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Public opinion of TriMet's decisions have been pretty mixed, mostly because TriMet's decisions are so convoluted that they can be a real challenge to understand. In reality, Metro and Portlanders need to have a bigger civic conversation about the future of TriMet, looking at the big picture. We have 3 looming existential crises of TriMet to be concerned about that are bigger than revenue dips, crime, or homeless people.
Civic leaders and the public are focused on a quick "fix" for TriMet revenue drops - even though we've seen this coming for a long time, it's very predictable that TriMet's Board of Directors acts at the last minute. Also, very predictably, TriMet's Board opted for a fare increase because over the previous 20 years that's been a go-to answer to every problem (except for that one time they killed Fareless Square). The politically appointed boards of TriMet and Metro lack the unique specialized knowledge of the issues I'll bring up here. If TriMet knows about these larger issues, they're obviously burring it from public view. In the short term, increasing fares is like putting fresh paint on a house that's on fire; in this situation, that paint is HIGHLY flammable.
First - fare hikes as a tactic is a brain-dead move. Just the most utterly stupid and self-sabotaging response to a looming budget shortfall. I'm dwelling on this because it illustrates their terrible decision-making, which is functional proof they have no idea what they're doing. Some of the core reasons for this:

• Increasing fares reduces utilization. Higher cost means fewer people ride, which will decrease the ridership revenue. It will also marginally increase the number of people who won't pay (funny story, some of those who don't pay actually can't afford to). TriMet isn't a monopoly or inelastic service, and plenty of other choices exist that didn't exist 20 years ago: an actual bike share, scooters, electric bikes, UbeLyft, shared vehicles, and more bike paths. Before the pandemic, it was common that I would bus into downtown for work and then take a Lyft home because it wasn't all that expensive, like $8 more than a bus ride - TriMet's price increases make a system that wasn't very competitive simply less compelling.
  
• Across Portland we need to go through a process of austerity and downsizing government. I absolutely support Wheeler putting a pause on rate increases, but for God's sake, we have far too much largesse in every layer of government. If you need to learn what I'm talking about, read my old article on Parks & Rec. So many divisions/agencies have doubled their staff while reducing service levels. It's bonkers. Cutting throats needs to be an imperative. This is because the great majority of public sector employees in Oregon and Portland are incompetent, redundant, and only exist because Oregon and Portland have been reluctant to use automation. And I don't mean the cutting-edge AI stuff, I'm talking about people who still handle business processes as if they're paper forms. I could tell so many stories from my professional experience - but you'll have to take my word for it for now: culling this bureaucracy is the right move, and until there's a significant downsizing, the political class is taking none of the financial crisis or cost of living situation seriously.
  
• TriMet's operating budget/revenue is primarily Payroll Taxes, not passenger revenue. About 20-30% of TriMet's budget comes from people buying fares, whereas the bulk of money TriMet needs comes from payroll taxes that businesses pay directly. Because of this, transit activists (including myself) have been proponents of increasing the payroll taxes marginally to make TriMet free for riders. Of course, fareless transit comes with a wide variety of new and different problems (that's an article for another time). Still, when you understand that only a sliver of revenue comes from fares, increasing the fare simply results in a marginal increase in revenue. The much bigger problem is going to businesses investing outside of Metro, and changing workforces that 1) won't pay payroll taxes reliably, 2) don't need people to go into the office. Think about the longer-term game here: is TriMet's board going to increase fares as utilization drops and payroll taxes continually diminish? (See my point above about how their default answer is "yes" because it's the only politically expedient answer.)
  

Reading comments about the fare hikes, most of the public thinks TriMet is dealing with a safety or utilization issue. Both of these are 100% true: soft-on-crime progressives have wholly obliterated the working class perception of TriMet safety - there are so many different ways this has happened, but we should thank so many people in the media and political class: Ana del Rocio's crying wolf about racism in fare inspections (and the media entertaining it), or Mike Schmidt deinstitutionalizing of the justice system, or Legislature's inability to act on the massive mental health crisis and drug addiction crisis in Oregon. No matter the underlying cause, we have a system where deranged violent mentally ill tweakers can be disruptive on the train, but working-class people face a $250 fine if they can't afford a $2.50 ($2.80) ticket. TriMet is less safe, especially the light rail and bus lines. We could hypothetically talk about various policy and infrastructure changes, such as turnstiles and security guards - but pragmatically, this won't do shit when our society has adopted a philosophy of transforming the urban core into an open-air insane asylum and opened the doors to the prisons. This safety issue is well beyond TriMet's scope, and even if there was consensus among TriMet and Metro to solve this, the entire justice system and Legislature is still broken.

Fare Hikes and Utilization is the Red Herring - Let's talk about TriMet's future

In reality, multiple design choices made decades ago set us up for failure. But we also have to thank brain-dead progressive lunatics and corrupt politicos who have steered our transit decision-making into the ground.
There are three specific issues I'm going to talk about, with each becoming more consequential and disastrous for TriMet:

• Hub and Spoke Design and the need for a redesign of the entire system to fit new commuting/transit patterns
  
• Portland Light Rail's short cars are a capacity problem not worth the price tag to fix
  
• Autonomous vehicles are here, and it's just going to get worse for TriMet
  

The strategic design of TriMet's system is broken, and it's been broken before.

If you looked at a map of TriMet's bus and rail system, you'd see a design pattern often referred to as a "Radial Design" or sometimes a "Hub And Spoke" design. The Hub and Spoke strategy is building our transit system around centralized locations to connect to other routes. For Portland the idea is to go downtown (or sometimes a Park and Ride) where you can connect to your next destination. This is why the majority of bus routes and all the max routes go downtown, to our Transit Mall and Pioneer Square.
Downtown planning was a smart idea in the 1960s when it was coupled with Main Street economic theory and prototype urban development zones - all of this wrapped up in the 1972 Downtown Plan policy. During these decades, the primary economic idea of urban revitalization was that downtown cores could provide better business climates and shopping districts that amplify economic activity synergistically. In other words, packing all the office jobs and luxury shopping in one area is good for workers, business, and civic planning.
All very smart ideas in yester-year, so TriMet became focused on serving the downtown business community myopically. This myopia became so paramount that it was considered illegitimate (actually taboo, borderline illegal) if you used a Park & Ride facility to park and NOT ride downtown. Amanda Fritz once explained that we couldn't expand Barbur Transit Center because that would result in students parking at Barbur Transit Center and riding the bus to PCC Sylvania. This view implies that TriMet exists only to service downtown workers, not the students, not the impoverished mom needing to go to a grocery store.
How does TriMet's hub and spoke design represent its purpose?
Portland's unspoken rule of transit philosophy is that jobs pay for the system (remember, business payroll taxes pay for most of it), so TriMet should be focused on serving people utilizing it for their job - employers pay for it, and they get value out of it. But this is both unspoken (never said aloud) and largely unobserved. The whole idea of TriMet as a social service to serve low-income people, to help impoverished people - well, those ideas were just lukewarm political rhetoric that is tossed out as soon as some Undesirable with tattered clothing reeking of cigarettes gets aboard - then Portlanders jump right back "this is for workers only!" Sadly, there hasn't ever been a public consensus of why TriMet exists because I could equally argue that TriMet's purpose isn't serving the working class; it's actually vehicle emissions reductions - but here, too, reality contradicts that this is the purpose for why we operate TriMet. TriMet's real purpose seems to be "Spend money on lofty capital projects" and if we want to be cynical about it, we can elaborate "…because large capital projects enable grift, embezzlement, and inflating property values for developers."
We haven't always depended upon a hub and spoke design. A great article from Jarrett Walker written in 2010 on his Human Transit blog explains in "The Power and Pleasure of Grids"

Why aren't all frequent networks grids? The competing impulse is the radial network impulse, which says: "We have one downtown. Everyone is going there, so just run everything to there." Most networks start out radial, but some later transition to more of a grid form, often with compromises in which a grid pattern of routes is distorted around downtown so that many parallel routes converge there. You can see this pattern in many cities, Portland for example. Many of the lines extending north and east out of the city center form elements of a grid, but converge on the downtown. Many other major routes (numbered in the 70s in Portland's system) do not go downtown, but instead complete the grid pattern. This balance between grid and radial patterns was carefully constructed in 1982, replacing an old network in which almost all routes went downtown.

Over the years the grid pattern was neglected in favor of a downtown-focused investment strategy. To a real degree it made practical sense: that's where the jobs were. But again, this is the presumption that TriMet and Mass Transit ought to service workers first, and there's not much consensus on that. But while we can't decide on TriMet's purpose, we can absolutely agree on one important thing: Downtown is dead.
No 5-star hotel is going to fix it. (As of writing, I'm not even convinced that this mafia-connected bamboozle of public fraud will open.) No "tough-on-crime" DA to replace Mike Schmidt, like Nathan Vasquez, will fix downtown. It's not JUST a crime problem: most of the problems we deal with today mirror the problems facing Portland in the 1960s, especially our inability to invest in good infrastructure people actually want to use. That's on top of crime, vandalism, and an unhealthy business ecosystem.
IF we want to maintain TriMet (and that's a big IF, for reasons I'll explain below), then it will be focused on something other than downtown. We need to move back to a grid-design transit system, as this is a much easier way to use transit to get around the city, no matter your destination. If TriMet continues to exist and operate fleets in 20-30 years, this is the only way it exists - because it will just be too inconvenient to ride downtown as a side quest to your destination, especially as we look at 10, 20, 30, 40 years from now.
Of course, we can only transform some parts of the transit infrastructure this way, and there are no uplifting and moving train tracks here. So light rail doesn't have a future in the grid system - but even without the grid system, light rail is doomed.

The fatal flaws of light rail in Portland.

I want to preface this by saying I like light rail as a strategy, it's not a bad system or bad civic investment. I could write another 5,000-word essay on why Seattle did an excellent job with light rail and the specific decisions Portland made wildly incorrectly. In transit advocacy the wacktavists inappropriately categorized skeptics of Portland's light rail as some soft bigotry - as if you're racist if you don't like Portland's light rail - even though, ironically, most light rail systems tend to be built for the preference of white culture and white workers, precisely what happened here in Portland and most cities (but this is all a story for another time).
Portland's light rail system has a capacity problem and has dealt with this capacity problem quietly for the last 20+ years. When you see the capacity problem, you can quickly understand this light rail system won't work in the future. All the other smart cities in the world that designed light rail realized they needed big long trains to move many people. Portland decided to limit the train car length to the size of our city blocks to save construction costs - and this has always been a fatal flaw.
Portland's highest capacity train car is our Type 5, according to Wikipedia it has a seating capacity of 72 and an overall capacity of 186 per train. Let's compare:

• Washington DC has 6-car trains capable of carrying 120 passengers per car, or 720 per train.
  
