Dr. Horrible's Not-So-Horrible Blog

THE RETURN OF THE SON OF THE I'D HIT IT MEME

nottome — Sun, 14 Nov 2010 06:24:16 GMT

The I'D HIT IT Meme

Let's face it. There are some pretty hot people out there. Ever pointed somebody out to your friends and say, I'd hit it?

Well now you have the chance to say it to their faces!
The rules of the game are simple:

1. Comment with your username.

2. Comment to others, logged on or anonymously, and let them know you'd hit that like a freight train.

3. Got a friend who's too shy? Post their username for them! They may or may not thank you for it.

4. IPs off. Anon on. Go crazy, kids, but feel free to send me a message if something's screwy or you have questions/complaints/suggestions. ♥

5. IT'S FOR FUN, YOU GUYS. FUN!

And you guys know how this goes. Copy/paste the below into your journal and spread this meme around!

THE RETURN OF THE I'D HIT IT MEME

nottome — Mon, 05 Oct 2009 00:49:53 GMT

The I'D HIT IT Meme

Let's face it. There are some pretty hot people out there. Ever pointed somebody out to your friends and say, I'd hit it?

Well now you have the chance to say it to their faces!
The rules of the game are simple:

1. Comment with your username

2. Comment to others, logged on or anonymously, and let them know you'd hit that like a freight train.

3. Got a friend who's too shy? Post their username for them! They may or may not thank you for it.

4. IPs off. Anon on. Go crazy, kids, but feel free to send me a message if something's screwy or you have questions/complaints/suggestions. ♥

5. IT'S FOR FUN, YOU GUYS. FUN!

And you guys know how this goes. Copy/paste the below into your journal and spread this meme around!

for laws_of_dawes

nottome — Thu, 28 May 2009 04:09:12 GMT

He was the one that said they needed to talk anyway. He had a few things on his mind. But. He wasn't sure what bringing them up might do. What the point was. Still, they did need to talk, as it had been too long since they had had any kind of meaningful conversation. The familiar number of Rachel's cell was dialed.

"Hey, Rach. Maybe the four of us should go to Vegas, huh? And we'll bring Barney and Brooke along."

nottome — Tue, 26 May 2009 07:21:32 GMT

The Character Expression Meme

.happy.	.sad.	.angry.	.scared.

.disgusted.	.surprised.	.flirty.	.sexual.

.confused.	.shy.	.playful.	.rage.

.hurt.	.guilty.	.bored.	.laughing.

.sarcastic.	.tired.	.wtf.	.pride.

.sympathy.	.evil.	.innocent.	.in love.

YOUR	FOUR	FAVORITE	ICONS

WANT TO DO IT TOO?
Snag yourself the coding here.

YOU ALL KNEW THAT LAST ONE WAS COMING.

Why not, I'll be sort of alive today

nottome — Tue, 12 May 2009 05:21:45 GMT

Lets101 - Dating Free Online

Meme from everyone ever, and it's...uh. Pretty ridiculous. If you ask me.

nottome — Tue, 12 May 2009 00:43:51 GMT

Dear Rachel, explain this to me, because I have no idea what to think of it. It's either soul-destroying or funnier than anything at the moment. Clearly this should be a birthday gift, however.

picture meme

nottome — Fri, 17 Apr 2009 03:52:42 GMT

Find a picture of you with someone who broke your heart:
I don't exactly make it a habit of keeping pictures of people I hate.

Find a picture of you with someone who always puts a smile on your face:

Find a picture of you that you didn’t know was being taken:

Find a picture of you in which you are making a goofy face:

...It's probably best not to ask.

Find a picture of yourself in black and white:

Find a picture of you that is so old you don't even recognize yourself:

Find a picture of you in your car or in someone else's car:

Find a picture of you in which you were inebriated:

Not fair, whoever snapped that.

Find a picture of you chilling in your bedroom:

Find a picture of you with a current special someone:

Lastly, find a picture of you that really shows off your personality:

even more meme

nottome — Sun, 05 Apr 2009 04:22:37 GMT

A
• Are you available?: Sort of.
• What is your age?: 35
• What annoys you?: All-around stupidity. And cold pizza. I never got into that.

B
• Do you know anyone named Billy?: Hi, nice to meet you!
• When is your birthday?: June 15th
• Who is your best friend?: Rachel, Brooke, Barney

C
• What's your favorite candy?: Nerds
• Crush?: Penny
• When was the last time you cried?: Are we seriously going to go back to this question in all memes again? I will...quit memes for good, or something.

D
• Do you daydream?: Duh?
• What's your favorite kind of dog?: The one I've got, clearly.
• What day of the week is it?: Sa--no, just turned into Sunday.

E
• How do you like your eggs?: Scrambled
• Have you ever been in the emergency room?: Yes
• Ever pet an elephant?: WTF? No.

F
• Do you use fly swatters?: Yeah
• Have you ever used a foghorn?: No
• Is there a fan in your room?: Yes

G
• Do you chew gum?: Not often.
• Do you like gummy candies?: Yes
• Do you like gory movies?: Not particularly. Not into horror much in-general.

H
• How are you?: Somewhere in the middle.
• What's your height?: 6'1 1/2"
• What color is your hair?: Blonde

I
• What's your favorite ice cream?: Rocky Road
• Have you ever ice skated?: I have in fact attempted it. Predictably, I am crap at it.
• Ever been in an igloo?: No

J
• What's your favorite Jelly Bean?: The marshmallow ones. Or the popcorn ones! Or any other of those crazy flavors that actually taste like other snack food items.
• Have you ever heard a really hilarious joke?: I'm pretty sure this applies to everyone. Like, everyone ever.
• Do you wear jewelry?: No

K
• Who do you want to kill?: Would it worry people if I said there's a list? But a mental one.
• Have you ever flown a kite?: No
• Do you think kangaroos are cute?: Sure.

L
• Are you laidback?: Sort of? I guess. At times.
• Lions or Tigers?: Bears.
• Do you like black licorice?: It's all right.

M
• Favorite movie as a kid?: Star Wars
• Ever shopped at Moosejaw?: What in the what is that? Google, my REAL best friend, will deliver me the answers, I'm sure.
• Favorite store at the mall?: All the places that sell electronics.

N
• Do you have a nickname?: None that are very often used. Unless you count Holly. I think I'll leave a mental note to myself to punch Barney the next time he calls me that.
• Whats your favorite number?: 42, and if you don't know why, go read some awesome British science fiction humor. (It's The Answer, after all.)
• Do you prefer night or day?: I am a night owl, that's for sure.

O
• What's your one wish?: Oh geez, I have to narrow it down to just one?
• Are you an only child?: Technically no, but I might as well be.
• Do you like the color orange?: It's all right?

P
• What are you most paranoid about?: Probably a couple of things right now but I'll take 'friends getting their asses kicked' for $400.
• Piercings?: No way.
• Do you know anyone named Penelope?: If I did, I don't recall now.

Q
• Are you quick to judge people?: I try not to be.
• Do you like Quaker Oats?: Sure
• Know anyone that makes quilts?: There was this one older woman a few blocks up from me back in New Mexico who did that. Nobody now that I know of. (Hidden talents, anyone?)

R
• Do you think you're always right?: I like to think I am, even if I know I'm not.
• Do you watch reality TV?: No. Well, sometimes I flip into something that I just have to stay on for more than five seconds due to the sheer WTF factor. But generally, no.
• Reason to cry?: Death in the family/of a friend, I guess.

