2nd Corinthians   Chapter Twelve  

Visions and revelations
[verses 1-10]  

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-2. I am acquainted with [מכיר, MahKeeYR] a man in Anointed, that, before fourteen years, was taken [נלקח, NeeLQahH] unto the firmament [הרקיע, HahRahQeeY`ah] the third;
I do not [אנני, ’ahNehNeeY] know if in his body or from out to his body; the Gods knows.  

“As verse seven shows, Paul was the ‘man in Christ’ … because they are not his own achievement, he chooses to refer to them in this indirect way … since ancient Jewish writings varied the number of heavens pictured (three and seven were the most usual suggestions, we cannot be sure; it generally means the place of the blessed, or the state of separate spirits.” (Adam Clarke, 1831, VI p. 352)  
“The Jews talk of seven heavens: and Mohammed has received the same from them; but these are not only fabulous but absurd. I shall enumerate those of the Jews. 1. The velum or curtain, וילון [VeeYLON], ‘which in the morning is folded up; and in the evening stretched out.’ Isai. [Isaiah] xi.22 ‘He stretched out the heavens as a curtain, and spreadeth them out as a tent to dwell in. 2. The firmament, or expanse, רקיע [RahQeeYah*], ‘in which the sun, moon, stars and constellations are fixed.’ Gen. [Genesis] 1:17 ‘And God placed them in the firmament of heaven. 3. The clouds, or ether, שחקים [*ShahHahQeeYM*], ‘where the millstones are which grind the manna for the righteous,’ Psal. [Psalm] lxxviii.23, ‘though he had commanded the clouds from above, and opened the doors of heaven; and had rained down manna.’ 5. The dwelling place, מעון [*MahON], ‘where the troops of angels sing throughout the night, but are silent in the day time, because of the glory of the Israelites’ … 6. The fixed residence, מכון [MahKhON], ‘where are the treasures of snow and hail; the repository of noxious dews, of drops and whirlwind; the grotto of exhalations’ … 7. The Araboth, ערבות, ['ahRahBOTh], ‘where are justice, judgment, mercy, the treasures of life; peace and blessedness; the souls of the righteous which are reserved for the bodies yet to formed; and the dew by which God is to vivify the dead … Psal. lxvii.4 “Extol him who riddeth on the heavens בערבות ba-araboth, by his name Jah.  
All this is sufficiently unphilosophical and in several cases ridiculous.  
In the Sacred Writings, three heavens only are mentioned, the first is the atmosphere, what appears to be intended by רקיע rakia, the firmament or expansion, Gen. 1.6. The second is the starry heaven; where are the sun, moon, planets, and stars, but these two are often expressed in the one term שמים [ShahMahYeeM, “skies”] shamayim, the two heavens, or expansion; and in Gen. 1.17 they appear to be both expressed by רקיע השמים, rakia hashamayim, the firmament of heaven. And, thirdly, the place of the blessed, or the throne of the divine glory probably expressed by the words שמים השמים shamayim hashamayim; the heaven of heavens.  
Much more may be seen in Schoetgen, who has exhausted the subject; and who has shown that ascending to heaven, or being caught up to heaven, is a form of speech among the Jewish writers, to express the highest degree of inspiration.” (Adam Clarke, 1831, VI pp. 351-352)  

-3. I know a man like this - I do not know if in his body or from out to his body, God knows - 4. that was taken unto Garden of ’ayDehN [“Lord”, Eden],  

“The Jewish writers have no less than four paradises: as they have seven heavens … The Mohammedans call it جنت الفردوس jennet alferdos, the garden of paradise: and say that God created it out of light, and that it is the habitation of the prophets and wise men.  
Among Christian writers, it generally means the place of the blessed; or the state of separate spirits. Whether the third heaven and paradise be the same place we cannot absolutely say; they probably are not.” (Adam Clarke, 1831) VI p. 352  

and heard words [מילים, MeeLeeYM] that are not to be spoken [לבטאן, LeBahT’ahN], that are forbidden to ’ahDahM to word [למללן, LeMahLeLahN].  

“The Jews thought, that the divine name, the Tetragrammaton יהוה Yehovah, should not be uttered; and that it is absolutely unlawful to pronounce it; indeed they say that the true pronunciation is utterly lost, and cannot be recovered without express revelation. Not one of them, to the present day, ever attempts to utter it; and when they meet with it in their reading, always supply its place with אדני [’ahDoNah-eeY, “My Lords”] Adonai, Lord.” ((Adam Clarke, 1831, VI p. 352)  

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-7. And in order [וכדי, OoKheDaY] that I not be lifted [אתנשא, ’ehThNahSay’] because of [בגלל, BeeGLahL] the revelations the ascending, was given to me a thorn [קוץ, QOTs] in my flesh – a messenger of the Adversary [Satan] – to smite me [להכותני, LeHahKOThayNeeY], in order that I not be lifted.  

“What must he have suffered on account of an eminent Church being perverted and torn to pieces by a false teacher?” … Satan, the adversary of God’s truth, sent a man to preach lies … and turn the Church of God into his own synagogue.” (Adam Clarke, 1831, VI p. 353)  

-8. Upon that I implored [התחננתי, HeeThHahNahNTheeY] three times unto the Lord to remove him [להסירו, LahHahÇeeYRO] from me.  

“‘I besought the Lord’ That is, Christ, as the next verse absolutely proves: and the Socinians^v themselves confess. And if Christ be an object of prayer, in it is a sure proof of his divinity; for only an omniscient being can be made an object of prayer. (Adam Clarke, 1831, VI p. 353)  

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Worry of the sent-forth [Apostle] to Corinthians [verses 11 to end of chapter]  

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-12. Lo, signs of the acquaintance of the sent-forth were done in your midst [בקרבכם, BeQeeRBeKhehM], in his full [במלוא, BeeMeLo’] forbearance, in signs, and in wonders [ובמופתים, OoBeMOPhTheeYM], and braveries.  

“The study of the N.T. [New Testament] miracles may best begin with this passage, Rom. [Romans] 15:19, and Gal. [Galatians] 3:5. Writing to churches that would have challenged him had he falsified the facts, Paul refers unhesitatingly, to such miracles; he knows that even his enemies cannot deny their occurrence … Moreover this verse implies clearly that other true apostles were doing similar mighty works.” (Filson, 1953, X. 411)  

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-15. And I in happiness give also [את, ’ehTh (indicator of direct object; no English equivalent)] what that have to me, and also [את, ’ehTh] myself to sake of your souls.
If I love you in measure [במידה, BeMeeYDaH] more [יתרה, YeThayRaH] will you love me in measure less [פחותה, PeHOoThaH]?”  

“If I be asked, ‘Should Christian parents lay up money for their children?’ I answer – It is the duty of every parent, who can, to lay up what is necessary to put every child in a condition to earn its bread. If he neglect this, he undoubtedly sins against God and nature. ‘But should not a man lay up besides this, a fortune for his children, if he can honestly?’ I answer, Yes, if there be no poor within his reach: no good work which he can assist; no heathen region on the earth to which he can contribute to send the Gospel of Jesus; but not otherwise. God shows, in the course of his providence, that this laying up of fortunes for children is not right; for there is scarcely ever a case where money has been saved up to make the children independent, and gentlemen, in which God has not cursed the blessing. It was saved from the poor; from the ignorant; from the cause of God; and the canker of his displeasure consumed this ill saved property.” (Adam Clarke, 1831, VI p. 355)  
“From St. Paul we receive two remarkable sayings of our Lord, which are of infinite value to the welfare and salvation of man; which are properly parts of the Gospel but are not mentioned by any evangelist… The first is in Acts xx.25 ‘I have showed you the words of the Lord Jesus, how he said, “it is more blessed to give than to receive”’… the second is recorded in the ninth verse of this chapter, ‘He said unto me, “My grace is sufficient for thee, for my strength is made perfect in weakness.”’… of these two most blessed sayings, St. Paul is the only evangelist.” (Adam Clarke, 1831, p. 356)

...   FOOTNOTES   [v] Socinianism is a form of Antitrinitarianism, named for Laelius Socinus (died 1562 in Zürich) … one of the founders of a religious society that had to operate secretly in order to avoid persecution. In 1574 the Socinians, who referred to themselves as Unitarians, issued a "Catechism of the Unitarians," in which they laid out their views of the nature and perfection of the Godhead, as well as other principles of their group.  
The group became more widely known in Poland and began to prosper, opening colleges and publishing literature, until 1638, when the Socinians were banished from Poland by the Catholics.  
Socinians held views rooted in rationality only and rejected orthodox teachings on the Trinity and on the divinity of Jesus, as summarised in the Racovian Catechism. They also believed that God's omniscience was limited to what was a necessary truth in the future (what would definitely happen), and did not apply to what was a contingent truth (what might happen). They believed that, if God knew every possible future, human free will was impossible; and as such rejected the "hard" view of omniscience. They are to be differentiated from Arians, who believed in a preexistent Christ. The Socinians held that the Son of God did not exist until he was born a man.  
The Socinians congregated especially in Transylvania, in Poland …and in the Netherlands. They were driven from their seat at Raków in 1643.  
Socinianism is considered to be an antecedent or early form of Unitarianism and the term is still used today to refer to the belief that Jesus did not preexist his life as a human.  
Note: In Christianity, Socinianism is also called Psilanthropism, the presumed etymology of "psilanthropism" stems from the Greek psilo (merely, only) and anthropos (man, human being).  
Psilanthropism was rejected by the ecumenical councils, especially in the First Council of Nicaea, which was convened to deal directly with this. Beliefs similar to those of Socinianism continue today in Christian groups such as the Christadelphians and the Church of the Blessed Hope.  
From Wikipedia, the free encyclopedia
  An Amateur's Journey Through the Bible

3:30 toddler son comes into room demanding milk. Wife says just give it to him, he's probably dehydrated. Try to go back to sleep he wants a second. Fine. Then he's thoroughly awake and wants to play. Crawls into bed and takes my face in both hands and stares me in the eyes. "No sleep, daddy! No bed! Go outside!" Put him back in his room and he comes back to ours and eventually goes to sleep.
It's time to get up for daycare and he's dead to the world. My wife has been trying to gently wake him and he's just got one eye kind of half-open looking like he's not ready for today. I pick him up and look him in the eye. "It's payback time!" I say in my brightest, happiest voice and start dancing with him. "No payback! No payback!" he says.
lol the stories we're getting as his language skills get better.
Mommy: You can't have ice cream for dinner.
Son: Cake!
Mommy: Are you negotiating with me?
Son: YES!
Mommy: No cake.
Son: holds up his hand in the classic why not pose Why not cookie?

