2021.11.28 20:23 Nyarlathotep__ Safe places to get a suit in Montreal for trans people
TL;DR Want advice on places in Montreal to get suits fitted that are chill about trans people.
Hey y'all, a close friend of mine is taking some early steps in exploring their transmasculinity, and I know from experience how getting new gendered wardrobe pieces can be extremely stressful. They want to get a suit that fits well, but women's suits are definitely too feminine. They want a suit with a masculine cut, but it's safe to say to get that to fit well is going to need a solid amount of tailoring. Can anyone vouch for places in Montreal we could go where the people who work there are chill and will actually do what they ask? I can really relate to the thing where even when you ask someone for a certain style of thing, they make it based on what they think your assigned sex is anyway. Also, I know very little about suits, so if I've said anything here that is assuming some nonsense, please feel free to let me know, I would really appreciate it. Any other tips or advice you want to share are also welcome.
Other qualifying context: They do use a binder. We definitely do not have infinite money, but I will be pitching in for a portion of the cost so affordability is relevant but not the be-all-end-all. We are both vegan, I think some suits have fabrics that aren't vegan, so I'd love to know how easy it is to find/identify good ones that are.
Thanks so much!
also, I'm planning on reposting this in a couple of different places, so if you see it elsewhere feel free to ignore, I'm just trying to get as much advice as possible because this is a pretty specific question.
submitted by Nyarlathotep__ to montreal [link] [comments]
2021.11.28 20:23 redtailtalons Thoughts on Potential Jett and Yoru Rework?
Hi, given that nerfing Jett and reworking Yoru seem to be thought of as two of the most needed changes after Champions, I have been thinking about them a lot and wanted to see what people thought of some ideas to change them.
The main idea is to **switch the time it takes for Jett to dash out and Yoru to activate Gatecrash.*
The reason I think this could be a good change is that Jett currently occupies too many niches being both good at aggressive executes like Flash and Dash plays and at safely taking angles and oping, while Yoru currently occupies no niches. By slowing Jett's dash windup to the speed of Yoru tp, she is unable to freely dash out of bad situations, and he main defensive option might become to smoke at feet and then dash to cover the increased lag. This seems like a good change because, unlike the increased pull out time after her dash, it preserves her niche as a powerful aggressive option in coordinated plays and leaves her with a viable but not all-powerful escape option, similar to how her smoking and dashing onto site now is powerful but sometimes punishable. To compensate for this, her util prices should be looked at again and she can probably get the third smoke back.
I also think this gives Yoru a clear niche, as his new Gatecrash would have a lot of the defensive power of old Jett dash without giving him too many niches as it would still be greatly limited offensively. In addition to this, I think Fakeout could be updated to be more powerful without needing a whole new ability. **Instead of walking in a continuous straight line, Fakeout should walk between the starting point and a chosen point B, curving around corners to get there if needed.** I think this would give Yoru players more control of the ability, which would give it more power as a tool to outsmart opponents. If it is still weak, maybe giving him a Brimmy i-pad to place them at range too would work.
Additionally, I think a cool idea I have not heard tossed around is for **Yoru to be able to consume a placed Fakeout to create the same noise as him arriving at his tp instead of the footsteps.** This way, he could pop the tp and Fakeout at the same time, and although they would hear the noise, enemies would not be sure which location he was actually in. I think this would allow for more outplays without making the tp silent, which might be too powerful.
The last effect of these changes I want to discuss is that I think it creates a nice set of tradeoffs when considering which agent you want to op with. Chamber has a quick escape and can hold an angle permanently with flexibility for where he tp's to, but he is static on one angle and cannot constantly push and take new angles like current Jett. Yoru, by contrast, gains this ability to set up on an angle then push and take new angles while still being able to tp out. However, because his Gatecrash expires and needs to be redeployed, he is limited in where he can tp to, as he can only go to places his gatecrash can reach from where he is set up. With Jett, you give up some of the safety of other opers, but still have a viable escape and are able to take unusual angles like top of Haven B due to updraft. Additionally, Jett offers more offensive potential than Yoru or Chamber when not oping. One other character that may become viable as an oper is Reyna, as she has the incredibly fast dismiss, and along with Jett is the only option that can use their escape and immediately repeak the same angle. However, her escape is contingent on hitting the shot, which is a significant weakness itself.
Obviously I'm no expert at game design, but I thought these were interesting ideas and was wondering if people had any thoughts on them.
submitted by redtailtalons to ValorantCompetitive [link] [comments]
2021.11.28 20:23 serial4u Cati Kati Ask Episode 2 (English Subtitles) - serial4u
|submitted by serial4u to Elkizi [link] [comments]|
2021.11.28 20:23 cal_ness My name is Mike, and I run security for the Dark Convoy. Write something nice on my tombstone.
Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5 | Part 6
Gavin played me. He played all of us. And now––even though they worked for the Dark Convoy, which isn’t exactly a monastery full of saintly figures––a good number of my friends and acquaintances are dead.
Tommy’s in the back of the Demon. He’s white as a sheet. His bones are sticking out of the skin around his wrist; the wrist joint looks like a swelling pin cushion. I did my best to bind it up. But knowing what I know about wounds, it’s coming off. Hauling him up from the inferno below, in the warehouse, dislocated his shoulder and nearly ripped his hand free from his arm. But he’s alive.