S
• Do you prefer sun or rain?: Sun
• Do you like snow?: Yes
• Whats your favorite season?: Fall

T
• Time is it?: 12:17 AM. I mentioned being a night owl, yes?
• What time did you wake up?: 5:30 AM. Ugh. I'm getting used to it. Also, I can totally run on not too much sleep, so.

U
• Can you ride a unicycle?: Never tried.
• Do you know anyone with a unibrow?: I guess not?
• Uncles do you have?: No idea.

V
• What’s the worst vegetable?: Celery. I don't know why. It just is.
• Did you ever watch Veggie Tales?: Too old for that, but I know my mom would've loved that for us as kids if it had been around.
• Ever considered being vegan?: No. I love my meat. You can't take it away from me.

W
• What's your worst habit?: Not thinking about myself.
• Do you like water rides?: Sure
• Ever been inside a windmill?: No

X
• Have you ever had an x-ray?: Yes
• Ever used a Xerox machine?: Yes

Y
• Do you like the color yellow?: Not particularly
• What year were you born in?: 1973
• Do you yell when you're angry?: Depends on how angry and at who.

Z
• Do you believe in the zodiac?: No
• What's your zodiac sign?: Gemini
• When was the last time you went to the zoo?: I don't recall.

nottome — Thu, 02 Apr 2009 18:09:43 GMT

1. How tall are you barefoot?
6'1½"

2. Have you ever smoked heroin?
Wait, you can do that?

3. Do you own a gun?
Yeah.

4. Rehab?
No thanks.

5. Do you get nervous before "meeting the parents"?
Never happened before.

6. What do you think of hot dogs?
Delicious.

7. What's your favorite Christmas song?
O Come All Ye Faithful

8. What do you prefer to drink in the morning?
Water.

9. Do you do push-ups?
HAHAHAHAHA--no.

10. Have you ever done ecstasy?
No.

11. Are you a vegetarian?
I'm sure Penny wishes I was, but no.

12. Do you like painkillers?
Well, yeah, when I'm in pain...

13. What is your secret weapon to lure in the opposite sex?
I've been told it's my adorable dorky awkwardness?

14. Do you own a knife?
I have to cut up my meat with something.

15. Do you have A.D.D.?
Not as far as I know.

16. Date Of Birth?
June 15, 1973

17. Top 3 thoughts at this exact moment:
How Rachel's doing--what, I have every right to still be worried, obviously--what I'm going to do tomorrow, and if I want to snack on something crunchy and chocolatey or something more healthy.

18. Name the last 3 things you have bought:
That I personally bought? Uh, I guess plane tickets, cab rides, and some Arby's.

19. Name five drinks you regularly drink:
Water, V8, Pepsi, Miller Lite, and hot chocolate in the winter.

21. Current hair?
Short and blonde, as always.

22. Current worry?
A number of things, also as always.

23. Current hate?
Fox News. Just because.

24. Favorite place to be?
In my lab. My personal one, that is, not the SM lab.

25. Least favorite place to be?
I've decided hospitals now.

26. Where would you like to go?
London, I guess.

27. Do you own slippers?
Yes.

28. Where do you think you'll be in 10 yrs?
God, I don't even know.

29. Do you burn or tan?
Burn.

30. Last thing you ate?
Tacos. Because I have never kicked my fast food habit or my college eating habits, and Taco Bell is always awesome.

31. Would you be a pirate?
Ninja. Ninjas, man, that's where it's at.

32. Last time you had an alcoholic drink?
Two days ago, I guess.

33. What songs do you sing in the shower?
Showtunes. Yeah. Move along, people.

34. What did you fear was going to get you at night as a kid?
My brother, who made a habit of sneaking into my room with a pair of lame ad-in-a-comic-book night vision goggles that didn't actually work and doing something stupid to scare the crap out of me and wake me up in the middle of the night.

35. What's in your pockets right now?
Nothing right now.

36. Last thing that made you laugh?
Newgrounds' April Fools layout, I will admit.

37. Best bed sheets you had as a child?
OH GOD THESE AWESOME STAR WARS SHEETS THAT I COULD NOT GET ENOUGH OF. Hell yes.

38. Worst injury you've ever had?
Ouch, um, where to begin...

40. How many TVs do you have in your house?
Two.

41. Who is your best friend?
Rachel, Barney, Brooke. Yes, all of them.

42. Who is your love?
Penny.

43. Does someone have a crush on you?
I don't know.

45. What is your favorite book?
The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy

46. What is your favorite candy?
Tough... I think I'd have to go with Nerds. Not for the name, guys, stfu.

47. What songs do want/have played at your wedding?
That's...really stupid to think about.

48. What songs do you want played at your funeral?
Um, this is stupid to think about, too, I'll admit, but c'mon, everyone's thought of it once. Live full orchestra of the Imperial March, probably. Or maybe something unexpected and awesome 80's rock, how should I know?

49. What were you doing 12 AM last night?
Asleep.

50. Do you love the pain a tattoo brings?
Whaaaat? I don't plan on getting one. Like, ever.

rp for laws_of_dawes

nottome — Thu, 26 Mar 2009 19:47:09 GMT

It had been too long. Billy practically lived in the hospital, spending as much time around Rachel as he could. She was awake longer and could get up to move (was made to, really) for bits at a time. Which was why he was with her now, to help her along.

"Time to get up," he chimed as brightly as he could, holding out a hand to help her out of bed. "Flex those muscles and all."

nottome — Mon, 23 Mar 2009 17:48:51 GMT

I have not forgotten about this meme! Honestly. So here you go, Murderous!Billy for the_prettygirl~

"I'm gonna kill him."

"Billy."

"I mean it!"

"Come on."

"I swear to god, I'm going to snap his neck."

"Shut up."

"I don't know how you can--"

"Billy!"

He blinked, stopped his prowling pace back and forth, and looked up--surprised--at Brooke. "What?"

Her hands were set firmly on her hips, shaking her head though she still wore a smirk. "You're overreacting. Again."

"What, I am not. It's a perfectly reasonable response."

"Billy."

"He was the one driving that car. Out in the middle of the night, probably after a few drinks, and you know Rachel. She probably wouldn't have wanted to go, but he probably convinced her to--"

"You're making ridiculous assumptions, Billy boy."

"He's a playboy asshole who will never deserve her, and now he's landed them both in the hospital."

"I'm sure Bruce didn't intend to crash his car"

"That's not the point."

"Well, then what's the point?" Brooke tapped her foot impatiently.

"The point is, this is the last straw in my book. He's wrong for her. He's just wrong!"

"Billy... I know you're upset. So am I. But don't let the fact that you two don't get along to overshadow the fact that she loves him. I think they're cute together, myself." Billy seemed to deflate as the unwarranted anger rushed out of him. "He makes her happy. And it was just an accident. Okay?"

"Yeah, okay."

Brooke wasn't sure about his answer but let it slide to hug him.

justprompts: It's six am. What are you doing?

nottome — Wed, 18 Mar 2009 05:54:25 GMT

((Set Monday morning, about this, with Pepper stolen with a whole lot of love.))

At six, he's thinking.

The sun hasn't yet come up, and he's taken Greta out for a long jog, and instead of going through with the rest of his morning routine, he sits on his bed thinking.