When the old man got within range, John kicked at him with his good leg, but the old timer was quick, much quicker than he looked. He ducked to his right, side stepping John's lashing foot, then darted in and touched the tip of the prod to John's leg. Fire--that's what it felt like. White hot fire. A jolt went through John's body that made his eyeballs hurt. And just like that, the old man slipped in again and jabbed him in the stomach. Then, as John rolled onto his belly, the tip touched his back.
John curled into a ball and hugged his knees to his chest.
"Get through that door, boy," the old man said. "Move it, now!" Like herding an ornery animal.
And like an animal, John Burke responded, lifting himself onto all fours and crawling toward the exit. Halfway across the floor, the old man jammed the cattle prod against John's ass. He cried out and scampered through the door.
As soon they were out of the room, the old man clicked his cheek a couple of times like he was calling a dog. "Get on your feet, like a good boy." John struggled to his feet as the door closed behind him and the bolts slammed into place. He stood at one end of a narrow passage, dark, except for a single bulb hanging from the ceiling at the far end. Again, John felt the prod touch his back.
"Get!" the old man said.
John limped toward the light.
The passage emptied into a windowless room, low ceilinged and big. The old man forced him into a chute--a cattle chute. Horizontal steel poles on each side formed a walkway barely wide enough for a man's shoulders. The poles were stacked four high, the top pole about five feet off the ground. Every six or eight feet stood a vertical brace.
The old man closed and locked a sliding wooden door behind them, then bent and slipped between two of the horizontal poles. Outside the chute, he prodded John to keep him moving. As John walked toward the end, the old man thumped him two or three times with the prod but didn't shock him.
Suddenly, an overpowering stench hit John and his feet stopped moving. He looked to the right, toward the source of the smell, and saw a stainless steel table, on top of which lay a man's lifeless body. He was on his belly with his head turned and John could see the face of the man who'd been goaded out of the room just before him. The white-haired old lady stood beside the table gripping an electric carving knife in one latexed hand, while with her other gloved hand she pressed the man's leg firmly against the table. Bile gurgled up into John's throat as the old lady thumbed the switch on the carving knife and sliced a hunk of meat from the back of the dead man's thigh.
John spewed vomit and dropped to his knees. "Get up, boy," he heard from behind him as the prod juiced his lower back. John screamed in pain as he staggered to his feet. "Move it," the old man said. With legs like jelly, John stumbled forward.
The cut he'd worked into the leather belt was just to the right of the steel loop through which the handcuffs ran. Only an eighth of an inch of leather remained. Using his body, John shielded his hands from the old man's view while he tugged on the handcuffs and hobbled along.
The sides of the chute closed in on him as he reached the end. Near panic, John tried to turn around, but before he could the old man slid a gate closed behind him that penned him in.
Trapped.
From the corner of his eye, John watched the old man. Saw him step towards a workbench against the wall, fifteen feet away, and toss the cattle prod onto it. He pulled a ballpeen hammer down from a wall above the bench. It had a big stainless steel head with a foot long wooden handle. The old man turned and walked toward John with a casual, bored look on his face, just another day in the slaughterhouse.
Bent as far forward as he could, John thrust his hips back and jerked his cuffed hands forward, but the leather belt held. Behind him he heard the old man's shoes scrape the cement floor. Desperate, John twisted his hands to the right. The leather still held. Just an eighth of an inch between a chance for escape and a hammer to the back of the head.
A shoe scuff on the floor. Afraid to look, John stared at his hands. He groaned as he thrust his hips to the right and jerked his hands to the left. The leather tore and the belt pulled free from his waist.
"Where you think you're going?" the old man said.
John ducked and heard the top pole ring as the ballpeen hammer glanced off of it. With the belt still dangling from his handcuffs, John doubled over and stepped between the two middle poles on his left side. To his right the old man cursed him and swung the hammer between the bars. The hammer thumped into John's right hip but he didn't stop. Once through the bars he ran--hobbled on his painful ankle--toward the wall, trying to put as much distance between him and the old man as possible.
"Momma, momma, he got loose!"
"Catch him quick 'fore he gets away," the old lady screamed.
John Burke was lost. He didn't know where he was our how to get out. He turned, saw the old man race around the end of the chute, hammer cocked over his shoulder. John's back was to the wall. Wildly, he glanced around for something he could use. There was nothing.
To his left, twenty feet away was the corner of the room and a closed door.
The old man saw John looking. "You'll never get out." But he slowed down, approaching cautiously, angling toward the door to cut off John's only escape route.
The old man looked nervous about the door. John broke and ran. Waves of pain shot up his leg from his swollen ankle but he ignored it. The old man lunged toward the door to intercept. John tried to stop and start, throw a fake at the old man, but his ankle folded and he hit the floor.
The old man dropped to one knee beside him and raised the hammer over his head. "Got you!"
But as the killer blow came down, John shifted slightly to the side and the hammer struck the cement beside his head, sending tiny chips flying into his face. He lashed out with his good foot, missed the old man's head but caught him in the ribs. As the old man grunted and toppled over, John got to his feet and struggled to the door.
Locked.
John twisted the knob and screamed in rage. The old man stood up. Mounted on the wall next to the door was a gray metal circuit box, the handle protruding from its side angled up in the on position. An electrical shut off.
"Get him, poppy," the old woman screamed from the other side of the room. A nice old couple who called each other momma and poppy.
John grabbed the handle with both hands, shot a glance at the old man, saw him bearing down, and pulled.
Lights out. Total darkness.
Just in time John ducked. He heard the old man grunt as the hammer dug into the drywall. With his manacled hands, John shoved the old man, then ran along the wall to his left. Moving through the dark it felt like a mile. The old lady screamed.
Cuffed hands out in front with the torn leather belt dangling from them, John ran into the wall and turned right. He had no idea where to go or what to do. Just knew he had to put as much distance as he could between him and the old man. At the next corner he turned right again. Just up ahead he heard the old lady. "Poppy, I can't see."
He slowed down, tried to catch his breath. Then the lights came on. Poppy must have gotten to the switch. John found himself next to the stainless steel butchering table, and face-to-face with the old lady. With the power on, her electric carving knife started buzzing.
"I got him, poppy!" she said and chopped at him with the knife.
John jerked his head back as the humming blade passed less than an inch from his eyes.
"Momma!" the old man screamed.
John looked across the big room at the old man by the door. Hammer swinging from his hand, he started to run towards them but had to go around the cattle chute. The old lady again cut at John but this time he managed to catch her wrist in his hands. As he kicked her in the shin he heard one of his bare toes crack, but she loosened her grip on the knife and he was able to jerk it out of her hand.
The old man rounded the end of the chute and howled in rage as he saw them struggling. Momma clawed at John's eyes with both hands, but he managed to close them just as her nails raked his face. Carving knife in hand, he slashed at the old lady. The vibrating blade ripped into the side of her neck and cut across her throat. She gurgled up a foul smelling blast of air from her open trachea that made John gag. With her eyes wide open, the old lady looked stunned as her knees folded and she collapsed to the ground.
John Burke turned and the old man was right on top of him, screaming, swinging the hammer at his head. As John raised the carving knife, the hammer snapped the blade off and knocked it from his hand. The old man lunged closer, grabbed him by the throat with his left hand and raised the hammer again.
John threw an awkward jab with his shackled hands and hit the old man in the face with just enough force to stun him into losing his grip on John's neck. Then with a two-handed uppercut to the gut, this one with a little more behind it, he doubled the old man over, then ran for the door.
Standing in front of the door, he jerked down the power switch and again shrouded the room in darkness. He raised his good leg and kicked the wooden door as hard as he could. It gave just a little. Behind him he heard the old man crying, and something else--things being knocked over, things hitting the floor, the sounds of searching.
As John kicked again, his bad ankle screamed in pain, yet still the door held. He caught his breath, raised his good leg and managed one more kick. This time the knob splintered off and the door flew open. Stairs led up.
Behind him, a two-count metallic click echoed through the room. The unmistakable sound of a shell being chambered. A shotgun.
Fighting back the pain, John loped up the stairs as the shotgun blasted behind him. Upstairs he found himself in an empty kitchen. He moved down a short hallway that opened into a room he recognized, the den of the old lady's house. It was dark outside and only a few lights were on inside the house.
Footsteps on the cellar stairs.
Frantically, John looked around, seeing the big bay windows, but no door to the outside. He knocked the dead telephone to the ground, snatched up the end table, and heaved it through one of the windows.
Outside the air was warm and muggy, the ground soft like after a rain. Naked, except for the handcuffs and leather belt hanging from them, John staggered toward the woods just beyond the house. As he reached the first trees he heard another shotgun blast behind him, heard glass shatter, heard pellets tearing through the trees to his right.
Into the trees, getting some of them between him and the house in case the old man ripped off another shot.
"Murderer! I'll kill you," the old timer yelled through the trees. Almost funny, a minute ago the old man trying to bash his brains in with a hammer but still had the nerve to call him a murderer. Not to mention the sweet old lady carving a man like a Christmas turkey.
John turned forty-five degrees to the right. Choosing a zig-zag over a straight line. A minute later he heard another shot, then the pellets ripped into the branches off to his left. A frustration shot. The old man had guessed he'd turn but he'd guessed the wrong way.
He'd gotten out of shape. Just a few minutes into the woods he was puffing like a steam train, a stitch like a knife twisting into his side. John could feel his ankle starting to swell. Time for the zag so he turned left, crossed through what he guessed was fifty or sixty yards of woods, then suddenly burst into a clearing--the cemetery. The high three-quarter moon cast short, dark shadows from the tombstones. Blackness in a sea of night.
Something crashed through the brush behind him in the distance, followed by bark of a big dog. John had trouble as he stepped over the low spiked fence that surrounded the graveyard. For a second he had to put all of his weight on his bad leg and came close to impaling himself.
John remembered another fence, a six-foot iron one that spanned the front of the property, the half-inch thick bars thrust at the sky like black spears. If it circled the whole property, how the hell was he going to get out?
The barking grew louder.
As he limped between the gravestones, John heard the old man cursing in the distance, farther away than the dog, but getting closer. Terror's icy hand gripped John Burke's heart. His feet stopped moving and he dropped down onto a soft, moist patch of earth and leaned his back against a marble slab that marked someone's final resting place, someone whose troubles were over for good. John put his head into his hands as despair washed over him.
He wasn't going to get away. Not on a bad ankle. Not with his hands cuffed. Not from a madman with a dog and shotgun. A madman who kept humans like cattle, who beat men to death with a hammer, whose wife ran a human butcher shop. They were close, the old man and his dog. John could hear the dog tearing through the underbrush just inside the woods, just beyond the cemetery fence. In a minute it would all be over. He wondered if Gail would ever find out what happened to him? To die like this, in a bone yard, victim to a crazy old man and his even crazier wife.
Fear, despair, hopelessness--these feelings surged through John as a sob racked his body so hard it bounced his back off the marble tombstone and shot a bolt of pain down his spine. Then, as if cleansed by fire, those feelings melted like snow, replaced by something new, by something better, by something that fueled him--Rage.
Perched in front of the grave next to him was a thick marble urn, holding a bouquet of long dead flowers. John rolled to it, grabbed the urn in both hands, and dumped out the withered flora. He felt the comforting weight of the urn, heavy enough to crush a dog's skull, or a man's.
He wasn't going to make it easy. If they were going to kill him, they'd have to work for it. The headstones were too small to hide behind unless he crouched down and John didn't want to crouch down and hide. He was through hiding, besides, his ankle couldn't take much crouching. Better to let the dog see him, try to get rid of the mutt before the old man made it out of the woods.
The underbrush got quiet. The dog was out of the woods. No more barking. The moonlight and the shadows played tricks on John's eyes. A glimpse of movement at the fence then nothing. He strained his eyes, willing them to see through the darkness but it was his ears that responded, picking up the quick thumping of padded feet on the wet grass. The sound coming from his left. John raised the urn and turned, then heard it behind him, much closer. A throaty growl. He tried to spin around but the furry beast hit him in the back.
Claws raked his bare shoulder blades as he slammed face first into the ground and the marble urn flew from his hands, useless. Sharp teeth gripped the back of his head and shook it like the stuffed head of a doll. His scalp tore--he actually felt it--as the dog growled and bit harder.
"Get him, boy!" the old man shouted from somewhere near the edge of the woods.
John used his good left leg to push into the ground and roll. The dog tightened its grip on John's head and tried to roll with him but John used his arms to topple the German Shepherd off of him. As the brute tried to regain his feet, John kept rolling until he was on top with the dog pinned under him. The canine's jaws sprung open, looking for something to bite as John grabbed the animal's big head, one hand on each side, and forced the handcuff chain and part of the leather belt into the back of its mouth.
With his naked body pressing down on the dog, John forced the Shepherd's head back. The handcuff chain cut into the roof of the dog's mouth as John pushed back harder and harder. The beast's nails ripped at John's chest and thighs, but still he forced the big head back until the dog's agonized yelping was cut short by a loud crack, like the dry snap of a rotten branch, as its neck broke and body went limp.
John rolled off of the dead dog and struggled to his feet. The old man yelled, "Did you get him, Butch? Did you get him?" John turned toward the sound of the man's voice and saw him stumble out of the woods, just on the other side of the fence, shotgun held across his chest. The old man's eyes locked on the animal lying on the ground. "Butch!" he cried, voice cracked with emotion Then he raised his shotgun.
John dropped behind a headstone just as a blast ripped through the air. Pellets smacked into the other side of the stone. Then, as the double click of a new shell being racked into the chamber echoed across the graveyard, John scrambled away on all fours, keeping his head below the top of the tombstones.
By the time he reached the cemetery fence, John could barely move. His breath came in ragged gasps; his chest, shoulders, and thighs were on fire; and the back of his neck felt wet and sticky. He lifted his cuffed hands over his head and wiped at his neck. His palms came away covered with blood, blood that looked almost black in the moonlight.
One foot got tangled going over the fence and John fell, landing with a thud on the other side. Behind him, fifty yards at most, he could hear the old man's quick shuffle coming across the cemetery. The old man mumbling and cursing to himself. Once John got into the tree line he felt a little safer, something between him and muzzle of that shotgun. But the going was slow. Much tougher than before. He started to feel dizzy. The dog had torn him up and he knew he was bleeding badly.
He'd made it this far but knew there was no way he could make it all the way back home, at least not tonight. Too tired and too hurt. But with the dog dead, all he had to do was shake the old man off his trail, then hole up somewhere until daylight. In the morning he would parallel the road just inside the trees to keep out of sight. His house was only two miles away. He would make it even if he had to crawl on his hands and knees the whole way.
He ran into the fence. Six feet tall, made of pointed wrought iron bars, no more than ten inches apart. Impossible to slip between them. The bars braced by two thin rectangular, iron beams that ran the length of the fence. One, a foot from the ground; the other, a foot from the top.
John hadn't gained any distance on the old man. He could hear his thrashing back in the trees, his slow, steady pace, his mumbling punctuated by curses.
There was only one way to get out and that was over the fence. John set his feet on the bottom support and grabbed the top crossbar with both hands, but with his wrists cuffed he couldn't spread his hands out. He couldn't climb.
He managed to pull himself up so his chin was over the top of the fence and then swung his good leg up. It didn't go high enough. Arms straining, he swung it up harder and managed to hook his heel on the top support, between two of the bars. That's when he lost his grip.
John fell but his foot stayed. He heard his ankle crack and he screamed. Caught between the two vertical bars and the horizontal support, his bare foot was wedged in tight and he hung upside down, naked, like a stuck pig being bled in a slaughterhouse.
The old man stepped out from the trees, shotgun held across his chest like a soldier. Fifteen feet from John, he raised it to his shoulder and grinned as he pulled the trigger. CLICK.
"Goddamit!" He racked the pump, took aim, and pulled the trigger again. Another empty click. This time he slammed the pump back and stared into the open chamber. "Son of a bitch," he mumbled, then grabbed the barrel in a two handed grip.
He swung it like a baseball bat at John's head and all John Burke could do was close his eyes. Just before the wooden stock crashed into his skull, he heard himself say, "Gail."
* * *
Gail Burke was on the toilet, in the middle of peeing, when the doorbell rang. "John," she heard herself say. "God, please let it be John." She pulled on her jeans and ran to the door, didn't even flush. But it wasn't John. It was a man, old but distinguished looking in a dark suit with a pale blue tie draped in front of a starched white shirt. She glanced behind him and saw a van parked in her driveway. Not a minivan, but a full-sized, white work van, windowless except for the driver and passenger doors. No name on the side.
"Can I help you?" she asked, losing hope her caller had anything to do with John.
He raised his hands slightly and she noticed they held a round plastic container. Rubbermaid, or Tupperware, with a lid on it. "Yes," she said.
"Mrs. Burke?"
Gail nodded.
My name is Muller, Frank Muller. He nodded to the right. "I live on Cemetery Road."
She gave him a brief smile.
"I've read about your...your husband's disappearance in the paper."
At first she'd had a lot of visitors like this. Well-wishers, sympathizers, but it had been two weeks and people had stopped coming by. Mostly, she guessed they thought John's disappearance maybe wasn't so mysterious after all. Middle-aged man, married for a dozen years, suddenly takes off. Maybe found a young girl. No mystery there. But she knew that wasn't what he'd done. Something terrible had happened. She could feel it.
"Thank you," was all she could think of to say.
He raised his hands again. "I've brought you something. Chili, my wife's secret recipe."
She looked at the container. The two-gallon size. That's a lot of chili, she thought. She caught a whiff of it as he slipped one hand under the container and lifted part of the lid with the other. He said, "Chock full of beef and beans. Put some meat on your bones."
Gail felt her face flush. Her jeans hung loosely on her hips. She'd lost ten pounds since John disappeared and hadn't had it to spare to begin with. "Thank you. Thank you very much, Mr..." She couldn't even remember the gentleman's name.
"Muller," he said.
"Of course," she said quickly. "Thank you again, Mr. Muller." Gail reached for the container. "To be honest I haven't felt much like cooking and that smells delicious. Please tell Mrs. Muller that I said--"
Mr. Muller shook his head. "Buried her recently."
"Oh, I'm sorry to hear that."
As she took the chili from him, he forced a smile. "I made it but it's her recipe so if it's good she gets the credit." He laughed a more genuine laugh. "And if it's bad, I'll take the blame."
She felt the heat through the plastic. They said goodbye and Gail Burke went inside to eat a bowl of Mrs. Muller's secret recipe. She felt her stomach growl with hunger. If it tasted as good as it smelled, maybe she'd have two bowls.
THE END

