The road doesn't stop where the pavement ends

For Ruth's Birthday

randomstasis — Mon, 15 Sep 2025 07:14:09 GMT

A picture that made me smile.

I hope it makes you smile too. You were One of the first to show me internet friends are just as real as friends you make any other way. Thanks for expanding my brain, you!

For Tabaqui's Birthday

randomstasis — Tue, 19 Apr 2016 04:58:48 GMT

A picture that made me smile.

I hope it makes you smile too. You were, maybe, the first to show me internet friends are just as real as friends you make any other way. Thanks for expanding my brain, you!

dammit dammit

randomstasis — Sun, 17 Apr 2016 15:01:23 GMT

So upset. Eaves collapsed under the weight of snow and ice at the back of my 1950's vintage local wood motel, all old panelling. I can't even rent one room until it's fixed. Now the snow is gone, I got a bid, insurance finally paid up, and we're golden.
The builder fixing my roof lied to me, the hardware store flat out lied to me about what he snuck in on my lumber order, and then showed up late after I'd already left for an appointment. Sneaky-ass has now replaced 50' of vintage old-school grandfathered-under-code wooden beams with fucking chipboard that isn't even the same size, and already cut my support beams to fit. I can't even figure out if it's fixable, it will never pass inspection, there goes my bid to have it registered as a historic place, and the builder threw a tantrum, threatened me, yelled and threw shit until his help quit, so now he says he can't finish the job for several weeks. AND he thinks he should be paid in advance.
I don't know what to do.
Obviously I should go to the BBB to make a complaint. But, the local hardware store has been very good to me, always good advice and never steered me wrong, cut me in on good deals when they come in. Whoever this guy who lied to me- After playing 20 questions with all kinds of evasions, leading me to think he's a noob who just didn't know what he was looking at and ask very specific questions he finally said; yes, it's actual wood, and of course the dimensions (2 full inches wider than the shit really is!) are what you say you ordered, he said. So I approved the purchase, and paid. Turns out he's the builder's barbuddy, and a lumberyard manager at the hardware store.

Now, do I take this first to the hardware store so they can stop this bozo scammming anyone else, and probably destroy my working relationship with long-term suppliers? Or, can I put through a complaint without my name coming into it? Does anybody know?

Sir Gawain And The Green Knight

randomstasis — Sat, 06 Jun 2015 06:48:45 GMT

as conceived by Mallory Ortberg
Yes, This is exactly how it happened

GREEN KNIGHT: hi hi
come over
it’ll be fun
we can whack off each other’s heads with swords

GAWAIN: what

GREEN KNIGHT: you can make out with my wife

GAWAIN: sorry what

GREEN KNIGHT: you can make out with me

GAWAIN: what?

GREEN KNIGHT: come over
we’ll have dinner
with all our heads on and also clothes

***

GAWAIN: your clothes – your hair – your face – they’re all green

GREEN KNIGHT: that’s not all of me that’s green

GAWAIN: what is that supposed to mean

GREEN KNIGHT: let’s play a game
you hit me today and i’ll hit you a year from now

GAWAIN: it’s Christmas

GREEN KNIGHT: fine
hit me today and i’ll hit you a year and a day from now
happy?

GAWAIN: I don’t understand the rules of this game
or the prize
what is the end goal here

GREEN KNIGHT: are you going to try to cut my head off or what

[GAWAIN cuts the GREEN KNIGHT’s head off]

GREEN KNIGHT: great hit
see you in a year

[The GREEN KNIGHT picks his head up and rides away]

GAWAIN: oh my God

KING ARTHUR: honestly
my advice to you is not even worry about this

GUINEVERE: yeah do not take this seriously

GAWAIN: why would I do that
that’s a terrible idea
this man can’t die and I have to let him strike me in a year

KING ARTHUR: look i just said that was my advice

***

GREEN KNIGHT: welcome to my castle, we’ve definitely never cut off each other’s heads before, my name is Bertilak and I am a regular human color, how are you

GAWAIN: Hello
thank you for your hospitality, but I cannot stay long
I have an appointment with a man at the Green Chapel in a few days

GREEN KNIGHT: that is JUST down the road from here, probably
you should just stay here until it’s time for that, stay here with me and my wife

GAWAIN: very well
I accept

GREEN KNIGHT: oh but shoot I have to go on a hunt, like right now
so why don’t we just agree to play a game for as long as you’re staying here
where I bring you whatever I find during the day
and you bring me whatever you find during the day

GAWAIN: what an odd suggestion
why don’t I just come hunting with you instead?

GREEN KNIGHT: NO
YOU STAY HERE IN THE CASTLE AND YOU GIVE ME WHATEVER YOU FIND HERE

GAWAIN: but you already own everything in the castle, it’s your c –

GREEN KNIGHT: I WILL SEE YOU ON THE MORROW

***

GAWAIN2LADY BERTILAK: whatcha kissin’

GAWAIN: what?
nothing

LADY BERTILAK: let’s make out

GAWAIN: I don’t feel like we should do that

LADY BERTILAK: if you don’t kiss me at least once it would really hurt my feelings

GAWAIN: well
if it would hurt your feelings

LADY BERTILAK: great
now you can make out with my husband tonight

GREEN KNIGHT: GAWAIN
I have brought you a deer from today’s hunt
what do you have for me

GAWAIN: I uh
I guess I have some kissing for you to have

GREEN KNIGHT: sounds great [they kiss]
ok see you tomorrow

GAWAIN: oh I really don’t want to play this game again, this is making me sort of unco –

GREEN KNIGHT: see you tomorrow

***

LADY BERTILAK: let’s have sex

GAWAIN: Okay, no for two reasons
one is that you are my host’s wife and also it goes against every vow of knighthood ever
and the second half of the second reason is that then I would have to also have sex with your husband
according to your weird castle sex game

LADY BERTILAK: mm that sounds like a Gawain problem
not a Lady Bertilak problem

GAWAIN: I’m not having sex with you

LADY BERTILAK: fine
here’s my underwear though, you have to take it
otherwise it would be rude

GAWAIN: well I don’t want to be rude
excuse me, I have to go kiss your husband again

GREEN KNIGHT: Well, Gawain
it’s been a great time here at Castle Makeout
but you’d better go fight that Green Knight you keep talking about

GAWAIN: I will probably perish when it is his turn to deliver the blow
Farewell, friend

GREEN KNIGHT: Gawain
Gawain it was me the whole time

GAWAIN: what

GREEN KNIGHT: I’m the same guy
and I’m not gonna kill you
I’m just gonna fuck up your neck a little because you kept my wife’s underwear and didn’t tell me
but you’re all right, guy
you’re all right

GAWAIN: what the hell
what the hell was the point of any of this
why the hell did you set all this up for

GREEN KNIGHT: :)

GAWAIN: what the HELL

KNIGHTS OF THE ROUND TABLE: henceforth we shall all wear green sashes
to celebrate the valuable lesson we have learned this day

