to soar. He was on Calder Mane again, plugging the show, when the notion of a sequel was first pitched, and it had been his utter ruination.
"So, with the success of your first book, how long before we see a sequel?"
Dylan had been unable to answer, gaping like a fish before he tried to formulate something witty that wouldn't sound too unsure.
"I'm working on the first draft as we speak," he said, flashing the serpent's grin that seems to be the providence of all successful writers.
Who had said all writers were liars? Probably many people, most of them as big, if not bigger, liars than he was. Here he sat three months after making such a pompous claim with nothing to show for it but a title and a working title at that. He was no closer to finishing this book than he was to finishing the first chapter, and as Dylan sighed and put his head in his hands, he came to terms with the hard truth.
He would never finish this book, and when the curtain fell on season one of Darrow Farm, there would never be a season two.
"Now, now," said a voice from the chair in front of him, and Dylan sat up quickly as he looked at the odd man who was suddenly in his study, "that's a bit bleak for someone your age."
Dylan took in the odd man, his mind stuck in that strange limbo between fear and anger. How had this man come to be in his study, a room that existed behind two locked doors? The locks had seemed a little needless until this point. Dylan lived in a fairly upscale neighborhood, in a three-bedroom loft that he would probably have to move out of in the next five years if he didn't get something written. He couldn't remember the last time he had heard sirens on his street, let alone heard about a break-in.
The man didn't appear to need any of his stuff, however. He looked more like a carnival barker in his long black coat, the white shirt beneath looking crisp enough to cut. One polished boot was perched on a knee, and his blonde hair looked odd as it hung over his mirrored sunglasses. He was holding a copy of Darrow Farm, which he snapped shut as Dylan looked at him. The book was a prop, much like his attire, and Dylan suddenly felt the worm of curiosity poking to the surface.
"Who the hell are you?" Dylan asked, the words sounding way more confident than he felt.
"I am Richard T Sereph, and I am a blessing to men like you." said the man, flashing an obscene amount of pearly white teeth as he smiled.
"Men like me?" Dylan asked, "I assume you mean writers?"
"I was speaking of desperate men, but I often find that the two go hand in hand."
Dylan sighed, "I don't know how you got in here, but I want you out of my study before I call the police. I am hard at work, and you,"
"Oh, I can tell," the man said, tossing the book onto the glass top of Dylan's coffee table, "You've been hard at work for the last three months. Procrastination is a full-time job, isn't it, Mr. Mandry."
"Now, just who the hell do you,"
"If you were a man of lesser means, I'd offer to pay you for your talent and take my leave, but you have something that many don't, and it makes the world go round."
Dylan stood up, confident that he understood where this was going now.
This huckster was after his money, and Dylan was in no mood to indulge him.
"Get the hell out of my house. At this point, I don't think I need to call the police. If you keep moving on this course, I'll toss you out myself."
The man smiled his predatory smile and reached into his coat. Dylan's compass suddenly swung around to fear again, and he took a step back as he tensed for the shot. The man would shoot him now, Dylan could already see the gun coming out, and he wondered what the news would make of his death? Famous writer killed before his time, they would say, and when the thud hit his desk, he could already feel the burning in his chest.
Instead, he opened his eyes to find a small leather-bound book sitting on the edge of his desk.
"For those with so much imagination, your kind always seems to need proof."
The book wasn't large, no great demonic tomb or heavy arcane bit of binding. It was about the size of an average paperback, about two hundred pages, but the leather covering it looked ancient. It was cracked, the symbols on the cover broken by jagged rifts, and the spine bore neither name nor legend. As it sat there, Dylan felt like something on that cover was watching him, something that did not love him.
"What is that?" Dylan asked, the man already crossing to the door.
"A book," he said, as though it should be obvious, "a very special one. It will give you what you need, and when you have it, don't hesitate to call me for more."
He took a normal-looking business card from the front pocket of his coat and laid it on the end table beside the door.
He left then, but when Dylan got up to follow him out, he found his hallway empty. He searched the house, but it was occupied by only one slightly ruffled writer and one strange little black book. Dylan checked the doors, returning to his work when he was certain that no one was lurking in his home.
