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Gov. Gina Raimondo COVID-19 Press Conference: 11/19/2020, 1:00 pm

Watch Here
WJAR Stream if issues with link above or WPRI
Gov. Raimondo is expected to announce new restrictions for high schools (announced by WPRI and WJAR last night) as well as discuss Thanksgiving.
Self-promotion: Yesterday I started graphing data in a few other threads. It's really ugly right now and far from finished (I'll make a separate post on this sub when it's done) but I did start a GitHub site to view the graphs

11/19/2020 Data

RIDOH Dashboard

Gov. Gina Raimondo

Intro

Data

New Restrictions

Intro - Rationale

Path from now to end of the year

Current restrictions will be extended until the Sunday after Thanksgiving with two exceptions, effective immediately:

Thanksgiving

Beginning 11/30 - "RI on Pause"

Open

Limited

Completely Closed

Stimulus grants announced next week for affected businesses

Comments on "pause"

Improvements to testing

Question Highlights

Q: CDC saying that in-person learning is dangerous (I'm glad someone asked)
A: "I believe that question is a mis-characterization of the data" - referencing Dr. Jha She sounds MAD about this question "we could argue about the risk, but children will suffer irreparable lifelong harm not being in school" She is trusting HS students to follow rules and "districts should keep kids in school if they can"
Q: "Wasn't the idea with PPE/testing that we wouldn't have to go back? What happened?"
A: "It turns out people don't follow rules very well when we have to do it for so long"
Q: What is the goal in terms of ease of scheduling/getting test results and do we need to scale back asymptomatic testing?
A: It isn't a perfect system (waiting to get tested) but we are working to fix it. "It's hard for me to believe you can't get a test at all" Personal note: I'm currently trying to get tested (possible exposure at work even though I have no symptoms) and I had to go online to CVS at 3:00 in the morning to get an appointment 3 days later
Q: Isn't distance learning with a teacher better than in-person with a substitute? Is there a percentage (like NY) where we would switch to full distance?
A: High schoolers work better with distance learning but younger kids really struggle. NY: We do not use a single metric to determine whether to shut down - "as long as schools can keep the environment safe" we will keep them open.
Q: Thoughts on a possible 4-6 week lockdown or advisory to governors to do so under President Biden?
A: "If congress would do their jobs" and send an appropriate stimulus, we could discuss a lockdown in RI
Q: Why is Twin River open until 11/30?
A: "If I could shut everything down immediately I would do that" but there is a need to be practical (restaurants who have increased inventory for next week will still be able to use it)
Q: Crisis standards of care?
A (Dr. Scott): Principles to help hospitals make difficult ethical decisions about care - we do NOT want to get here. (Gina): We cannot staff that many beds - patients may have medical students as nurses or not get checked on at all. We may have to "shut off" non-COVID procedures
Q: Nursing home staffing (can people volunteer to bathe their family members, etc)?
A: "Caregiver exemption" is in the works (allowing family to get certified to give care similar to CNA)
Q: Is RI still independently validating vaccine data despite Pfizer pilot program?
A: Yes.
Q: Will you get vaccinated?
A: I will not be first in line (not necessary), but yes.
My apologies, I missed a few questions
Q: General assembly?
A: They will need to meet before 12/31 to pass a 2021 budget - a space is being set up at the Vets to allow a safe in-person meeting or they may choose to do so virtually
Q: HS sports?
A: Winter season cannot start until January - no practices at all during pause

End of conference (2:25pm)

submitted by ComputerGeek1100 to RhodeIsland [link] [comments]

When we were kids, my little brother died on Halloween. He's come back to visit me every year since his death.

Jimmy returned for the first time exactly one year after the accident. I was home alone. Dad was at the bar and Mom was dead. We’d crammed her into a pine box and shipped her off to the incinerator months ago.
I’d been sitting on the couch watching a plump cockroach scuttle across the coffee table, sipping whiskey that I’d liberated the previous night after Dad passed out. I wasn’t quite drunk yet. At eleven years old, my tolerance to alcohol was comparable to most local stumblebum drunks.
A knock came to the door, the gentle tap of brittle knuckles upon rotted wood. I paused with the rim of the bottle resting against my lips. Even the cockroach cocked its long antennae curiously toward the door.
The local trick-or-treaters knew better than to come here seeking candy. Our ramshackle abode was always one DHS visit away from being condemned, and the cobwebs and sundry creepy-crawlies in our front windows certainly weren’t decorative.
I reflexively choked out a sob when I opened the door and saw his ghostly form. The sheet draped over him was stained brown and soaked with stinking river water.
“Jimmy?” I asked, my voice croaking in disbelief.
As if to answer me, his jaw fell slack and I heard the tiniest groan emerge from under that sheet, like a whining door hinge in a quiet house. He raised his hand to me and I shrank back in fear, expecting him to thrust an accusatory finger and damn me as a liar and murderer. Instead, I realized that he was holding his hand open, expecting something. A dry, throaty sound whistled up from his slackened jaw and I suddenly understood what he wanted.
My little brother had come back for his favorite holiday.
I rushed up to my bedroom, reached under my bed, and grabbed Jimmy’s pumpkin-shaped Halloween bucket. I flicked off the roaches and shook out mouse shit then ran back to the front steps, where my little brother was waiting.
As Jimmy snatched his candy bucket from me, I saw them, watching us from the corner. It was the same group of older bullies that harassed us last year, on the night of the accident. Last time, they’d been wearing clown masks. They chose the Power Rangers this year.
Despite their masks, I could tell that those bullies didn’t quite believe what they were seeing. Jimmy had been presumed dead for a year, yet here he was, wearing the very same costume they’d seen him wearing on the night he went missing.
I’d had a growth spurt since that night. Rage and self-hatred did wonders for a growing boy’s physique.
Fueled by whiskey and a desperate urge to blame anyone other than myself for Jimmy’s death, I charged them. Outnumbered four-to-one, I took some shots, no doubt, but I routed them regardless, and I left one of them bleeding on the sidewalk, beaten nearly half-to-death.
Then I returned to Jimmy, smiling, and hooked my pinky around his before we set off to celebrate Halloween.
#
I sat on my couch, eyes trained on the flickering candle on my coffee table. The power had been out for a month and I hadn’t seen any good reason to turn it back on; I’d only be cutting into my meager booze budget and, besides, the city was kicking me out in a few days. The house had been bought and paid for by some long-dead relative then passed down to my parents as an act of pity. When Dad finally kicked the bucket, he left the house to me, but I was never quite able to stay ahead of the property taxes.
I wasn’t going to miss the place. It wasn’t exactly full of fond memories.
At this time of night, I’d normally be blackout drunk, but tonight was Halloween and I didn’t want to miss Jimmy. My entire life might have amounted to a hill of shit, but I’ve promised to never let my little brother down again.
I checked the time. Eight o’clock on the dot. I grabbed Jimmy’s Halloween bucket and headed out front.
Jimmy never did tell me why Halloween was his favorite holiday. He’d been a gentle kid, small for his age, fair-skinned and wispy. You wouldn’t have known it to look at him, but he preferred the schlock and gore of October grindhouse horror movie marathons to kiddie fare more appropriate to his age. He never flinched at the scary parts, when the reanimated undead wreaked havoc or dream demons emerged to slash open teenage throats.
I’d never attributed his love of Halloween to something so cliché as donning a mask to pretend to be someone else, though I wouldn’t have blamed him. No, I’d always suspected that Jimmy loved this time of year specifically because it was when the world went dim and happily embraced the horrific. Vampires and possessed dolls and werewolves made more sense than the more abstract horrors we faced at home.
Or, shit, maybe the kid just really liked candy.
I stepped outside and the riverwards were alive with grinning jack-o-lanterns, windows glowing orange and framed with fake spider webs, and scores of yuppie parents leading their kids door-to-door. I spotted him walking slowly toward the house. I swore, he got smaller every year.
I waved to him. He didn’t wave back, but he did cock his head slightly, as if he was struggling to remember who I was. As always, he was wearing the filthy sheet, soaked in river water. I felt a passing wave of revulsion and guilt when I glimpsed the faded bloodstains where the fabric hugged Jimmy’s misshapen occipital.
I smiled and offered him the bucket. Jimmy snatched it from my hand. Though there was only darkness within those crooked eye holes I’d cut into the sheet twenty-five years ago, somehow I knew that if he still had eyes, they’d have been gleaming.
I reached down to his hand, hooked my pinky around his, and I took my little brother trick-or-treating, like I’d done every year since he first returned.
This wasn’t our neighborhood anymore. Sure, the names of the streets were the same, but that was about it. The yuppie influx, with the ensuing rent increases and property tax hikes, had squashed out most of the old guard. The newbies didn’t care for the sturdy, century-old houses forged with brick and mortar. One by one, those stout homes were being flattened to make way for flimsier, but more stylish facades. Soon, our childhood home was going to suffer the same fate.
Jimmy must have sensed that something was amiss because he tightened his pinky around mine. Though I haven’t heard his voice since that night by the river, his pinky squeeze said enough.
It said, I’ve got you.
That was our private show of reassurance that helped sustain us through our childhood. When Mom wept at the dinner table as we split a dried hunk of welfare cheese for dinner, I’d give Jimmy a squeeze. When Dad staggered home drunk and started laying into Mom, I’d join Jimmy on his small twin mattress. We’d squeeze pinkies, eyes shut tight, with pillows over our ears so we wouldn’t have to hear Dad’s fist knocking against Mom’s head.
I’ve got you.
Tonight, we stopped at every house that still had its lights on. Our new neighbors smiled awkwardly, genuinely troubled by the sight of the neighborhood drunk escorting a child in a raggedy ghost costume. I didn’t give a shit what they thought as long as they tossed a few bite-sized Snickers bars into Jimmy’s bucket.
Soon, the streets began to empty and the trick-or-treaters went home. One by one, those grinning jack-o-lanterns went dark, those orange window lights dimmed, and it was just Jimmy and I wandering the lonely streets.
We headed back toward the house. This was where we would normally part ways, with Jimmy heading back on his own. Tonight, though, I remained at his side.
He cocked his head again, curious.
I squeezed his pinky.
#
Though I loved Jimmy, he was still my little brother and, often, I treated him as such. Just because I hated the neighborhood bullies didn’t mean I didn’t glean some pointers from their abuse. Sometimes, I’d slap Jimmy around or steal his toys because he’d annoyed me somehow. Other times, I just wanted to feel stronger than someone else.
The day of his death, Jimmy had put me in a particularly foul mood. Using the five-fingered discount, I’d gotten comic books from the drug store on York Street and I was looking forward to thumbing through them. Jimmy came rushing into our bedroom, crying because the rats had gotten to his hand-me-down Jason Voorhees costume. The critters had gnawed through the plastic hockey mask and left the (fake) blood-splattered overalls stinking like rat turds.
I told him to take it up with Mom and Dad, but he said Mom was passed out and Dad was at the bar, as usual.
My mood instantly turned black, not necessarily because of Jimmy, but because, once again, I’d have to pick up the slack for our parents. I cooked most of Jimmy’s meals. I scrubbed the stink off his clothes and got him ready for school every morning while Mom and Dad were off, drunk and doped. All I’d wanted was a night to myself, curled up in bed with some stolen comic books, but they couldn’t stay sober long enough to even give me that much.
Somehow, I kept my temper in check. I got him to stop sobbing by yanking the sheet off his bed, cutting out those mismatched eye holes, and draping it over him. “There,” I said. “You’re a ghost now.”
His green eyes were visible through the holes in the sheet. His cheeks perked up under the sheet and I could tell he was smiling.
“Can you take me trick-or-treating?” he asked.
No, I didn’t want to, but I also didn’t want him crying again and Mom would have beaten the shit out of me if I let Jimmy wander the neighborhood alone.
So we set out into the streets, amongst a legion of Ninja Turtles and Ghostbusters and Barbie dolls brought to life. Though it was simple, he enjoyed his makeshift costume. I was just hoping to get through the night without bumping into our enemies.
That was certainly naïve of me. It didn’t take long for them to zero in on us. There were four of them, all older boys. Even the smallest one towered over me.
They were wearing clown masks, thin plastic smiling red-nosed clowns that filled my stomach with dread. None of the parents milling about with their kids noticed the brewing confrontation, not with the dozens of trick-or-treaters clogging the sidewalk.
Jimmy clutched his candy bucket to his chest. One of the bullies reached for it, and that was when I snapped. I couldn’t help it. I might have been pissed off at him for dragging me out here, but this was Jimmy’s favorite night of the year. I couldn’t watch some assholes ruin it for him.
I swung, hard. My fist connected with the bully’s face and I heard a loud crunch right before blood trickled down from behind the clown’s visage.
I grabbed Jimmy by the wrist and we took off into the throngs of costumed kids. We rounded the next corner and disappeared into an alley.
We hid there, holding our breath as the bullies sped past. There was no way they were going to let this go. Two of them would likely roam the neighborhood looking for us, while the other two would lay in wait near our house.
“What are we going to do?” Jimmy asked, voice quivering in fear.
Every night, right before I blackout, I think about how I should have just squeezed his pinky.
But I didn’t. Instead, I blamed him. We wouldn’t have been in this trouble if he hadn’t been such a crybaby back home. That was why, of the dozens of places we could have gone to hide, I chose the river, because I knew he was terrified of the river.
#
Today, the Delaware riverfront was as gentrified as the rest of the neighborhood. A casino and towering condominiums loomed large and quaint pedestrian walkways were infested with pop-up beer gardens.
In our youth, the riverfront had been an industrial graveyard, dominated by long-shuttered factories with stretches of wilderness between them. Stinking sumac trees swayed overhead and plump river rats darted through the bushes.
This wasn’t the first time we had to hide back here. Jimmy always hated it. Although the neighborhood lay only a quarter-mile to the west, Jimmy thought the riverfront was too isolated. He feared that if our bullies ever caught us here, they could kill us and no one would ever know.
My mood hadn’t improved when we finally reached one of the piers, big gray concrete blocks jutting out fifty feet into the sloshing water, supported by a number of wood pilings underneath.
Jimmy remained a few feet behind me, still in his costume, nervously gripping his Halloween bucket. The tide was coming in and he jumped every time he felt a wave hit the pilings beneath us, as if the pier might collapse.
But what scared Jimmy the most was the possibility of falling into the water, that those rough green-brown waves might trap him under the pier, where he’d come up for air and smash his face against unyielding concrete instead.
“Can we just please try to go home?” he whined.
“No,” I snapped back. “Not unless you want those assholes to knock your teeth out.”
He lowered his head. “But I don’t like it back here.”
Looking at my whimpering little brother, I lost all sense of empathy. After running scared from our bullies, I was eager to assert myself as an alpha. I yanked him toward the edge of the pier.
“I’m so tired of you acting like a wimp,” I snarled. I shoved him closer to the edge, where the water sloshed violently ten feet below us. “There’s nothing to be afraid of back here.”
“I just want to go home,” he cried, the eye holes in the sheet now rimmed with tears.
“Stop being such a pussy!” I shouted then instinctively gave him a stiff right hook to the shoulder.
What happened next occurred within seconds, yet in my memory, it seems to play out for an eternity.
I’d hit him harder than I meant to. Jimmy dropped his candy bucket then staggered as his shoes got caught in the pool of fabric underfoot. I watched in muted disbelief as he flopped over the pier, arms waving, right before the back of his head cracked against the concrete edge.
There was a splash ten feet beneath me and my brother was gone, leaving behind nothing more than a red patch on the concrete and white bubbles breaking the water’s surface.
#
Pinkies locked, we maneuvered through condominium parking lots and empty beer garden stalls until we reached that old pier.
For a moment, my memories blended with the present and I saw myself, cold and shivering and soaked with river water, trudging back toward the neighborhood alone, clutching Jimmy’s candy bucket.
I remembered how cold and dark the river was when I dove in, fighting the waves, trying in vain to find my brother before finally giving up. I never told anyone what happened. That night, when I got home, Mom was still passed out and Dad hadn’t come back from the bar yet.
I hid my wet clothes then, later, told them that Jimmy had simply run away from me. I was terrified of what would happen if they knew the truth. There was a police search that amounted to nothing. Dad didn’t seem to care very much. Months later, Mom swallowed forty sleeping pills and never woke up.
I took to stealing swigs of Dad’s half-empty liquor bottles to soothe my guilt, a habit that had served me ever since. But even that relief has proved fleeting. As Jimmy and I walked along the pier, I tightened my pinky around his, content to die sober.
We stood at the edge of the pier. Though I couldn’t see his face, I could tell that he was no less afraid of the river now than he had been twenty-five years ago.
Jimmy stepped off the pier and disappeared into the water below. I wondered, once this pier was inevitably torn asunder to make way for a condo or another casino, would Jimmy still resurface on Halloween? If he did, and he ventured into the neighborhood, would he even recognize that the shiny new studio apartments were standing on the grave of our old house?
Either way, I was going to make sure that he didn’t go through it alone.
I stepped off the pier, just like Jimmy had that night. I cracked the base of my skull against that concrete lip. A lightning flash of pain shot across the world and I crashed hard into the water, pushed at once by the tide under the pier. A wave slammed me against one of the pilings and I felt something snap in my back and, when I tried to scream, filthy river water filled my mouth.
Yet, as I was thrashed about under the dock, my consciousness slowly fading, I felt Jimmy’s tiny pinky finger squeezing around my own.
I’ve got you.
#
That happened almost one year ago, last Halloween. Though I wanted nothing more than to slip into a watery slumber with my little brother, he must have felt otherwise. I woke up, weeks later, in a hospital. They removed patches of my skull to relieve the pressure from the brain bleed, courtesy of cracking my head on that concrete lip. My ribs had been shattered to splinters from the paramedics’ vigorous chest compressions.
They found me on the road, which meant Jimmy dragged me from the water, across the industrial wilderness, then out to the waiting blacktop. I asked the medics if there’d been a boy in a ratty ghost costume with me when they arrived. They said they hadn’t seen one.
Anyway, I’m writing this on the computer at the public library right off Girard Avenue, but I better finish up. The librarian is a real asshole. Doesn’t like it when street bums like me stink up the joint. It’s almost Halloween once again. Jimmy might not want me down in the water with him, but I’m going back to join him, regardless.
I’ve got his candy bucket, so we can hit the neighborhood one last time. I’ve also got a box cutter with the sharpest goddamn razors I could find. Once Jimmy slips back into the water, I’m going to open myself up – both wrists, then my carotid artery – and I’m jumping into that green-blue Delaware shitwater right along with him, because I’m Jimmy’s big brother, god damn it.
I won’t let him swim alone.
submitted by MackMoyerAuthor to nosleep [link] [comments]

