Voyeur tv house

Shane Koyczan, a spoken-word poet who speaks from his heart, stands up against bullying in this 192-line piece delivered with a 7-minute animation. Released on Youtube, it garnered WE’RE HAVING A BABY 💗 2 years ago I got diagnosed with PCOS after not getting my period for 7 years. I was devastated because being a mom and starting a family with @laurensvleeuwen is my biggest dream.. I was so scared that I would never be able to because I got told it was harder to get babies in a natural way.. A compilation to help her understand how much she is missed. Loving Wives 12/28/18: Nancy (4.54) Becoming a man and having second chances - will it succeed? Loving Wives 09/08/17: Oh, Sh*t (3.76) I know she's cheating and I'm going to make her pay. Loving Wives 03/26/19: Reunion (the Horror) (4.39) Husband wonders what went wrong. Loving Wives The most important thing to remember when trying to understand asexuality is that people who identify as such are not inherently different from you, aside from the fact that they experience sexual attraction differently - or more accurately, don’t experience it at all. ... I'd failed for decades to understand myself by the usual categories ... They're easier to understand than you might think. For example: I did it myself. (When "myself" is used for emphasis, it is known as an emphatic pronoun.) I saw myself in the mirror. (When "myself" is used to show "you" doing something to "yourself," it is known as a reflexive pronoun.) You cannot use "myself" for any other reason. So, I’ve been trying to find my voice,” Johnson said Friday. “I think part of that journey is to educate myself. I’ve been very deep in that and trying to learn and educate – on the phone with friends of mine, like Bubba Wallace, other friends of color and race that I’ve known through the years just checking in. A lot of the difficulty, of course, comes from the almost automatic nature of the mental rituals; people with OCD often say they do a mental ritual even when they’re trying not to. That’s what makes new places and new people so renewing. It’s also what makes the ever-shifting lull of the familiar exciting to me. I find the world so dynamic, so full of spark, even in the small messy moments. I am just trying to add what texture I can to it.” — Saja Chodosh, Strategist at Emotive Brand

2020.10.22 23:41 ScottdaBlu35partan22 Trying to Understand Myself...

I don’t know what I’m looking for or even truly know why I’m posting. This is my first actual topic post into reddit, so bear with me.
Everything I write here is matter of fact and I derive no real pleasure from anything I’m saying, I just need to understand something about myself.
I don’t know how or why it started but I have been interested in the female form since I was 6/7 years old, playing chasing games with girls and lifting up skirts. At a battered women's’ home, I attended with my mother, I once befriended a girl much older than I (13?), who must have thought I was ‘cute’ as she let me hang out with her. I remember like it yesterday that we ended up playing chase and I chased her into a bedroom. She ended up trying to squeeze herself, legs in the air, into the space of a bed and a wall in a mini dress and I found myself face first under her skirt for what felt like an eternity. I loved it!
I don’t really remember another interaction with that girl as I don’t recall staying at that shelter for long.
A couple of years later, I remember being 9ish and expressing interest in a chubby girl in my class, Linda. One day we had a school assembly in the morning and I beckoned her to sit with me. I had brought my coat with me for some reason (maybe it was planned, maybe it was cold?) and I had draped it over both our legs. Everybody’s eyes were forward, but my hands were on her leg under the coat. Keeping my eyes forward, my hand slipped further into her thighs. To my surprise, she even lifted her elbow to help my reach.
I remember my fingers exploring quite greedily what her panties were hiding. I glanced at her and saw her cheeks glowing red. One finger… Two… and then suddenly the assembly had finished. The other kids suddenly got to their feet and Linda pushed me off. We may have ‘engaged’ after that, but I don’t remember that well as that was my first solid memory of interaction with her.
At 12, a 17 year old female expressed sexual interest in me, but I told my age naively. She said I looked ‘older’. My next contacts were at 16, no sex and 17 with a woman in her 30s, no sex again.
At 18, I met a girl my age and she took my virginity and I don’t know if this has shaped me. I lost it at the house where she babysat, being blindfold with sheer stockings and being tied tightly to the bottom of an armchair. She had closed the curtains, but put a lamp on (after the kids went to bed!) and I saw her silhouette sit beside me, unzip me and I felt her cold wet mouth slide over me, making me wince unexpectedly! She gripped me with her lips and tongue and had at me. I felt like I came like a fountain, but was still very much rock hard with the wonders of youth. She climbed on top me and with her big tits slapping me in the face, rode into oblivion, or so it felt.
We went on to fuck everywhere and I mean everywhere we could get away with it, night or day.
In every relationship after I’ve been looking to make things exciting or how I could be better. Ironically, after a while of a new relationship I felt no enjoyment as my mind was constantly thinking of how I make the experience better for her. I express, at the start, how I hold no jealousy (which I don’t) or judgement on her desires and she could be herself. This has resulted in some interesting relationships of which they’ve wanted to ‘tame’ me (I, eventually, agreed to get married to one, now separated) in the past.
I have gone through most relationships involving bondage, blindfold, threesomes, submission, obeying, voyeurism and shared as activities.
I have watched ex-gfs (and soon to be ex-wife) get fucked in front of me as I watch, thinking where I could improve in technique after my friends satisfied her and themselves. I took her pleasuring as a challenge to be even better than my friend and would often ‘switch off’ and focus on her multi-orgasm and get annoyed if she got ‘dry’.
As I have felt before I feel like a robot and now wonder if I’ve been what’s known as a ‘cuck’ in my single life. At times, when my gf was submissive and wore negligees or nothing as my rule was at my apartment, a hopeful friend would visit to get his way with her. When my gf was being fucked and I could hear her moaning, I’d be watching TV sometimes, not bothered. Sometimes, I’d be taking notes and afterwards share her more in a tag team style or together overflowing her senses or drag her to the bedroom for my own lengthy afters.
At no point have I thought this is awesome, as I write. And, now I’m single after years of being monogamous, I feel like I could easily return to those days of searching for excitement I never found again.
I cannot understand why I feel this way and I don’t feel ‘normal’, whatever that is.
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2020.10.22 08:02 Caliponix Voyeur tv house

I spent five years of my life in love with a predator. I question my judgement, with every encounter, because I know this snake got past it. I call him X.
I Loved Him. I felt soo lucky that he seemed interested in me, despite the ‘disadvantage’ of being 23 years younger than him. This wasn’t a trend in my life, I’d never dated someone remotely that far from my age range. It was something about X. I fell in love with his brain, his humor, the way my skin tingled when he touched me. For a while the chemistry was pure and electric.
There were issues, but they mostly seemed to come back at me. I was significantly less well off than X, he was a Dr. A well respected GP within his community. I was a single mother in my early 20s, and working at that time as a certified massage therapist. Daily life was a struggle for me, and X used money as a reason to withhold respect. If I wanted respect, I could be an equal contributor. Except he would always assure me that he knew I probably wouldn’t be able to make a comparable amount of money to him, he would accept it if I just achieved what he knew I was capable of. Because of how much he loved, and believed in me. Of course, getting a better job, rounding out my education, and raising my daughter were priorities for me, so him pushing me towards these things rang no alarms at the time.
I have spent most of my 20s trying to ‘Make It’. I’m 30 now. I didn’t ‘Make it’.
When X and I had been together about a year, when I was a 24 year old mother of 1, I learned that I had a genetic condition called Ehlers-Danlos Syndrome. The diagnosis was difficult to hear, but it clarified many of the unexplained health issues that had complicated my path to self sufficiency.
It was this diagnosis that led me to two, very painful, realizations. 1) I needed to retire from the career that was supporting my needs 2) I shouldn’t have any more children. For my health and theirs.
X was fine with us not planning to have children; he even got a vasectomy the following year. It was harder for me to accept. I had always hoped to have at least two children, I’m a middle child of four, and I wanted my daughter to have a sibling. It was a frequent subject of discussion for the year before his vasectomy, and even for some time after. I had a lot of trouble reconciling my understanding of my medical problems with my desires for the family I wanted to build.
X had 2 children of his own, a boy and a girl. Our kids were all 3 years apart, with my daughter being the youngest (*3yo at the start of our relationship). Neither he nor his children got on well with my daughter, despite me having a good relationship with both of his children. I couldn’t seem to get them to stop treating my daughter like an intruder, to give her the same latitude and understanding that they gave each other… I failed at communicating this, or preventing the bullying from affecting my daughter. I’ll carry the shame of that for the rest of my life. When my daughter comes to me about this one day, I’ll have no defense. Only apologies. She deserved so much better than that.
The really sad part is that I was convinced that she was still better off in that situation, than with me alone. I was so beaten down, so convinced of my own ineptitude. I relied on X to be the stability he said I lacked. At least she lived in a nice house, room to run and play safely, a tree-house to zip line off of (X and I spent 2 years building that), and chickens to chase. My daughter is just 10 now, and still has fond memories of that house, and the home we had there. I wonder when she’ll start to remember the bad. I’ll be here for her when she does.
INCIDENT: It was probably early fall, I can’t quite remember the exact details because this night was like so many others. Until it wasn’t. We had gone out to our hot tub, smoked some weed, X had a whisky and I had a hard cider. X had taken an Ambien right before getting into the hot tub, without planning to go to sleep, or telling me that he had taken a drug that impaired him to that degree. I don’t remember much about the conversation we’d had, but I do remember that I had to put a tampon in before getting in the hot-tub, since I was on the tail end of my period (Sorry TMI, but its relevant).
We came inside, toweled off, and were snacking away our munchies in the kitchen while family guy played on the TV in the living room. The open floor plan had the back of the main sofa parallel with the kitchen island, maybe 8 feet apart. Our heavy robes for walking in/outside were draped over the back of the couch, along with our clothes.
X was being sexual, groping me and manhandling me more than was typical even for him. I was beginning to sense that something was wrong. We were standing in front of the dishwasher; I had my back to the counter. We started to kiss, I tried to gently push him back from me, and he responded by grabbing me by the throat. He pushed me backwards quickly, with his body pressed against my legs holding them in place he forced my upper body straight back onto the counter. I was bent like an L over that counter backwards, I thought I had broken my spine, or ruptured a disc. After all, I could only go on the intensity of the pain I was feeling, which was extreme. I cried out “PANDA!!!” which while ridiculous, was also my safe word. He ignored it.
I began to scream, frantic shrieks of pain. At first X looked annoyed, but then he started to laugh. He pulled me down from the counter and dropped me to the floor facedown. I was still screaming. I was Begging him for help, while he watched me writhe. He told me to Shut Up. He kept laughing at me the whole time. Insulting me… for my low pain tolerance I guess. I slowly began to pull myself away from him, towards to sofa in the living room. Mostly I was dragging myself by my arms, as my legs were seized up and numb still from the trauma to my spinal column. I can’t remember everything he said, I only remember feeling increasing dread when he finally walked over to me. I wasn’t sure what was about to happen.
He reached down and pulled me up by my right wrist, and tossed me facedown over the back of the couch. My face was buried in the back of the brown suede seat, and I could feel X behind me, pressed against my butt, hard. He slapped my behind several times, very hard and then he was clearly about to start having sex with me. All the while I’m saying No No No over and over again, Panda, over and over again. At one point, right before he was about to enter I almost got him to stop, I cried “I’ve got a tampon in!” I felt his pause. Then he laughed again, and said he didn’t care. He entered me. Despite the waterlogged tampon in the way he just plugged away. It hurt very much. Sex was painful for weeks after that, but X seemed oblivious as to why my vag might need a @#%ing break. He didn’t apologize that I recall, or bring it up. I certainly didn’t. I kept my head down, worked my two jobs and juggled full time college courses. Dying inside. Being the best girlfriend he didn’t deserve, so that I could protect the life I had built for myself and my daughter.
INCIDENT: Nov 5-19th continuous It began just after election night. I got sick, very sick, while I was at my campus taking one of my classes. X and his kids had to come and pick me up because I wasn’t able to drive. He was very put out about it all, it was an inconvenience to him. I spent the next week with a rising fever, constant vomiting, a headache that’s close cousins with a hatchet, and body aches with chills fit to shatter me apart. I medicated for my symptoms, Tylenol, ibuprofen, all the standard stuff, which of course I had on hand living with an M.D. X kept a pharmacy in his walk in closet and under the sink. I tried to take care of myself, because DR X wanted nothing to do with me.
He felt I was ‘too upset’ about the election. It was nbd that Trump was setting down the path that led to HERE (10/21/2020). This was his justification for ignoring me while I wilted away. Sunday he left me alone, with all three children and informed me that it was my job to supervise them through all their Sunday chores while he was out. Never mind that I wound up chasing those cats until sanity demanded that I take a break from puking so I could do their chores myself. That way X wouldn’t come down on me for them not being done. I don’t know how I did it. He came home at the kids’ bedtime, and didn’t express any concern for me. It was Monday night when I took my temperature, it was 104.4 F.
I knew I was in serious trouble. X was out with his son, and his daughter with her mother, so I called a friend to take me to an urgent care. They transported me to a nearby hospital where I stayed for a week while under treatment for an aggressive kidney infection. It had been difficult to diagnose initially, because of my medical history with kidney infections, I’m generally pretty sure when I have one. But this sneaky bugger was asymptomatic, so I just thought I had a WICKED FLU that I needed to wait out.
X showed up 2x while I was in the hospital. Once the night I was admitted, to bring me a few things (*I think? Can’t really remember what happened that night, I was delirious), he didn’t hang around long. The next time was to pick, me up, the following Friday afternoon. I thought maybe he’d feel badly about how he’d treated me the week before, as I’d been getting sicker. He did initially, I thought. He wanted me to come with him, he said, to a friend’s house for a barbeque.
He’d been invited, and he’d been so busy all week and hadn’t had any time for HIM. “So it would mean so much if we could do this together, baby, please?” It turns out this friend was someone I’d met before, and didn’t have a great relationship with. I’d mostly been able to deescalate and stay chill around this guy, but he’s a real life troll who loves ticking people off, so it was a real struggle. It didn’t help that his relationship with his longtime girlfriend was one of the most obviously abusive relationships I’d ever seen. His name was Greg.
After attempting to get him to go on his own, let me stay home and rest (I was still sick, just well enough finally to leave the hospital). He insisted, he wouldn’t be able to enjoy himself if he went and left me home. It was key for his enjoyment that I be present. I wasn’t sure why at the time. I knew what would happen if I insisted on staying home. He would pout the whole night, and whine about how he couldn’t have any fun because he was busy being the BEST GUY EVER and tolerating my preferences. It would be less trouble I thought, to tolerate Greg for a few hours. Get some ground made up with X, let him know his needs were important to me. He claimed constantly that no one worried about his needs, they just expected him to fill theirs. He had been distant, and cruel. He was being nice to me right then, and I didn’t want it to change. I had felt so alone in the hospital, so ill for so long, I just wanted to be happy with my boyfriend for the time being. So.. off we went to Gregory’s house.
It was a long drive, about 45 minutes. We listened to music and talked about nothing, it was nice. As we were winding the long dirt road that was Greg’s driveway X casually tossed out: “Hey, just so you know, Greg is really happy about the election. Turns out he’s a huge Trump guy.” JUST F#$*ING GREAT
I generally prefer to avoid conflict. Its one of my chief character traits/flaws, and X was in no way ignorant of how stressful I would find this situation. I had brought along a book, and told him I planned to keep to myself and read my book. I wasn’t interested in engaging with Greg this way. But it was too late to back out, the drive was too long and I’d come in X’s car. I was stuck, and he knew it.
Greg started in on me right away. He basically ignored X and focused all his efforts on taunting the SJW snowflake millennial. I tried to ignore his baiting, and be civil, but indicate that I preferred to read my book, not talk about politics. He ignored this and instead grilled my awareness of Alt-right talking points against the Clintons. This went on for hours. I kept my cool for a long time. I tried to argue with facts, and not be diverted by his many attempts to bait me.
In order to gain some brief respite I wound up volunteering to cook dinner for everyone, since Greg’s browbeaten girlfriend couldn’t seem to figure out what would make ‘the men’ happy. She was so relieved when I offered; she scampered off to watch true c rime while I made Sloppy Joes, mac’n cheese, and a Caesar Salad. Greg showed up once the plates hit the table, tucked in and started straight back on politics.
I admit, I knew when I said that Trump’s history as a chauvinist and alleged Rapist made him unfit for office that I would strike a nerve. Turns out it was Greg’s Hulk Button. He literally turned purple defending Trump(?)’s relationships with women. It was at this point that true insults, no longer disguised thinly as jokes began to fly between Greg and I. X NEVER OPENED HIS MOUTH. He just Watched.
After a few moments of escalating screaming, I left Greg’s home and went outside to wait for X, so we could leave. X didn’t come out for almost half an hour. He told me later that he was trying to calm down Greg, he felt bad that I’d upset him.
As we drove off in silence, one question kept coming up in my mind, and finally I asked him: “Why did you want me to come? Didn’t you know this would happen?” “No!” he insisted “I just thought it would be funny, give you a chance to rip into a trump guy, right?” “You know I hate conflict in general, and arguing with stupid people in specific! How could you think this was ok?” I never got an adequate answer from him. He usually claims ignorance of the potential outcome. If that’s true, then he’s a lot less smart than he likes to assert. I spent the next few days resting at home, doing my best to avoid him, and the inevitable conflict that would follow.
INCIDENT: Spring 2017 Another incident with a friend of X’s. His name is Ted. Ted comes over to our house one day and starts playing the Libertarians favorite game: bait the libtard (his words)
I’m trying to be a good hostess, fetching drinks and politely listening to this man explain away societies problems based on his experiences as a ‘self made career military man’. Dude fixes Blackhawk helicopters. He’s in his sixties, I think. X sat there, while Ted talked about the wage gap being a figment of the liberal imagination. Women and men get paid the same for the same work, period. This was his stance, and X replies “Yeah, I don’t know any female Dr’s who make less than me, if they work as hard.”
I was stunned. Not only was this a**hole in my house spouting chauvanist BS--Ugh, sorry, this still steams me up..—X was agreeing with him, supporting his arguments. I was so angry, but felt outnumbered so I opted to retreat. I left the house and went for a cigarette. When I came back Ted was getting on his motorcycle and left. He was so shaken by the whole interaction he wrecked a few miles away, luckily sustaining only minor injuries. I was blamed for this by X. But we didn’t know that Yet.
We began to argue heatedly, I was angry and hurt that he had sided with Ted on this Factually documented issue in our society. When I brought this up, he insisted he was as Woke as Woke Gets, and if I really loved him I would know that of course he supports women’s rights, black rights, trans rights, gay rights.. until one of his friends disagrees. Then his views magically shift to line up with all these right wing conservative libertarian guys, which seemed to compromise about 60% of his friend group.
The fight got more heated. I tried to leave, to cool off, and X insisted I needed to stay, to work things out. We were in our bedroom, and he blocked my access to the door. I was overwrought and coming undone, I wanted nothing more in that moment than to get away from him. He grabs my arms above the elbows and wrestles me to the ground. I writhed, trying to get away. My left elbow was ground into the carpet repeatedly, and I have the scars of blotches on my arm 3 years later where they were skinned.
I was blamed for this. I was blamed for ‘ruining our date night’ because I had an issue with something totally unimportant. I’d over reacted. He convinced me that I had. I could only push so far before the knowledge that my ability to provide a home for my daughter hinged on this relationship working. No way could I afford a place on my own on one salary, let alone one fit to share with my then six year old. We went on our date night that night, a group dinner with many of his friends. He didn’t speak to me the whole evening, barely even on the ride home. That was how he acted after he got his way. To really hammer home that it wasn’t worth it for me to take any issue, with anything he said or did. I think that was the day I realized I had to leave him. It would take time, and I needed a plan.
EXODUS: I spent 2 months looking for a place to live, searching for new jobs, new options. In July I went to a protest on Monument Avenue in Richmond, and there I ran into some old friends, people I hadn’t hung out with since I met X. For the first time in a long time, I was social with someone other than HIS friends, or people at my work or school. I was a very busy person, always going. I’d spent 5 years getting more and more isolated. The floodgates opened, and I told them what was happening. They helped me coordinate, and find a place that I could move to inside of the week. I had a plan; my dad was even flying out to help me move. X still didn’t know.
This was something I struggled with a lot, I felt dishonest, which I suppose is accurate. I lied to him, told him everything was OK. I was withdrawn, and quiet, but mostly focused on not rocking the boat before I could spring my plan into action. I didn’t want to emotionally scar my daughter, so I prepared her, and her father agreed to keep her with him until I made the switch. X was relieved to have time without her around, he didn’t question it.
Just three days before my dad was going to fly in, I was sleeping in my daughter’s bed (for privacy and safety), and was awoken by X, screaming in my face. He’d opened up my phone and gone through my texts, found out what I was planning, and lost his freaking mind. He couldn’t believe that I’d lied to him about wanting to work on our relationship when I was planning to bounce. I told him it was because of this kind of reaction from him that I’d kept the secret. He was flabbergasted, I remember him saying that he –“can’t believe You would ever leave ME, you promised me you’d NEVER leave!”
That really took me aback. I felt a well of guilt, because I HAD promised him that. Then I remembered, I made that promise before he violently raped me. Then I felt less guilt. I told him in no uncertain terms that I was done with him, and he was the reason why. That he’s the demon that haunts my dreams now. When I left following this confrontation, he was throwing my stuff after me, telling me that my life would fall apart without him.
I really wanted him to be wrong. I wish he had been wrong. More than anything, I wish this were the end of the story.
SPIRALLING: For awhile things were ok, I was working multiple jobs, and was able to meet my expenses, and take care of my daughter. The place I was living was 90 min from God and Everywhere, but it was rent free, so that balanced a lot. Then, my health began to spiral. I was in and out of the ER multiple times, and my mental state was beginning to show cracks. Anxiety and depression were ruling my whole life, and I was a wreck. My physical health was what made it all go pear shaped though. I lost two jobs in one week, because of health related issues. I was Fainting, vomiting, etc. It makes you an unreliable employee, dontcha know? So, suddenly money was a serious problem, and the cracks in my mental state turned into the Grand FREAKING Canyon. Straight up, I had a mental breakdown. My best efforts had failed. X had been right. I was a failure. My daughter deserved better than me. At this time she started staying more with her father, and I would visit her there. I didn’t feel capable anymore, I was broken.
Then, there was this day, where my friend had kindly offered to let me stay at his house while I tried to snap myself out of it. I climbed into the shower.. and I didn’t leave it for almost three days. I just cried. Constantly.
In a moment of weakness, I reached out to X, whom I had totally cut off contact with several months before. He was doing great! He’d started going to therapy, and meditating every day. Really ‘worked’ on himself. He seemed like a totally different man than the one I’d left the year before. I began to wonder if I’d made a mistake.
X spent a lot of time with me for the next few weeks, trying to help me put myself back together. I was very near the danger zone… mentally speaking, and I felt a lot of gratitude to him for helping me out of my spiral.
Now, lets fast forward to August 2019. I had moved from my home on the east coast out to AZ to be closer to my dad. My daughter is currently living overseas with her father (who has been supportive throughout this process) and thriving. I am somehow able to better serve her as her mother from a distance, we talk every day, discuss life and difficulties. Its not ideal, but in the times of Covid, I’m just glad that she’s somewhere safe.
Now, this was right after she’d left the country, and the situation was still fresh. I was lonely, and sad. I missed my daughter. I’d had her with me every single day for a year, and suddenly, poof, she’s gone.
X calls me, and says he has plans to go to Dragon Con in Atlanta, just like he and I had done together the last four years. He wants me to go with him. Offers to buy my ticket and take care of the plane, he insisted he wouldn’t have any fun there if I wasn’t with him. I decided that it would be a good distraction, which I needed at that point. I thought, after a full year of weekly therapy and daily meditation and self reflection, as well as many discussions with me regarding the abuse he committed against me while we were together. He seemed to truly have internalized what I’d told him, and done the work to address his behaviors. I felt safe to go. Surely, things would be different now. I feel like such an idiot.
At first, things were mostly ok. We walked around the booths, saw famous people, smoked, and hung out with people that we’d met there over the years. One such man was Justin. I’d only met him one other year, and hadn’t spent much time around him before this. However, this time, he was in the room next door to ours, so the run ins and hang outs were more frequent. He, X and I spent most of the weekend together going around the Con. Saturday night, while riding up the Marriott elevator to our rooms, Justin casually mentioned that if we ever wanted a partner for a 3 way, he would be down.
At first I thought he was joking, and then X looked at me. Grinned and winked. This wouldn’t be a first for us, he has a voyeurism thing, and I have an ‘I like good sex’ thing. We chatted about it briefly before realizing we were all very much down for this. We spent the entire next day and a good chunk of the night in bed. Not gonna go into detail there, sorry.
Ok, I do have to go into some detail, very minor. While the three of us had been mutually involved all day, it turned out that the pairing that ended the session was Justin and I. By the end of it I was so sore, unless you have lady parts I don’t know how to convey how tender and raw my insides felt after this MARATHON session of really lovely sex. Some of it was even with X.
Justin packs up to leave in the morning, the con is over, and the mass exodus of nerds has begun. Our hotel checkout isn’t until the afternoon, X plans to drop me off at the airport before beginning his drive home. Once Justin goes, X tells me that before I leave, he wants us to have sex one more time. I told him I was in too much pain, No. I was pretty firm on that point. He told me that after paying for everything, including my plane home, he wanted to be the last penis inside me, and since it was so important to his emotional state he contended that I should just lay back and think of England. So, that’s exactly what happened. It was excruciating. I thought about it the entire plane ride home. My dad was so mad that I had gone on the trip with X in the first place that he and his wife stopped talking to me when I came back. I mean, they were right. I couldn’t tell them what had happened. It’s my own fault, right? My own shitty judgment.
He didn’t really change. His feelings (a.k.a: dick) were more important than my physical pain.
I don’t know why I didn’t cut him off right then.
We were in contact fairly frequently over the last year. We are not together, but X tries to maintain that connection with me. Saying I’m free to date who I want, obviously, but wait, who are you going out with? Will there be men there? Do they have PENISES??? I’m exaggerating, ok. Let’s just say he was hyper aware of the potential of me meeting someone else. He would talk about the singularness of our love, how nothing else could compare. He constantly brought up the idea that we would end up together, once our kids were grown and his parents die he’s pretty sure that’s all our relationship issues dealt with. I usually responded tepidly. I told him I didn’t think that was likely, that we broke up for damn good reasons. None of that ever stuck to his Teflon brain. I felt like I still needed him. I don’t really get why. Part of it is defiantly medical. I’ve relied on his help for way too long. In a world with unreliable insurance coverage knowing a Dr can save you a pretty penny. But I realized, recently, that knowing him is a stone around my neck. I’ve gone no contact. I hope it’s for the last time.
Unless there is some way for me to force him to face some accountability for this shit, I never want to speak to him again. I thought he’d changed, I thought maybe I’d helped make him a better man. I didn’t, I just made him a better manipulator.
ISMS: X- “The Safest place for you is Right next to Me.” “You know, you take this for granted, but I’m in this because I LOVE you, not because I’m worried about where I’m gonna live, or if I can keep custody of my kids! I’m in this because I Value You.” “WHAT?!-That was Rape??” “There’s nothing stopping you, you just need to try harder (subtext: Be More Like Me)
submitted by Caliponix to sexualassault [link] [comments]