GAWAIN: WHAT LESSON
WHAT THE HELL HAPPENED

KNIGHTS OF THE ROUND TABLE: :)

http://the-toast.net/2015/06/03/sir-gawain-and-the-green-knight/

Adventures in Advanced Britpicking

randomstasis — Thu, 19 Mar 2015 23:03:45 GMT

You know how, every time you read a British writer's assertion that "Sam was stood in the doorway" or "Bobby was sat in his chair' your mind boggles for a moment at the gall of whoever put them there?
And you think, for a split second- Whoa-
Sam's kinda large to be manhandling like that, and Bobby might bite.
And than your brain catches up with you, and you remember in British that just means "was standing", all on their own, nobody put them there and made them stay.
So you sigh with relief, quit looking surreptitiously around for that brave pushy villain and pick up the thread of the story again.
Maybe you're a little embarrassed because that weird little grammar thing still gets you Every. Single. Time.
So. Then there is this video, with the comment "I think its more disturbing that the cat is sat...ontop of the bannister!" followed by at least half a dozen assurances that the cat probably climbed up there by himself. A couple snarky "Cats do climb, you know" cracks.
https://www.facebook.com/photo.php?fbid=10155270620070061&set=p.10155270620070061&type=1&theater

And you are again bewildered, just for a moment, because this ONE time, when everybody else was thinking "who had the gall to put it there?", you didn't even notice the weird little thing. *Headdesk*
Funny video, tho. It was suggested under the brawling kangaroos video.

randomstasis — Sun, 16 Nov 2014 18:59:53 GMT

So, I may be about to lose this journal if I never post. I realized I never posted any pics of the motel, and though I acquired dogs, rapidly growing dogs, I've never posted those either. So her's the motel, the dogs, Kokopelli on the left and Karma on the right, and the moon out back!

Now I'm an innkeeper, I guess-omg what next?

randomstasis — Tue, 28 May 2013 21:59:33 GMT

So, after months of dancing with the crazy, I have embraced it fully. Bought myself a job. I just closed on a motel in Oregon- rustic old school affair right near Crater Lake.
Now the insanity really begins.

(It's just the sort of place boyz would stay, too;)
Oddly...More than 50 percent of the friends I have mentioned it to immediately asked if it was haunted (and one insisted that was implied in asking what's wrong with it? lol)
Maybe not so odd. I can't help but wonder if that implies more about me or about my friends?

Whatever.
Anybody want a job far from the madding crowd?

Tradition

randomstasis — Fri, 08 Mar 2013 22:20:13 GMT

Finally posted over at Jampony for this year's challenge. YAY!

Waay too late for Jampony fic's 12 days of Xmas wishlist, too early for next Christmas.
D-5. Fic: Christmas Eve dinner at Terminal City (gen please!)K-2. Fic. Alec/Max or gen. Give me something happy with the transgenics and Christmas. Are they out of TC yet or are they making the best of it?
E-2. Art – a take on Norman Rockwell’s “Freedom From Want”. The style doesn’t have to be the same – just the sentiment – everyone sitting down for a holiday dinner (that Logan probably made since we know he’s a good cook!)

They don't do a lot of cooking in TC. It feels like pitifully few transgenics made it in safe, remnants of decimated units rattling around in the contaminated zone, but several hundred is still too many to scrounge up fancy meals for. Not much of TC is even on the grid yet, and most of what they get is devoted to essential ops.

The transgenics eat out when they can. When they can't, they get soup and beans and porridge. On special occasions somebody will try to put together one of those giant institutional casseroles like they had at Manticore. They decide Christmas should be extra special.

Christmas dinner is handled. It’s going to be a publicity stunt, a joint effort by the TC command committee with the city. All the human -looking transgenics and some others that aren't too scary will be helping with the Mayor's Feed Seattle initiative, then they’ll sit down and eat with the citizens. They'll be roasting up the extra container of turkeys Dix and Dalton scored there too, for all the trangenics who’ll spend Christmas stuck behind the fence in TC because they don't make such good publicity shots. It's not the tradition they hoped to start.

So Max and Logan decided the whole community should eat Christmas Eve dinner together instead. And the whole community decided Logan should cook. Actually, Command Central said over the PA that Logan should cook, and everybody agreed.
Logan suggested pasta, but got voted down; noodles are already a TC staple, and this has to be a special dinner.

Besides, if he's making pies, they won't have enough ovens for the garlic bread, and that seemed to be the point that stopped the argument over whether Logan's pasta was special enough, which most who'd eaten it agreed it was. Plus Normal and OC both said pie is traditional and garlic bread's not, so there's that. Anything Original Cindy and Normal agree on must be true But Logan flat refuses to do all the cooking alone.

Logan taught Max to cook, OC will attest to that when her girl ain't around, but they can't both be cooking in the same kitchen, it's just too dangerous. If Max cooks, Logan can't eat it either.

So.

Command also decided Logan's gonna teach some more trangenics to cook, while cooking Christmas dinner for..uh, they should probably have a number, hunh?

Logan drops his head in his hands.

*********

Manticore taught basic chemistry, acids and reactions from mixing, when to pour very slowly and when to move fast. Someone else, sometime, Alec carefully doesn't remember who, told him cooking was the same thing.
It looks more like a dance the way Logan does it, or maybe a pinball game. Spinning and pacing, shaking and stirring, tasting and sipping. A lot of sipping. Gourmet Cooking isn’t much like chemistry at all. Alec would describe it as more of a drinking game, since it seems Gourmet cooks consume a lot of red wine, one sip at a time.

Logan claims his impression of the Galloping Gourmet is integral to the cooking process-that the Gourmet only shared a truth known to all true cooks. Alec decides it's a pretty good perk for reluctant apprentices too, so he diligently copies Logan's every move. Sometimes Alec even manages to anticipate him, so he's already grinning and licking his lips while Logan's still swallowing.

Gourmet cooking is more fun than chemistry, at least, since the rules involve knocking back a slug of wine every time Logan adds something to a bowl. Or takes it out, or cuts up a vegetable, or lights a burner- actually, lighting the burner required several slugs, since the first time Logan turned it on nothing happened. So he took another drink and tried again, then they had to find a new propane tank. Well, they had to find Dalton and tell him to find a new propane tank, while they went on chopping and sipping and tasting.
Then chug another glass while Fixit does her thing.

Fixit's back on kitchen duty, again. Alec doesn't even want to know why this time, because she's got her own bottle of wine and is playing the Gourmet Game nearly as well as Alec. She had to set the bottle down to crabwalk behind the stove, so Alec and Logan kindly take her drinks for her, until she's hooked it up and tested it. Another toast all around for the hissing of gas, and then Dalton had to come up with a lighter too because the clicker thing (ignition, Fixit says, and by Gourmet rules has to take an extra drink for knowing that) was broken and the stove still wouldn't light.
But Dalton had a lighter, of course, and they all drank to that.

And to the fireball, because the gas had been hissing for a while before he got it out of his pocket.
So maybe cooking is a little like chemistry after all, and Dalton should have moved faster. But he could see just fine, once they brushed the bits of char off his eyebrows. They drank to that too.

Now Alec's watching giant pots simmer on a tiny campstove, and he’s blurring back and forth holding the wine bottle ready to anoint them, with his other hand ready to discreetly shove them back on if they start to slide off, because it turns out cooking pots vibrate and jump around while you're not looking. Alec’s become Apprentice in Charge somehow, because Logan's not paying attention anymore.