He sat in front of the computer, but his heart wasn't in it.
His eyes kept straying to that little book, and with every glance, his curiosity grew. It was nothing, just an old book, but his mind refused to believe it. It was a mystery, something new, a Pandora's box just waiting to be opened. He typed a few sentences but immediately deleted them afterward. He'd been doing that for months, the words sounding lame as they sat like slugs on the page.
He floundered in this way for most of the afternoon, the book judging him as he played at work. More than once, he started to reach for it, always thinking better. More than once, he started to simply push it off the desk, but he felt sure that it would open its pages and there would be teeth waiting to bite him. In the end, he wasted another short time, and as the sun set and the day died, Dylan finally took the book in hand.
He couldn't stand it anymore, and when he opened it up, he was suddenly sorry he had given in.
The book made a hollow sound as it landed on the ground, but Dylan was suddenly rendered blind. An icepick had lodged itself between his eyes, and the sudden and blinding revelation made him glad he had been sitting. He had experienced insight before, but this was akin to the most intimate of defilement. If he could find the strength to lift his hand, Dylan imagined that he would feel his brains pattering to the carpet where a bullet had ripped through his skull. He was falling, falling, falling into some bright abyss from which there was no escape, and then, suddenly, it was all gone.
He was sitting in his chair, his hands empty but his mind full.
He wrote the rest of that day and well into the next, and when he emailed his agent the first ten chapters of what he'd written, his response was one of bemused confusion.
"This is not a sequel to Darrow Farm," he said when he called him three hours later.
"Is that a problem?" Dylan asked, already guessing the answer.
"If the other chapters are as good as these? I doubt it will be," he said, and Dylan could hear the smile in his voice.
* * * * *
He was sitting at his laptop again, waiting to be inspired.
Roland's War had been the story of a cavalry deserter who defends the town he has settled in from a group of his old army brothers turned outlaw. It was well received, outselling Darrow Farm and earning a movie this time instead of a tv show. Kurt Russel had even been cast as Roland, the main character, and the check they had cut him that time was even bigger than the one before. The royalties from the Darrow Farm tv show had also been substantial, and that's why he found himself here again.
Amazon wanted a season two, his publisher wanted a sequel, and Dylan, yet again, found himself trying to create gold from straw.
He had written a few sentences that he liked and a few paragraphs that he felt confident about, but he knew he would delete most of it later. The book was DOA, and he knew the likelihood of it all coming together was slim to nil. He might as well try to write a sequel to Roland's War for all the good it would do him.
As he wrote and erased, he thought again about the man in the black coat. He had looked at the business card more than once since that day a year ago, and he opened his desk drawer as he took it out, and looked at it again. Richard T Sereph and Libras Talent were printed on the front, along with a phone number. He could call him again, Dylan knew, but he had resisted up until now. He had no proof that Roland's War had anything to do with the book Sereph had left behind.
But, he thought as he hit the delete key on the better part of an hour's work, he didn't have any proof that it hadn't.
The phone rang only once before Dylan heard that smooth, oily voice waft through his ears.
"Why, Mr. Mandrey. To what do we owe the pleasure?"
Dylan gulped; the man knew his number.
A number he had never given him.
"I need more," he half whispered, and he could hear the muscles in the old demon's face as they creaked into a grin.
"The price is one hundred thousand. Send it to the account I am about to message you."
A text popped up with the information to a private bank account.
"And when do I," but Sereph cut him off.
"When the money is transferred, you will receive your book."
"But how long?" Dylan asked, his fingers dancing over the keys as he finished the operation.
He had hit send on the money when a cheery ding dong came from downstairs.
There was a box on the doorstep, and inside was another leather-bound book.
Mr. Sereph had already hung up.
* * * * *
After eight years, Dylan was still looking at an empty screen with the words Darrows Feud on them.
In those eight years, he had written five more books and made five more payments to Mr. Sereph.