2020.10.14 19:52 Bigplatts Voyeur tv house

Interested in what people here think of this: https://medium.com/@charlieplatts1996/how-tarantino-plays-the-audience-a9ab90647c6 The core thesis is that Tarantino's movies (well, specifically Inglourious Basterds and Once Upon a Time... in Hollywood) aren't 'mindless violence' but are commentaries on violence as well, showing the audience will root for bloody violence, while simultaneously condemning the violent actions happening on screen.
The whole thing is here:
The only way I can put into words what Tarantino is doing in Inglourious Basterds is by describing my first time seeing it. Christmas Day 2009: my family’s ‘Christmas Day film’. I didn’t know who Quentin Tarantino was, but I remembered Basterds advertised as a standard Brad Pitt WW2 shoot-em-up (like Fury would be a few years later). Hyperactive teenage me found himself watching a near three hour long movie, made up mostly of dialogue, heavily subtitled, slow-burn pacing with minimal action scenes: I was agitatedly bored and complained to my family throughout. And then the climax came: theatre burning down, audience in chaos, the Basterds bursting in gunning everyone in sight, Nazis on fire, big explosion finale. My uncle turned to me and said, ‘That enough for you?’ Indeed. That’s what I’d been craving.
Which seems to be the exact response Tarantino is looking to illicit. It’s a sort of trick (or trap). Scenes before, Nazi command watched Nation’s Pride, the fictional Nazi propaganda film, Hitler laughing hysterically at every on-screen kill, and we’re right to think he’s deranged, he deserves what’s coming to him. But minutes later the whole thing is flipped. We’re shown our own propagandist wish fulfilment (the Basterds represent amped-up American bravado). The Jews get their bloody revenge, offing Hitler themselves, denying him his ‘coward’s way out’. But this doesn’t change the fact we’re sat watching, and getting a thrill off of, a scene showing a cinema-full of people being gunned and burned to death. Tarantino has said he swapped the costumes of some of the extras playing Germans stuck in the cinema into everyday modern American clothes. Anyone taking this scene too seriously, as a triumphant ‘win’, is cheering for their side being killed too.
Since the ’90s — specifically: since the six year hiatus that bridged Jackie Brown and Kill Bill — Tarantino has played up to his reputation as maker of violent films. Which makes it easy to forget that the ’90s movies weren’t that violent. Most of the violent stuff happens off-screen: in Reservoir Dogs Mr. Blonde’s killing spree is a non-scene the movie circles around; the camera pans away from him cutting off the cop’s ear. (You’ll see more blood in the average action movie.) Tarantino once said to an interviewer, ‘You don’t go to a Metallica concert and ask them to turn the music down.’ And he’s been very happy to turn the music, in this case the violence, up in his films. Here, have as much as you want!
Online I’ve seen the case made that Basterds’ ending is Tarantino subliminally telling his audience he hates them. Or that they’re as bad as the Nazis, caught up in a hedonic voyeurism by the violent perversions on screen. Both unlikely given Tarantino’s love of violent films. Tarantino’s choice of villains is crucial — Nazis, slave-owners, the Manson family. WW2 is the simplest Good vs Evil narrative of the secular world. No wonder it’s constantly used as background fodder for action movies. We laugh at Hitler’s face being mulched up by bullets — it’s a funny image, and it’s Hitler after all, it’s not like you feel bad for the guy — but we’re still laughing the same way he did a few scenes earlier: laughing at violence because we’re inside a (cultural) narrative that justifies this particular violence. The use of such recognisable, and unquestionable, villains is it means we hardly stop to think about the violence being enacted on them.
Basterds certainly isn’t a ‘message movie’ but there’s more than the details of the plot going on here. (I think) Tarantino’s point is it’s not wrong to enjoy violent movies, but it is wrong to support the violence, to think these movies are more than just entertainment. It’s when that line is crossed that something morphs from entertainment to propaganda, and the audience is complicit in it.
(Tarantino loves to play a ‘switcheroo’ on the audience. E.g. the anti-climax of Kill Bill vol 2 following 1’s hyperviolence. His least interesting films are those that indulge in violence without also acting as a commentary on it; see: Django Unchained.)
Tarantino repeats this even more blatantly in Once Upon a Time… in Hollywood. In scenes placed sporadically throughout the film, and mostly separate from the main Dalton-Booth storyline, we follow Sharon Tate (Margot Robbie), scenes showing her getting on with life and enjoying herself. On first viewing these scenes can’t help but stand as omens reminding us of what is coming.
Besides the last scene, and a brutal beating earlier at the Manson Family ranch, there isn’t much violence. It’s a buddy movie, a love letter to filmmaking and Old Hollywood, the most carefully paced Tarantino film since Jackie Brown.
When Hollywood’s premise was first revealed many fans guessed Tate would be the one to kill the Manson Family members who killed her in real life — continuing the trend of historical characters or groups getting their fictional revenge, like in Basterds and Django. But in the film the real timeline is diverted when members of the Family decide they will kill Dalton, and whoever else is in his house, instead, having come to the realisation that their generation is so fucked up and violent because of actors like Dalton glorifying violence on TV and making it look cool.
The final stretch of the film begins with a TV presenter saying (to no one in particular, and so to us), ‘And now, what you’ve been waiting for.’ Which is of course a violent finale. And Tarantino delivers. This last scene, with an acid-tripping Brad Pitt and (crucially) his pet pit bull, is among the best scenes of cinema violence ever. It’s pure unadulterated fun. Dalton finishes things off with a flamethrower from one of his movies, aligning fiction and reality. The movie was a WW2 flick where Dalton burns a room full of Nazis: the clip of it we see earlier brings Basterds to mind, making Dalton, the actor warned about being typecast in violent, villainous roles, a stand-in for Tarantino, for whom the violence of his movies has always overshadowed everything else. But it’s not Dalton who’s the villain for playing violent characters on screen, it’s the Mansons for taking them too damn seriously. In both Basterds and Hollywood the people who take the movies too seriously are killed violently. Fictional violence ‘defeating’ the real violence.
Afterwards, Dalton goes round to meet Sharon and her guests. The title comes on screen, a big What if? — Tarantino has given us another image of filmic wish fulfilment. It’s a twisted fantasy, sure, but certainly better than the reality. It’s a happy alternate reality where Tate gets to live and have her child and keep making movies. Of course it can’t help being bittersweet, because it underlines what unalterably happened. Some critics and viewers criticised the film for using Tate merely as a plot device; she has few lines of dialogue throughout, making her seem like little but a tease for the ending. But then Tarantino doesn’t even give her her bloody revenge. He has her go to parties, go to the cinema and watch her own movie with a cheering audience, dance round the house. Even if it’s just fantasy, we’re here for fantasy anyway so here’s a nice one. But Tarantino gives us the gorefest too — because he knows us, knows we’re all too bloodthirsty and jaded and ADD to accept a movie just about an innocent woman getting to enjoy her life; and he was right, most people ignore that part of the film entirely, or think it’s pointless or unneeded, filler on the way to the good stuff, and he puts the two side by side to prove it.
submitted by Bigplatts to TrueFilm [link] [comments]