Penny's in the next room, still sound asleep. He used to get up later than this, but times have changed. And yet he simply can't go through with it.

He spent many hours after his brother's refusal to help simply sitting on a park bench thinking about his life. It had been an extremely low point, using all that time trying to figure out what went wrong, what went right, and what just went, trying desperately to hold all the pieces in place without losing them all.

Castiel had asked him what conclusions he had come to, and the list was very long. It was like someone had batted away all the dust and cobwebs and flicked a light on in the attic of his head. It wasn't happy, and it wasn't fun, but it felt right. It was the most right he had felt in a month.

And then he seemed to be okay for a few days after that. He was okay with everything he had tried to figure out about himself, numb to the fact that he really just wanted to sit down and cry and punch out some windows. He was fine with it all, laughing with Brooke and patching things up with Rachel and being normal. It felt normal for a few days, though somehow a little hollow.

This morning, he thinks, and he thinks he can't feel normal today.

It hadn't all seemed real before. He could've said the most intensely awful things and simply laughed them off. Now it was like falling into a deep well. It's not ironic or funny now. It's a weight. It's a problem.

But he doesn't know what to do about it, so he figures he would have to simply keep at it.

He turns on his cell phone--hadn't gotten a call from Rachel last night but chalks it up to any number of things--and is surprised to see a number of messages left on it. It's Pepper. Early in the morning, just a few hours ago. Has he seen the news yet? Has he heard about Rachel?

His gut clenches. He hasn't turned on the tv yet or been online, but the voicemails fill him in. Rachel. Bruce. Hurt. Car accident. Bad. Critical.

Rachel.

There's no time. No time for self-pity or any pity at all, no time for thinking, no time for anything but to quickly scribble a note to Penny, 'gone to Gotham, emergency, don't know when I'll be back', almost illegible with the speed of his writing before he's out the door, on the phone, getting a ticket, the soonest flight out.

At seven, he's tripping out of a cab and running through the doors of Gotham General. He has to fight through press, a lot of bodies waiting to write about the golden boy of Gotham and his sweetheart, and flashbulbs go off near him, but he pays them no mind. It's not an unfamiliar sight to everyone in the hospital apparently, as almost nobody takes note of him as he skids to a stop in front of one of the receptionists.

She's in surgery. The word critical comes up again. He demands to be informed the second she's out.

Even though it had started as nothing more than a small joke between them, he takes his duty as her big brother seriously. When he's asked if he's family, he says yes without thinking. That is his sister in there, and nothing can keep him from her. Eventually his gaffe is worked out, and he's told to sit and wait like everyone else.

At eight, he's pacing. He's seen Pepper once, but they exchanged nothing except worried glances.

He feels a little selfish, worrying so much for Rachel when her boyfriend is also being worked on. Worse than her, he's heard. But Bruce isn't someone Billy's come to be particularly fond of. Rachel is family. But he hopes--

He prays, in fact.

He prays that they both make it out okay, because he knows that if Rachel loses someone else, there won't be anything left of her worth pulling from the darkness.

He allows all of the concern to fill up everything that feels empty in him, falling back on old habits of caring more for others than himself. It might be turning him into a ragged mess, unshaven, uncombed, only something he kicked out of a vending machine to call his breakfast, but it's truly better than nothing.

A few rumors go around now and then, whispered through the waiting room, through the press, through the nurses. Some about being out of surgery, some about being dead, some just crazy, dismissed and brought up and dismissed again. He pays no attention to that as much as he can.

When he finds out that she's out of surgery and stable, he feels like crying with joy, and the press, when they get wind of it, go crazy and demand a conference with doctors and surgeons. Any scoop is better than no scoop, but he doesn't hear a lot of it, because he's running through the halls, trying his best not to bowl anyone or anything over.

It's hard convincing people that he should be allowed to see her, especially just out of surgery, and, well, he's not exactly rich and famous. Pepper's seeing her, in fact, and he decides that's the way it should be. He can wait a few extra minutes, certainly. He feels like he can wait forever now, now that she's okay. Now that he knows she'll be okay.

nottome — Mon, 16 Mar 2009 18:21:03 GMT

Have to go to Gotham. Have to see her.

Lesser of Two Evils

nottome — Tue, 10 Mar 2009 00:10:44 GMT

It had been nearly a month, he'd told Brooke. And in that month, Billy's emotional state had gotten steadily worse. In that month, he hadn't managed to slip his issues back under the rug as he always had been able to before, and it bothered him. Far too much.

His paranoia had also grown. Scott had said he wasn't done with Billy, and the possibilities of when and where and how terrified him more than he felt it all ought to.

In fact, everything made him jumpier, angrier, more defensive. It wasn't healthy, and he knew that, but he wasn't sure what to do about it. How to deal with it. How to fix it.

He was starting to realize that this had been Rachel's point all along.

Well, he decided, the best way to get started on cutting off the head of the rotting fish was to take it one step at a time. Clearly he wasn't going to go out looking for Scott himself out of fear of what might happen, so he went to the next best source--his brother.

It wasn't something he'd ever planned on, talking to Brendon again. Ever. And he figured that Brendon was not going to see reason as he never had. But he had to start somewhere.

Calling his office hadn't worked. He couldn't convince the secretary that clearly he was an important person in "Mr. Hollister"'s life. Mostly because he wasn't, but since he had always downplayed (or outright denied) that he had a little brother at all, Billy decided he wasn't surprised.

Actually going to the office wasn't as weird as he thought it'd be. The tall office complex for Hollister Solar Industries was much like any other major business, and now that he had some experience with that (sitting in meetings at Stark Manufacturing bored him to death), he felt confident storming into the waiting area and up to the secretary's desk.

Basically, he stole every dramatic office-busting scene from every show and movie he'd ever seen and wanted to see if it would work. It felt really good, actually.

The secretary--curvaceous, blonde, revealing business clothing, typical for Brendon's womanizing taste--looked at him with surprise. "Mr. Hollister is very--"

"I don't care." Billy leaned down across the desk. "Tell him that his brother is here to see him. Now."

He had said it over the phone to no avail, but in person, it was easy to tell the resemblance. After a few wary moments, she stood, subconsciously pulling her skirt down and slinking toward the doors. Billy stood back with crossed arms as he waited, and waited, and when she came back out, she nodded. "He'll see you now, sir."

"Good."

It was plush and fancy and executive, extremely cliched, with large wall-high windows behind the desk. Brendon stood, looking none too pleased.

"Billy."

"Brendon."

"Now, correct me if I'm wrong, but I seem to remember you never wanting to see my face ever again."

"Yes, well, I couldn't get a call through, so I figured you wouldn't mind talking to your dear brother, who does exist, despite your cries to the contrary." Billy shrugged. "That's okay, I don't mind not being associated with you." Which wasn't entirely the truth, but he wasn't there to argue about their differences. "Look, I'm not here to talk about us, or our respective companies, or any of that."

Brendon sat himself on the edge of his desk. "So what did you wanna talk about?"

"Scott."

A deep frown formed. "If we're going to have the whole gay argument thing going, then--"

"I'm also not here to talk about your hypocrisies, even though that would be extremely fun, tearing you apart verbally like that. Just...where is he? Is he still working out of LA?"

"Why don't you ask him yourself?"

"Because I want you to make sure I never see his face ever again."