In five years, he had written two more cowboy dramas, a sci-fi novel that had shocked and impressed his agent and his peers, a Slice of Life drama they had turned into a successful tv series, and a Fantasy novel that had even George R raving. They had bred three more movies as well and book sails in the hundreds of thousands. The name Dylan Mandry was synonymous with innovation and flexibility, and he had offers from as many colleges as he did conventions. None of the big ivy league ones, of course, but Dartmouth had offered him a very comfortable position if he was interested in relocating. They wanted him to teach his technique to aspiring writers, which was why Dylan had to turn them down.
It would be difficult to teach a class on "Get rich and outsource your ideas to a magic man with books that scrambled your brains 101."
His agent and his publisher had long ago stopped asking for a sequel to Darrow Farm. They had decided that he was a one-book man, and they had both made enough money off him to be satisfied with his writing process. They were happy to take his work and a portion of his royalties, and these days the checks were sizeable indeed.
Though, Dylan knew that soon they wouldn't be enough.
Mr. Sereph's prices were akin to the pushers he had seen in his neighborhood when he was a kid. The first taste was always free, and then they had a customer for life. Sereph's prices seemed to double with every call. One hundred grand became two hundred grand became four hundred grand, became eight hundred grand, became one million dollars. "I rounded it down since you're a frequent customer," he'd said, and Dylan had paid it even though it hurt to part with it. Despite being successful, he wasn't as rich as everyone thought. Giving Sereph several million dollars had hurt, and if the next payment followed suit, he would be nearly broke.
The richest beggar in literature, no wonder most of them just drank it all away.
He tried to resist the urge to call this time, watching the cursor blink as he tried to make the words come. Had it all been a fluke? Had he really thought he had another book in him? Had he been so foolish as to think he could write something that good a second time? No, he thought, the magic was still in there; it was him that was broken. He had gotten so used to taking the easy way that he'd forgotten how the craft worked. Mr. Sereph was just another pusher, and Dylan was his loyal junkie who just kept coming back for another hit.
He stared at the blinking cursor for another ten minutes, feeling his time ticking away, before finally calling Mr. Sereph.
"Well, well, well, if it isn't the writer of the decade. I've heard your name bandied about with great expectations lately."
"Yeah, thanks for all that, but I need help with this next book."
"You know the price," Sereph said, "two million in my account, then you,"
"I, uh, I need help with a specific story this time."
Sereph was quiet for so long that Dylan thought the line had gone dead.
"Hello?" Dylan asked, desperately hoping he hadn't offended the man somehow, "Hello? Are you there? I just need,"
"I'm sorry, Mr. Mandrey, but that's not how it works."
Dylan was speechless for a moment, "How what works?"
"I can limit you to a specific genre if you like, most of your fame has been in frontier dramas, but I can't help you with a particular story. It doesn't work like that."
Dylan wanted to get angry, he wanted to rant and rail at this man who had taken so much money from him, but the curiosity that had brought him to writing in the first place made him ask the question that was rolling inside his head.
"How does it work?"
That same muscle-tightening sound, like old ropes on a mast, could be heard as Mr. Sereph flashed his crest kid smile from the other side of the phone.
"Do you care?"
Dylan did, but he said no.
Some things were better left unsaid.
* * * * *
"Mr. Mandrey, how do you write across multiple genres like that? Where do you find the inspiration?"
Dylan hoped they couldn't see him hide his guilty smile as he buried it.
"Well, I find that inspiration is fickle. Sometimes it gives you a bounty, but not always what you need. I have been hoping to recapture that inspiration soon, but so far, it eludes me."
Class was almost over, and he always let the students pick his brain at the end. Dartmouth had been glad to have him, and the move to New Hampshire had been easy. Dylan had been able to pack all of his possessions into a suitcase, the ones he hadn't sold. He had kept two suits, some day wear, his laptop, and a few books. He had come to a new city with little but the clothes on his back.
If the five years before had been tumultuous, then the five that came after had been turbulent. He still had no sequel to Darrow Farm, but he had published two more best-sellers. Both had been two years apart, and both had been the sort of Oat Operas that he had started with. The first was the best of them, Flanders Holdfast, and when Amazon had asked if they could adapt it into a series, he had told them to go right ahead. They had asked if he would mind helping them with a second season when all was said and done, and he had also agreed to that. Whatever magic had produced Darrow Farm had dried up, and he had come to terms with the fact that he was dry too.