For some reason Logan is trying to convince Dalton he should talk like an Englishman named Dawson instead. Logan says he says the accent's gotta be in his genes too, but he's not too clear on why, or what DNA sequence he thinks it's tied to, if he really does.

Dalton asks, but Logan doesn't make much sense. He just spins and waves around at all the stuff piled on counters, points at the crate of wine and bottles ready to hand,

"See?" See that?" Logan slaps the box of ammo topped with bananas, slings his arm around Dalton's neck and laughs like a fool.
"It's in your genes, man."

Then he grabs Dalton's face and tries to make him talk without moving his upper lip. Dalton actually managed a decent British accent once Logan took his fingers off his face, so Alec files the tip away just in case he has to impersonate an Englishman again someday. He toasts Logan for it, and Logan toasts back. Gourmet cooking is kind of fun.

It's starting to smell good at least. Alec was a little dubious at first. Not that he doesn't trust Logan in the kitchen, hell no, the man's got mad skilz, but. Logan might be a little impaired. He's only an ordinary, and he ditched his wine glass a while ago. Now he's got his own bottle like Fixit, and he's not cooking anymore. Instead Alec is cooking and Logan's teaching to the kitchen crew to carol, whatever that is. Sounds almost like singing. The lizard girl lays down a catchy beat with her tchk thchk tchk, anyway.

But Alec is getting suspicious. Logan says everything is going fine, and he can take a break. But. Cooking is supposed to be this big mystery, and so far it‘s all been too easy.

Logan said he’d teach them to cook. He’s supposed to be training them.
But. Alec looked at the formula- recipe, whatever- when Logan was muttering over trying to scale it up from 8 to infinity. It was complicated, three pages long , in French.
But.
All they’ve done so far is chop up piles of raw meat and way too much green stuff, mix the mess in with grease and flour, and apply fire. Well, and wine.

But it doesn't look right to Alec. It’s roiling around in a cloud of steam, vibrating and surging up at him like it's trying to escape. And Logan's not cooking anymore. Maybe he can't. It's all on Alec, who knows jack about cooking except that it's less like chemistry and more like a party than than anybody ever told him it's supposed to be, and it feels like he's juggling grenades.

Nothing like more pressure.
After the fireball Max showed up too.
Seems a lot of people saw that, and somebody tattled. She was a little pissy when she got there, because of were they trying to burn the whole city down, it's already a wreck, blah blah woof woof, but Logan and the Loganettes sang Jingle Bells at her until she calmed down, while Alec splashed wine into pots and made sure they didn't hit the dirt. Max still won't come past the door, but she lingers there, laughing, along with half TC behind her. Joshua sidles in the back way, nose twitching wildly, but before he can do any damage Dalton drafts him to help roll crates of booze back out in the hallway so the rest of TC can play the Gourmet Game too. Alec relaxes a little. If everybody's drunk, they're less likely to notice if he screws up their dinner.

But he doesn’t, somehow. The stuff in the pots is surprisingly good. They got nearly as much wine in the food as in themselves, and Logan swears that's the secret. Fixit frowns at him and whispers too loudly nothing's much of a secret after you tell a roomful of transgenics with eidetic memories, but Logan says it's not that kind of secret.

He could be right.

The big concrete space they designated their eating hall smells like excitement and looks almost intimate, wavering in candlelight. There were cookies and chips piled on long tables, half-eaten already. Some woodland adapted models dragged in a couple of evergreens which are now standing up inside, sort of decorated with colorful bits and pieces and some snow that’s steadily dripping on the piles of packages below.

As the place warms up with all the bodies packed in it, the green scent of sap bleeding from freshly chewed stumps winds through a fog of pheromones and alcohol mixed with the smells of dust, wax, unfamiliar spices, burnt hair under the overwhelming scents of seared meat and sugar.

Everybody cheers when the food comes out, then the place goes quiet, like eating is serious business. It’s the same phenomenon Alec‘s observed when Logan actually cooks, instead of leaving it to the apprentices, so he relaxes enough to really taste it himself. Logan lied after all. That fairly disgusting mess they started with turned out better than fine. The meat is plentiful and tender, the vegetables melted into a sauce that clings to the rice and tastes nothing like wine, except that it makes you smile.

And there’s even better to come. Logan wasn’t so drunk he forgot to pull the pies out of the oven. They’re cooling on the big table in Control now, smelling really good.

Normal brought a couple extra bags of groceries, too, says he’s gonna mix up some snow ice cream, once enough accumulates. They’ve got gallons of real ice cream, but nobody wanted to snuff his enthusiasm. Logan wandered over with a bottle of rum and talked earnestly about contaminants and radioactive goo until Normal looked a little green,. Then Logan whipped out a whisk, Normal’s eyes went round, and Project Ice Cream turned into The Eggnog Initiative.
Normal brings his Golden Boy a cup from the very first batch and watches him drink it, which might be awkward, except that eggnog is even better than ice cream and Normal seems satisfied at the look on Alec’s face.

The packages under the trees aren’t props either, they’re real gifts. OC, Sketchy and Normal rounded up presents for everybody. Bicycle bells, warm socks, candy…Good stuff. Mole deploys a little army of small trangenics armed with miniature catapults to deliver them. (Mole blames the homemade artillery on Sketchy, who scoffs and says every kid should have one.) X-7s and 8s load up and fire random volleys during dinner, so that reverent silence doesn’t last long.

There’s a lot more cheering. Gifts rain down like hail, adding to the commotion. Luckily OC made all the “elfs” wear silly little hats with bells. That's a bit of sound tactical thinking Alec should remember to compliment, since the noise and bright colors make it easier to see the next assault coming.

The kids are badly hopped up on sugar, but it didn’t spoil their aim any. A catnip mouse pegs Alec right in the cheek almost causing him to lose a mouthful of deliciousness. The whole table cheers and laughs like hell.
OC and Sketchy give Alec a thumbs up when Max snorts wine out her nose, so he salutes them with the mouse and sniffs it once more before he drops it in his shirt pocket. He feels a silly grin he can’t stop creep across his face and stick there. It’s probably just the wine.
Plus catnip always makes him a little cheerful.

He’s not alone, though, so it’s ok.

<\lj-cut>

Presentation (above McRory's Bar)

randomstasis — Sat, 08 Dec 2012 04:51:37 GMT

Leverage, Team For the Leverage Bingo prompt; McRory's Bar

If you ask Sophie, she’ll tell you modestly she’s something of a gourmet.

She's got a decent palate, knows from wine and chocolate, knows the right noises to make at all the right restaurants. When Hardison needs to sound like he knows wine, Sophie steps in as coach, reels off all the right terms in binary choices for the hacker over the coms. Following Sophie’s lead Hardison comes up with fruity and dry to describe the fraternity’s wine, but all the Dustmen hmm approvingly.

Shivering in the Dustmen’s little PTSD incubator below, Eliot snorts, too quiet to hear over the heavy metal blaring over his head. He pictures Nate’s pained face, listening, (sneering) just like him, hitter and mastermind both snickering at the frat boy interrogating the geek.
Because Hardison is sweet coffee in the morning and orange soda straight through till next morning, and Sophie? Sophie's really more a tea and lemon shandy girl. She'd honestly prefer wine coolers if they were, well, cooler.