Rough Night at The Running Bear Casino (PAGE 1 of 2)

…The raging river, pulled them down.
Now they’ll always, be together,
In that Happy Hunting Ground…
- Running Bear by Sonny James
“Snakeyes! New roller, please, next up.” The game runner raked in the dice and chips and ignored the despair in the countenance of the most recent “high roller”. Ted shook his head and other people crowded him away from the dice pit. He was almost out of funds and it was still early. He’d budgeted his, “loss level” carefully to maximize his time at the reservation casino. It was an older one, filled with stereotypical paintings and statues intended to honor the local First Nations Tribes while fulfilling the expectations of rude tourists. He looked around forlornly for a new game to play. He didn’t care for the slots or the drawn-out and ever-shifting card games… ah, Blackjack! There was an opening at the table.
He rushed over before anyone else could snag it and bustled onto the chair. “Okay to deal me in on the next hand?” He interrupted the dealer, who ignored him until he was done dealing out the rest of the players and raking in the chips. He still did not speak but once Ted placed the minimum bet, he flipped a card down in front of him and the game began. Ted immediately started winning the straightforward game. He picked up most of his losses from his unfortunate run at craps and was finally enjoying himself. The couple at the far end of the table had apparently had enough and didn’t care for the new player. Ted liked to talk to new people and thought he was good at it. Before long, the other players had left and it was down to him, the dealer, and an older man, who wore a black cowboy style hat and chain-smoked thin cigarillos.
Ted, grinning heartily at his latest win, glanced over at the man, who had just fired up his next cancer-stick, “You know casinos, and a few bars are the last public places where anyone smokes. I remember when there were smoking sections at most places and my parents told me that there used to be no restrictions. I’ll bet you get plenty of pressure to stop from your family and friends. It’s a pretty bad habit for your long-term health…” Ted usually rambled on past any non-verbal cues that people might give him to stop talking, yet his diatribe came to a screeching halt at the look with which the stern-faced elder favored him.
The older man drew in a long pull on the firestick and then exhaled the stinking cloud into Ted’s face. He coughed a little and gagged at the odor of the raw blend of tobacco and chemicals. The old one removed the cigarillo from his mouth and tapped ashes onto the edge of the table and down onto the floor at his toes, “Sonny, nobody cares. Nobody wants your opinion, and you are not special, no matter what your mommy told you. I’ll do as I please and if you don’t like it, go bother people at another table.”
Ted gaped in shock. In his mind, the man’s words verged on an “assault”. He looked helplessly at the dealer, who just ducked his head and tried not to laugh. Indignant, he rose, took his pile of chips and fled into the depths of the gaming house in search of a friendlier table. He didn’t find one that he liked, so he finally gave up and sat at the bar. The bartender seemed to ignore him in favor of tidying up her workspace. He cleared his throat and received only a glance. He mumbled as much to himself as to her, “I just want a drink while I wait for a table to open.” He wondered at her stony silence, maybe she resents me for being…
His vocal ruminations were interrupted by a feminine voice, “What do you want?”
Ted looked up to see the bartender, mocking smile in place below shining, mesmerizing eyes. Ted simply gaped and eventually worked his jaw uselessly. The bartender shrugged and walked back to the other end of the bar. She spoke with a large man who was clearly part of the security team. He glared at Ted while she spoke. Ted wanted to avoid a confrontation. He’d been conditioned that he should seek authorities if such a situation loomed. Yet casino security was the only available authority here locally. There were Tribal Police on the Reservation, but he wasn’t sure they would want to listen to him. He finally shrugged and decided to go back over to the hotel for the rest of the night. This trip had been very unsatisfying… like all those he’d taken since he moved away from his parents’ home a few years previously.
There was an indoor walkway to the hotel, but Ted decided to go by the outdoor route to get some fresh air and enjoy the natural beauty that the builders had incorporated into the facility. As he walked dejectedly down the sidewalk, local flora pressing in from each side, he heard, from the nearby forest, a screeching wail. It startled him and he had to stop a moment to catch his breath and wait for his heart rate to slow to something more manageable. He realized that it must have been an owl or some other night bird. His father had told him that there were always weird noises “out in the sticks”.
As he plunged his hands into his pockets and determined to go to his room for rest, he caught the faint smell of burning tobacco on the breeze. It wafted over his shoulder from behind and caused him to emit a feeble cough. He looked back in annoyance. In the shadows behind him, he saw a figure. It was dark and stood still in a way that made him uncomfortable. An orange glowing circle of embers hovered around the face and rendered just enough light to illuminate the blue-grey curls of smoke as they exited the tiny conflagration and rose above the brim of a black hat. The ember flared for a moment and then flashed to the ground and was snuffed by a shadowed… foot? It wasn’t exactly clear to Ted; the figure’s lower extremities were... blurred. An even brighter flare, from a lighter or match stabbed into Ted’s eyes as the Smoker lit his next cigarillo.
Ted glared irritation but felt uncomfortable at the unnatural stillness to which the figure returned once the new fire was lit. He coughed once more, this time deliberately in a passive-aggressive attempt to communicate his displeasure and resumed his walk. He strained to listen behind him to determine whether the figure followed. He truly wished to get away from the stink and the threat of cancer or other respiratory illnesses. He slowed to listen, then gave up and looked over his shoulder again. There was no figure in the dark back near the exit to the casino. He turned to resume his walk, but a smoky black form now loomed before him! Its eyes glowed and smoked like large twin cigars as it gaped a maw that emitted pure black smoke and glowed with blue flames within the deep tunnel of the throat. Ted’s consciousness fled his body and found itself in a burning nightmare landscape that extended for as far as he could perceive in all directions.
**** * ****
Darnell, known to his public as “Murder Bush” a deliberate mistranslation of “merde bouche” a.k.a. “Deadly Rapper” for having been a suspect in a shooting back in his youth, stepped up to the dice pit as the geeky dude left. He had plenty of chips and cash to back them. His entourage was there to support him and kiss his backside as often as he wished. He rolled through six passes before he crapped out. He hadn’t over-bet, so he’d won a small amount. He picked up his latest winning chips and handed them to the hostess who had kept him well plied with drinks and snacks. He was sure that for the right price, she would take care of his other needs. He played a few card tables and finished with Roulette.
Each time he won a few chips, he passed them on to the young woman or to one of his flunkies. In the end, they had all received at least some reward for the praises they’d heaped upon him; not for any real accomplishments, but rather to curry favor with the man whom they considered to be wealthy and important: a celebrity. The girl stayed at his side and except for when he asked her questions, she said nothing. He liked that: bitch know her place, he reveled in internal satisfaction. He liked her looks too. She was medium height and a little, “thick”. She was clearly interested but hadn’t gotten in his way when he flirted with other women. He truly liked this one. The more he considered her, the more he wanted to get down to business.
Eventually, he posed the question to her, “How much for the next few hours?” His brazen suggestion that she would take money for sexual favors was the final test. If she grew angry, then she didn’t appreciate his genius…
“Whatever you think is fair. How about we see if I can satisfy you? If I can, then you may want to be generous… as you have been so far.” She hefted the chips so that the pieces clinked in her palm. “If not, I don’t deserve a reward.”
She had passed with flying colors. Might even take this one back to civilization with me, he purred in his mind. He’d always thought of himself as a Big Cat… maybe a leopard or jaguar, definitely something dangerous and sleek. His need grew more intense by the moment. He desperately wanted this woman. “Come on, let’s go to my room.” He husked in a voice grown thick with desire.
They reached his suite, his groupies having been dismissed to their own nefarious pursuits, even his bodyguard. The big man had shrugged, “Your call boss-man.” and then stumped across the hallway to his own room. Now he was finally alone with… her. He stripped off his shirt and flipped his shoes into a corner. She stood by the window and watched. The drinks he’d consumed finally caught up with him before he’d shucked his pants and drawers, “Hold on, I’ll be right back.” He was excited, which made urinating a challenge, but it had to be done, so that he could maximize his pleasure. When he stepped from the restroom, au natural, he saw that his latest conquest had done the same and now stood, bare to the world and staring out the window, all the curtains on it pushed to one side, so that the night loomed and the light of a single small desk lamp lit the room. He stalked over to her, ready to take her right there at the window in full view of anyone who looked up from the outside. He secretly hoped for an audience. He enjoyed having others watch him take what he wanted.
She turned to face him, her head lowered… no, it had sunken into her body, only her hair remained above her shoulders! A… mouth, gaping and slavering opened on her stomach, a mouth too large for her body and rimmed with rows of teeth like sharpened spikes. She stepped forward to embrace him and the screaming began… sounds that he was accustomed to eliciting from others rather than emitting from his own person.
**** * ****
“Rhino” was unhappy. He didn’t like to leave Darnell unattended. Perhaps now that his boss was in the room, he could go stand guard outside the door. He took care of some personal ablutions as he wolfed down a couple of energy bars and then walked out into the hallway. He started to settle in front of Darnell’s door, when he heard a muffled scream and faint… slobbering-gobbling noises come from the other side. He quickly tried the door, initially too panicked to think of the extra key card with which Darnell had entrusted him. He fumbled for it and soon had the door open. The interior was completely dark. The light from the hallway spilled inward but didn’t seem to reach as far into the room as it should.
He drew his pistol from the holster on his waistband and began to stalk forward, “Boss, you okay? You hurt?” The room was as silent as a tomb, he shivered a little as that thought crossed his mind. Over by the closed drapes, he smelled something awful: fresh blood and spilled entrails… recent death. His feet squelched on wet carpet. He turned around quickly. There had been no noise, but he’d felt a… presence. There she stood, arms spread wide, mouth on her gut spread wider. Rhino wasn’t one to scream or yell, even in extremis, so no others would come to this room to investigate.
**** * ****
Shelly was glad when the rowdy group left the roulette wheel that sat behind her favorite row of slots. The former “one-armed bandits”, that were now, “multiple button digital bandits” lined every available wall space, and in some spaces stood in rows that drew regulars like a dung-heap draws flies. She’d grabbed her favorite machine early in the evening and sat sliding in dollar bills and working up her points. It was called “Buffalo Dance” and featured images of American Bison and feather-bedecked hunters. The theme on the screen matched and she hoped to one day see the “White Buffalo” image adorn the entire set of images… the grand prize view. Despite the fun graphics, it was her favorite because it was near a restroom and a free soda and snack bar. She found herself ahead and on a roll. She absently lipped her dangling cigarette back into her mouth for a long draw. The smoke obscured the screen for a moment, and then she noted a shadow that lengthened across the reflective surface. Someone stood close behind her. Someone who exuded a chilly air. She paused and looked around, “Can I help you?”
There was no answer, though the shadow shifted slightly as if its caster had heard her.
Now she grew annoyed, this is just the sort of thing to break my winning streak! she raged internally. She braced her hands against the machine and worked her buttocks to make the stool on which she perched spin, so she could confront her harasser. She gaped, and nearly lost her cigarette, there was no one standing near enough to cast the shadow. No one even faced her. She chalked it up to excitement, maybe someone stepped too close when passing to go to the restroom, she thought, still a little annoyed and... chilled.
She turned back to her game and continued working the buttons, pumping in bills, and winning, a little at a time, the points now built well above her investment. This weekend is gonna pay for the last two months of losing and breaking even, she thought triumphantly. The shadow loomed across the screen once more, this time even larger, as though the figure that cast it stood closer. The shape was amorphous but hinted at anthropomorphic. She shivered as an icy breeze flowed around her, as though the air conditioning had sent out a short, cold burst, a minor malfunction…
She turned around with more alacrity and determination than the last time, mouth agape, cigarette once more dangling… precipitously and endangering the cleavage she displayed, already baked and wrinkled from years of sunbathing. The frigid air passed, and no one stood anywhere near her, though a customer approached, headed for either snacks or relief. “Excuse me sir, did you just see someone, maybe a large man, standing behind me?”
The man paused and looked at her in confusion. He had clearly been absorbed in his own thoughts, “Er, what? Uh, No. I wasn’t really paying attention, but… no.” He bustled on toward the free fountain drinks machine.
Shelly shrugged, can’t give up now, the pot is even bigger. She checked her points; she was nearing her all-time high. The winnings would pay her space rental fee at the RV park for the entire month. She pressed and played the buttons more fervently than ever, determined to break the bank on straight points or to reach that magical spin that would offer an instant reward of $10,000.00. She set her new points record and reveled for a moment. She reached for the now small stack of dollar bills the rest having been devoured by the machine. She fed in the entire remaining amount, then once more gazed at the screen. It was entirely blackened by a looming shadow.
The temperature of the air around her plummeted and she shuddered with the sudden biting cold. The cigarette was long extinguished, and she’d let the cold fag fall into the ash tray built onto the side of the machine opposite the drink holder. She was so cold, and she wanted to cry out for help, but the darkness closed in around her as the shadow enveloped her and cut off her breathing. Her fingers, paused above the “spin” button, struck and as her consciousness faded, she saw the flashing blue light and heard the blare of the winner’s siren. White Buffalo images filled all nine spaces. I won! The grand prize!
**** * ****
Terry filled his large cup and stood sipping and daydreaming. He’d lost everything he’d budgeted to lose. Yet he knew that one more try would put him back in black for this trip. He mused about what he would do with the prize money. He’d set his limit at $300.00 and had quickly lost it all on slots. Maybe he could risk just a few more dollars… skip a lunch or two until his next paycheck if it didn’t work. He was startled by the jackpot winner’s flashing light and siren that went off just behind him. That bitch! He yelled internally. Figures some old used up skank would win the big prize. He looked over at the nearby machine with anger and envy vying for control of his senses. She was gone!
He stepped over to the machine and looked around in confusion. Maybe she’d gone to the restroom? No, she’d have passed right by me. He shook his head and stepped up to look at the screen. He could still feel the recent presence of a player, the trace of warmth from a human body that might linger in a space for just a moment after the human had vacated the space. He looked around the casino floor, she was nowhere in sight. She’d been wearing a low-cut silver-spangled top that was cut way too low for her sagging, sun-ravaged bosom. She should be easy to spy, she looked like a deflated disco ball that had fallen from the ceiling to play slots. The only thing that came his way was a train of employees, led by a waitress in a skimpy outfit with purple sparkles and carrying a tray with a glass and a dark bottle. She was followed by other employees, who’d formed a sort of conga line: they sang a congratulatory chorus as they approached.
Terry gaped for a moment when he realized that they thought he was the big winner. He’d have to deny it of course. Surely the woman would be back at any moment to claim her prize. The floor cameras would have recorded who had sat at the machine, but it was too late. The group of enthused employees encircled him, and the attractive young waitress poured him a glass of champagne and snuggled up to him. The manager approached and seized his hand for a vigorous shake, “Well done sir! I see that not only have you hit the jackpot, but you’ve raised an additional $3,000.00 in points. A fabulous prize and well played I’m sure.”
Terry was flabbergasted. He’d never won anything like this… I still haven’t, not really, he reminded himself. He rarely broke even on his gambling forays, whether to the casino, or the corner store for lottery tickets and video slots. He allowed himself to be swept into the reverie and led from the machine to the bar. The employees peeled away as they approached, and he soon found himself with only the bottle and a receipt that he could cash out before he left the premises. A sullen-looking woman stood behind the bar, wiping glasses and a large, mean-looking security staffer menaced the far end. He already had his bottle, so he wasn’t sure why the staff members had deposited him with these two killjoys. He shrugged, picked up the champagne and started to walk away from the bar.
“You can’t take that with you. Either drink it here or give it to me and I’ll put it in the trash.” The bartender stated in monotone.
The security officer stood up straight from where he’d been leaning against the far wall, apparently propping up the building. He folded his massive arms in a threatening manner. Silly, thought Terry, folded arms should be a hindrance, but I get the feeling he’s dangerous regardless. He figured that he’d had enough anyway and set the nearly empty bottle on the bar, “You can keep it ma’am. I can afford another at the hotel.” Terry started to walk away from the bar, but a huge ham-like hand seized his shoulder.
Sausage-sized fingers applied painful pressure, “You apologize to the lady.” The wet heat from a mouth placed uncomfortably close to his ear and beath smelling of river bottom, sent a shiver of disgust through his body. The voice was low and deep as the river that ran past the back side of the property.
Terry decided on the better part of valor and head facing forward to avoid the obscene orifice, “Sorry ma’am, I meant no offense.”
The fingers let go and a harsh laugh sounded from behind the bar. “He don’t even know why he’s apologizing, fool. He ain’t worth the trouble, let him go.”
Terry felt a slight shove and he was sent on his way to the cash-out window. There he met with the lead cashier, an older woman in drab clothing, “I’m sorry sir, we give out only these pre-paid cards, we cannot provide cash over $1,000.00. However, you can treat them like a debit or credit card.” the cashier informed him. It seemed he had no choice, so he accepted. Thirteen grand is thirteen grand, he assured himself. He was elated, though he continued to glance around nervously, waiting for the woman in the sparkly fish-scale top to accost him and name him thief. Yet she was nowhere to be seen. The floor was full of players, some laughing, some intense, some dejected or mesmerized by the games of chance in which they’d lost themselves.
He thought about what to do with the rest of his evening. He didn’t have a hotel room; he’d planned to sleep in his station wagon as he always did before the long haul home. Perhaps he should get a room? Maybe they would take him without a reservation… he giggled a little at the unintended pun: a reservation at the Reservation… he shook his head to clear his overreaction to the silly internal joke. He decided that maybe someone on staff could help him. He approached the major domo at the front entrance that led to the interior walkway and the hotel beyond, “Excuse me sir, do you know whether the hotel will accept a resident without a prior reservation?”
The man, single dark braid wrapped in a leather holder and draped over one shoulder, looked at him gravely, “Yes, I know.” He said nothing more and did not smile as though he’d intended to be humorous.
Terry tried again, “Will you tell me please?”
The man flicked his chin in the direction of the hotel, “See the clerk at the desk.”
“Jerk, you’d think I hadn’t pissed away enough cash in this place over the past few years,” Terry muttered as he stumped toward the hotel, ensuring that he was well beyond earshot before he spoke. His head had begun to buzz a little from the champagne. Took a while for it to affect me, he mused. The hallway appeared to narrow, and his peripheral vision grew grey. He felt dizzy and as he entered the main lobby, the large room began to spin. His last view was of the sky-blue ceiling decorated with a few puffy clouds as it faded into darkness like the sun had set.
He awakened to the sounds of voices chattering happily. He looked around, his vision blurred slightly and his head feeling heavy and sore. He soon found that he could not move his arms or legs… they were bound… he was strapped to a table. He saw numerous bodies moving about in the mostly dark space in which he found himself. “Please.” He croaked, throat dry and feeling scraped. “Please, help me, let me loose. Loose me…” his perceptions cleared slowly, and he saw that the bodies that moved around him, now chanting rhythmically rather than babble-chattering, were emaciated. The owners showed as much bone through their skin as would a dead thing, long decayed. He noted spikes above a few heads… no, antlers… The rest wore… masks? Of various beasts… no, the skulls of those creatures, still filled with glistening fangs. Their dance grew ever more frantic, more energetic than they should be capable of performing. Then one of them reached out with a stick, on the end of which was a small claw, taken and preserved from some dead animal. It used the claw to gouge out a scoop of flesh from Terry’s side. He screamed in torment and horror. His screams soon matched the rhythm of the chanting and they went on for a long time before they at last faded when he’d lost too much blood to remain conscious.
**** * **** END PAGE 1 of 2
submitted by BearLair64 to DrCreepensVault [link] [comments]