Brendon shook his head slowly. "I'm not sure I understand what's going on here. Billy, I know you think I'm a controlling asshole, but I'm not about to tell my friends what they can and can't do."

"You should." Billy started to lose the confidence he had gained and shoved his hands into his pockets. "Brendon. I am telling you, like I've always told you, he's bad news. I am not going to put up with your friends threatening me."

"Threatening? You must have the wrong guy." The elder eyed his brother suspiciously. "What'd you do?"

"What did I do?"

"You must have done something to warrant a threat. He's had a hard time, going through some financial difficulties, and with the economy as fucked up as it is these days--"

"He threatens your brother, and you don't even give a damn?"

"What happened? What did he say, exactly?"

"That he's not done with me. Which implies that he's going to find me, and he's going to put me through ten kinds of hell, and--you don't even believe me, do you?"

Brendon scoffed. "Not done with--Billy, come on. That implies he's done something to begin with, and I think I would know, okay? If he's got such a grudge against you like you think, then I'm pretty damn sure you must've done something to piss him off."

Billy scowled right back and waved his arms around. "Here I am, coming to you, of all fucking people, fearing for my safety, and you just don't--"

"Go to the police if you--"

"The police aren't going to--"

"--so in danger from someone I--"

"--conceited jerk you shouldn't even--"

"Wait," and the two fell silent for a moment. "Wait. Let's get a few things straightened out here, all right? First, I have absolutely no obligation to help you just because we're related. Second, I would protect my best friend before you. Third, I don't even know what's going on. You could be making shit up just because you two never got along."

"If that was the case, I'd be dealing with him directly." Billy turned away and pinched the bridge of his nose. "For the love of god, I am turning to you because I'm just petrified of what he'd do to me if I went to him, or if he comes to me. I don't want to deal with him ever again. You don't know the things he's said or the things he's done. You don't--he's your friend; he'll listen to you." He turned back slowly. "I'm just asking you to keep an eye on this guy, okay?"

"What's he said? What's he done?"

"What...?"

Brendon stood straight, serious, perhaps even concerned. "If you think I don't know, then why don't you fill me in? Otherwise it's just me taking your word for it, and if that's the case, I'll direct you back to my second point..."

"...He's...this was a bad idea."

"Yeah, it was."

"Shut up." Brendon was about to say more, but Billy cut his hand through the air sharply. "I said shut up. I have had it. I have had it with your kind of people and being chums with people whose favorite pastime is sexual harassment. I have been humiliated and assaulted by this man; I have been--I have--he's coerced me and blackmailed me. And yes, yes, I have done terrible, jailable things to him, just to get back at him; I have threatened to kill this man and have had the means to do so, I have, and I was the one that put him in that crisis you so selflessly pulled him out of, but everything I have done was for my own protection! I will not stand for a man who thinks he can use me like the whore I have time and again told him I am not, nor a man who decides I can either let him do whatever he pleases with me or have me jailed, or killed, just for fucking kicks, and I can't hurt him, not badly, not physically, so I hit him where it really hurt, and I would do it again, because I didn't hear from him again for months, literally, months, and guess what? I just so happened to run into him again, and he wasn't too happy, and I have no idea if he can find me, and I have no idea what will happen when he does, but it's bound to be a whole hell of a lot worse than the things he's already done, the indignities to--Scott Douglas tried his damnedest to fuck up my life, so I fucked his right back. That's it. That's the story."

That was the story as simply as he could put it, but it was always so much more complicated than that. It was about mutual attraction and dealing with orientations and labels he had only once ever considered and was so uncomfortable with and the feeling of his skin crawling sickly every time he wanted a guy to touch him.

He breathed heavily, out of anger, out of rage, but also to try and keep down the welling feeling of panic in his gut, the terrible feelings and memories of things he had always tried to forget, the instinct to run, or to cry, or to crawl in a hole and die. All of the things left unsaid still hurt too much.

Brendon stared at him, expression unreadable. It could've been shock, or anger, or repulsion, or just looking at him like he was crazy (which he undoubtedly must have sounded), it was uncertain. He worked his mouth, opening it, forming a word, then closing it again. The silence between them grew steadily.

Until he finally shook his head, lost. "Billy...I don't think--"

"Think or don't think whatever you want," Billy pleaded, "but he will listen to you. You don't have to hear from me ever again. You won't. I'm just asking you to do one thing. Just one thing for me."

"Billy, go."

He blinked. "I--what?"

"Go. Leave. Get out of here."

"...But you--"

Brendon shook his head again. "I don't think this is my problem. In fact, I know it's not. You got yourself into this mess. It doesn't have anything to do with me. Do something about it yourself."

"But...! That's why I came to you!"

"Get out."

"How can you say this has nothing to do with you?! I'm your brother! He's your friend!"

He grasped Billy's arm and directed him toward the door. "I said get out. Out! Don't come back here unless you've got business to attend to. It's not my problem. We haven't been brothers for a long time. You saw to that."

"You can't just turn away from--I'm asking you to--just say something to him, out of common decency...!"

Brendon managed to shove him out the door eventually. "Go home, Billy. It's not my fight." And with that, the door slammed.

For a few moments, he simply stared at the door, and the secretary gained his attention just as he was about to literally burst through the doors like in the movies. "Sir...I believe you should leave the building now."

Billy nodded mutely. He hadn't actually expected anything from Brendon. The fact that they had talked at all was amazing enough. But the refusal to help stung all the same. The entire situation he had been put through was, admittedly, avoidable, and clearly he understood that he was to blame for some of the events, but was it really all his fault? So much so that he didn't deserve help? From his own brother, no less. Billy had disowned the man, true, but short of talking to Scott himself, there was nobody else he could go to.

Maybe it had been because of the sexual acts implies. Maybe it was disbelief. Maybe it was apathy. Maybe he felt whatever happened to Billy was deserved. After all, Billy had admitted that he was the one who drained Scott's bank account, and Brendon seemed determined to help his buddy at all costs.

All of his fears seemed to rush to the surface at once--the question of who was at fault and the implication that it was him, his split desires and relationships, the hate he had faced in the past and from his brother and from society, his reluctance to deal with the things he could no longer hide. It made him feel sick and angry and defeated. Who was he, what was he, how would things change? Did he even know anymore?

He didn't go to work, and he didn't go back home. In fact, he had no idea where to go. He took solace in walking around Central Park until his legs burnt with pain and sat himself on a bench, simply trying to figure out his life.

nottome — Mon, 09 Mar 2009 01:24:45 GMT

You Are Modest and Nurturing

When You Are Comfortable:

You are a shy, quiet person. Underneath your shell, you are compassionate and giving.

People find you to be friendly and welcoming. Your home is a place of comfort to them.

When You Are At Your Best:

You are quite quirky, and you enjoy doing things your own way. You are optimistic, and you've always got a good idea brewing.

People find you to be positive and uplifting. You make people feel good about themselves.

When You Are in a Social Setting:

You are a powerful, competitive person. While you want to succeed, you are also able to find balance in your life.

People see you as self-sufficient. They are impressed by how much you are able to do on your own.

What Do Your Initials Say About You?

nottome — Tue, 03 Mar 2009 07:37:35 GMT

My state fails. In other news, grass is green, sky is blue... (Mom's probably happy. Ugh.)

muses_gonewild: 49. The backseat of your car

nottome — Sat, 28 Feb 2009 00:39:16 GMT

His relationship with Helen Jones was a fleeting one--no more than any of his others, however--but exceedingly more memorable during the summer of 1998. She drove her father's '67 Camaro. He wasn't a big car person--only a stint working in a garage when he was 14 gave him an appreciation for mechanics--but he could tell it was a beautiful old car, worn but well taken care of, much like Helen.