The Derby Hotel, Lincoln, Nebraska

It’s muggy and too warm in their hotel room, even with the swamp cooler chugging away in the window. Eliot aches from his “audition” in Rucker’s parking lot, the line where he caught the dumpster’s edge hot across his shoulders. His bruised stomach aches too, but he knows it’s better not to eat so soon.

Sophie’s plate is a monochrome palette in shades of cream and gold, puddles of smooth cream shine on crisp golden batter and soft ivory potato whipped to peaks. “I can't eat this, it's all the same color.”

Eliot snorts. He ate in canteens all across Asia and the Middle East. English food was flabby pale, shades of brown and grey, green and orange washed to soft pastel in the long cooking that leached away the colors with the flavor and texture.

Sophie's a sophisticate, though, always knows what she should say even when she doesn't get it.

Sophie said I can't eat this, it's all the same color, and then she shoved a circus bright package of hard beige pork rinds at him, Are you sure you won't try them , they're really quite good.

When he gets in the ring later, Eliot fights like there’s something inside him trying to get out.

Above McRory’s Bar, Boston

Bright gilt and painted fruit around the edges of Nate's best dinnerware frame a symphony in gold and ivory; smooth and peppery, crisp and savory, thick and creamy, tender meat dipped in saffron egg , buttery potatoes with just a tang of sour cream underneath.

A midwestern Classic; chicken fried steak with all the fixings.

He nudges the steak till it lies at just the right angle to a fluffy potato pillow, artfully dented and dusted with fresh chives, ladles out a perfect puddle of steaming white, just enough and not too much, flowing over both of them. Muted harvest colors still peek out from the edges of the bloodwarm plate.

But ican'teatthis that's not enough.

Eliot grinds three colors of peppercorns in an arabesque over the gravy. He smiles and steps back.

itsallthesamecolor

The cheerful red and green and white can of Hungarian paprika reproaches him silently. Eliot glares at it and shoves it further back, behind the cooling strawberry pie. Eliot Spencer doesn't take the easy way out. He's better than that.

Eliot's knife goes snickersnack. A little heap of julienned green beans, brightened with shreds of pickled carrot, falls in the angle between meat and potatoes.
Eliot’s blunt finger pokes at it to make a nest for a tiny French gerkin sliced into a fan and one spiced crab apple, with the stem on, from the jar he brought Nate last fall.

Bam, he whispers.

Eliot deals them out with a flourish, five perfect platefuls on the dark shining wood of the table in Nate’s apartment. Parker squeals and Nate leans back and smiles.

Hardison says "Dayum, man”, and offers to make him a frilly pink apron.

Sliding into his own chair, Eliot sneers back and tells him he should get a life, instead of wasting his weekends

“It ain’t the same if you buy it online, Eliot!“

“making stupid costumes nobody likes."

“You don’t just get that broke-in, homey look, you know. It’s an art.“

Eliot growls, “I ain’t wearing your arty apron, Hardison.”

“I like the costumes" Parker pipes up.

Hardison smirks, so Eliot reminds him there's something wrong with Parker, and Sophie tells them both to be nice.

"This is beautiful, Eliot." she says graciously. "It looks wonderful."

Her fork presses through creamy gravy, crisp batter and meat beaten soft as white bread. Her delicately painted mouth opens round for a tiny bite, and her eyes widen as she chews.

"Oh,this is delicious."

“Yes it really is, Eliot," Nate says politely. Eliot gives him a sharp look. Nate smirks back, pink tongue chasing a little smear of gravy on his upper lip.

"Better than Nana's, even,” Hardison has managed to inhale a third of his steak while Eliot looked away, “and you know how it hurts me to say that."

Sophie ignores the hacker.

“What is it?"

Eliot shrugs. "It’s just comfort food, Sophie. Something my mama used to make. Probably the first thing I ever learned to cook, it’s that easy.”

Sophie swirls another bit of crisp golden steak through ivory gravy and takes another blissful bite.

“It’s amazing. “

Eliot grins at her and ducks his head.

Wouldn’t be polite to laugh. And his mama did teach him manners.

just some fun for a friend!

randomstasis — Fri, 07 Dec 2012 21:48:24 GMT

we all knew cats love fish, but who knew they love cats too?

Dumpsters 1 Clown Cars O

Relics of a bygone age

randomstasis — Fri, 07 Sep 2012 02:55:52 GMT

For ruric's prompt at fic promptly: Leverage, Eliot/Hardison, tureen Leverage, Team
http://fic-promptly.dreamwidth.org/153686.html?view=7052886&posted=1#cmt7052886

Hardison was pretty sly about sneaking into the kitchen, but not sly enough. When he turns to reach for his laser, Eliot's blocking the door, arms crossed.

"You're not using that."

"Whaaat?" With just the tips of his fingers, Hardison nudges the laser away a little, grabs the handle of Parker's fancy soup bowl instead.

"Of course not, man, I promised, right? " The stormcloud on Eliot's brow gets a little darker as Hardison babbles on.

"I'm not doing .. Just getting the tweaker, turner, tumbler..soup thingy, you know, for the soup?" he finishes hopefully.

"You mean tureen, and no, you're not."

"Not what!"

"Not putting soup in that thing. Not in my kitchen."

"But Eliot, Parker ... you know, for the dinner, because it's supposed to be special." Hardison reaches for the bubbling soup pot, with hardly one longing glance at the abandoned laser.

Eliot rolls his eyes.
"Yeah, she stole it for dinner. Real special. No."

Hardison can't do Parker's wounded eyes, but he tries. "Seriously?"

The hitter nods, implacable, looking about as serious as Hardison's ever seen him.

"Eliot, nobody's gonna know she stole it, and you don't have anything half as fancy around here.."

Eliot opens his mouth and closes it again.

"I don't care. Put the damn soup back on the stove, take your laser and get that thing outta here."

Hardison ignores this impractical outburst because he's trying not to splash himself with hot soup pouring it into Parker's historical gilded and silver-chased soup tureen. He knows it's historical, because Sophie recognized it. He could tell by the smile she tried to hide.

"I. Said. No." Eliot's fist closes around his wrist.

"You're cold, man, gonna break the girl's heart when she's just trying to help." That usually works.

" How bout gonna break your fingers?"

Hardison stares, and Eliot glares, until Hardison lets Eliot guide his soup-carrying hand away from the tureen and back to the stove.

"I don't get it, man, somebody tries to give you something nice and you're just all hurtful. Literally," he grumbles as he rubs his sore wrist.
Man has a grip.

"There's something wrong with you," Eliot growls, and Hardison gapes.

"Wrong with me! Parker brought you a valuable historical antique from a castle or someplace and you won't even let me put soup in it once, just to make her happy."

Nothing, just that raised eyebrow that tells him he's missing something. But he's not.

"How is this silver and gold tureen not good enough for you? Sophie was impressed, even, I saw her face!" He reaches for the soup again.

"Dammit, Hardison! Of course Sophie liked it because it's silver and gold and valuable as ffff..just because it came from a palace. But she laughed because it's not a damn soup tureen."

"Wah..? see this big rim, and the handle there, to pour.."