While so many others are dead, Tommy’s still alive. For how long, I wonder.
“Don’t blame me for this, Mike.” It’s Gavin. “I need you––I need you covering my blindspots.”
“You’re a fucking piece of shit.”
“Not gonna argue with that,” says Gavin. “I’m playing the game, just like everyone else. I picked my side. What’re a few dead criminals in the grand scheme of things? I know they were your friends. I’m sorry they’re dead. But find your way around it, quick. We’ve got bigger fish to fry.”
Gavin’s hauling ass down the Road to Nowhere. We’ve got no company; if we ever did, they’re long gone. The Demon crawls over one hundred––it’s a straightaway, and Gavin keeps the pedal floored.
“What’re you going to say?” I ask. “To Charlotte––to the others.”
“That things went to shit at the warehouse. And it’s not a lie. And I’ll tell them that we’ve gotta move fast, which ain’t a lie either.”
Gavin steers with his knees for a moment, holding the wheel steady. He reaches into his jacket pocket, pulls out what looks like a pack of cigarettes. And then I catch a whiff of the skunk stench. Not cigarettes––more of that intergalactic reefer he uses to refuel his tank. He puts a massive joint between his chapped lips and flicks a zippo. Then he breathes deep, and exhales a milky cloud of smoke into the cab of the Demon.
“Want a toke?”
He notices my hesitation through the screen of smoke and laughs.
“It’s not poison,” he says. “It’s the good stuff, from the jungles of the planet Snarflax.”
And now he busts up laughing.
“No, Mike, there’s no fucking planet called Snarflax. Jesus Christ, you fucking Earthlings are a bunch of morons. It’s from a dispensary I know. They’ve got the good stuff. Just weed, man.”
He holds out the joint. I wave him away. I’m already high by contact anyway, and I need to keep my wits about me as best I can.
“How about him?” says Gavin, looking in the rearview at Tommy.
“What do you think, kid?”
A moan of agony; then he reaches forward.
“Good on you,” says Gavin. Tommy groans again, then takes a pull. “Forget what they say about peer pressure––”
“Leave him alone,” I say. “Just fucking drive––do the job you came to do and shut the fuck about it.”
I see a look in Gavin’s eyes. Not anger. Not disappointment.
Despite all this, despite everything that’s happened, he thinks it’s fucking funny.
Or maybe it’s just a mask he wears. I’ve met types like him before––scared shitless under a flimsy facade made of balsa wood and Elmer’s glue. There’s fear underneath it all. But Gavin, just like the other people I’ve met who do so, does a passable job of hiding it.
“Just be thankful,” says Gavin.
“Belated Turkey Day, Mike.”
And then it hits me. Thanksgiving––I missed it. A few days back, around the US of A, people chowed down on stuffing, smeared their faces with mashed potatoes. They shot genetically modified turkeys full of the mystery juice with basters, wearing gingham aprons and suburban, pearly white smiles.
And tonight, around the country, around the world, people are hunkering down for the night or morning or whatever comes next, unaware that there’s something bigger going on. Unaware that we rest on a precipice, with a dark void bordering every slope.
Gavin chose his side. A bunch of my friends burned alive; got smashed into the concrete of a blood-slicked warehouse floor by a horde of human chattel. And it was all thanks to Gavin choosing his side. He went all in, put his eggs in one basket. His decisiveness killed dozens, but he came out in one piece. I did too, and I can’t deny my gratitude for that.
“Be thankful you’re not at home watching some fucking football game, Mike,” says Gavin, reading my thoughts. “You’ve got a chance to save the damn world. How cool is that? While people at home are bundling up the decorations they use to celebrate Benjamin Franklin or whatever the fuck they celebrate on the fourth Thursday of November, you’ve got an opportunity to be the hero.”
“Is that what you are? A hero?”
He smiles again. Then he pulls another reefer out of his pack and lights it up. The cloud of smoke inside the cab becomes so thick I can barely see; the dashboard swirls; luminescent shapes; hallucinations of things I’m not so sure are there.
This hypnotic journey into hell just got even more groovy.
“Not a hero,” says Gavin. “Just a once-upon-a-time pizza boy who got wise to the way things work. I wouldn’t go back. Ignorance isn’t bliss, contrary to what they say.”
Now, I’m officially high. I never liked the feeling too much, but there’s something different about this. When you’re doing cosmic work, you gotta get into a cosmic headspace. Things start to click in a way they haven’t before. I let myself melt into the seat of Gavin’s Demon as she goes even faster. Tommy’s asleep in the back. Gavin’s still smiling. His eyes are blank, unfeeling, like a pair of glazed doughnuts.
But he’s in his element, and so am I.
I resent the hell out of him for killing my friends, and part of me is still undecided about whether to pay his ass back for Ed and the others. But in the meantime, I can’t deny it:
Ignorance is not bliss.
The universe is a war––recognition of that fundamental truth necessitates video game violence.
We take an exit from the Road to Nowhere. We pull into the forest on top of a hill outside a compound––one road in, one road out. Looking down at the compound, I see that it’s a two story deal. Sprawling, white-walled; metal fencing surrounding it, topped with razor wire.