Rough Night at The Running Bear Casino (PAGE 1 of 2)

…The raging river, pulled them down.
Now they’ll always, be together,
In that Happy Hunting Ground…
- Running Bear by Sonny James
“Snakeyes! New roller, please, next up.” The game runner raked in the dice and chips and ignored the despair in the countenance of the most recent “high roller”. Ted shook his head and other people crowded him away from the dice pit. He was almost out of funds and it was still early. He’d budgeted his, “loss level” carefully to maximize his time at the reservation casino. It was an older one, filled with stereotypical paintings and statues intended to honor the local First Nations Tribes while fulfilling the expectations of rude tourists. He looked around forlornly for a new game to play. He didn’t care for the slots or the drawn-out and ever-shifting card games… ah, Blackjack! There was an opening at the table.
He rushed over before anyone else could snag it and bustled onto the chair. “Okay to deal me in on the next hand?” He interrupted the dealer, who ignored him until he was done dealing out the rest of the players and raking in the chips. He still did not speak but once Ted placed the minimum bet, he flipped a card down in front of him and the game began. Ted immediately started winning the straightforward game. He picked up most of his losses from his unfortunate run at craps and was finally enjoying himself. The couple at the far end of the table had apparently had enough and didn’t care for the new player. Ted liked to talk to new people and thought he was good at it. Before long, the other players had left and it was down to him, the dealer, and an older man, who wore a black cowboy style hat and chain-smoked thin cigarillos.
Ted, grinning heartily at his latest win, glanced over at the man, who had just fired up his next cancer-stick, “You know casinos, and a few bars are the last public places where anyone smokes. I remember when there were smoking sections at most places and my parents told me that there used to be no restrictions. I’ll bet you get plenty of pressure to stop from your family and friends. It’s a pretty bad habit for your long-term health…” Ted usually rambled on past any non-verbal cues that people might give him to stop talking, yet his diatribe came to a screeching halt at the look with which the stern-faced elder favored him.
The older man drew in a long pull on the firestick and then exhaled the stinking cloud into Ted’s face. He coughed a little and gagged at the odor of the raw blend of tobacco and chemicals. The old one removed the cigarillo from his mouth and tapped ashes onto the edge of the table and down onto the floor at his toes, “Sonny, nobody cares. Nobody wants your opinion, and you are not special, no matter what your mommy told you. I’ll do as I please and if you don’t like it, go bother people at another table.”
Ted gaped in shock. In his mind, the man’s words verged on an “assault”. He looked helplessly at the dealer, who just ducked his head and tried not to laugh. Indignant, he rose, took his pile of chips and fled into the depths of the gaming house in search of a friendlier table. He didn’t find one that he liked, so he finally gave up and sat at the bar. The bartender seemed to ignore him in favor of tidying up her workspace. He cleared his throat and received only a glance. He mumbled as much to himself as to her, “I just want a drink while I wait for a table to open.” He wondered at her stony silence, maybe she resents me for being…
His vocal ruminations were interrupted by a feminine voice, “What do you want?”
Ted looked up to see the bartender, mocking smile in place below shining, mesmerizing eyes. Ted simply gaped and eventually worked his jaw uselessly. The bartender shrugged and walked back to the other end of the bar. She spoke with a large man who was clearly part of the security team. He glared at Ted while she spoke. Ted wanted to avoid a confrontation. He’d been conditioned that he should seek authorities if such a situation loomed. Yet casino security was the only available authority here locally. There were Tribal Police on the Reservation, but he wasn’t sure they would want to listen to him. He finally shrugged and decided to go back over to the hotel for the rest of the night. This trip had been very unsatisfying… like all those he’d taken since he moved away from his parents’ home a few years previously.
There was an indoor walkway to the hotel, but Ted decided to go by the outdoor route to get some fresh air and enjoy the natural beauty that the builders had incorporated into the facility. As he walked dejectedly down the sidewalk, local flora pressing in from each side, he heard, from the nearby forest, a screeching wail. It startled him and he had to stop a moment to catch his breath and wait for his heart rate to slow to something more manageable. He realized that it must have been an owl or some other night bird. His father had told him that there were always weird noises “out in the sticks”.
As he plunged his hands into his pockets and determined to go to his room for rest, he caught the faint smell of burning tobacco on the breeze. It wafted over his shoulder from behind and caused him to emit a feeble cough. He looked back in annoyance. In the shadows behind him, he saw a figure. It was dark and stood still in a way that made him uncomfortable. An orange glowing circle of embers hovered around the face and rendered just enough light to illuminate the blue-grey curls of smoke as they exited the tiny conflagration and rose above the brim of a black hat. The ember flared for a moment and then flashed to the ground and was snuffed by a shadowed… foot? It wasn’t exactly clear to Ted; the figure’s lower extremities were... blurred. An even brighter flare, from a lighter or match stabbed into Ted’s eyes as the Smoker lit his next cigarillo.
Ted glared irritation but felt uncomfortable at the unnatural stillness to which the figure returned once the new fire was lit. He coughed once more, this time deliberately in a passive-aggressive attempt to communicate his displeasure and resumed his walk. He strained to listen behind him to determine whether the figure followed. He truly wished to get away from the stink and the threat of cancer or other respiratory illnesses. He slowed to listen, then gave up and looked over his shoulder again. There was no figure in the dark back near the exit to the casino. He turned to resume his walk, but a smoky black form now loomed before him! Its eyes glowed and smoked like large twin cigars as it gaped a maw that emitted pure black smoke and glowed with blue flames within the deep tunnel of the throat. Ted’s consciousness fled his body and found itself in a burning nightmare landscape that extended for as far as he could perceive in all directions.
**** * ****
Darnell, known to his public as “Murder Bush” a deliberate mistranslation of “merde bouche” a.k.a. “Deadly Rapper” for having been a suspect in a shooting back in his youth, stepped up to the dice pit as the geeky dude left. He had plenty of chips and cash to back them. His entourage was there to support him and kiss his backside as often as he wished. He rolled through six passes before he crapped out. He hadn’t over-bet, so he’d won a small amount. He picked up his latest winning chips and handed them to the hostess who had kept him well plied with drinks and snacks. He was sure that for the right price, she would take care of his other needs. He played a few card tables and finished with Roulette.
Each time he won a few chips, he passed them on to the young woman or to one of his flunkies. In the end, they had all received at least some reward for the praises they’d heaped upon him; not for any real accomplishments, but rather to curry favor with the man whom they considered to be wealthy and important: a celebrity. The girl stayed at his side and except for when he asked her questions, she said nothing. He liked that: bitch know her place, he reveled in internal satisfaction. He liked her looks too. She was medium height and a little, “thick”. She was clearly interested but hadn’t gotten in his way when he flirted with other women. He truly liked this one. The more he considered her, the more he wanted to get down to business.
Eventually, he posed the question to her, “How much for the next few hours?” His brazen suggestion that she would take money for sexual favors was the final test. If she grew angry, then she didn’t appreciate his genius…
“Whatever you think is fair. How about we see if I can satisfy you? If I can, then you may want to be generous… as you have been so far.” She hefted the chips so that the pieces clinked in her palm. “If not, I don’t deserve a reward.”
She had passed with flying colors. Might even take this one back to civilization with me, he purred in his mind. He’d always thought of himself as a Big Cat… maybe a leopard or jaguar, definitely something dangerous and sleek. His need grew more intense by the moment. He desperately wanted this woman. “Come on, let’s go to my room.” He husked in a voice grown thick with desire.
They reached his suite, his groupies having been dismissed to their own nefarious pursuits, even his bodyguard. The big man had shrugged, “Your call boss-man.” and then stumped across the hallway to his own room. Now he was finally alone with… her. He stripped off his shirt and flipped his shoes into a corner. She stood by the window and watched. The drinks he’d consumed finally caught up with him before he’d shucked his pants and drawers, “Hold on, I’ll be right back.” He was excited, which made urinating a challenge, but it had to be done, so that he could maximize his pleasure. When he stepped from the restroom, au natural, he saw that his latest conquest had done the same and now stood, bare to the world and staring out the window, all the curtains on it pushed to one side, so that the night loomed and the light of a single small desk lamp lit the room. He stalked over to her, ready to take her right there at the window in full view of anyone who looked up from the outside. He secretly hoped for an audience. He enjoyed having others watch him take what he wanted.
She turned to face him, her head lowered… no, it had sunken into her body, only her hair remained above her shoulders! A… mouth, gaping and slavering opened on her stomach, a mouth too large for her body and rimmed with rows of teeth like sharpened spikes. She stepped forward to embrace him and the screaming began… sounds that he was accustomed to eliciting from others rather than emitting from his own person.
**** * ****
“Rhino” was unhappy. He didn’t like to leave Darnell unattended. Perhaps now that his boss was in the room, he could go stand guard outside the door. He took care of some personal ablutions as he wolfed down a couple of energy bars and then walked out into the hallway. He started to settle in front of Darnell’s door, when he heard a muffled scream and faint… slobbering-gobbling noises come from the other side. He quickly tried the door, initially too panicked to think of the extra key card with which Darnell had entrusted him. He fumbled for it and soon had the door open. The interior was completely dark. The light from the hallway spilled inward but didn’t seem to reach as far into the room as it should.
He drew his pistol from the holster on his waistband and began to stalk forward, “Boss, you okay? You hurt?” The room was as silent as a tomb, he shivered a little as that thought crossed his mind. Over by the closed drapes, he smelled something awful: fresh blood and spilled entrails… recent death. His feet squelched on wet carpet. He turned around quickly. There had been no noise, but he’d felt a… presence. There she stood, arms spread wide, mouth on her gut spread wider. Rhino wasn’t one to scream or yell, even in extremis, so no others would come to this room to investigate.
**** * ****
Shelly was glad when the rowdy group left the roulette wheel that sat behind her favorite row of slots. The former “one-armed bandits”, that were now, “multiple button digital bandits” lined every available wall space, and in some spaces stood in rows that drew regulars like a dung-heap draws flies. She’d grabbed her favorite machine early in the evening and sat sliding in dollar bills and working up her points. It was called “Buffalo Dance” and featured images of American Bison and feather-bedecked hunters. The theme on the screen matched and she hoped to one day see the “White Buffalo” image adorn the entire set of images… the grand prize view. Despite the fun graphics, it was her favorite because it was near a restroom and a free soda and snack bar. She found herself ahead and on a roll. She absently lipped her dangling cigarette back into her mouth for a long draw. The smoke obscured the screen for a moment, and then she noted a shadow that lengthened across the reflective surface. Someone stood close behind her. Someone who exuded a chilly air. She paused and looked around, “Can I help you?”
There was no answer, though the shadow shifted slightly as if its caster had heard her.
Now she grew annoyed, this is just the sort of thing to break my winning streak! she raged internally. She braced her hands against the machine and worked her buttocks to make the stool on which she perched spin, so she could confront her harasser. She gaped, and nearly lost her cigarette, there was no one standing near enough to cast the shadow. No one even faced her. She chalked it up to excitement, maybe someone stepped too close when passing to go to the restroom, she thought, still a little annoyed and... chilled.
She turned back to her game and continued working the buttons, pumping in bills, and winning, a little at a time, the points now built well above her investment. This weekend is gonna pay for the last two months of losing and breaking even, she thought triumphantly. The shadow loomed across the screen once more, this time even larger, as though the figure that cast it stood closer. The shape was amorphous but hinted at anthropomorphic. She shivered as an icy breeze flowed around her, as though the air conditioning had sent out a short, cold burst, a minor malfunction…
She turned around with more alacrity and determination than the last time, mouth agape, cigarette once more dangling… precipitously and endangering the cleavage she displayed, already baked and wrinkled from years of sunbathing. The frigid air passed, and no one stood anywhere near her, though a customer approached, headed for either snacks or relief. “Excuse me sir, did you just see someone, maybe a large man, standing behind me?”
The man paused and looked at her in confusion. He had clearly been absorbed in his own thoughts, “Er, what? Uh, No. I wasn’t really paying attention, but… no.” He bustled on toward the free fountain drinks machine.
Shelly shrugged, can’t give up now, the pot is even bigger. She checked her points; she was nearing her all-time high. The winnings would pay her space rental fee at the RV park for the entire month. She pressed and played the buttons more fervently than ever, determined to break the bank on straight points or to reach that magical spin that would offer an instant reward of $10,000.00. She set her new points record and reveled for a moment. She reached for the now small stack of dollar bills the rest having been devoured by the machine. She fed in the entire remaining amount, then once more gazed at the screen. It was entirely blackened by a looming shadow.