Eliot jerks it away from him, drops his disrespected laser in it with a clang, and shoves them both in Hardison's chest, rocking him back a step toward the door. "Now get out of my kitchen."

"You're really not going to use the antique silver soup tureen Parker stole for you special." He clutches it to his sore chest, for which Eliot isn't even sorry, but it's Parker's feelings he's defending now so Eliot totally deserves a guilt trip.

"Hardison. It's not a.. antique soup tureen. It's a 17th century silvergilt chamberpot."

"a..What?"

"You heard me. Get it out of here."

Hardison's cradling arm spasms and the...thing clatters to the kitchen floor.

"Hardison.." Eliot says warningly.

"No man, I am not touching that. That's just nasty. You...you put my laser in there. My molecular gastronomy laser. You're buying me a new one, because you know I can't use that one anymore.."

"OUT!"

there goes the neighborhood..

randomstasis — Fri, 06 Jul 2012 05:43:38 GMT

No fireworks on the 4th, because all the firetrucks are busy, and there's not enough firefighters to fight the fires we already got. ;( Luckily, people have been responsible (or just scared), so I heard no illicit whizzbangs last night!
(Somewhere in Centennial,though, there's a truckload of homemade and storebought fireworks, just waiting for a better time. let it be so)

Sheep Mountain's about 20 miles away; can smell the smoke, see it floating through the streets and raining ash. Friends have evacuated, but it's now 55% contained!

Road to Centennial

The Squirrel Creek Fire spread rapidly Monday, and topped the crest of Sheep Mountain
The line of light below the fire is Harmony; my favorite place to sub because the kids are amazing, fun, and smart, and where my Dad and I ate the best steaks ever after graduation.

DO WANT!

randomstasis — Fri, 06 Jul 2012 05:23:28 GMT

I've been watching and posting too many horrid images of wildfires recently
here's something better to contemplate;)

i think Bing's a fangirl

randomstasis — Sat, 28 Apr 2012 21:31:51 GMT

Why, you ask? One of my students posted this in arabic on facebook, so I hit translate;

"I look forward to every Friday that voice which could tarnish the world when whoops Gabriel between Earth and heaven "appeared ...
(Translated by Bing)

so mysteriously apropos..I'm not even going to wonder what she really said.

/\„,„/\
( =';'= )
/*♡♡*\
(.|.|..|.|.)=>

Potsticker sauce

randomstasis — Mon, 23 Jan 2012 20:22:14 GMT

Findyourwords said, "Happy Chinese New Year! It's the year of the dragon. This calls for potstickers. :D"
It occurs to me that's very true. :D And, it occurs to me I've never written down my recipe for the best potsticker sauce ever, whether you're calling them gyoza, mandu, or potstickers.
So, without further ado...

Mince 1 medium-large clove of garlic and a knob of ginger about the size of your thumbnail very fine.
Mix in soy sauce and rice vinegar in a 3:1 ratio, to make about 1/4 cup, mashing a little as you go. Let stand at least an hour before you portion it out. Or not, but it's best when you do.
Float a dash of toasted sesame oil on top of each dipping bowl. (Some people like the chili sesame oil, but imo, that's overkill. You have plenty of flavors already, and the chili tends to obscure them.)
Optional; top with a few morsels of green onion or garlic chives sliced paper thin for extra color.

Make your potstickers. (an interesting variation is to stir up to a tablespoon of flour into the water you pour in to steam them, which makes a nice crust when the dumplings are tightly packed in the pan).
Serve on a separate plate, with a dish of sauce for each person.

bingo

randomstasis — Tue, 29 Nov 2011 07:49:52 GMT

Parker	The Queen's Gambit Job	The Maltese Falcon Job	The Twelve Step Job	Jimmy Ford
The Carnival Job	The San Lorenzo Job	The Mark	Jimmy Papadokalus	The Fairy Godparents Job
Retrieval Specialist	The Zanzibar Marketplace Job	WILD CARD	The Future Job	Mikel Dayan
McRory's Bar	Cora McRory	The Tap Out Job	Actress	The Bottle Job
Thief	The Order 23 Job	Alec Hardison	Sophie Devereaux	The Snow Job

randomstasis — Sat, 24 Sep 2011 03:16:40 GMT

<img src="http://www.flarn.com/~warlock/tarot/dragon/18.jpg">
<h2 align="center">You are The Moon</h2>
Hope, expectation, Bright promises.
The Moon is a card of magic and mystery - when prominent you know that nothing is as it seems, particularly when it concerns relationships. All logic is thrown out the window.
The Moon is all about visions and illusions, madness, genius and poetry. This is a card that has to do with sleep, and so with both dreams and nightmares. It is a scary card in that it warns that there might be hidden enemies, tricks and falsehoods. But it should also be remembered that this is a card of great creativity, of powerful magic, primal feelings and intuition. You may be going through a time of emotional and mental trial; if you have any past mental problems, you must be vigilant in taking your medication but avoid drugs or alcohol, as abuse of either will cause them irreparable damage. This time however, can also result in great creativity, psychic powers, visions and insight. You can and should trust your intuition.
What Tarot Card are You? <a href="http://www.flarn.com/~warlock/tarot" target="_blank">Take the Test to Find Out.</a>

meme

randomstasis — Fri, 09 Sep 2011 17:39:56 GMT

To Meme or not to Meme...

Comment to this entry and I'll give you a letter.
List ten things, people, places, beings, thoughts, feelings, that you love that begin with that letter and then post that list on your journal.

relativity1953 gave me P, so

1 Piles of things. It's occurred to me recently I am often too literal, yet I put this in the top position. Make of that what you will.

2 Poetic expression. Please note that I did not say poetry;D

3 Publications. Of many sorts, including but not limited to escapist literature of the sf/fantasy genre, history, folklore and technical works. It doesn't hurt that they can be conveniently stored in the aforementioned Piles.

4 Points, getting to. Self-explanatory, I think. Plain speaking. No, this does not contradict #2. What, I can't have layers?

5 Plays on words and Philosophical utterances, particularly those which are not overtly transparent. Also, philosophical discussion. Politics. Not. Political discussion, sure. Yes, I am a masochist at heart. See above.

6 Pets. Not necessarily mine. I'm not particular. and Petting, of course. Still not particular.

7 Places, other. Sometimes more than others.

8 Personality. Particularly in people and pets, but piles are good too.

9 Pyrotechnics. All sorts, including pyromania. Not when I'm cooking, unless it's *my* pyromania.

10. Pretty. all the pretties. Prettiness. Just to kick back and enjoy.

10a. Personal time. oh hell yeah. for all of the above.

11. Postscripts. Because I always have one more thing to say. (I didn't even get to Procrastination!)

Quiet

randomstasis — Wed, 31 Aug 2011 18:02:23 GMT

Mature Rape/Non-Con, Underage
1212 words
Vorkosigan Saga - Lois McMaster Bujold
Characters: Konstantin Bothari, OCs
for; 2011 Bujold Fest

Quiet

Summary:
Bothari once told Cordelia he was a bastard, literally. Sometimes he goes home. He took Kou there once to get laid, and it all went south. The quote from Impsec's report went something like, “Apparently he has a favorite girl in the Caravanserai. He likes her because she never makes any noise. I don’t really want to think about that.”
Notes:
For jetta_e_rus.
In response to the prompt :
Bothari at his age of thirteen suffers but lets nobody to break him. According to the novels, realistic, hard, frankly. No any miraculous escape.
Canon violence, trauma, language and non-graphic child abuse. I like Bothari, he's such a complex character, so thanks for the prompt! I'm sorry this is short, just stream of conciousness, quick and unbeta'd, but I hope it's close to what you wanted!