• Salt Lake City has a 4-car train capable of carrying 230 passengers per car, or 920 per train.
  
• Seattle's Link system has a 3 or 4-car train, each capable of carrying approximately 200 passengers per car, so 600 to 800 per train.
  

Portland's light rail lines have roughly the same people moving capacity as a single lane of a highway, maybe marginally more, maybe marginally less. These other cities have a light rail system that can move the same amount of people as an entire 3-lane highway.
You might suspect that Portland could simply run trains more frequently - but nah, that's impossible because the trains run through the central core of downtown Portland, and they're blocked by the real interfaces with road traffic and bottlenecks. TriMet/PBOT/Metro has offered rosy ideas that we could hypothetically run cars every 90 seconds, 2 minutes, 4 minutes, or 6 minutes (depending upon who you ask) - but these are garbage numbers invented out of thin air. For example, you could stand at Pioneer Courthouse Square at 4:50pm on a Wednesday in 2016 - there was a train opening doors to load passengers, and you could visibly see the next train at Pioneer Place Mall pulling into the station behind. Trains were running at approximately a 3 to 4 minute at peak - but on paper, TriMet will claim anything, as they don't give a shit about lying to the public. But the bigger problem is that trains were full. You might have to wait 90 minutes to find a train that offers a seat. And god forbid you had a bike.
I'm not making this very real capacity problem, Metro even acknowledges:

At the busiest hours of the day, 40 light rail trains must cross the river and traverse downtown – one train every 90 seconds. As the region grows and the demand for light rail increases, the region will need at least 64 MAX trains through downtown every hour, more than one train each minute. Our current system can't support that change.

Suppose you're silly enough to trust government propaganda. In that case, you can read the details of Metro study on this in 2019. If we assumed their numbers added up, it's just fucking impossible to run 62 trains per hour, because passenger loading and unloading can take a full minute (sometimes longer). So unless we want to apply substantial g-forces onto the passengers, the train isn't accelerating out of the stops fast enough. Not to mention how unreliable this whole system would be if a sole tweaker, bike rider, or person with a stroller held up the system for 2 minutes.
This is why the bottom line needs to be upfront about capacity - quoting Metro's study here:

Today MAX is limited to 2-car trains because of the length of downtown city blocks. A tunnel could allow for longer trains if the stations outside the downtown core are retrofitted. In the long-term, this could greatly increase MAX capacity.

Do you see that trick? Build a tunnel, yes - but the entire system has to be retrofitted. Literally every light rail station would need to be redesigned, the lines themselves recalculated for larger heavier trains - and extending platforms at Willow Creek might be simple enough, but how in the living fuck is Metro going to afford to expand the Zoo stop? Doubling the size of that platform would cost $500 million alone.
If the city weren't full of cheap dipshits, we would have elevated or buried our light rail lines in the 1980s or 90s, enabling longer train cars to run. Yes, we all knew back then that it was the best practice not to have light rail running on the street - it's less safe, less reliable, runs slower, and limits train car size. Oops.
Just to keep TriMet's own bullshit inflated utopian vision, it would mean spending another billion dollars just to unfuck downtown, bypass an aging bridge, and potentially allow a marginally higher volume of trains - which again is a band-aid on a mortal wound.
The real buried lede is that to add extra train cars means retrofitting all the stops in the system - that's tens of billions of dollars. You can argue costs, but Metro knows we need to do this. It means shutting down the system for a year or years while construction and retrofits happen. It's fucking outrageous. Is this system worth of people per line worth 20, 30, or 40 billion dollars? Fuck no, it ain't. Again, if we had a raging metropolis of industry and commerce downtown, we could reasonably entertain the idea for a moment - but we don't and never will again.
Some folks might argue that if we kill off the light rail system we'd lose out on all those lucrative Transit Oriented Developments. Originally the public was told that Transit Oriented Development strategy would cause a massive infusion of private investment because the light rail was so damn lucrative and desirable for Richard Florida's Creative Class. Turns out the Creative Class is now called today the Laptop Class, and they don't give a flying fuck about street cars, light rail, or walking scores - because most can't be bothered to put pants on during their "commute" from bed to desk. TOD was all a fantasy illusion from the beginning, as multiple studies about Portland commuters showed that college-educated white folks riding Max were equally comfortable riding their bike as a substitute for the same commute. All of these billions of dollars was to accommodate white fare-weather bikers. So here's my hot take on transit: pave over the rail lines and put in bike lanes, and boy, then you'd have a bike system to give folks like Maus a hardon. But of course, Bike Portland would complain because their focus isn't biking; they exist only to favor all poorly thought utopian transit ideas.
Another group of Max/TOD advocates would claim that TOD is better for disabled and impoverished people. And yeah, there's truth there, but see my entire argument above about the Hub & Spoke design of TriMet being the antithesis of transit as a social service. If you believe that TriMet should serve low-income people, you must advocate for a bus-centric grid design.
But even if you're a die-hard believer in light rail - there's another inevitable reality coming that is the nail in the coffin.

Autonomous vehicles will replace mass transit faster than the automobile replaced the horse.

I work in advanced technology, and the thing about tech is that the public and politicians deny that it's going to be there until the majority of the public finally experiences it. You could say this about personal computers, internet, cloud compute, electric cars, smartphones, distributed ledger (cryptocurrency), AI, and driverless vehicles.
Schrodinger's technology doesn't exist until it's measured in an Apple store or your mother asks you for tech support.
No one thought AI was really real until ChatGPT did their kid's homework, and today most people are coming to terms with the fact that ChatGPT 3.5 could do most people's jobs. And that's not even the most advanced AI, that's the freeware put out by Microsoft, they have paywalls to access the real deal.
In 2018 I rode in my colleague's Tesla in self-driving mode from downtown Portland to Top Golf in Hillsboro. We started our journey at the surface parking lot on the west side of the Morrison Bridge. He used his phone to tell the car to pull out of the parking spot and to pick us up. Then he gave the car the address, and it drove us the entire way without any human input necessary. The only time he provided feedback was to touch the turn signal to pass a slow car on the highway. People think self-driving isn't here - but it is - and it's gotten exponentially better and will continue to do so. People will complain and moan about idealized, utopian, pedantic "level 5" full self-driving, how none of it exists or could exist, as a Tesla passes them on the road and the driver is half asleep.
Of course, Portland and every major city have also thought deeply about self-driving technology, and a few places have implemented self-driving solutions - but so far, none of these are really at scale. Though it will be a short time before cost-conscious cities go all-in.
TriMet kicked around the idea of using an autonomous bus for a leg of the trip of the Southwest Corridor project, connecting a segment of the light rail route to the community college. It was bafflingly stupid and short-sighted to think they could use it in this niche application but that it wouldn't open the floodgates for a hundred different applications that eviscerate TriMet's labor model. The simplest example of autonomous operation would be to operate the light rail systems - because they don't make turns, all we need is an AI vision service to slam on the breaks if necessary - that technology has existed for 20+ years. We could retrofit the entire train system in about 3 to 6 months - replace every Max operator with a security guard, and maybe people would ride the Max again? But I digress.
Let's speculate about the far-future, some 5, 10, or 20 years from now: your transit options will expand significantly. The cost will decrease considerably for services using automated vehicles.
You'll look at your options as:

• Drive to work: fastest, takes $100+ worth of gas a month, but you also need $50+ for insurance and $500+ for the monthly car payment, plus those surprise maintenance and broken windows. Also, do you pay for parking? Pick a number for how much it costs to drive your personally owned and manually operated vehicle to work each month.
  
• Autonomous vehicle service: price TBA, but think of how much an Uber costs when you don't have to pay the driver, you don't have to pay for gas. An Uber that runs for $20 today would likely be $10 or less. So, to and from work 20 times a month, $200. $300? Ok, let's just say it's $400 a month. It's still all cheaper than owning a car and driving it to work. No parking fees, and it picks you up quickly enough that it's not a nuisance.
  
• Mass Transit: $150 per month, but ugghhh it's slow, it smells like piss, a guy jacked off in your hair, and you can't schedule a meeting for the first 30 minutes of your anticipated workday in case you miss a connection - and it breaks so often the government actively hides the reliability data from the public and media.
  

Just a few years into this future we'll see a brand new trend, one that already exists: a shared autonomous vehicle like a privately operated bus. For example, Uber Bus - it already exists as a commuter option in some cities, it's just not autonomous yet. The significant benefit of an autonomous bus is that these shared vehicles will utilize HOV lanes very commonly, and commuting in an autonomous vehicle will be as fast as driving to work in your manually operated car while also being less expensive.
Simultaneously automobile accidents in autonomous vehicles will be virtually non-existent, and insurance companies will start to increase prices on vehicles that lack AI/smart assisted safety driving features. Public leaders will see the value of creating lanes of traffic on highways dedicated explicitly to autonomous vehicles so that they can drive at much higher speeds than manually operated traffic. Oregon won't lead the way here, but wait until Texas or one of the Crazy States greenlights a speed limit differential, and self-driving vehicles have a speed limit of 90, 120, or 150 miles per hour. You might think "accidents would be terrible and deadly" but there will be fewer accidents in the autonomous lane than in manual lanes. At this point, it will be WAY faster to take an autonomous vehicle to your work.
Purchasing power of consumers will decrease while the cost of vehicles will increase (especially autonomous vehicles), making ownership of any vehicle less likely. Frankly, the great majority of people won't know how to drive and will never learn to - just like how young people today don't know how to use manual transmission. However, fleets of autonomous vehicles owned by companies like Tesla, Uber, and Lyft will benefit from scale and keep their autonomous bus fleets operating at low cost. This will lead to a trend where fewer and fewer people will own an automobile, and fewer people even bother learning how to drive or paying the enormous insurance cost.... while also depending upon automobiles more than we do today.
Eventually, in the distant future, manually driven vehicles will be prohibited in urban areas as some reckless relic from a bygone era.
Cities and public bodies don't have to be cut out of this system if they act responsibly. For example, cities could start a data brokering exchange where commuters provide their commuting data (i.e., pick-up point, destination, arrival time). The government uses either a privatized fleet or a publicly owned fleet of autonomous vehicles to move as many people as possible as often as possible. Sort of a publicly run car-pool list - or a hyper-responsive bus fleet that runs for the exact passengers going to exact locations. A big problem companies like Uber, Lyft, and Tesla will have is that they'll lack market saturation to optimize commuting routes - they'll be able to win unique rides, but the best way they can achieve the lowest cost service model is these super predictable and timely commuter riders. The more data points and riders, the more optimization they can achieve. These companies can look at the data for as many people as possible and bid for as many routes as possible - optimizing for convenience, time, energy usage, emissions, etc. The public will voluntarily participate if this is optimized to get the cheapest ride possible. If the government doesn't do this, the private sector will eventually.
As a parallel, no one today even considers how Metro runs garbage collection. No one cares. And if you didn't like Metro's trash service, if you needed a better service for unique needs, you go procure that on your own. Likewise, you wouldn't care about the quality of the commuting trip as long as it's up to some minimal standards of your class expectations, it's reliable, nearly as quick as driving your own vehicle, and it seems reasonably affordable.
If the public ran this data exchange, fees could subsidize lower-income riders. This is a theory on what a TriMet like system or mass transit system could look like in a primarily autonomous world where most people don't own their own or drive an automobile.
This system would be far from perfect, opening up all sorts of problems around mobility. However, it's hard to see how autonomous vehicles will not obliterate the value proposition of mass transit.