She had a feisty, rebellious streak that for some reason appealed to him, and many times they would go driving out on unpaved mountain roads at less than safe speeds just for the hell of it. He had a sensitive, cynical streak that for some reason appealed to her, and many times after their joyriding, they would park on a rocky clearing watching the sun go down and the stars come out talking about the changing world around them.

It might have been love. He hated to think that it was merely a way to pass the time, even though that was what they were doing. They grew a lot in three months that he wasn't sure most couples did in three years.

When she put the car in park, she took no time sliding into the back and enticing him to follow with a sultry look one hot June evening. He followed, laughing. "What are you doing?"

"Just get over here." She grabbed him by the collar and pressed their bodies together.

"Isn't it a little cramped?"

Helen smirked. "No, I'd say it's just right," she replied, groping for the zipper of his jeans.

They never discussed what their relationship was, only that it was, and it was only going to last the summer before they parted ways again. It might have been love; it might have been simply a fling. Certainly, if nothing else, it was memorable.

Distractions

nottome — Sat, 21 Feb 2009 07:59:31 GMT

He wasn't entirely certain how it had happened.

Though he would never say such a thing, his brain worked in a relatively simple way at times. There was a rug, and things he would rather not have clogging up his thoughts got swept under it. This method normally worked fairly well for him. He dealt with things when he had to, when there was no other choice, but otherwise, he wouldn't give a second thought to them.

But he sat in his office, staring at the wall beyond his desk, tapping a pencil absentmindedly. Absorbed in everything but his scribbles of potential-yet-incomplete designs, formulas, calculations. Absorbed in the things that had started rolling out from under the rug.

Of course, he and Rachel weren't on speaking terms for the time being. That didn't help things very much. It only served as a constant reminder of the things that had driven them apart.

Namely, him.

And Scott.

And Devon.

And the things he wanted but would not admit to.

It wasn't that he didn't like bisexuals or didn't believe they existed. No, he'd grown out of his stifling Republican small town childhood many years ago. He had friends of all sorts. He supported everything they believed it. It just didn't feel right to label himself that way, however.

Sure, he was sexually attracted to guys, from time to time. He wouldn't say as much, but the fact stared him in the face. He just didn't think that made him bisexual, somehow. He didn't feel like it. He felt like it ought to be about love and not just raw sex. He felt like it should have less to do with random, now-and-again flings and more to do with how one felt. But he simply could not admit it to Rachel, because how could she understand?

How could he?

He felt like he ought to ask someone, but he didn't know who, and he didn't know how without implying that he himself might be--and that simply was not an option at the time. Besides, he hadn't exactly hopped into just any guy's bed ever since Scott had--

Which was always about when, in his train of thought that he didn't want to have rolling anyway, he simply stopped thinking for a time.

It distressed him to know how much thinking about that night affected him. It hadn't hurt nearly as much before, after it happened, days after, weeks. He hadn't given it much thought until he had to argue with Devon about why it simply would not work out.

It could never work with someone he considered a friend anyway. Nothing with emotions involved. It didn't work that way. It couldn't. It was simply sexual venting. It was simply a miscalculation. That word seemed to settle with him better. A number of miscalculations, but miscalculations nevertheless.

He had snapped his pencil at some point during his distractions, and it took a few tries for a lackey to gain his attention, saying his name a few times. There had been a few setbacks and a few mistakes, a number of annoyances. He felt like he didn't have the time to fix everything that might go wrong. There was some much-overheard yelling, venting, letting off a little steam. He didn't need any incompetence to further screw up his life. He wasn't there to fix stupid screw-ups; he was there to create art in the form of science and machinery.

He spent the rest of the day with the door to his office locked, back to his own calculations and grand, theoretical ideas, despite spending some of that time staring at nothing once more, and thinking about everything.

It was bothersome. Surely he would be better off if Rachel as simply dropped the subject. That was the way he worked. And now...now he just could not work properly.

That idea was disposed of as quickly as he could. Simply ridiculous. How could something like that interfere with his day? With his life?

But it wouldn't go back under the rug.

nottome — Sun, 08 Feb 2009 05:20:06 GMT

BEDTIME!BILLY FOR RACHEL--BECAUSE I CAN DO CUTE HAPPY FLUFFY THINGS TOO Y'KNOW. (No, really, I can, I swear.) BTW IT'S FUTURE!FIC. WITH THAT WHOLE...FUTURE...VERSE THING.

He carries one boy under each arm, both wriggling and worming, until he deposits them into bed.

"Uncle Billy!" Thomas whines, nudging Warren IV aside. "I don't wanna go to bed!"

"Yeah!" echoes the little Warren. "'m not sleepy!"

They're no more than seven. Billy's never taken care of kids before, but he's been around Tom and War long enough, and Rachel and Pepper (and their respective husbands) trust him enough with them while the parents are out and about.

He chuckles and tries to tuck them in with little success. "You boys know the rules. You've got a pretty strict bedtime. Ten is the latest you're staying up."

"But--!" Tom has learned a lot of tricks from his mother, pouting his lips and eyes going big and wide and innocent. "But we promise to be real quiet!" He looks to War for support.

He nods. "Yeah, real quiet, Uncle Billy; you won't even know we're here!"

Billy waggles a finger at them. "I don't think so. The last thing I need is you two getting into the cookies and bouncing around like heated gas molecules. You two have had enough adventure for one day."

Warren puffs out his chest. "I think we should make a deal."

"Oh no, you're not going to business your way out of this one. You're staying in this bed, mister. If you don't, you won't get a puppy."

The boys look positively horrified at that prospect and pipe up at once. "But I wanna puppy!" "Aunt Penny said we could if mom says yes!" "Or if dad makes her think we should!" "We want a puppy, Uncle Billy!"

"Then you have to follow the rules."

Which shuts them up and causes them to pout at their sheets.

"You can ask your mothers in the morning." He's about to go turn off the lights when Tom sits up straighter again.

"Read us a story!"

"Yeah, story!"

He sighs but sits back down on the bed with a smile. "What story?"

The boys are deep in thought before War nudges Tom and nods down at the bed. Whatever that secret language is, Tom understands, and his face brightens immediately. He scrambled up and out of bed, digging in a box under the bed until he clambers back up again and hands Billy a comic book. "Read us this one!"

Billy's about to protest when War bounces a little. "Do all the voices really cool!"

"Yeah, the voices!"

"...You boys are just gonna get all rambunctious. Besides, haven't you read this yourself? I mean, it's better with pictures and everything."

They look at him like he is clearly a stupid adult and Not Getting It, as only seven-year-olds can. "We still want you to read it. With the voices! And we can do all the sounds!"

Beaten, he shakes his head a little, attempting to stifle a laugh. "All right, I'll do the voices. Move over." They leave plenty of room for him to lay between them, little heads crowding around his shoulders so they can see. They point out all the things he does wrong about the voices, and they argue over which one of them does a better whoosh-ing noise, but eventually the boys are curled up asleep or close to it.

It's only when he flips out the bedside light and turns toward the door that he sees Rachel standing there, leaned against the frame, light from the hallway outlining her frame.