Evil often wears a mask.
John Burke felt his tendon tear. It happened just past the DEAD END sign, an instant after his foot struck the edge of the pothole. His right ankle folded and he went down hard--real hard--on the rough asphalt road.
Mid-summer morning, just outside New Orleans. Nylon jogging shorts and a tank top were no protection against road rash. His right knee hit first, then his hands. The pebble-studded pavement devoured the skin on both then bit into his hip, but he barely felt the hip. Maybe the shorts helped, or maybe by then John was in too much pain to notice.
He lay in the street--thank God cars were rare on Cemetery Road--bleeding, clutching his leg. Everything forgotten except his pain. He could see his ankle already starting to swell, turning purple along the inside. When he tried to flex it a white hot bolt of pain shot up his leg.
This is bad, John thought. Really bad. Doctor Van Dykes, surgery, months of physical therapy...
First thing--get off the street. John rolled onto his left side and had to stop and catch his breath as a wave of nausea washed over him. As the blood ran from his hands and knee where the road had carved away hunks of meat, he watched bright crimson drops splash onto the asphalt.
Hundred-year-old oaks overhung Cemetery Road, their branches draped in gray beards of Spanish moss that shaded the street. A quarter-mile past the DEAD END sign, the road bridged over the Chinchuba River, a slow-paced tributary no more than a couple dozen yards wide. Some mornings, mist drifted off the water's surface and into the woods on both sides of the road, giving the place a surreal look.
A perfect place to jog--run--John Burke didn't like using the "J" word. Jogging was what people did on weekends as they watched their bellies grow. John was a runner. At least four times a week with half-a-dozen races a year.
The nearest house--the only house on Cemetery Road--stood at the end, half a mile away, next to the graveyard for which the road was named. Maybe, just maybe, he could limp there, borrow a phone, call Gail. John looked at his watch, just 7:15. His wife didn't leave until eight. If he could get to a telephone she could pick him up and drive him straight to Doctor Van Dykes' office.
The trip was torture. Taking short hops on his left leg, he could make it only ten or fifteen feet before he had to rest. To rest John had to drop his right foot down and put a little weight on it and that sent waves of pain shooting up his leg. Behind him, he saw a trail of blood like red tears on the ground.
At the end of the road, the pavement gave way to a gravel driveway flanked on either side by two white stone columns. A six-foot, spiked, wrought-iron fence disappeared into the woods on either side. Hinged inside the columns gaped a pair of wrought iron gates. Mounted on the left hand column was a brass plaque with the number 100 etched in black. 100 Cemetery Road.
John paused at the top of the driveway and leaned against one of the gates to catch his breath. The drive descended at a slight grade, curved to the right, then vanished into the woods. He'd run past the driveway hundreds of times but had never actually seen the house or the cemetery. There was always something slightly unsettling about the look of it, something that made him pick up his pace as he ran past.
After a deep breath, he started hopping down the gravel drive, using trees along the way as resting points. The house was a hundred yards past the gate. A big two-story, clapboard construction, that looked run down, almost seedy. It had suffered years of wood rot and badly needed a coat of paint.
The gravel path ended at a two-car garage attached to the right side of the house. Left of the house, on the other side, past a stand of trees, John caught a glimpse of the cemetery. He could just make out a low iron fence and a few gray tombstones.
A wooden porch with a decayed railing spanned the front of the house. The front door was solid wood, without windows.
He leaned against the frame and knocked. A minute passed. John knocked again, this time pounding with the bottom of his fist. At least another half minute went by before he heard slippers shuffling on the floor just inside. The door opened just a crack and a white haired old lady peered out. "Yes," she said, suspicion in her voice.
John held up his right leg, showing his bloody knee and black and blue ankle. Exhausted, he didn't have time to mince words. "I'm hurt. Can I use your phone?"
The old lady looked down at John's leg. A look of concern washed over her face as she threw open the door. "Come in. Oh, my goodness, come in."
John stretched his arms across the doorjamb as he hobbled inside the threshold. "If I can just use the phone, my wife will come pick me up."
"What on earth happened?" she said, leading him through the foyer.
"Twisted my ankle in a pothole."
"Oh, my word," she said, turning to look. "Is it very bad?"
"I think so."
"Come sit down. Let me get you something."
The foyer floor was tile, but he wanted to be careful. "I don't want to get blood on anything."
She shook her head. "Don't be silly. Blood washes right out." The old lady stepped toward John and took hold of his left arm, letting him lean some of his weight on her.
In the den, John was relieved to see a wooden floor. As he dropped onto the sofa, he nodded toward a telephone on an end table. "If I can just use the phone..."
A strange look flashed across the old lady's face, but was gone in an instant as she nodded toward the telephone. "That one doesn't work." She pointed toward a door that looked like it led into the kitchen. "You stay put. I'll call somebody for you in just a second, but first let me get you some water."
John tried to protest, but she was determined. While she was gone, he eyed the room. The den was big, with six bay windows overlooking the woods behind the house. The room was filled with old-fashioned furniture and had a cavernous fireplace at one end, but it also had a worn look, and a smell. A smell John always associated with old age, with his grandfather's house in the last few years before he died.
Next to the dead telephone was a framed black and white photo of a pretty young woman in a riding outfit, posing at what looked like the front gate of a ranch. It was the old lady, much younger and much thinner.
When she came back carrying a tall glass of ice water in one hand, John still had both hands clutching his swelling ankle. He jabbed an elbow toward the photo, more for something to say than anything else. "Is that you?"
She nodded. "My father owned the Rocking R ranch.
The name was familiar. One of the biggest meat suppliers in the state. "Owned?" He stressed the past tense.
She nodded. "After Daddy died, we had to sell. Rising interest rates and the drop in beef prices, we got just pennies on the dollar." She sounded bitter.
For a second she stood quiet and John used the lull to introduce himself and explain how he'd hurt his ankle.
She handed him the glass. "I may have seen you jogging before. Looked like somebody was chasing you."
John thanked her and smiled at the image that popped into his head of this nice old lady lurking in the woods close enough to see the road. As he took a long sip from the glass, he noticed a slightly bitter taste that reminded him why he drank bottled. "You live here alone?"
"No. My husband and I are retired. For forty years we owned Muller and Son funeral home."
"That's where we had the service for my father," John said.
"I'm sorry." She patted his shoulder. "When did he pass?"
He had to think for a second. Time flies. "Two years this past spring," he slurred.
She stared at him with a look of compassion. "Our son would have handled that. We sold the business to him four years ago."
John's head began to spin. The glass slipped from his fingers as he crumpled to the floor. Darkness.
* * *
John Burke cracked his eyes and saw blinding lights. Then felt thumping. Someone was thumping on his chest. He opened his eyes all the way. White light, bright white light. Flat on his back, he tried to raise his hand to shield his eyes but his arm wouldn't move--at least not far. Just a couple inches then something held it. Same thing happened when he tried to use his other hand.
John felt a cold hard floor beneath him--the rough surface of cement--as he rolled onto his side. There was something wrong with his hands. They were trapped at his waist as he tried again to shield his eyes from the blinding light.
More thumping, this time on his left shoulder. He blinked several times to clear his vision. His eyes focused on a bearded, bare-chested, fat man, squatting on the floor next to him. A pair of steel handcuffs clamped on the big man's wrists were fastened to a belt encircling his waist.
"You okay?" the man said.
John just stared at him, realizing the man wasn't just bare-chested, he was completely naked.
"I said, are you okay?" the bearded man asked again.
"Where am I?" John's head felt like it was going to split open.
The naked fat man shrugged. "I don't know."
John looked down at himself and saw that he too was bare-assed, his own wrists handcuffed and bound to his waist by a two-inch wide leather belt. Using his elbow and good knee, John started to snake away from his new acquaintance.
"You can't get away," the man said.
Get away from where?
The pain in his ankle made him stop. He looked around, saw he was in a room maybe thirty feet by thirty feet. Besides him and the fat man, there were four other men in the room. All naked, all handcuffed and belted.
The bearded man hadn't moved. "It's not me you got to be afraid of." He pointed toward the room's only door. "It's the old man."
* * *
The old man had been in four times to bring food. Slop was more like it. He came into the room carrying the thick brown paste in a couple of five-gallon buckets. The stuff tasted like it had a lot of lard in it.
"How long have you been here?" John asked.
The bearded man--Skeeter he called himself--just shrugged. "The old man always keeps the lights on so we can't tell the difference between day and night."
Along one wall was a chest-high trough into which their keeper poured the paste. A second trough along the adjacent wall held water. Like animals, the men stood in front of the troughs, stuck their faces into them, and slurped.
Like everyone else, everything of John's had been taken from him while he was unconscious: shorts, shirt, socks, shoes, and most important, his watch. In addition to belted handcuffs, the other men wore leg irons, essentially a pair of oversized, stainless steel cuffs with a foot-and-a-half of chain between them. But John had been spared that, probably due to the size of his swollen ankle.
Skeeter didn't know why he was here, why any of them were here. "I was just hitchhiking"
"Hitchhiking?"
He nodded. "On the interstate."
"The old man was driving a van. Pulled over and gave me a ride. After a few minutes he reaches into a cooler between the seats and hands me a beer. I'm talking about a sealed up beer. Popped the top on it myself. I took couple of sips, remember thinking it tasted kind of funny, like it got spoiled. Next thing I know I wake up here--like this." Skeeter tugged at his handcuffs, rattling the chain looped through the belt.
During the next several feedings John got pretty much the same story from three of the other four men. All hitchhikers, all picked up by the old man. The fourth guy, the one the others said had been here the longest, didn't talk. Just leaned against the wall in a stupor.
"Something in the food," Skeeter said.
"What do you mean?"
Skeeter patted his gut. "I didn't have this when I got here." He nodded toward the food trough. "And it makes you tired all the time."
* * *
Feedings. That's the only way John Burke had of marking the passage of time. Seemed like they were spaced out evenly, several hours apart, figured maybe three times a day. It was after the seventh feeding that the old man came and took away the guy who wouldn't talk--the sleepy guy.
He came in wearing a full-length plastic apron and carrying an electric cattle prod. He used the prod to shock the sleepy guy in the ass and wake him up, then delivered a couple more jabs to drive him from the room. Just after the door closed behind them, John heard the two bolts shoved into place.
"What the hell was that about?" he asked Skeeter.
"That's the third one I've seen him take."
"Do they come back?"
Skeeter shook his head.
"Where do they go?"
"I don't know. But...I'm afraid my turn's coming."
"I want to get out of here," John said, "and that looks like the only way out."
"Bad as this place is, I got a feeling what's on the other side of that door is a lot worse."
Hungry as he was, John barely ate. A couple things he'd noticed, the other four men were flabby and they slept a lot, especially after a feeding. The food--slop they called it--had to be the reason. The thick brown paste made everyone fat and sleepy. Something in it, some type of sedative, and maybe something else, something that made you want more. John couldn't remember ever being so hungry. Still, he only took a mouthful at each feeding.
And while the others slept, John worked. The leather belt around his waist was buckled at the back and secured with a small padlock. The handcuffs ran through a stainless steel ring in front. He'd tested the steel parts, the buckle, the lock, and the ring, but didn't think there was any hope of attacking them; the only weak spot was the leather itself.
So as soon as the others filled their bellies and nodded off, John would hobble to the drinking trough. He'd found a slightly rough edge at one corner and had begun scraping the belt against it. The belt was thick and the leather tough. The going was slow, but at least it was something. And something was better than nothing.
* * *
Just after the twenty-ninth feeding, that's when the old man came and took Skeeter away. He'd taken two more since that first one, and two new ones had come in. They came in one at a time, three feedings apart, and just like he imagined it had happened to him, the old man dragged them unconscious into the room and left them. They'd each awakened, naked, shackled, and groggy.
Then it was Skeeter's turn. He must have known because as soon as he heard the bolts slip back his face turned white. He backed himself into one of the far corners, trying to put as much distance between himself and the door as he could.
Skeeter had told John he used to be a wrestler, high school and college, back before the drugs and the booze, back before he'd hit the road. Since then he'd ridden his thumb, crisscrossing the country in search of a good time. Skeeter put up the best fight John had seen from any of them, but the belt, the handcuffs, the leg irons, and the cattle prod were just too much. One two-minute round was all the former wrestler had in him. After that, he was lying on the floor in a puddle of his own urine, a blubbering pile of flabby flesh covered in scarlet welts.
The old man grabbed the chain between Skeeter's ankles and dragged him through the door. Helpless, John just watched. The most terrifying thing was the old man's lack of emotion. No spark of evil in those eyes, just the look of a tired man trying to get through another day.
By the thirty-fifth feeding--John figured eleven or twelve days since he arrived--he had managed to saw through almost the entire two-inch leather belt, just an eighth of an inch remained.
Only one other of the original five who were in the room when John woke up was left. The old man came in, wearing his black plastic apron, and carrying the prod. In a minute it was over. He'd prodded the man through the door on hands and knees, the poor bastard doing everything he could to keep from getting shocked. This time only one bolt clicked into place.
For what seemed like an hour John sat in the middle of the room and watched the door, his stomach twisted with fear. Just as exhaustion overtook him and his head started to nod, the bolt shot open and the old man swept back into the room, wielding the cattle prod like a sword. John slid backward against the far wall as the old man's eyes fixed on him. But there was no hatred in them, nor malice as he strode toward John, waving the tip of the prod in a "come here" motion. As the cool wall pressed against John's back, he felt his bladder let go, felt the warm liquid spill down his thighs.
I'm going to die.
(to be continued...)

Hey y’all, had an incident with my 3 year old this morning. Not sure how to handle it. For the second time in his life (the first being about a year ago), my son escaped the house. I believe he saw a school bus and wanted to go to school (he’s always talking about wanting to go). Im at work, my wife was asleep with our other son (just about 2 y/o). The first time this happened, we put an electric chime on his door and admittedly put a lock too. I know this isn’t suggested, and we took it off after a month or two because it gave me constant anxiety. For reference, I used very small screws, only used 2 out of 4 of them, and put them directly into his hollow core door. All of this ensured that it would be very easy to bust open in an emergency (even for him). None the less I really really don’t want to have to do this again, but he manages to get past every defense we put up. He’s figured out every baby gate we’ve ever bought and we theorize that he MAY have figured out the trick to those plastic door knob covers in his escape this morning. Which is a shame because the only idea I had was to put these on all of the exterior doors (seeing as he’s never been able to open them before (aside the possibility of this morning). I’m baffled. The good news is that he didn’t cross the road (he was very proud to tell us that much so we’d know he was being “safe”). My wife isn’t a heavy sleeper, however every now and then the door chime won’t work, and he literally sneaks past her so as not to wake her and his little brother up. He doesn’t want to get caught and have his morning fun spoiled. I don’t know what to do or how to prevent this. Help!