The temperature of the air around her plummeted and she shuddered with the sudden biting cold. The cigarette was long extinguished, and she’d let the cold fag fall into the ash tray built onto the side of the machine opposite the drink holder. She was so cold, and she wanted to cry out for help, but the darkness closed in around her as the shadow enveloped her and cut off her breathing. Her fingers, paused above the “spin” button, struck and as her consciousness faded, she saw the flashing blue light and heard the blare of the winner’s siren. White Buffalo images filled all nine spaces. I won! The grand prize!
**** * ****
Terry filled his large cup and stood sipping and daydreaming. He’d lost everything he’d budgeted to lose. Yet he knew that one more try would put him back in black for this trip. He mused about what he would do with the prize money. He’d set his limit at $300.00 and had quickly lost it all on slots. Maybe he could risk just a few more dollars… skip a lunch or two until his next paycheck if it didn’t work. He was startled by the jackpot winner’s flashing light and siren that went off just behind him. That bitch! He yelled internally. Figures some old used up skank would win the big prize. He looked over at the nearby machine with anger and envy vying for control of his senses. She was gone!
He stepped over to the machine and looked around in confusion. Maybe she’d gone to the restroom? No, she’d have passed right by me. He shook his head and stepped up to look at the screen. He could still feel the recent presence of a player, the trace of warmth from a human body that might linger in a space for just a moment after the human had vacated the space. He looked around the casino floor, she was nowhere in sight. She’d been wearing a low-cut silver-spangled top that was cut way too low for her sagging, sun-ravaged bosom. She should be easy to spy, she looked like a deflated disco ball that had fallen from the ceiling to play slots. The only thing that came his way was a train of employees, led by a waitress in a skimpy outfit with purple sparkles and carrying a tray with a glass and a dark bottle. She was followed by other employees, who’d formed a sort of conga line: they sang a congratulatory chorus as they approached.
Terry gaped for a moment when he realized that they thought he was the big winner. He’d have to deny it of course. Surely the woman would be back at any moment to claim her prize. The floor cameras would have recorded who had sat at the machine, but it was too late. The group of enthused employees encircled him, and the attractive young waitress poured him a glass of champagne and snuggled up to him. The manager approached and seized his hand for a vigorous shake, “Well done sir! I see that not only have you hit the jackpot, but you’ve raised an additional $3,000.00 in points. A fabulous prize and well played I’m sure.”
Terry was flabbergasted. He’d never won anything like this… I still haven’t, not really, he reminded himself. He rarely broke even on his gambling forays, whether to the casino, or the corner store for lottery tickets and video slots. He allowed himself to be swept into the reverie and led from the machine to the bar. The employees peeled away as they approached, and he soon found himself with only the bottle and a receipt that he could cash out before he left the premises. A sullen-looking woman stood behind the bar, wiping glasses and a large, mean-looking security staffer menaced the far end. He already had his bottle, so he wasn’t sure why the staff members had deposited him with these two killjoys. He shrugged, picked up the champagne and started to walk away from the bar.
“You can’t take that with you. Either drink it here or give it to me and I’ll put it in the trash.” The bartender stated in monotone.
The security officer stood up straight from where he’d been leaning against the far wall, apparently propping up the building. He folded his massive arms in a threatening manner. Silly, thought Terry, folded arms should be a hindrance, but I get the feeling he’s dangerous regardless. He figured that he’d had enough anyway and set the nearly empty bottle on the bar, “You can keep it ma’am. I can afford another at the hotel.” Terry started to walk away from the bar, but a huge ham-like hand seized his shoulder.
Sausage-sized fingers applied painful pressure, “You apologize to the lady.” The wet heat from a mouth placed uncomfortably close to his ear and beath smelling of river bottom, sent a shiver of disgust through his body. The voice was low and deep as the river that ran past the back side of the property.
Terry decided on the better part of valor and head facing forward to avoid the obscene orifice, “Sorry ma’am, I meant no offense.”
The fingers let go and a harsh laugh sounded from behind the bar. “He don’t even know why he’s apologizing, fool. He ain’t worth the trouble, let him go.”
Terry felt a slight shove and he was sent on his way to the cash-out window. There he met with the lead cashier, an older woman in drab clothing, “I’m sorry sir, we give out only these pre-paid cards, we cannot provide cash over $1,000.00. However, you can treat them like a debit or credit card.” the cashier informed him. It seemed he had no choice, so he accepted. Thirteen grand is thirteen grand, he assured himself. He was elated, though he continued to glance around nervously, waiting for the woman in the sparkly fish-scale top to accost him and name him thief. Yet she was nowhere to be seen. The floor was full of players, some laughing, some intense, some dejected or mesmerized by the games of chance in which they’d lost themselves.
He thought about what to do with the rest of his evening. He didn’t have a hotel room; he’d planned to sleep in his station wagon as he always did before the long haul home. Perhaps he should get a room? Maybe they would take him without a reservation… he giggled a little at the unintended pun: a reservation at the Reservation… he shook his head to clear his overreaction to the silly internal joke. He decided that maybe someone on staff could help him. He approached the major domo at the front entrance that led to the interior walkway and the hotel beyond, “Excuse me sir, do you know whether the hotel will accept a resident without a prior reservation?”
The man, single dark braid wrapped in a leather holder and draped over one shoulder, looked at him gravely, “Yes, I know.” He said nothing more and did not smile as though he’d intended to be humorous.
Terry tried again, “Will you tell me please?”
The man flicked his chin in the direction of the hotel, “See the clerk at the desk.”
“Jerk, you’d think I hadn’t pissed away enough cash in this place over the past few years,” Terry muttered as he stumped toward the hotel, ensuring that he was well beyond earshot before he spoke. His head had begun to buzz a little from the champagne. Took a while for it to affect me, he mused. The hallway appeared to narrow, and his peripheral vision grew grey. He felt dizzy and as he entered the main lobby, the large room began to spin. His last view was of the sky-blue ceiling decorated with a few puffy clouds as it faded into darkness like the sun had set.
He awakened to the sounds of voices chattering happily. He looked around, his vision blurred slightly and his head feeling heavy and sore. He soon found that he could not move his arms or legs… they were bound… he was strapped to a table. He saw numerous bodies moving about in the mostly dark space in which he found himself. “Please.” He croaked, throat dry and feeling scraped. “Please, help me, let me loose. Loose me…” his perceptions cleared slowly, and he saw that the bodies that moved around him, now chanting rhythmically rather than babble-chattering, were emaciated. The owners showed as much bone through their skin as would a dead thing, long decayed. He noted spikes above a few heads… no, antlers… The rest wore… masks? Of various beasts… no, the skulls of those creatures, still filled with glistening fangs. Their dance grew ever more frantic, more energetic than they should be capable of performing. Then one of them reached out with a stick, on the end of which was a small claw, taken and preserved from some dead animal. It used the claw to gouge out a scoop of flesh from Terry’s side. He screamed in torment and horror. His screams soon matched the rhythm of the chanting and they went on for a long time before they at last faded when he’d lost too much blood to remain conscious.
**** * ****
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Teen Titans #8 - Who is Cassie Sandsmark?

Teen Titans

In Illumination
Issue Eight: Who is Cassie Sandsmark?
Originally posted January 2018
 
 
Blüdhaven wasn’t good for much. An old whaling town, the dirty, industrial cityscape was later transformed by wealthy, criminal investors, building its industrial district into a neon paradise, a city-sized casino idyllic as long as you never looked beneath the surface.
And though the Teen Titans were almost always preoccupied with minimising the rampaging of emerging metahumans, they would often strive to tackle the crime that lurked in the shadows cast by the neon lights. One such criminal was André LeBlanc.
See, the smarmy and greasy Angel Marin, one of the ‘philanthropists’ so cherished in Blüdhaven had held an exhibition to show off the depths of his riches, including his star piece: the Night Diamond, a priceless gemstone. This naturally presented a challenge for the self-styled ‘world's greatest jewel thief’ LeBlanc.
He was a wanted man internationally due to his masterful skills and cutting edge tactics, but targeting the home of such a dangerous man as Angel Marin, LeBlanc was - even to his own admission - pushing his luck.
The thief darted silently down the crime lord’s corridor, his footfalls suppressed by his rebalancing boots and his hi-tech jumpsuit hiding him from thermal sensors despite its garish white colour. On his cracked face sat a green monocle, which LeBlanc used to scan for traps in real time. As he ran, LeBlanc gripped the azure jewel tightly, the diamond no bigger than a golf ball despite its exorbitant worth. The man’s agility and resolve was unmatched for someone of his age, but unfortunately his resistance came in the form of three meddlesome teenagers.
Angel Marin slept soundly in his bed, LeBlanc having eluded all of his security, but the Teen Titans had already seen the thief’s approach. Thanks to a recent upgrade to Cyborg’s tech, the teen was able to piece together a wealth of technological information sources to track LeBlanc all the way from his previous heist, and now they were moments from thwarting him.
LeBlanc pushed into the drawing room, the window he had entered through still cracked open. But as the man emerged through the open doorway, the oak door immediately pushed shut. The thief turned back towards the door, drawing a glowing, white knife to slash out at whoever had pushed the door to, only to find an empty place. Furiously, he pivoted back toward the window, now to find the shadowy figure of the blue-clad vigilante blocking his path. Nightwing. LeBlanc threw his arm out, slashing at the slender assailant, only for Nightwing to strafe aside with a boastful cartwheel. “No thanks!” Nightwing spat, springing off of the ground and throwing himself at the thief. Quickly, he struck with his twin sticks, aiming to disarm the thief as well as snatch the stone from him in one fell swoop, but André wouldn’t unhand his prize so easily.
The thief swung out once more, with Nightwing this time much closer. Before the vigilante could bounce back, he cried as the searing hot blade streaked across his chest, cutting through his black-and-blue armour as if it were butter, exposing his pale and bleeding flesh.
“Heh.”
Recoiling, the vigilante brought his hand across his chest, wiping the blood aside before clutching at his sticks once again. Nightwing leapt vertically and hooked his sticks around the industrial-looking chandelier above, using it to fling himself across the room to intercept the white-clad thief who continued his way to the open window. He landed and - stick still in hand - threw a fist out, striking LeBlanc cleanly in the nose.
The thief staggered, dazed. He would have just shot the kid if he had even brought a gun, though in his line of work a firearm was such a clumsy weapon. Narrowing his gaze on the dark figure he faced, LeBlanc focused himself. How strong could one kid be? Arrogant as ever, he then threw his knife aside and slipped the Night Diamond into his white satchel. He brought up his fists, ready to exchange blows.
The two men clashed, and quickly LeBlanc began to impress Nightwing as he dealt fast and powerful strikes. As they traded attacks, blocking and leaping up and down, they almost seemed to dance with each other, with LeBlanc using his streamlined gauntlets to deflect strikes from Nightwing’s escrima sticks. But LeBlanc caught Nightwing off-guard when he delivered a spinning kick to the vigilante’s head, flooring him with a manoeuvre Nightwing never would have expected from a man approaching forty. Though as LeBlanc turned away with a sneer, seemingly having bested the Gotham crimefighter, he turned to find himself face-to-face with none other than a towering, green gorilla. With a single punch, he was out.
“You know, I don’t know why you didn’t just let me just punch him sooner,” Gar grinned, morphing back to human form. As he rose from the ground, Dick produced a pair of black boxer shorts from his belt compartment, unfurling them and throwing them the way of the nude, green child as if it were a regular occurrence (which, by this point, it was).
“That’ll be because we’re sitting in the house of a dangerous gangster,” Dick smiled coolly, his hand pouring over his throbbing head, “Ever heard of ‘lowkey’?”
“Ah, you got me there!” Gar exclaimed, slightly quieter this time, “I’m many things but lowkey isn’t one of them.”
“Nice work though,” Dick replied, before activating his communicator, “Cyborg: you still on overwatch?”
Beat.
“Cyborg?”
Vic spluttered, suddenly bursting in over comms, “Yeah. Of course, sorry just got distracted by… things...”
“Finlay,” Dick continued, “Of course. I’m sorry. Look, head back to the roof of Iris Cove Casino, and we’ll regroup with you there.”
“Got it.”
Since Dick had discovered that it was an associate of Vic’s father, Jacob Finlay, who was responsible for stealing the Cyborg blueprints, as well as springing the metahumans that almost killed Vic, he had wanted nothing less than see the crooked physicist see what was coming to him. But what he couldn’t have expected was for the doctor to turn up dead - his neck wrenched - in Gotham River. It was a tragedy, and not at all what the man deserved.
The Teen Titans had attempted to follow up on the death, but had found nothing. That was until Dick received a clandestine call from Silas Stone.
 