2020.09.01 20:13 MikeJesus Voyeur house tv

I studied the VHS tape. It was one of those pop-in shells, the ones that have an open slot in the center where you can throw in a camera cartridge and watch your home movies without having to process them at a film store. It was exactly what I was looking for.
“Any idea where this came from?” I asked.
“No,” The man replied, wiping away about a quarter of the sweat that had gathered in his beard. The rest of it kept dripping on the remainder of his strange wares. He watched me with utter disdain, but I gave it another shot-
“Really? Where did you find it? Like, c’mon, a little bit of a background would be nice.”
“It’s not a boutique buddy, you’re at a flea market. You either buy it or you can fuck off. Too hot to deal with this detective shit,” he said, but then, probably because I was the only customer at his stall, his tone softened. “Got it from a storage unit auction. That’s all I can tell ya. Don’t keep track of this shit, I just sell it.”
That’s all the information I needed. I paid the man and took my mysterious prize home.
Back in the early 2000s I consumed YouTube vlogs like they were fine caviar and I was a Russian oligarch. There was just something about being able to kick back and become an invisible observer in someone else’s existence that really got to me. Don’t get me wrong, I wasn’t some desperate basement dweller, I still had a functioning life of my own, but when evening came and all of my responsibilities were checked off, I’d jump behind my computer desk and take a break from reality.
I’d sit back and watch hours upon hours of other people’s lives. I watched a lonely man beat cancer, a promising student struggle with pills, a teen mother who cracked under the pressure of her new responsibilities. I watched people overcome and spiral and regress, I watched slices of raw humanity from all across the globe from the comfort of my own home. I got to get a taste of fates I never would have considered otherwise; a bunch of people speaking to inanimate objects reminded me that the world outside was vaster than I ever could conceive.
Then the Internet money rolled in and ruined it all. As soon as the people bearing their soul into the camera lens realized they could get paid all of the honesty seeped out of their videos. They built up the drama to get more views, they started hiring editors to make them look good, they started to advertise products that no one really needed. Whatever bond I felt to the lives that I have observed for so many years was broken. That rawness of human stories that I craved was gone.
But I still craved it.
That’s when I started going to flea markets and buying abandoned home movies.
What I found on those assorted VHS tapes and unlabeled DVDs was much better than anything I could hope for with YouTube. These people acted completely naturally, the awkward pauses, the obvious annoyances, the grumpy people who didn’t want to be on tape, it all made it so much easier to imagine that I was there. The fact that they didn’t know I was watching made all the difference.
Voyeurism. I know. That’s what my girlfriend called it. She’s my wife now, and she still calls it that, but what is marriage if not a descent into accepting your partner’s quirks? She treats the dog like she’s our daughter, and unless she starts breast-feeding you won’t hear me complain. My flea market bargain trips usually get an eye roll out of her, but there was never any yelling involved.
As I pulled up the driveway, however, Laura was waving her arms around, yelling.
“Three hours? Are you serious Ryan? Three hours out of the city for some stupid tapes?” Betty obediently stood by her, gazing up at her as if she was some Greek goddess. Her little sausage tail wagged a bit when she saw me walk up the porch but after a quick glance she shook her head and looked back up at my wife. I was just a background character in that dog’s life.
I could have told Laura that all the markets around the city limits were tapped out, that any unmarked tapes I could find around town usually ended up being recordings of movies from television with the advertisements still kept in. But I didn’t. This wasn’t about the tapes. “What’s wrong?” I asked.
“There’s something broken in Betty’s neck. I need to take her to the vet. I need to take her to the vet and my husband decides to drive out to some corn-field and look for porn,” Laura hissed. The dog shook her head again. And again.
“The tapes aren’t porn. They’re –“ Echoes of the therapist we stopped going to bounced around my skull. This was not the time nor place for that argument. “–Something else wrong?”
“I can’t find her passport. Every other bit of documentation I have, but I’ve looked all around the house and I can’t find her passport.” Laura’s anger gave way to fear. The dog shook its head again. “See? Look! There’s something wrong with her neck!”
I was going to ask her why the hell she thought she needed the dog’s passport for a vet check, but I didn’t. I just shrugged. “Haven’t seen it.”
“Well, I hope they take us without it,” she said, as if the chance for Betty’s neck getting checked out without travel documents was slim to none, “I’ll call you when I know what’s wrong. Can you do the laundry? Left the whites by the machine. Just need to put them in.”
Laura made her way to the car with the dog. Betty shook her head again. “God, I hope you’re okay,” Laura whispered to her pet. “I’ll need a glass of wine when we come back,” she said to me.
My wife and her dog drove off.
I was just about to close the washing machine when I noticed a pair of my red boxers peeking out from the pile of whites. When I took them out I noticed Laura’s blue university tee shirt. In my haste to get to my mysterious tape I didn’t check if the laundry was sorted. It wasn’t.
The sorting couldn’t have taken longer than two minutes, and for thirty seconds I tried, but my eyes quickly drifted to the television in the corner of the basement. The prospect of sorting through my dirty laundry instead of indulging in someone else’s seemed like torture. I’d turn on the tape. Just to get a glimpse of what I was getting into. Then I’d go and do that thing my wife told me to do.
Within seconds of turning on the VCR I knew I wasn’t going anywhere. The tape was exactly what I was craving.
The timestamp in the lower right corner read June 14th, 1994. We were inside of a fancy house, nice marble staircases and oil paintings of mildly inbred aristocrats filled the screen as the camera shook and bobbed around the wedding reception. Whoever was behind the lens had no idea what they were doing, the zoom and shake of the video made it barely watchable. It was perfect. I could imagine standing there, among the fancily dressed guests, watching someone swing around a hulking piece of Sony in utter confusion.
A group of children wearing miniature suits and dresses ran by the camera. The boys made faces and giggled. One girl in a yellow dress waved to the lens.
“Jesus Jessica, where were you? I’ve been looking for you!” a hushed female whisper cut through the hubbub of the reception. I jumped for my remote to turn up the volume.
“I’m just recordin’ stuff, Mary said she wanted a video of today,” Jessica replied as she zoomed in on a very old man staring out into the ether.
“Well there’s a problem.” The other voice hissed.
“What’s wrong?” The crowd walked around the old man like he didn’t exist. Jessica swung the camera at a particularly uninteresting part of the carpet.
“Mary’s ex is here, he’s freaking out at the gate demanding they let him in.”
“Is it Todd?” Jessica pronounced the word Todd with the same intonation one would pronounce terminal cancer.
“I think so.” The other voice whispered.
For a split second I saw a pair of nervously clasped hands against a bright blue dress, but then the video cut out.
Complete darkness.
I ignored it and stared at the screen, hoping that another part of the story would flicker into existence. After a couple waves of static, it did.
A courtyard with a view of a stunning mountain range, in it, a bride and groom – The woman, a Venus of the 90s, the man, a chiseled jawline with too much gel in his hair, they were smiling at each other, but the camera was too far off to tell whether those smiles were genuine. In front of the possibly happy couple was an array of wooden chairs seating the guests of the wedding. Beneath their feet, a sea of sparkling calm gently swayed. A layer of crystal glass divided the family and friends from the pool below them.
A man next to the camera kept on coughing. Someone next to him whispered something, but that didn’t stop the coughs. The couple kept on looking at each other.
Then the video cut out.
The darkness of the screen dragged on, for a split second I even considered getting the laundry out of the way, but just as I was about to reach into the washing machine for Laura’s orange stocking another image crackled to life on the screen.
We were back in the courtyard but it was in a considerably worse state. Cigarette stubs peeked out of the once impressive stone floor, empty and sometimes broken bottles were all over the place and where there was once a sea of calm there was now the shell of a pool filled with broken furniture. Even smashed up with rough axe cuts the dressers and chairs still looked expensive. It was evening, August 19th 2002 and the groom from eight years ago was wearing a dirty pink bathrobe.
The man aged a couple of decades; his hair was gathered around his shoulders in thick greasy clumps, a patchy beard of graying hair now covered his chiseled jawline. “You really hurt me,” he said. A cigarette hissed in his mouth and a controlled madness burnt in his eyes.
“You changed me. I used to like people. I used to want to do some good in this world. I could have done some good in this world.” The man bent down and produced a bottle off the floor. “But you hurt me. You hurt me so bad I just want to see everything burn.”
The man continued ranting and raving, but as he walked away from the camera his words fell to a static filled whisper. I turned up the volume as loud as it would go but the only thing I could hear was the chirping of crickets intercut by a steady bassy tone. Out in the mountains beyond the courtyard there was a grouping of lit up tents. A man was going quietly insane in a fancy house as people across the valley indulged in cheery techno music.
I was watching someone go insane on a summer evening. The tape was better than anything I could have hoped for.
The man in the bathrobe took a pull from the bottle, recoiled and then smashed the thing against the mountain of furniture stacked in the pool. He screamed. I heard that part.
“You ever talk about fire with Todd? Ever talk about how much you wouldn’t want to burn alive?” The man was back in front of the camera now. He was swaying from side to side, clearly off balance from whatever was in that bottle. “Of course you don’t. All you two talk about is vapid bullshit; all you do is waste your stupid lives, stuck in meaningless gossip that doesn’t matter. But you know what? YOU KNOW WHAT?!”
The man paused. A gentle gust of wind blew his filthy bathrobe apart, revealing far too much of his malnourished body. For a second he tried to pull the flimsy bit of pink cloth back around his jagged ribcage but with a frustrated sigh he gave up on his drunken hands.
Memories of wasted nights in high school filled my head. I remember how the world spun, how impossibly bright and quick all the headlights were as I stumbled my way back home, how difficult it was to stand upright with my blood full of booze. Once the body is so far off in the deep end of the whiskey pool there’s only one way to momentarily regain balance.
The man on the television squished his face into an effort filled wink. For a blink I was standing there, in his ratty flip-flops, watching the triple vision of the world focus into a singular blurry image.
“I love you,” he mumbled to himself. He tore his eye away from the camera and stared down at his dying cigarette. “I love you…. I love – but I won’t love you for long! No! I won’t! Because I’ll be dead! And you’ll be dead! And he’ll be dead! The world will burn!”
The man reached behind the camera and produced another cigarette, but he didn’t light it. He studied the stick of tobacco for a bit and then put it behind his ear. “How much do you know about fire?” he asked, reaching down. “You don’t know shit about fire,” he hissed, as he reemerged off-screen with a jerry can.
“I’ve been reading my great uncle’s books. They say old Vernerzeig was mad, but could a madman build all of this? Could a madman create an empire out of nothing? Could a madman-“ he spilled a bit of the gasoline out of the can as he waved around his arms. This calmed him down somewhat. The madman’s voice dropped to a whisper, the music across the valley slowed down to a steady low heartbeat. “I’ve been reading Vernerzeig’s books, and I know more about fire than your feeble mind ever could,” he started.
The words that the man spoke came out in a controlled whisper, but the ideas that lingered in his monologue flickered with madness. Fire was not a tool that humanity discovered, it was a portal to another realm that our primitive ancestors had stumbled upon and were too simple to comprehend. He spoke of flames as if they were hands, as if the flashes of chemical energy that burst out of a bonfire were fingers from a different world that were desperately trying to claw themselves into our realm.
“My uncle warned of the power that exists in the fire. He spoke of Alexandria, of Peshtigo, of Bois Du Cazier, of fires that ravaged humanity, but he spoke of them as if they were mistakes. As if we were lucky that the flames were put out. He was wrong. The man was a genius, but in this one essential thing he faltered. Each time that the burning God emerged humanity was given a chance at becoming pure and they spit out the embers of freedom. Every time that the burning God’s arrival was postponed it was a tragedy. But even that tragedy can be brought to rest.”
He went over to the pool and started pouring gasoline on the broken down furniture. As he poured he spoke, but he was too far away from the camera’s microphone. The music across the valley started to grow in tempo. The man started to punctuate his inaudible rant with manic shouts. “I WILL SUMMON HIM!” he shouted. With the techno music playing in the background he sounded like a misguided DJ, trying to hype up a tired dive-bar. After the can ran dry he produced another one and resumed pouring and rambling. The man might have emptied out his pool and filled it with chopped up furniture, but he was far off in the deep end.
Less than half a year after I got out of university I also got out of my first real relationship – five years of raw connection in the trash and unemployment to boot. I was desperate for any form of affirmation in my life. I bought dozens of pick-up artist books that offered to teach me the secret to making women want to sleep with me. Watching that broken man pour gasoline all over the antique furniture a part of me felt his pain. It’s not that difficult to fall for a cult when your heart is broken.
I barely looked away from the television. The man in the bathrobe was done with the pouring. He was back in front of the camera now. A cigarette dangled from his lips.
He was thinking. Fear broke through the mania in his eyes. He turned around and looked at the festival across the valley. The sun had set by then but bright lights flashed across the darkening sky from the music-filled tents. The man let out a desperate groan. For a second it looked as if he would walk away from the fire-to-be, as if he would give up on whatever ritual he was trying to perform, but before he could give up his right hand flew through the air.
He slapped himself, dropping his cigarette. After he picked it up he slapped himself again. “I WILL SUMMON HIM!” he screamed at the camera as he lit up his smoke, “AND HE WILL BURN THE WORLD!”
He took one long puff of his cigarette and threw it into the pool.
For a moment he simply stood there, a man in a filthy bathrobe with dark mountains stretched out before him. He looked at peace.
Whooosh! BOOM!
He screamed. He screamed in a way that I didn’t think was possible for a grown man to scream. He screamed and ran through the courtyard, burning. He spun in place like a wounded animal, shedding his bathrobe, but as the flames behind him started to consume the furniture his body propelled him away from the inferno. Screeching and limping the man ran towards the camera.
He knocked it over in his escape, but it kept recording. The fire soon drowned his agonizing cries out. Only his burning bathrobe remained.
Out across the valley the tents lit up with another color; a flashing of blue and red. For a couple beats of the far off techno I could see the siren lights traveling down the mountain road, but the flames quickly cut off my line of sight.
My phone dinged, again. I didn’t look at it. I was so enthralled in the video that I had started chewing on my shirt collar. Haven’t done that since I was eight.
The flames reached out into the night sky like clawed fingers. They grasped at oxygen, growing, roaring, demanding more. The fire spread throughout the screen. I tilted my head sideways to see better. The inferno beckoned to me.
I was on my feet staring into the television. It was as if the fire was calling for me, pulling me in, demanding that I join it in that crackling universe of energy. In the cool air of my basement I felt warmth. I reached out for the television.
“You should have seen the size of the thing they pulled out of her ear! We need to be careful when we let her run in the – Ryan? Ryan what are you doing?” Laura stood on the stairs. Betty squeezed herself past and gave my calf a lick before jumping on the couch.
“I was uh-“ my eyes shifted towards the open washing machine. Her gaze followed mine.
“You didn’t do the laundry. Great. Absolutely great. Come on Ryan, we talked about this. I don’t ask for a lot I just want –“ it took me a second to realize she stopped talking. As she spoke my eyes drifted back towards the screen.
Out in that burning hellscape I could see something move. I could see a beak. Two orbs of blue flame stared back at me. I tore my attention away from the eldritch god and back towards my wife, “Sorry.”
“What are you watching?” She walked down the last couple of steps with a controlled anger that cracked as soon as she saw what was on the television, “Jesus Christ Ryan! What the hell are you watching?”
“It’s, uh – some guy was going through a bad divorce, I think, so he tried to set the world on fire. Burned himself in the process and now there’s –“
As hot as the inferno on the screen was, her icy stare cut through me. She inhaled sharply, turning her words into cold steel, “That shit belongs in an evidence locker. Not our house.” Laura stomped her way up the stairs, with Betty barely making it past the door before she slammed it.
I turned my attention back towards the screen. Whatever presence I saw hiding in that fire was gone now. The flames still tore through the sky with animalistic fervor but the beast’s eyes were gone. The fire roared on for a couple of minutes until it’s thunderous cry turned into a hiss.
A burst of water was softening the flames. Soon enough firefighters were talking about how they wished they could have stayed at the festival. As they sprayed water over the gasoline filled pool one of them proceeded to give a five-paragraph essay’s worth of description of a redhead bartender he once saw in the 90s.
I thought about rewinding the tape, about going back to that moment when I saw those burning balls of light hiding in a storm of bristling energy, but I decided against it. Upstairs I could hear a cork get angrily pulled out of a wine bottle. I sorted through the washing machine, turned it on and went to get a wine glass.
“I’m sorry,” I said.
She was on the porch, puffing on a cigarette with one hand and scratching Betty behind the ear with the other. She didn’t look at me as she spoke. “You can’t keep on doing this Ryan. This isn’t about the laundry; this is about you not being reliable. You can’t just drop everything to indulge in your voyeurism.”
I tried to remember all three parts of the three-part apology thing that our therapist kept on rambling about back in the day. “I’m sorry for not being reliable and sometimes acting like a child, I’ll try to do better next time.” Her lack of yelling made me reconsider therapy for a split second. “So, Betty okay now?”
The dog wagged her tail at the mention of her name.
“Oh yeah, she was a real trooper. Held still for the doc, shook a bit, but didn’t move her head at all. Everyone in the lobby kept on saying how cute she is!”
Asking about Betty would always get Laura talking.
We finished off the bottle of wine, watched some shitty reality TV show, made love and now Laura is sleeping on my chest. Betty’s curled up by our feet and seems to be having a dream that involves a lot of biting and running. There’s a nice summer breeze outside.
I should be sleeping.
The thought of going back to the basement and rewinding the tape was there as soon as we finished the wine, but Laura wanted to watch some scripted reality TV show about hot people looking for love on a beach and I figured I’d be a good partner and indulge with her. The question of the sentient inferno disappeared during our own little fiery bout of passion, but now that we’re post-coital and cuddled up, I can’t let go of the memory of those hungry claws.
She’s a light sleeper, so if I move she’ll wake up and be disappointed. And I don’t want to disappoint her, she might have a weird relationship with the dog and a horrible taste in entertainment, but I’d probably be burning furniture without her. Maybe she’s right. Maybe the video does belong in some evidence locker instead of our basement.
All of this is bouncing around my head and I can’t get any sleep, so I figured I’d come to this little insomniac corner of the internet and vent for a bit. I’m torn between the mystery of what that desperate man brought into our world and being a decent husband.
My wife just mumbled something about how I should go to sleep.
I think the light from my phone is keeping her up.
I think I should just go to sleep.

(A shared smouldering universe)
submitted by MikeJesus to nosleep [link] [comments]

2020.08.26 22:15 RTKGuy Voyeur tv house

Stepping out of the cabin for the first time in days felt like an act of pure freedom, as if I’d been given an extension on my lifespan. That feeling faded quickly as I took in the shadowed land. The pale moonlight lit up the treetops but it mostly created more dark spots than it dispelled. Theo had stepped out with me, totally at ease with circumstances despite the fact that we were very clearly all alone. I then picked up on a distant whining sound coming from above us. I looked about and spotted a green light centered within a dark insectile silhouette. Theo pointed to it and said, “Third Eye. It’s keeping watch on us. It’s how I know we’re safe for now.”
So we had a drone escorting us. I can’t say I was happy about that. I’d rather have a dozen soldiers keeping us safe than a drone that did nothing but watch us. Still, considering that someone had bothered to show up at all, griping felt like an act of ingratitude.
Theo began leading us through the gloom of the forest, flashlights on and probing the woods around us, heading steadily downward toward what I hoped was a throng of well-armed Locust-killing badasses. I knew the drill – follow his lead, no talking. I couldn’t help but feel anxious as we passed large patches of bramble and thick copses of trees. Yet the night air did smell wonderful and felt even better after all that time cooped up. After a time my anxiety diminished to a dull fear, where every step we made took me further away from the nightmare my life had become. After walking for close to an hour without any incidents, I gave myself permission to feel something like hope again.
That was also the point when I spotted lights through the foliage. Theo pointed to them and said, “Just through those trees.” I was picturing something out of the TV show M.A.S.H., a sea of green military tents and combat vehicles with men marching about. Why else had the MLs taken off if not out of fear of an army?
Then we came through the trees and… M.A.S.H. it was not. It was no army camp, that was for sure. There was a solitary vehicle parked on a dirt road that I would have classified as the offspring of a large RV and an armored personnel carrier, surrounded by a ring of blue-tingled floodlights. Clearly designed as an all-terrain vehicle, it was fashioned with six huge tires that came up to my chest. I got the impression that this thing was designed to take all the trappings of modern living with you while you went sightseeing in war zones and wastelands.
“So… no soldiers?” I remarked, unable to contain my disappointment any longer.
Theo stopped and gave me a sympathetic smile. “Yeah, we’re not exactly the cavalry. But trust me when I say that this is the safest place for miles around.” Oh, I definitely trusted him about that, but I still wanted a platoon standing between the monsters and me.
Our drone tagalong settled into a slow circle around the vehicle as we approached the camp. There were no guards to greet us, just the omnipresent blue glow enveloping the site. Theo walked right up a nearby metal ramp and knocked three times on a steel door on the side of the vehicle. The door unlatched and opened, and a man of light skin and light build greeted him, a tired expression on his face. This new man gave Theo a quick hello and then looked at me, scratching his shaggy brown hair as he scrutinized me.
“Unbelievable,” he muttered. Then he looked at Theo. “You owe me fifty bucks.”
“I know, man,” replied Theo. “You’ll have to wait ‘till payday, though. Too many wild nights.”
This apparently struck them as funny as they laughed and gave each other a quick fist bump. Theo looked back at me and pointed at the other guy. “This is Abbott. If he gives you a hard time, let me know and I’ll set him straight.”
Theo moved past him and into the vehicle. Theo came out to greet me with a handshake. Unlike Theo, he was wearing civilian clothing, and his Hawaiian shirt was especially loud and colorful. “I guess you were expecting a more professional outfit, huh?”
“I… was expecting a lot of things,” I said.
Abbott had a disarming smile, and despite the lack of firepower around me I felt oddly at ease. “Welcome to the Oasis,” he said, waving at the vehicle. “It’s 100% Locust-proof, even when parked. The lights are just our first line of defense. But just in case, let’s continue this conversation inside.”
The interior continued the theme of some wild engineer’s fantasy to combine living quarters with military preparedness. The back half contained a cramped kitchen, bunk-bed section, and lockers for supplies and personal effects. I figured a bathroom was somewhere in there too. The front half was full of logistical equipment, the crown jewel being the desk with six separate LCD monitors sporting all kinds of video footage, charts, tables, and graphs. Most of the gear was bolted down in one fashion or another. No wasted space and no windows, and little in the way of decoration. I started to feel like I had traded on survivalist shelter for another. I immediately missed the cold air of the outside, and there was a certain pervasive odor wrinkling my nose, the kind of sweat stink that comes from perspiring people stuck together in close quarters for a long time. Complaints aside, I did feel safe again, and considering that I hadn’t felt that way in days it was the best gift this group could’ve given me.
Abbott was busy sealing the main door while Theo relaxed in the kitchen area, putting up his feet and downing a bottle of water. I was about to ask if there was only the two of them when I almost stepped on the third member of their team, lying prone on the floor halfway into a compartment positioned under the computer desk. At first I could only see green pants and a pair of boots, but the body quickly crawled back out. She didn’t notice me as she moved to stand, holding what appeared to be a mousetrap with a very-dead mouse stuck to it. She also shared Abbott’s disdain for uniforms as she wore a blue tank top and a multicolored beaded necklace, topped off with long brown hair streaked with bright strands of lavender.
“Third one in a week,” she said absently, her pleasant voice unable to mask her disgust at the dead thing in her hands. “You’d think a vehicle that’s Locust-proof would be rodent-proof as well.” She then noticed me at last with a start, and I realized how young she really was, no more than twenty. Thanks to Madison, I had carried this idea that Wranglers were old veterans with scars and wrinkles. It hadn’t occurred to me that there might be younger blood in the ranks.
“Oh, sorry,” she said. “I knew you were coming, but I didn’t think you’d get here this quickly.” She walked over to a sealed metal garbage can, opened it, and deposited the dead rat. I caught a whiff of strong decay from the container – it was where the rodent corpses abided.
Abbott came to my side and pointed at the third member of their party. “This is Lazlo. She takes care of tech and pests.”
“Still can’t get rid of you, though,” Lazlo joked at Abbott, resealing the can. She made to shake my hand, then realized it was the hand that had been holding the mouse, so she detoured to get a sanitation wipe.
“So, up for a debriefing?” Abbott asked me. “Any information you could give us might be helpful here.”
“Abbott, give the guy a break,” chimed in Theo. “He’s been stuck in a basement for two weeks.”
Abbott frowned and looked Theo’s way. “We don’t have time for him to detox, Theo.”
“You can give him hospitality, though,” said Lazlo. She held a water bottle and a protein bar and offered them my way. I took the water bottle and drank deeply of it.
“I’m up for it,” I said. That wasn’t bravado on my part. I was too wound up by my rescue to sleep. “Do I get to ask questions too?”
“In time,” Abbott said, and then glanced at Lazlo. “What’s Third Eye saying?”
“Pack’s still in the trees,” she replied. “When they come out, we’ll lock on again, but it’s been three hours since they went in there. We’ll need to send a replacement soon for Voyeur Two.”
I had no idea what any of that meant, but thankfully Lazlo noticed my confusion. “Third Eye is our drone system specially tailored to monitor Meat Locusts,” she explained. “The bastards don’t have much of a thermal reading, so we use a program designed to detect their shape and movement style. It’s a good thing they’re so identical.”
Abbott frowned at her. “Laz, it’s my job to spill our secrets. Go monitor the situation and tell me if anything changes.” She rolled her eyes and sat down at the computer desk with exaggerated exasperation.
Abbott turned to me and motioned at a pair of folding chairs. As we took our seats, Theo came over and leaned on a wall near us. He must have wanted to hear my tale. Lazlo was also sneaking glances my direction.
“Forgive me, and us, if we’re a little rusty on interpersonal skills,” said Abbott. “We’ve been doing our own thing for some time.”
“No problem,” I said. “I must admit, I thought all you Wranglers were the lone wolf hunter types.”
“Many are,” he admitted. “Some of us do things different.”
“We fight monsters with science,” Lazlo commented in a singsong voice.
“Pretty much true,” Abbott confirmed. “I think you deserve to know that we weren’t here for you specifically, Hector. I did make a promise to Madison that if the opportunity availed us we would search the area you were last seen in, but only if it didn’t jeopardize our bigger priorities. It just so happens that the pack we’re pursuing came your direction. For what it’s worth, Madison painted you as a potential survivor, which is why I made my bet with Theo.”
“I usually win these bets,” chimed in Theo.
“Madison saved my ass,” I told them. “I’m no survivalist.”
Abbott showed a thin smile. “Hector, the MLs dine on survivalists regularly. Nobody does well against these things unless they’re willing to change paradigms. You did, and here you are.”
There was definitely charm to the guy, and he made me feel like one of the gang despite the fact that I’d just met them. “So how is Madison? She’s okay, right?
Lazlo practically flew over to us as I finished my question, holding an I-Pad in front of me as she scrolled through a series of pictures at lightning speed. With a wide smile she finally stopped at a photo showing a hospital room with a supremely annoyed occupant in a hospital bed looking at the camera and scowling. I found myself laughing, mostly out of relief, with Lazlo joining me in the mirth of the moment.
“I don’t think I’ve ever met a person more angry at getting photographed than Madison,” said Lazlo. “This picture is from three days ago.”
“She suffered a pretty bad abdominal wound and major blood loss,” added Abbott. “She’s a tough one, though. Always has been. Doctors want her in the hospital for another week. We’ll see who wins that battle.”
“Sounds like you know here pretty well,” I said.
Abbott shrugged. “We have… conferences of sorts. Meetings where Wranglers get together to share data and techniques. We’ve talked. Can’t say we see eye-to-eye on much. She’s old-school and I’m the opposite. But she did contact me after she regained consciousness. By then, Crusoe was almost a week into its ML infestation.”
“God damn monsters,” spat out Theo.
“The MLs?” I asked.
“The government,” he clarified. “They should’ve contacted us on Day One. They let this thing go on for six days before they got other Wranglers involved.”
“How many of you are here?” I asked.
“Besides us three, there’s two others back in town,” Theo replied. “They’re in an advisory role, making sure the police and the National Guard know what they’re up against.”
I didn’t really want to know the answer to the question I was about to ask, but I asked it nonetheless. “So how bad is it?”
The three of them exchanged looks, probably trying to decide who gets to tell me the news. Abbott was ultimately overpowered by the stares of the other two. After all, he was the one in charge. He sighed helplessly.
“I’ll make you a deal, Hector,” he said. “We do have a ongoing situation, and I need your intel more than you need mine. You give me your gory story, and I’ll answer every Locust-related question you want to ask afterwards.”
“He means it, too,” said Lazlo. “He loves the sound of his voice.”
“It’s the only voice here that doesn’t give me a headache,” he joked back. The others laughed, and I admit that I laughed with them. I certainly could think of worse fates than being stuck with these three. At least we all knew how to laugh. I don’t know if laughter is, in fact, the best medicine, but it does help to shield one from the horrors.
So I told them all of it. My stupid and heroic trek to save my ex-girlfriend, the horror and carnage I encountered, my fateful meeting with Madison, and our ensuing attempt to reach safety. I half-expected to bore my listeners, considering how much more massive their experience was to mine concerning the Meat Locusts, but all three of them seemed attentive to my story. Perhaps they were starved of alternative viewpoints – I would learn later that all three of them had spent a rather inordinate amount of time together in distant locations, bereft of human culture and contact. They might have been socially starved. Then again, it might have been intelligence gathering. Lazlo zeroed in on the effectiveness of the flash balls, while Theo critiqued Madison’s hunting strategy. Abbott just took it all in, never giving away any preference or interest in any one piece of data I reported.
I talked for a long time, and when I was done I felt drained, as if telling my story had released all the tension bottled up inside me. Despite my growing fatigue, I resisted asking for a bunk. I told Abbott to start in on his part of the deal. Abbott happily obliged. Abbott asked me where I wanted to start, and I told him to tell me about his group. In particular, how was it that Madison was so starved for support and equipment while Abbott’s team seemed to have Batman levels of tech and preparation. Abbott confessed that he was, in fact, cheating when it came to funding. In fact, what he was doing was technically illegal. Abbott was actually a professor; Doctor Ben Abbott from Yale, out on a very long sabbatical. Some funding came from the college, which Abbott routinely fed extremely long and detailed research reports that would eventually be publicly disclosed once the government could no longer keep the MLs a secret… which, considering recent events, was about to occur. He also had a business deal with a gun manufacturer who fed Abbott money through a few off-shore accounts, on the grounds that once the MLs went public, they’d be positioned to sell specialized equipment to a now-paranoid public and, pardon the pun, make a killing. Abbott figured that at least a few government officials knew about his alternate funding arrangements, but as long as he produced results and didn’t cross any lines they looked the other way. I can’t say I approved of all that under-the-table dealing, but as Abbott put it, having the funding to properly study the MLs was paying off in spades. His group’s research was helping other Wranglers track and kill MLs far more effectively than before, which meant more lives getting saved in the process.
Yes, Abbott’s group was mostly about research. Before Crusoe, they were stationed in the Midwest, following packs that kept to the flyover parts of America. With fewer people in harm’s way, the team had more time to track and monitor the monsters’ behavior and patterns. The isolation also helped to keep their work hidden from prying eyes and social media. Abbott and Lazlo did most of the scientific work, while Theo was in charge of defense and hunting.
“Don’t you get bored working with researchers?” I asked Theo at one point.
He laughed lightly at my question and said, “Pal, keeping these two alive is a full-time job. Boredom doesn’t enter into it.”
Indeed, researching the MLs meant getting uncomfortably close to them frequently. The team also took out packs heading for human habitations. Theo boasted that they had one of the highest kill rates of any Wrangler team, though he grudgingly confessed that Madison had the highest individual total.
“That’s why were out here and not on defense,” Abbott told me. “The behavior we’re seeing now from the MLs is… well, I think word unprecedented gets way overused these days, but it’s definitely appropriate here. They’ve got enough guns for Crusoe. What they need is intelligence. That’s where we come in.”
And just like that, we had segued into the Crusoe infestation. An infestation is what Wranglers called it when a pack of MLs takes an interest in a particular human settlement. Most of the time it was a small town or village, sometimes a campground or resort. The little monsters would attack people on the very outskirts, slaughtering a group of campers or an entire household in the wilderness, then run off to expand their numbers. When enough humans were present, MLs had a tendency to get into a feeding frenzy and lose any sense of cover and furtiveness. It made them easy to pinpoint – just follow the carnage and you’d find them eventually. Infestations rarely got past the remote-kill stage before a Wrangler caught wind of their killings and went in to clean things up.
This time was different. They were using hit-and-run tactics against one or two individuals, dragging the victims away instead of eating them right then and there. They were letting their victims call for help before killing them, causing family members, friends, and would-be rescuers such as the police to go out and find them, only for some of them to go missing or become victims themselves. It had gotten bad enough that the state government was now frantically urging people to not leave Crusoe’s city limits, and that anyone who did was on their own. The current casualty total was at twenty-seven dead and forty-seven missing, some of whom were police and emergency responders.
“That’s just the ones we know about,” Lazlo had commented. “People on vacation, loggers and road workers, transients and homeless folks, thrill seekers wanting to see the mess for themselves – I’m sure there’s more than a few of them that have become Locust chow.”
“Every person the MLs take down can feed at least eight of them,” said Abbott. “We used to take it for granted that they were too sloppy and impatient to pull off a more methodical strategy, but here they are, doing it. They’re avoiding armed confrontation, choosing to pick off the weaker elements of the town and then run off to bud. I think you see the problem, Hector.”
I nodded, and the certainty of that realization hit me like a sledgehammer. “They’re growing an army,” I said.
“They’re well on their way to doing it, too,” said Abbott. “Our best estimate is there was at least three hundred MLs in the area now. They’ve taken losses from our defenses, but the only thing that is slowing down their growth rate is the government lockdown order. Fewer people moving around means fewer lunches.”
“So what’s the game plan?” I asked. “Why isn’t the military involved now?”
Theo grunted at my question. “I’m in touch with a few military contacts. Being ex-Navy does have its perks. Trust me, they would get involved, but the current administration still wants to keep their part of the cover-up under wraps. Military involvement would all but ensure that the MLs go public. So they won’t support military action unless we start seeing a serious increase in deaths. God knows what that threshold looks like.”
“As for our game plan,” answered Abbott, “we’re still working on that. Our main focus is to figure out why the MLs have changed tactics.”
“That’s why you’re up here, then,” I said. “Not to find survivors, but to study the MLs.” My words came out colder than I meant them to be. I surely did appreciate my rescuers, but shouldn’t saving lives be the priority and not studying the newest antics from a bunch of murder-monsters?
“We were searching homes for any survivors as we went, Hector,” defended Lazlo, “but we didn’t expect to find any. You’ve seen how the Locusts work. It’s why we’re frankly amazed you survived out there. The odds of your average layperson encountering a pack and living to tell the tale is… well, let’s just say you’re better off going up against lightning.”
I gave her a grim nod. I did understand the logic, but I doubt anyone likes to hear how little the world cares about their welfare. The politicians looking out for their careers, the military putting a carnage number to their intervention, the people of Crusoe hunkering down while hoping for salvation, and I get saved by a team of wandering researchers.
Lazlo must have decided that her words had been less than reassuring as she then found a reason to avoid eye contact with me by glancing at her monitors. Abbott motioned at me to come with him toward the back of the vehicle while Theo headed for the kitchen nook. Sharing time had just come to an end.
“You’ll have to forgive Lazlo for her bluntness,” Abbott explained, gesturing to an empty bunk that I could use during my stay. “We don’t get to comfort survivors very often.”
“No big deal,” I replied. “She’s better at it than Madison.”
Abbott laughed at my statement. “In any case, you should probably get some sleep while things are quiet. I can’t promise you that we can head back to Crusoe soon, but if you stay with us you’ll be just fine.”
I went and sat on the bottom bunk, testing out the mattress. It was definitely better than the cement floor I’d been sleeping on for the last two weeks. “Do you have any idea why the pack around my house left like it did?”
Abbott shook his head. “That’s the mystery, isn’t it? We were following another pack going this direction, which was unusual in and of itself because it’s away from the feeding grounds of Crusoe. I figured if a pack would willingly give up on their hunting, they had to have another objective in mind. That’s when we saw them merge with the pack surrounding your cabin. Hours after that, they all just left. They went into a large copse of trees and… they’re still in there. They haven’t eaten anyone since we locked onto them with Third Eye three days ago, so I’m pretty sure they’re not budding in there.”
Abbott then told me that I could eat or drink anything in storage, he showed me the bathroom, and he reminded me not to leave the vehicle without running it by him first. Finally, he told me that while I was free to roam for now, this was technically a military team and if I attempted to interfere with their operations or endanger the team in any way, they did have a brig of sorts in the very back. Namely, it was a closet and it was very cramped, but it did have air holes.
He left me to get what sleep I could. I wondered if the others were ever going to sleep, but I didn’t wonder for long because as soon as my head hit the mattress all that weariness that I had struggled against for days on end finally won the battle and sleep took me. For the first time in what felt like forever, I felt safe.
It’s a shame that feeling safe and being safe are two separate aspects of life. When we confuse the two, bad things always happen.
submitted by RTKGuy to DrCreepensVault [link] [comments]