The writing and acting in this episode way amazing. Clark wanting to spend time with his sons but having to come to the conclusion. That him being a hero reduces his time and his sons can't compromise the way they spend their time for him. If they can't. Jordan saving Sarah and Junior was amazing Seeing the car crash happening in slow mo and hoping Jordan will show up Kyle having mainly true suspicions but everyone denying them like his crazy and being able to piece everything to Clark as the starting point Krissy standing up for Lana even after what the governor said about her husband situation. Mateo having to compromise his morals to save his mother. Jothanan ironically being the child that wasn't caught up in anything this time Clark and Kyle arguing in a tense moment and him having to reveal his identity in the moment because of Jordan's actions it was bound to happen though Overall this is one of the best episodes this season Ironically I just realized John Henry wasn't in this episode

[First.] (Chapters 1-2) [Prev.] (Chapters 3-4) [Next.] (Chapters 7-8)
​

Chapter 5:
FALLING LIKE DOMINOS
^{They’ve got the moves!}

Like a cackle of hyenas, the peaceful silence of the desert was broken by the despotic laughter of raiders (the ‘Rust Fiendz’ as they like to call themselves) riding in the night, their vehicles kicking up a large cloud of sand in their wake, and the smell of motor oil, sulfur, iron, and death tailing them as they drove off from one of their latest hits.
In the cabins of each rusted-to-hell pile of scrap on wheels, their jury-rigged radio crackles to life. The constant whine of static and electrical buzzing is punched through by a haughty voice. “Hey good shit back there, boys!” the gruff voice barks. Over the din of motors and engines, the roar of various vehicles’ occupants punches through, their raucous cheers just as vicious and loud as their dilapidated chariots. At the head of the pack of these rusted raiders was a heavily modified pickup truck that looked more akin to a sheet-metal sarcophagus that crashed through a hot-topic, a fitting final resting place for their war chief.
“Shit,” he snickers to himself, reveling in his recently ill-gotten spoils as he plunges a hand through a roughly made sack made out of a mysterious hide; whether it’s human or an animal remains a mystery. “Dumbass motherfuckers. Why do these starry-eyed jackasses keep trying?” He pulls out a bottle of spirits, the label reading: ‘Whiskey Rose brewery--A Cassidy Venture.’ Rolling down the window, he breaks the top of the bottle like the fucking barbarian he is and downs the bottle. “Whatever, not so starry-eyed anymore,” he snickers to himself, recounting the way his latest victim’s eyes clouded as she lay bleeding on the half-built foundation of the colony’s brewing facility. “As long as the hive lords keep paying, there’s no need for me to ask questions. ‘Sides these colony upstarts need a fucking reality check anyways.” Tossing the bottle out the window and rolling it up, he stops midway and watches through the rear-view mirror as the empty glass bottle collides in the face of one the scouts. The man lets out a high-pitched yelp as he goes tumbling off his motorcycle and is quickly crushed under the wheels of the others. “Hey dipshits look out next time!” he shouts out as he finishes rolling up the window. Without another look back the war chief focuses on the sands in front of him, not bothering to notice the smaller cloud of sand blending in behind the group.
-------------
“C’mon, come on!” Carmine hisses through gritted teeth. He lets go of the wheel, allowing the cruise control to stay on the path towards their target as he checks the chamber of his pistol. Meanwhile, Victor preemptively loads the makeshift crossbow with a tracker bolt, and Devin pulls back the bolt of the machine gun and begins assessing priority targets. “Devin!”
“Yeh chief? Devin answers back.
“I want a spotter report before we get any closer!”
“On it buddy!” With that, Devin pulls out a periscope and uses it to peek over without exposing himself from the safety of the gunner’s nest confines. He catches a glimpse of some poor bastard falling out into the desert sands and promptly being turned into a fine human pâté under the wheels of his fellow raiders. Devin winces at the sight but then smiles rather smugly. “Well, that’s one to scratch off the list. Fucker probably deserved it,” he mutters to himself. “Oi Carmine good news!”
“What is it?”
“Is god gonna smite them for us?” Victor interjects.
Devin shakes his head for no one to see. “Nah, I fucking wish. We were going to be dealing with eight scouts, six technicals, and king mong over there. However, it seems that we can scratch off a scout, cause the dumbass somehow managed to fall off his bike.”
Victor sucks air through his teeth at the news. “Bitch got smeared across the sand by his own buddies. Sucks to be that loser.”
Carmine snorts and chuckles to himself. “Bitch deserved it. Hey Devin, soon as a bunch of them group up give ‘em a taste of the beans. Save the actual HE round for king doitch bag over there.”
“Got it.” There’s a pregnant pause between all three of them as they see three of the scouts and a technical start slowing down from the main group and approaching them. “Oh shit, here comes a gaggle of them now.” Wordlessly, the trio goes to meet them, each of them readying themselves for the fight ahead. “Hey, Carmine, blast the radio; It’ll make us aim better.”
“Whose playlist is on right now?”
Victor rolls down the window and props himself out with his assault rifle at the ready. “Don’t know. It’s either yours, Devin’s, or any one of our granddad’s playlist. We all know that all your grandad listened to was ‘fortunate son’!”
“Oh, fuck off Victor!”
“The joke will never die! Besides, at least your grandad was different. Devin and my grandpa were practically the same person, they even had an on-going list on all the same ideas they had and even the same things they said... Well, what are you waiting for? Play that shit!” Victor shouts over the wind rushing past.
“They were brothers all the same, just as we are now!” Carmine shouts back. “Alright, playing that shit!” Carmine jams a finger into one of the old, faded buttons of the decrepit radio. It takes a moment before it comes to life. The static fading away until suddenly crisp, clear, energetic music starts blasting from the speakers, and the trio are greeted with the steady beat of a tambourine. “Fuck! Could be any one of ours!” Carmine shouts over as a guitar joins in on the fun, followed by drums hot on its tail.
​

All the old paintings on the tombs
They do the sand dance don’t you know?
If they move too quick. (Oh Whey oh!)

​
“Bitching!” Devin shouts, loading in one of the makeshift rounds for the grenade launcher.
-------------
Three scouts, having watched one of their own get crushed under the wheels of their fellow Rust Fiendz, group up together and begin to slow down to lag behind the rest of the pack, not wanting to take the chance of watering the sand in their own blood and viscera due to others’ disregard of life.
“Hey!” One of them shouts, getting the attention of the others. “Who the hell are those jobbers tailing us?”
“’ow the fack should I know?” One of them barks back.
“Well figure it the fuck out because they don’t look like one of ours. Their ride looks too clean and purdy to be one of us. You!” He points to the third, “Go flag one of the more sober guys up there and tell him to back us up.”
“Wait. What the hell why me dipshit?!” He protests.
“Because I said so fuckwad. Unless you want to be fly food smeared across the sand, I suggest you do it.” The third scout relents and goes to one of the technicals up ahead to request help. “Good, we have a new pecking order established now.”
The second scout looks at the self-appointed head incredulously. “The ‘ell there is! I never ‘oted yew to be boss of the scouts!”
“Your fault for not stepping up. Now shut up. From what happened up ahead I don’t think the boss wants anyone bothering him and those party crashers are getting closer. Get ready and bitch boy and motor cuck are coming over to back us up.” The self-appointed head turns around heads off for the armored car coming up on their rear.
“Mutha fucka!” the second bitterly swears. “The ‘ell is that music anyways?”
-------------
Devin stands up and positions himself over the gunner’s nest, eagerly bobbing his head along with the music as he leads the shot on the approaching raiders. Carmine for his part begins steadily speeding up to meet them.
“I’m gonna show these fuckers what real desert heat is!” Victor excitedly shouts over the music. He racks the bolt on the assault rifle and begins taking aim himself.
​

All the bazaar men by the Nile
They got the money on a bet
Gold crocodiles (Oh whey oh)
They snap their teeth on your cigarette.

​
The music starts ramping up now as Carmine floors the gas causing the RPM to sharply rise to the redline and all the men begin harmonizing with music.
​

Foreign types with the hookah pipes say

​
“WHHHEEYYY OOHHH WHHEEY OH, AAAYYY OOHH WHHEEYY OOHH!” They sing together.
​

Walk like an Egyptian...

​
And like that the music dies down for a moment leaving only the strumming of the electric guitar and the methodical shaking of the tambourines. Everyone holds their breath while they focus on the four hostiles coming at them head on. Each one of the men’s eyes dilating like a cat’s, just waiting for the moment to pounce.
...
...
“Closer.” All that’s left is the tambourine, it’s rhythm in sync with the beating of their hearts in their eardrums.
...
...
“Closer.” They all think to themselves, their adrenaline and testosterone building up in anticipation. The guitars make their presence known drowning out the noisy racket of the raiders. Tensions continue to rise until suddenly!
Dun dododo dun dun
Dun dododo dun DUN
DUN DODODO DUN *THOONK\*
Devin fires the grenade launcher, and shots begin to ring out alongside the strums of the guitar. As if on cue, the singer returns, her voice coming in right on time as the bean can explodes, sending bits of tin and whatever else they could stuff in there as makeshift shrapnel, taking out the scouts and flipping over the technical on its side like a wounded ox.
​

The blonde waitresses take their trays
They spin around and they cross the floor
They’ve got the moves! (OOHHH WHHEEEYY OOHHH!)
You drop your drink, then they bring you more!

​
-------------
The sudden shots and the explosion bring the rest of the raiders out of their revelry as each and every one of them sobers up and checks their rear-view mirrors. They watch in surprise as one of their own is flipped onto its side by an unknown assailant. None of them are able to get a good look until the cloud of smoke passes and an armored car in better conditions than theirs rides up to the flipped technical and throws a firebomb onto it, followed by a staccato of gunfire from someone leaning out the passenger side window with nonsensical music playing.
You drop your drink, then they bring you more!
(That drink being the firebomb that was force fed into that poor fucker.)
There is a collective moment of “Oh Shit” between the Rust Fiendz as the single communal braincell bounces in out of the skulls of all the members. Some of them panic, while the drunker ones, angered by this party crasher, make a sloppy U-turn and go to face this suicidal nimrod head-on.
-------------
Carmine pounds the wheel and shouts, “FUCK YEAH GUYS! GOOD SHIT RIGHT THERE!”
“Hell yeah brother!” Victor shouts, all the while Devin begins cackling like a madman over the destruction they had caused. Devin’s cackling is quickly cut short as he hears the pained groans of a poor, unfortunate scout that was badly maimed by the dollar store dumpster frag. Nonchalantly, he brings out his carbine and double taps the raider for good measure and goes back to cackling.
​

All the kids so sick of books
They like the punk and the metal band

​
A honk from the horn cuts Devin and Victor’s celebration short as they see two more technicals and the last of the scouts coming their way.
​

When the buzzer rings (OOHH WWHHEEYY OOHH!)
They’re walking like an Egyptian

​
“That’s our cue guys, get ready!” Carmine calls out.
Devin fires another shot of the grenade launcher at the oncoming enemies, but the effect isn’t as spectacular as last time as the makeshift bean can round manages to dent one of the technicals but bounces off the hood and into the sand. “Fuck a dud!” Devin curses.
“Get on the turret and start blasting Devin!”
“Orders received!” Devin ducks back into the safety of the gunner’s nest right on time too as wild and erratic shots ping off of it. Before he can rack the bolt and begin firing, a thunderous blast disorients him and knocks him against the walls as the whole armored car shakes and sand rains down from above him. Drunkenly, he rubs the back of his head but is caught off guard by his helmet getting away. “Da fuckz wah that?” he slurred out.
Victor ducks down as bullets rattle on the hood of the car and junk rounds begin ricocheting off the armored grill covering the windshield, some of them managing to thread the needle and lodge themselves in the damaged bulletproof glass. “An explosion dipshit. Now-,” Victor covers his head and blind fires out the window towards the oncoming raiders. “GET ON THE FUCKING GUN!” he hurriedly shouts.
“Son of a-bitch goddamn mother *rrghh\*” Devin growls. Shaking his head and racking the bolt of the heavily bubba’ed FAL, he grits his teeth and takes aim. As the scouts get closer, they notice the gunner’s nest moving and begin concentrating their fire on the turret and spreading out. The sudden spray of bullets causes Devin to flinch and wince at the sparks and sharp sounds of scrap bullets on metal, but he clenches his jaw and fires an unfocused burst at one of the scouts. Devin’s shots go wide as Carmine begins speeding ahead and whipping the car violently left and right, either to try and ram some of the scouts or to throw off the aim of the technical firing the explosives.
​

All the kids in the marketplace say
(WHEEY OHH WHHEEYYY OOHH, AAYY OH WHEY OH!)
Walk like an Egyptian...

​
The music is abruptly cut off as another explosion rocks the speeding armored car and the radio cuts off. “FUCK DUDE!” Carmine shouts out.
“What. What! WHAT!” Victor rushes out, dipping back in from the passenger window and narrowly avoiding a spray of bullets from a scout coming up on their rear.
Before Carmine could get out a sentence one of the technicals that had been acting as cover for the other slows down and positions itself on Carmine’s side. Several shots ring out and manage to get through the grate that acted as armor for the driver side window. Victor watches on in horror as three heavy *THUNKS\* can be heard following by Carmine groaning and buckling. Carmine’s head slams on the wheel violently and he ends up honking the horn before snapping back up and firing his pistol at the offending technical.
“ASSHOLES!” Carmine curses. “Devin light those fuckers up on our right!” A violent rhythmic roar can be heard above them as Devin sprays the machine gun with extreme discrimination at the flanking technical. The screams of the raiders are drowned out by the gunfire before their vehicle begins to slow down and all noise from the raider’s Humvee ceases, all except a pitiful mechanical sputtering. The spraying resumes as Devin now has a clear shot on the technical that had been launching the explosives at them. The Rusted Sedan tries to bob and weave out of the shots until something explodes in the back and the car cartoonishly bounces on the sand.
“Fuck,” Devin heavily breathes out. Checking the scuffed belt feeding ammunition into the machine gun, he grimaces at the count and shakes his head. “Eighty-four rounds left. Fuck eighty-four rounds left,” he repeats to himself. “Well let’s see if I can’t rat my out of this one!” Cautiously he peeks his head out from the nest and sees two scouts behind the car taking pot shots at the rear-view window. Thankfully Carmine had the foresight to mount his ballistic shield to the back, but how long it’d hold was the question that worried Devin the most. “Hey, Carmine!”
“Urgh! Ah-Y-yeah Devin?”
“I need you to start doing some shit!”
“What kind of shit!” Carmine takes another shot to the side of his enclosed helmet and one to the side of his chest plate, the bullets not getting through but still managing to cause him to flinch and bruise from the force. He snaps his head to the scout, and the scout, now realizing how much she fucked up begins clutching the break of her ATV. Her ATV doesn’t slow down in time as Carmine fires three shots at her. One of the shots goes wide and misses, the second grazes her arm, but the third pierces her throat. She clutches at her throat with one and falls backward, one hand still death gripping the brake, the uneven steering and the violent braking causes the ATV to flip.
“I need you start swerving around and make these bastards on our tail get closer so I can nail them with the last bean can!”
Victor fires another burst taking out a scout that had been harassing the passenger side of the car. Overhearing the conversation, he taps Carmine’s sides and gets his attention. “Or what we could do. Hey Devin, how close are they!”
“They’re pretty close Victor!”
“How close?”
“About mouth to exhaust pipe distance! Why?” The realization dawns on Devin as he ducks back down to avoid the shots and he promptly gets back on the turret and focuses on ahead.
“Okay, thank you!” Turning his attention back to Carmine, Victor says, “Slam the brakes, this is going to be funny.”
“Oh, fuck yeah!” Carmine laughs out. Carmine abruptly slams on the brakes of the car, it takes a moment as the wheels fail to find traction on the sand, but it isn’t too long as a violent crash and shake of the car tells them as much. “Shit, one of them had a brain cell to rub between their fingers.” Luckily fortune was on their side as the sudden jolt from one of the scouts crashing into them managed to jolt the radio back to life. Unfortunately, though, one of the scouts speeds past them.
The trio lets out an elated cry as the music comes back on, but the elation is short lived as a frustrated shout from Devin alerts them to some unfortunate news. “Fuck he’s getting away and the rest of those braindead barbarians are heading into that sandstorm!”
Carmine steps on the gas and starts chasing after him and Victor leans out the window and takes aim with the crossbow. “Yeah, no we don’t do that here,” Victor states matter-of-factly. “Carmine step on it I want to make sure I land this.”
Carmine nods and tightens his grip on the wheel as the RPM hits the redline once more. “Alright hold on!”
The last scout looks behind himself as the sound of death rumbles like an engine getting pushed to its limits. Seeing how quickly the armored car is gaining on him, he hunches over and begins silently praying for mercy. His prayers are cut short as he feels a sharp pain pierce through his lower back, and he begins swerving wildly into the sandstorm, following the taillights and silhouettes of the other technicals as best he can through the storm.
Victor brings out a tracker and begins monitoring the tracker bolt. “And now we follow him through the storm.”
Devin hunkers down and suddenly jolts, a new fun idea pops up in his head. “Hey Carmine, pause the music. We’re going to be making an entrance!”
-------------
In the middle of the sandstorm the Rust Fiendz bicker and panic amongst themselves through their radios.
“Who the fuck were those guys?!”
“How the hell am I supposed to know!”
“Are you retarded! The Hive lords probably had enough of our shit. They sent someone to kill us!”
“We’re all going to di-“
“SHUT THE FUCK YOU WASTERS AND LISTEN HERE!” Their warchief screams over the radio, the sheer volume of causing the sound quality to warp and distort the audio of their poorly maintained radios. “We probably lost those jackasses in the storm by now, just keep driving. Furiosa!” He calls out.
“Furiosa you useless bitch! Answer me!” he angrily shouts again through the radio.
A calm voice, much too calm and collected to be a raider answers him back, “We’re almost out of the storm boss. It won’t be too long now.”
The warchief throws up a hand in exasperation. “Now you fucking answer.”
“Apologies sir, I was focusing.” She replies, her voice showing no hint of emotion.
“Yeah, well next time do it quicker.”
“Yes sir.”
The Rust Fiendz keep a tight formation as they follow Furiosa’s dune buggy as it takes the lead and guides them out of the storm. Once they’re out of the storm, Furiosa circles around and parks next to the Warchief’s pickup truck. Her vehicle compared to the rest of the group is well maintained with only light rusting here and there.
“Wait holy shit! The hell is that coming at us!” One of the raiders shout out over the radio.
Everyone draws their respective firearms and aims it at the red blinking light coming at them from the depths of the sandstorm. The air is suffocating now as the red gets closer and closer; it’s blinking becoming more rapid and it’s light brighter and brighter. All of them tense up as they hear an engine’s rumble get closer until suddenly something bursts out from the storm and everyone begins indiscriminately blasting at whatever had made the mistake of fucking with their crew.
The gun fire and shooting lasts for a good solid minute, the bullets kicking up sand, the muzzle flash lights the midnight sky and the smoke obscures everyone’s vision. Eventually the shots die down and so does the smoke revealing.
“H-Holy fuck!”
“You GODDAMN IDIOTS!” The Warchief shouts as everyone takes a good look at the swiss-cheesed remains of the last scout and the unidentifiable heap of scrap that was his vehicle. Before the Warchief could shout anymore abuse and obscenities at his band of idiots and jackasses.
Furiosa, the only competent member, says something over the radio. “Listen!” Everyone stops what they’re doing and does as she says. They listen intently and all they can hear is the rumble of their engines, the howling sandstorm and...
“Whistling?”
The whistling is distant, but overtime it gets louder and louder until they also hear the sounds of-
“Are those fucking guitars?”
“I hear a rattle...”
​