Another narrative on the same story.

As the working class moves to autonomous vehicles, transit agencies will collect fewer and fewer fares - prices and taxes will rise, creating a cycle of failure. As a result, some cities will make buses self-driving to cut costs. It could start with Tokyo, Shanghai, Oslo, et al. Again, it's unlikely that Portland or Oregon will be the first movers on this, but when cities start laying off hundreds of mass transit operators and cutting fares to practically nothing, there will be substantial public pressure to mimic locally. It will be inhumane, it will be illiberal, to make those impoverished bus-riding single mothers pay premiums. As most of the fleet becomes autonomous, responsive, and disconnected from labor costs, the next question arises: why do we still operate bus routes? Why big buses instead of smaller and nimble vehicles?
This alternative story/perspective leads to the same outcome: we figure out where people are going and when they need to get there - then dispatch the appropriate amount of vehicles to move that exact number of people as efficiently as possible.
But our local government getting its act together on all this is outside the world of possibility.
In a practical sense, we're going to see history repeat itself. Portland's mass transit history is about private and public entities over-extending themselves, getting too deep in debt on a flawed and outdated idea. As a result, the system collapses into consolidation or liquidation. Following this historical pattern, TriMet/Metro won't respond to changing conditions fast enough, and laughably stupid ideas like cranking up taxes or increasing ridership fares will continue to be the only option until the media finally acknowledges these groups are insolvent. I just hope we don't spend tens of billions of dollars propping up this zombie system before we can soberly realize that we made some mistakes and these vanity-laden projects 20 and 30 years ago need to die.
You see, the biggest flaw with TriMet isn't the design, it needs to be outpaced by technology, it's that the people making decisions at TriMet and Metro are going to make the politically expedient decisions, not the right decisions. They won't redesign, and they won't leverage technology for cost savings, so this charade will just get going along until the media simply declares they're insolvent.
Back to fares for a second - the media happily reprints TriMet's horseshit take about "The higher fares will bring in an estimated $4.9 million in annual revenue starting next year, the report says." Just sort of amazing to me there's no skepticism about this number - but most spectacular is no media considerations about alternative solutions. For example, I could tell TriMet how to save $9,548,091 next year - a useless program primarily utilized by white middle-class folks who own alternative methods of transport - and this would inconvenience way less transit-dependent people than raising fares. But, that's off the table - we're not even developing a decision matrix for when we kill the blackhole of money known as WES.

Namaste everyone. I’m in a real pickle here. When my wife (from CA) and I (from TX) moved here, we immediately got a dog so we could meet other pup parents at wash park. We even named her Breckenridge! We also got an rei lifetime membership and an annual parks pass to visit RMNP once a year (great value!)
Fast forward to now (we’ve been living here for nearly half a year!!!) and we’re not sure how to tell our friends we aren’t getting a Subaru. We’ve been looking around and a Kia seems like a better fit. Not sure if y’all knew this but Kias are the most stolen cars in the country. We were thinking that if someone stole the car it was because they needed it more than us.
I don’t think this is going to fly with our friends though, as we told our best friend Sage Moss at Casa Bonita and they threatened to overdose us on mushrooms and bring us to meow wolf. Some of you may say that sounds fun, but I took half an edible and had panic attack there.
Any advice on how to tell our other friends? We don’t want them to cry but we could really use the moisture. Namaste

It's gameday! There's watch parties going down across the globe, so share any you know of here and I'll link them in the thread.
Denver

• DNVR Bar
• McGregor Square
• The 715 Club
• Matchbox
• Odell's Five Points Brewhouse
• Shotgun Willie's
  
• List of bars with specials
  

Boulder

• Dark Horse

Fort Collins

• Looking for a watch party

Longmont

• Wibby Brewing

Westminster

• 30/70 Sports Bar & Grill

Portland

• Broadway Grill & Brewery

NYC

• Mustang Harry's

Detroit

• Game 2 @ McShane's Irish Pub

Chicago

• Wicker Park - Fat Pour user won't be there for game 1

San Francisco

• Golden Gate Tape Room

Boston

• Looking for a watch party

Pittsburgh

• Looking for a watch party

Utah

• The Alley Sports Pub & Grill - Moab

South Carolina

• Looking for a watch party

Florida

• Tampa - looking for a watch party

Serbia

• Sombor
• Looking for a watch party

Canada

• Kitchener - Bobby O'Brien's

Bonjour, ou bonsoir à tous.
Je m'appelle Jeanne, et je vais vous raconter une histoire vraie, qui n'est pas la mienne mais que j'ai vécu de loin. C'est un évènement qui s'est produit quand j'étais petite, j'avais 10 ans je crois. Au moment de l'évènement je ne comprenais pas ce qui se passait. Ce n'est que quelques années plus tard que la mère de mon amie m'a expliqué ce qui s'était vraiment passé, en détail.
Pour des raisons d'anonymat, les nom des personnes ont été modifié.
Bref, à cette époque j'avais une amie qui s'appelait Emilie, elle avait 1 an de moins que moi et on allait dans la même école.
Cette année là, les parents d'Emilie décide de déménager dans mon village. Ce village, c'est un tout petit village, donc tout le monde se connait. Tous les enfants allaient dans la même école, tous les parents se connaissent et discutent entre eux. On faisait des repas chez les voisins, des fêtes dans une salle etc. Les parents d'Emilie avaient décidé de déménager ici pour se rapprocher de leurs amis et d'avoir une vraie maison.
Ils ont donc emménager dans une grande maison en bas du village. Il faut savoir que le village est divisé en 2 parties : l'ancien village en bas, et le lotissement en haut. J'habitais dans le lotissement, mais j'allais souvent en vélo voir mes amis au skate park en bas du village.
La maison était une ancienne maison, restaurée de l'extérieur mais vieillotte de l'intérieur. La façade était orangée, et il y avait un ou 2 étages et une cave. A l'arrière, il y avait un jardin, avec des arbres et un ancien poulailler.
Bon, l'histoire commence peu après l'emménagement de sa famille dans cette maison. Je venais souvent voir mon amie pour jouer dans sa chambre ou dans son jardin. On s'amusait sous les arbres, dans le salon etc., mais je me suis toujours sentie mal à l'aise dans leur maison, je proposais souvent d'aller plutôt jouer dehors Quelques jours après leurs emménagement, mon amie me dit qu'elle a des plaques bizarres sur la peau, que ca la gratte etc. Les semaines passent et Emilie ne vient plus à l'école parce qu'elle est malade. Ma petite sœur me dit que le frère d'Emilie est lui aussi malade et qu'il ne vient plus depuis plusieurs jours.
Dans cette maison, on n'avait pas le droit d'aller au grenier (les enfants seulement, pour des raisons de sécurité), on allait très peu à la cave, parce qu'on avait peur de la cave. Mais il y avait aussi une porte que personne n'a jamais ouvert, parce qu'elle était fermée et personne n'avait la clé. Et puis la famille n'avait pas besoin d'une pièce supplémentaire alors personne ne s'en ai jamais soucié.
Aussi, plusieurs fois, quand j'ai dormi chez mon amie ou quand on jouait dans le jardin toutes les deux, j'entendais des poules (des bruits de poules) qui provenaient du poulailler, alors qu'il n'y avait plus de poules depuis des années. J'ai rationnalisé avec le temps en me disant que les voisins avaient peut être des poules et que je l'ignorais.
C'est à partir de la que ma version s'arrête, je sais c'est court. Mais depuis j'ai donc eu la version de la mère d'Emilie et donc l'histoire complète.
Sa mère m'a donc raconté :
Quelques jours après leur emménagement, tout les membres de la famille ont commencé à se sentir mal à l'aise et malade. Ils ont commencé à développer de la fièvre, des plaques rouges sur les bras, le ventre, le dos etc. Phénomène qui s'est aggravé au fur et à mesure que les semaines passaient. Les parents sont donc allés chez le médecin qui leur a donné des médicaments. Ils ont donc pris ces médicaments mais rien n'y faisait, la fièvre ne tombait pas et les plaques étaient toujours là. La famille a donc consulté, deux, puis trois médecins différents. Aucun ne donnait le même diagnostique et les médicaments ne faisaient toujours aucun effet.
Un soir, l'un des frères de mon amie, qui était le plus touché par la "maladie", entra dans le salon où ses parents regardaient un film. Il était vraiment tard, 1h du matin environ. Il paraissait calme mais comme il était malade, il était très pale. Il regarda sa mère et lui dit "maman, il faut qu'on parte, elle veut pas qu'on soit là". Sa mère sur le coup pensait simplement qu'il avait fait un cauchemar et le recoucha dans son lit. Sauf que cela se reproduisit plusieurs fois au cours des semaines, et il disait toujours qu'ELLE ne voulait pas qu'ils restent là. Jusqu'à un soir où, le petit frère alla réveillé sa mère en pleine nuit en pleurant. Il expliqua à sa mère que la dame étaient venue le voir et avait commencé à lui crier dessus.
Sa mère monta alors à l'étage de la maison pour voir dans la chambre du garçon, mais rien. Il n'y avait personne. Elle demanda alors à son fils de qui il parlait, qui était cette dame. Il dit alors : "c'est la dame qui vit ici, elle vient me voir souvent. mais elle veut pas qu'on soit là maman. Elle ne veut pas de nous.".
La mère de mon ami m'expliqua alors que dans sa famille, ils croient fortement au mystique et au paranormal. Qu'il y a beaucoup d'autres histoires de fantômes dans sa famille.
Alors quelques jours plus tard, la famille fit appelle a un medium. Au moment de rentrer dans la maison, le medium s'arrêta et dit aux parents qu'il sentait bel et bien une présence. Il inspecta la maison, et pendant plusieurs heures il ne dit rien. Il arriva devant la porte fermée et demanda si ils en avaient la clé. Les parents répondirent que non. Le medium leur dit alors de ne jamais ouvrir cette porte sous aucun prétexte. Il finit par interroger le petit frère d'Emilie. Il lui demanda si la dame avait un nom, si elle lui racontait d'autre choses etc. Le petit garçon répondit que la dame était gentille la plupart du temps mais qu'elle devenait de plus en plus insistante et qu'il ne voulait plus la revoir.
Le medium examina alors la famille, leurs plaques, leurs rougeurs, prit leur température etc. Il finit alors par dire que la famille devait déménager si elle voulait guérir complètement. Il expliqua que si l'esprit avait décider de rester et qu'il ne voulait pas de la famille, il ne les laisserait pas tranquille.
La mère m'expliqua alors qu'il n'était pas question de déménager à ce moment, car il n'y avait pas de maison dans les environs dans leurs moyens.
Seulement après cette décision, le petit frère de mon amie tomba vraiment très malade et du aller à l'hôpital à cause d'une très forte fièvre. Il disait à sa mère que la dame était vraiment très en colère, qu'il avait peur d'elle.
Le mois suivant, une maison était à vendre dans le lotissement du village. Les parents d'Emilie qui connaissaient la propriétaire et négocièrent la maison à un prix plus que raisonnable.
Ils déménagèrent dans le lotissement dès l'acquisition de la maison. Et deux jours après leur installation, ils se réveillèrent sans aucune fièvre, ni plaques, ni rougeurs. Ils étaient totalement guéris.
Quand la mère de mon amie eu finit son récit, je lui ai demandé si les voisins de l'époque avaient des poules.
Elle me répondit : " non, il n'en avait pas, ni les voisins de gauche, ni les voisins de droite."
​
--------------------------------------------------------
Je vous certifie que cette histoire est vrai. Je n'ai rien inventé et je vous ai raconté le récit tel qu'on me l'a relater. Vous pouvez y croire ou non. Je ne crois personnellement pas forcément au paranormal et aux fantômes, mais cette histoire m'a toujours mis le doute.
Peut être que la maison était infesté de quelque chose, peut être y avait il vraiment un esprit, peut être y est il encore. Je ne sais pas. En tout cas, la famille qui y a emménagé depuis n'a jamais eu de problème et aucun traitement contre les insectes ou les moisissures n'a été fait entre les emménagements.
Je vous laisse me faire part de vos théories si vous en avez.
désolé si j'ai pu faire quelques fautes