Tricks who came in quietly through the side door always had money and a sneer. They gave the boss fake names, but their fake names always started with Vor something because they wanted respect. So they acted like Vor assholes, when even a stupid kid like Konstantin Bothari could tell the nearest they’d ever get to a real Vor was when they got the chance to lick Vor boots.

The VorTricks always came around when the house got a new girl. They paid extra for the new ones, the ones that screamed. The men liked to make the girls scream, so a lot of the whores screamed just whenever, even after they weren’t new anymore. Some of them never got out of the habit and Kon doesn’t blame them, but he never liked listening to it.

So Kon knew he was supposed to yell and scream and carry on like he was dying . He’s not stupid, no matter what they say. He had to to pay his way now, and earn enough for the days his ma was “sick” too. But it hurt, and Kon knew better to let on when it really hurt like that. Asking for it, that was, and people who just looked at his size didn't guess how tough he was.

So he didn’t scream that first time, not once, bit right through his lip making sure he didn’t and the Vor bastard laughed at the blood. Told him it just made it harder to tell which end he was fucking. Thought his little joke was so funny he said it again when he complained to the management about Kon. Said he wanted a refund or a guarantee next time they’d give him a boy who wasn’t so butt ugly he couldn’t tell the difference. No tip, and his ma hit him, after the boss did.

She was really drunk then too, missing half the time she swung at him, so he wouldn’t have felt it much at all if he hadn’t been so sore. So maybe she didn’t know that. About the boss, and how much he hurt already. But Ma didn’t hit that hard, and he wasn’t listening to all the drunk crap she said, it was just what the bastard trick said, and she was just mad because a kid, a new kid, was supposed to bring in a bonus, and it was Ma's fault as much as Kon's luck she got herself knocked up by an ugly trick.

So it didn’t bother him that Ma was crying and coughing so hard while she said all that stuff the boss told her the trick said while she was hitting at him because it didn’t really hurt, none of it registered at all, because he didn’t listen. He didn’t say anything, or cry either. Kon sure didn’t scream.

He didn’t need to, because she was making enough noise for both of them and smearing her face doing all that, so she was just as ugly as him and couldn’t make any tips either. She wasn’t hurting him, he was just mad because he was tired and he just wanted to go to sleep. Boss already told him he’d have to do better tomorrow night, learn to put on makeup like a frill and make some goddam noise.

Kon didn’t answer her when she said that , never was gonna scream for the tricks. Because he didn’t want to, and he figured everybody else made enough noise for them and him both and being quiet just made them mad. Kon liked making them mad. Sometimes being quiet made them scared, and he liked that even better.

But he got sick of never getting a payout, so he started to talk during tricks, at least. Kon learned he could say what was on his mind and some of the tricks liked that. Even when they yelled at him and hit him to shut him up they tipped, which kept the others off his back and bought the good stuff that made his Ma laugh sometimes.

Kon got big too, really big, big enough everyone expected him to be tough. That helped, because it’s not so bad to be an ugly bastard if you’re scary too. He still hates screaming though, even when it’s someone else screaming. So he learned how to shut them up fast.

The Army taught him that, among other things. The Army was good like that. Kon liked being a soldier, liked it more than anything. Enlisting got him out of the Caravanserai, but the Army got to be more than an escape. The Army actually wanted Konstantin Bothari. They liked that Kon was big and mean and didn’t talk much. They fed and clothed and taught him like his Ma never did. They didn’t care that he was ugly , didn’t know what Kon was or what his ma did. They called him just Bothari, or Private, Sergeant sometimes, if he hadn’t screwed up recently. He liked when the new ones called him sir. Nobody but the damn Vor got to call Bothari any kind of bastard, because anymore he was a big mean bastard. Bothari still didn’t like hearing it, but he knew that was a compliment to a soldier, so he let it slide, never let on that it was true before the Army too.

Bothari bought his own whores once he started getting Army pay, and he tipped every time, even the stupid bitches that wouldn’t shut up when he told them to. Kon never did learn to like a talky whore. He knows what the talk really means, no matter what a whore says. Even now, Kon likes it quiet so he doesn’t have to think about it, so he can just get it over with. He can respect the ones tough enough to stay quiet and smart enough to figure out he tips better when they do. But the one time Bothari said something about that in the barracks, the other grunts all looked at him like he was thirteen again. No respect. So Bothari put the first one to say shit in the hospital, and he went to the brig. When he got out they’d all learned not to talk to him again.

And Bothari spent enough time in the brig he remembered how to shut up. Good thing, really, with all the crap that happened later. He was really tired after all that, worse than the first time when he was just a kid, a whore’s bastard. They looked at him, gave him drugs and poked around in his head, but mostly figured the big bastard was too stupid to know what they were doing. Bothari did know, knew and remembered a lot more than anybody expected but he kept quiet, mostly. And that worked out fine, at least once he got through the worst parts. Just like it always did.

Then they won't let him be a soldier anymore because he finally screwed that up too but the General gave him a place anyway. Nobody will tell him why, so he keeps quiet and seems like he does all right. Then he learned how to sleep again. And after that, sometimes he can even forget how tired he is.

Writer's Block: You’re giving me a toothache

randomstasis — Wed, 24 Aug 2011 00:12:59 GMT

Two actually come to mind, but the most important might be
When I was a teenager with a ridiculous lot of problems, my mom gave me an art card with a quote from Camus;
"In the midst of winter, I found, within me, an endless summer."
I was confused, and a little resentful, so I asked her if she thought I should try to be like that and she said
No, she'd never understood it, but I always had been, she'd just seen the card and it seemed to her like Camus was describing me.

I'll never give that up.

randomstasis — Fri, 12 Aug 2011 21:50:24 GMT

Title; Self-defense by Eliot Spencer
Characters; Team
Category; Gen
Disclaimer; yes.

Nate drinks. He lets shit come at him full speed, knowing when it hits that soft fog the booze builds between him and everything else it’ll slow down enough he’ll have plenty of time to look it over and figure out how to spin it, because he’s Nathan Fucking Ford. And if the shit gets through, well, that’s manageable, too. One more drink and Nathan Ford won’t care how the world spins. He keeps the shit under control that way, and when the shit hits the fan Nate's the only one smiling about it, because somehow he always staggers away smelling like a rose.

Sophie says when life hands Sophie Devereux lemons, she just loosens another button on her shirt and convinces life to buy her a shandy instead. Sophie’s a liar. And you believe her , because Sophie’s never more convincing than when she’s lying. Sophie doesn’t defend herself because she has nothing to defend. Sophie doesn’t exist,and that makes her strong.
When the shit comes down, she was never there, never saw shit, didn’t smell it, step in it or take it along. Sophie wriggles out of that skin and leaves it behind, while some other Sophie walks away unstained.
Sophie doesn’t give a damn about the shit she leaves behind. Sophie Devereaux doesn’t have a damn to give, she doesn’t even have a name, just a lot of shiny old stuff she keeps hidden away and a shiny new self to step out in every day.