Once, it might’ve been pristine. But it looks like it’s been through the ringer, and it needs much more than a fresh coat of paint.
“This is where they bunked up,” says Gavin. “The HCM––back before they got busted. And then they crawled back in like roaches. The Whitlocks use it as their HQ.”
There are four tall towers positioned throughout the complex. Each is manned by a pair of grunts controlling a spotlight and armed with a massive sniper rifle, respectively.
“The HCM waystation,” says Gavin.
I see figures emerge from the darkness around us. A few faces I recognize––among them, Mr. Gray. He knocks on my window and I roll it down.
“Where the fuck’s everyone else?” he asks.
“Took a major hit,” says Gavin, leaning over me. I wonder if Tommy will speak up in back, but he’s mum, still passed out. I decide to refrain from saying anything; I trust Mr. Gray even less than Gavin.
“Took a hit, hm?” says Mr. Gray. He sucks at his teeth; the grunts around him, loyalists to the Convoy, look ready to sic us if he gives them the nod. “As I remember it, you took two dozen of my people with you to that warehouse, maybe more. All of them fucking died, that’s what you’re telling me?”
“Yeah,” says Gavin. “All of ‘em except us three.”
Mr. Gray raises his gun, pointing it past me at Gavin.
“Get out of the fucking car.”
Gavin puts up his hands; I reach to my pistol, but he nudges me with his elbow.
“Gratitude, Mike,” says Gavin. “Gratitude, not attitude.”
I’m so stoned out of my fucking gourd that I go with it. I just keep floating on in this strange, surrealist journey Gavin has invited me to partake in. We get out of the car in a flood of smoke, which hangs low over the ground like winter fog. It’s punchy, so much so that Mr. Gray’s second in command coughs. But then he moves his hand back to his trigger just as quickly.
“So Part II,” says Mr. Gray. “Head on into the HCM Waystation. Steal the crown jewels, so to speak. Make sure the Whitlocks don’t populate the Earth, and rewrite the future. That’s how it’s playing out, right?”
Mr. Gray raises his gun even higher––now it’s pointed directly at Gavin’s face.
“I should fucking blow your head off.”
“Honestly, Mr. Gray, it’d be a mercy.”
Mr. Gray lowers his gun and nods to his grunts. They come forward, two for each of us. They restrain us. A couple of them grab Tommy and carry him over to their car, shove him in the back.
Mr. Gray follows his grunts and us to the lead car, a tinted-window SUV that looks souped up enough to climb a mountain. He grabs the radio. He puts in a call to dispatch. While he waits for them to answer, he looks down the hill toward the HCM Waystation.
My head swims with stars. The night is quiet, almost unnaturally so. All I hear is the sound of the forest; all I see is a few milling zombies down in the yard, and their human counterparts in guard towers overlooking it all.
“This is Mr. Gray.”
Someone on the other side of the line just answered.
“Yeah––hey, how’s the rest of the crew doing? The ones back at the extraction point?”
“Almost all of them are dead, sir. Things went to hell, apparently. Gavin––”
“Let me guess, he fucked up the plan.”
“No––according to the few that got out, there was no plan. It was all a diversion.”
Mr. Gray holds down the call button, then releases it. The line crackles. He takes a breath. He shakes his head, and looks at Gavin.
“You fucking shithead.”
“Put Milly on,” says Mr. Gray.
“She’s gone, sir. She and her unit took Charlotte. Said they were going to a safe house, somewhere to wait it out.”
“I told ‘em to stay put.”
“They heard the news just like the rest of us.”
“It’s off,” says Mr. Gray. No hesitation. “We got used, and I’m not letting it happen again.”
Mr. Gray nods to his grunts. They begin leading us into the forest, slowly. Mr. Gray presses the call button one last time.
“Lock up tight over there,” he says. “Wait till you hear from me before you do anything. Get ready for a storm. I’m going to try to salvage this, but we may be fucked at this point.”
Then he hangs up, turns, and follows us into the woods.
“Gratitude, Mike,” says Gavin. The grunts are leading us into the depths of the woods, the barrels of their guns pressed into our spines. “They haven’t killed us yet, gotta count our––”
“SHUT THE FUCK UP!” The one behind Gavin lifts the butt of the gun, hits Gavin in the back of the head. Gavin takes the blow well––he winks at me.
Despite the way things have turned on us, I’m stoned as absolute fuck, and I can’t help but smile. Things have a very Lewis Caroll quality to them. The woods seem to crawl with life. Insects dive beneath the bark of the trees. The stars blink through the thick canopy of leaves and branches overhead.
Gratitude, mouths Gavin.
I can’t really fathom what there is to be grateful for. I’ve been in bad situations before, but none like this. It doesn’t take a rocket scientist to realize they’re taking us into the woods to kill us. Mr. Gray’s plan is pretty obvious––kill us, use that as a bargaining chip with the Whitlocks, and then––kill Charlotte?
Maybe she’s already dead. Maybe Milly took her to a “safe house” and put a bullet in her head. All along, I’ve suspected that me and a few others are the only ones standing between Charlotte and a freshly dug grave. Despite being badasses, Prim, Spike, and Walter are a meager three in number. They’d put up one hell of a fight, sure, but at this point, there are more Convoy loyalists than there are defectors. Gavin’s dumb ass killed most of my crew back at the warehouse.