Hi, I was hired about 3 months ago as a bather and I already hate it here. :( I left a privately owned dog hotel in hopes of higher pay and an enjoyable job. I was given many false promises and accepted the position. Since then, my mental health has been hindered nearly every day. Here are some of the issues: The call center is bogus as it is right now. They constantly over book and do not take into consideration the type/size of dog receiving service, leaving me under major stress to complete it within an hour which is just impossible for some dogs. This causes me to lose out and NOT take my breaks throughout the shift. Many days I go for an 8-9 hour shift nauseous without stopping for a meal break due to the pressure of getting these dogs out and pet parents satisfied. Further, if a walk in happens for nails, I have to stop and kennel the dog immediately to go check them in and do the trim/grinding. These can happen b2b, and it still falls on the bather to complete them no matter how many or how long it takes, all while ignoring your current /booked/ dog. There’s been times 5-6 walk in nail trims have arrived, and took the entire hour slot up that I was supposed to have my appointment dog finished. The pet parent was unhappy with this, and likely will not be back.
There is also a pressure to accept known dangerous/aggressive dogs. If I see a note in their profile that says known to bite/has bitten before, I still am told to perform that service and risk my own health. Our salon has a lack of e-collars, and the muzzles dont always hold as they should. There has been several times a dog has successfully gotten out of the fully tightened and buckled muzzle, and/or thrown off the e-collacone and drawn blood.
Unfortunately for me, I can’t quit due to heavy bills I’m facing, but something has got to change and I’m unsure of what to do? My store leader knows all of this and refuses to do anything about it.

Where: East to West Ski Traverse from Shepherd's Pass Trailhead (Independence, CA) across the Sierra to Wolverton (Western Sierra Foothills), sometimes referred to as the "Sierra High Route Ski Traverse" or the "David Beck Route" after the ski guide who pioneered the route in the 1970s. Getting to cross the Sierra on skis, particularly with a historic snowpack, was an amazing experience.
When: May 25, 2023 – May 28, 2023
Distance and Vert: 50 Miles, 15,000' ascent (CalTopo: https://caltopo.com/m/FH2VE)
Conditions: Continuous snow from mile ~6 at 9400'. Weather varied from zero visibility clouds, scorching direct sun, precipitation/graupel, and frigid mornings.
Lighterpack: for a couple (shared sleep system and ski gear for two) https://lighterpack.com/rp5unn
Cars/Transportation: This might be one of the biggest challenges of the trip. Some people choose to stage cars at both trailheads, but that would require a six-hour drive before and after the trip. The ideal situation, which we were able to work out, is to swap cars with another group crossing in the opposite direction simultaneously, trading keys on route. However, not everyone will be this lucky. Another option is to hitchhike from Wolverton to Three Rivers, then get a ride to the Fresno airport, fly to Reno, and take the 395 shuttle to Independence. But this will add days to your trip.
Road Closure: This year, an additional complexity was that the road from Hospital Rock to Wolverton was closed due to rain damage. It is a 14-mile stretch with an elevation gain of approximately 5000'. We spoke to rangers at SEKI, and suggested they might look the other way if we rode our e-bikes outside of construction hours, which they believed were from 7 AM to 7 PM. So, one group rode e-bikes with cargo trailers we purchased on Amazon from Hospital Rock at 2700' up to Wolverton at 7400'. They locked up the bikes and trailers and headed east. When we arrived at Wolverton after our traverse, we unlocked the bikes, loaded our gear, and rode the bikes back down to the car parked at Hospital Rock. Walking that stretch would be a pain after already crossing the Sierra, particularly because you'd probably have to haul boots and skis down the road with you on your back.
Purpose of [Long] Report: I've wanted to cross the Sierra on skis for many years, but poor snow conditions had stymied previous attempts. With the historic snowpack this year, I finally got a chance to ski it. Prior to this trip, I scoured the Internet for information, but most of it was either old and lacked details or came from guide companies that lead clients across in about six days. In the interest of aiding future skiers, I wanted to put together a comprehensive trip report with some of our group's learnings. However, a caveat to future readers, our trip was much later in the year than is typical and followed the deepest winter in recorded memory in the Sierra, so your experience may differ greatly.
GEAR
Our kits were relatively light given it was a ski traverse, which was essential due to the long ski and boot carry on day one. This lighter pack is my wife and I's shared and personal gear combine. She was less egar to list out her clothing individually (she does not share our affliction) however she let me weigh it all at once: https://lighterpack.com/rp5unn
Sleep Kit: For anyone contemplating winter camping with someone they feel comfortable sharing a sleeping bag with, I cannot recommend the Feathered Friends Spoonbill enough. It is the single greatest piece of kit I have ever owned. It's absurdly light and warm and more comfortable than a solo bag because it's large enough for both people to stretch out. Of course, it only really works if you feel comfortable cozying up with your partner, but if you're a couple, like we were, it's the greatest. Just make sure that you have pad straps that hold the two sleeping pads together. When we first got the bag, we contemplated one of those double sleeping pads, but they're heavy and not as warm as the Therm-a-Rest Xtherm. Instead, I've sewn pad straps with grosgrain, similar to the ones you can purchase from Gossamer Gear, that hold the pads together perfectly. It's also nice that each person has their own pad to inflate to their preferred firmness. The Xtherm is also warm enough to eliminate the need for extra closed cell foam pads.
Skis: If you're contemplating this route, you might be tempted to reach for ultralight skimo skis, but I'd urge caution. The snow conditions you're going to encounter are wildly variable, and unless you're used to skiing sun cups with a super heavy pack down steep passes, you may want something more robust. I ended up opting for my Blizzard Zero G 105 because I wanted that additional flotation in the soft afternoon snow. It ended up being a pretty good choice, although it was pretty heavy to haul up Shepherd's Pass on my back.
Sharps Kit: We carried aluminum boot crampons and ski crampons. Both were essential. My partner had a BD Whippet to assist on some of the passes. I just opted for poles. If you're used to booting, I think crampons are probably enough, and you can likely leave the ice ax at home.
Stove: We debated bringing an alcohol stove (Trail Designs Ti Tri), but we ended up bringing a MSR Reactor, worried that we would have to melt snow for water. We ended up collecting 95% of our water, and we could've easily collected all of it. I've heard from other groups that when the weather gets cold, it can be more difficult to track down water, but we could have gotten away with an alcohol stove.
Footwear: I wore light road running shoes up Shepard's Pass. They got pretty shredded on the trip, but they were a welcome addition and served as great camp shoes too while I tried to dry by boots in the afternoon sun.
Eyewear: At the last minute, I ditched my goggles and wore Smith Wildcats exclusively. Although I did have a backup pair of sunglasses, just in case I lost the Wildcats, I'm glad I didn't bother with goggles. The descents themselves were pretty short.
Pack: We both used HMG Porter packs without the HMG ski carry mod, but our own MYOG tubular webbing contraption to hold skis in place without damaging the webbing straps. They were perfect for the trip. I do know HMG now makes a ski-specific pack, but I purchased the Porter many years ago. However, even if the new pack had been available, I'd still prefer the Porter for versatility in other activities like climbing, packrafting, general backpacking, etc.
DAY-BY-DAY REPORT
Early on the morning of May 25th, we left the Courthouse Motel in Independence, CA bound for Shepard's Pass Trailhead. With skis and poles in hand, the proprietors looked perplexed when they asked us were we were headed and we told them “Fresno.” Despite significant runoff this year, the road to the Shepherds Pass Trailhead is passable with a low-clearance vehicle. While we couldn't reach the "hikers" trailhead, we easily reached the "stock" trailhead at 5600'. Starting our traverse from there, we ascended Symmes Saddle toward Shepard's Pass in lightweight running shoes, with skis and boots on our backs. Along the way, we encountered clear evidence of the historic avalanche cycle, including massive trees blocking the trail. Crossing the creek multiple times, we devised creative ways to keep our feet dry, using pack tosses and rock jumps. At the final crossing, we bypassed a sketchy log and carefully waded through the creek with our heavy packs.As the trail steepened into switchbacks, intermittent snow appeared around 8400', soon becoming continuous. Pushing on through snow with sneakers, we reached Symmes Saddle at 9100'. There the trail transitions to a south aspect and the snow disappeared completely. After a few more miles, we arrived at Mahogany Flat, there we switched from shoes to skis, encountering consistent snow for the rest of the traverse. Our first night's camp was set above the "Pothole" on granite slabs, offering a breathtaking view of the Owens River Valley below.
The following day, we ascended Shepherds Pass using boot crampons, reaching the Tyndall Plateau. Descending on firm, sun-capped snow, we made our way to the Kern River, where we were fortunate to find a snow bridge, a crucial element of our route. Crossing without a bridge would have been sketchy. From there, we faced the grueling climb up Milestone Basin under a scorching sun. Fortunately, afternoon clouds provided relief and intermittent graupel. We ascended Milestone Pass late in the afternoon, then descended into Milestone Bowl, where again we camped on granite slabs.
On the third day, we descended the remainder of Milestone Bowl before embarking on several long traverses across massive bowls. At the end of the first ski traverse, we booted up an unnamed ridge marked by glide avalanche cracks. After briefly meeting the other party traveling from West to East and exchanging information on conditions ahead, we crossed over Triple Divide Pass. The next pass, Copper Mine Pass, presented more glide cracks and cornices that showed signs of recent collapse. Instead of taking the conventional route north of the peak, exposed to hazards, we managed to skin up just below the Copper Mine Pass summer trail, which surprisingly was melted out and allowed passage to the next drainage. We finished the day with an easy skin up Horn Col and a relaxed ski down to Lonely Lake.
On the final day, we climbed over Pterodactyl Pass below Big Bird Peak before turning north and continuing to ski into the Tablelands. Once near Tablelands Pass, we removed our skins for the second-to-last time and enjoyed a fun but gentle descent toward Pear Lake Hut. The hut was completely buried in snow, having sat unused throughout the entire winter. From the hut, we skinned up the final hump before embarking on a true survival ski down to Wolverton. The snow extended all the way down to the parking lot, but it was wet and covered in pine needles, branches, and pine duff—the type of snow one can't truly fathom without venturing beyond ski resort boundaries.
Finally, we arrived at the parking lot and found our e-bikes securely locked to the barricade, which the eastbound group had prepared for us. We assembled the cargo trailers, attached them to the bikes, and began the long and winding descent from 7400' to 2700', reaching the road closure at Hospital Rock, the truck, and very welcome warm beers.