Slide your feet up the street, bend your back

​
“Is that singing?”
​

Shift your arm then you pull it back

​
Everyone’s collective blood runs cold as the familiar tune starts playing through the sandstorm and the sound of an engine gets louder and louder.
Life is hard don’t you know
And then once more silence.
...
...
...
“The fuck did it-“
For once in the Rust Fiendz collective lives, they did something in unison. They screamed as an armored car with people shouting-
​

"OOOOHHH WWHHHEEYYY OOOHHH!"

​
Landed on and crushed the occupants of a Cadillac, scratching another off their list of technicals.
​

SO STRIKE A POSE ON A CADILLAC

​

Chapter 6:
IN AN ESCAPE POD WONDERING IF THIS TRULY IS THE LAST
^{静けさが追いつめる}

“OH BY THE COMMON GOOD WHY! WHY! WHY!?” Cried Akali as one of the buttons he pressed only caused the escape pod to accelerate even faster. He clutched the sides of his head and began pacing in circles.
​
“How do I always get myself into these sorts of situations?!” he desperately shouted his hands grasping at the air, helplessly reaching out for something that wasn’t. He asked the question over and over again, but his desperate cries were answered only by the deafening roar of the escape pods thruster as it hurtled through space.

The escape pod blared.
“W-what is it now!” Quickly Akali rushed over to the main console of the escape pod to see what else the universe wanted to add to his woes. His eyes widened and all the feathers on his cobra-like hood flared out, a primordial fight or flight response to scare off predators or to make oneself blend better with shrubs and bushes to ambush prey. However, this response would do nothing as he couldn’t scare a console, nor were there any bushes to hide in from the decrepit satellites.



And like that hope was reignited in Akali as he frantically reached for the glove compartment, his hands fumbling the latch to open it. Each time it did his heart rate would spike until. “YES FINALLY!” He triumphantly shouted as he opened up the glove compartment. Instantly he looked down and all that met him was a pocket of darkness as black as the void around him as the glove compartment was empty. Save for a hastily written note that read.
The User Manual is currently being inspected by Health and Safety Specialist: Orza T’igalma. Please DO NOT use the Escape pod during this inspection period.
~Yours truly Cleaning and Maintenance Specialist ‘Gumpy’
P.S. Stop calling me a Janitor. I am a Cleaning and Maintenance Specialist dammit!
The light in Akali’s eyes faded out upon reading the note. His mind shutting off completely, tuning out the rattling and occasional impact that shook the escape pod as it barreled through the halo of space debris and satellites that surrounded the dead planet that the escape pod was on a hell-bent collision course towards. However, his mind was able to think of one thing; the crewmember he had encountered during his rush to get to his uncle, the various signs that got knocked out during his collision with said crewmember, and even the janitor’s scrubs that the crewmember wore. Then the pieces started fitting together; and he realized that one of those signs looked oddly like the one used for escape pods back on the station he was previously on.
The feathers on his hood spiked up as he let out a primal screech, “LORD GIVE ME ONE MORE CHANCE SO THAT I CAN MURDER THAT MANGY LO’HAAANNN!!”
-------------
Meanwhile on the Great Endeavor.
Several members of The Great Endeavor’s security team rushed to the escape pods; the order had just been given. It was a ‘Centauri protocol’ which called for the security team’s best equipment and their best members.
“What in Hel’s embrace?” One of the Vicaik members exclaimed.
“What?” One of them asked.
“Where the Hel are the signs?”
“What signs?”
“The signs.” The Vicaik stated again, pointing at the empty mounts and missing placards. The other members began looking around and sure enough, the signs were gone.
“It shouldn’t even matter. We know where they are,” One of the members said dismissively.
“I know that, but isn’t the captain’s nephew new?”
One of the crewmembers pauses at this and strokes their chin at the observation. “By about... a little less than a week why?”
...
...
The Vicaik slaps a heavy paw to their forehead. “Shit, that explains it!” He exclaims.
“Explains what?”
“He probably didn’t even memorize the layout! Also, that janitor probably screwed up some of the electrical systems while cleaning and probably shorted out some of the signs.”
“And?”
“You know what he always does. He always takes the damn signs to electrical to ‘have them fixed’. Before the Vicaik can elaborate more on the topic, an alert on their PDA’s draws their attention.

​
A.N: Hope you guys liked this chapter.
Also, Question: Should I make the chapters their own separate posts or should I keep doing what I'm doing now? Any other feedback, critiques, or criticisms are very much welcome.

First of all English is not my native language so please excuse me for any language/grammar mistakes!
I'm 30f and mother of two beautiful twin boys (2y). Before having kids my husband and I planned for me to continue working full-time while he reduces his work time to 50%. This was the most logical solution since I have the higher income and in addition to that my husband can work a lot more from home. And to be fair, I never wanted to be a SAHM (no offence!) so our plan was/is fine for me/us. The thing now is, I can't help but have this continous doubt that what I am doing is wrong and damaging my childrens wellbeing.
During the first year after the birth of our children I was parenting full time while my husband continued to work full time. After I started working again my husband took another parental leave (?) and was parenting full time for another 9 months. After that we both worked in the constellation described above. For me personally I loved going back to work. It helped me to feel less exhausted and stressed out and I could enjoy the time with our children much more (the first year was really hard for my husband an me). BUT the thing is: both children are very attached to me. Especially my "older" son. My husband tells me he sometimes cries in the mornings when I'm at work and not at home, asking for mommy. He's usually fine after a few minutes but my heart hurts so much every time I hear this. I'm usually home by 2 to 3 pm and spend the rest of the day with them (they go to bed around 7.30 pm) so I usually spend around 5 hours daily with them during a work week. I try to make the most of the time with them and try to tell myself that the quality of our time spent together is more important than quantity. But I cannot shake the feeling of damaging them. I'm just scared that when they grow up all they think is I've never spent enough time with them or that I wasn't there when they needed me.
I guess I'm just looking for reassurance from parents in similar situations (attachment person number 1 and working full-time). Please tell me my children won't resent me in the future :(

I figured it was time to end the livestream as I told him, "They won't give you any with a face like that, try harder for mommy."

I’m looking for advice or support. My son is almost 3 1/2. He’s showing all the signs of readiness for potty training. (He is staying dry for multiple hours at a time, he tells us when he needs to go potty, he doesn’t like diaper changes, he watches us go potty, he tells us big kids (including all of his heroes like Elmo, Johnny Appleseed, and the local sports mascot) go in the potty, etc.)
We have done multiple days of wearing big kid underwear at home. Multiple days of naked time both in the house and in the backyard. Sat on the potty every twenty minutes. Read countless potty books and listened to countless potty songs. Gotten him his own potty seat. Offered rewards for going on the potty including ice cream and screen time. Given lots of encouragement from everyone he loves. But he is REFUSING to pee or poop on the potty. I know poop isn’t such a big deal because that’s another step but he’s still refusing to pee on the potty.
He’s not scared of the potty at all. We have asked him why he didn’t want to go on the potty and he usually says, “Leave me alone.” or tries to change the subject.
He’s starting a preschool program this fall and will need to be potty trained in order to attend. How can we help him to go on the potty before Mommy and Daddy lose their minds?

So 3 and a half months ago, i (M38) met my FWBPD (F33), but she hasn't been diagnosed yet when we met. Basically 1st date was a simple walk, then a lot of texting (probably 50+ texts per day, all day, from good morning to good night), opening up about a lot of stuff on both sides, also her past behaviour, past relationships (in her last one some time ago she was very in love, with a married man with 2 kids, that ultimately ghosted her all of a sudden... might be important?) and flings (ONS and stuff, but i was the supposedly the first one after a 2 year self imposed celibacy), impulsive stuff etc, relationship with parents (which led to some self harm in her teens, swallowed all the antidepressants in the bottle at 17 etc). That she wanted to try a different "breed" of men as the types that attracted her in the past were not healthy and good for her. We agreed on a FWB as we both felt like not being in the right place for anything serious (my most serious relationship lasted like 3 months, so it was all new to me, BPD or not) 2nd date was netflix and chill, and since she was in the middle of a custody battle for her son (8, a little autistic) and living with parents, basically when we could hang out was in the hands of her ex and if her parents went away for a few days etc. We basically talked and texted about everything, might have been oversharing, not sure, but it was a nice connection. She also told me a lot of times how happy she was that i came into her life, how she feels more relaxed and calm since we met and feels like a better person in general. How my words are great for her confidence as she's struggling with some body dysmorphia stuff too that i obviously didn't see and just told her how i saw her, beautiful and attractive.
​
After a couple of weeks, she got her BPD diagnosis (don't know the type sadly) and was put on antidepressants and antipsychotics, which seems to be the easiest thing to do, with some therapy here and there. A couple of weeks later, she won custody for her son, as the ex from a while ago is a drunk and probably a danger to he son with his drunk driving etc, quite a character from what i was told. So all this now greatly reduced our chances for the FWB stuff, but we managed to go for a walk etc. Over the rest of march and april, her libido started to drop and she switched to wellbutrin to not lose her pleasure, as she wanted to have at least one thing to enjoy. When we met up, it was either a walk or a quickie during work (we both work at home and live less than a mile apart), so we made the best of the chances we got. The sex was, well, impulsive, risky and not safe, as predicting her cycle got tricky after switching ADs and her period was off "schedule" (we talked about that stuff a lot).
​
In all this time, from middle february to start of May, she's been nothing but good or sweet and attentive to me, no outbursts, no anger, way better than all my previous non BPD relationships and a bit too good to be true. Not sure if i was her FP, didn't seem obsessed with me, as far as i've noticed, but i was very happy. Since i was her first relationship after the diagnosis and with her wanting to be better, i never really thought about the bad times. So sometime in the start of May, she good morning and good night texts stopped, went from 50+ a day to maybe 5-10 and i started feeling the loss of connection, although our FWB still went on with a meetup every week or two, in the real life behaviour, i didn't really notice anything different, maybe because we texted a lot but didn't see each other that much. She did offer to introduce me to her son and parents, but i somehow hesitated about it, which i'm now very sorry although not sure if it would make a difference. She did start mentioning she was feeling empty, useless etc and it became worse when her mom, that she has a really bad relationship with, stopped going away for days. The ex after a period of wanting to have the son at least for half a day every weekend, also decided to start respecting the ruling and only have phone call contact, so she was stuck at home with her parents and the son, with no "free" time for her.
​
Last weekend, she took me on a coffee date with her son, basically to tag along so she doesn't have to sit there by herself while he plays, which she made clear and also that he'll be more interested in playing with slides and stuff, not me, even though he suggested her inviting me to keep her company (as he noticed all the texts all the time from before). So that coffee date felt very just friends like and quite cold for the first time, on par with the texts. She then went to a concert and the next day (2 days ago) she said she has two more planned, one being a whole day affair and how her son is sad about her going as he'll miss her.
​
This is where i sadly got triggered, as i felt she lost all interest in me and concerts with friends are possible, but it's getting next to impossible to spend time with me and i didn't understand why. Made a selfish remark how i understand how the kid is feeling and ranted a little, sadly on a bad day as she was tired from the concert, had work do to and i also had a pretty bad week and was feeling agitated. She basically offered a one sided open FWB for me, to see other people, as she can't offer me a good enough thing or at least what we had so far anymore. I basically said i only want her, not interested on other people and she said that she didn't know i had these kind of feelings, that she took it casual as we agreed to nothing serious at the start to spice her life up a bit after 2 years, that she feels empty, useless, bad, trapped and that's the way she functions in relationships, after being very invested at the start, she either gets obsessed or drifts away from a person (looks like the short straw for me then). That she feels she not relationship material and would need therapy. I did read up a lot on BPD even a little before she got diagnosed, but sadly missed that part of these what she calls defective periods where there's nothing i can do about it. I replied saying i when i got to know her better, something more than FWB started becoming an option for me, followed by a little rant / melt down as i was caught out by all this, even though i should've seen it coming. But i was hoping it would be different with me, now that she's diagnosed, on medication and wanting to be a better person, also working by a BPD workbook, that she'd at least try to break the pattern. And there's been no reply since then, even though our contact eased off in the last month, it's still quite a shock and emptiness, not sure if she ghosted me, when we met, we agreed that ghosting is the worst.
​
I've spent the last 2 days trying to understand everything, questioning everything, did it all mean nothing to her, did i serve my purpose and it's the next guys turn, were we really exclusive during this time, i also feel sorry for not handling this (is it a split?) better and not just looking at how i affects me, for not talking about it more with her, to maybe get ready for the "dark" times. Waiting for her to text me back, does she now hate me, did she split on me and i'm the worst guy out there, does she even have a reason to return to me when she feels better if was nothing special...
​
Currently it looks like i've been ghosted and would just like some closure to know where we're at, if there's still a we. Considering texting her sometime soon, saying we could at least do better than ghosting after all this and proposing we meet one final time, if that's what she feels she wants and talk about it, but don't want to pressure her into anything. Also don't want it to just end like this, with ghosting and not knowing if she hates me, should i hate her, or miss her. Living so close by, doesn't help either. I'd really like to tell her (in person as text would be a bit difficult) I really enjoyed (most of) these 3,5 months, i care about her maybe more than i should as per out "agreement", want her to succeed in becoming a better person / mother, have a better life and if there's a way, i'd like to stay in her life to see that happen in any capacity that's acceptable for her, while working on myself too and giving her all she might need from me. She made me a better person and made my life better, i hope i did the same for her at least a little. Might be a classic with BPD relationships of all kinds, but i'm drawn to her by something, maybe by how good it was at the start and maybe trying to make her life just a bit better as i know i can't help her, fix her, cure her. I know she's not a bad person deep down, even if the thinks she is because of some stuff she did as a teen, the way her parents treated her and still do (sadly haven't met them, so i don't know their side of the story, as i don't know what exactly went on with the ex she has the son with, there were fights and stuff, like he also has BPD or some kind of disorder). I also never meant to hurt her, never thought of her as being something less than the other girls (if anything, the opposite) and i'm sorry i didn't give it my 100% when i maybe had a chance to make it something stronger or more.
​
I guess she can either agree or tell me to f*ck off if she split on me, and be extra mean if that's what she needs to protect herself. In worst case, i'll also have to think about which way of getting over all this would be best for me, hating her (the easiest option heh) and being angry/sad/angry/sad, or just accepting everything as best as i can, even though the ending is basically the same as with most other (non BPDs) before her (but they all deliberately found someone else while being with me, misleading me while actively searching and eventually finding). Either way, if she never wants to see me again, unless we end up in the same line at the post office, supermarket etc, i'll accept it straight up, not with a smile on my face but still :)
​
Sorry it turned out so long, just had to get it out there as i have no one to talk to about it, at least not without them saying "haha serves you right for putting your d*ck in crazy" etc or "uhhh what's BPD???" Also apologies for any grammar, English is not my 1st language and typing in Edge is a bit weird at times :)
P.S. i guess this post is more therapy for me than asking for advice and i know every person is different, would maybe just like to read some takes on it all, good or bad if you've been in a situation like this on either side and i don't really expect exact advice in the form of "oh yeah, you should do this or that after x days / weeks and this and that will happen!" More advice on how to process all this, than how to get her back or anything :)