We get to another clearing and stop. We have a view of a different part of the compound, the right side. Tracing the contour of the hill with my eyes, I see the cars parked off the road that leads down to it, maybe a half mile back. The only reason I can see them is because I know they’re there; they’re shadows in the night.
Gavin’s Demon is among them––she stands out from the rest, but she too is outnumbered.
“This’ll do,” says Mr. Gray. He comes into the clearing. He’s holding a pistol by his hip; he screws a silencer on.
“Tommy,” I say.
“What about him?”
“Go easy––he didn’t do anything.”
“He’s dog food, Mike,” says Mr. Gray. “He’s baggage. Can’t take any more chances.”
At least he’s stoned. At least me and Gavin are too. I didn’t imagine it ending this way, but at least I’m numb to the reality of it.
The Convoy grunts kick us onto our knees.
“I’m grateful for you, Mr. Gray,” says Gavin.
“You’re a fucking shithead. And now you’re gonna die.”
“But I’m grateful. I just wanted to––
“No, asshole. No fucking sly last words, no––”
“No second chances?”
“Just shut up and die, you fucking dweeb.”
I see a glint of something near Gavin’s wrist––something dropping out of his sleeve. A cylinder––a thin needle on the end of it. He spins it in his hand, and slyly, so no one but me sees, he plunges it into the boot of the Convoy footsoldier standing behind me.
“Stepped on something, something in my goddamn––”
The Convoy footsoldier shudders, but then he steadies.
Gavin starts shifting back and forth like a running back looking for a hole between linemen, a goofy grin on his middle aged face.
“Hold this motherfucker still––”
Instead of answering Mr. Gray, the Convoy footsoldier behind Gavin groans––a gurgle in his guts; boiling bile––
Down the hill, movement in the yard. The HCM soldiers look for the source of the noise.
Mr. Gray is distracted from the act of blowing Gavin’s head off; the footsoldier releases his grip––no, no he didn’t release his grip––his hands changed. Instead of bony fingers, they’ve become more like noodles. Beads of sweat form and fall down his skin; tears shoot out of his eyes like water from a hose; all the fluid inside him exits any way it can––
––and he changes.
Gavin turns, using the distraction. Another cylinder, another needle, falls out from his sleeve––he takes this one and stabs it into the groin of the distracted footsoldier standing behind me.
“Thazul moglash shahhh.”
An eldritch whisper in the night, growing louder.
"Azath iru naphtha."
“Relax,” says Gavin, turning to me. Everyone else around is anything but relaxed. “Relax, Mike, I’ve done this before.”
And he pulls me onto the ground as a geyser of liquid sprays out of the pores of the dude behind me, coating the rest of the crowd.
"Wazak gazath mephala!"
They seize in midair, reborn. Their skin sloughs away. Strange, alien, jellyfish shapes are left beneath, glowing in the moonlight.
Mr. Gray’s eyes go wide, then the spaghetti fingers of what was the footsoldier behind Gavin––now, an alien abomination––shoot out and slip around his neck. They hum with energy; below us, near the compound, the HCM fuckers feel it, too.
They turn their eyes to us, they sight in their guns, and they fire.
Heads explode; the other Convoy footsoldiers who don’t get hit run, one of them pursued by a jellyfish entity that was my Convoy captor not fifteen seconds earlier. The other jellyfish abomination lifts Mr. Gray from the ground––his bald dome and pale skin turns a shade of purple; the caustic goo dripping from the things hands eats into Mr. Gray’s neck; Gavin takes advantage of the distraction and pulls me forward, and we begin running back in the direction of the cars we left behind.
Gunfire erupts in the night; so does the sound of unnatural screaming.
HCM monsters––stitched together by a dead Seamstress––burst free from the compound and run toward the clearing where Mr. Gray intended to kill us.
I follow Gavin forward; then, behind me, I hear a wet popping sound. Looking back, I see the jellyfish alien entity holding the bottom half of the stump of Mr. Gray’s neck. Mr. Gray’s corpse slips from its grasp onto the ground––his head is gone.
Snarling HCM abominations reach the top of the hill––jellyfish entity against HCM zombie; humans mixed in; all of it creating a bloody cloud of chaos that buys us time to escape.
I follow Gavin toward the trucks, still stoned out of my gourd, but coming to my senses––the ground beneath my feet, the cold night air around me, the stars shining down from overhead, lighting the way.
We reach the clearing and come out––we’re greeted by another couple Convoy loyalists, guns raised.
Gavin raises his hands in mock surrender; two more barrels of the jellyfish goo we’ve been running to keep the Convoy afloat come flying out into his grip. He flings them like darts––one misses completely, but the other sinks into the flesh of one of the Convoy grunts’ necks, right at the Adam's apple.
The effect is instantaneous.
Gavin pulls me forward as our enemies turn on each other. He pulls me to the Demon, opens the door, and shoves me inside. Then he gets in on the driver’s side.
But the sound of crunching metal cuts me short. Behind us, the jellyfish––which was only just a Dark Convoy thug threatening to kill us––has descended on one of the SUVs. The thing is nothing more than a tin can, now.
Was it the one Tommy was in? Or was he in one of the other three?