♦ ♦ T ♦ ♦
 
The fifteen-year-old Cassandra Sandsmark emerged from the Music Box Theatre wide-eyed, her mind blown. Growing up in Buckinghamshire, England, Cassie had always dreamed of seeing a Broadway show, and it was every bit as amazing as she had expected it to be.
Her mother was an archaeologist, and therefore was often away for long periods of time, and when Cassie wasn’t couped up at her boarding school, her grandparents were too old and untrusting - despite their riches - to fly her out to New York. And though Cassie had finally gotten her wish, it was through the most distressing of circumstances. Now, though Cassie was raised by a strictly Christian family, she always found difficulty in believing in a God for one reason or another, so imagine her surprise when she was visited by the image of what appeared to be an angel, imploring her to flee to New York City, of all places, that she was being hunted and would only be safe within the bounds of that city so far across the pond. No answers, only urgency.
And so, the Fear of God firmly instilled in her, the fifteen-year-old stole as much money as she could from her grandfather’s bank account and grabbed the first plane ticket to the United States.
Though Cassie honestly didn't know what to expect. Upon arriving in the ‘greatest city in the world’ she had heard nothing from the otherworldly figure that had addressed her before, and she quickly began to realise that she couldn't occupy herself in her hotel room for very long. And hence, she decided to indulge herself in an overpriced visit to Broadway, and it was worth every penny to the young girl.
But now Cassie was lost once again. Cars hurtled past her along the wide road, as monolithic buildings stretched high into the jet black sky. There wasn't a moment of silence, the city filled with a cacophony of noise, even at this hour. Quickly, she pushed over to the nearest taxi, pulling her red hoodie up tight over her slender shoulders to keep out the quickly emerging chill. As the driver rolled his window down, Cassie doubled over, peering through the window to address him.
“Hello? Do you go to the White Ram Hotel?” she chirped in a polite tone.
“Do I!?” the driver exclaimed. He was a middle aged man with olive skin and a sleazy black tracksuit. “This ain't the subway. I’ll take you anywhere you want, hot stuff!”
“Excuse me?!” Cassie cried, pulling herself up. Sure, she was more developed than other girls in her year at school, but she was only fifteen. Surely he could see that! Right?
“I love me a British accent,” the driver sneered, “Say somethin’ sexy and I’ll give you half fare!”
Cassie was flustered and infuriated. Slamming her foot down on the pavement, she pushed away. “I’ll think I’ll walk, thank you very much!!”
And so Cassie took off down the street, walking against the flow of heavy traffic, the sounds of the city growing more fierce. Quickly, the black of the night seemed to slowly seep in around her, the darkness consuming her, but Cassie kept plodding on towards the White Ram.
As Cassie walked, a enigmatic presence lurked in the distance, watching her; stalking her from the shadows. There was a quality to Cassie, something powerful that just made her unignorable, something that called to the presence in the dark.
Unbeknown to this, Cassie continued on, eventually coming to pass the exterior of an old Irish pub that stretched along the street. Nervously, Cassie pulled up the hood of her red hoodie and picked up her pace, the footfalls of her black Chucks growing heavier against the concrete sidewalk. Something she’d call the pavement.
Though Cassie wouldn’t get off so easy as from the pub, right as she passed its doors, emerged three men of varying levels of intoxication, all swaying with the breeze. They each looked around thirty and each similarly struggled to keep their balance as they poured out onto the street. Quickly, one caught a glimpse of the young girl attempting to hurriedly make away, catching the side of her face as she walked past. “Hey!” He blurted out, steadying his lacking weight on his friend’s shoulder, bottle in hand. “You’re very pretty!! You should be… v… very proud.”
She ignored him and continued down the street, still a while off the next corner.
“Hey–” he repeated before bursting into a cry, “I SAID HEY!!”
Cassie jolted, glancing over her shoulder for just half second, enough time for a few of the boys to catch her eye. She turned away and continued on.
“HEY!!” Another man called after Cassie, this time annoyed, “He’s talking to you!!”
“Fucking bitch…” the first man mumbled to himself.
“No!” the third man called out, pulling the first man forward and snapping him out of his sulk, “N– No she doesn’t get to ignore you like that!!”
The third took off in a sprint after Cassie, continuing to define call out, “My friend wants to talk to you!!”
The first and second men looked to each other, too drunk to roll their eyes, and began to stumble after their leading friend. Cassie looked over her shoulder once more to see the three men clambering towards her. But before she could run, the man threw himself in the way of her path.
“No need to be rude…” he grumbled, his friends then catching up behind.
None of the men were cruel, but all were plenty menacing as they surrounded the 15-year-old girl, who stood alone and afraid in a city mostly unknown to her.
“Get out of my way…” Cassie seethed, her breath unsteady as she pretended to be as tough as she could muster.
“Ah! British!” exclaimed the youngest of the men, the one who had first noticed Cassie, “I like British!”
He placed a hand forcefully on Cassie’s shoulder as she faced away from him, and pulled her around to face him. “C’mere.” Instinctually, Cassie reacted, flinging herself back, and crashed into the chest of the man who had first pursued her.
“We ain’t gonna hurt ya!” the crushing man cried, only for Cassie to react by delivering a swift kick to the man’s groin. He fell quickly, groaning in pain.
“What the fuck, lady!?”
The man behind her jostled Cassie’s shoulder, threatened and enraged. Taking no shit, Cassie turned socked the man in the jaw, causing him to stagger back.
“Stay away from me!!” she cried before punching him once again, unaware of the third man behind her as he drew a knife.
But as the man threw himself forward to slash out at the increasingly violent young girl, out of nowhere flew a glowing gold chain that seemed to magically wrap itself around the wrist of the man’s knife hand. And with one quick tug, the man went flying several feet. Though as Cassie turned to see just what had occurred behind her, she saw not the floor assailant, but a woman, tall and draped in black, her skin lightly tanned and her hair as dark as her plated armour. “You need to come with me.”
 
♦ ♦ T ♦ ♦
 
The next morning, Dick Grayson pushed hurriedly through the S.T.A.R. Labs security checkpoint, already a registered visitor at this point. He didn’t know the cause of Silas summoning him, but he had guessed from the police cars lined up on the street outside that the scientist likely had information regarding Finlay’s death.
And as Dick entered the central lab, he was implicitly proved correct as he found Silas seated, the figure of a tall, muscular man in a beige coat and a black-banded, white cowboy hat. Immediately, Dick recognised the lone policeman as NYC Sheriff Saunders. It was rare that the man ever came out to investigate first hand since his election, and he and Dick had never crossed paths, especially while the latter was Nightwing.
“And… Dr Finlay: any reason to believe he had any enemies?” the Sheriff spoke in a gruff, deep tone, befitting of his fearsome silhouette and his fifty years of smoking. The man was no nonsense.
Silas took a second. A part of him wanted to pretend the man was a saint, but the truth was that he was far from it. Similarly Silas knew that what he had to said could incriminate himself, but was already worn down by the death of his coworker and his son shunning him for a second time. He had no time for lies.
“It was... I strongly suspect it was Finlay who allowed the meta thief - Selinda Flinders - to break into the lab. There, she not only freed her brother but also stole my blueprints for the cybernetics I used to treat my son from a safe that only myself and Finlay knew even existed.”
The Sheriff took a deep breath, still unaware of Dick standing in the doorway behind him. Carefully, he jotted down some notes in his small paper pad. “And what would Dr Finlay have wanted those… blueprints for? Industrial espionage?”
“No,” Silas sighed, “He wanted them so that he could save his brother the way I saved Victor, despite all my protests that the technology wasn’t ready.”
“His brother: This is Arthur Finlay, correct? Paralysed after a burglar attacked him in 2006.”
“That is correct.”
Saunders paused and took another long, deep breath, before launching into hurried speech. “Now it’s funny you should mention that as Arthur Finlay was nowhere to be found when we visited his estate earlier this week. Odd for a man who can't wipe his own ass.”
“What are you saying?”
“I’m saying it’s entirely possible that Dr Finlay– that Jacob succeeded in ‘fixing’ his brother.”
Beat.
The Sheriff smiled. “But that’s for me to chase up. Sorry, I shouldn’t have divulged that with you, - it’s as of current - entirely unfounded.”
“It’s fine.” Silas smiled tiredly, “We can all speculate. Now, if you don’t mind, I have another visitor.” Silas gestured graciously towards the door, where Dick Grayson was standing.
Sheriff Saunders looked across and his face immediately dropped, realising his mistake. “Ah, I see. Well, I won’t keep you then. Thank you for your insight, Dr Stone. We’ll be in touch.”
Quickly, the Sheriff wrapped up his notepad and made his way over to the door. As he exited, he tipped his hat towards the young spectator. “Nice to meet you, young man.”
And he was gone.
Silas stood, meeting Dick in the centre of the lab. “You know, I thought he’d never leave.”
“Was that it, Dr Stone?” Dick asked, perturbed, “You think Jacob’s brother killed him?”
Silas sighed. “That seems to be the leading theory, but no, that’s not why I called you.”
“Then what–”
“Christmas has come and passed, and this is the first year I’ve spent it without my Victor since he was born, the first year since my Elinore…”
Silas blinked.
“I wanted to give you a package. A gift. To give to Victor. A belated Christmas present.”
“He’s still not talking to you?”
Silas crawled along to his desk where, from a lower drawer, he produced a small purple box tied with a red bow, no bigger than a ring box. He held it out to Dick, his eyes so tired.
“Just please make sure Victor opens it,” he replied, “Won’t you do that for me, Richard?”
 
♦ ♦ T ♦ ♦
 
Silently, a robed figure approached the derelict apartment block in Avalon, Blüdhaven. This was the only known address for the Teen Titan known as Cyborg, but clearly circumstances had forced him to move on. The figure sighed, shaking her head before moving on.
 
♦ ♦ T ♦ ♦
 
“It was like my nan always said: that someday I’d feel something, and all that crap about burning bushes and… the big man in the sky would just slip into place.”
As Cassie spoke in the relative warmth of the drab, grey squat, her words were lost on Donna, who - despite having developed more than adequate conversation skills - had no idea what the young girl was talking about after she had asked her why she had come to New York City.
Cassie grinned, sat on the only chair in the apartment, as she registered her saviour’s bemusement. “I had a vision. It sounds crazy I know, but some angel came down and told me that… I was being hunted… and that I’d only be safe if I came to New York.” Her eyes were wild, as if she were reliving those impossible moments as she told the tale, “She told me some monster wanted to kill me, that it was the plan of the Gods that I remained safe. Truth is, I struggled believing in one God, never mind plural!”
Donna was beginning to understand, but remained bemused as she looked up from the floor to the girl she had found herself driven to protect. The idea that anyone could believe in just one God perplexed her. Surely there would be too many responsibilities for just one God to handle.
Shaking off her confusion, Donna stood up from the floor and made her way to the open window. Behind her, Cassie sat by the breakfast bar, wrapped in a shawl Donna had found in the bedroom. Donna needed to understand the connection she shared with this girl. They had to be connected somehow, or else what would explain the otherworldly, gut-wrenching pull towards her that Donna had experienced as soon as Cassie had stepped within a thousand mile radius.
Who was Cassie Sandsmark? That’s what Donna kept asking herself. What did Cassie mean to her? Though Donna supposed that to answer that question, she’d have to figure out just who she was herself.
Cassie sat up quickly, shrugging off her trepidation for the thrill of the adventure. “So is that it then?” she asked. Donna moved away from the glass to face her. “Are you my guardian angel? The person the vision said would protect me?” “I…?” Donna honestly didn’t know.
“Come to think of it: why are you wearing battle armour?” Cassie’s eyes were wide as she looked upon her fearsome protector, stood against the New York City skyline through the thin glass, “Are you - like - one of those Amazons? Like Wonder Woman?”
“NO.” Donna spat, suddenly recoiling. Immediately, she realised her mistake as she watched Cassie flinch back. Calmly, she elaborated. “No. I’m nothing like… I’m not Wonder Woman…”
“Oh.”
“But I think I am supposed to keep you safe… from whatever monster is trying to harm you.”
 