So I got my first full blown walk out from this drunk dude. I've had people not leave enough money or their card only covers so much but never this. This dude comes in says there will be 2 and he's waiting on his wife at the nail salon (we hear this all the time with the nail salon being right next door) he orders a Coors light bottle and a double of fireball. He essentially downs the fireball in less than 5 mins and asks for a second, assuring me his wife will be here soon and how sorry he is it's taking so long. I ring in a second double for him and we chat for a bit, seems like a nice dude and did not seem "fucked up" at all. Bring the second one to him he downs that one and orders an app. Ten minutes go by and he's only had a few bites of his app and then he straight up fell asleep in his seat ( he was older, just thought he was really tired). He wakes up and asks for a third double, he hasn't touched his Coors at all, at that point I tell him we're not comfortable serving him anymore alcohol because he kept falling asleep. He doesn't fight me at all on it and just says "okay". He starts getting up and heading toward the front I said "hey are you coming back" he says "oh yeah I'm just smoking a cig". I tell my coworker to keep an eye on him while I deal with other tables, she comes back seconds later saying he's still walking and is halfway down the parking lot. I immediately get on the comms and let management know to call the cops and full sprint to this guy out in the parking lot. As I'm shouting "sir! Sir!" He starts picking up the pace and starts speed walking! (He was old, he wasn't outrunning me lol) finally catch up and at this point im pissed, I say "you can't just walk out on a tab like that you piece of shit" he starts freaking out saying he doesn't have any money to pay for it, so I start asking about his "wife" and if she can pay. He goes "she's not here". At this point I call him out on everything " so you lied about your wife, you lied about having a cig and now you're saying you can't pay for your tab either?" He just kept looking at me, I start leading him back to the restaurant, cops arrive, we trespass him. Come to find out that he did the same at a restaurant in the same plaza no less than 2 hours before he got to us.
Just wanted to rant, this was the first time I've ever seen someone blatantly walk out like that. Anyone else have crazy walk out stories to make me feel better lol. All his food and drinks were comped of course so I got nothing but the satisfaction of seeing him get grilled by the police.

Apologizes for being so late. Explanation at the bottom.
​
Maxwell stared out the small window in the war room while he waited for the generals and other officers to arrive. The dome had dimmed to the point that you could see through it, and he watched as the demonic army set up camp less than a mile from the city. When the last straggler entered and sat, the general in charge started the meeting. Why am I even here? I don’t add anything besides my fighting and base knowledge of magic. Whatever.
The meeting ended with the decision being made to defend at the wall, and only send out mounted troops when the enemy showed a weakness. Pretty standard fare for defending a city. He made his way out of the room, not stopping to chat with anyone and went for a walk in the now recovering city.
He was sitting on a park bench, randomly tossing seeds to a small flock of birds when his messaging stone started to vibrate. He removed the stone from his pocket and swiped his finger across the smooth face, “Hello?”
“Ah, the heretic. Just who I wanted to speak too.” The voice on the other end said. “I am general xxx of the demon army---”
Max ended the call, swiping across the stone again. “Idiots.” He grumbled. “I wasn’t born yesterday.”
The stone vibrated again. He answered. “WHAT?”
“The same voice as before spoke again. “We need to talk.”
“Make it fast.” Max growled. “I’m busy.”
“Very well. I want you to kill the demon lord.” Ochalz said in a level voice.
“You…You what?” Max stuttered into the stone.
“He needs to die.” Ochalz replied. “He will force me to throw my troops into your void forsaken wall. The number of unneeded deaths will be high. I need him gone.”
Mas took a deep breath to calm his nerves, “What’s in it for us?”
“Upon his death, we will cease all hostilities for a total of ten years.” Ochalz said.
“Twenty-five, no less, and you will retreat to the demon wastes.” Max responded.
“Very well. Twenty-five years.” Ochalz said, “And we will move to the aptly named demon wastes.”
“How do I know I can trust you?” Max asked.
“You don’t. But I give you my personal assurances, and all the information I have on that lard filled bastard.” Ochalz responded.
“Good enough.” Max smiled. “Tell me everything.
*-*-*
Grendel Repute sat on the back of the wagon as it progressed down the snow-covered road. What to do. What to do. He absentmindedly scratched the cat that Brandywine had left in his care when she and the others had left. “So, cat, what should we do today? No one will dice with me anymore. Especially after they finally caught me cheating.” The cat flopped onto its side and purred at him. “Maybe we should… No. Perhaps? No. What do you think?”
The cat gently captured his left hand in its paws and brought it closer to lick and nibble on.
“I suppose we could eat something, but lunch isn’t for another hour or so.” Grendel said in response to the nibbles. “Maybe we could raid the sweets jar?”
*-*-*
Max had gathered up his usual suspects in his rooms. “Demon general Ochalz has asked that we assassinate the demon lord.”
The room went silent.
“Yeah. I was surprised too.” Max said into the silence. “I have a bunch of notes here,” he waved to a stack of papers, “with all of the information Ochalz could give me.”
The next several hours were spent going over the notes.
*-*-*
Cookies in hand, Grendel sat once again on the back of the wagon, cat purring on his lap. “Okay. We have a communication stone from Prince Lancil. We have snow. We have cookies… Now what?”
“Meow” said the cat.
“Exactly.” Grendel replied.
*-*-*
Gilip, Capital of Demonia.
53rd of Anael, First month of Snow.
2290 years since the New Gods came.
We have almost a thousand miles to travel to get to the demon lord’s lair. We will be traveling the demon wastes through ice and snow. While the demons will not be “thick and heavy” due to their army being here, they will still be around. Little else thrives out there.
There is a “breed” of “Horse” that has been mostly tamed that will survive the travel, but with my track record with half demonic beasts, I worry there will be problems.
Bri has refused to stay behind, claiming that “the place of a wife is with her husband”. Who am I to argue?
The gang’s all here, we leave tomorrow at dusk.
54th of Anael.
Dusk.
The wind is cold, blowing the powdery snow across the plain as we departed. The heroes, Brandywine and Bri are all well covered in winter traveling clothes. The trunk is tied to my back.
55th of Anael,
We got five miles through the wind and snow last night. No demons were spotted. Today we should make about ten more. I keep forgetting how much I hate walking in snow, it gets everywhere.
Plains of Demonia.
1st of Arah, Second month of Snow.
2291 years since the new gods came.
Midwinter was last night, and we did not celebrate. Travel was more important. We made just over ten miles today, giving us a total of twenty-five miles. I believe it is around twenty points below freezing* as we set up camp tonight. We are all sharing one small tent to conserve heat. The wind is whipping across the gently rolling plain at speed. Tomorrow we may be snow blind.
Our current path will bring us to Ghostward, another one hundred twenty miles or so. Twelve days. We will rest for a couple nights there, and hopefully be able to procure ‘Horses’ that can deal with the weather.
3rd of Arah.
The wind and snow were too much today, we made it three miles. It is a blizzard. I hope we aren’t snow bound for too long. Only 38 miles so far.
6th of Arah.
We got nearly two feet of snow, but the wind has slowed. Tomorrow, we will dig ourselves out and continue on our way.
-
Magni stared at the snow, and smiled to himself. It’s like home. Just without the mountains. He held back a tear as he thought back to his lost home, the people, his wife and children, and then let the tears loose.
-
10th of Arah.
We continue our march. I don’t understand how Magni can smile and whistle through this. Maybe he really is part bear as Nomvula claims? I don’t know, he kind of does look like one…
Around eighty miles, halfway there. Seventy left.
13th of Arah.
Elk. A herd of elk. Being chased by a small pack of worgs. The worgs ate there fill and ignored us. I’m an idiot gods forsaken MORON! We could have ridden worgs if I hadn’t wanted to avoid the “going away” ceremony that would have been thrown for us. Too late now.
14th of Arah.
We spotted a demon patrol today. They ignored us.
*-*-*
Grendel stared at the boring snow once again. “Now what do we do, cat?”
“Mrow?” The cat replied.
“Me either.” Grendel said. “Maybe we can use Lancil’s stone and try to sell someone a bridge?”
*-*-*
Demon General Ochalz sat on his camp chair, and smiled. “The Heretic is well on his way now? Excellent. Once that worthless idiot is dead, we will make a place for ourselves in the wastes, and prepare.”
*That would be -20c, or -10f.
​
Original - First - Previous - Next
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Where to begin, where to begin?
I don't generally talk about it, but I have some mental health issues, and the last couple of months have been hard. The weather changes are tough in spring, causing my SAD (Seasonal Affective Disorder) to go into overdrive. The ADHA has been bouncing me around, and my Bi-Polar disorder has been at an all time low. All said and done? This has been a sucky as hell spring.
To top things off, Monday I stubbed my big toe so hard that i separated the nail from the nail bed. 0/10, do not recommend.
The high points have been being published in the anthology (thanks to everyone who backed it!!!!!) and seeing Wind Rose in concert. Even those two haven't really left much of a dent in my psyche.
Anyway, my kid is almost out of school for the year, and at least isn't failing any classes. And next weekend I will be attending a reunion for year one and two of the NCCC program (I was in year one! That was a blast!!!) and I'm looking forward to that, and the writing convention two weeks after that. Those two should break me out of this blue period.
Take care of yourselves. Don't kidnap midgets. Get the candy first. Don't drive full speed into the dust storm. Look both ways at the train crossing. Avoid the sewer clowns unless you are well armed. Giant robots will make you go squish. When the pin is pulled, Mr. Grenade is NOT your friend. Help each other out.
Donation box time.
Shakes donation box:
Ko-Fi https://ko-fi.com/vastlisten1457
Patreon https://www.patreon.com/VastListen1457
​
PS. I haven't forgotten to send out the prizes, that will be this weekend, as soon as the new merch is up. Please forgive the wait.