He’s gone––I’m no fool. My attention whips forward as Gavin hits the gas. No looking back––maybe Tommy was still asleep. Maybe he was still numb, didn’t feel it.
Another SUV gets sucked up; swallowed whole.
Gratitude. Grateful that I made it, shame and despair that I couldn’t save the kid.
But the sound of the Demon busting through the metal gate at the front of the compound shakes me from my thoughts. Gavin pulls to a stop in front of the place in a swirl of gravel and dust.
Our arrival goes unnoticed––hell has descended from all angles, and we’re the least of anyone’s worries.
Gavin grabs Bertha from the backseat and slings her over his shoulder. We go around to the trunk, he presses a button on his keyfob, and the trunk expands into its strange popout workbench. There are a half dozen guns to choose from––Gavin motions to them, inviting me to take my pick.
“M9, right? Beretta?”
How he’s so calm is a complete fucking mystery. More HCM zombies have climbed the hill; they’re duking it out with the cosmo jellies and the few Dark Convoy loyalists who are still alive. Coming down the road in the direction of the compound, I see more headlights––Convoy reinforcements. It’s a fucking bloodbath at the hilltop, and the chaos is slowly tumbling downward in our direction; teeth, nails, and entrails streaming upward into the star-soaked sky.
Gavin––he hasn’t missed a beat. He’s still waiting patiently for me to take my pick.
“Yeah––yeah that’s what I usually roll with.”
He scans the arsenal, then picks up something that looks like a pistol, albeit one from the imagination of Wells or Asimov or one of the other science fiction greats.
“This should suit you,” he says. “I call her Bootsie.”
“Bootsie. And Bertha.”
“Gotta name your piece. Especially when it’s standard name is some fucking alien word that doesn’t exactly roll of the tongue.”
I sight her in––Bootsie. She handles like an M9, a bit heavier and, I can tell without Gavin informing me, that she’s a hell of a lot more powerful.
“What about Charlotte?” I ask.
Gavin lights up another joint; he hands it to me, and this time, I imbibe.
“Let’s get out of this alive,” Gavin says, wincing on a lungful of the smoke. “Let’s get the mission done, save our own asses, then worry about Charlotte. Mike––stop worrying so much. She’s a hell of a lot smarter than either of us, than the both of us put together.”
I can’t help but doubt him this time. Milly took her––maybe she’s already dead.
Gavin nods over his head to the front doors of the compound. We’re just going to waltz right in.
“I’m on your six,” I say, and we move out.
A siren––flashing emergency lights––shapes moving in the strobe-lit darkness. The inhuman cries of HCM zombies; Whitlock grunts barking orders and trying to keep the peace. I hear a wet splat somewhere overhead, one of the jellyfish abominations Gavin brought along to the party landing on the roof.
We sneak along the corridor––the otherworldly high I’m experiencing doesn’t help with making the hallways any less chaotic, but it does help with my focus. I’m all in. I’m in my element. It’s like I’m back in the desert hunting down terrorist cells with a team bigger than two.
Gavin leads us through a hallway; a dozen HCM zombies charge past, not even noticing us. He makes his way up to a Whitlock grunt with his back turned, unsheathes a knife at his side, and cue-balls it into the base of his spine. The guy goes limp immediately, then slumps to the ground, lifeless.
I scan the darkness as we continue forward. Feral faces––fear writ large. Even the dead ones, the reanimated ones, look scared. And more pucking sounds from overhead as the jellyfish abomination squelches its way across the roof, its suckers attaching and detaching and ripping up squares of roofing as it goes.
We reach a stairwell––Gavin points upward.
“That’s where it is?”
“The crown jewels. In the main office.”
He scouted the job before we got here––he’s a thousand miles ahead of all of us. I follow him upstairs, right on his ass. He doesn’t fire Bertha once. He uses the darkness to his advantage, cutting down the few distracted Whitlock grunts who stand in our way. We reach the top of the stairs, the mouth of a hallway. At the end, I see a closed set of double doors. In the crack beneath them, eerie, static light pours out. And on the other side of them, I hear voices.
We continue forward––no more guards.
We ditch our refuge against the wall––no one else to hide from, everyone’s outside. Through a window in the hallway viewing the front of the complex, I see that the battle has finally rolled down the hill. They’re not far from the Demon. The forest is practically red.
We reach the door, and Gavin twists the knob. On the other side, I see the elder Whitlock, who I recognize from past jobs, back before he used us to take the Hovel. He’s in the room with two guards. There’s a bank of TVs on the wall, all of them on, showing various parts of the compound which are succumbing to the chaos.
One guard stands up––Gavin aims Bertha, fires, and the guy’s head evaporates. The other guard grabs his gun, but I’m too fast––I raise Bootsie, and a suppressed fwup sound comes from her barrel. A bolt of electricity, a laser, something else––something neon green––erupts outward, and tears into the dude's head, slicing it in half like a melon.
He stumbles forward, then falls onto his face.
To Whitlock’s left, on the other side of the desk he’s sitting on, is a safe.
“Open it,” says Gavin.
Gavin aims Bertha at Whitlock’s head.
“I’ll kill you,” says Gavin, “and find the code on some fucking piece of paper lying around here. Or you can save me the time, and I won’t kill you.”