The second had been only the year before, and that was when he had come to terms with the fact that he had a problem.
Margarette's Sache had sold decently, but it had come nowhere near the cost of it. That had been when Dylan had sold all his things and moved to New Hampshire. The loft he lived in, the first eds he'd collected in college, the Dicken's third eds that had been his fathers, his clothes, his signature, his blood, his sperm, whatever it took to get that next hit of success. He had long ago given up on the idea that one of these hits would be the sequel he wanted, but that hardly mattered. He wanted the high of seeing his name in print, the euphoria of being in the mouths of every important person in his circle, the dizzying feeling as he looked down from his ivory tower at all the little people who wished they could be him.
That's why he was working here.
He needed the money, he needed it bad, and if he intended to feel that jolt again before he died, he would pay for another hit of that sweetest nectar.
He realized he'd been staring out the window and pointed to a young man in the front row. He thought his name might be Max or maybe Phillip, but after the number on the roster passed ten, Dylan had trouble remembering everyone unless they made an impression. He regretted calling on him when he stood up, that hateful artifact clutched in his hand like a crucifix. He wondered if Dracula had looked at crosses the way he now looked at copies of Darrow Farm, and as the boy's teeth fixed into a flattered grin, Dylan tried to make his own do likewise.
"I just wanted to tell you what this book meant to me when I was a kid. I loved all your books, and I'm not a sci-fi reader usually, but this one really spoke to me. I know you must hear it all the time, but do you think you'll ever do a sequel to Darrow Farm?"
Dylan thought about how to answer the question tactfully and finally decided on the truth.
"No, probably not. I've been trying for years, and I just can't make it work."
They dispersed then, seeming to understand that this was a good time to make themselves scarce. He reminded them to work on their chapters for peer proofing tomorrow and sat heavily in his chair as he thought again about Darrow Feud. It had been eleven years. If he hadn't done it now, he supposed he never would.
"Mr. Mandrey?"
Dylan looked up to see the same kid who'd asked the question, remembering suddenly that his name was Malcolm.
"Sorry to bother you, sir, but I was wondering if," he floundered a little, setting the copy of Darrow Farm on Dylan's desk.
He would want an autograph; they always did. He had turned to dig in his bag, looking for a pen, Dylan had no doubt. Dylan tried not to sigh as he reached into his desk and took out his own pen, signing the dust jacket as he slid it back to him. He tried to smile, but it was so hard with the proof of his failure sitting right in his face.
"There ya go, kid. I usually charge twenty-five bucks for one of those, but your tuition keeps me warm, so this one is on the house."
Malcolm smiled, but when his hand came out of the bag, he was holding a sheaf of papers.
"Thank you, sir, but I'd like to know if you'd take a look at something I've been writing.
His hands were shaking a little, and Dylan looked at the clock before taking the offered pages. Malcolm's class was his last class of the day, and he had a few minutes to look over the kid's notes. He wasn't in a hurry to return to his dreary little condo, only having an evening of looking at the blinking cursor ahead of him or the equally bleak numbers in his bank account that never seemed to rise high enough. He laid the notes out, scanning them in a perfunctory way, but the farther in he got, the more interested he became.
"I hope it's not too forward, but I just loved your book so much. I know it's rough, but it could be something if I had your help. If not the actual sequel to Darrow Farm, perhaps the spiritual successor?"
Dylan devoured the pages as he read, his anger beginning to kindle. Who the hell did this kid think he was? This was plagiarism! This was theft! He'd see this boy thrown out of college, out of New Hampshire, but the most galling part was that it was good. He could have overlooked it if it had been trash, but Malcolm had written something great. To hell with Darrow Farm. This was something better than it could ever be. He only had a few chapters, but they continued the pioneer families' story flawlessly. The more he read, the less angry he became, and the more curiosity took over.
"Do you like it, sir?" Malcolm asked, and Dylan's face must have looked ghastly because he had taken a step back from the desk, "I know it's pretty rough, but I think, with your help,"
"This is astonishing," Dylan breathed, looking up at Malcolm as if he couldn't believe the boy was real, "You wrote this?"