♦ ♦ T ♦ ♦
 
Vic fumbled with his keys, half distracted by his conversation with Gar as he stood in the hallway of his new apartment block on Payton Street, attempting to unlock the door. He’d gotten into his new place over Christmas, his last home desolated when Shimmer and Mammoth attacked him at his home.
“So the guy goes through all the trouble of hiring these supervillains to steal your… thing and then just mysteriously ends up dead?” Gar jested, his voice animated and non-serious.
Finally, Vic turned the key and the two entered into his new apartment. The place was much more spacious than Vic’s previous place, with a more open-planned layout which Gar definitely considered an upgrade. Though a winter chill emanated through the place, visually it was quite warm, the Christmas decorations still up and on full display almost a month later.
“The guy was my dad’s friend, Gar.” Vic replied, irritated. “If he weren’t such a jackass, he’d be like my uncle, so please take this seriously.”
Vic pushed forward, pulling off his thick, grey hoodie and laying it across the arm of his couch along with his keys.
“Dude, he tried to kill you!” exclaimed Gar, “That doesn’t exactly scream close family friend.”
“A man is dead!” Vic snapped, his tone now deadly serious, something entirely unheard by Gar until now from his usually somber but amicable friend, “Get a grip.”
Gar lingered in the doorway. He took a deep breath. Vic was right. “I– I’m sorry, man. I guess that’s just how I cope with... things. He was your friend, I get it.” He stepped forward, slowly pushing the door shut behind him.
Jacob Finlay wasn’t a friend of Victor’s. In fact, Vic could never stand the man. But it saddened Vic deeply to know that he was gone, even after all the hurt he had caused him.
Slowly, Vic made his way over to the fridge, feeling his stomach yearn for a snack. He opened the metallic white door and looked upon its contents with disappointment. He sighed.
“I know we just got in, but do you fancy heading back out for food?” Gar suggested earnestly, “I know a diner that’s cool with people like us in downtown Blüd.”
’People like us’. Vic was used to that meaning something else, but he supposed he did have that in common with his plucky, if not crass, young friend. They were both outcasts due to their appearance. Vic was half-metal, Gar was green. On the rare occasions Vic had left the house as himself (rather than the superhero Cyborg) he made sure to never stay too long in one place, as to avoid anyone noticing his horrific visage under his shadowy hood.
“How do you mean?”
“This old couple owns the place,” Gar explained, “Man’s blind and the lady’s… well, actually open-minded and reasonable.”
Vic froze, actually considering the proposal. It’d been a long time since he’d sat down in a restaurant - however fancy - and eaten out. He looked to the empty, open fridge and then back to his discarded hoodie. His eyes flashed.
“Sure,” he smiled, “You wanna grab your coat this time? You’ve been complaining about the cold all day!”
Gar grinned back at Vic, deeply pleased by his response. “Yeah, one sec!” He ran, bounding across the floor and over to the hat stand Vic rarely seemed to use. From there, Gar pulled down his orange-red Parka and pulled it on in one fluid motion. As he did, Vic made his way to the couch and slipped back into his hoodie, zipping it up slowly.
The two smiled at each other and Vic - now stood closer to the door - pushed forward, wrapping his metal grip around the door handle and pulled it down. As he swung the door open, there stood a startled Dick Grayson, moments from ringing the doorbell"
“Woah!” Dick jumped.
“Dick!” Gar exclaimed, “We’re heading out to eat, you coming?”
“You?” Dick replied, pleasantly surprised to see Vic trying something new. “Uh, yeah… sure!”
From the pocket of his black pea coat, Dick produced the purple box he’d been handed earlier, nervously fidgeting with it between his hands slightly as he glanced up and down from it to Vic. “Though, uh… I actually came to give you this, Vic.”
Dick held the box out. Vic looked open-eyed to Gar and then back to him. “Dick, you already got me a Christmas present,” he laughed, walking over and taking the purple-wrapped present, eyeing it curiously.
“No, it’s… it’s from your dad. Cos you missed Christmas.”
Beat.
Vic looked back up to Dick. “Dick, I missed Christmas cos I can’t stand the man. He made me into this… thing, and it was his lies that almost got me killed.” Without even looking, Vic tossed the box over his shoulder, it hitting the ceiling and ricocheting before landing between the couch and the television.
“Vic…” Gar moaned disappointedly.
“What?!” Vic cried, “He’s human garbage. Has that brilliant mind and uses it to constantly fuck with my life. I don't need him. He’d be better off dead.”
Dick and Gar both looked at him in stunned silence. Dick’s eyes flitted back and forth and his moved out of the doorway and into the apartment. He looked to Gar, an orphan like himself, and then to Vic. He nodded. “How about we go get that dinner?”
Vic took a breath, calming himself. He nodded reluctantly, his confidence shaken but determined not to let his dad ruin his victory. “Right, yeah. Sure!” he affirmed himself. “I– I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to–”
“It’s fine.” Dick smiled, turning to face the open doorway, “Let’s just g–”
Just as Dick had moved, replacing him in the doorway was a tall, hooded figure: one none of the teens had met before yet one that all three recognised.
“Holy fuck!” Gar exclaimed, “It’s Wonder Woman!”
 
♦ ♦ T ♦ ♦
 
“I was speaking with my former teacher Athena after I sla–” “Wait, Athena?” Gar interrupted, starstruck, as if he were taking notes, “As in Popped Out of Zeus’ Forehead Athena?” Diana nodded solemnly. The Amazon sat on a kitchen chair, comfortably at a level to explain herself to the three young men, who each stood.
“Athena revealed to me a child of both Ares and Circe roamed the man’s world, that… an adversary of mine sought to hurt the child, for the misdoings Circe had committed against her.”
Diana told the tale, her eyes hollow as she seemed to hold back some inconvenient truths, something Dick picked up on easily, “I was told that I would find the child in New York City, and knew that Batman had established a strike team nearby. So here I am, hoping you can lend me your assistance.”
Dick sighed, running his hand through the front tuft of his dark hair. He’d never met the Amazon warrior before, but knew that she and Bruce were friendly, with Diana being part of his ‘Justice League’ initiative. But Dick was disappointed to hear how the Teen Titans were perceived by the older heroes. “Batman had nothing to do with it. I formed this team, uh… we formed this team. Together.”
Diana smiled. “Of course.”
“So that’s all you know?” Vic replied, addressing the matter at hand, “Some kid is in danger in New York City. No idea whereabouts?”
“That was where I was hoping that you could help me,” said Diana, addressing Vic directly.
Vic smiled softly to have garnered any sort of attention from somebody as powerful and well… beautiful as Wonder Woman. “Well I suppose we could tr–”
“This doesn’t have anything to do with that other Wonder Chick running about New York? Does it?” Gar interjected, perhaps a bit louder than he had intended.
Diana cocked her head, moving her vision away from Vic and towards Gar, “I don’t know what you mean.”
“This amazing, gorgeous warrior. Long, flowing black hair. This awesome armour, all jet black and mysterious. She looked a lot like you actually.”
Diana’s eyes darted open as she bolted to her feet. Could it be? The doppelganger she had faced in the Trials, who had fought with her own skill and ferocity.* Had Ares sent her here? It was more than possible that she was an emissary of Ares, posthumously working to secure Ares’ progeny.
It was as Athena had said to Diana: death was the only way to transfer the mantle of God of War.*
“Gods…” she groaned, “I’ve fought her before. She is far more dangerous than the woman I seek to stop. If she gets her hands on Ares’ daughter, the consequences could be dire. We need to find them both and pray that she hasn’t already found her.”
Dick stepped forward. “I’ve been trying to locate this black-armoured Amazon since Gar ran into her a couple months back. She’s been being very discrete. I’ve tried everything.”
Vic stepped forward. “I haven’t.”
 
♦ ♦ T ♦ ♦
 
“Don’t you have any games? Or a telly or something?” Cassie sighed, stood peering out of the frosted window onto the New York skyline.
“Telly?” Donna asked, standing a few feet behind Cassie, surrounded by a whole load of nothing. “I’m afraid not. This place doesn’t have much outside of shelter, and sometimes warmth.”
“Then what do you do for fun?” Cassie had been cooped up in Donna’s squat for some time now and was beginning to grow restless. Despite the drab decor, the place was an improvement on sitting alone in her hotel room, but the boredom was killing her.
“I’ve found the city to be the best source of entertainment,” Donna explained very matter-of-factly, “Although I think it might be best for us to stay put until we know you are safe.”
“And when is that? When the thing hunting me gets bored? When I get a follow up message from the angel?”
“I don’t think that was an angel.”
“That isn’t the point!” Cassie groaned, frustrated. “I just wanna have some fun!”
Donna stopped. She thought for a moment and then nodded. “Alright.”
Donna couldn’t recall much of her past, but did remember one thing that she had always enjoyed: combat. She didn’t remember all the details, but Donna used to love sparring as a child, with Diana, the monster that now plagued her nightmares. It was always so exciting, and it really seemed to develop an interpersonal closeness between the combatants. She smiled before removing her silver gauntlets slowly.
“Here.”
“What?” Cassie asked.
“Take them.” Donna held the gauntlets out for Cassie, one in each hand. Carefully, the younger girl took them and slipped her wrists into them.
“They’re too big.”
Donna grinned as the gauntlets seemed to magically adjust, twisting and forming into a perfect fit around Cassie’s forearms. Donna then flicked her own wrist forward, causing a cloud of black smoke to erupt from the palm of her hand. Cassie recoiled, watching the black smoke move and stretch before giving way to the form of a solid, golden sword. Donna gripped the blade tightly and pointed it forward.
“Wait, what?”
“We shall fight?”
“Fight?!”
“Well, you won’t have a weapon, so it’s more like exchanging blows. I’ve found it quite enjoyable.”
“Right…” Cassie replied, reluctant, “So what’s gonna happen?”
“I will make an attack with my blade, and you shall bring up your gauntlets to intercept. You’ll find them more than capable of deflecting my attacks.”
“Like…?” Cassie practiced thrusting her arms back and forward, flashing the silver gauntlets as she moved.
“Exactly! We’ll start slow.”
And they did. Beat-by-beat, Donna would move the sword towards Cassie, giving her plenty of time to bring up her gauntlets to clink against the blade. One strike. Two strikes. Three strikes. Four. Gradually, Donna increased her speed, and with her Cassie would begin to move with increasing ease and agility. She was a natural.
As they grew more and more rapid, their movements also increased in intensity. Before they knew it, both began to shift their footing until they were dancing back and forth around the room, sparks flying each time Donna’s blade crashed against Cassie’s forearms. First, Cassie began to cackle with laughter, then allowing Donna to join with a more conservative chuckle. But all this ceased with a knock at the door.
They stopped. Cassie glanced over to the door first, then Donna. They weren’t expecting visitors. Donna flourished the blade in her hand, furrowing her brow and narrowing her gaze, ready to attack whatever came through.
And just as expected, the door came crashing, the wood obliterated into splinters. Through it leapt a fearsome warrior clad in red and gold, a beast of a woman, a terrifying figure. The demon Diana.
Nightwing had tried to knock, but the Amazon warrior wasn’t willing to wait. Bursting into the room, Diana charged at Ares’ puppet, seeing her with her blade drawn, the young Cassie Sandsmark terrified beside her.
Donna slashed out as Diana came crashing down on her, unarmed yet incredibly dangerous, but the strike was fruitless as Diana evaded with ease, delivering a mighty punch to the centre of Donna’s chest. Diana of Themyscira didn’t need a weapon.
Donna stumbled, kicking over a small coffee table as Cassie scrambled out of the way. The demon moved incredibly quickly, far faster than Donna could comfortably comprehend. She hadn’t been this fast when they’d fought before. First, another punch to the chest, then grabbing Donna by the arm - catching her sword strike - to pull her close, only to pound her back into the ground.
As Donna hit the ground, she skidded, whipping back around onto her feet, beaten but ready to persist. “Your master is dead,” Diana seethed, “And you shall fall with the rest of his forces!”
As the two warriors clashed, Cassie scurried away, ducking and running for the door. However, she found herself blocked by the bodies of three young men: one some kind of robot man, one green and the other clad in blue and black spandex. “Ack!”
“We’re not gonna hurt you!” Cyborg panicked, holding his large, cold hands up.
“Like shit you don’t!” Cassie spat, her teeth clenched, pivoting back around to watch her friend fight off the red-and-gold blur of a woman. Wait... That was Wonder Woman!
Donna grumbled, moving her sword arm back and shifting her off-hand forward. She then allowed her bronze shield to materialise magically in her grip with a flash of amber light. “I see you have new toys.” Diana smirked, her gaze as steely as her black-clad doppelganger.
She was right. Donna recalled easily that in their last encounter, the one that haunted her, she fought Diana unarmed. Now, Donna couldn’t recall how she came to wield the magic required to summon her weapons, but she was more than happy to use them if it meant having an edge over the tyrant that had previously terrorised her.
Donna didn’t reply. Instead, she threw herself forward, shifting her weight rapidly across the wooden floorboards, heaving the mass of her shield against Diana enough to stagger her, giving her an opening to strike with her blade. Diana cried out and kicked, colliding her leg into her adversary’s shield and dragging her strike to the right.
Donna saw through this trick immediately, it was an attempt to disarm; to wrench the shield right from her hand. It wouldn’t work. Not if Donna kept as best a grip as she could. However, Donna had underestimated the strength of her foe, and subsequently found herself launched across the room along with the shield, leaving her sword by her feet, crashing down on a pile of wood in the corner of the shabby apartment.
She attempted to pull herself up, but couldn’t, her armour too heavy on top of the weight of her aching bones. Diana persisted however. Breathing heavily, she pulled herself over to her floored quarry, scooping her foe’s blade off of the ground as she moved. Finally, she stopped. Planting her crimson boots into the wooden floor, Diana loomed over Donna, a relentless, fearsome monster.
Diana looked upon her quarry, this supposed emissary of Ares, deliberating over her fate. Perhaps she had overestimated her, for the puppet Diana had fought during the Trials fought with such ferocity and intensity that she now found entirely lacking. It was as if she was another soul inhabiting the body of that abomination.
But that moment of hesitation on Diana’s part was exactly what Donna need to act. In one fluid motion, Donna burst from her pile on the floor with new mobility. After delivering a kick to the monster’s head, Donna swung her empty hand out in a wide arc. Instantly, the sword vanished from Diana’s grip, reappearing in Donna’s own with a black flicker.
As Diana staggered, Donna let loose with slash after slash before finally winding up for an overhead attack, a killing blow. However–
“STOP!!”
A shock wave exploded through the room, launching its contents as well as the two combatants. Donna hit the ground and skidded once more. Bloodied, she looked up to see Cassie between her and Diana, her silver gauntlets glowing white hot, her face mortified.
“She doesn’t want to hurt you!” she screamed to Donna before turning to look upon Diana, scraping herself off of the floor, “You don’t want to hurt each other.”
Donna stood up uneasily, her eyes still wild, waiting for Diana to attack once again.
“I…” Diana mumbled, gripping her bloodied arm.
“You’re Wonder Woman. You save people.” Cassie explained, her voice compassionate yet quivering, “And I don’t need saving. Not from Donna. She’s my friend.”
Diana painted, finally looking upon her adversary with new eyes, “... Donna?”
Donna’s eyes flickered, filled with doubt. She looked to Cassie, then finally to Diana, and instead of a demon, saw an injured woman. She lowered her sword.
Diana saw this and recalled her parting words to the black-clad warrior, when Diana had pummeled her into the bloody waters during the Trials. 'Barely real and always a copy. What kind of emptiness must exist inside you?'
But when she focused on Donna’s eyes, those that so closely resembled her own, she saw not the rage she had seen during the Trials, but fear. Pure fear. There, she remembered.
“Great Hera, what have I done…” Diana groaned, looking upon her friend with a long forgotten familiarity. “Donna…”
But the moment wouldn’t last, for Gar was moments too late to cry out, warning them as a fearsome feline figure crashed through the window, emerging from the urban jungle of New York City’s skyline. There, the animal moved immediately for Diana, launching into an all out assault, no longer Dr Barbara Minerva, but The Cheetah.
 
 
Continued in Wonder Woman #21
 
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Houston Rockets off-season GM write-up

GODDAMIT. BEEN SITTING ON THIS FOR A MONTH, AND NOW IT'S ALL BEEN BLOWN TO SHIT.

Maybe it stays the same since Morey was likely 'inspired' to step down so that Tilman could get the China money back and will continue assisting the new regime from the shadows, but as I have no clue at all what the future is going to bring and don't want to re-write this piece for the planned 'GM write-up' series that was supposed to be starting after the Finals, I'm just gonna drop it here and let anyone else who wants to take over do it.
FUCK TILMAN FERTITTA.
I'm out.