“We’re all dead anyway,” says Whitlock. He’s looking at the bank of monitors––then, he swivels in his chair and looks out the window. “You fucking moron, fucking around with the special sauce––”
“Hey, I needed a distraction.”
“Well, you made one. And now we’re all fucked.”
“You, definitely,” says Gavin. “That is, if you keep going this way. But if you play it right––”
A shatter of glass cuts him off––a massive tentacle, in which the quivering corpse of a HCM zombie is shaking, shoots through the window behind Whitlock. The force of it knocks him onto his face, onto the wood desk. I dive out of the way with Gavin as the tentacle bursts through the wall behind us, probing deeper into the compound.
I hear shouting from down the hallway we came through to get here. Whitlock looks up at us––his face is smeared with blood.
“Too late, asshole. They’re coming for you.”
Gavin rushes forward and shoves the barrel of Bertha against Whitlock’s head so hard I hear the bone bend inward with a crunch. His eyes cross, trying to make sense of the battering ram that just hit him full force.
“WHAT’S THE GODDAMN FUCKING CODE?!”
“WHAT THE FUCK IS IT?!”
Another tentacle comes through the wall; half of the wall falls away, revealing the full extent of the battle outside.
“12 - 25 - 49...”
Christmas Day. How about that.But I only think about it for a split second, because Whitlock’s reinforcements reach the door––I turn, aim Bootsie, and fire.
“––MOVE IT GAVIN!––”
And they’re taken by surprise––heads vaporize, limbs tear free, more blood sprays into the strobe-lit interior of the compound. I turn back––Gavin’s already at the safe; Whitlock’s holding the crater in his skull which is spouting blood in measured beats. I keep firing on them, sending them back into the hallway; another tentacle blasts through the wall, a shower of goo spraying in as it’s grated by broken glass; Whitlock hits the deck and then crawls for a door on the opposite side of the room; Gavin begins spinning the safe’s lock, calm as a veteran burglar.
The tentacle from outside whips around; I duck as it flies overhead; the suction cups puck-puck-puck on the opposite wall––some to plaster, some to the flesh of Whitlock’s reinforcements––and a shower of blood rains down.
Gavin finishes dialing the code; I look right––Whitlock’s gone. But Gavin has what he came for.
I can read the digital label on the cylindrical capsule, in which a male’s genitalia is suspended in liquid:
And then Gavin’s charging toward me. And as HCM zombies scale the wall and pour into the office, we take off after Whitlock. The whipping tentacle takes down the walls, the furniture, and everything else standing in its way––then the HCM zombies descend onto the jelly flesh like ticks, and the door swings closed behind us.
“Hustle - up - hustle up - move - your - fucking - ass!”
His words, fragmented, broken up just like the intermittent fluorescence of the compound. The alarm blares, digging into my ear drums; my vision flashes in and out as the strobe lighting does its work. Zombies run past––so do humans, Dark Convoy, HCM, Whitlocks, whoever else––the jellyfish entities Gavin created continue ripping the compound to splinters.
We reach a hallway––Gavin shoves me back at the precise second that a massive tentacle shoots down the hallway. He pulls me close, then shouts into my ear:
“WE HAVE TO CATCH WHITLOCK!”
And when the tentacle retracts again, we run. I see silver-red droplets of blood, Whitlock’s––like a trail of breadcrumbs. We follow it, bursting out into the howling night, and I see him. He’s shuffling away, an old man. His legs are unsteady beneath him; every step threatens to send him tumbling onto the gravel. Several grunts join him––Gavin raises Bertha and fires, leaving them dead on their feet.
Finally, Whitlock collapses.
Gavin leads me over to him. Behind us, the compound bursts into flames.
Fuck, we coulda left Junior’s cock and balls inside––they woulda barbequed just fine. But Gavin’s not taking any chances. And when we reach Whitlock, and he puts Bertha’s barrel between his eyes––where the bloody crater he created just earlier is throbbing to the beat of his heart––I realize he’s not taking chances on Whitlock either.
“Don’t do it––I can make you richer than you could––”
The gun’s futuristic hammer socks back; the sound of it cuts Whitlock short.
“What makes you so sure killing me is going to stop the future, anyway?”
“It’s all a big fucking mystery. Maybe I’m the one bringing the future about. Maybe it’s some other Whitlock who causes the problems. Maybe destroying your son’s severed nuts won’t make a goddamn bit of difference.”
“Then join me,” says Whitlock. “The Puppeteers––my empire––like I said, richer than you could possibly imagine. We’ll make the future a better place.”
Gavin doesn’t smile. He doesn’t wink. Nothing cheeky––no, he begins to cry. Tears form, and they slide down his face in slow motion as the night continues descending into hell.
“Maybe this doesn’t matter,” says Gavin. “Maybe it doesn’t make a bit of difference. But seeing what I saw––and seeing your name on the side of those ships––someone’s gotta die, old man.”
“You’re gonna shoot me,” Whitlock says. “You fucking coward––”
But Gavin drops Bertha. And he pulls out a knife. And before I can make sense of it, he swipes it across Whitlock’s gut; Whitlock cries out in surprise, and then cries out even louder when Gavin shoves his clenched fist past the opening––
––Gavin’s reached inside of Whitlock; an expression of severity, murder in his eyes––
––he pulls, tears, and rips––
Were it not for the burning compound, for the feral cries of jellyfish abominations, HCM zombies, and dying people, Whitlock’s screams may have driven me crazy.