“Alright, let’s get one thing straight: I don’t believe in ghosts, I don’t believe in the Easter bunny, and I sure as hell don’t believe in any wooden people.”
At the murky forest’s outer edge, Tom McCann cleared his throat. He waited until me and Dad stopped and faced him head on, then added, “But I’ve got a crew sitting with their thumbs stuck firmly up their arses because there’s fairytale monsters running around out here, so I’m stuck playing your stupid game. Congratulations.”
My father said, “Mr. McCann, I know you think I'm crazy, or a conman, or probably both. But I'm telling you this one final time, it’s not too late to take a bath on whatever money you might lose and find another project.”
Our employer was a muscular man with an even tan, dressed in a tracksuit and white trainers. He wore a large Rolex, which caught the moonlight every time he scratched his thick, utility pole neck. “Are you about done?”
“I am.”
“Good. You wanna get paid tonight?”
“It would sure be nice.”
“Then shut the hell up and do what I hired you to do.”
“Fair enough,” my father replied. He grabbed two flashlights from his pack and tossed one in my direction.
I caught it, a lump already rising in my throat. A maze of warped, crooked trees lay before us, their skeletal boughs thrust together like sweeping arms. I’d never even seen a wooden person before—I didn’t yet know whether I’d have the courage to face one down. My greatest fear, back then, was disappointing my old man.
Dad guided us along where spaces occurred naturally until, a dozen or so paces into the forest, the foliage thinned out.
Over his shoulder, he said, “So tell me Mr. McCann, isn’t Redburn a national heritage site? I’m surprised you got permission to bulldoze the place.”
“Is that how you’re gonna fix this problem? Show these tree people I’ve got the right paperwork?”
“I was just curious. You’re not the first visitor who tried buying up land for cheap.”
Our employer rolled his eyes. “Well, Patrick, the simple fact is this new development is gonna be the magnet that attracts opportunity. The suits are scared of eco-warriors who cry on Facebook, sure, but they also know everything I touch turns to gold.”
“Didn’t the wildlife trust try to stop you?”
“’Course they did. Luckily, I don’t believe in no’s.”
“Huh, that’s funny. I could have sworn the judge said ‘no’ to your appeal about the recovery order. You had to hand over, what was it, 19 apartments?”
“Those fraud charges were about as legitimate as your little wooden friends,” Tom hissed, his voice bitter.
Upset this outsider was belittling our beliefs, I clenched my jaw, tight. Dad, however, just chuckled. The sceptic couldn't rile him up—not my father, unshakeable as an oak tree, tall and rangy with a shock of greying hair and a long, straight nose, same as mine. He said, “If you don’t believe this crap, why come begging me for help?”
“Two things. One, I came asking for help. And two, I’m no mug. I’ve seen this scam before. You locals make up fairy tales and scream cultural heritage—” air quotes accompanied those words—"to extort the evil entrepreneur from the big city. Well, fair warning, if I don’t see some supernatural shit tonight, you aren’t getting a single cent from me. Sound reasonable?”
“Sure does. Fair warning though, I’d strongly advise not letting any wooden person touch you.”
“Oh gee, I’ll try.” Mr. McCann looked down his nose at me. “Ronan, was it? What age are you Ronan?”
“I’m twelve,” I said.
“Twelve, huh? And is that old enough to come ghost hunting?”
“Ronan can take care of himself,” Dad answered. My face flushed with pleasure at the compliment. “Besides, theres’s things he needs to learn.”
The trail twisted three times, carrying us through marshy grass, alongside a narrow stream, deeper and deeper into the gloom. From out amongst the endless darkness, I could hear the crunch of dead leaves, the snap of rotten wood.
Above the canopy, where we could see it, the moon drifted in and out from behind thick, billowing clouds. And my electrified nerves jumped at every cry of a tiny animal, barely audible beneath the trees whispering in the breeze.
“Well?” Mr. McCann said, after a minute of silence.
“Well what?” Dad asked.
“Isn’t this the part where you tell me about the tree pixies?”
“I thought you didn’t believe in this stuff?”
“I don’t. But I’m not having the crew rock up tomorrow and say you didn’t do the right magic tap dance to cleanse the evil spirits.”
“What do you know about them already?”
“I know they’re keeping me from stream rolling this shithole.”
Dad ducked beneath a bough. “Is that all?”
“They kill children who wander through the forest late at night, blah blah blah. It’s your boilerplate urban—”
Before the baron could finish a mouse scurried out from beneath a downed log. He yelped, hopping from one foot to the other, a little foxtrot, and got to work trying to stomp the little critter, who moved way too fast.
Without looking back, Dad said, “Don’t worry, I’ve seen braver men than you jump out of their skin out here.”
Despite the pent-up anxiety, I chuckled. My father was enjoying this. A lot.
Mr. McCann muttered something too low to hear.
“Well, the kid things partly true,” Dad said on the far side of a nestle of ferns. “What they actually do is—” his voice trailed off there. “You know what, it’s too spooky. We don’t want Tom running off without any evidence, do we Ronan?”
“Stop milking it and tell the bloody story.”
Dad’s beam of light swept across the ground in low arcs. “Ronan, you wanna take this one?”
Around us, trees closed in from every angle. As we bullied our way along, our cheeks and arms were gouged by the lacings of sharp branches. It felt like the forest kept reaching out, placing hands on us. Almost against my will, I found myself admiring their resemblance to hideously elongated figures.
Side-by-side with the developer, I cleared my throat. “The wooden people are like us. Or, well…some are. Others not so much. Do you know what a doppelganger is?”
“Nooo,” he said, his voice dripping with sarcasm.
“A doppelganger is—”
“He’s joking Ronan,” Dad said, as he pushed through more scratching bracken. Beyond it, there lay an ocean of leaves, choked in darkness.
I said, “Oh. So, there’s this colony of wooden people who live out here in wooden towns. In the old days, they stayed away from us, and we stayed away from them. People didn’t worry about them. Like hurricanes. If you lived somewhere that gets a lot of hurricanes, you’d probably think about them, but in Ireland we’ve never had a hurricane because it’s not a warm tropical climate, so we don’t worry about them. It was the same with wooden people. It was hard to stumble across them.
“But then we started building cities and railways and stuff. That meant their homes kept getting destroyed. So, they started moving around. But then we started building more stuff so—”
Through a narrow gap, I glimpsed movement and hesitated. A chilly draught sent dead leaves scattering across my boots.
Mr. McCann said, “Let me guess, soon they had so little space they got angry and attacked?”
“Well, no. First they tried to explain their problem.”
“Oh, so our wooden friends speak English? They’re like those talking trees in Game of Thrones are they?” He went and stood beside a nearby birch, pressed his mouth up against a large hollow in its bulbous trunk, and said, “Hey Treebeard, you awake? Mind if I bulldoze this place?” The entrepreneur faced us, grinning, those porcelain teeth prominent against the gloom. “Well waddaya know, he said it’s completely fine.”
In the middle of a patch of dirt and mud and weeds, Dad said, “Quiet, Both of you.”
Branches scraped together roughly as the forest shivered in its various joints.
“What is it, a fox?” Mr. McCann asked.
Dad silenced him with a gesture. From somewhere unseen, whispers rang out. Or maybe it was just the wind. My trembling hand struggled to keep hold of the flashlight. Again and again, I wiped the palm sweat on my jacket and prayed Dad wouldn’t notice.
Dad faced us. “Ronan, you stay here with Mr. McCann. I’m gonna—"
“Oh no,” the cynic fired back. “If I stay put, you’ll go out there, smoke a cigarette, and come out panting like you’ve just performed an exorcism.”
Unable to mask his agitation, Dad exhaled through his nostrils. “You came asking for my help, now I’m giving it to you. Nobody’s trying to rip you off, I promise. You don’t live as part of nature, so you don’t see it, but Ireland is bleeding magic. The world is. And now it’s starting to fight back. If there’s wooden people out here tonight, you’re gonna leave this forest a changed man, believe me. But right now, I need you to listen.”
It was strange to see dad angry; he was usually so even-keeled. To me, he said, “Ronan, I’m going to go ahead and lure them out. Stay here and keep a candle lit in case they come this way.”
From my pack, I grabbed an Olympic-style torch and ignited it with a lighter tucked in the side compartment. The idea of not having Dad around for protection made my neck hairs stir. If the wooden people attacked, it would come down to me to protect us.
My father said, “Remember Mr. McCann, whatever happens, don’t let them touch you.”
This warning was met with an eyeroll.
Flashlight in hand, Dad disappeared behind a cluster of ash trees while I stood there, knees wobbling.
“That’s the trouble with you smalltown folk,” Tom said, once the gloom swallowed Dad whole. “All these superstitions. This development could be a great opportunity, more tax revenue, more jobs. But instead you run around scared of things going bump in the night."
“They’re not superstitions,” I snapped, more forcefully than intended. “And besides, even if they were, animals live here too. Are we just gonna wreck their homes so you can make some money?”
“Kid, you see this?” He tapped his Rolex. “This baby cost 50k. The Aston Martin I arrived in was triple that. Your Dad drives a 3-door hatchback that’s older than you are, I heard that shit-heap sputtering up the road five minutes before you appeared. Here’s some free advice: if you wanna make something of yourself, pull your head out of the clouds.”
At the corner of my eye, a black blob filled the gaps between trees, briefly. After I cleared my throat I said, “Money isn’t everything.”
“Sorry to burst your bubble, kid, but it is. Why else would your old man be out here? If he was really set on protecting the forest, why take my money to do this phoney cleansing?”
I didn’t have an answer for that, so I turned away instead.
Another gust of cold air made me shiver. A moment later, there came a trample of dead leaves.
I choked out a feeble, “Dad?”
No response.
“Is this the part where you stage an attack?” Mr. McCann asked, acting bored. But did his voice wobble a little?
Branches stirred as the forest took great, shuddery inhales. It sounded like whispers. The rhythm of my heart quickened.
“It’s a nice trick, I’ll give you that.” Tom did a terrible job at sounding disinterested.
More whispers, behind us now. I said a silent prayer Dad arrived back and then whipped my torch and the flashlight around.
Illuminated by the beam, there stood a huge, tumorous oak tree. From behind it, there came a skitter of rapid steps.
I held out the torch like a shield. “Who’s there?”
My companion hung over me like a shadow, so close his short, quick breaths blasted the back of my neck. What happened to all his bravado?
Barely detectable even with the light, the tree inhaled, exhaled. I stood absolutely still, weapon raised and shaking.
“See?” Mr. McCann stuttered. “It’s nothing. Just the win—”
Before he could finish, a pair of eyes opened, cloudy and pale as though stricken by cataracts. Pressed against the tree a face peered back at us, like a mask made from living bark, and smiled.
Together, Mr. McCann and I screamed. My hands fumbled the torch, which slipped into a patch of mud and extinguished with a wet splatter.
The forest erupted into chatter and whispers. Behind us, up ahead, along both sides. I whipped the flashlight in one direction and the next. Anytime the beam landed on a tree there was yet another face, each grinning like a clowder of Cheshire cats.
In unison, figures stepped away from the trunks. From head to toe they were the texture rough bark, except for those pale eyes. Malignant growths engulfed the skulls, twigs and branches sprouted from shoulders and necks, and some were even dappled with furry moss. Limping with crude joints bent at odd angles, they shuffled toward us.
A screaming Mr. McCann tore off through a narrow gap in the undergrowth. I rushed after him, unable to even think straight.
Waist-deep foliage encroached on both sides of the trail, right up to our ankles. I followed the burly man through a maze of sticks and spears as he barrelled ahead, faster than my legs could carry me.
Out of nowhere, he ground to a halt. As I caught up, the terrified man backstepped from more wooden people, too many to count. He spun on his heels, knocking me aside as he did, only to discover more closing in from behind, cutting off any hope of escape.
Tom choked out a weak, “Please, leave me alone. I’ll give you anything. Money. Jewellery.” He unclipped is Rolex and offered it as a gift. “I’ll never come back here. Please…just…”
Together, they moved forward, limbs outstretched. They were so close now. So very close.
As Mr. McCann’s foot caught on an exposed root, he collapsed backwards into the soil. All our tormenters came to a halt except for one, which continued on until it was close enough to reach out and touch a limb against Tom’s forehead.
On his hands and knees, he spun away, scrambling toward me across the tangled floor. Already his face had sprouted warts. No, not warts—saplings. Buds. The flesh of his cheeks and forehead bubbled, rapidly swelling in sections, while dark patches grew darker still across his neck, his forearms, his eyes, and even his lips. Paralyzed by fear, I could only watch.
Tears opened up along the sleeves of his tracksuit and ran up the shoulders, across the chest, and down the waist. In a matter of seconds Mr. McCann’s limbs became bloated and elongated. His clothes fell to the floor in tattered ruins.
Naked and deformed, he staggered to his feet and shuffled toward me, his screams now fading, his limbs stiff and awkward. Roots sprouted from his feet and grabbed the soil, biting deep, destroying any hope of forward progress. Through unmovable lips, he sputtered, “Help me…please.” Inside his mouth I saw a thick, green carpet.
Within seconds the man became indistinguishable from a small oak tree, one bough forever reaching forward, the branch lacing inches from my throat.
What broke me out of my trance was the sound of puking. Past the tree that had formerly been Mr. McCann, the wooden person that touched him puked up splinters and moss. It’s bark flaked and shed, exposing beige skin underneath. At the end of one limb, a fist opened and closed, revealing a human hand which then tore wood from a skull in huge chunks. Beneath these sections lay human features—nose, ears, lips. The human flexed and cried and gulped for air, a hatchling emerging from its shell.
I was so entranced by this hideous sight I didn’t notice the other wooden people had closed in. After six petrified backsteps, a low branch thicker than an amputated forearm stabbed the small of my lower back. I spun around, heart clawing against my chest, only to discover I’d reversed into the nearest wooden person.
I dropped onto the ground, head buried in my lap. “Please,” I whimpered. “I don’t want to be one of you. Please.”
Even then my thoughts were of Dad, and what he might have thought seeing his son cower in fear like that.
A hush fell over the forest. I took several short, shuddery inhales. That meant my lungs weren’t solid. Yet.
Slowly, I looked up. Wooden figures loomed over me, motionless. The closest one reeled away its limb.
“Let me through.” My father’s voice issued from within the crowd.
“Dad?” I cried.
Figures stepped apart, clearing a path he stepped through. “Ronan.”
I got up and rushed forward and threw myself into his arms, my cheeks wet with tears. “I dropped the torch, I’m sorry, I’m so—”
“Shush, it’s okay.” He put a warm hand on my shoulder, and my nerves eased.
“But Mr. McCann, he—”
“He’s completely fine.” Dad stepped aside. Past his shoulder, a new Mr. McCann pulled on spare clothes Dad brought in his pack.
A dry gulp seized my throat. “We need to run, we need to—”
“It’s okay, we’re not in any danger.” He pulled me in close. “You see son, there’s something you need to know about us. About how I know so much about this place. You and I, Ronan, we were among the first. Years ago, before you were old enough to even remember, our people realized we needed a way to protect ourselves, so I volunteered to go speak with the humans. But they wouldn’t listen. So now we’re pushing back. Against those who want to destroy our home.”
“We’re…we’re wooden people?”
Dad squeezed my hand.
“But what’ll happen to Mr. McCann?”
He gestured toward the tree that was once the real estate mogul. Any hiker who stumbled across it maybe would have made a casual remark about the vaguely human form, the warped portion of bough shaped vaguely like screaming face, forever etched in terror. You could practically hear the silent scream.
Tom McCann—the new Tom McCann—grabbed the discarded Rolex from the dirt and brushed it clean. He gave me a little smile and then clasped the watch around his wrist.
I squeezed dad’s hand even harder. “But couldn’t we have helped him? We could have explained—”
He shook his head. “If we transformed one hundred Tom McCanns, a hundred more would just pop up. We need to replace them, son. All of them, the humans. It’s like I said, the world is bleeding magic. And these flesh bags, they never learn. So, we’re taking over. Not just here, but everywhere. England, Germany, Spain, America.”
He kneeled down, brought himself eye level with me. “Are you ready, son? Will you help us protect this world?”
I brushed away my tears, a new hardness in my stomach. “I will, Dad. I will.”