Parker well,she’s never all there even when she is, because Parker's a sneak and she hides. Dropping through the ceiling, sleeping in the vents, walking between the walls. She’s a face in the window, a shadow on the wall, a noise on the roof. You’ve never really seen Parker, just her big laugh and the loud comments that never quite fit, long fingers poking at all the wrong places, curling up comfortable where nobody normal would ever want to be. She’ll cartwheel through a window and disappear with everything you have and you’ll never even see her, never know she touched you. Parker’s the ghost you wouldn’t tell your best friend about, (if you had one) because she's never all there and most people don't know when she’s there at all.
When the shit hits the fan she flies away, there’s not enough of her there to hit anyway.

Hardison, Hardison ought to be dead a hundred times over. Loud, graceless, with an ego the size of his flatscreen. For no reason you can see. No sense of self-preservation, no sense at all. If annoying was an Olympic sport Hardison would be wearing so many gold medals he’d fall flat on his face. Again.
You see him, you know you'll hear him, and you try to get away from him because Hardison gets in your face and never. shuts. up.
But after weeks not listening, trying to ignore him, you figured out he doesn’t say a damn thing. Hardison isn't real, he has no more face of his own than the alien on that space opera he’s so fond of. Hardison, the most paranoid geek who ever clicked a key, owns every electronic doodad ever made and made a few himself, but never had an answering machine because They could use that to listen to him when he’s all alone, and nobody’s ever gonna stick shit to Hardison that way.
When the shit hits the fan Hardison walks through the walls, making doors and wiping his tracks as he goes, and even though you wish you didn’t remember him, you know if you check he was never there.

And then there’s you. You can punch through walls high and wide, you used to leave your signature behind but you don’t anymore because everybody knows your name. They know what you’ll do, and that’s whatever it takes. You’ve left enough skin behind to fill Sophie’s closet with handbags and shoes, but you always walked out the same man, just carrying a little more shit. After all these years you’re carrying so much you're bigger than life.
You used a hundred names, but you’ve only ever had one, very distinctive, style. You’ve become a Name. You can fly on it, open doors with it, or even hide behind it, because your Name’s even bigger than you are. You’re not paranoid, because it’s not paranoia when it’s real. You don’t sleep much and you drink a lot, but you don’t drink like Nate does. The world never softens when you drink, and you’d like to spin it all away too but that’s not how it goes.
What you do, you watch closer, you think more, you spin faster and hit harder than anybody expects. And when the shit hits, Eliot Spencer becomes the fan.

In which Harry and Bob discover a problem, and an unexpected Occasion for cigars

randomstasis — Mon, 25 Jul 2011 20:14:20 GMT

Comment fic for a prompt on the Dresden Files meme here; http://dresden-kink.dreamwidth.org/2675.html?view=1641843&posted=1#cmt1641843
not quite exactly the prompt, but that's not where it went in the end.
947 words
Harry, Bob, Mister. Implied OCs.
warnings- um. You know Bob, right?
Also, Kittens. Or whatever they turn out to be. In Peril.
Gen. Except for the implied, above

Standard Disclaimer applies.

Summary:
My deal with Bob involved letting him possess my cat when I needed a spy. He did it for the chance to wander in a body, free of the skull as he’d never be otherwise.
I’d never asked what kind of Deal Bob and Mister had.

Mister came back from his ramble disgruntled, tail lashing. When I turned to close the door, he headbutted me in the shins so hard I nearly pulled it off the hinges staying upright, and after the spiral of orange sparks swirled up out of him he did it again, harder, so I dropped the can opener and the can, which he dodged neatly and came back in for another pass.

“Dammit, Mister, I’m trying here. I’d get to it faster if you weren’t in the way.”

That got me a slit-eyed glare and a last pass between my feet. Then he sat in the middle of the tiny space between counter and icebox, blocking the path wherever I moved. I’d tripped over him twice by the time I got the can open. He glared disdainfully at the food I scooped in his bowl anyway, and tossed a significant look back at the cloud of orange sparks still hovering behind him.

Message received. Sighing, I went downstairs to find out what Bob had done this time. The spirit trailed after me, reluctantly.

My deal with Bob involved letting him possess my cat when I needed a spy. He did it for the chance to wander in a body, free of the skull as he’d never be otherwise.

I’d never asked what kind of Deal Bob and Mister had. Turns out the cat enjoyed Bob’s brand of mayhem, and that was enough, most of the time. This time, though.

“Seriously, Bob? Kittens? “

“Boss, I know how it sounds, but we’re on a time limit here. They’re in a box in the dumpster. We tried, but we couldn’t get it open to get them out. They’re cold, they’re hungry. And...” he paused for dramatic effect. “Once the restaurant starts dumping in garbage, they’ll smother if they aren’t crushed outright.“

I’d spent the last three days and nights answering calls from SI and the Paranet, putting out small brushfires all over the county nonstop, using more power than I could spare. I’d come in late, sent Bob out to keep an eye on things, woken to Mister’s peremptory summons feeling more aches and bruises than I had skin. Four hours of sleep hadn’t been nearly enough to recharge. The ingredients for the revitalizing potion I needed yesterday were already laid out on the workbench, abandoned when another SOS came through. The weight of exhaustion still dragged at me. Even with the heavy flannel robe over my sweats I was shivering because the bonedeep cold outside seeped into the basement and pooled on the lab floor.

I’d sent Bob out to do some of legwork I was too tired to do. I needed intel. He was supposed to find out why Chicago’s Underworld was acting up. Instead he brought me back a heartrending tale of kittens in peril.

Worse, Mister sat at the top of the ladder watching us both, waiting. I looked around at all the urgent unfinished projects in my lab, thought longingly of the books I needed to research half a dozen new cases , already stacked by my warm comfy couch so I could read while the potions simmered, and tried again.

“Bob, look, just give me the address. I’ll call Animal Control or something. Rescuing kittens is their job, not mine. That’s all I can do.”

Mister sneezed, and glared at me.

“Boss, cats don’t do street names. We can take you there, but that’s about it.”

“ You can’t describe it?” Trying to used sarcasm on Bob is like carrying coals to Newcastle, though.

“You mean, like , maybe you could send the rescue patrol on Mister’s route. Sure, it’s just a long walktwoleaps sharpscentway, to yappydog behindbars and gravyspill, no problem.”

“Nobody likes a smartass, Bob.”

He didn’t even bother with a comeback. He was serious, then. Dammit. I was not going out into the dark and cold again to rescue a box of kittens.

“I can’t, Bob- What am I supposed to do when I find them, anyway? Bring the kittens home? Mister doesn’t tolerate other cats even outside the wards. “

Mister sneezed again, and glared at Bob this time.

“About that, Boss. Mister, I, um. We think this lot might be ours.”

That took a second to penetrate, and a couple more to think about. Bob and Mister?

“Yours?”