So, background: Book reader and I watched Season 1 and well, I thought it was just OK, had some moments but was overall a little disappointed. I think I gave it like a 5.5/10 or 6/10. My complaints, as best I can remember were:

1. Felt rushed and editing was off
2. The show needed to breathe, and get to know the characters
3. While I was fine with many changes, I felt too many times some changes were completely against the books/lore (i.e., Moraine's oath to Suian, the Dragon sealing the DO prison out of arrogance in ep 8 opening, etc.)
4. Episode 8

Anyway, wife out of town for the week, out of curiosity I sat down and rewatched the entire S1. I was actually very surprised how much I enjoyed the show on second watching, and that what bothered me before wasn't nearly as big of a deal the second time around:

1. The rushed and odd editing was really only the first 2 or 3 episodes, when the group was constantly moving. Once they settled into locations by episode 4 it vastly improved
2. While we still need a few character-developing scenes, specifically for the 3 boys (note: the source material was thin on this until book 3), there were more emotional scenes than I recalled. But more importantly, I realize that /I/ was the one who needed to breathe, not the show. Watch the show drinking a glass a wine, not a shot of vodka. I needed to stop constantly evaluating every little nuance and see if it "checks out OK"
3. This one surprised me the most: there were less moments that were misaligned with the lore than I recall (most of them in episode 8 still). But even the ones that bothered me before didn't bother me as much now... or at least, I could see WHY they made the change:
   1. Moraine oath: While entirely unnecessary, it was done to SHOW the oath rod and how it worked instead of just telling us, to set up for later seasons. And her oath was just to obey the command to leave the tower, not one of fealty
   2. The whole opening of episode 8, while not how it worked in the books, was entirely there to give us the Dragon and the 100 companions backstory in 2 minutes. While, again, it jarred with what really happened, I can't deny that they gave us the who, what, when, where and why in an interesting way in such a short time. It worked.
4. I dreaded going into Episode 8 knowing how much I disliked it. Episode 8 was still rough, and I won't get into it, but I wasn't nearly as upset about it second time around.

I actually rather enjoyed the show. I mean, it still had faults, and a few scenes still left me frustrated or wincing. No one is going to say it was perfect, but I'd probably give it a 7.5 now. It definitely works better for non-book readers than book-readers, but the majority of the audience is non-book readers.
The one thing that I 100% think they need to fix that wasn't on the list before is the channeling. They got to do that better, bring it to life and all its intricacies, both in the viewer's understanding of it but also visually. 7 or 8 seasons of channeling just being wispy white streams as the channeler does Tai Chi with their arms is not going to work.
Sidenote: On rewatch, I must say Pike did a fantastic job as an actress. I didn't focus on things like acting and nuances of facial expressions and such first time around, but she nailed Moraine. Also, the music is incredible, Balfe just hit it out of the park. 200 times better than the music in Rings of Power, which I just couldn't stand.