State of the team

After a disappointing bubble performance that did not end in a Championship, many people are questioning if the Rockets window has officially closed. In all likelihood, it has; but it is not yet locked, so with the right moves it can be opened enough to squeeze out another deep run or two that can finally break through if the team finds a brick of luck for once.
What those right moves are and how to accomplish them are the challenge posed to Daryl Morey and his crew. There are a number of constraints that will make this difficult, including a lack of draft assets and moveable contracts that are not integral to the team's success, but the most challenging proposition will again be owner Tilman Fertitta's finances.
While some critics may believe that the Rockets small ball experiment was a failure, management will likely point to the fact that 'defense' was not nearly as much of a problem in the playoffs as 'offense' and that Russell Westbrook's obvious impairment from a quad injury was the primary factor in underachieving desired expectations. The general belief in the front office is that the formula is not broken so much as unlucky. Another couple of chances will hopefully bring the health necessary for a breakthrough.
Daryl Morey's top-stated priority entering the off-season was re-signing coach Mike D'Antoni. Well, D'Antoni ended any talk of that by opting to take his services elsewhere before the team plane had even departed Orlando. This leaves the team in search of a new head coach before any other moves can really be considered, since whoever gets the position will likely hope to have a bit of say in any of the roster decisions that need to be made.
The team is casting a wide net in their search having interviewed candidates like frontrunners Tyronn Lue and Jeff Van Gundy, as well as Kenny Atkinson, Wes Unseld Jr., and Stephen Silas. The new coach will need to garner the instant respect of a veteran-laden team (possibly possessing enough cachet to actually inspire a different style of play?), and may need to fulfill Fertitta's desire to make headlines, favoring a big-name hire. It must be included that there is even a slim chance that D'Antoni returns to the role now that Doc Rivers has swooped his pre-supposed landing spot in Philly, but I expect the final candidates may come from the following list of assistant coaches and thus (completely coincidentally) cheaper names in case a need arises to go in another direction:
Sam Cassell - The former Rockets legend is currently serving as an assistant coach for Doc Rivers. Frequently cited as one of the top assistants ready to take the next step. As a former All-Star point guard, he may be able to command the respect of Westbrook and Harden enough to offset his lack of head coaching experience. His big balls could "Make Houston Clutch Again".
John Lucas - The Rockets Assistant Coach is very familiar with the system and the current players. He provides continuity and a cheap, short-term contract that would allow for an easy 'out' if things do not work in the next year or two (which is the optimistic extent of the title hopes for this current iteration of the Rockets)
Chris Finch - An ex-RGV Vipers Head Coach now working as an assistant in New Orleans. He is a savant on offense, on very good terms with Morey and his philosophy, and due for his 'chance' in the bigs. Given the success of Nick Nurse, another coach who won a G-League Championship for the RGV Vipers, I feel as if Chris Finch should end up getting the call (although he appears to have dropped off the radar).
The new head coach will have a challenging job of needing to instantly compete with a roster of vets who are notorious for not being as flexible in their approach to the game as might be desired. This team is not only 'set' in its ways mentally to the point where an attempt to change the team philosophy could easily backfire and result in another lost season, it is also relatively 'set' in its ability to make personnel changes. So expect the new coach to provide more of an 'extension' of the current Moreyball philosophy than a completely different style.

2021 Houston Rockets Roster and Salary

PLAYER NAME SALARY CAP HIT DETAILS (contract values rise)
Russell Westbrook 41,358,814 2 more yrs + player option
James Harden 41,254,920 2 more years + player option
Eric Gordon 16,869,276 4 more years
Robert Covington 12,138,345 2 more years
PJ Tucker 7,969,537 expiring
Danuel House 3,717,000 2 more years
Ben McLemore 2,283,034 expiring
Chris Clemons 1,517,981 2 more years of team options
David Nwaba 1,862,250 team option
TOTAL 128,971,157
Things look relatively straight-forward for the Rockets. All of their main rotation guys are already signed and set to return with the exception of Jeff Green and Austin Rivers. The Rockets are prime candidates to start the season off by basically "running it back".
Considering Green has enjoyed great success in Houston's system and seems to have established good chemistry within his role in the system, he will absolutely be considered an important piece to re-sign. He has played on minimum-level contracts for the past few years, so unless another contender surprisingly decides to use part of their MLE on him, he should be able to return on a 1+1 veteran minimum contract.
Austin Rivers has a player option for $2,369,663. It is considered highly unlikely that he will opt-in to this (although he will be welcomed back with open arms if he does). If he leaves, the team will likely look to find a replacement ball-handleperimeter defender.
The hopeful addition of Jeff Green to the list of signed players takes the team to a total of 10 contracts, meaning Morey will look to add 5 more players into the fold.
Positional needs:
The Rockets took one big step closer to the idea of 'position-less' basketball by banishing their traditional centers last season. The big question is, will they continue this philosophy into 2021?
The answer to this may partially depend upon who the next coach is. As previously stated, the advanced age of this particular roster resulting in an extremely small window for success, combined with the players' familiarity with the current roles and system and the reduced off-season leads me to believe that the small ball experiment will continue into the 2021 season. Not only was it proven effective offensively at unlocking the best version of Russell Westbrook since his 2017 MVP campaign, the hybrid switching system the team utilized in the first half of the season to account for Clint Capela's reduced ability to guard perimeter players was not as successful as the switch-everything system the team implemented in the playoffs; so unless the team can get a larger center who can effectively switch 1-5, it is unlikely that 'Center' is going to be seen as a top priority.
Look for the team to try to focus their search on finding long, stretchy, big forwards, as they did with the late-season signings of Jeff Green, DeMarre Carroll, and David Nwaba. They will also try to fill the position of 'tertiary ball handler' should Rivers choose to go elsewhere.
Although Austin may sign another 1+1 minimum deal with the team, it is more likely that he will look for a bigger role (and payday) on another team. There is a small chance he could be used in a sign and trade (Houston has his Early Bird Rights allowing him to sign a contract up to around $8M), so he may serve as salary filler in building a larger sign & trade, but note that such a move will surely push Houston well into the luxury tax, bringing us to...
Luxury Tax Issues:
The expected threshold will probably fall around $132-133M. Houston is brushing up against that with only 9 players under contract currently.
Bear in mind that ownership has suffered catastrophic economic distress this year due to Fertitta's business interests in casinos and restaurants (not to mention that he was never interested in paying tax even in better times with a stronger team). Unlike this season, next year should see a large cash pay-out to non-tax teams as many contenders who were below the tax last year due to their participation in Free Agency will be utilizing exceptions that push them into the luxury tax (Golden State in particular has been making overtures at filling its TPE, which would result in one of the largest tax bills on record). Despite his questionable claims that he is financially solvent and ready to pay tax to field a contender, Tilman Fertitta will be happy to be an owner that avoids paying tax again and instead receives a check from the league. Daryl Morey will have his work cut out for him to achieve that, but after accomplishing it in 2019 and 2020 with masterful tax-reducing moves at the trade deadline, there is little doubt he can (and likely will) do it again in 2021. 2 years ago, he reduced Ryan Anderson's $20M contract through a series of moves to Iman Shumpert's $12M and last year he reduced Capela's $17M hit to Covington's $11M bill. Eric Gordon's $17M is the obvious candidate for reduction this year, and there are a variety of ways in which it could be done.

Potential roster moves

Draft
Per usual, Houston does not have any draft picks. They do have almost $5M in cash remaining with which they could purchase a draft pick (potentially even 2 late ones); but most likely Morey will work the pool of undrafted talent to try to find a couple new 2-way contract candidates.
Free Agency:
There are unlikely to be any major moves in the off-season aside from signing 6 players to veteran minimum contracts. Jeff Green and Gerald Green are likely signings. Michael Frazier may have earned a promotion to the main squad, but will more likely continue to stay in the G-League on a 2-way contract. Tyson Chandler and Austin Rivers are candidates who are less likely to be re-signed, but may end up filling the same roles they did this year. Otherwise, expect Morey to take fliers on guys who have high upside in the system that are cut by other teams or don't get the larger contracts they are hoping to find and willing to take short term deals in Houston in an effort to rebuild their value.
Although technically below the tax, using the Full MLE would hard-cap the Rockets at a level providing almost no flexibility for in-season maneuvers, something Morey despises, so the taxpayer mini-MLE is the only practical option available this off-season. However, if avoiding the luxury tax is a priority (Narrator: "It is."), then using the MLE at all is not going to be feasible. Houston has avoided using the MLE for the past 2 seasons (with the exception of utilizing small portions of it to lock up undrafted players on cheap 3-year deals), and is likely to follow in that path this year.
Morey traditionally does his best work at the trade deadline, and will likely look to that time frame again in the 2021 season.
There is one (unlikely) way that the Rockets could utilize their full MLE - by sending a current player to another team for less salary in return, leading us to...
Trades:
The Rockets do not have a lot of positive-value contracts they can part with that are not a critical part of their core.
Danuel House is on a good contract, and the team may be looking to move him if they believe his bubble antics were problematic for future chemistry. He could likely be moved with no problem. This would also be an easy way to cut a couple million dollars in salary, if necessary.
PJ Tucker and Robert Covington are also on good deals, but are crucial to the Rockets scheme. It is extremely unlikely they will be dealt. James Harden and Russell Westbrook are also unlikely to go anywhere in the off-season. If disaster strikes or a deal that can't be refused arises, then there is a small chance one or more of these 4 could be moved at the deadline.
As stated before, Eric Gordon is the most likely candidate to be traded. While his improved bubble play may have gotten his contract closer to 'neutral' value, it is likely that a pick would need to be attached to it in order to bring back a player of value, particularly from a rebuilding team, which is also the traditional place where he could be sent into cap space to avoid bringing back 80% in matching salary. However due to his age and injury history, he is probably only of interest to a team that fancies itself as 'contending' for something. There is a small chance that he could be sent to Golden State, as his contract fits within their Traded Player Exception and he fills a position of need, but it is unlikely that Houston is anxious to improve a conference rival (however, the idea that he could possibly bring back draft capital and increase the size of the league's payout check to non-taxpaying teams make this a scenario that can not be discarded outright).
Sending Gordon into space is the best way for Houston to access its full MLE (as well as creating a hefty TPE of their own). However, it would likely have to happen in the window after the draft and before free agency shakes out in order to be an option. And it would likely entail losing Houston's only first round pick that is available for trade, making later moves more difficult (so I don't expect this to happen).
Available Picks that can be traded:
​
YEAR ROUND DETAILS/NOTES
2021 1 worst of HOU, OKC, MIA
2022 1 cannot be used this year in conjunction with the 2021 pick
2021 2 swap rights with Philadelphia
2024 2 from GS
*All of the team's own second round picks from 2024 and beyond
Houston does not have a lot of draft capital. Morey will surely look to use the 2021 first at the trade deadline to move a contract, allowing him to keep the 2022 first (Houston's last tradeable first round pick thanks to the Stepien Rule) for use next year if necessary.
Possible scenarios:
Which contract(s) and for what type of deal are the only questions, and only time will tell what those needs are (best player available/positional need/salary cap savings) and how to best fulfill them. There are a ton of options and no one can tell what sort of needs or opportunities will arise by mid-way through next season. But by waiting to strike until that point, Morey maximizes his potential to do the best thing for the team going forward, whether it is a small move for tax savings, a big splash for a disgruntled superstar, or even the beginning of a total rebuild.
Waiting until the deadline also gives guys like Gordon and Westbrook a chance to overcome the injuries that plagued them in 2020 and raise their trade value. Trading either one of these contracts for multiple smaller contracts (at 80% value) is the fastest and easiest way to get to within striking distance of avoiding the tax again this year, and allowing Morey to 3-peat in cap wizardry.
I suppose I'll predict that 1) Gordon and a pick will be headed someplace like Philadelphia, who could use his shooting (maybe for Josh Richardson and Zaire Smith?) or perhaps, 2) Morey will work with Monte McNair in Sacramento to do a deal for someone (maybe Nemanja Bjelica and Jabari Parker?), much like he did with his other recent protégé-turned-GM, Gersson Rosas, at the 2020 deadline.
Of course, there is always the chance that Fertitta will find some money in his couch cushions, or have a come-to-Jesus moment that inspires him to pay the tax, which would open up the possibility of trading for a player who makes equal or more money or potentially even using the MLE this year. In the extremely off-chance that that happens, a perfect candidate would be Myles Turner in Indiana, who would provide the stretch-big rim protector that would fit so well in Houston's system. Aaron Gordon would also fit really well into Houston's system as long as he can hit a corner 3. Doing either of these trades and avoiding the tax is within the realm of feasibility if another contract (e.g. House or Tucker's) is included with Gordon's.
And to wrap this up, a few potential FA targets to use the MLE (or a potential S&T) on if it somehow becomes possible: Serge Ibaka, Jerami Grant, Aaron Baynes, Davis Bertans, Bogdan Bogdanovich, a Morris twin, Danilo Gallinari, Anthony Davis.
submitted by FarWestEros to nbadiscussion [link] [comments]

Xavier DuPont de Ligonnès Article from Society, 6 Aug 2020, Part 2C [English]

Xavier DuPont de Ligonnès Article from Society, 6 Aug 2020, Part 2C [English]
Previous Section-Part 2B
[3/5]
Chapter 9