The cloud of sparks swirled a little closer to the skull. Mister’s claws curled into the wood at the top of the ladder, shredding it with a grating sound. Stars and Stones, no. I didn't even want to imagine it. Air and intellect, with claws.

I really didn't want to go out again, and I really didn't want to go out in the cold to bring a box of spirit-feline hybrid baby monsters home. But I knew I wasn’t going to win this one. I have responsibilities to this town.

When my head reached the top of the ladder, Mister’s paw darted at my face. I flinched, too late. Those claws were wickedly sharp, and he had a lot of them. But they were safely sheathed, he just patted me lightly on the cheek, twice, and sat back while I climbed the rest of the way out.

He’d never done that before.

I shucked the warm robe and swirled the grey Warden’s cloak around my shoulders. I shoved my feet into boots that were still damp and shuddered. Mister was already waiting by the door. I reached for it, but he moved to block me again. Right. I looked over my shoulder and called, “I give you permission.”

Lights poured eagerly up from the subbasement and into the cat. Mister shivered and then raised Bob’s glittering eyes to me expectantly. I called my staff to me and followed my tomcatting spirit – my spirited tomcat, whatever, back out into the night, for the safety of rainbows and puppies and well, kittens, everywhere.

However unnatural and terrifying those kittens might be.

Overload

randomstasis — Tue, 12 Jul 2011 21:14:26 GMT

comment fic for elwing_alcyone 's prompt based on The Evil Overlord List over at fic_promptly

Dark Angel, Logan, Somone involved in the Heroic Struggle has an identical twin out there. I'll plan accordingly.

Camera feed from a hoverdrone clearly showed a lizardman snapping the guard's neck, breaking the lock and scooping up a pocketful of chocolate bars before moving on to the cashbox and safe. Not even a glance at the stacked crates of imported cigars by the warehouse door as the transgenic made his escape.

"Goddammit, Mole! Seriously?"

Mole leaned against the back of his chair to peer at the screen, sending a choking cloud of blue smoke at the view of a street crawling with sector police.
"What'd I do now?"

"Nothing, that's the problem. Except..why the hell didn't you tell me you had a clone out there too?

"Just one? Should be several- we all did."

"All of you. All?" Mole nodded. Logan turned back to the monitor, rubbed his temples furiously, wondering how he'd manage to shoehorn that many sets of criteria into his cross-referencing database. Dammit.

He shoved the chair around and stabbed Mole in the chest with his forefinger.

"Did you know your creators were dumber than a box of rocks?"

Mole backed away warily.

"Uh, gotta say, I never heard anybody put it quite like that."

"For Gods sake, brainwashing, genetically coded tattoes, brain-exploding implants -Manticore were all over any monumentally cruel and invasive crap they could do to you people, but it never occurred to them when they cloned every damn experimental embryo, they might want to put in a simple unique tracking signal? Seriously? For fuck's sake. I'm surprised they remembered to breathe in the morning."

"They never thought it might be useful to know which of half a billion clones they were looking at?"
Logan waved wildly back at the lizardman frozen on his screen.

"Or in this case, for? They were all morons, Mole!"

"Oookay, no argument here?"

"And now, because you weren't up on the barricades scaring children at the time, Eyes Only has to explain to Seattle at large how 'Oh, no, couldn't have been our lizardman procurer, because he would have stolen the cigars too" is a decent alibi for murder, because a government thinktank is so stupid that it's the only one you've got!"

Mole rocked back on his heels. "Yeah. Sorry about that, Chief."
He pulled the cigar out of his mouth and looked at it thoughtfully.

"And, thanks."

"For what? I don't even know if I can..."

Mole's sharptoothed grin glittering in the light from the monitor cut him off.

"For being the only one to think of that.
Just don't think on it too hard, ok?"

Running with it

randomstasis — Thu, 07 Jul 2011 16:48:04 GMT

For wallwalker‘s prompt over at fic_promptly on dreamwidth,
@ 2011-02-20

The Sting, Johnny Hooker, fleeing
obviously, not mine. just don't let the music get stuck in your head.

Everything changed once Hooker hit the big time.
He'd hit the ground running, and now Hooker could write his own ticket. Not that he did, he paid minor grifters to do that for him these days. He had his own reputation , ran his own big cons, wore his own hundred-dollar suits these days. Maitre d's sat him at the best tables everywhere he went, tables big enough for the showgirls who flocked there between numbers, drank his expensive booze and left the keys to their dressing rooms under their glasses.

He'd squirreled more money than he and Luther ever dreamed of away in schemes that checked out legit, more solid than any he would ever come up with. He even had a legit home- penthouse in The Big Apple, even if it was just a set-piece for stings, and a hotel in Atlantic City that Luther's family managed for him. Hooker used the hotel mostly for parties, he got a cut from the games they ran there without lifting a finger.

There'd even been a couple hungry-eyed wannabes he called "kid" and laughed to himself everytime he said it.

He didn't have to play it close to the wire anymore, but sometime he missed the thrill, let those hungry-eyed comers set him up, because the grapevine needed to know Hooker hadn't lost his edge.

Hooker ignored the startled gasps around him when the mark yelled cheat and pulled a gun. He leaned back looking down his nose at the angry mobster, ignoring his shiny little gun, and shook his head.
"You know, I don't care for that kind of talk. It's bad for business and it hurts my feelings." He scooped up the stack of money on the table and waggled it.
"So I'm tempted to make you eat this right now. But since you've obviously had too much to drink, we'll play one more round with a fresh deck and then you will apologize for being such a sore loser."

He stood up from the table, waving for a passing cigarette girl's attention. She nodded, and Hooker brought his hand down hard in the bodyguard's gut.

The mook folded easy as pie, Hooker stepped through the space he'd cleared, right past the gun. Step-dodged around two crowded tables and a kissing couple to the balcony and over the rail.

He hit the ground running. At the corner he looked over his shoulder at the angry shouts and grinned at the mark, gave him a lazy wave with the hand still holding the money.

Good to know not quite everything had changed since Hooker hit the big time. Success hadn't slowed him down any.

splash

randomstasis — Tue, 28 Jun 2011 17:04:46 GMT

Splash
Comment fic written for James' prompt at fic-promptly.dreamwidth.org
Leverage, Parker

Old pond,
frog jumps in--
splash
(Bashō)

Only the words are mine. Parker belongs to her creators. The gems? who knows...

The slapslap of water on the dock and the sweetsalt rotting scent of the Thames rose in the night to a shadow clinging to the Tower's outer wall. Old old stonework pressed cold and gritty under her cheek while she waited for the guard to walk around the wall.
One of the raven sentinels shrieked and took flight as she zipped past, and the guard doubled back, but he looked up at the scolding bird, never back at the window where she hung, working breathless and quiet as the shadows inside.

Next morning, the world's most secure display case displayed dismaying gaps. News of a daring, impossible theft swept round the world as the sun rose on the remnants of Empire.

An hour later, frantic curators found the missing Sovereign's Sceptre tilted casually against the empty pauldron of a suit of armor on another floor, black gauntlet closed carefully around the scepter's shaft. The Great Star of Africa winked at them from the tip of it in the morning light.
Whole countries sighed with relief.

The Lesser Star of Africa never resurfaced.