2020.08.02 00:48 FrancescoAmic1 House tv voyeur

This is my translation of the first part of the journalistic inquiry on the connection between Zodiac and the Monster of Florence appeared on the website of the Italian weekly tempi.it two years ago. The second and third parts plus this are too long for Reddit. You can find them here.
Sorry for my English.
Other links related to the inquiry
The most recent piece of news that confirms the connection
The first article on suspect's admissions
Ulysses' testimony at the Monster trial
By Francesco Amicone
The voyeur, the Sardinians, and the farmer
Sant'Angelo is a hamlet on the edge of Calenzano and Sesto Fiorentino: very few houses surrounded by fields and mountains. Not far from there, in a rural crossroads of the only way that goes around the valley, an inscription on a stone cross recalls two names: Susanna Cambi and Stefano Baldi. They were a young couple from Calenzano used to withdraw in the evening on the edge of an olive grove. On the night of October 22, 1981, they were shot to death by the man who went down in history as the "Monster of Florence", a brutal murderer who killed at least seven young couples in the Florentine countryside with a .22 caliber gun between 1974 and 1985 (here’s an explanation of why I do not mention the 1968 case TLN).
More than thirty years have passed since those crimes, but the flowers at the foot of the cross that reminds Susanna and Stefano are still fresh. «It's nice that people haven't forgotten about Susanna and Stefano,» comments Edoardo Orlandi in front of their memorial. Orlandi was already a researcher of the "Monster" case before becoming a criminologist at the University of Florence. Like many Tuscans born in the '80, Orlandi grew up in an environment where the serial killer became an integral part of the history of the city through the trials of the '90. None of which came to any definitive truth about the main perpetrator of the murders. «Very few Florentines believe that the Monster has never really been identified,» notes Orlandi.
Crazy and wily
Law enforcement officers do not immediately understand that they are facing a serial killer. «Only the morning after the Calenzano crime - Orlandi recalls - the Florentine people realize that there was a homicidal maniac who goes hunting for alone couples on moonless nights. And that time the murderer also frightened the Tuscan public opinion which, in a somewhat picturesque way, to play down, had called him "Cicci, the monster of Scandicci”.»
From October 22, 1981, what a few months earlier seemed to have been the work of a schizophrenic drifter takes on new meaning. «The inhabitants of Florence are faced with a socially organized person, whose disturbances, however serious, allow him to act in a cold and lucid manner,» Orlandi explains. He was a madman, not a schizophrenic. The police now faced something that in Italy, before then, had only been seen in movies. An American-style serial killer. One of the shrewdest minds that Italian investigators have ever found themselves fighting and also, the criminologist stresses, «one of the very few serial killers who have been successful.»
From the day he committed the Calenzano crime and for five long years, the "maniac" armed with a torch, pistol, and knife, who had nothing in common with the Florentine or Italian chronicles, became the main news of the local newspapers.
A "provincial" killer
«Although he’s called the Monster of Florence - Orlandi recalls - the crimes claimed by the homicidal maniac never took place in the city but in the neighboring villages.» Borgo San Lorenzo, Scandicci, Calenzano, Galluzzo, Vicchio, Baccaiano, Falciani. These are the names of the crime locations chosen by the serial killer. «These are small courtyards, where the chatter about the crimes quickly made the rounds of the bars,» the criminologist says. This created many problems.
Enzo Spalletti, an ambulance driver, was the first man who pays for a slip of his tongue. Spalletti practiced a "sport" very popular in the province of Florence in the eighties: spying on couples sitting alone in their cars. During the night, dozens of people searched the countryside of Florence to find couples who made love in their car. They lurked along the rows of cypresses, in the acacia woods, armed with infrared binoculars and microphones to caught couples in their privacy. Many of them met in the Chianti taverns the following day to exchange photographs and audio recordings.
«On the morning of 7 June 1981, Spalletti hoed his vegetable garden, then went to his favorite bar, where he told the patrons that he had seen the bodies of the two victims of Scandicci. He was immediately arrested». How did it end? «Three months later the killer struck again in Calenzano, leading to the release of Spalletti and virtually announcing to the Florentines: "You are facing a real serial killer, not a voyeur". The Monster would continue to claim his crimes with the same gun also in the following years, freeing one by one all the suspects sent in prison by the pre-trial judges. «He would only stop in 1985 when no one was jailed for his murders. It’s like he wanted to say to the police: "I don't need your help",» Orlandi observes.
Monster's gun
The so-called "Sardinian lead” ended up in a general acquittal, in 1989. Seven years earlier, about July 20, 1982, the detectives began to follow the track left by the Monster from bullets and shells found in a case-file of a double murder near Florence accrued in a “Sardinian” environment (Barbara Locci and Antonio Lo Bianco - August 22, 1968). The marks on the shells were identical to those found on the crime scenes of the serial killer from 1974 onwards. The man convicted for the crime of ‘68, Barbara Locci's husband, Stefano Mele, was in prison in 1974, however.
You can have doubts about the authorship of the crime of 1968, «but as regards Mele's responsibility - recalls Orlandi - it is a fact that Locci's husband had been found with the fat spread on his hands, the morning after the crime. Mele - continues the criminologist - has never been able to give a reason for what appeared to the investigators of the time as a banal attempt to deceive the paraffin glove (test to which Mele was positive).» Mele charged himself with the crime, then accused acquaintances. Finally, he was sentenced. Beginning in 1982 it was therefore thought that the serial killer might somehow have had access to the gun used in the ‘68 murders and used it later. All the people who may have participated in the ‘68 crime were arrested one by one: Francesco Vinci, Piero Mucciarini, Giovanni Mele. Salvatore Vinci was also arrested with another excuse. Nothing was found.
From the real killer to Pietro Pacciani
Who is really the “couple maniac”? What personality is hidden behind the mask he wears for his audience? The Monster, according to Orlandi, «most likely appears as a normal person, otherwise, it would not be explained why it has never been possible to identify him up to now.» «He is a person with two lives - the criminologist explains - in the normal one, he is a citizen like the others, in the secret one, he is the maniac of moonless nights.» Perhaps this is one of those very rare cases in which criminologists face someone who embodies the protagonist of Robert Louis Stevenson, the famous "Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde". The Monster seems to flaunt two faces also in his crimes. «On the one hand, he is the practical, efficient and smart person, self-confident who leaves no traces and clues; on the other one, it is the maniac who takes very high risks to respect his crazy rituals and challenge investigators,» Orlandi says.
The criminological expertise of a team of the University of Modena drawn up by Francesco De Fazio, Ivan Galliani, Salvatore Luberto in 1984 describes the Monster as "methodical", "systematic", "cautious", "astute". However, the experts point out that the Monster suffers from a serious psychic pathology, which reaches the peak of the acute phase when he kills. «The exceptional nature of this serial killer - underlines Orlandi, paraphrasing the expertise of the University of Modena - is that he completes his ambushes in a situation of strong emotional charge. Yet, in this phase of acute psychosis, he is capable of modulating strength, approaching victims in silence, shooting and hitting, moving bodies, and mutilating them. He also managed to quickly change weapons and torch in the dark. All this without making mistakes.»
«The Monster - Orlandi concludes - is a maniac who moves between Mugello and Chianti with the same security as a hitman.»
A man light years away from the depicted suspect was the result of the "super-computer" screening with which the Florence prosecutor led by Pier Luigi Vigna comes to Pietro Pacciani.
Where are the killer's "souvenirs"?
In 1990, the Florence Police Anti-Monster Squad (SAM) was still looking for the manic perpetrator of the seven double murders that occurred in the Florentine countryside between 1974 and 1985. A few years earlier, in an anonymous letter, an alleged Monster had warned the investigators: «You won't take me if I don't want to ... I'm very close to you.» Authentic Monster’s letter or not, it confirmed the impression of the SAM agents. The killer had always been one step ahead of them. As if he knew their moves in advance. Besides, why hadn't the fake couples, the police and Carabinieri blocks, the investigation, or the arrests been able to stop him? What had given the Monster the security to be able to challenge the city and the police, always acting in the same period, every year, for five consecutive years? How had he managed to plan his crimes in an area on high alert, strewn with Chianti and Mugello with euphemistic signs "Danger: risk of aggressions"? How was it possible that, despite the precautions and resources used, despite the 300 million Lire bounty (300.000 $) - the only one ever issued by the Italian State - the killer had escaped capture?
So, when Florentines discovered that the main suspect of the Florence Prosecutor's Office was Pierino Pacciani, a peasant, the "young wicked boy" whose minstrel Giubba sang at village fairs for his crime of passion of 40 years before, people shake their heads. It will take all the efforts of the mass media to make it possible for a larger minority of Florentines to accept that Vampa (blaze) - as he was nicknamed in the village - is the icy murderer who had terrorized the city for shine and from whom the citizens still feel threatened. But the prosecutors led by Vigna were certain: Pacciani was the Monster.
When investigations into Pacciani begin, Ruggero Perugini, Sam's chief, has just returned from Quantico, home of the FBI Behavioral Science Unit - the world specialists in the "serial murder" discipline. Roy Hazelwood, the guru of the unit, had warned the Italian detective: «If you find these trinkets, it means that you have found the killer.» Hazelwood had shown Perugini some objects that criminals like the Monster of Florence jealously guard. Criminologists call it "booty". These are the personal belongings of the victims that serial killers steal to remember and claim their murders. To date, nothing of the sort has ever been found.
The selection
It had been the voyeur's turn, then the Sardinians’ one. The defendant, this time, was a son and grandson of sharecroppers. His red face well known in San Casciano testified that the farmer had nothing of the cold and wily serial killer. At the trial, one of the witnesses would say that you could mistake him for the «god Bacchus» if you observed him serving wine at a Festa dell’Unità in the 1980s. Yet the prosecution had made a commitment to find someone who would tell something compatible with the accusatory picture (a serial murderer, calm, lucid, and above all sober). Maybe Pacciani terrified someone in San Casciano? Not even this. It was discovered that the Vampa had not only given them (the beatings) but he had also taken many, and many: a beating in 1951 by Giampiero Vigilanti, former French legionary of Prato; many handbags from "Cinzia", ​​a prostitute who walked between the Via Scopeti and Cassia, in San Casciano, near the Florence American Cemetery; a few slaps from the gamekeeper Gino Bruni, whom Pacciani had threatened with a pitchfork. These stories, however, appear to be more authentic than the "scientific" analyzes of Pacciani's "secret" personality which was shown in the newspapers during the trial period.
The former Florence attorney general, Piero Tony - who represented the accusation against Pacciani in the appeal trial- asked for Pacciani's acquittal and obtained it. Twenty years later, he still has the same idea about Vampa's guilt as his lawyers Rosario Bevacqua and Pietro Fioravanti: «Pacciani was a man who committed many crimes in his life, but he was not the Monster,» Tony says.
The former Florence attorney general has always criticized the method that the Public Prosecutor's Office decided to use to arrive at the identity of the Monster: «The mechanism by which attention was focused on Pacciani - says Tony - was the following: between many things, it was assumed that the serial killer had attracted someone's attention; then, that he had a dirty criminal record and was resident in the province of Florence.» «Pacciani - continues the former prosecutor - had been reported by an anonymous letter, had a criminal record (he had killed a man in 1951 and had abused his daughters for years), lived in San Casciano and was not in jail when the Monster had killed. It was therefore deduced that Pacciani could be the serial killer.» «This mechanism - explains Tony - has not been fully respected. According to the parameters that the investigators had given themselves the name of Pacciani must have been off the list of suspects. For two reasons: he did not respect - at all - the profile drawn up by criminologists; at the time of the crimes he was not healthy (he had suffered a heart attack).»
The “hunchback” bullet
For some reason, the idiom "farmer: big shoes and clever mind" was heralded by the press lined up with the Public Prosecutor's Office as an indication of guilt in a serial murder case. It was forgotten that the syllogism made all people with work boots and an above-average IQ suspicious. Not just the farmers. But also - for example - the man from whom Pacciani felt "persecuted". It was this «long-legged intellectual» who had prevented him from entering the house of an old fortune-teller in the village. Or the mysterious man who stalked him in nightmares, the "General of Death". And also the character in military clothes and with "Mickey Mouse" military boots, which appeared in a drawing by the Chilean artist Christian Olivares, a sketch of a theatrical scenography for the filmmaker Raphael Ruiz that was found in the Vampa’s house.
Pacciani had renamed the work of Olivares: «Dream of fairy science (instead of “science fiction”), summer in San Casciano.» He had put his signature on the bottom and put the painting above the fireplace in the living room. The psychologists heard by the prosecutor's office did not see in it a denunciation of the Pinochet regime - which in fact it was - but the work of a deranged, a sexual maniac suffering from serious disturbances. The famous critic Vittorio Sgarbi, having heard that the Florence Public Prosecutor's Office attributed the hand of a follower of Salvador Dalì to Vampa, obviously took the ball for one of his reprimands. The real author - in voluntary exile in the Canaries - sent a fax to La Repubblica, explaining the meaning of drawing to psychologists. Vampa simply shrugged: «I always said I just colored it.»
In early 1993, not even Perugini seemed to be certain of Pacciani's guilt. While investigating the farmer from San Casciano, the chief of the SAM had publicly appealed to a still faceless serial killer. Perugini had offered him a hand to «get out of the nightmare.» How did the Monster react to the appeal? A few months later, in April, during a search, the detectives found a 22-caliber bullet in the farmer's garden of Pacciani (this bullet had been forged, a Prosecutor’s Office expertise found out in 2019 – here’s the news TLN).
«A “hunchbacked” nail?» Vampa asked while Perugini showed him the artifact. It was not a "nail", but a “hunchbacked” bullet, a misshapen cartridge similar to what the Monster had left on crime scenes. Was stuck in a stake in the farmer's vineyard. Right at the breaking point of a stake broken for less than a week.
It was necessary to wait for the appeal trial for the Court and the Prosecutor to be informed informally by the defense expert, Enrico Manieri, that that bullet was a "fake": he had been loaded on a weapon other than that of the killer. The conclusion was obvious: someone had wanted to frame Pacciani.
«An infamous column»
«Before the trial, we also received an anonymous letter. A guide rod of a Beretta was attached - Tony says - The author of the letter said that it had been buried by the Vampa, “a devil who enchants the fools on TV”. But even that was an indication of little value, as well as of dubious origin».
Regarding this “gift”, the president of the Court that acquitted Pacciani at the Appeal, Francesco Ferri - a magistrate who continued to be inspired by the books by Alessandro Manzoni and the Verri brothers also at the time of Tangentopoli - observed that if the guide rode was one of the 48 parts of the supposed Beretta that would be buried by Pacciani at various points in the campaign, the prosecutor Paolo Canessa and his team of investigators would have had to unearth another 47 parts before holding the whole proof. «Have you at least found the map?» Ferri ironized in his book “The Pacciani’s trial, an infamous column?”.The accusatory picture that the prosecutor Canessa had brought to court collapsed piece by piece at the Appeal. Among the most important ones was the Giuseppe Bevilacqua’s testimony. He was a former criminal investigator of the U.S. Army and the superintendent of the Florence American Cemetery, at the time of the Monster's crimes.
Lawyers from the US Embassy in Rome had warned him about Italian justice. Joe - that’s what he called himself - could get into a mess. He benefitted from diplomatic immunity granted for international courtesy to the technical personnel of the American mission, why take the risk?
The Repubblica article “Pacciani was in the woods” by Franca Selvatici, on 7 June 1994, signed also reports that the official of the American Battle Monuments Commission was very busy on 6 June 1994. On the day of his deposition, he would have to go to the D-Day ceremony which also attended by President Bill Clinton. Bevilacqua decided to make his contribution to the inquiry on the serial murders of the couples, despite everything.
“Joe“ told the Court in an Italian-American slang what he had seen near the scene of the Monster’s latest crime, which took place between 6 and 8 September 1985 in Via Scopeti, San Casciano. The place was located 300 meters as the crow flies from the cemetery, where he lived.
In his deposition at the Pacciani trial - the audio recording is available at radioradicale.it - Bevilacqua claims to have seen the French victim Nadine Mauriot in a “black bikini” while sunbathing under the pines of Via Scopeti. He saw her again, the next day, in the place where she would be killed a few hours later. In the same period of time, he spotted a man whom he then recognized as Pacciani about 500 hundred meters. He was walking at the edge of the woods, near a path that led to the crime scene. The dogs, Bevilacqua claims, barked fiercely that night.
The superintendent of the Florence American Cemetery says he doesn’t know Pacciani. At that point, a dispute arises over the height of Vampa which leads to a confrontation between the accuser and the accused. The two are brought together. They huddle. The scene ended with the astonished words of the counselor Bevacqua: «They are very similar, Your Honor!». Pacciani's lawyer highlighted how difficult it could be to distinguish two unknown people who look alike. When Bevilacqua then insists on claiming that he learned of the murders since the following morning of the crime (the news had not yet been released), his memory is believed to be flawed. That's where it ends.
After a first condemnation, the Vampa was acquitted: «Pacciani - judge Ferri writes - is condemned at first instance without the necessary proofs, on the basis of dialectical tricks, obvious illogicality, speculations, and mere invectives». Ferri resigned as a judge in controversy with the magistrate order and calling the entire trial of Pacciani “an infamous column “. The acquittal will be canceled by the Supreme Court, but the farmer will die before a second appeal trial, on February 22, 1997.
The companions of snacks
Giancarlo Lotti, called “Katanga”, did not go back even when he was wrong. The fact that he did not even have a primary school certificate is one of the reasons why he had to beg for food and accommodation on a daily basis. However, at fifty he still said: «The school is useless.» Lotti would not go back on his decisions, not even on the testimony on the alleged “monsters” of Florence.
At the beginning of 1996, Pacciani was about to be acquitted, the State - usually absent in this case - arrived at Lotti's house (that is, from the priest who hosts him) offering him real accommodation and a salary. In return, Katanga had only one thing to do: become the famous witness who defeated the Monster of Florence. Lotti knew Pacciani. He knew he was a violent individual. And then he was stingy: he had never given him a penny in his life. This is how Lotti, who had no money for gasoline or wine, accepted and began to “sing”.There is a reason why Katanga is the Beta and not the Alpha witness: his testimony is later than that of his friend of “tours”, Fernando Pucci. The Alfa witness, Pucci, is the origin of the theory of the “Companions of snacks”.
In January 1996, Pucci reported to the SAM led by Michele Giuttari at the time that he and his friend Lotti had seen Pacciani in Scopeti on September 8, 1985. They were driving in Lotti's (uninsured) car. They had stopped at the pitch where the French were to urinate, then - Pucci recalled - he felt one, two shots, and went to see that he was there. In the video filmed at the trial, the images following the moment when Pucci told this story, focus on his friend Katanga, in the Court House, who raised his hand and said: «I told Fernando those things.» The story that Pucci has just told was invented: it was not at Scopeti. And Pucci himself immediately confirmed the words of his friend: «Yes, Lotti told me about these things.» It was now clear to the whole Court that the certificate of oligophrenia (or dementia) of the Tuscany Region that Pucci had exhibited before testifying had been given to him for a reason.
Former prosecutor Tony comments on the decision to bring Alfa and Beta to trial as follows: «Let's forget Pucci, who - poor fellow - had a mental illness. I remember, however, that when Lotti's name came out, the priest who had him in charge called to the Prosecutor's Office to warn us not to listen to him.» Yet, Beta would be the pillar (the only one, after Alfa's exploit) of the theory of the so-called “Companions of snacks”, a group composed of the farmer Pacciani, the illiterate Lotti and the postman Mario Vanni, called Torsolo, who would have killed the couples.
«Neither Torsolo nor Katanga knew how to shoot,» Tony observes, «and none of them had the physique or mind of the serial killer. Not even Pacciani.» None of them, in the dark, with a demijohn of red wine in their stomachs, could have hit to death two young germans, Horst Wilhelm Meyer and Jens-Uwe Rüsch, through the plates of a Volkswagen minibus, on September 9, 1983.
«Lotti has made several mistakes in reconstructing the dynamics of the murders - concludes Tony -. Sometimes his lies are hateful. Like when on the ‘84 crime, in which Pia Rontini and Claudio Stefanacci lost their lives, he says that the girl died screaming and moaning. But all the forensic doctors' reports say that Pia immediately lost consciousness.»
The scientific proof of Lotti's lies
«It is a historical fact that in the trial of the “Companions of snacks” there was not a single evidence of guilt that supported Lotti's testimonies”, says Nino Filastò, at the time lawyer of Mario Vanni. But there is scientific evidence to the contrary. One of these was found by a certain “De Gothia”. Behind this nickname hid a brilliant “mostrologist” who for years dedicated himself to the study of the crimes of the Monster, divulging his investigations in publications on the web. De Gothia demolished Lotti's testimony starting from an image taken by Ennio Macconi, photographer of La Nazione, on June 22, 1982, in the aftermath of the crime “number 4” of the Monster. The photograph captures the victims’ car, kidnapped in the parking lot of the Carabinieri di Signa, and scientifically proves that Lotti simply “copied” the investigators' version. But he saw nothing.
The Fiat 147 in which Paolo Mainardi and Antonella Migliorini were killed in 1982 had been found by rescuers and law enforcement officers a few minutes after the crime, in a drainage canal that flanked the road, on the opposite side to where the victims had parked. The driver's door was locked.
The investigators and Lotti have always claimed that the “Companions of snacks” attacked the couple and, therefore, that Paolo, in an attempt to escape, ended up off the road in reverse with the car. Things did not turn out that way. De Gothia promptly dismantles the official reconstruction of the crime, based on the law of gravity. In the photograph taken by Macconi to the car of the victims, a drop of blood appears clearly perpendicular to the ground on the lower part of the driver's door, at the height of the seal. Blood dripped onto the hull while the car was level and the door was open. The car, however, was found in an oblique position and with the door closed and locked. As the blood thickens in six long minutes, the victims could only have been mortally wounded when the killer had closed the car door. Evidently, concluded De Gothia, it was the Monster, not Mainardi, who had driven the car out of the pitch, making a mistake and ending up in the canal. Angrily throwing the car keys and wasting three bullets - as the Monster did - one per headlight and one on the windshield, after such a slip, was certainly more logical than doing it before having killed the couple in the spot.
Lotti lied. This is scientific proof. Not as objectionable as they were, in the Court's opinion, the other six testimonies of that evening which contradicted the Beta’s version.
The companions’ motor pool
According to Lotti's words, he and his acquaintances moved through the streets of Mugello and Chianti with a little fleet of cars to plan and carry out their crimes. «According to Lotti, on the evening of June 19, 1982, two cars were parked along the straight stretch of Via Virginio Nuova,» says Francesco Cappelletti, writer and specialist of the Monster case, «but nobody has seen them. How is it possible?».
Via Virginio is a strip of asphalt that runs for kilometers in the Chianti countryside. The point where Mainardi's car was found is at the center of a stretch hundreds of meters long and without crossbeams, apart from a closed alley. «And still», Cappelletti comments, «there are five eyewitnesses who did not see the Companions of Snacks’ cars that evening». «The cars the witnesses drove - the writer continues - proceeded from the two opposite directions of the road. They noticed the victims’ Fiat 147 before and after it fell in the canal, but not the two cars described by Lotti. The interval of witnesses’ sighting is a few minutes. If none of them saw one of the Companions of Snacks, nor did they ever cross one of their cars, it is because Lotti lied».
To support the fact that Lotti has told a lie, in addition to the force of gravity and the eyes of the five witnesses who saw the crime scene that evening immediately before and after the aggression, there is a sixth witness, Lorenzo Allegranti, the stretcher bearer who rescued the two victims. Allegranti has always claimed that the boy dying was in the back seat and not on the front seat of the car, where instead he should have been, according to Lotti's story. Allegranti's testimony was ignored by the Court which condemned Lotti and Vanni as accomplishes of a supposed Monster (Pietro Pacciani, who died before another trial). The definitive sentence of the Court of Florence transformed the serial killer of the couples, lonely, cold and calculating, who successfully challenged the police, in a grotesque combination of the cultured and secular “black soul” of Florence, and a bunch of patrons from the “Taverna del Diavolo” of Scandicci who killed on the commission of some Masonic lodge.
Italian Authorities in the ’90 and 2000s had gradually passed from an investigation on a murderer on whom all criminological science pointed (and points) to the search of a large community of sinners, without ever reaching the real culprit. It is no coincidence that the only existing “procedural truth” to date is that no one was found definitively guilty as main responsible for the crimes charged to the Monster of Florence. «The serial killer, if he is alive, is still at large,» Cappelletti comments.
This inquiry continues here.
Edited on October 17, 2020
submitted by FrancescoAmic1 to UnresolvedMysteries [link] [comments]