It’s the worst thing I’ve ever heard, but I’m spared from the full extent of it but the other dozens of other deaths taking place around us.
Whitlock’s eyes roll wildly around in his head––his blood drenches Gavin’s arm; his coat––but Gavin continues to pull, to gut Whitlock like a bird.
A bad death that lasts a minute, what feels like a century or more––
Until Whitlock spasms and dies in the gravel of the compound.
Stars look down from overhead––Puppeteers––other unknown things.
The spectacle of death is impossible to look away from. But then I finally do. And I look at Gavin, whose tears are gone, replaced by the crimson droplets which sprayed his face in Whitlock’s last blood-saturated breath.
Gavin tosses a handful of guts onto the ground and picks up the capsule containing Whitlock’s heir’s nuts. He nods over his shoulder, back in the direction of the Demon. Without a word of protest, I follow him to it, and we arrive to find that despite the chaos that descended on the compound, it’s still in driving shape.
Gavin tore out of the lot as fire consumed it. It had been littered with bodies. Even the jellyfish creatures had fallen, torn to shreds by gnashing teeth; turned to ash by the raging fire.
I thought briefly of Tommy. But there were no Dark Convoy SUVs. There was nothing left except the remnants of the worst battle I ever witnessed.
The fire of the burning compound dims in our rearview, then Gavin hangs a right onto the Road to Nowhere.
We drive in silence for a few minutes until I break it.
“So it’s done.”
“Just about,” he says.
“What’re you planning to do with those?”
Cameron Whitlock Junior’s severed genitals sit upright between us, perched in the cupholder.
“Burn ‘em,” says Gavin. “Nothing too fancy.”
He pulls to the side of the road. Before I get out, I ask him:
“What about Charlotte?”
“Let’s burn these first,” says Gavin.
Gavin gets out and I follow him. Without pausing, he smashes the capsule on the concrete. Liquid rushes out, leaving a soggy, civilian-sized cock and two soggy testicles.
Gavin goes to the trunk. He pulls out a can of gas; he empties a cup full onto Junior’s goods, then lights his zippo and tosses it onto the pile. They go up instantly, turning a bright orange, then a dimmer red, and finally, after the liquid burns off, to ash.
“It’s done,” I say.
I turn. And my stomach drops. Gavin has Bertha raised to his shoulder––he’s pointing the barrel at my face.
“I’m sorry Mike,” he says. “There’s no other way.”
I think briefly about going for my piece, the one I always keep tucked into the back of my jeans, but he’s already got the jump on me. I raise my hands instinctively.
“You’re gonna kill me?”
“Another loose piece,” he says. “I can’t take any chances.”
He watches acceptance wash over me.
“You did the right thing, Mike,” he says. “Hell, maybe we saved the world. I like to think so, despite what Whitlock said. You gotta put your stake in something––”
“Just kill me, Gavin. Get it over with.”
I think of Charlotte––if Milly hasn’t killed her, does Gavin plan to?
He motions to the open trunk.
“Get in. Take your phone with you. Write it up. I know that’s what you’ve been doing anyway.”
“Isn’t that bad for business?”
“No,” says Gavin. “Because after having all the information, all the ins-and-outs of it, I want them to choose a side. To decide where they stand. You’ll have plenty of time on our way out to the cabin. It’s quiet there. A nice place to sign off.”
I get into the trunk without protesting––I know a futile situation when I see one. And as the Demon rumbles off to some unknown place, wherever Gavin is taking me to finish the job, I listen to the growl of her engine. I listen to the sound of pavement underneath her wheels. I feel the power running through her fuel-injected veins.
She’s alive. I am too, but not for long.
To my complete surprise, I give it up to God. It’s been a nice run. Tommy––Ed––all the others––maybe they died for something. Maybe I’m dying for something. Maybe if things pan out like Gavin plans for them too, the world––the universe––will be better off.
The universe is a war. So choose a side, friend. Choose a side and pray to God––or whatever you pray to––that it's the right one.
submitted by cal_ness to nosleep [link] [comments]
2021.11.28 20:23 shadowF 18M - Hello! Wanna talk? So do I (Damn, these titles are hard...)
2021.11.28 20:23 kidd-trunkie Felt like sharing
|submitted by kidd-trunkie to DarkViperAU [link] [comments]|
2021.11.28 20:23 NobleOtter4 👀
|submitted by NobleOtter4 to TexasRangers [link] [comments]|
2021.11.28 20:22 Theray070696 Just completed the expedition! Was a lot of fun! Looking forward to the rest of them!
|submitted by Theray070696 to NoMansSkyTheGame [link] [comments]|
2021.11.28 20:22 ghilliedoge banded straw hat spawn location?
| banded straw hat spawn location? |
submitted by ghilliedoge to ApocalypseRising [link] [comments]
2021.11.28 20:22 aphz88 Charleen Weiss In the Woods Neda Rajabi
|submitted by aphz88 to CharleenWeiss [link] [comments]|
2021.11.28 20:22 jakefromstat3farm23 For those of you who are divorced, what was the last straw for you?