Defending the Draft: Pittsburgh Steelers
Preface: Back during Week 2 of 2004, rookie QB Ben Roethlisberger entered the game after veteran Tommy Maddox left the game with an injury. What followed was 18 years of arguably the greatest QB in Steelers history up until retirement after the 2021 season. Enter Week 4 of 2022; rookie QB Kenny Pickett enters the game in the second half after a poor performance by veteran Mitchell Trubisky. How will the story proceed from here? His rookie season was a mixed bag full of rookie mistakes and flashes of brilliance that had the Steelers in the playoff hunt down to the very last week of the season. Most importantly, his growth and development over the course of the season has sparked a lot of optimism that he really could be the successor to Big Ben. As his sophomore season approaches, the front office made it a priority to set him up to succeed and to accelerate his development by bringing in talent around him. There is a lot of belief from the Steelers' Front Office that Kenny might be the guy going forward, and they acted like it with their moves during the offseason.
It started off with the highly unpopular decision of retaining OC Matt Canada for next season, citing the noticeable offensive strides that occurred toward the end of last season. It is a major gamble given how poor the offense played last year, but there is something to be said about the importance of coaching stability for a young QB. All indications since have been that the ‘training wheels’ are off from the playbook and that the team is entrusting Kenny to operate it in full. The belief is that he is ready to command and ultimately elevate the offense without limitation, and that was more important than starting over with a whole new playbook. With that squared away, the Steelers kicked off the free agency period mostly by addressing the defensive side of the ball with signings such as CB Patrick Peterson, LBs Cole Holcomb and Elandon Roberts, S Keanu Neal, and re-signing DT Larry Ogunjobi after an impressive first season with the team. Most notable, however, was the signing of OG Isaac Seumalo to upgrade on incumbent Kevin Dotson; a clear indication that the team wanted to get better up front for Kenny Pickett and keep the run game rolling like it was at the end of last season. Lastly, the Steelers made a late move right before the draft to acquire Allen Robinson from the Rams to hopefully upgrade the receiving arsenal and find much-needed stability at the WR3 position.
Heading into the draft, it was clear that the Steelers had their eyes on a potential upgrade at LT, another CB to replace the departed Cam Sutton, much-needed depth at EDGE and DT, and potentially some more weapons for the offense.
TRADE: Pittsburgh sends Picks 17 & 120 to New England for Pick 14
In his first year sitting in the General Manager chair, Omar Khan watched the board closely as a pair of offensive tackles already came off the board and the tackle-needy New York Jets sat two picks ahead of them. It just so happened that the Jets’ rival New England Patriots were sitting one pick in front of them, and had little to no qualms about letting a team move up….
Round 1, Pick 14: Broderick Jones, OT, Georgia
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Talk about making a statement during your first draft in charge. Sensing an opportunity to land one of the premier offensive tackles in this class, Omar Khan made the shrewd decision to jump up the board and secure a player they’ve had their eyes on. Now on the clock at Pick 14, the Steelers wasted no time in selecting University of Georgia’s standout LT Broderick Jones to be their expected franchise tackle. Fresh off the Bulldogs’ first national championship in over 40 years, Jones stepped in at LT for the departed Jamaree Salyer and anchored them all the way back to a consecutive national championship. There was a good bit of hype for Jones entering the season as he flashed his talents during a brief stretch as a starter due to injuries in 2021. One thing that stood out to me was a quote from Mike Tomlin that during a Pro Day dinner last draft cycle, all his Georgia teammates pointed to Broderick as someone to look out for next draft even despite his limited tape as a starter. Safe to say they weren’t lying and his 2022 tape ended up impressing Mike Tomlin. Over the course of their title-winning campaign, Jones did nothing but impress against the best the SEC had to offer and showed just how enticing of a talent he is.
So what are the Steelers getting in Broderick Jones? Two words that you love to hear from a potential NFL tackle; Nastiness & Athleticism. When watching his film, it is immediately evident that this is a violent player in both phases of the trenches. When leading the charge in the run game, Jones is looking to get out in front and put defenders in the dirt to create wide-open running lanes. His smooth movement skills in space coupled with his 6’5 311lb frame are tantalizing and it allowed Georgia to dominate with outside zone concepts. When Jones gets his hands on defenders and his legs in gear, there is almost no chance of recovery for said defender. On top of that, Broderick showed off a position-leading 4.97 40-yard dash and an even better 1.67 10-yard split at the combine which showcased just how well this man can move. Those aforementioned traits are just as apparent in pass protection with his powerful first punch and fluidity in his sets. On any given rep, Jones is looking to land a debilitating blow on pass-rushers to disrupt them right off the snap. I’ve seen him flatten unsuspecting speed rushers and stone-wall power rushers with his raw power. Even on reps where he doesn’t win initially, Jones has the foot speed to quickly recover and settle back into his set without surrendering too much ground. His profile allows him to drop deep into his kickstep and mirror even the most athletic pass-rushers he faced. With that all said, this is still a highly inexperienced player we are talking about and there is still a learning curve to overcome. He has a tendency to overset in his punch and expose his chest and his mechanics still need a lot of refinement at this stage of his career, but these are coachable flaws rather than any sort of physical limitations. From a raw tools and traits perspective, this is almost as good as it gets for a coach to work with. Keep him on his current developmental track and this is a guy with the potential to be a decade-long anchor for an NFL offense.
Broderick Jones will have the opportunity to earn the starting LT job from Day 1 in Pittsburgh. Incumbent starter Dan Moore Jr. has been a serviceable player during his first two seasons as a pro but his physical limitations and penalty propensity left a lot to be desired. The two will battle it out during training camp, but the Steelers seem excited to fast-track Jones’s development and get him reps as soon as possible. If all goes according to plan, Pittsburgh finally found their coveted answer at LT and Kenny Pickett’s much-needed blindside blocker for many years to come. Between Isaac Seumalo and now Broderick Jones, the left side of a once porous OL looks like an absolute strength. What better way to keep your young QB upright than that?
Round 2, Pick 32: Joey Porter Jr., CB, Penn State
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The top pick of the second round was acquired by the Steelers during a midseason trade that sent Chase Claypool to the Chicago Bears. Looking to upgrade their arsenal for a young Justin Fields, Chicago gambled on Claypool’s athletic upside to help elevate their offense. What followed was an 0-9 stretch to close out the season, much to the Steelers' benefit.
Joey Porter Sr. played for the Steelers from 1999 to 2006 and then coached for the team from 2014-2018. He was an emotional leader and tone-setter for the vaunted 2000s Steelers defenses. Now 17 years later after he last played for the team, his son Joey Porter Jr. will get to continue his legacy. When the first round concluded and JPJ surprisingly remained on the board, everyone and their mother connected the dots of the Steelers taking him to start Day 2. It just felt right. Numerous teams called the Steelers to try and trade up to that spot, but nothing wavered them off this opportunity. Joey Porter Jr. got the call and returned to a team where he grew up as a kid getting to be around. Both Khan and Tomlin have stated that he was a player they were looking at at pick 17 so to get him at 32 was a home run for their draft strategy. Make no mistake, this was not just some sentimental pick but rather an opportunity to land an extremely talented player at a position of dire need. JPJ is an aggressive, man-coverage CB whose goal is to jam and disrupt every route he sees. He has freakish 34” arms that allow him to wash receivers off their routes and minimize passing windows for opposing QBs. Penn State had him playing tight press-man coverage and his length and straight-line speed proved to be a nightmare for teams to throw against. The one issue that does haunt his tape is grabbiness downfield and the flags that follow. While not a liability, his hip-flip recovery can be lacking and causes him to get too handsy to try and recover. Coaching him up to be more disciplined with his hands and to trust his traits and technique will be a must for him to become more scheme diverse and avoid being picked on. However, in an older CB room that lacks man coverage-capable players on the outside, JPJ will have an immediate role where he can start with his comforted bump-and-run coverage techniques and grow from there. Given the size and speed of some of the opposing AFCN receivers, his skillset will provide huge value to a secondary that previously lacked the personnel to match up accordingly. This pick was a feel-good story on the surface, but more importantly a much-needed young player meant to spearhead a CB room overhaul throughout the coming seasons.
Round 2, Pick 49: Keeanu Benton, NT, Wisconsin
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Struggles defending the run have been a recurring issue for the Steelers' defense over the past couple of seasons. Between a lack of stoutness next to Cam Heyward upfront and poor downhill run-fitting from the linebackers, the Steelers were very prone to being run right over. Having completely overhauled the LB room in free agency with an intent on signing plus run defenders, the Steelers waited until the draft to truly address the DL. Keeanu Benton out of Wisconsin is a sorely needed infusion of young talent for an older position group. It’s not often you see a 4-year starter at Nose Tackle in college, particularly at a seniority-focused school like Wisconsin, but that’s what you’re getting in Benton. He is as experienced as they come at that position and should have no trouble seeing the NFL field right away because of it. He plays exactly as you’d expect from someone with that resume; extremely stout and reliable against the run and plays with a lot of polish to stack and shed blocks. While he aligned almost exclusively over the A-Gap in their scheme, he still showcased the quickness and power to be a legitimate penetrator as well. He had the opportunity to really show off what more he can do at the Senior Bowl in 1-on-1 drills and really caught people by surprise with just how well he could move and win those reps. His home at the next level will still be the A-Gap as he joins a familiar 3-4 scheme in Pittsburgh, but he has the talent to line up in a variety of spots across the defensive front. He will be relied upon early on to be a clog in the middle between Cam Heyward and Larry Ogunjobi but his long-term outlook might include a lot more on his plate once Cam is retired.
TRADE: Pittsburgh sends Pick 80 to Carolina for Picks 93 & 132
Having surrendered their 4th-rounder in the trade up for Broderick Jones, Omar Khan used this trade as an opportunity to regain a 4th-rounder without bailing out of the third round entirely. The Steelers had many needs and limited draft capital so regaining quantity was a must.
Round 3, Pick 93: Darnell Washington, TE, Georgia
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Sometimes talent just falls right into your lap and you just gotta take it. I don’t think the Steelers were anticipating taking a TE very early, especially after re-signing Zach Gentry a few weeks prior, but I also don’t think they expected Darnell Washington to be available at 93. Simply put, this dude is a unicorn. Standing at a towering 6’7 265lb frame, Washington plays exactly as he looks. He is on the field to mow defenders over and have no mercy doing it. Having him on the field for Georgia was essentially like having a 6th OL that would occasionally catch passes. He hits like a Mack truck and can move in space with ease. There were plays where UGA would line him up next to his (now reunited) teammate Broderick Jones and just have them get on their horse and leave poor defenders in their wake while the RBs went untouched. Plays like that are going to be absolutely beloved by Steelers fans. The scary thing with Washington is that you can easily argue that he was underused at Georgia considering he ran a 4.64 40 at the combine but only caught 28 passes over the course of the season. It made sense to have All-American talent Brock Bowers be the primary receiver while Washington did the blocking dirty work, but he showed how he could release his blocks and rip a defense for 30+ yard gains right up the seam. It’ll be a similar setup in Pittsburgh behind emerging young star Pat Freiermuth, but there is so much untapped receiving potential here with his size and athleticism that we haven’t even seen yet. The only reason he fell as far in the draft as he did was because of medical concerns with his knees, but Omar Khan has come out and said that he thinks that is totally overblown. If that proves not to be an issue, Pittsburgh found a one-of-one type player who will add to an already bolstered rushing attack. Najee Harris must be licking his chops at the thought of running behind Broderick and Darnell.
Round 4, Pick 132: Nick Herbig, OLB, Wisconsin
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If there is one thing that this draft reinforced what we already knew it’s that the Steelers really like NFL bloodlines. After signing Nate Herbig in free agency to shore up the OL depth, the Steelers ended up drafting his younger brother Nick Herbig out of Wisconsin. Now whereas Nate is a hulking 6,4 335lb guard, Nick is a slender 6’2 240lb pass-rusher who wins with his explosive get-off. Having played the unique outside linebacker role for Wisconsin just like TJ Watt did many years prior, Nick is a very versatile player who had a lot of responsibilities at Wisconsin. As a pass-rusher, Nick was on the smaller side but was very capable of beating larger tackles with quick-twitch moves and bend around the edge. He plays with a desirably high relentlessness to find his way into the backfield by any means necessary. As noted, Nick also had to play a ton in space given his role and that led him to being a quality ‘flow’ defender that can sift through commotion. There was a popular sentiment that Nick might end up transitioning to off-ball LB full time given his smaller frame and athletic profile, but the Steelers seem intent on developing him as a pass-rusher behind Watt and Alex Highsmith. He might not have the stature to hold up as a three-down player, but his pass-rushing acumen will be a noticeable boost to an extremely shallow room behind the two starters. Expect him to be rotated in often during passing situations.
Round 7, Pick 241: Cory Trice, CB, Purdue
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With no picks during Rounds 5 or 6, Pittsburgh finally got back on the clock in the middle of the 7th round. Continuing a theme of having talent fall to them, Omar Khan double dipped on the CB position with Cory Trice out of Purdue. Trice is an imposing 6’3 205lb corner with legitimate change of direction and pressing skills. He knows how to use his size to his advantage and can legitimately mirror even the most precise route runners he faced. He has experience with both man and zone coverage concepts which will be an asset in Pittsburgh’s diverse coverage scheme. On top of that, Trice is a willing participant in run defense as he looks to shed blocks from receivers and trigger downhill on the ball carrier with his size. The only reason a player this talented was still on the board this late was because of a laundry list of medical concerns. Having suffered a season-ending ACL tear in 2021, Trice returned in 2022 but was limited by a knee brace that ended up causing a groin injury to develop. He was flagged at the combine for his injury history but still managed to impress with a 4.47 40-yard dash and 6.7 3-cone drill. Many teams likely took him off their board due to long-term concerns but Pittsburgh was willing to roll the dice on his upside if he stays healthy. Leaving the draft with two talented young corners could end up completely reinvigorating their secondary.
Round 7, Pick 251: Spencer Anderson, IOL, Maryland
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To round out their draft class, Omar Khan wrapped things up with the versatile Spencer Anderson out of Maryland. During his college career, Anderson got starts at all five positions along the offensive line. Mike Tomlin tends to value ‘swing versatility’ along his OLs so the idea of a super versatile piece like this could be enticing. Anderson is an intelligent and technically sound blocker who knows how to explode off the snap and hit his landmarks. He is not a particularly fluid mover but he knows how to work angles and positioning from all different alignments. I expect him to get a primary opportunity at Center for the Steelers given the complete lack of options behind starter Mason Cole, but his versatility will be his calling card to earn a roster spot.
Notable UDFAs:
Monte Pottebaum, FB, Iowa: Safe to say that a fullback with a long-haired mullet is going to be a training camp fan favorite among yinzer faithful. Previous fullback Derek Watt was not re-signed this offseason after limited usage over his tenure so an opening exists at that position if they are still looking to use it. Watt made his money primarily on special teams so Monte will have to show the same capabilities in order to make the team, but he has the luxury of being the only FB skillset currently on roster.
David Perales, EDGE, Fresno State: Every summer it seems like a UDFA pass-rusher picks up some steam as a potential roster addition for the Steelers. The player that fills the bill this year is the bulky and bendy David Perales. OLB depth is less of an immediate need with the recent signing of Markus Golden, but this is still a thin room. If Perales can show enough special teams value and pass-rushing upside, he might stick around as the fifth OLB.
Roster Prediction:
QB: (3) Kenny Pickett, Mitchell Trubisky, Mason Rudolph
RB: (3) Najee Harris, Jaylen Warren, Anthony McFarland Jr.
WR: (6) Diontae Johnson, George Pickens, Allen Robinson, Calvin Austin III, Hakeem Butler, Miles Boykin
TE: (4) Pat Freiermuth, Darnell Washington, Zach Gentry, Connor Heyward (HB)
OT: (4) Broderick Jones, Chukwuma Okorafor, Dan Moore Jr., Le’Raven Clark
IOL: (5) Isaac Seumalo, James Daniels, Mason Cole, Nate Herbig, Kevin Dotson
IDL: (6) Cameron Heyward, Larry Ogunjobi, Keeanu Benton, DeMarvin Leal, Montravius Adams, Breiden Fehoko
OLB: (4) TJ Watt, Alex Highsmith, Markus Golden, Nick Herbig
ILB: (4) Cole Holcomb, Elandon Roberts, Mark Robison, Tanner Muse,
CB: (6) Patrick Peterson, Levi Wallace, Chandon Sullivan, Joey Porter Jr., Cory Trice, James Pierre
SAF: (5) Minkah Fitzpatrick, Keanu Neal, Damontae Kazee, Tre Norwood, Miles Killebrew
ST: (3) Chris Boswell (K), Pressley Harvin III (P), Kameron Canaday (LS)
Future Needs:
Inside Linebacker: The single most glaring deficiency on the current roster is inside linebacker. The Steelers let Devin Bush, Myles Jack, and Robert Spillane all walk in free agency in favor of signing Cole Holcomb and Elandon Roberts. While those two players have nice complementary skill sets, neither is someone you’d hang your hat on as the top talent in the LB room, especially in coverage. It’s been over five years since Ryan Shazier’s career-ending injury and the Steelers have still not found an answer in the middle of their defense. Finding a true three-down backer who can make plays against the run and drop back into coverage is a must, as hard as that may be.
Slot Cornerback: If both Joey Porter Jr. and Cory Trice pan out like their talent indicates, the Steelers might have found their future at outside CB in one draft. However, one spot in the secondary they really didn’t find an answer was in the slot. Chandon Sullivan was signed as a one-year stop-gap to replace Arthur Maulet, and Patrick Peterson might get some run in the slot, but a long-term option does not exist here. Finding a slot-specific skill set would help cover up the other major deficiency on defense.
Wide Receiver: There are currently a lot of unknowns in the Steelers war room. Will Diontae Johnson bounce back in 2023? Can George Pickens develop more routes to his game? Does Allen Robinson have anything left? What will Calvin Austin look like after missing his entire rookie season? This is a talented room shrouded with a ton of uncertainty, so reinforcements might be necessary on the soon horizon. It is never a bad idea to surround a young QB with even more weapons.
Final Thoughts: Fans and pundits all agree; this was a home run first draft for new GM Omar Khan. Declaring ‘winners and losers’ right after the draft is often a fickle exercise but it is hard to ignore all the value that was obtained at each pick. Finally landing a much-needed upgrade at LT made this draft a win by itself, but adding highly regarded prospects at almost all of the other major pre-draft needs made this a class to truly get excited for. Pittsburgh found players that can contribute right away and may end up being future cornerstones at their respective position groups. If nothing else, fans can leave the draft with a feeling that the Steelers are in good hands with Khan in charge. His understanding of how and when to address critical roster needs, and his willingness to maneuver the board in doing so, deserves a lot of praise and optimism. The Kenny Pickett era is officially underway, and it is draft classes such as this that will help shape it into a success.