2020.06.08 01:09 Hellion000 [MF4MF] [MF4F] [MF4T] (45/35) (Brazoria, Harris, and Galveston Counties)

Hello Harris, Brazoria, and Galveston Counties!

White couple here, with a mid 40's male and a mid 30's female. We're both open minded and eager to have fun. We're on here looking for exactly that: fun. Neither of us are particularly the dress up and go out type. In fact, we're the opposite. We're the jeans and tee shirts, hanging out at the house, having drinks and chatting type.

She is somewhat slow to warm up to new people, but once she gets going she doesn't turn off for a while. She's a huge fan of thicker ladies, and definitely enjoys a bountiful ass. Her type for guys is a lot harder to define, and tends to fall into the "I know it when I see it" sort of category. She's short and thick herself, but carries an attitude and capacity for fun that more than exceeds her height. Get a little honey whiskey in her? She's off the rails.

He's very sociable, and always willing to spend a length of time chatting and just enjoying the dynamics of a good conversation. His optimal type for women is, like many men, "breathing". He does have a tendency towards tits, tits, tits, but not falling into that category isn't a limit. He is much more interested in the depths of your kinks and not your looks. Where men are concerned, he's much more likely to want to spend time hanging out with guys that fall into the "nerdy, but cool" model.

Outside of the bedroom they both enjoy video games, social drinks, sci fi/fantasy movies and TV shows, and a truly absurd range of music. Both smoke cigarettes, and she will often enjoy the Devil's cabbage. He will not, due to a very unfortunate allergy.

Inside the bedroom they both enjoy the concepts of open-mindedness and experimentation. They both enjoy voyeurism and exhibitionism, dirty role playing, watersports (it's cool if you're not, though), and a few other kinks we can discuss later.

She is very interested in the sorts of combinations two men and a woman can manage: spit roasting, and both double vaginal and vaginal/anal penetration. She's not only interested in experiencing it, but also watching another woman experience it. She also enjoys light impact play, bondage, and taking a more submissive role to men while being more dominant towards women.

Hard limits can be discussed, but the big one is single males.

Please allow me to reiterate that last! With one specific caveat, no amount of thinking that you're unique, special, or well equipped enough to change her mind will work. That one caveat? If you're willing to take it in the ass, she'll consider you.

Both work retail and that means our schedules are... interesting. For simplicity sake, assume our available time to get out and have fun is after nine PM Tuesday through Saturday, and any time Sunday and Monday.

Pictures are available on request.
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2020.06.05 15:26 CleganeForHighSepton Voyeur tv house

TL;DR: Highlighting a bit of a mystery: If Sarah & whatever is inside her can go out and kill at will (e.g. Mr. 'Truck You'), why does she seem "in withdrawl" for much of The Return?
Sarah needs a hit
There's something very odd about what Sarah has become. We know that there is a being within her (we see the Frogmoth 'stinger'). Whether this Frogmoth thing is Judy or not (I'll be referring to it as both throughout), it seems fairly certain that it feeds on pain and suffering / garmonbozia.
What's unusual is that, basically for the entire season, Sarah seems like she is in 'garmonbozia withdrawal'. We first see her watching that rather disturbing nature documentary footage. To me it's like she is trying to get the same 'hit' from a cigarette (or booze) that she got from heroin. It's nice and all, but it's just not the same as going out there and really hunting something.
We get a repeat TV-viewing situation, only far more explicitly pain and suffering related, when we see her watching the boxing loop. Here there can surely be no doubt: this loop is being watched for the sake of seeing pain and suffering. Keep in mind that both clips are 'real'; these aren't actors pretending to be sore, this is a real animal being eaten and a real boxer being knocked out. As close to the real thing as you can get without being there yourself, eh Frogmoth?
With 'Truck You', we get a moment that feels like a relapse. Sarah's not out to kill, she's just at a low point. Things are changing. Men are coming. And here comes this gigantic ass, and even still she tries her best to make him leave. In the end, she just can't help herself -- she kills him right there in broad barlight. It's a huge gamble, especially if you are of the opinion that whatever is within Sarah doesn't want to leave her (or get stuck in prison). This is not a clear-thinking Frogmoth.
To sum this up; Sarah has a garmonbozia-eating being within her, it presumably wants to see the pain and suffering of others... but is instead subsisting on third-party garmonbozia via the TV.
Subsistence Farming
Why? Why subsist? Why not go out and inflict the pain and suffering you crave? There's seemingly nothing to stop it. Why not get a new host, or manipulate and push Sarah's buttons more regularly so as to repeat the 'Truck You' incident? The way Sarah reacts makes it pretty clear she's not too worried about the consequences from that murder. What's even stranger is that, after finally, finally getting to inflict pain and suffering, she doesn't seem all that satisfied by it. What gives here?
Consider the rather disturbing possibility that this being doesn't want to directly inflict pain and suffering -- it just wants to watch. Like some kind of evil voyeur, this being wants to see pain and suffering being inflicted, but only from the sidelines. If Bob is fire, this being is the void, staring back.
Going outside the realm of Twin Peaks for a second, it's worth pointing out that there's a voyeuristic element in many of Lynch's films. Jeffrey Beaumont in Blue Velvet literally breaks into a woman's house and watches her from the closet. Lost Highway has the Mystery Man, an intrusive 'watcher' into the fugue space the movie exists in. I'm kind of blanking right now for some reason, but there are several examples. The very idea of there being 'something behind the curtains' is quite a voyeuristic concept in and of itself. It's a topic that interests Lynch.
Which is all to suggest; Judy wants Bob back because she wants to watch him work. Finding someone willing to murder people is not easy, extreme negative force or no extreme negative force. Judy can do the killing herself, but that's not what she wants... hence subsisting on watching pain and suffering on TV. If you're of the opinion that Sarah may have been possessed throughout the original series (e.g. that she's the girl from P8), this 'voyeur' demon interpretation gathers weight. Judy sits back and gets to watch what Bob gets up to, feeding off Sarah's pain / getting pleasure from what she sees.
From Judy's POV, Bob killing Laura was a big mistake. He killed the goose that laid golden eggs (of garmonbozia).
submitted by CleganeForHighSepton to twinpeaks [link] [comments]