2021.11.28 20:22 cptcardinal Does Amazon prioritize shipping cancellation requests?
So I have had this happen a few times where I go to cancel something and ten minutes later they say it has shipped. Could be coincidence or just the system not updating but it’s happened a few times where I’ve waited days for something to ship, so I go cancel it, and suddenly they say it has shipped. For example, I ordered three robotic vacuums on Friday and I realized it wasn’t a good purchase for my dad’s house so I cancelled one and BAM, out of the three that haven’t shipped the only one that I jsut cancelled has suddenly shipped. Idk, I’d love to hear insight from previous Amazon employees and so on. Do they try to push out cancelled order requests?? I assume that they might do that to try to combat buyer remorse.
submitted by cptcardinal to amazonprime [link] [comments]
2021.11.28 20:22 Chunks245 Car designs
So I'm wondering if anyone got any tips on designing cars in game. I seems like a fun concept and I've designed a couple of my cars (not that great and pretty basic), but I find the editor a bit difficult to use on my phone. Any tips or tricks for that?
submitted by Chunks245 to CarParkingMultiplayer [link] [comments]
2021.11.28 20:22 HLPP16223839 ADA Doesn't Know
ADA doesn’t know, that my fiat and me
Buy CRO on my phone every pay day
Say I’m waiting for the dip, but I never buy
Still I’m pumping bags, and ADA doesn’t know
Oh, ADA doesn’t know
So don’t tell ADA
ADA doesn’t know
Say that my fiat is on hold
But it’s inside CRO
And I’m not selling
Can’t believe it’s still top 10
While the moonboys stake their chips in
ADA talks about the hardfork
And I try not to yolo CRO
Just market to the max, everyone will buy
ADA Doesn’t know, ADA Doesn’t know
This week’s paycheck, why not
It’s so nice when you run up
And when you dump
I shoot more fiat into you
ADA Doesn’t know
So don’t tell ADA
submitted by HLPP16223839 to CryptoCurrency [link] [comments]
2021.11.28 20:22 seaboigium Does anyone else remember this weird talking cat? Character in Metal Masters?
|submitted by seaboigium to Beyblade [link] [comments]|
2021.11.28 20:22 emremetinsezer Saracak pc oyunu söyler misiniz
2021.11.28 20:22 connerh101 A suitable Windows 11-based 4K60Hz media consumption mini PC?
Hello! I'm looking for a good TV computer that can run high quality video without stuttering. Any suggestions? Bonus points if you've tried to run Windows 11 on it, since I quite like the interface. My budget is around 500$ and I don't mind if it's AMD or Intel. Sorry if this question has been asked a million times. I'm getting a lot of conflicting reviews on Amazon.
submitted by connerh101 to MiniPCs [link] [comments]
2021.11.28 20:22 Richie_650 Mystery: Lemon stuffed olives
I'm trying to track down a mystery. Some years ago, maybe around 2000-2005, a new product showed up in grocery stores, lemon-stuffed ovlies. At the time, they were everywhere. All grocery stores, liquor stores that sold garnishes, specialty shops, etc. For a few years, I could count on picking up a jar anywhere. Then around 2008 they started to become more scarce, until finally they disappeared, and haven't been seen since.
The product I'm referring to came in exactly the same small jar, and even though it was differently branded at different stores, it was clearly all the same "master batch." You can find lemon-stuffed olives in specialty stores now, but they are clearly a different product.
My theory is that sometime in the late 1990's there was some world-wide glut of lemons (and olives?) and billions of these jars were packed somewhere. They were sold until the supplies ran out, but were never replenished.
I'm not looking for them now, as I said there are places that sell similar products. But my question is, did anybody else notice this glut, where did it come from, and why did the supply stop? If anyone at least can confirm they noticed the same thing, I'd like to know.
submitted by Richie_650 to cocktails [link] [comments]
2021.11.28 20:22 Greedy-Class-6960 💞
|submitted by Greedy-Class-6960 to tuckedinkitties [link] [comments]|
2021.11.28 20:22 lemonblueberries [Homemade] Potato wedges
|submitted by lemonblueberries to food [link] [comments]|
2021.11.28 20:22 ibeteck Halo Infinite Xbox Elite Series 2 Controller Unboxing Limited Edition
|submitted by ibeteck to GetMoreViewsYT [link] [comments]|
2021.11.28 20:22 Killer_Bingus If pokemon didn’t cap at lvl 100
|submitted by Killer_Bingus to pokememes [link] [comments]|
2021.11.28 20:22 ThisIsNotGage Have you or a loved one been taken a fool by an ASA rugpull? Reach out below or via dm with proof that you were rugpulled and become eligible for Airdrop of 169,420 PonziRand.
Visit us at PonziRand. We hate rugpullers and projects that fake professionalism to fuck you over. We are the leading shitcoin in transparency and would love more degenerate holders.
submitted by ThisIsNotGage to algorandASA [link] [comments]
2021.11.28 20:22 TackyFantorex apple
|submitted by TackyFantorex to garfieldminusgarfield [link] [comments]|
2021.11.28 20:22 IrrelevantRedditAcc Wtf 😭😭😭
|submitted by IrrelevantRedditAcc to NBAYoungboy [link] [comments]|