Chapter One
Chapter Fourteen
CONTENT WARNING: This one contains some implied torture. Nothing explicit, but be aware.
United Launch Alliance main facility. Decatur, Alabama. Ten minutes before the DC attack.
Chao never thought she’d think this, but here she was, sitting at a table in a conference room which looked out into a giant assembly room holding multiple huge rockets in various stages of construction. She also was sitting next to an alien, one who was fast becoming a good friend, while talking in-depth about technical things. And yet she was bored out of her skull. It was now the sixth day of trying to somehow figure out how to best repair the Rithro. During the first day, the four engineers assigned by different companies to this task group were tripping over themselves getting to talk to an actual alien, while Grakosh had in turn quizzed them endlessly about how the rockets worked and even gotten a tour…shadowed by multiple Secret Service agents, of course. By now things had settled down to the task at hand.
Fortunately, the distant crippled ship contained a veritable army of drones capable of quite complex tasks, so manpower…or alien-power…was not the problem. The problem was more a matter of having the proper raw materials available, especially for the damaged hydrogen tanks. The latter used a specialized lightweight but low-permeability alloy; in order to have any patches hold, whatever metal the humans provided needed to be close enough to its properties to properly bond or weld to it. Chao was not a metallurgist, but she was getting a crash course in it thanks to the endless discussions between Grakosh and the four engineers.
Then there was the matter of hauling it up to the L5 point. Trying to carry the needed tonnage in the ship’s landing boats would be like trying to drink a lake dry using a straw. But humans, right now, didn’t have any single rocket capable of carrying such a payload into orbit.
She, Grakosh, and the four engineers were spread out around a small table set before a whiteboard; the latter was not quite yet full. Next to the doors into the conference room stood a pair of Secret Service agents; Chao felt a bit sorry for them having to stand on their feet for so long.
“So Falcon Heavy can do about 26 tons to geostationary,” said one of the engineers, a gray-haired balding man named Blake. He was a metallurgist from SpaceX. “That’s fully expendable, of course. We did look a while back at how much it could take in a trans-lunar injection, I think it was somewhere around 18 tons, but we’d need to go back and redo that math.” He turned to Chao. “Will TLI be close to the delta-vee needed to get to L5?”
Chao perked up, now grateful she had something to contribute. After a bit of tapping on her laptop, she nodded. “It’s not exactly the same, but for initial planning purposes using TLI figures can work.”
One of the ULA engineers, a young blonde woman named Clara, regarded the whiteboard with a thousand-yard stare. Chao knew that Clara was not really looking at it. “Vulcan can do…somewhere around five and a half tons to TLI, if you strap six solids to it. Less mass, but it does have a bigger fairing than the Heavy.” She grinned at Blake.
“So we’ll need multiple launches?” Grakosh, of course, did not have a laptop or chair, and instead sat coiled up next to Chao. “Hmmm. I’d like to have at least thirty tons of patch material, just to have a comfortable margin.”
“So two to three launches of Heavy, or five of Vulcan, or some mix.” Clara looked over at Ned, the other ULA engineer. “That’s a lot of rockets. Our pipeline isn’t set up to crank out that many, that quickly.”
Blake nodded in sympathy. “We’ve got similar issues with using Heavy. We can use side boosters that have been well-reused and are close to end-of-life, but the center core is another matter. We don’t have that many of them, just because we didn’t have that much demand. Now we’d have to spool up production on them. Not my area of expertise, but you’re talking many months.”
The man from Raytheon, a skinny guy named Dwight, tapped the table in absent thought. “We could try something else.”
“If you’re thinking of using SLS, forget it,” said Ned, the other ULA engineer. “It’s got a lot of throw, even out to lunar orbit, but way too slow of a manufacturing speed. Even if we do repurpose some of the Artemis launches, it’ll be at least a year or two.”
Dwight smiled beatifically. “Keep in mind, we’re not talking about sending up boutique billion-dollar satellites. It’s gonna be mostly metal plates, at least at first. We can afford to swing for the fences.” He leaned forward. “Sea Dragon.”
“Oh fuck no,” said Ned. “First off, the original design study is from the damned Sixties. The redesign and approval alone will take a year at best, unless you just want to slap something together and go for it and then have everything explode on you.”
“What is ‘Sea Dragon’?” asked Grakosh.
Dwight rose and walked to the whiteboard. He flipped it over to the as-yet unmarked side and began sketching. “A super heavy-lift vehicle proposed a while ago, back when we were still trying to get to the moon. It’s two stage, like Falcon and Vulcan, but a lot bigger. A LOT bigger.”
He sketched something that looked like a child’s first drawing of a rocket; a big stubby tube with a single huge engine bell at the bottom and a conical nose. Dwight then added a dimension along its height showing the scale of the thing: 150 meters.
Grakosh let out a little trill; Chao wasn’t quite sure what that vocalization meant. “Hmm, yes, that is quite large for a chemical-engined craft.”
Clara snorted. “Dwight, nobody has ever made a pressure-fed engine anywhere near that large. Damn thing’s a bomb, I mean, even more of a bomb than a normal fueled rocket.”
“Pressure-fed,” mused Grakosh. “Ah, you use high-pressure gas to push the fuel and oxidizer into the combustion chamber, instead of those ‘turbopumps’ you showed me earlier.”
Dwight nodded. “Exactly. The problem with pressure-fed engines is that the tanks need to be a lot thicker to take the pressure, which of course adds a lot of mass and reduces the available payload. But you make it big enough and it becomes more feasible. This thing was designed to be constructed at a shipyard out of steel, not out of any sort of aluminum or other fancy alloys. Then it would get floated out into the ocean and launched vertically from the water. Estimated total payload…five hundred and fifty tons into Low Earth Orbit.”
“Admit it, Dwight,” replied Blake with a smile. “Your inner nine-year old wants it built just to see the spectacle when they light the candle on that giant sonofabitch. Am I right?”
Dwight set the marker down with a chuckle. “You’re not wrong.” Then his smile faded. “But seriously, folks. Our industry is used to doing things onsey-twosey. Even our illustrious colleague from SpaceX will admit that. But now we need to get a lot of shit into orbit, and yesterday. We are so far behind the technological eight ball that it isn’t even funny. Now, yes, we hope that our new allies will help us out with gravitic drives and all sorts of other lovely tech…once the various countries stop yelling at each other about how exactly to do that. But Grakosh, let’s assume we snap our fingers and, poof, the Rithro is magically fixed. How long will it take for you to get back and bring support?”
“Well, we did leave relay drones at each system, so we’ll be able to report to them well before we get there physically, but to scramble a proper defense fleet…let’s say twelve to eighteen months before they arrive in-system. That’s assuming we head back, of course.”
“Why wouldn’t you?” asked Clara.
“Because once the Rithro is repaired, it will be the only ship in-system possibly able to fight a Breaker drone. We do not need to report in-person to the CEB; we only need to jump back to Barnard’s star to plant a relay drone and send our message. If we left to travel all the way back…well, humans would be defenseless. You have no orbital combat capability.”
Grakosh pondered the sketch. “At the moment, as impressive as that design is, it is theoretical. So. We need to have fewer launches…am I correct that if you go into low orbit, you can lift more?”
“Oh, yeah,” said Dwight. “Literally tons more.”
“Then perhaps we can do a hybrid solution. The landing boats are limited in their internal volume, but they have far more thrust capability. We were able to push our ship with them, at least for a while. If you loft the repair materials up inside a proper container, we might be able to tow them out to the Rithro using the boats. That way we don’t have any political problems with tech transfer.” He gestured with his single ‘tailhand’ in front of him, and a holographic display appeared. With great agility, he began tapping on nothing; a schematic of one of the landing boats appeared, with alien text on one side and below.
Every single engineer plus Chao looked at the display and a single thought ran through their minds.
I Want One.
Grakosh then switched to a schematic of the Earth-moon system and sketched out a rough transfer orbit out to a blinking dot at the trailing L5 point. “I do hope the visual translators are working properly. Unit conversion is such a pain in the tail. Chao, would you mind checking the math on this?”
The alien text then shimmered into readable figures. “Um sure!”
As she leaned over to examine the display, the two agents at the back of the room straightened up as one. Chao caught the movement out of the corner of her eye; by the time she glanced over both men already had pistols drawn.
One of the agents, a thin guy named Hanson, motioned towards the far corner of the room, away from the window and the door. “Everyone, please move over to there. Sit on the floor, and keep your heads down.”
Chao stuck out an arm, and Grakosh quickly coiled himself around it. Her heart started to beat faster, but she tried to remain outwardly calm. The engineers seated themselves as instructed with confused looks. She sat as well, and Grakosh unwrapped himself from her arm to sit in her lap. She tried to breathe slow, although by now she could practically feel her pulse. Hanson and the other agent backpedaled into the room; Hanson kept his pistol trained at the door, while the other agent went low and with impressive speed duck-walked to one edge of the room’s panorama out into the assembly area. He did a quick peek outside.
“Looks normal,” he said. Meanwhile Hanson was in the midst of muttering into his sleeve.
“What…what happened?” asked Chao.
“Not sure, ma’am,” replied Hanson. “There was some sort of attack in Washington, at Captain Sadaf’s speech. Some casualties, we don’t know details. There might be another attack in progress as well. The rest of the team is performing a sweep for any hostiles here.”
The other agent crouched again and gave Chao what he must have figured was a calming smile. “Just standard procedure, ma’am.”
Chao was not calmed. If the captain had been hurt, or worse…this was not going to go well.
Somehow Grakosh picked up on her inner turmoil. “Don’t worry, Chao,” he said quietly. “Captain Sadaf has the luck of the auhn’s Sacred Mothers. She’s seen us through worse.”
The engineers had finally picked up that there might be some physical danger coming their way, at least if the way the color left their faces was any indication.
Grakosh glanced at them all, again somehow intuiting that they needed something to get their minds off of the situation. “So!” he said brightly. “I believe we can solve the patching problem. I am more concerned about the damaged fusion engine. I did some remote surveying of the engine during our flight to Earth, and it is not going to be repairable with our on-board components. We’ll need to manufacture replacements here and ship them up.”
Clara made a pushing-away gesture with one hand. “Oh, no. That’s definite tech transfer, and we can’t be part of that…not yet, at least.” That was by far the biggest stipulation which had allowed the Rithro’s crew to remain on US soil. There was to be no transfer of alien technology to the USA; at the moment, most countries were in favor of setting up an international committee of scientists and engineers who would reverse-engineer what tech they could and hand out the blueprints to any country that asked.
But that didn’t satisfy everyone. Who would pay for the effort? What about countries with a smaller manufacturing base, who couldn’t properly take advantage of the new technology? For technologies with possible destructive applications, would they have to set up separate agencies to monitor and control their use? There was a lot of political and practical fiddly bits to get sorted, even among countries who were supposed allies.
Blake rubbed his bald spot. “I watched the UN debating the other day. First time ever. I have never seen so much said with so little actual content.”
Ned shrugged. “For once, I don’t envy the politicians. This whole thing is a hot potato.”
Grakosh looked with curiosity at Ned. “Hot potato?”
“Just a saying,” replied Dwight. “A potato is a starchy vegetable, you can make it a bunch of ways.”
“Ah, yes!” Grakosh perked up. “I have had mashed potatoes. Quite delicious.”
“Right, well you can also bake them whole. The notion is that after baking it’s really hot, so if you try to pick it up with bare hands…” Dwight now mimed juggling a potato back and forth. “Ow, ow, ow, too hot!”
“Interesting metaphor.”
Agent Hanson murmured into his sleeve again. “Confirm.” He kept his eyes fixed on the door. “Okay, folks, the sweep is almost over. Nobody here on campus who shouldn’t be here.”
“They might not have known I was here,” said Grakosh. “I am assuming this is an organized effort to kill me and my crew. Might be a bad assumption.”
“Could be,” said Chao. Now her guts went cold again, wondering if Sadaf or anyone else she knew were dead.
Both agents then stood, each touching their earpiece as if they didn’t quite believe what they were hearing. “No fuckin’ way,” said Hanson.
The other agent grinned, this time in true mirth. “Oh, that is too precious.” The two men looked at each other and chuckled, which Chao figured counted as a full-throated belly laugh for a Secret Service agent.
“Well?” asked Blake. “Care to let us in on the joke?”
Hanson shrugged. “It’s gonna be all over the news soon enough, reporters are already on the scene. We just got a report from the Decatur PD. About five miles from here, a delivery van was heading in this direction, well over the speed limit. The driver took a corner too fast and flipped the damn thing right onto its side. Slid into a few parked cars, but no bystanders hurt. Witnesses saw a bunch of dudes in black armor, toting rifles, un-ass out of the back of the thing and run off like headless chickens…in the other direction from here. Our guess is they were headed to this location, but we’re double-checking just to make sure none of ‘em made it to the campus. We all should be able to head out in ten minutes.”
“All head out?” asked Clara. “But we’re not a target.”
“That you know of,” replied Hanson. “Until we get this whole shitshow straightened out, right now y’all are considered potential targets. They might have some contingency in place.” He snickered. “I cannot believe that shit. You ever heard of anything like that?” he asked the other agent.
“Nah.” The man winked at the huddled people. “Important tip, folks. Never, ever let the FNG drive the car.”
“FNG?” asked Ned.
“Fuckin’ New Guy,” said Blake.
__________
Horace raised his head with a groan as he came to. Okay…check surroundings. Darkened room, with a single light from above illuminating the area around him. He was in a chair…no he was in a chair, with his wrists handcuffed to each arm and duct-tape around his ankles. He felt like he’d been on the wrong end of a few punches from Mike Tyson. Of course, all of his gear was gone. But he still wore clothes, at least.
In front of his chair, about five feet away, stretched a big oak table. Seated on the other side of the table was a man who put Horace in mind of a college professor. The man’s light-gray suit was impeccably pressed and didn’t have a speck of lint on it. His pale blue tie was neatly knotted at his neck. He had dark, slicked-back hair and wore wire-rimmed spectacles with round lenses. The spectacles sat perched on the end of his aquiline nose as he wrote with a flowing hand in a yellow legal pad in front of him. Two manila folders, each filled with multiple pages, lay neatly before him.
The man looked up as Horace let out a soft groan. “Ah, you’re awake!” His accent was British and quite proper. “Excellent. I fear my colleagues were a little over-enthusiastic in bringing you here. I do apologize.”
Horace probed his teeth with his tongue; one of his rear molars might be loose. “I want a lawyer. You can’t interrogate me without a lawyer present.”
The man leaned back and smiled. “Of course. Unfortunately, there are certain circumstances which have turned this from a simple matter of charging you with six homicides…of federal agents, no less…into something more of a, shall we say, existential crisis. I shall do my best to explain it to you, and if you need clarification at any time, please feel free to ask.”
Horace snorted. “So you must be good cop. Where’s bad cop? Waiting behind me with a rubber hose?”
“My colleague is on his way, he should arrive shortly. There was certain information he wanted me to see…information relevant to this interview.”
“Interview? I am a United States citizen. I have my rights.”
“Of course you do, Mister Bradshaw.” The man pulled the leftmost folder towards him and flipped it open, then began paging through its contents. “Horace Eugene Bradshaw. Graduated from high school with middling grades, applied to the Baltimore police academy. Was subsequently ‘kicked out’, as you say, after a rather unfortunate altercation with a superior officer. Held multiple jobs since; retail, some building maintenance. A few cases of assault, all involving alcohol. The profile of a bitter man without purpose. Exactly the type to wind up being taken under the wing of some radical group.”
“I want a lawyer present.”
“Patience, Mr. Bradshaw. As I said, I will explain. Now, as you may be aware, there were multiple attacks on the various locations where our alien guests were located. These attacks were coordinated, and appear to be well-funded. The attack in Washington, in particular, showed quite a high level of technical competence.”
He slid Horace’s file off to one side and pulled the other file towards him. “We did recover enough of the projectile to know it was a modified mortar round. Modified to have increased range, plus it had a quite ingenious home-made and fin-guided GPS system to ensure a precision strike with only one shot.”
The man then held up a picture showing a long tube, canted at an angle, sitting on a gravel rooftop. “We found the tube itself five kilometers from the site of the strike. Longer than the standard portable mortar barrel, again for increased range. It was rather foolish of your comrades not to take it with them; we suspect they were spooked and ran right after firing the round. Which is fortunate, I suppose. Multiple rounds might have resulted in a much greater number of casualties, including Captain Sadaf. Assuming you had more than one round, of course.”
“I want…”
“Yes, I know. Please, let me finish. Right now, the FBI is searching for who purchased the components of that mortar round; it should not take them long to track down the buyer or buyers. After all, you can’t purchase such things at one’s local shop.”
The man shut the folder and steepled his fingers. “I hope you can understand our dilemma. Putting this together with your attack on Camp David, we have a well-armed, technically competent group with inside help who is seeking to murder our alien guests and perhaps trigger a two-front war against us with the Coalition on one side and some genocidal robots on the other. Where there are three attacks, there could be more planned, even as we speak. Of course, we are moving our guests to a new, secure location…a location which I will not reveal, of course…and there could be ambushes already planned. You see, even if this was a normal legal case you would not be necessarily entitled to a lawyer if there is a so-called ‘ticking clock’ involved.” He smiled ruefully. “And I fear that there is some almighty ticking going on.”
Horace shook his head. Why did everybody take them the aliens at their word that these so-called ‘Breakers’ even existed? He took in a breath to tell this posh bastard that, again, he wanted a lawyer, when a door behind him opened and flooded the room with light. As he blinked, the door shut again. A lean man strolled into view, wearing military fatigues and with a folder under one arm…oh, no. It was him.
“Hey, Little Buddy-O!” said the newcomer, grinning as he saw Horace flinch.
The man at the table rose and gravely shook the other’s hand. “Good to see you, Matthew.”
“Tristan,” replied Matt. “Looking sharp, as always.”
“Well, one must look smart even with such a distasteful job before us.” Tristan turned to face Horace. “I have just explained to Mr. Bradshaw the gravity of the situation, in particular the need to know as soon as possible if any other attacks are planned. Mr. Bradshaw, were there any points I covered that require clarification?”
Matt grinned as he leaned on one corner of the table. “Shithead probably doesn’t know anything.”
“Most likely not,” sighed Tristan as he seated himself again. “If they had any sense they’ll have a proper cell structure.”
“Oh, hey, check this out.” Matt dropped his folder onto the table next to Tristan, then continued his smiling at Horace. “You’ll get a kick out of it.”
With a raised eyebrow, Tristan began reading. “Hmm…ah, yes. very nice. I see our friends at the FBI have followed up on the leads from that mortar round with their usual zeal.”
“Yeah, they’re good at tracking unusual purchases. They love that shit. But flip past that, get to the good stuff.”
Tristan did so, and for the first time Horace saw a look of genuine shock on the man’s face. “They did what?”
Matt laughed. “Dumped the fuckin’ van on its side. Then they all piled out and took off like jackrabbits.”
Tristan let out a small, sensible chuckle. “Well. It seems I may have overestimated our opponents’ competence.”
Horace tried to look stoic, but inside he felt dread. The van must be the one for the ULA attack; it sounded like they had failed.
Matt shook a playful finger at Horace. “Aw, now. Don’t try to play all serious with me. I saw that look. You know what that means, don’t you? I think you know more than you let on.”
“I don’t have to tell you anything,” said Horace. “Not without a lawyer present.” He clung to the notion like a mantra, although he was now getting a sense of just how fucked he was.
Matt walked forward and squatted, putting himself below Horace’s eye-level. “Now, my Little Buddy-O. I get it, you’re committed to the cause. You’ve psyched yourself up for this, you promised yourself that you’d die rather than roll over on your comrades. But. Let’s be reasonable. At least tell us what you know about any raids planned, even if you don't know much. You might have overheard something. We’ll keep the questions all about that. You don’t have to say a word about anything else. We can wait to ask you about that when you have a lawyer present, and we’ll do it all legal and proper. But I gotta warn ya, pretty much any attorney worth anything is gonna tell you it doesn’t look good for y’all. We got you and your buddies nailed. We got ballistics matches with the rounds which killed the six agents, and you were interrupted in the act of trying to kill a bunch more people…which presumably included all of the aliens at Camp David.”
Horace said nothing. This was how they did it, he knew that much from his time in the academy. The worst thing a suspect could do was remain silent. The police had to get them talking, about anything. If he started talking they’d worm everything out of him…then probably drop him down a deep hole somewhere.
Tristan sighed and stood. “Well, I fear it seems we will be here for a while. I fancy a cup of tea, even if it is an American brand. Matthew, would you care for something?”
Matthew rose as well. “Sure! Coffee, two creams and one sugar.” He pointed at Horace. “How about you? You want some coffee?”
Horace blinked in surprise. “Um, sure,” he said automatically. “Black, please.”
“Are you sure?” asked Matt. “If I’m honest, the coffee here is kinda meh at best.”
Upon Horace’s nod, Tristan walked with an even tread behind him. There was once again a bright, brief light as he exited the room.
Horace took a deep breath. This was it, this bastard was gonna start beating on him.
But instead Matt walked around the table and began flipping idly through the second file, the one on the mortar attack. His voice was mild. “I gotta say, you must have someone in your group with quite a bit of techie knowhow. I have seen some GPS-guided mortar rounds in action, but they’re not really what you would call man-portable. And built in somebody’s basement, no less.”
He continued flipping. “Interesting mix, though. Some very competent behavior, plus your gear was first-rate. You’ve got some funding and resources behind you. But man, when it comes to squad tactics you make the Keystone Kops look like fuckin’ Seal Team Six.”
Horace said nothing, waiting for the beating to start. But instead Matt just continued his casual perusal. After a long, long few minutes of silence, however, the room was once again briefly flooded with light as Tristan entered. He walked into view carrying a cardboard tray with three Styrofoam cups. He handed two of them to Matt. “Two cream, one sugar. And this is black, as the gentleman requested.” Tristan walked back around to his chair, and picked his own cup off of the tray. He blew on it a bit and grimaced. “I do wish you Americans would stop boiling your tea with the leaves in it. Tea needs to be encouraged, not bullied.”
Meanwhile, Matt set his own coffee down and walked towards Horace. The latter flinched as the man reached into a pocket with his free hand. But all that came out was a small key; with a deft touch Matt unlocked the cuff around Horace’s left sleeve and then pressed the cup into the now-freed hand. “It’s lukewarm, I’m afraid. Pot must be almost empty.”
Now that he saw the coffee in his hand, Horace wondered if something was slipped into it. It would be the ideal way to get him to drop his defenses without realizing.
Matt must have picked up on his trepidation and shrugged. “Hey, drink it or don’t. Pour it on your foot for all I care. I’ll swap, if you want.”
With a trembling hand, Horace took a sip. As Matthew had promised, it was bitter and barely hot. But it tasted like coffee.
“I don’t suppose Mr. Bradshaw spoke of anything while I was out?” asked Tristan.
“Nope. He’s gone full clam.”
“Unfortunate.”
Horace drank more coffee and said nothing.
“Yeah.” Matt sipped at his coffee and made a grimace of his own. “Jesus, this is almost cold. All right, I gotta go nuke this thing.”
“For the last time, you heathen, you ‘microwave’ something, not ‘nuke’ it.” Tristan began unbuttoning his suit jacket.
Matt chuckled as he strolled off. “Oh hey, they refilled the vending machine. You wanna cherry-cheese danish?”
With great care, Tristan hung his jacket on the back of the chair. “Good lord, no. Those things are revolting.” He unfastened his tie and with equal gravity laid it over the top of his jacket.
“Nah, all the preservatives give it extra flavor.” With another bright slam, the pair were once again alone in the shadowed room.
Horace was, by now, thoroughly confused as Tristan unbuttoned his collar. The latter then took a careful sip of his tea. “Still too bloody hot,” he muttered. “Damned Yanks. Ah, Mr. Bradshaw, forgive me. On occasion I tend to slip into the vernacular, you might say.” He walked around the desk and gripped Horace’s coffee cup. The sudden physical contact with his fingers made Horace flinch. “May I?” He pulled the cup from Horace’s unresisting grasp and turned to place it on the table, then re-locked Horace’s left hand to the chair. As Tristan walked back towards his tea, he unbuttoned his cuffs and rolled up his sleeves to the elbow, then took off his spectacles and placed them on the table.
“What the fuck is going on?” snapped Horace. “This is bullshit, you’re just running around, going in and out, giving me coffee, taking it away. You’re trying to confuse me and make me say something. I know how this works.”
Tristan picked up his tea and returned to stand in front of the bound man. “No, Mr. Bradshaw, I fear you have completely mis-read the relationship between myself and my esteemed colleague.”
The man leaned forward as his face hardened into an emotionless mask. “You see, Matthew is the one who always plays good cop.”
With that, Tristan up-ended his scalding-hot tea right into Horace’s crotch.