"They love it when you're around," she informs him with a wide, beautiful grin as he shuts the door gently behind him. "You're so good with them. It beats paying for a babysitter."

"Let's see," he starts sarcastically, doing fake math in his head, "that's ten dollars per hour, for all evening..."

She bats him on the arm. "How about your reward is being a favorite uncle?"

"Maybe I should put you to bed, too." Before she can protest, he hefts her up and takes a few steps toward the bedroom, Rachel giggling and smacking him with her purse.

"If anyone's putting my wife to bed," says Bruce with a smirk, undoing his tie, "it's going to be me."

"Here, catch." Rachel almost yelps when Billy pretends to almost drop her.

"You're terrible." Though she's laughing when she's set on her feet, smoothing out her dress. "Both of you."

Bruce just shrugs in his defense.

"Pep and Hot Wings are back tomorrow, right?"

Rachel nods, almost laughing at the nickname that has just stuck through the years. "So no more boy trouble for you." Her features soften, regarding him with a thoughtful, loving look. "I can only imagine how you'd be with kids of your own. Come on, little Billy babies running around with our boys? It would be adorable. And Penny would make such a wonderful mother."

Billy rolls a shoulder. "Yeah, well." They've never really talked about it. They've never really tried. "If it happens, it happens. Besides, those boys are family, so."

"And you're their uncle."

"And I'm your brother."

"And I need a drink," pipes up Bruce from the other room. "Care to join us, oh brother-in-law?"

They share a laugh, and Billy agrees. "Sure, I can stick around for a bit longer." After a pause, "Oh, by the way, the boys are going to ask you for a puppy tomorrow."

"What?"

"Um..."

I Think I Understand Why I Shouldn't Drink Alone, But I Do It Anyway

nottome — Thu, 05 Feb 2009 07:32:39 GMT

Kiss him says a voice that is not my own but like it, and I obey without a second thought, because something deeply rooted within me is programmed to work like that.

People are made to follow orders. They're constantly looking for someone up above to tell them what to do, how to do it, when and where and why. Someone's always willing to take that kind of responsibility. But they're also constantly looking for someone up above to blame, and nobody wants that.

I used to think I would be one of those people to step up and start ordering. Guess I was wrong.

I kiss him, and I don't know how to describe it. I've never read a cheap romance novel in my life; the only thing I ever touched in school was Jane Eyre. English wasn't one of my good subjects. I think I should be talking about taste and smell and feeling, but I don't feel very much except the need to do it again.

And I push harder this time.

It's heat that I feel first and foremost, some of it from my blood rushing down, some of it off his body. I notice his lips are slightly chapped. Acceptable. Cold weather does a number on the skin. When he starts kissing back, opening his mouth up to mine, I smell the number of drinks he's had more than I can taste it, and I wonder if I'm the same way. Liquid courage. Or stupidity. Probably both to make me land the first move on a guy I don't even know for reasons I hardly ever contemplate because it's much too big to handle for me.

I can tell he's embarrassed that I had to start, and he quickly compensates, takes over, predatory, demanding to be alpha, myself to be omega, the man of us, and I'm fine with that. I'm good either way. With a woman under me and a man above me. The other way around. Whatever. I'm not too picky when it comes to that stuff. I bend. I am pliable when he lands a hand on my chest, pushing, down, though I am taller than him, a fact he doesn't like.

A five-o'clock shadow scrubs against my chin when I hear someone mumble nearby to take it outside. And let's face it, it's not the kind of thing I'd like to get arrested for. He pulls me off my barstool by the front of my shirt, and for a fleeting moment I think that I might slam into something, and the idea of that doesn't frighten me as much as it should, and the shred of disappointment that flits through me when I don't confuses me. But now's not the time for thinking. Now's the time for a quickie in the alley, or for old creaky motel beds, or for "my place or yours, handsome?" And I really, really hope it's his place.

He pulls open the front door with his other hand but quickly lets it slap shut again. Shit, it's cold. Still bitterly cold in February. We have jackets, coats. The colors and textures blur a bit in the hazy old bar light, but we fit ours on and walk out together, and some of the magic of sex appeal is gone with the wind.

I don't have a car. I've only attempted to drive one--or learn how to--a handful of times. I've never needed to. I never plan on needing to. He has one parked down the block, but we both know we've had too much. We're still grounded just enough. A taxi is impersonal, good for something like this, but it's cold, and I'm not sure I feel so much like climbing into a cab with a nosy driver with someone I won't remember two days from now (or so I'll pretend). He suggests we walk, and while I'm sure we'll be back to heat and sexual passion if we get ourselves secluded, going back inside and having a few more drinks sounds better.

Note to self: don't attempt to have a random sexual fling with someone as drunk as you in a New York winter at a bar unless there's a hotel right across the street.

But he's still attractive, and I must be the same to him, because we still end up walking. Side by side at first, but then arms looped so neither of us go wandering too far in either direction. We start to talk. The same bland small talk bullshit that we did at the bar and the increasingly flirtatious words exchanged the more we drank.

He's Chris. I'm Billy. He looks older by a few years but says he's twenty-seven. I don't know if I believe him, but I look deceptively young and say thirty-five. We never say what we do. He lives in New York but not in the city of the same name. Only stopping in for a few nights because, he says, everyone should visit once. He also says he hates barhopping at gay bars and jokes that the selection always seems so much better elsewhere, "you know?" And laughs. I don't. I don't know. I don't get it. I'm a stranger to his lifestyle, but I never say as much. I say I'm a New Yorker and not much else. Neither of us really care what the other's saying anyway. It's just something to pass the time. But every step's a little more sobering.

I don't remember everything we say to each other because it's not important. One-night stands never are. It slowly, slowly starts to dawn on me that even when we get to wherever we're going (I don't think we know; I think we're just walking for the sake of walking now, and it feels like ages), even if we don't even make it to the bed before we're shedding clothes, even if we don't want to even bother with the bed, I'm heading for somewhere very, very bad. I've walked this road before, and it's full of sharp, high-speed corners and potholes and deer that leap out of thick woods just as your one remaining working headlight flashes in its beady eyes. It results in a car crash of disastrous proportions, the kind that people slow down on the road to catch a glimpse of and snap a picture on their phone for future reference.

From there, my mind takes me to horrible places that I keep trying to close off, but there's always a draft. Duct tape and prayer can't fix this one now.

He's trying to navigate the both of us up a set of stairs, and I think maybe he realizes but, like me, keeps on hoping. There's a bright red door that I find myself against, and he kisses my lips, then my neck, and every time he pulls away, I expect teeth when he returns. I expect roaming hands to suddenly pull and scratch and tear and squeeze, even though it would all be impossible through our winter wear, and none of it ever happens, like I'm climbing to the top of another rollercoaster that breaks down just before letting me drop. I'd really like to drop so I can just get it over with.

Keys get fiddled with, trying to find the lock, and all I feel is cold despite our bodies together in intimate angles.

When he gets the door open, I remain outside. Not tonight. Not this. He's surprised, and I know he'd react a little quicker, just like I would, if not for the muddled look in his eyes, but somehow he seems to get it.

No. He doesn't. But he gets that I'm not coming.

Again, says the voice, but I know not to aim for the lips this time. It's like the end of a failed date, a peck on the cheek. I thank him, though we don't know quite what for, and I hear the door click shut as I hit the sidewalk again.