2020.05.29 04:13 Max_Evry RUSSIAN SOAP OPERA

The illusion of choice. With the advent of high-speed internet and the streaming revolution, TV viewers nowadays can often feel overwhelmed with the sheer number of choices they have at their disposal. Not just thousands of shows, but thousands of CHANNELS. A channel for everything. A channel streaming footage of blind rescued cats from North Carolina. A channel about chopping firewood. A channel showing you how to assemble an AR-15 rifle. The illusion of all this choice is 98% of those reading this will simply put all these options to the back of their minds and binge watch Stranger Things and Narcos like everyone else… Everyone else except me, that is.
Yes, I'm that creep in the 2% that actually seeks out the weird, obscure and just plain coo-coo-bananas streaming channels that most people don't give two shits about.
My obsession kicked into overdrive when –in a series of unfortunate events I'd rather not get into here- I lost my steady gig four months ago and, bolstered by a cocktail of anti-depressants, have been riding the New York State unemployment train. At least, until I have to make a quick transfer to the Welfare train. Between odd Craigslist gigs to make extra cash and an ever-diminishing number of job interviews, I found myself sleeping in later and later, to the point where I'm often just getting up at 3 or 4pm and not drifting off to the land of nod until dawn (with aid of my Etsy-bought sleeping mask shaped like Grumpy Cat).
As you might have guessed, during those aimless late nights I'm burning through my precious God-given gift of life watching TV. A lot of TV. My TV had built-in streaming, but after cancelling my holy trinity Netflix/Hulu/Amazon subscriptions to trim expenses, I began to rely on the numerous free channels at my disposal. Once you settled into the steady rhythm of poor picture quality and commercial interruptions from auto dealerships in Wisconsin, there were hours of entertainment to be had: Grainy kung-fu flicks from the 70's, Christian yoga and 24-hours-a-day of Gumby.
Occasionally I would try to educate myself with a 10-minute news summary from Bloomberg, or teach myself how to cook bharwan bhindi while eating the leftover second half of my Subway $5 Dollar Foot-Long from the day before. To make life more interesting I started challenging myself to watch a new channel every day, working my way through everything from a cartoon panda teaching me Spanish, to NASA satellite footage, to a channel designed to help dogs relax.
Believe it or not, boredom started to set in, so I decided to dig deeper: Private Channels. Although not without a certain bootleg mystique, Private Channels weren't as illicit as they sounded, usually just unofficial third-party channels for a streaming service without an official app, and not publically listed. Oh, and porn. So much porn.
I even tried to get my roommate Greg into Private Channels, but he said they were "so boring" they made him want to shoot himself in the head.
"I'll stick with Netflix, thank you," he kept telling me.
Granted, there was some truly bizarre stuff I discovered and maybe will get into some other time, but I want to focus on one channel specifically: RSO: RUSSIAN SOAP OPERA.
Now before you start rushing to look up the channel code for the Russian Soap Opera, let me say straight up that it's no longer available, and even the Reddit thread where I saw the code posted has been deleted. All trace of its existence seems to have been purged… And even if it wasn't I wouldn't tell you.
Do I wish I had recorded at least a snippet of footage on my phone? Sure, but to be honest I got too caught up in the madness of it to even think to do that.
One night about a week ago, with my roommate Greg staying at his girlfriend's and me alone in the apartment, RSO: Russian Soap Opera showed up on my TV's home page. It appeared about 24 hours after I had entered the code into the accounts page on my device, along with a few other codes… including a channel with a guy who does magic tricks in his garage.
Everything about RSO screamed "no budget, no frills." Even the box you clicked on to stream the channel was unusually spartan, with no logo or anything, just a basic font with the name.
Once I got to the episode listings there were only two, sans titles. Just little black boxes that said "1" and "2." I clicked on "1" and the action began right away with no credits, already a bad sign…
No matter how little you may think you know about Russia as a country, I know less. You might think of vodka, Borscht, computer hackers or Vlad Putin. With a show called "Russian Soap Opera" I was maybe expecting tales of forbidden romance set amid a bleak Siberian landscape with a bunch of folks wearing furry ushanka-hats, or even a crime saga about the corrupt world of the Russian mob. Nope. The first episode of "RSO" didn't shoot a frame in the former Soviet Union. It was all filmed right here in New York City, USA.
And when I say "filmed," I mean it was shot VERY poorly in 4:3 square format, probably on a 20-year-old DV camera. It had that washed-out "shot-on-tape" look that even the crappiest phone cameras these days could best. I mean, I need you to know it looked AWFUL. To quote MST3K, every frame looked like someone's last known photograph.
So what was it, exactly? The show followed two mustachioed Russian men, both in their late-30s/early-40's who worked as movers in and around Brooklyn. They drove a beat up looking Chevy panel van from the 90's, something the kids these days might refer to as a "rape van." Personally, I think "rape van" might have been too charitable for this scary hunk of junk.
With their identical mustaches, slight frames, dead eyes and rough faces indicating plenty of mileage, the only way to really differentiate the two men was one constantly wore sunglasses while the other was balding. The latter wispy-haired guy seemed to be the subordinate of the sunglasses guy. Since I never caught their names I started to refer to them as "Rusky & Hutch." To myself, I mean.
The chain of long, clumsy handheld shots with poor audio that made up the first episode followed the pair as they drove their moving van to an apartment in Bed-Stuy and helped a couple move their furniture out. The men would occasionally make asides to each other in Russian, but there were no English subtitles so I couldn't really judge their acting chops per-se.
As for the thesps hired to play the American couple, they were INCREDIBLY stiff, with simple lines like "You'll have to wrap the couch cushions separately" or "That vase is my grandmother's, be very careful" spit out so awkwardly I started to wonder if they had even been in front of a camera before, even a security camera. Their acting was so bizarrely bad it actually troubled me.
These weren't really scenes, per se. They were more like watching someone's mundane home movies. I even saw the longhaired CAMERAMAN reflected in the apartment mirror for a second! Terrible filmmaking. You couldn't hear them talking sometimes because said Cameraman was so far away from the action, and they clearly didn't have the budget for a sound guy. The lack of music also made the proceedings extra unsettling.
Once the Balding Man and Sunglasses Man had loaded the van with a couch, a flatscreen TV and several other boxes of valuables, the show skipped over them delivering said items to the couple's new apartment and simply faded to the Balding Man's arrival at his own home in the middle of the night.
His neighborhood was mostly composed of old row houses, maybe East New York? Wherever it was, the Balding Man had to go through a back alley and down a set of steps to a basement-level apartment. The handheld camera followed him like a stalker, and he occasionally looked back at the Cameraman.
Once he made it into the basement it cut to the interior, the style switching up to a static camera now clearly mounted on a tripod all the way in the back of the one-room apartment. With the wide shot you could take in the whole dimly-lit space:
A small, dirty twin mattress with no sheet lay on the carpeted floor. A catatonic-looking Woman in her early 30's was lying on top of it. She was only wearing blue panties and a gray t-shirt with a few holes in it. Through the strands of dark hair draped over her face you could make out her dead eyes staring straight into the camera.
Next to her were several half-eaten sandwiches still in their plastic store wrappers. A Poland Spring water cooler stood a few feet away from the bed. Above the water cooler was one tiny window letting in streetlight from above ground. On the other side of the room was one small clothes dresser, an electric light with no lampshade on top of it. The bare orange bulb was basically the only light source in the room, casting eerie shadows. Two white pipes ran across the stained ceiling. That was it.
The Balding Man walked inside, shutting and chain-locking the door. He took off his coat, tossing it on the floor. He walked right past the Woman on the mattress without addressing her, straight to the back of the room near where the camera was. He stared blankly at something in anticipation. The hissing audio of the silent room made it all the more creepy. God I wished they had put some music over this part.
This part… Here's where things got weird. Yes, as if they weren't weird before, right? The static camera did a 180-degree cut to the man's point of view, and we see what's in the back of the room: A child's crib.
Through the white slats of the crib -covered in splotches of red paint- a shadow of something moved inside. A Baby? The thing inside pulled itself up so its head peaked over the top wooden beam of the crib to reveal… how do I even describe this thing?
It appeared to be a poorly made foam latex puppet of a 1-year-old Baby, with glowing red LED lights in its eyes. I don't mean that its eyes were glowing red LIKE a pair of LEDs, I mean they were visibly LED lights. It was very shoddy, as was the puppeteering work. All it could do was tilt its head slowly from side to side and open its mouth slightly.
The camera switched back to the POV from the crib to show both the Man and the Woman now standing next to each other. You could see the glow of the Baby puppet's two LEDs on the Woman's shirt.
Without any prompting, the Man and the Woman began to… well, dance. Not a joyful dance, a kind of slow Bataan Death March of bobbing and sidestepping. The couple's arms flailed like zombies. It's the kind of dance you would expect someone to do if they were being held at gunpoint.
I know what you might be thinking: Baby puppets with glowing eyes? Two poor assholes dancing against their will? It might sound funny, but I'm telling you right now it was NOT in any way amusing.
And it went on and on for at least 10 or 15 minutes, just these two moving monotonously to no music or sound, clearly exhausted. As for my own reaction, I went from morbid curiosity to a kind of silent distress for these people. This didn't seem like a show, it seemed like something no decent person should be witnessing. I felt like a voyeur, watching a video some sick pervert had paid to have made for their private collection or something.
Just as inexplicably as it started the slow dancing ended, the couple standing there taking deep breaths for a minute before trudging towards the twin mattress where they both laid down, exhausted. The camera remained in place for several minutes just watching the Man and Woman fall asleep. You could actually hear the Balding Man's snores faintly through the silence of this underground bunker of an apartment, still lit by that one bare bulb.
Suddenly the camera jiggled, then began to move. It was like whoever was operating it had taken it off the tripod and walked to the middle of the room across from the sleeping couple. The hand of the Cameraman appeared in front of the lens holding an object –A ROCK- in his hand. The mid-sized rock was held up to the camera for several seconds, anticipating what the sadistic person intended to do… which was to throw the rock at the sleeping Man.
The sound of the rock hitting the Man's side, and the startled cry of pain he let out, was agonizing. The Balding Man did not get out of the bed, he just covered his head with his arms and began to sob.
The Cameraman's hand appeared again, holding up another rock. He threw it even harder, hitting the Man's back. You could hear the impact louder this time, but the Man just continued to sob.
Then the footage ended, fading to black. On the TV it went back to the menu screen with the two black boxes labeled "1" and "2".
JESUS. What the fuck did I just watch?
If this was real it was like watching some snuff torture porn bullshit you'd see on 4chan. If it was fake, whoever was making it clearly fancied himself some kind of a 99-cent store David Lynch.
Now if you were me, would you have watched the second video on the spot, right then and there? Well I didn't. That first RSO video made me feel gross. Mind you, I've seen some sick stuff in my time, but I hadn't felt such a garbage feeling on the inside as I had with this.
Went to bed unusually early for me, 1am. I ran the episode I'd just watched back over in my head. The scene where the Man had rocks thrown at him had been jarring, but in retrospect the most disturbing part was when the Man and Woman were dancing. It was as if they were in a trance. They moved like they had no choice.
That night I had bad dreams I can't remember, and woke up the next day at 11am. After getting dressed up all spiffy I headed into Midtown Manhattan and fake-smiled my way through another interview for a thankless job in a nondescript building I knew I wasn't going to get. A waste of cologne and subway fare. For some reason I remember wanting to tell this hapless assistant who was interviewing me about the strange video I had seen the night before, but thought better of it. There was an irrational need to talk about this Russian Soap Opera… and to see what came next.
Grabbing my usual $5 Dollar Cold Cut Combo, I raced home on the J train, got back to the apartment, powered up the Roku TV, unwrapped my sandwich and braced myself as –against my better judgment- I hit play on RSO Episode "2".
Like the first episode, Episode 2 began straight away with no opening credits. The Balding Man was getting dropped off in his neighborhood by the Sunglasses Man at dusk, a static shot from the alley. Thick fog gave everything a frightening aura. You could barely see the outlines of the trees, row houses or even that white panel van as it drove off.
The Balding Man walked through the same alley he had used to get to his basement apartment in the first episode, but he stopped halfway through. The POV reversed to show what the Man was looking at: In the middle of the fog-drenched alley stood a DOG, a Siberian Husky with piercing bright blue eyes. The animal stood rooted to a spot and stared at the Man. He approached it slowly, but the Husky did not waver.
Kneeling down in front of the stoic animal, he put his hand in front of the Dog's nose to show he was friendly. No sniffing. No movement at all. Just that icy stare directly at the Man.
The next shot was taken from a rare close-up angle: The guy reached down to the Dog's tag dangling from a collar around its neck. The silver tag read "IVAN". Cutting back to the Man, he had a strange unsettled reaction to reading the Dog's name.
It went back to a jerky handheld shot hovering over the Man. He actually turned and looked into the camera, as if he was seeking approval from it for whatever he does next. Here's what he did…
(Remember my description of the Baby from Episode 1? How I said it was obviously a terrible cheap puppet with LEDs for eyes? Well this next part couldn't have been real, but I swear on my life it looked 100% legit. Based on what had come before I know these guys did not have access to cutting edge CGI or make-up effects or anything like that.)
So with a good amount of hesitation, the guy rolls up his right sleeve and puts his hand to the Dog's maw. It opened its jaws as wide as it could, without growling, and then the Man put his hand inside the Dog's mouth. He pushed his probing hand further in, until it passed into the canine's throat. As he probed deeper his ENTIRE FOREARM was INSIDE the Dog. While he was doing this, the Dog didn't so much as flinch. I kept thinking it had to be a prosthetic or animatronic or something. Looking at the Dog's belly you could see it rising and falling as it breathed, and then a slight distention as the Balding Man's hand probed the animal's insides.
The Man looked terrified, understandably. This was not a normal thing he was doing by any means. There was a sudden change in his expression, as if he found what his hands were searching for in the animal's stomach. He began to pull his arm back out through the Dog's wide-open mouth. The arm emerged covered in a kind of black viscera that dripped off onto the sidewalk. The Man's breathing got more intense, like he was hyperventilating. As he pulled the latter half of his forearm out the Dog must have clamped down a little bit because its teeth carved a few small tears in the Man's flesh. The guy winced at the pain.
When his whole arm and hand emerged from out of the Dog he was holding a large, black hammer. The man looked at it perplexed, then looked back at the camera and said something in Russian that I did not understand. Then he said it again, tears in his eyes, almost yelling. The Dog just walks away, out of the alley, disappearing into the fog.
There's a cut as we're now in the apartment again, all the way at the back of the room. Even further back than in the last episode, we actually see the top slats of the crib at the bottom of the shot.
Where the dirty mattress once was now sat a couch, the SAME COUCH that the two men got from the apartment in Bed-Stuy in Episode 1. The exact same one. The Woman was lying on the couch in a torn shirt and panties similar to those she wore in the last video. She lay there on her side in a catatonic stupor.
The Balding Man approached the crib with the hammer in his blackened hand. He walked slowly, purposefully. Staring directly into the camera, he gradually lifted the hammer above his head, as if ready to strike the camera itself.
He couldn't, though.
Something, some force beyond his control was keeping him from bringing the hammer down. His face strained. The single lightbulb on the lamp flickered, causing a strobe effect on the image. He had chosen to strike the camera or whoever was holding it, but it was the illusion of choice. In reality, he had no control.
Keeping the hammer held in the air, the Man's body swiveled and turned around towards the couch. As if propelled by a sudden force of will, his feet rushed over to the couch and the Man began raining down heavy and fast blows onto the Woman's head.
He pummeled her with the hammer so fast and with such bloody force that she never made so much as a whimper. All that could be heard were the wet smacks as her skull caved in, her legs and arms reflexively spasming for a few moments until they lay dormant. Even after she was clearly dead the Man continued to smash her and smash her and smash her. Eventually her head had been pulverized into an unrecognizable mound of mashed brain matter, blood, hair and cracked pieces of skull.
I vomited onto the rug.
This was not fake. This Woman had just been killed right in front of me on television. I had no idea who she was, but this swift and senseless act of murder had ended her life in an unconscionable way.
I paused the episode to clear my head for a second and just catch my breath. This strange show had taken a turn that made it difficult to process just what it is I was seeing. Was this all some kind of sick staged performance, or something genuinely supernatural? Mind control… unnatural creatures… dark magic… I just didn't know what to make of it, only that it was evil and to watch it was clouding my very soul, like black ink spilled into a glass of water.
I hit play.
After several more ferocious, pointless hammer blows the Balding Man suddenly stopped, his frenzy cut off as if a switch had been thrown. He stood over the Woman's bloodied corpse breathing heavily from the exertion. He stared down at her as if he was waking up, just as shocked as I had been a moment earlier.
The man began to cry. The hammer dropped out of his hands and onto the floor with a thud, leaving a splash of blood around where it fell. He fell to his knees weeping. He touched her shoulders, shaking her as if she could possibly wake up. He then reached his hand into the pile of viscera where her head had been, sinking his fingers into it gently.
He pulled his hand from out of the gore and picked up the hammer once again. He began yelling something incomprehensible and smashed the side of his own head with the tool several times, splitting his ear open in several places.
The Man then turned back to the crib where the Cameraman had been filming the whole time. The camera tilted up slightly as the Man got nearer, a frighteningly smooth movement done with a coolness that belied everything that had just happened in the last few minutes.
Reaching into the crib, the Man pulled the fake Baby puppet with the glowing red LED eyes out. He held it in his blood-caked hands with pure hatred and contempt, but as moments passed his expression changed from rage to fear. Absolute terror. The Man's breathing got heavier the longer he stared into this lifeless thing's eyes. He began to scream.
The screaming continued horrifically even as the Baby puppet inexplicably and spontaneously burst into flames. The fire instantly covered the Man's hands and spread quickly to his blood-stained shirt until it engulfed his entire body in a matter of seconds.
The Man's scream became audibly contorted as the flames no doubt savaged his vocal cords, the sound eventually fading even as he stood impossibly upright and still while his entire body burned.
The flames spread across the room, licking the couch and furniture until the whole room was an inferno. Even the slats of the crib visible at the bottom of the frame lit up.
At this point the Cameraman lifted the camera slowly and continued to capture the room as smoke and fire began to obscure the lens. While I can't be sure of what I saw given the distortion of the image, I believe the last thing visible in frame before the whole scene went dark was the camera going straight into the flaming Man, at last tipping him over onto the floor before the screen went black.
Needless to say, it took me awhile to recover from seeing all that play out in front of my disbelieving eyes.
Then I watched it again, both episodes.
Remember when I said I saw the couch from Episode 1 in the Man's apartment in Episode 2? Well in rewatching Episode 1 I paid extra attention to the brief point in the couple's apartment when I could see the longhaired Cameraman in the mirror. I paused that moment, and even with the lousy resolution of the fuzzy DV footage I now noticed that in his right hand was the small handheld camera, and down by his side his left hand held a GUN, a silver revolver. That was why the couple acted so bizarre in Episode 1… they were being forced to "act" at gunpoint by the psychopath who put this "show" together.
I was now also convinced of two things:
1) The Baby was absolutely fake, a puppet.
2) The Dog with the tag that read "IVAN" was absolutely real, as was the surreal act of pulling the hammer out of its body.
Now it was the moment of truth. Given that the Russian Soap Opera recognizably took place in New York, I had to find out if there really was a huge fire in a basement apartment sometime recently.
Digging through the internet I saw articles about several big blazes in large scale apartment complexes, but nothing in a smaller, row house-type situation. Finally I came across a Brooklyn community bulletin site that listed "lesser" fires and there had been one less than two weeks prior.
"A two-alarm fire at an apartment in Sheepshead Bay, Brooklyn was contained after 9:30pm Thursday by 20 firefighters who quickly put out the blaze. While the fire did not spread to neighboring apartments connected to the building at ____________ Street, two individuals who lived in the basement unit were reported as casualties, the badly burned corpses identified as Anna Krovopuskov (age 29) and Ivan Sobakin (age 42). The family living in the aboveground unit was safely evacuated, while three fire fighters suffered non-life threatening injuries. The cause of the fire is still under investigation, and police have yet to rule out foul play."
Ivan. So that was why the Man gave such a startled look when he examined the Dog's nametag. It was his own name. A sign. An omen.
Before I knew it I saw the sun peaking through my bedroom window and realized I hadn't slept all night. A temp agency I was already on thin ice with had booked me for two days of work scanning files at a brokerage in Midtown. To be honest I desperately needed the money from that gig to pay my next month's rent, but in my bloodshot, half-crazed state I decided to blow it off. I didn't even call in to cancel, and when the agency phoned me several times I let it go straight to voicemail. You already know where I went instead…
Upon taking the Q-train to Sheepshead Bay I walked through the mostly residential area, passing a few Russian/Jewish pharmacies and bakeries along the way. Using GPS I made my way to the row house building reported in the article, and saw the charred, soot-stained alleyway still behind police tape.
While using the zoom during an attempt to take a photo with my phone something caught my eye on the screen. It was a shadow at the end of the alley, near the burned-out husk of the basement apartment. It was the Dog.
I stood there frozen for a minute, staring at the animal. Then it started to move towards me. Panicking, I turned and started walking back in the direction I came, now convinced that this had been a bad idea.
My feet propelled me down the sidewalk, but when I turned back after several blocks I was unnerved to see the Dog following me, slowly but steadily. As it was only a block or so away I quickened my pace, trying not to look behind me. I must have gone ten blocks before my ankles started to burn, and when I glanced back the Dog was even closer, half a block.
Finally the green globes of the subway entrance were in sight, and I went into a full-on sprint, but accidentally bumped into a passing female jogger, knocking us both to the ground.
Far from annoyed, the jogger started to laugh. God help me, I've never seen a mean-spirited person on a runner's high. As I was offering to help her up the Dog appeared directly behind me, sitting down.
"Aww, is he yours?" she asked.
I didn't reply verbally, still unnerved by the very presence of the animal. I just shook my head negative.
"Huh, I saw him right behind you, assumed you were both out for a jog," she said, petting the unmoving Dog. She felt for its collar, then said the name on the tag aloud. It was my own name.
I backed away and headed down the subway stairwell. I could hear the jogger woman yelling back at me, asking if I was sure the Dog wasn't mine.
Waiting for the train to come, I sat on a wooden bench, catching my breath.
My own name. Not "IVAN." My name.
I looked up from the grimy station floor, staring at the denizens of the track across the way going the opposite direction. Amid the crowd my eyes caught a glimpse of someone pushing a black baby stroller. A man. A long-haired man. I immediately averted my eyes back to the floor, then closed them until I heard the train coming.
Something –call it intuition- was telling me that as deep into this as I was already, I didn't want to see that man's face. This Cameraman, whoever he was, must be some force of evil. That much was clear. To see his face would be to lose it all. My life, my sanity, or any sense of peace I would ever have would all disappear if I saw his face.
But I didn't. I stared at the floor as I boarded the Q-train and headed away from that neighborhood, that apartment, that Dog and that Cameraman forever, lord willing.
Back at my apartment things were quiet. I had been so wrapped up in all this Russian Soap Opera stuff that I didn't even realize that my roommate Greg hadn't been back here in three days. I wanted to confide in somebody about the RSO, just to have someone acknowledge that it was all "crazy" and I needed to "forget about it"… but he wasn't there. I knew this was his day off from work too.
I tried reaching him on the phone. No answer. I tried reaching his girlfriend on the phone. No answer. I checked their Facebook pages. Neither had posted anything in three days. None of this was usual for them, but maybe I was just being anxious due to what I had just been through.
With no one around I started to spiral into my own head, as I am want to do. I started to think that maybe I needed to leave town, that my time in New York had run its course. No job prospects. Temp work bridges burnt. No girlfriend. No friends. Not even a roommate at the moment. I thought I could hack it in this city, that I had a choice not to go crawling back to my parents' basement with my tail tucked between my legs. Turns out that was the illusion of choice.
Life had become too lonely and too frightening here, and I didn't want to wait to find out what would happen if I stayed. I began to feel like I had to leave right then.
I bought a bus ticket back to Delaware. I called up my parents to tell them I was coming in the next day, that I had run out of options. After I got off the phone I started to cry a little, thinking about the life I could have had in this city: A job, a wife, a kid, a dog, my own place. All the things people wanted, and all I had was a ghastly supernatural television mockery.
I tried getting ahold of Greg again by phone and text. No answer, despite the urgency of the messages I was leaving. If I skipped out on my final rent check maybe then he would call me back. Or maybe not.
After packing all my meager possessions into three small suitcases I switched on the TV. The last thing in the world I wanted to think about now was the goddamn Russian Soap Opera, but there it was, still set to that show page… except now there was a third little black box on the screen with the label "3." A new episode, and all I had to do was click on it.
I'll stick with Netflix, thank you.
submitted by Max_Evry to nosleep [link] [comments]

2020.05.22 14:29 Rubberout Acoss the Hall part 1 (fiction)