For context, I just entered my 30s, with a decent portfolio of writing and filmmaking work. I have been blessed with opportunities and have nothing to complain really. But then, where does this overwhelming sense of dissatisfaction stem from? I hope thing long rumination doesn't bother you.
Everything impacts me deeply. Even the tree in my backyard chopped down had me depressed for days. So did the suicide of a person I only met once or twice, that too very vaguely. (The DU philosophy professor who hanged himself and whose demise instigated protests last month was an acquaintance.) I have friends I can share these thoughts with, but everyone tells me 'what do you have to complain about?' 'You should get on with your life.' 'Don't read too much.'
Yes, objectively I have a good life. I am never short of friends to talk cinema with, to talk girls with, to crib about my parents. I have lots of great cousins to bitch about my relatives. I have had lots of girls who loved me, even though I always considered myself very average on every scale of attractiveness. I have a decent career, an abundant family background, and a big, happy family. I am truly living the life that could make one envious and it does.
But nothing makes me happy anymore, and no one can make me angry! I am not enlightened but every time someone does me dirty, I blame their upbringing and conditioning and genetics. The resentment then goes away. While driving, someone hurls an expletive at me, I feel bad for that person because 'he must be having a hard day'. When my mother shouts at me for no reason, I feel the urge to hug her, blaming the traumatic past she has been through. Nobody's really at fault for their actions. I do not believe in free will. We are all running on autopilot, doing things we were forced to learn, saying things we caught thanks to our environment, and operating on the belief system that was hardwired in us without our consent. And then the genetics! Then why does anything matter at all, if no one is actually acting out of their free will, including me?
I keep chasing my dreams and my goals, and whenever reach a new milestone, it only further makes me anxious, thinking I have to die one day and then, none of it will matter. I keep working harder towards my goals, and so does a poor rickshaw puller in Old Delhi streets. We both have different paths. I am living a slightly better materialistic life, he is just struggling on a day-to-day basis. But time is just an illusion and one day, we both reach the same destination, the doom. What difference does it make to work hard, and achieve the things I always hoped to achieve and for whom? Who stays with you forever? People come and go! Our parents aren't staying forever, and neither are our friends, or lovers, or acquaintances. There might be a day when I will care about my current lover only as much as I care about a street-food vendor in Dwarka. Every feeling, emotion, whether depression or joy, or love, it perishes with time. Eventually, every emotion, however, heightened at the beginning, finds a balance, and the rush of all four pleasure hormones stables and we crave something new and something exciting. The circle of life goes on and on incessantly as we keep functioning and thinking on auto-pilot modest, believing whatever we are doing will have some impact on the world.
That never happens.
Everyone is a walking, talking robot, coded with certain beliefs, slightly different than each other, but largely the same. Everyone is chasing happiness, joy, love, friendship, money, and what not. Everyone believes these perishable feelings matter in the pursuit of a good life. But needs and greeds are never satisfied and we never learn to truly accept ourselves for who we truly are! We end up becoming different versions of ourselves that others decide for us. An ideal son for my parents, an ideal lover for my lover, an ideal friend for my friends, an ideal brother for my sisters and so on. Who I truly am, the sense of it gets lost somewhere chasing dreams, to please everyone.
And then we all die.
The point is, is life worth taking seriously even, when deep down we all know that nothing is permanent? Is it worth it to betray a close friend or acquaintance to climb the ladder of success? Is it really worth it to hurt a stray dog for your momentary amusement? Or to hurt your parents with your words, or to cheat on your lovers? Or to kill or die in the name of your made-up God, believing in a man-made 'thing' called religion?
I think not! Life doesn't even hold enough importance to end it before its time. Just live! I remember a quote from The Brothers Karamazov, by Fyodor Dostoevsky- "The centripetal force on our planet is still fearfully strong, Alyosha. I have a longing for life, and I go on living in spite of logic. Though I may not believe in the order of the universe, yet I love the sticky little leaves as they open in spring. I love the blue sky, I love some people, whom one loves you know sometimes without knowing why. I love some great deeds done by men, though I’ve long ceased perhaps to have faith in them, yet from old habit one’s heart prizes them.”
I do not know how to conclude this post. But here's another quote from one of my favourite authors, Haruki Murakami, to end this little rant.
" “But the longer I’ve lived, the more I’ve lost what’s inside me—and ended up empty.”
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Have a good day everyone (or at least try to).

I got many names. The kids who throw stones call me 'the Bum.' The fella at the Tin Bucket calls me 'the Wino.' The cops know me as 'Crazy Dan.'
It all started last summer. You see, there were these protests where I slept down at Anderson Park. Some group called BLM doing battle with the militia boys who had their compound up at Hawk Hill.
It was over the statue of the Confederate Captain and slaver Bloody Bill Anderson. By all historical accounts, he was a mean son of a bitch, and those BLM kids wanted his statue took down. The white boys wanted him to stay, and they fought a pitched battle with petrol bombs and the like.
Anyway, a few nights after the protest, things got real ugly. A black fella by the name of Jon Kinglsey Junior was found lynched near the park.
They arrested a militia boy, Tucker Beers; funny that because he was a few bottles short of a six-pack.
The township had had him doing odd jobs around the place, touching up the park benches with green paint and washing the birdshit off the statues.
I think the militia kept him around because it made them feel smarter when they donned their mommas' bedsheets.
Well, they had Beers bang to rights. The Kingsley boy's DNA was all over his overalls, and with the national media like piranhas, the sheriff fed them that chum(p)
The township agreed to remove the statue, and one night it happened, but not under their auspices.
They released a press statement saying the militia had stolen it, and the militia said it was a stitch-up, more excuse to raid their compound and pin meth charges on them.
They never found the statue, and maybe I'm the only man who knows what happened to it.
I was on my bench, three quarts down a bottle of Jim Beam, looking up at Bloody Bill Anderson frozen there on his metal stallion, whiskers hanging down over his sneering mouth, and as God as my witness, the statue winked at me.
I fell backwards off the edge of the bench, and the whole obelisk shifted.
The horse's limbs creaked and groaned, and then it let out a soft whinny. The captain came unstuck like one of those frogs after a spring thaw, and he pulled his glove up his uniformed arm, and the moonlight caught the blood from the Kingsley boy on his hands.
In one fluid motion, bronze striking concrete, the man and rider jumped off the plinth and took off into the night over the prairie.
He looked back at me and winked again, and that wink said a lot.
I saw that evil never really dies; it's a force that animates things. It's always looking for a vessel, living organisms, you know, or otherwise.

I have been behaving in a crazier way than normal lately. Leaving work early and finding motivation hard. I enjoy being naked outdoors and feeling the sun on my body so when the weather is good I take the chance if it comes to leave work and go somewhere remote to enjoy the sun. I have also been developing a bit of a fetish around pissing and shitting outdoors. I really enjoy doing this and can’t explain why. Yesterday while out in the sunshine I needed a shit so I went fully nude into an old abandoned fallen done farmhouse. It was clear others had been in from time to time with things left lying around. I found a discarded bra so thought people were using it for a sex spot maybe dogging or something like that. So turned on by that I took a shit on the bra and hoped the next person along would find it. Later I masturbated nude in my car. I enjoy this kind of stuff but I am worried that sooner or later I will be caught. What should I do? I don’t seem able to or want to stop but it is a real worry I get caught.

I have been behaving in a crazier way than normal lately. Leaving work early and finding motivation hard. I enjoy being naked outdoors and feeling the sun on my body so when the weather is good I take the chance if it comes to leave work and go somewhere remote to enjoy the sun. I have also been developing a bit of a fetish around pissing and shitting outdoors. I really enjoy doing this and can’t explain why. Yesterday while out in the sunshine I needed a shit so I went fully nude into an old abandoned fallen done farmhouse. It was clear others had been in from time to time with things left lying around. I found a discarded bra so thought people were using it for a sex spot maybe dogging or something like that. So turned on by that I took a shit on the bra and hoped the next person along would find it. Later I masturbated nude in my car. I enjoy this kind of stuff but I am worried that sooner or later I will be caught. What should I do? I don’t seem able to or want to stop but it is a real worry I get caught.