Malcolm's smile was back in force, "I did. I wrote it because you inspired me, sir. Do you really like it?"
Dylan almost didn't trust himself to talk. He loved it. He wanted to help Malcolm make it great, he wanted to introduce him to his agent and tell him that there would finally be a sequel to Darrow Farm, maybe even two, he wanted to smash this boy's head in and take his notes and leave him for dead, he wanted to rip his skull open and eat his brains like some cannibal trying to get at his thoughts.
The last image gave him an idea, however, and his smile was genuine when he looked back up at the smiling young man whose future would likely be so much brighter than his.
Or, it might have been.
"How would you like to have dinner with me, Malcolm? We'll talk about your book, and then you can come back to my apartment and compare notes. I love what you have here, and I'm excited to get started right away."
Malcolm looked as though Christmas had come early, "I would love to, sir. Wow, you have no idea how much of a dream come true this is."
"Likewise," Dylan said, and as he rose, the two walked and chatted as Dylan made plans just below the surface.
* * * * *
"What have you done?" Sereph asked as he stood in Dylan's dingy apartment and looked at the comatose form of his student.
Dylan didn't think it took much imagination to see what he'd done. He'd fed the kid, they'd talked about his book, and while he was in the bathroom, Dylan had slipped something extra into his drink. It hadn't been anything too insidious, some sleeping pills his doctor had prescribed him a few years ago, but when Malcomn had started stumbling on the way to his apartment, he had wondered if the dosage had been too high.
He had called Mr. Sereph after putting the sleeping kid on the couch, telling him that he had his payment, but he would need to come and get it this time.
"I don't accept cash or checks, you know that. Transfer the money into my account and,"
"You'll want to come to get this payment, Mr. Sereph. Trust me."
Sereph had seemed eager to see what Dylan had for him, but now he looked mad enough to chew iron and spit nails, as Dylan's Grandfather had often said.
"Is this your idea of a joke?" Said Sereph, and suddenly he was in Dylan's face, the eyes behind his mirrored shades the color of piss.
"No, far from it," Said Dylan, standing his ground, "you told me once that, with my talent, you would have just paid me for it and been done with me, but I had money, so I could afford what others couldn't."
"Get to the point." Sereph spat, his face still very close to Dylans, close enough to make him afraid he would bite him.
"I take that to mean that you take these stories from other writers. I want his story. You can keep whatever else he has in there, but I want Darrow Feud. Take the rest, take him, take whatever you need, but I need that story!"
It was Mr. Serephs turn to take a step back, but his smile had returned.
"Wake him up before whatever you gave him wears off," he said as he took a familiar-looking book from his coat, "It might help if he's a little groggy when he makes this deal."
* * * * *
Calder Mane smiled as the lights came up, and Dylan was once again bathed in their glow.
He was back, riding the euphoria of his high, and he never wanted to come down. He had finally done it. He had conquered his white whale, and as the crowd stopped clapping and the house band quieted, Calder Mane turned to fix his regard on him.
"I never thought I'd say this, but it's a pleasure to have you on the show again, Mr. Mandrey, with your sequel to Darrow Farm."
The crowd clapped again, and Dylan gave them a peek at the first cover.
It had been the greatest six months of his life. He had received Malcolm's story in the usual way, but Mr. Sereph had refused any sort of payment. The book, oozing whatever it was that made up a person's talent, went into his coat, and out came a smaller one, which he handed to Dylan.
"The boy's talent was substantial. This will help other writers and more than makes up for your foolishness. I had never considered doing business like this, but you humans are always so inventive when it comes to the old sins. Please let me know if you stumble across any other tasty morsels in that class you teach. The writing world truly is a tank of sharks, and their hunger is wide and deep."
Malcolm had dropped out of his class the following week, and Dylan saw that he had left the university all together.
He hoped the boy found something to take up his empty hours but didn't really think about what he had done past that.
All writers were liars, after all, and lying to themselves was no exception.
"So it's been a decade since you sat in that very spot and brought us Darrow Farm. What led you to write a sequel after so long away from the source material?"
"Well, Calder, inspiration is a fickle business. Sometimes, it truly finds you when you least expect it."