Highways and dead ends

The hunt for Xavier Ligonnès is enough to drive you crazy. It’s like looking for a lost object, a bank card for example, of which we can determine the exact moment of disappearance: we used it to pay, it was there, and the next moment it is not there anymore. Logic dictates that we look for it where we usually store it (a wallet, a handbag), then where it could be (a back pocket of pants, a hall cabinet), and the less we find it , the more we seem to see it everywhere. Faced with absence, the brain constructs images (the credit card in an office drawer, as a bookmark in a book, forgotten on the counter of the last store) but these are fictions or mirages; they encourage further research but they do not provide a solution. Xavier Ligonnès’s apparent volatilization follows the same logic and produces the same effects on the investigation. The more weeks and months go by, the more places to look get smaller. Emmanuel Teneur ends up leading the investigators to the Société Générale agency on Place Royale in Nantes, but the safe he holds there is simply empty. A request for information on Joven Soliman is sent to the security attaché for the French Embassy in the Philippines. He is a sedevacantist priest, a fringe of traditionalist Catholicism who considers the Pope to be an imposter. The attaché transmits the hours of mass where he officiates. A trip to the Philippines is being considered, but that would mean going to the other side of the world to look for a needle in the thousands of islands of the archipelago. If this track has never been closed, nothing has supported it to date.
Since we must push logic to the end, the investigators even contact the American authorities to corroborate or contradict the story of protected witnesses told by Ligonnès in his famous letter. The DEA has never heard of the individual, and the liaison officer based at the Miami consulate assures us that his last trip to the United States was in 2003: Ligonnès arrived in Florida on July 18 and left on August 22. The study of his entourage also did not highlight anyone capable of providing false papers to the fugitive, and if he had gone through a criminal network, the police believed that an informant would undoubtedly have warned them to protect himself.
Then there are the news reports: the portrait of Ligonnès goes around France, and even if he has undoubtedly changed his physical appearance, his hairstyle, perhaps had even resorted to cosmetic surgery, someone, somewhere, might recognize him one day. After all, that’s how John List, a New Jersey insurance salesman who killed his wife and mother in 1971, was arrested. He waited for two of his children to return from school to coldly shoot them, then attended his youngest son’s football game before shooting bullets through him at home. He evaded justice for 18 years until a co-worker recognized him from a report on America’s Most Wanted.
Rarely has a criminal case given rise to as many appeals as that of Ligonnès, because his stalking not only bewitches the police, it torments an entire country. More than 1000 reports, thousands of pages of depositions, letters, verifications. You have to imagine the miles of printed paper that this represents when they are stacked on a desk. The most recent: in July, after the broadcast of a Netflix documentary on the subject in the United States, the producers of the film claimed to have received an interesting lead in Chicago; but it’s just one more drop in the bucket. Xavier Dupont de Ligonnès has been seen in Annecy, Nancy, Cholet, Corsica (several times); on the side of a road, thumbs up, by a French tourist in Las Vegas; disguised as a chimney sweep in Nîmes; in a hotel in Cantal and in a pizzeria where he paid cash in a hurry; seen again in Germany, in Italy, and heard on the telephone by the reception of the psychiatric hospital of Troyes. Since he disappeared looking like the ordinary neighbor, since he was a representative and his profession has taken him to all corners of France, there is no less reason to see him in Mulhouse than in Roche-sur-Yon, and you can simply see him everywhere.
Aire de Lançon-Provence in July 2020
Extracts: “It was the same look, except that he looked very sad, in the west, but he had the same glasses as in the photo you are showing me”; “He looked like a man like everyone else, but there was something odd in his eyes;” “Yesterday, around 1:00 pm, I was watching the news on television on the TFI channel. I saw a report where an individual killed his children and his wife before disappearing into the wild. (...) Seeing the gentleman in the photo, I made the connection with the person whom I had crossed Sunday afternoon because he had the same smile.” At the Vauvert tourist office: “I hardly look at the news, but Thursday evening I saw the photo of Mr. Ligonnès, I had the impression of having already seen him, my heart was racing.” Between Carpentras and Avignon, when he comes back from the bakery, the manager of one of Nicolas Sarkozy’s brothers crosses paths with a man with a beige bob, which he is certain is the fugitive. “I flashed,” he says. “For me, there is no doubt. This is him.” Still more letters are sent to the police to offer them help. An amateur astrologer requests a copy of the suspect’s birth certificate to establish a birth chart, a woman in child-like writing recommended a great medium who had helped her find her daughter who had become a junkie in Marseille. A prisoner asked in writing to be sent to Guinea to go hunt him down in the jungle, attaching to his letter a list of the necessary equipment, including infrared glasses and a “samurai sword.”
With each letter, with each phone call to report a suspicious individual, investigators attempt to cross-reference the information. They patiently collect the testimonies of the depositors to know where Xavier Ligonnès was seen, if he was accompanied or not, what was his size and his outfit. Inconsistent testimonies or those referring to individuals who are too young (Ligonnès would be 59 years old today) and too small (he measures a little over 1.80 meters) are discarded. For the others, investigators check the CCTV recordings, when they have not been erased and when the cameras have actually recorded on tape. If the person has been spotted pumping gasoline, in a Géant Casino, or in a Courtepaille, they trace the means of payment used and seize the duplicates of bank cards. They give priority to the restaurants, especially the Buffalo Grill, Ligonnès’ favorite establishment. And when the trail is still hot and the dishes haven’t been done yet, they collect DNA from the plates and cutlery. A few months after the start of the investigation, the investigating judge in charge of the case will even be forced to ask them to slow down, the seals starting to take on the appearance of a china cabinet in a large restaurant.
The Total service station in Lançon-Provence, July 2020
The PJ of Nantes believed on several occasions to finally have in hand the winning ticket and to be on the point of intercepting Ligonnès. This was the case in Borgo, where a photo taken from the video surveillance of a supermarket in this small Corsican town was very similar. Upon verification, it was only a local. They believed in it even more in January 2018 when they were told that an individual with a strong resemblance to Xavier Ligonnès was at the Saint-Désert Notre-Dame de Pitié monastery near Roquebrune-sur-Argens. About twenty police officers raided and searched the premises until they came across Brother Jean-Marie Joseph, who certainly looked disturbingly like Ligonnès, but who was not him. In still other cases, the police were never able to “close the track,” and it is perhaps Ligonnès who was seen.
For example, in Lançon-Provence, April 26, 2011. That day, at 2:44 am, Mahjoub B., a handler by profession, parks his vehicle at the Total service station after the Lançon-Provence toll. He fills up, then goes to the store to pay. On his way, he passes a 45- to 50-year-old man, about six feet tall, who hangs out there between the gas pumps and the store. When he returns to his vehicle, his colleague asks him if he has seen the man, whom he is convinced is the one everyone is looking for, the one who killed his family in Nantes. Mahjoub then takes a new look at the individual, notices that he is wearing glasses, light jeans, that he has brown hair a little graying and a beard of a day. At his feet, four rigid shopping bags, one red, one white, one brown and one whose color he cannot distinguish. Inside the store, employees also noticed the individual. He’s been out for almost three hours. At one point, he walks in to ask for free coffee, as part of a promotion. Behind her cash register, Jocelyne H. notes a detail: he is missing a tooth. “The second on the left, I believe,” she says when heard by investigators. This is information that has never filtered out and yet, it’s true – a little detail, Xavier Ligonnès was missing a tooth. Little by little, the space has filled in, but you can always see it when he smiles. The images from the station’s surveillance cameras are confusing: if this man is not the one we are looking for, it must be his twin brother. At 3 a.m., the cameras show him hitchhiking by a Volkswagen Combi, which investigators quickly find. The driver’s name is Christophe B. He has not heard of the case, and he must be one of the only ones in the country; but Christophe is no longer listening to the news because, he says, “the news is bad all the time.” From the hitchhiker on the night of the 25th to the 26th, he remembers that he “did not smell very good” and that he had a growing beard. They didn’t discuss much. The man simply told him that he was coming from Paris where he had gone to see “his sick old father,” and that he wanted to take the train to Aix-en-Provence. Christophe dropped him off at a motorway exit, the 30 or the 31, between 4 a.m. and 4.15 a.m. The surveillance cameras at Aix train station allow you to get back on track. He is filmed on the forecourt at 6 am, he wears light pants, a dark jacket. He buys a ticket at 1.20 euro, free destination. Then we lose track.
Despite all the checks, despite all the cameras, it will be impossible to track this man perfectly resembling Dupont de Ligonnès, who could nevertheless have confirmed that he was, at least on this date, still alive.
How can one suddenly evaporate in plain sight, and how could a man who has collected chess all his life accomplish this feat? The XDDL mystery makes it possible to scaffold all the theories. These flourish in books, in docudramas and, of course, on the Internet. We imagine Ligonnès protected by the secrecy of a monastery, flown to the United States, where he can go unnoticed thanks to his English without an accent, or even on the escape alongside a woman he would have manipulated. The police officers in charge of the case do not work on theories or psychological profiles, but according to a scientific approach: they always start from a fact, which opens a track, which they then explore until the end, close, and move on to another. This method is also a way to protect yourself from endless guesswork, or insanity, but it doesn’t always work. Several times, the track looks like a highway towards the fugitive, and the police are convinced that they will finally close this investigation. But they end up stumbling upon the worst thing ever, as was the case with the allusion to Emmanuel Teneur’s sailboat: coincidences.
Coincidence number 1. When the Ligonnès C5 was discovered in the Formula 1 car park in Roquebrune, the night watchman informed them that two reservations had been made in the name of Dupont Xavier, one on April 5 and the another on April 14. The hotel manager then specifies that the first reservation was actually made for April 6. That day, however, XDDL was in Nantes, probably digging the grave of Thomas, murdered the day before. Had he thought of accomplishing his crimes earlier or had he reserved a room for an accomplice, who might have been hiding something for him? The videos of April 5 and 6 are no longer available, but payment for the room was made with a Crédit Agricole credit card. The number gives a name, Faiçal E., and an address. Could it be an accomplice? The checks are launched immediately lead to a man who simply used “Dupont Xavier” as an assumed name - like Ligonnès - to book a night in the same hotel, the same year, the same month, within ten days.
Coincidence number 2. The liaison officer in Miami launches research around the various aliases used by XDDL, for operations of “mystery shopper” or to stay in hotels. In the FBI file, he finds a certain Xavier Laurent, one of Ligonnès’s favorite nicknames, installed in Jacksonville, north of Florida. Jacksonville is not just any city. This is where Hugues, the cousin of XDDL lived, and it is also this locality that Ligonnès and his friend Michel Rétif declared to customs in 1990 during their trip to the United States. At the very end of the personalized letter sent to Michel on April 8, Xavier Ligonnès seemed to allude to it: “I will think about you there. (Not the right to tell you where, but you went there with me...in November 90…a clue to dig. LOL).” But this Xavier Laurent is another twist of fate: the police come across a certain Evan Shaffer, a petty criminal who has chosen this alias to commit crimes.
Coincidence number 3. Ten days before the crimes, XDDL reconnects with a childhood sweetheart, Catherine K., whom he met in Versailles in the 1980s. Between March 22 and 24, they exchange text messages and try to find a date to meet the week of April 12, in Chamonix. These messages intrigue the investigators, some answers seem surprising, almost illogical, and they suspect Ligonnès of having wanted to ensure a logistical relay in his escape. A little later, a certain Patrick O. reports having seen XDDL in the queue of a Sixt car rental agency at Nice airport on April 17, 2011. By peeling the names of dozens of people having rented a car that day, the police officers miss the infarction: in capital letters, white on black, appears the surname of Catherine, who would have rented a vehicle at 1:30 am. A few hours later, their heart rate drops again: it was only a perfect disambiguation.
Each coincidence causes the same chain of reactions. First a eureka!, the certainty of having finally found the tiny detail from which to trace everything. The police then cast their nets like fishermen on the high seas, telephone or banking requisitions, requests for listings, identity checks. Then they wait. It can last from a few hours to several weeks, and inevitably it is a burning, nagging wait, tense by the fear that the track will fly away. Finally, there is the immense disappointment and the obligation to face reality again: Xavier Ligonnès is still nowhere to be found, a track has flown again, and we have to hoist the rock up the mountain again. Those who have worked or are still working on the affair strive to maintain a cold, rational, police facade. But little by little, by dint of chasing a shadow - not even a shadow, a ghost - obsession lurks. One of them, a police officer with a professional Protestant pastor, now out of the investigation, still returned until recently to consult the investigation file every week, saying he simply wanted to put the 12,000 pages of documents in order. For a year, a criminal analyst has also been mobilized. He enters all the elements of the file in a software which digests them and spits out, perhaps, new threads to draw. In the meantime, the two police officers who are still following the investigation - one at the PJ in Nantes, one at the OCRVP, in Paris - “live” the case, as their colleagues say. Among these thousands of pages there is no doubt a clue that has gone unnoticed or, better, a lead that has not yet been explored.
Track number 1. Who typed “fraternité saint-thomas becket” on Google on April 3 at 11:34 pm, before clicking on a link in the Cité-Catholique forum? Is it the same person who, the same night at 2:01 am, from an iPhone, did the search for “communion state mortal sin,” bringing it to the same forum? On April 8, the user of this phone will in any case send the search engine the request “hello Chacou”, which will lead him (her) again to the Cité-Catholique forum. Chacou was one of the pseudonyms of Xavier Ligonnès. Investigators saw crazier coincidences, but still: can it really be someone other than Xavier Ligonnès, who himself connected to Cité-Catholique almost every day of his escape? The last article published on the site about Saint-Thomas Becket, an ultra-traditionalist fraternity which practices mass in Latin, dates from January 2009. It indicates the name of its founder, Father Jean-Pierre Gac, and specifies this: “Born in the diocese of Blois where there are two communities (…), the fraternity has also extended in the diocese of Toulon - a parish is also entrusted to them in Ollioules.” Ollioules is located six kilometers from La Seyne-on-Mer, where XDDL spent its penultimate known night, and 94 kilometers from Roquebrune. Jean-Pierre Gac was questioned by the police but claimed to have never been in contact with the fugitive. Investigators have always believed in the possibility that Ligonnès took refuge in a monastery in the Var. They considered to search them one by one, before understanding that there are dozens and dozens of brotherhoods and fraternities, that they are not always castles of the Purple Rivers but sometimes simple farms, lost in the hinterland. To mount a search, it would be necessary to ensure that they do not communicate with each other, and therefore to visit them all at the same time. The examining magistrate quickly tempered the fervor of the police and declared the operation impossible.
Track number 2. Xavier Ligonnès had two secret Facebook accounts. The first is named after his favorite country singer, Waylon Jennings. One of his nieces had also found him a month before the crimes, sending him a message, “but who is behind this nickname?,” to which XDDL had immediately replied “How did you manage to arrive on the Waylon Jennings Facebook profile? Too clever! Microsoft Advantage??? Kiss.” The second account concerns a certain “George Town” residing in Nantes and is linked to one of Ligonnès’ many email addresses, [email protected]. The police send a requisition to the management of Facebook in Palo Alto to obtain the creation and connection logs of the two profiles. The answer comes in days: the first was created in February 2010, the second in December 2007, when France had barely discovered the social network. Above all, the response indicates that Ligonnès connected to the two accounts on the night of April 4 to 5, between the first assassinations and that of Thomas. The profiles have since been deleted but suggest he could have used them to communicate with a third party. Catherine K., the youthful lover that XDDL contacted a few days before the tragedy, also reported to the police that she had been approached by a certain Philippe Steiner, whom she did not know, around May 20. He sent her a strange message, suggesting that they might have had a relationship in the past. When she went to respond, the profile had already been deleted. Today there are almost 100 Facebook accounts on behalf of Waylon Jennings, some are created and deleted every day.
Track number 3. When the Ligonnès family is having their last meal on April 3, 2011, around 9 pm, a young woman walks through the glass doors of the police station on Place Waldeck-Rousseau in Nantes. Originally from a small village near Vannes, Julie is a BTS student and comes to file a complaint: the Twingo that her father lets her drive has been broken into, probably during the night. There was not much inside, but Julie reported the theft of her car radio as well as the vehicle’s logbook, which she normally stored in a small Renault gray faux leather pouch. This same pouch was found on April 22 in the dresser of the Ligonnès living room where Xavier used to store his papers, during the investigation the day after the discovery of the bodies. The police did not follow this track: they put the break-in of Julie’s car on the account of one of the Ligonnès sons, Arthur, who had already been arrested for theft of a bicycle and driving under the influence of cannabis. But why would Arthur have taken the vehicle papers with the car stereo, and why would he put them in the middle of his father’s papers? And if the theft was committed by Xavier Ligonnès a few hours before killing his family, how can this be explained? Was he able to steal other identity papers to facilitate his escape?
In this case, it is always about cars. Those imported by XDDL from the United States, the Citroën C5 from the escape, the vehicles he claimed had been stolen over the years: the first at the Brest police station in 1998, while living in Pornic, a second at the same time at the Saint-Nazaire police station, and then again, in Nantes, on May 17, 2006, a Golf convertible finally found then sold a few months later to a mechanic, a friend of Cédric M.
Cédric M. is never far away when it comes to cars. He is also a mechanic, that’s how Ligonnès met him in Vannes a few years earlier. He is one of the recipients of the departure letter, therefore a close friend. He was even the first employee of the RDC. Ligonnès regularly went to visit him in Locmalo in the heart of Morbihan, a two-and-a-half-hour drive from Nantes. With Cédric and his partner, Renaud, they went to the local creperie. They had lunch there together on March 31, 2011, four days before the crimes. In the village, it is said that Ligonnès took care of the dark accounts of the “guys,” who have quite a reputation. Could he have built up a slush fund there that no one would have found until now? Cédric and Renaud’s garage is not indicated by any sign. It is at the end of a road. In the yard, wrecks of American cars and a goat on a leash. Inside, Renaud is working on a shiny yellow Cadillac. His attitude is confusing. He is angry with the police who have never come to question him when he is, according to him, “the last to have seen [Xavier] alive. But I will not tell you when, because that the date is important,” he adds before returning to his Cadillac, wrench in hand.
To date, Renaud has still not been heard by investigators.
At the same time, reports continue to flow.
Ligonnès seen in Mulhouse, on the four lanes between Saint-Brieuc and Rennes in a Peugeot 308 and overtaking on the right, Ligonnès seen again in Tunis and Toulouse.
Ligonnès seen, but never caught.
​
Next Section-Part 2D
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