Chapter 1
Sarah turned the TV off and sighed. Reaching over the side of the bed, her hand brushed carpet until it found her cellphone. Pulling it up to her face, she hit a random button and the dark screen came to life.
"Unbelievable," she muttered to herself. Not only had she been stood up by Eric-the-asshole, but now she couldn't sleep.
If it hadn't been for the fact that Blake had their kids this weekend, she would have just gone home. Her lying douche-bag of an ex-boyfriend had taken her house and had forced her into living with her parents. Which left going back home out of the picture.
Sarah hadn't expected to be asking her new best friend to crash at her place tonight. She was supposed to have been on a date with Eric... their third date.
She looked up at the popcorn ceiling and clenched her teeth. It had been far too long since she had gotten any. The last time had been 9 months before her youngest son was born. She loved both of her children, dearly, but her youngest son was five now and mommy needed something.
"Shhhh. Not so loud!" a hushed voice, broken by giggles, came from behind Sarah's door.
She blinked away all thoughts of Eric, and found herself sitting up out of reflex. Straining her ears, she heard footsteps coming from the hallway.
"Don't shush me woman!" This time, Sarah caught the distinctive male voice of John. Katie, her best friend, had recently gotten hitched by John. In fact, they'd just gotten back from their honeymoon--just another reason why she felt like crap for imposing on them.
"John... What are you... Here?!" Katie gasped. Sarah could hear the smile in her voice.
"Hmmm," came the response.
Sarah heard the bathroom door just across the hall creak open. "What if she's awake?"
She froze, realizing her body had already moved toward the half opened door.
"Let her watch," John breathed.
As Sarah reached the dark threshold, she tried to justify her intrusion with curious ignorance but even that sounded like denial.
The moonlight from the bathroom's skylight illuminated two bodies. Katie, wearing only a tight t-shirt and a thong, was lifted up onto the bathroom's counter-top by her husband. Hard nipples attempted to break free from the shirt until John peeled it away. For the first time, Sarah got a glimpse of her best friend topless.
She'd never fantasized about another woman before, but the sight made Sarah's mouth dry.
"What is going on with me? I shouldn't be watching this," Sarah told herself.
Just as she turned her head back toward her room, John's voice answered like the little devil on her shoulder, "Let her watch."
Sarah turned her focus on John and discovered the skinny man was actually just really lean. His normal slacks and a button up shirt had been replaced by pajama pants. That is, pajama pants sporting a sizeable tent. And while the moonlight didn’t reveal everything, Sarah could tell his bare chest was down right lickable.
And then something unexpected happened. She was wet.
"Oh god," Katie said, giving voice to Sarah's thoughts.
While she couldn't see what John was doing to her, there was enough light for Sarah's imagination. He'd pushed her thong to the side and was fingering her.
Slowly, as if afraid to wake up, Sarah moved her hands to her shorts. When her fingers found the elastic band, they started trembling--but it wasn't enough to stop her. As she slowly dropped her shorts, she smelled her own arousal. Soft carpet kissed her knees as she rested her head against the door frame and slid an index finger along her wet slit.
John's mouth had found Katie's and she started to moan. His lips made their way down her neck to her erect nipples and Sarah saw his tongue flick out like a snake.
"Oh. My. God!" Katie whispered a little louder. He switched to sucking and she immediately let out with another moan.
Meanwhile, Sarah started tweaking her right nipple as she continued her slow rub.
"I can’t believe how wet I am," Sarah thought.
"Damn it John, put it in me."
Katie's hand had disappeared into John's pants and he grunted. Pushing away from her, he pulled his pajama bottoms down and exposed one of the largest cocks Sarah had ever seen.
"No wonder she loves him," Sarah thought, getting more hot and bothered.
Katie tried to pull her own thong off but John swatted her hand away. She made an annoyed sound but her hands stayed still as he took a knee and slid her thong off.
Sarah's hand had progressively increased its rubbing, occasionally bumping into her now engorged clit. Seeing Katie's glistening love hole gave her another unexpected but naughty feeling--and she had to stifle a moan. Aside from her own, she'd never seen another woman's aroused pussy. She hadn't even experimented in college like some of her girlfriends.
John didn't get up though and started kissing her inner thighs.
"Baby..." Katie giggled, shying away from his lips. "You know that beard of yours tickles."
John took a long whiff from his wife's wet hole and when he stood up, Katie immediately grabbed his meat.
Sarah stifled another moan when an unexpected thought crossed her mind. She'd imagined their roles being reversed. That she was the one grabbing his cock and Katie was watching her.
Katie guided him forward until his head slowly penetrated her wet pussy. Sarah slid her index finger in at the same time.
"Baby, you're big," Katie complained, and then bit her lower lip like a porn star.
Sarah watched John's ass move back and forward, slowly. Her finger mimicked his motions and she added her middle finger. Leaning back, she made herself a bit more comfortable. The smell of pussy filled her nose.
Katie grunted like a bitch in heat as her husband slowly pushed further into her, filling her up inch by inch.
"Not so deep baby," Katie gasped as he grabbed her hips.
He pushed Katie into the mirror behind her and tilted her hips up as he slowly fucked her. It was a steady rhythm, one which Sarah easily kept up. From the look on Katie’s face, he was doing a fantastic job.
""Ri--Right there," Katie whimpered, her eyes closed. "Ah!"
Now her heels were digging into his lower back. She was fucking him back.
"Deeper," she panted, "Deeper."
Sarah was soaking wet. She couldn't believe what she was doing but at the same time wanted to be the one getting fucked by John.
John, sensing some timer going off, grabbed her ass and impaled her. Katie gasped as she rocked her hips against him, fucking his cock for him. And then her primal grunts were elongated by what Sarah could clearly see as an orgasm. Having never experienced one during intercourse, Sarah paused her finger-fucking and watched on in amazement. As soon as his wife stopped bucking against him, John resumed his thrusting and she had to bite down onto his shoulder as another orgasm followed the first. She was trying to stifle a scream.
Her heels slowly loosened against his hips and then it was John having his way with his wife. His knees started to bang into the cabinets and his ragged breaths easily reaching Sarah's ears. He was close.
"Baby, cum!" Katie whimpered.
"Let me cum in your mouth," he grunted.
"Does he want to fill her mouth, or does he want her to taste her pussy?" Sarah wondered.
Regardless of the intention behind the request, Sarah wanted to tell him yes.
"No," Katie whispered. "You know I don't like that."
She grabbed his hand though and started sucking on his fingers. John moaned in delight. It was clearly one of his favorites.
Having gotten over her orgasms, Katie started fucking him back with a vengeance.
Sarah moaned at the exquisite scene and closed her eyes. Adding her ring finger into her almost animalistic masturbation session, she started flicking her clit with her thumb and imagined John’s pelvis was doing the flicking as he fucked her.
She wanted to cum with him.
"Ugh." The sound opened Sarah's eyes and she found that Katie had pushed him away from her.
For a split gut-wrenching second, she thought she'd been found. While the newlyweds were busy fucking, her door had slowly opened a bit further and she was spread eagle to them.
The sinking feeling instantly disappeared, however, when John was pushed back against the wall behind him and Katie went to her knees.
She grabbed his wet hard cock and opened her mouth. He moaned loudly as his wife's lips slid down his dick until she was deep-throating him. Sarah couldn't believe the woman didn't gag.
And then her head began to bob.
"Jesus, woman. What's gotten into--" John's words quickly died in his mouth as it was overtaken by another loud moan. He grabbed her head and Katie's hands loosened against his thighs as he took over and started fucking her mouth.
Sarah, wet and horny, watched her naked best friend get mouth-fucked by her husband's giant cock. She'd never, in her life, had fantasized about voyeurism, but she knew after tonight she would. John's knees buckled and Katie willingly followed him down to the floor. He was cumming in her mouth. Sarah felt her own orgasm nearing.
John, panting, leaned his head back against the wall as his wife continue to suck him off, milking every ounce of him. His hand finally came up and he pushed her gently away.
"So close," Sarah muttered to herself.
Just when Sarah's was on the brink of ecstasy, her brain kicked in. The only sound in the house was the lover’s loud breathing and her wet pussy squishing. In a state halfway between fuck-me-now and what-have-I-done, it was a wonder the latter part of her mind won. Begrudgingly, she stopped her soaked hand's ministrations. Even after all that, she still hadn't came. The sexual frustration was almost unbearable.
Gasping, John whispered, "You are by far the best wife a man could ever ask for."
Lifting himself up, he offered his hand to her but she just smiled and shook her head.
His eyes alighted in understanding and he picked up their clothes. "I'll be in bed and probably asleep before you have time to flush. Love you honey."
Katie smiled at her husband, and Sarah could see she really did love him with all her heart. Both Katie and Sarah watched John's sweat covered backside disappear into their bedroom before the door closed.
Sarah, still frozen in her doorway, debated on what to do next but it was quickly decided for her.
Katie looked right at her.
Part two will be posted in the few days on this subreddit https://www.reddit.com/Rape_Incest/
submitted by Rubberout to eroticstoriesxxx [link] [comments]