I had an argument with someone once over what was more dangerous: walking in LA at night or taking a cab in New York at night. I'll take my chances and weigh the differences when I get home.

nottome — Tue, 03 Feb 2009 01:52:12 GMT

Terrified!Billy for Brucie~ :D Also short, lame, and to the point.

When Billy was being his villainous alter-ego, he made sure to bring along one of his weapons whenever he went out. As mild-mannered Billy Hollister, he packed no heat at all. He'd gotten used to walking around dangerous cities at night when he had to, and very little had ever happened to him. Gotham, however, was different.

In Gotham, he was running.

"Get back here!"

Another bullet flew by entirely too close to his head. He nearly stumbled, the slush of a winter storm not yet fully melted, windmilled his arms but kept moving. Feet pounded after him. Multiple sets.

He hadn't done anything wrong, just apparently was in the wrong place at the wrong time, a witness, a witness on the run, and, well, they (whoever they were, he didn't even know) just couldn't have that.

Why did Rachel want to live in a city like this? He turned a corner. A car window exploded beside him, and he cried out in surprise and fear.

A shadow swooped down, almost impossible to make out, before him. He skidded to a stop, was about to say something, beg the form not to kill him, ask for help, but the black-clad form merely brushed him aside, put itself before Billy.

The thugs followed around the bend and stopped short, petrified.

"It's the Batman!"

"I'm outta here!"

The mere presence of the man-bag-vigilante sent them running in the opposite direction. Billy cowered when dark eyes whirled upon him. "You saw something you weren't supposed to see," growled a gnarled voice. It was less of a question and more of a statement, more for confirmation.

Billy nodded anyway, tired, panting, panicked.

"Do me a favor and keep off the streets alone. It's a dangerous town."

He nodded again--knew that already but wasn't about to argue.

And in a flurry of movement, Batman had vanished back into the night, up, into the skyline, among rooftops. Billy didn't need to be told twice and kept on running, running all the way back to safety.

Bruce watched him go from the building above, shaking his head and smirking to himself. Rachel would kill him if he ever let something happen to Billy.

nottome — Sun, 01 Feb 2009 18:36:09 GMT

BRO!BILLY FOR BARNEY. WHY? BECAUSE HE NEEDS TO STOP BREAKING EVERY SINGLE GOD DAMN BRO CODE THERE IS. :| Dealing with Article 5: Whether he cares about sports or not, a Bro cares about sports. GEE GIVEN WHAT TODAY IS DOES THIS SURPRISE YOU? ALSO yes it sucks and it's small, I'm sorry, I'LL DO BETTER NEXT TIME.

"Dude, Hollister, you have to come to Ted's with me and join in the Super Bowl awesomeness."

"I am really not big on sports."

"C'mon, Holly, it's tradition! You need to take your rightful place on that couch as my Bro. I mean, you've surpassed the Best Broitude of both Ted and Marshall in a couple of months; you are my official Best Bro. And Bros care about sports."

"I really don't--"

"It's in the Code!"

Billy looked decidedly unimpressed.

Barney shrugged. "Everybody watches for the commercials anyway. I mean, tch, who really cares about Arizona and Pittsburgh? Come on. But we have to watch anyway, because it's the traditional Super Bowl watching at Ted's. I'll tell Lily to bring extra hot wings."

"...Why is it a state against a city?"

"Hollister."

"I think more people live in the whole state of Arizona than the city of Pittsburgh."

"Billy. Hot wings, pizza, pigging out and watching companies spend millions of dollars for ads a couple of seconds long. And to know who wins the Super Bowl. Be a Bro and man up." After a pause for thought, "And suit up, too. You should definitely show off your suiting up skills."

He was tempted to ask if Robin would be there. And if that might make things awkward. And, really, he didn't ever care about sports, but awesome food and his Bro and his Bro's friends, and Barney did seem pretty eager to have him over... Billy shrugged and grinned. "Okay. For the Bromanship. I think you'll have to explain to me the rules, though, so I don't end up looking like a dweeb."

"Nothing's going to help that dweebishness of yours, Holly," said Barney through an equally powerful grin and wrapping an arm around his shoulders, "but I would be honored to introduce you to the sporting event of a lifetime."

also, meme

nottome — Sun, 01 Feb 2009 05:56:40 GMT

I had to repost this list by soldier_ofgod. I haven't been feeling prompt-y lately either, so fic meme huzzah. Obviously altered a couple to fit well/better. Choose a Billy! :D Choose up to three and I'll write at least one of 'em with your pup.

01. Playful!Billy
02. Murderous!Billy
03. Flailing!Billy
04. Incarcerated!Billy
05. Deviant!Billy
06. Hero!Billy
07. Intoxicated!Billy
08. Wildly Inappropriate!Billy
09. Eloquent!Billy
10. Cooking!Billy
11. Naked!Billy
12. Remorseful!Billy
13. Faux Innocent!Billy
14. Embarrassed!Billy
15. Not-so-Eloquent!Billy
16. Bedtime!Billy
17. Jealous!Billy
18. Inquisitive!Billy
19. Gloating!Billy
20. Arrogant!Billy
21. Pissed Off!Billy
22. Loving!Billy
23. Terrified!Billy
24. Needs-a-Hug!Billy
25. Choose-your-own!Billy

The re-return of Dr. Horrible's not-so-sing-along blog!

nottome — Sat, 31 Jan 2009 23:41:16 GMT

((Ahaha, yes, the debut of my recording of Dr. Horrible's blog. It, um. You should probably just read it instead, because my voice is lame and suck and you probably can't understand half of what I'm saying.
Basic rules here: Horrible blog? Different site. He wouldn't be stupid enough to post it on his own LJ. This means that this is baaasically crack except for those that already know about the Dr. Horrible alter-ego. Also because I need to bring the evil back. The file's just a simple wav file I recorded with my MP3 player. Background noise is my computer.
Also I'll have those fic commentaries up prolly tomorrow.))

Dr. Horrible's Vlog: settled in and future plans

Welcome back to Dr. Horrible's blog. Now, as you all are probably aware, if you've been keeping up with the blog, I've been a New Yorker for about, y'know, a month now, give or take like a week. And I haven't really done any...horribleizations...or anything like that. But that's going to change! I have, in fact, been working, in my lab, which I've totally just...made like a week or two back, in this place...that I've now actually...gotten. To own. For myself. Wow.

Um, let's see, new inventions... The jetpack! The jetpack, yes! It will be so amazing, and I know that guy from Sweden or Switzerland or whatever went flying around in his little engine strapped to his back, but no, this is going be like, sci-fi futuristic, the kind of things that people in the 80's expected from the 2000's and then they looked around once it was 2000 and it was like "...damn, what the hell's changed, nothing's changed." Just be, you know, lightweight, strap it on like a backpack, go zooming around. It's still, uh, in...the experimental stages...and by that I mean I haven't yet completed it, but soon. Very soon.

I do in fact have some plans set up. ...I mean...making plans. Right now. Currently. Because...if you guys maybe...keep up with news? Business-y news type things? I don't know, any of you guys from New York might know. In a few day my bro--uh, uh, I mean, I mean, uh...Brendon Hollister, that young up and coming...jackass uh, upstart from this particular state is gonna be holding a press conference about his stupid new company ‘cause he thinks he can rival Stark Manufacturing asshole and I...might just stop by. For an appearance. And by appearance I mean I'm going to ruin everything and potentially cause some major damage and/or injury to either his building or his body. I mean, we'll see what happens, I mean, I still need to do...some...thing to actually get into the League, so, y'know, here's hoping.

Uh, along those lines, other inventions: I have this sort of anti-gravity gun. And I know the name can of sucks but. Bear with me. Basically it'll just like put this bubble around a person or an object and lift them off the ground. I mean, in that personal little bubble there's a lack of gravity. I'm not saying it's completely zero g, but it's a lesser...y'know. Basically I can just throw this guy around as long as I've got the trigger pulled. I could essentially release the trigger when I have him like 50 feet up in the air and there would be a nice splat. I'm just...considering my options here.

Uh, e-mails! E-mails, I am not actually going to do this time. Next time, though. Next time I will have e-mails, and Barney, I know you're listening to this, I know you’re watching, you're not getting any of those addresses. No. I might be evil, but I am not that evil. I don't know who would get the bargain out of that, you or them. Ugh, some of those...stories... *sigh*

Anyway...I think that's about it. Giving out a shoutout to my new, um...I don't know what you want to be called, secretary? Book keep, I like book keep... Long time watcher, read one of her e-mails once. Gonna...sorta...protect her identity, but. Y'know, I don't remember your name? I'm gonna work on that. Maybe you should have some villain name. I don’t know. Just a suggestion. Uh, so, yeah, I think that's basically it. Um...yeah. I don't really have anything to show off right now, I mean, anti-gravity gun, but it's kind of...hefty. I'm just gonna let it sit over there. And you'll probably see me in a few days, then! Probably make national news or something, here's hoping. 'Kay.

charloft: What if...?

nottome — Thu, 29 Jan 2009 20:36:04 GMT

Take a few steps back, take a left instead of a right, and walk down the road not traveled in your past.

The Evil League of Evil remains a tattered poster in a dormitory hallway and quiet murmurings between a small number of classmates. Billy's not interested.

He graduates; he visits and fights with his brother; he goes back home. He's not sure what to do with his PhD in chemistry but finds an okay pharmaceutical job in Albuquerque. That works for a few years. He visits his mother whenever he can. He never speaks to his brother again.

He moves to Oklahoma following a good job offer. Here, over more years, he helps create new drugs, the latest popular over-the-counter trends in dieting, cold suppression, allergy blocking. He's involved in bigger projects, bigger discoveries, but he never gets much recognition. Lab techs never do.

It's a living. He has a house, small and one story and flat, like most in Oklahoma, with enough rooms to suit his needs, nothing special, more like a larger apartment, and that's okay. When he comes home from work, he grabs a beer, kicks off his shoes, and watches the news with his feet propped up on the coffee table.

He fancies a woman, once, but it never lasts, the story of his life. He then gets with Charleen, a fellow lab assistant. They never hit it off romantically, but they're the closest they've got, and they can pretend it's love for a while.

He moves in with her, staying in a spare guest room of hers. He pays rent. They never talk about it. There's sex, whenever they feel like it, whenever they can keep pretending that they feel something for each other.

She gets pregnant one year on, a mistake. He has to drive her into Texas for three hours for her to get an abortion because it's the closest place around. The trip is silent save for grainy country music on fading radio stations. She never asks him what he thinks about it even though it's his child. He never says that he wants her to keep it; he never says that he approves of her decision; he never says that it's her body and her choice. Why bring up a child in that kind of loveless environment anyway?

They both stop calling each other boyfriend and girlfriend; they start looking around for other people. But they never tell each other that. It's just assumed. He knows he's had enough the day she brings home her new boyfriend. About a week after that, he comes home, hears her mattress squeaking, and knows it's time to go. He grabs his clothes and leaves the spare key. He wonders if she ever notices he's gone.

He's not sure where he's driving. He doesn't have a house anymore, sold it after moving in with Charleen. He drives until he hits the river, pulls over on the bridge, and climbs onto the edge.

He's not sure if he'd die on impact. But he's pretty sure he'd get swept away and drown if he doesn't. It seems pretty easy. It seems like a good idea at the time.

He's never been able to shake the feeling that he's meant for something else. Meant for something more, even. He doesn't know what. He'll never know what. He knows where he is now is a complete waste of his talent, but he doesn't know what else to do with his facade of a life. A mind-numbing 9-5 job. A failed romantic life. No home to speak of at the moment. Something tells him he's better than this, but this is where he's ended up anyway.

He teeters on the edge, but he can't give himself that little push over. Somehow, it's not worth it. Even a little effort in death just doesn't seem worth it. Nothing ever does. Everything's just a waste that he has to live with. So he sits on the edge instead, head in his hands, trying to figure things out.

When the sun starts coming up, he calls in sick, starts driving back to town, finds a motel. A bed and a bathroom are all he needs. It suffices as a living space.

It's lunch break once when he asks one of his coworkers how he can stand it, day in and day out, the monotony. In return he receives a look that asks why anyone would possibly ask such a ridiculous question. He waves the question off. Stupid. Thinking out loud. But he still wants an answer.

It starts small. Experimenting with pills. The same kinds he's been working on for years. The antidepressants, the depressants, the kind that blocks chemical signals here, the kind that boost other processes in the body. Whatever combination of drugs stuffed in little capsules he thinks might help.

It grows larger. He begins to mix his own. He's a genius compared to those around him, and he knows it. He has the ability to take chemical A, mix it with chemical B, add a drop of chemical C and know exactly what it ought to do. He starts mixing things up and bringing them home in little vials. He understands the danger in it, despite his usual certainty, and it's the only excitement he's gotten in his life in a long time. The fact that having a bit too much of this or a too little a dose of that, an injection too large, it could put him into a coma, or better.

He figures he's the perfect guinea pig for his own experimentations. He makes notes, tries something else the next day, mixes up a new batch or a better batch. And it's euphoric at times, or sometimes something goes wrong and he crashes. Sometimes he needs a crash just to remember that he can feel something.

He's good at hiding the fact that he's stealing company property for weeks. Months. Longer than he knows he ought to, but people around there don't check the paperwork very carefully, and few people see that he's a changed, constantly changing person, a little different every day. Eventually he's discovered and fired. There's an intervention at the front door that consists of two people who roll up his sleeves, and he realizes that maybe he should have turned his experiments into pills instead.

He fights them all the way to the rehab doors and the wonders why he even bothers. There's some paperwork. Talk about confidentiality. Group therapy. He takes a look at all the other people and knows he's not like them. There's no alcohol or heroin or cocaine or vicodin addiction for him. He's not some junkie wandering the streets needing a fix. He only goes the one day, while the two that dragged him there go off to find him a new job, some applications, something to help keep him afloat.

The motel room is dirty. He's not big on cleaning. He's convinced himself living in that small nothing of a room is cheaper than buying an empty house. He flips the tv on to something, anything for background noise. He still has a couple of vials with varying amounts of substance in them. He loads a syringe up halfway, emptying one of them. Most of it goes into his arm before he passes out on the bed, drifts off into unconsciousness, and drifts into an overdosed death.

His mother comes to the funeral. Charleen. A few friends he's picked up along the way. His brother makes excuses, saying how busy he is running his company, simply can't make it, so sorry. There are tears, and food, and flowers. It's not a big to-do. They ask each other how it can come to this, and nobody can answer. There are never any answers. And somehow that's enough.