2020.05.07 19:37 zachariusfrost Voyeur tv house

Part 1
Part 2
Part 3

“Ow shit.” I groaned as the stinging from the hydrogen peroxide stung my butt cheek.
“Oh hold still… it’s gonna hurt worse if you keep squirming.” Janine scolded, before jabbing the needle into the wound. I bit down on the belt between my teeth, as the pain worsened. Janine sighed as she worked and I did my best to keep still.
“I can’t believe I agreed to this.” She said, more to herself than me. I honestly couldn’t believe it either. After our little interrogation turned multiple homicide from earlier, I knew going to an actual hospital was out of the question, and luckily Janine was available. She wasn’t happy that I called her at midnight, but then again, would anyone be? She was the only person with medical experience that I knew, so I really had no other option.
Janine kept working, while Erica looked on in concern. Meanwhile Hal was hard at work with the blue-haired girl who still remained unconscious in her frozen knelt position.
“Remind me again what happened to cause this injury?” Janine asked.
“Uh… ninja star.” I replied. Janine just scoffed.
“It’s called a ‘shuriken’.” Hal corrected.
“Yeah… thrown by your new girlfriend might I add?” I replied. Janine turned to Hal who was messing with the blue-haired girl’s remote and a bundle of wires.
“Yeah which is another thing we need to talk about… again.” I had already tried to explain the situation to Janine over the phone, but by this point, we all know how impossible a conversation that is.
“Can you at least cover up her ass?” Janine asked; eluding to the blue-haired girl who was locked in the same position she had powered down in. She was bent over, with her pleaded green skirt flipped up, exposing her blue-striped underwear. Hal grabbed a blanket from the couch and tossed it over her butt, and Janine returned to her work.
“Jesus Christ Carl…” I felt her needle dig into my ass a little harder after that, as Janine’s frustration had clearly set in.
“Good doctor, will he survive his wounds?” Erica asked, concerned. Janine shot her a confused look.
“Uh yeah… it’s just his ass. He’ll be fine so long as he doesn’t call me at midnight anymore. Otherwise I’ll have to tear him a new one.” She pinched the wound and I squirmed but stifled my sass. Erica seemed to breathe a sigh of relief.
“Oh, praised be to God.” Janine continued stitching, and after a few more minutes she had finally completed her work.
“Alright you’re good to go, it may be hard to sit down for a while though. And try not to get the stitches wet.” I rolled on my side and shot her a grimace.
“How am I supposed to shower?” Janine shrugged.
“That one you’ll have to figure out on your own.” She sauntered away into the other room and Erica clutched my hand softly.
“Erica…” She looked to me, eyes seeming to brim with sorrow.
“I’m just so glad you’re okay my lord. I don’t know what I would do without you.” She looked as though she were about to cry, despite her not possessing the ability to. Once again, her genuine demeanor struck hard. I can never tell how much of her is machine, and how much is still human. I wrapped both my hands around hers.
“We’re going to find him. I promise.” I had no way to guarantee it, but I had to say it. Erica smiled and leaned her head into my chest in a snug embrace. It felt so good to hold her close, and I was prepared to do anything to help her. Machine or not, she deserved to see justice, and Chuck still needed to pay.
Janine allowed us to stay the night, and for that I was incredibly grateful. If it weren’t for her hospitality, I don’t know what we would’ve done. I fell asleep with Erica at my side not long after, and awoke to the feeling of sunlight beaming in through the blinds. The aroma of fresh brewed coffee wafted through Janine’s apartment, and the sound of a television echoed quietly in the room.
Erica was no longer at my side, and I sprung up frantic, only to see her seated on the couch beside Janine. Janine jumped as I sprung up, before we both realized things were normal.
“Shit Carl… you always this jumpy in the morning?” Janine asked putting a hand to her chest.
“Sorry… I thought… never mind…” I hauled myself to my feet and winced as my wound stung. Janine took a sip of coffee.
“You guys made the news.” She said. My heart then quivered, and I looked to the TV to see an anchorwoman standing in front of a damaged house. After a moment I recognized the house as the same one we had been at the previous night.
The woman on the TV gave a rundown of the story. Police were swarming the area after receiving calls of a skirmish. They found the bodies of four deceased people; three of the henchmen with the other being the guy in the bathroom. They had two of the henchmen in custody, but reports of another who escaped.
Police were calling it a botched organ harvesting operation, and my jaw nearly struck the floor as the woman who we found tied-up the previous night gave her testimony. She then told her story how she thought they were all going to die; and surely would have were it not for three strangers who intervened. Janine just laughed.
“I thought you were just high as shit last night when you told me that story, but I guess you are as dumb as you look, but you’re not crazy.”
“Holy shit…” I then noticed Hal still dozing in front of the TV, with the blue-haired girl in her same position right beside him.
“Hal… Hal wake up.” I threw paper towel roll at him and it bounced off his scalp causing him to squirm.
“Mm… ah what? What time is it?” He asked groggily.
“Who cares? Just wake up.” Hal grunted and rolled onto his back, his lethargic gaze meeting the TV screen.
“What show is this?” He asked.
“It’s not a show.” I replied. Hal then seemed to understand, and immediately sprung upward, his eyes growing wide. The woman on the TV then concluded the story.
“Police are on the lookout for three persons of interest who the family claims are responsible for their liberation. If you know the whereabouts of these people then please contact your local authorities immediately.” The scene then switched to show police sketches that were undeniably of me, Erica and Hal.
“Damn… they actually did a pretty good job on those drawings. They look just like us.” Hal commented and I had to step away. Panic began constricting around my chest like the coils of a python.
“No no no no no no, this is bad. This is so bad.” I muttered.
“Yeah, looks like I’m harboring fugitives now; because that’s really what I wanted to do on my day off.” Janine grumbled, obviously sarcastic as she rose and approached her kitchen.
“I’m sorry Janine… I… it all happened so fast I just… I didn’t mean to get you involved we just didn’t have anywhere else…” Janine stopped me by putting a hand on my shoulder.
“If what you told me is true about what those bastards did to these girls, then you did the right thing.” I looked at her, confused why I wasn’t being scolded.
“I did?” Janine nodded.
“Yeah, you didn’t do it well… obviously, but at least you tried. That was very brave.” She patted my shoulder and then slapped my ass, causing a stinging pain to surge through my body. I winced and Janine seized me by the collar.
“But if you ever get me involved with something like this again then you’re gonna have to glue your ass back together.” She walked back over to the kitchen and Erica looked on in concern.
“The heretics are most depraved indeed.” She commented.
“You should just call the cops; you don’t deserve to get in trouble for this.” I called out to Janine. She cocked a brow at me.
“I ain’t no damn snitch. Soon as you leave, I’ll call em and tell em you went in the opposite direction. They’ll never know the difference.” She gave me a wink, and I nodded back.
“Thank you, Janine, I don’t know how I’ll ever repay you.” She shrugged.
“Take those bastards down, that’s a good start.”
“Oh yeah dude I forgot to tell you.” Hal suddenly interjected and pulled something from his pocket. He slapped a couple of papers down on the table and I leaned in to get a better look. I didn’t understand what I was looking, but Hal quickly explained.
“I think Chuck dropped these when he was running away shitting his pants. Got coordinates, a meetup location, a warehouse and this…” He then flicked a piece of blue paper in my face. It looked like schematics of a female woman; all skeletonized and interlaced with countless notes and symbols.
“Is this… for her?” I pointed to the blue-haired girl still unconscious, face down on the floor. Hal nodded.
“Yeah, I think I managed to reset her programming. Meaning in theory… she shouldn’t try to kill us when we turn her back on.” Hal replied.
“In theory?” I asked.
“Yeah, in case you haven’t noticed I’ve just been kinda winging it until now. But hey… it’s worked out so far.” I shot him a scowl.
“Yeah, I mean hey we just murdered like three people last night but other than that we’re good right?” I asked. Hal just shrugged as if decapitating people wasn’t that big a deal to him.
“Four people actually.” Janine clarified, causing me to pantomime a sarcastic thankful gesture back to her.
“Well we’re still alive, and those guys were douchebags anyway.” I guess he had a point there. I looked back to the blue-haired girl.
“So how do we turn her back on?” Hal looked over to Janine.
“Got any jumper cables?”
I can’t imagine what must’ve been going through the neighbor’s head’s when they saw us outside. Here they were, just probably enjoying the nice sunny morning when they saw a blue-haired girl dressed as a schoolgirl with us clamping jumper cables onto her breasts like some deranged sexual deviants.
The elderly man and woman just stared at us as Hal fired up his Lincoln. I wanted to say something to assuage their clear worries, but I think I just made things worse.
“Coffee just doesn’t do it for us anymore, y’know?” The old man just looked at me disgusted, and the woman appeared clearly worried. They said nothing, but picked up their pace to get away from us as quickly as possible. Can’t say I blame them for that honestly.
“Well here goes probably the stupidest idea ever…” I said, grabbing the ends of the jumper cables. I touched the red onto her umm… right bosom and Hal stood ready with her remote.
“You sure this is the right area?” I asked, referring to the depraved act I was about to perform. Hal just nodded, and I sighed; bringing the black clamp onto her other breast.
The moment the metal made contact, she lurched awake. Her eyes sprang open and her body fluttered and contorted like some kind of funky dance routine. She then knocked the clamps away and jumped to her feet, seizing me by the throat. Erica unsheathed her blade, and prepared to strike as the girl’s hand constricted around my neck.
“No wait!” Hal screamed pressing a button as Erica hesitated. The girl’s eyes then flickered, and her anaconda grip lessened. She then gasped, her eyes darting around. A wide smile then grew on her face as she looked into my eyes.
“Senpai!” She yelled, suddenly jumping onto my torso and wrapping her arms and legs around me. The sudden weight caused me to falter on my feet and fall onto my back. Erica then pressed her blade across the blue-haired girl’s throat.
“Unhand him you vile wench!” She yelled, a look of what almost seemed like jealousy in her eye. The blue-haired girl let out a whimper of fear and quickly released me from her grip. I jumped back to my feet, and the blue-haired girl hid behind me from Erica.
“Eek… Senpai… watashi oh mamatay.” The blue-haired girl pleaded. Once again, I saw the same old man from earlier at the other end of the parking lot staring at me with a disgusted look. I just gave an awkward smile and waved to him, and he just shook his head.
“Erica it’s okay… she’s just scared.” Erica’s eyes stayed ablaze, but her guard dropped a moment later and she sheathed her katana. I didn’t really know what to do, but clearly the best thing was for us to just get out of there.
The blue-haired girl clung to me like a sloth to a tree all the way up until we started to leave. I elected to drive so Hal could continue working on her, and Erica sat shotgun and helped me with my dialysis.
After driving awhile Hal finally managed to convert her language settings into English. We found out then that her name was Kurumu, and she- like Erica remembered very little of what had happened to her.
She said she was sorry for trying to kill us earlier, and seemed sincere about it. Erica didn’t look too impressed, but I felt genuine sorrow for Kurumu as well. I didn’t know what the hell we were going to do, but I did know that we now had another reason to find Chuck Hagerman and put an end to his depraved antics.
The documents that Hal had found pointed to a meeting place that Chuck presumably was going to be at. It was slated for the following evening, and it was half-way across the country. After we had interrupted his work the previous night, we didn’t know whether he’d have the nerve to show up there, but we had nothing else to go off.
The rest of that day was spent on the weirdest road trip I’d ever imagined. If you would’ve told me a week before this that one day, I’d be a national fugitive on the lamb with two ass-kicking sex robots and my best friend Hal, then I’d have asked what drugs you were on and where I could get some.
All the things I had imagined for my own life had suddenly evaporated, but I think it also taught me an interesting and kind of stupid lesson. You can plan all you want for how your life is going to be, but when destiny comes knocking, you answer that call. We had to end it, one way or another.
We finally arrived at the city where the deal was supposed to go down well into the wee hours of the morning. Kurumu and Hal were both passed out in the backseat, and Erica – ever the faithful companion remained on full alert beside me. I pulled into some dimly lit parking lot, hearing the sounds of several crackheads arguing on the far-end of the lot. It seemed the perfect place to hide out and finally get some sleep.
I killed the headlights, and glanced to Erica in the passenger seat.
“Have we arrived?” She asked.
“Well, we’re close, but the actual thing is still a little ways away. We got the whole day before it is supposed to happen.” Erica nodded, and stared into my eyes.
“How is your buttocks feeling?” She asked. I shrugged, still soar but learning to cope.
“it’s fine…” I replied staring out into the dismal streets around us. A moment of silence swirled between us, and my eyes eventually drifted back to her. She looked crestfallen, with her lower lip trembling ever so slightly. It looked like she was trying to cry, but just couldn’t.
“Are you okay, Erica?” She lowered her head, hiding her face behind her crimson locks as she sighed deep.
“I feel a great deal of remorse for what I have done to you. This heresy arose by my own hand. It’s all my fault…” She whimpered, and my heart broke for her.
“Erica…” I reached out and clasped her hand. She sniffled, and seemed too ashamed to look at me.
“We’ve all made mistakes, and this not your fault.” She looked to me, her verdant eyes seeming to sparkle.
“But it is my lord! A piece of you has been lost because of me.” She appeared truly devastated, but in all honesty, by kidney was no longer my main concern. I mean sure, it’d be nice to have it back, but there were more important things at stake.
“A piece of me has been gained though, my heart… because of you.” Yeah, I know it was probably the cheesiest pickup line I’ve ever heard too, but Erica seemed endeared by it. I clutched my other hand around hers and stared deep into her eyes.
“This is my battle to fight too.” She leaned into me, and we shared a long embrace. So long as a matter of fact that by the time it ended I found myself waking up with a crick in my back from falling asleep in the same awkward position.
Sunlight finally pierced my eyelids some time later, but I’m not even sure how much sleep I actually got. My mind was accosted by all sorts of anxieties and harrowing questions.
What if we die?
Will I go to prison for the rest of my life even if we don’t?
What will my parents think when they find out?
What is the point of having silent letters in words?
And most importantly, what was Chuck really up to?
After our previous encounter, that question weighed the heaviest on my mind. I thought he was just some incredibly talented and equally deranged robotics engineer, but clearly there was more at play. The fact he had five henchmen with him led me to believe his operation went well beyond just organ theft. I mean sure, I’ll bet a kidney is worth quite a lot on the black market, but it seemed like that was only the beginning.
Hal managed to discover that the man’s home that Chuck had been at that night was not only a well-known executive, but also a Brazilian senator. That home was apparently just his summer vacation home.
If Chuck was really only after organs he could’ve just kept going after average Joes like me. Local news would’ve run a story on another victim of organ theft, and that would’ve pretty much been the end of it. Why target a high-profile person like that senator?
We spent that day preparing as much as possible; which truth be told didn’t involve as much as we would’ve liked. We wanted to buy guns, but we knew if either Hal or I tried to access our bank accounts then the cops would trace us really quick.
In the end we settled on a local junkyard. The owner was a pudgy man with a stained Nascar t-shirt that was too small and a wad of tobacco in his lip. He didn’t want to let us in at first, but Kurumu managed to butter him up by flashing puppy-dog eyes. The rotund man blushed and his grumpy demeanor lessened as he finally agreed to let us in.
We tried rounding up as many useful materials as we could find. Erica sharpened her blade, while Kurumu constructed several shurikens out of jagged scrap metal. Hal and I tried our hand at assembling some kind of armor, but realized pretty quick that neither of us were really cut out for this line of work.
Luckily Erica showed us a few nifty little tricks which I’ll describe later. Her craftsmanship and MacGyver-esque spirit was truly something to behold. Once again, the thought struck me of how she was able to do the things she did. Did she know them before she became Chuck’s little experiment, or did he specifically program her with the knowledge? And if so, why the hell would he program a sex robot with the ability to manufacture guerilla weaponry? Either he was obsessively dedicated to creating authentic personality types, or there was an entirely different explanation to all this.
Evening finally came, and our ragtag group filed in to Hal’s Lincoln and drove to the specified location. We didn’t even know whether Chuck would bother showing up there, but we had nothing else to go off and time was running out.
My gut churned like I had just eaten a Taco Bell buffet, and I couldn’t stop tapping my foot as we drove out to the location. If it’s not clear by now I guess I have to reiterate; I’m no fighter. I’ve never been a big guy, nor do I have any training in self-defense, let alone taking on international organ smugglers. I don’t think our local community college has a class on that.
Hal continued sifting through his phone and notes he had made while Kurumu drove quietly onward. I thought it was questionable whether to have her drive at all, but Hal seemed fine with it. We couldn’t even convince her to change out of her schoolgirl uniform. The sweats and hoodie we offered in exchange to help mask her appearance were quickly rejected; as Kurumu claimed they were ‘not kawaii’. She refused to reconsider and so we ended up just dropping the topic.
Clearly, we were underprepared, ill-equipped and some might even say entirely incompetent. It’s not like we weren’t aware of this fact, but we were well aware that if we didn’t stop it, no one else would.
The warehouse specified in Chuck’s stolen notes stood desolate and seemingly unoccupied. It was run down and swamped in foliage which protruded from cracks in the walls and foundations. Broken glass and various spackles of graffiti covered the exterior, and clearly the building had not been in use for many years.
It seemed the perfect place for a shady individual like Chuck to meet his equally shady contacts, but there appeared to be no one there. Hal parked his Lincoln behind an old storage container, and the four of us spread out to put our operation into motion. Hal and Kurumu snuck around the back to try and find a way inside, while Erica and I hid behind some bushes.
“Is something the matter, my lord?” Erica asked as I shivered from behind the skeletal bushes. The cold wind was like needles on my skin, but that wasn’t the only reason I was shaking like a leaf.
“Ah… it’s just cold.” I replied, trying to reassure her; there was no fooling her though.
“The eve of battle is a worrying time, my lord. It is only natural to feel anticipation.” I eyed her skeptically.
“Pshh… I’m not scared.” Neither Erica nor I myself bought my claim.
“Okay fine, I’m fucking terrified. I’ve never done anything like this before.” I admitted, unable to lie to her. Her green eyes seemed almost to glisten in the night, as the wind blew her crimson locks gently about.
“You are very brave for accepting this mission on my behalf, and I will protect you to my final breath.” I shook my head.
“I don’t want it to come to that. I want you to live, especially…” I trailed off, mulling over how to formulate the words as delicately as possible.
“Especially after what you’ve been through already, you deserve to live free.” Erica smiled.
“I already live free my lord. It is not the circumstance to which I was born into, nor the struggles I have faced which defines me, It is I who define myself, by the things I choose to do, and the people I choose to serve.” She then shifted closer to me, staring into my eyes.
“And I choose to be at your side; now and forevermore.” She leaned in and kissed me on the cheek. I was blown away by her response, but still my gut was churning.
“What if we die?” I asked. Erica turned, and like some effervescent, Valkyrie queen from the heavens, she solidified her badass persona with seven simple words.
“Then it will be a glorious death.”
Headlights approached in the distance, turning onto the neglected road which led out to where we had stationed ourselves. The vehicle drove onward, eventually turning to reveal itself as a blacked-out suburban. Typical, I thought chuckling under my breath, but the stereotypic display wouldn’t last.
The suburban closed in eventually parking in the far-end of the lot and killing it’s headlights. The vehicle just sat there, and I was unable to make out who was inside. Finally, after a few minutes the rear-left door opened. Out stepped a man dressed in camo, holding a large rifle. He lit a smoke and exhaled a cloud which was immediately abducted by the wind. The door on the other side opened a moment later, and another man stepped out dressed in matching attire.
My phone buzzed, and I peeked at it to see a text from Hal.
“They look like Army guys. What’s the plan?” He plucked the thought right out of my brain.
“Stay hidden, wait for Chuck.” I texted back, contemplating what the sight entailed. Hal was right; the guys did look like they were from the US Army or some other military branch. But what the hell was the military doing out there? Was it a sting operation they had set up?
I don’t know if the military even does sting operations, or if that’s more of an FBI thing. I suppose they could have been mercenaries or hired goons, but the uniforms threw me off. I expected tattooed bald dudes with beer guts and dark suits along with some Russian dude named Yuri calling the shots, but clearly that wasn’t the case.
We waited there for at least twenty more minutes, before another pair of headlights emerged down the road. It drove the same path as the Suburban before it, and as it entered the same patch of moonlight; I recognized Chuck’s van.
“It is the one we seek.” Erica began to move; clutching her blade, but I grabbed her arm.
“Wait… I want to see this.” Erica hesitated, and slumped back down beside me. The van parked adjacent to the suburban, and killed it’s headlights. The two men outside with assault rifles tensed up, and the driver door of the suburban stepped out. He wore a black suit and gloves, sporting a balled head and clean-shaven face. The van door then opened, and out stepped a familiar and hated face.
Chuck. Fucking. Hagerman. He rounded the van, and approached the man in the suit.
“You’re late.” The man in the suit said in a voice devoid of emotion and expected Russian accent. He sounded more midwestern than anything.
“Apologies, we had an… incident but it has been taken care of.” Chuck replied, clutching something underneath his arm.
“I hope it wasn’t anything serious.” The man in the suit said, glancing at the guards beside him. “Do you have it?” He asked sternly. Chuck nodded.
“Yes, yes of course. Not like I’m gonna come all the way out here to waste you gentleman’s time. That’s a good way to get wacked, amirite?” Chuck was clearly trying to lessen the mood with his cheesy, salesman routine, but the man in the suit didn’t look impressed.
“There’s still time for that.” He responded, and Chuck looked like he had just shat a cinderblock.
“Right, well as promised I have the models here that you requested.” Chuck beckoned them to follow him, and the group ventured to the back of the van. I couldn’t see what was going on, and was about to text Hal and ask since he had a better vantage point, but he beat me to it.
“Dude there’s more of them.” His text read.
“What do you mean? More goons?” I replied. Erica looked like a jaguar eyeing a field mouse from her crouched position. I could tell she was chomping at the bit to engage them, but still stood firm. My phone buzzed again.
“No… more dolls.” I don’t know why I didn’t see that coming, but it was still a surprise. How many of those damn dolls did that psychopath Chuck make?
“They are totally obedient, following every order without question.” Chuck declared, waltzing from behind the van with the other men. My phone buzzed once more.
“He stole that line from Attack of the Clones.” I just shook my head.
“Hal. Focus.” I replied, shoving my phone back in my pocket. Chuck walked out accompanied by two gorgeous women dressed in scantily clad attire. There was a black girl dressed in leather pants and a crop top, while the other was a Latina girl wearing low-cut jean shorts, cowboy boots and a corduroy, collared shirt.
“These are our newest models. I think you’ll find them quite impressive.” Chuck pulled out a remote and hit something on the screen. The black girl’s eyes flickered, and she took a step. Her eyes focused on one of the men dressed in camo, and she began seductively strolling towards him. Her hand raised with an illustrious motion and her fingers danced around his neck. The man’s face lit up in a perverse smile.
“They are programmed with state-of-the-art sensual features, but also…” Chuck pressed another button. The girl’s eyes then flickered, and in one swift motion she pulled the man into a headlock, flipped him over her thigh and flat on his back. The man struck with a groan, and tried to fight back but the girl held a dagger against his throat before he could move. The man shuttered and lifted his quivering hands in surrender. The man in the suit just grinned.
“Impressive.” He commented as Chuck commanded the girl to release the man. The man in camo stood back up and dusted himself off as his comrades chuckled at him.
“And they can be operated remotely?” The man in the suit asked and Chuck nodded.
“From up to one-thousand clicks away.” That may have been the most interesting claim he’d made thus far. I couldn’t help but wonder why someone would possibly need to be able to operate a sex robot from over one thousand miles away. I mean, maybe remote viewing or voyeurism of some kind, but it just seemed like an unnecessarily expensive feature, but as I looked at the strange ensemble of Chuck’s friends, I was struck by an epiphany. Maybe Erica, Kurumu and the others were more than advertised.
The girl strolled back to Chuck’s side; like a noble and obedient hound. I couldn’t decide what to do. I tried devising a plan of catching them all of guard, but there were too many. Before either I or Erica could act, a commotion caught our attention from the far side.
“Die perverts!” Like some methed-out tiger there was Kurumu, leaping from the shadows and soaring through the air like some Jackie Chan prodigy. In one fluid motion she flung a shuriken out with tremendous speed, burying it deep into one of the goons faces. The man gurgled and fell dead a moment later as the others opened fire. Kurumu ducked, and dove behind an old truck, and I realized I had to do something.
Before I could even act, Erica stood and shouted.
“For the glory of the one true god!” Her voice rose to a clamorous warlord, and she charged at the men. They turned to her, but before they could fire, she was on them like a piranha on a wounded calf. She reached the first man, slicing both his arms at the wrist as I rose to charge out.
The man screamed in agony but was silenced by Erica shoving her blade right through his throat. She then hunched her back against the man’s mutilated corpse; using it as a makeshift shield as his compatriots riddled his body with a surge of bullets.
I saw Chuck panic and scurry away yelling out a command to his Amazon warriors.
“Kill them.” The two other girls sprang into action, with one tackling Erica while the other darted towards where Kurumu had hidden. A brick then came soaring through the air and nailed one of the henchmen on the head as he was reloading. He groaned and clutched his face as Hal came charging out of the darkness screaming like a banshee. I think it was meant to be a war cry, but it sounded more like he had reached puberty and orgasmed simultaneously. The iron bucket on his head didn’t help his case much either.
He reached the wounded henchmen and tried punching, but the goon caught his fist. He flipped Hal around, punching him twice in the face and once in the gut before tossing Hal onto the ground. Hal groaned and spat out blood as the man moved to finish him off.
Before he could I dove onto his shoulder, causing him to waver and fumble around. He tried freeing himself, and soon tossed me free. Hal had since regained his footing and swung a metal pipe towards the man. The man ducked and instead Hal’s swing struck me in the shoulder.
I crumpled in pain, and the man kicked Hal in the groin, causing him to crumple as well. Once again, the two of us were outmatched by a single opponent, but before he could land a killing blow on either of us, he was set open by a wild Kurumu.
She slammed the man into the side of the suburban burying his face through the window. Another man rounded the back of the Suburban, but before he could fire Kurumu had flung a shuriken into his hand. The man screamed and fell backwards squeezing the trigger and causing a barrage of bullets to fly aimlessly out into the night sky.
As I regained my footing, I saw the Latina doll in the distance hogtied and squirming in the dirt after her failed battle with Kurumu. Kurumu was a monster, and before I could even regain my footing, I saw her slam the goon’s face into another window on the suburban. By that point his face looked more like a pancake made of glass.
Kurumu’s eyes were ablaze with the madness of the old gods, and she swiftly set upon the man she wounded previously. He screamed and tried crawling away, but Kurumu showed no mercy. She laughed manically as she grabbed the man around the neck and began pulling at it. In seconds I heard the man’s pained shrieks mix with a cacophony of wretched snaps and gurgles before Kurumu tore the man’s head clean off his shoulders.
Meanwhile I saw Erica facing off with the black girl in front of the vehicles, and Chuck diving into his van. I knew then I had to stop him and so I charged towards him with reckless intent. As his van’s tires screeched and flung rocks up around the vicinity, I grabbed onto the side door handle.
The van charged forward, with me clinging onto the side for dear life. Chuck’s eyes were wide with terror as I somehow managed to haul myself up his passenger side. The door then swung open, and Chuck swerved to try and lose me. I hung on for dear life as my back scraped against the abrasive gravel road.
With all the strength I possessed I just barely managed to pull myself up inside his van. Chuck tried punching me, but clearly his fighting skill was matched only by my own incompetence. I caught his fist and tugged him away from the driver seat. The van swerved wildly, and I felt it tip up on two wheels, before tumbling sideways.
The next moment consisted on what I can only imagine of what it feels like to be inside a blender. I was accosted by all manner of debris; glass, pencils, coins and whatever other frivolous items Chuck kept in his cabin. The van tumbled side over side before finally falling still in a shattered husk of it’s former glory.
I lay there dazed and in pain, as my mind attempted to reel itself back in. I looked up and realized the van was upside down. Chuck was hanging inverted from the driver seat; his seatbelt keeping him tethered to what had now become the roof.
I felt a sharp stinging radiate all over my body, but the adrenaline fueled me to click his seatbelt release. Chuck came crashing down onto the inverted roof like a sack of potatoes; groaning as he struck. I hauled myself towards him, mounting on top as he looked at me with dazed eyes. I punched him in the face.
“Kidney… now.” I mumbled between labored breaths. Chuck appeared on the verge of unconsciousness. He didn’t respond, and I took a moment to catch my breath.
Behind me I heard a sudden commotion and turned to see the suburban rocketing towards the road out. It swerved wildly before slamming into a telephone pole and stopping dead in it’s tracks. A person was then jettisoned through the windshield, screaming before landing in a heap several dozen feet ahead of the wrecked vehicle.
I crawled out towards the wreckage, figuring Chuck was no longer in any condition to flee. I saw Kurumu fall in a heap from the roof, wincing softly as she thudded onto the ground. The rear tire of the suburban had like five shurikens lodged into it, and it looked more like an oversized, used condom by that point.
Erica was still facing off against the black girl, but their conflict ended when Hal arrived and tasered her from behind. The black girl quivered and fell to the dirt unconscious. Erica was panting heavily, and her and I locked eyes in the moment.
A sudden screech then echoed behind us, and the sounds of a boom echoed out. I turned and saw an odd, net-like projectile come hurdling towards the scene. Before anyone could react, I saw the thing coil around Erica like some vile serpent. She fell to the dirt and I rushed to her side, but I was too late; the suburban reached her first.
Two men stepped out and hauled the flailing Erica inside. I screamed and dashed towards them, but was frozen by the sight of the man in the suit. He was holding a pistol aimed directly at my chest. I saw it just in time for him to pull the trigger. A harsh impact thundered into my chest, feeling like a punch from superman direct to the gut. I fell onto my back, seeing Erica screaming as my vision swam around me. I then saw her convulse and fall still as she was hoisted into the depths of the suburban. I could do nothing but watch as they drove away into the night and my vision faded to black.
submitted by zachariusfrost to ComedicNosleep [link] [comments]

2020.05.04 00:08 Mysterious-Visit Voyeur tv house

Hi all, before I explain the most preposterous matter of events you’ve probably read in a while I should let you all know that I am the epitome of a rational person, I’m very level headed & is unlike myself to jump to any sort of conclusion that is in any way absurd etc .. however I am at a complete loss at the current matter of events I have been ill-fated with. I am here for some advice & possibly to hear similar stories however I I’m pessimistic to believe anyone has been unfortunate to have suffered the same circumstances.. First off, I have been seeing (we will call him Rodney) for about a year, most of which he lived with me at my house, a few months in his behaviour started to become suspicious, he started to hide away in his room, woman’s voices kept appearing, sexual noises started to come about, when we would share a bed I would wake up in the middle of the night to noises of him and what appeared to be another woman (moaning etc) sometimes I would catch him peering out the bedroom window whilst whispering to someone, after some time it became evident that he was opening the window because every time he would leave the house it was unlocked again. If I mentioned anything he would scream and demean me until I would cry and eventually let the issue go. It got so bad and so many of these instance kept occurring that I started to put my voice recorder on my phone when I would sleep as I couldn’t trust myself to fall asleep otherwise. In the recordings I can hear doors opening, whispering, sexual noises etc .. I’ve spoken to my mother about this as she is always the one to make me see sense when I’m not thinking clearly, however it was her that pushed the issue and mentioned something about voyeurism, from what I have researched o believe this could certainly be a possibility, especially as it was always very clear from the start that his kink was watching me emotionally distressed from his actions & the only time he was in the mood was during a fight when I had been completely distraught .. apart from that he had no interest, especially if I was in the mood - that was a complete turn off for him. However the issue I am faced with now, post his absence (he still visits here and there) is the fact that I can hear people around me, always around the same time at night (2,3am) I hear what sounds like someone jumping the fence & banging and footsteps all around me. It always sounds like there’s someone either under the house or in my backyard having sex & when it makes me upset and I yell out or call Rodney the sounds get louder and louder. Mind you, every time this happens is a time that Rodney goes mia and I am unable to get through to his phone .. My house is on stumps with access via the backyard, however I can’t imagine that under the house would be a desirable location to meet up with somebody. The other thing that has me at a complete loss and is devastating myself is that whenever he decides to visit his first go to is to use my spare bathroom shower, a few months ago I was in my bedroom and I could hear him and another person once again in a sexual manner - there was absolutely no way of mistaking this. I banged on the door and as usual he turned this around to be my fault. During the time he lived with me, he wasn’t the cleanest person and wouldn’t care if he missed a shower here and there but when he would come to visit he was incessant on having a shower and every time he makes a point to say that he wants a shower in peace like he’s enabling what he’s about to do. Without a doubt this happens every time he comes over. Prior to the shower, I start to hear unusual noises around the house like someone is in the walls or ceiling or under the house & my pet dog starts to go absolutely crazy - starting and scratching at the walls, whining like someone is there .. like clockwork every time. I ended up putting my phone at the door on voice record one day & listening back to it you can clearly hear another woman’s voice & as I said I’m not an irrational person so I’ve considered the idea it’s porn or phone sex, however it’s the difference between peoples voices via the phone and in person are distinctively different. Once the noises stop the shower door gets banged a few times over and over, then what sounds like something dragging on the floor, multiple banging noises like something being moved and heaving noises like someone is possibly lifting something or someone. I’ve investigated the bathroom and can’t find anything or any hiding spots it has me completely confused .. he does keep the rod you use to open/close ducted heating vents in there & found him playing with the drains a few times & S bend .. the shelf was also moved in the vanity cupboard. But the bathroom is a standard bathroom, bath, shower, vanity, mirror, exhaust fan, tiled floor .. I don’t get it. He will also find any excuse just to go and sit in there .. I have a feeling that the neighbour might have something to do with it, as there have been a few times he has come over and when he leaves (after receiving a text from someone and making up an obvious lie to leave) that I did not hear a car out the front start or leave. I live in a unit complex so can’t see the front street from my house. Late at night the neighbour also oddly starts to shine lights into my home, i can see them walk outside around 2am and from multiple directions see a light peering into my house. I also feel like they are using some sort of infrared sensor as it’s almost like an invisible light wherever I sit that almost blinds me. When I do hear people outside I proceed to turn off all lights and the lights and beams and tiny dots of red, blue, green is genuinely bs .. I also see people’s silhouettes around my house checking where I’m located in the house. Not to mention I’ve always had a weird ability to pick up radio waves/tv waves and when this is all happening it’s so strong it makes me feel like I’m going to pass out and almost feels like I’m loosing my hearing. Is there anywhere in the bathroom that you think I’m overlooking? Possible that someone is in the roof/walls? I need to know because its affecting my life in every way, I’m on the last stretch of removing him from my life but even so, I need to know otherwise I will question it for the rest of my life and trusting anyone won’t be an option for me. And if anyone has been through similar I prey that you were able to emotionally recover from the trauma of having the person you trust the most severely use you for their own fucked up derranged fantasies .. 😪
submitted by Mysterious-Visit to u/Mysterious-Visit [link] [comments]