Here i am again, focusing on my breathing again, panicking again. Im not the same person i was, not fysical, not mental.
Ive never been this depressed or this anxious. His addicition broke me. Great that hes sober (bc hes not in recovery as much as i like) but im addicited in my own way now.
Today was terrible. I hate summer. I hate nice weather.
On Wednesday we often visit my mom with the kids. She lives near a park. I live in the Netherlands so parks are tiny (like maybe the whole thing is 3km Maybe!. Its next to the Maas which is sorrof a river. Its nice. I grew up in that park basically. Me and my partner walk it with the dog very often. The way there past the water wat back through the park itself.
Today we walked there and towards the little bridges that go by the water. Some girls in biminis. Already weird place , already getting anxious. I decide to walk past them faster, my pa doing a Great job not looking at them.
Next, my panic sets in. A girl with Huge breasts, topless there. Next to the bridges by the water. Just walking around in underpants.no top, no nothing. Boobs out.
Its been 2-3 hours im still in panic mode. I cant get over it. Ive dugg my nails so deep into my skin it was bleeding and i want to just run away and jump off a bridge.
Ive never been this ugly in my life. I dont get enough sleep, or drink enough water. My boobs are bigish now, but super saggy, not the normal kind but like a tea bagg nips hanging bown in a trangle shape (sorry for the description) my stomach is too big and also too loose. My whole body is so fat and ugly.
I weigh 94 kg, and am only 172cm . Im extremely obese at this point. I gave birth 3 months ago and i weigh more than i did when i gave birth.
Ive never hated myself this much. Ive never been this anxious.
Please someone just take me out of this hell, and in a safe place where i never have to leave. I love my kids but im taking so much away from them. No beaches, now no park. Im killing myself slowly and running them.
Please, just let me go.

Mtl law book
Controlled drugs and substances act, cdsa. Substances on this list are controlled substances. Schedules are categories substances fall into
If lose case can be deported
If you possess over the legal limit of pot can be imprisoned post 2018 still. 2018 is when pot was legalized.
There are provincial and federal laws
The police arrest but the crown charges. Crown can charge for a different crime then police arrested for.
If you are being prosecuted then there are charges against you in a criminal file
The crown and police have a lot discretionary power with your treatment and your file. Crown is like prosecutor, not police.
Director of penal and criminal prosecutions, DPCP, prosecutor provincial boss, instruct and provide guidance for prosecutors. Other provinces have their own name.
Jury or judge acquit which means your innocent. Prosecutor can also withdraw charges "withdrawn" status.
Sentence are possible consequences of being guilty
Priors are prior criminal record
Law enforcement officer: immigration officers, police, youth protection agents, municipal inspectors, correctional officers etc.
Black, indigenous, racialized and migrant communities, people who are known to the police, are targeted more by police, meaning police also violate their human rights more often. Sentenced more harshly than whites. Drug laws are historically created to target these groups.
Systematic bias: those with authority, even incl teachers, have explicit or implicit bias against certain communities
Racial profiling: officers target certain groups of ppl and postal codes more.
Anti gang squad, anti gun squad, anti radicalization are dog whistles for targetting minorities. Also includes applying additional surv eillance to target group.
During say a anti gun police raids, they can prosecute the raided for any illegal drugs the cops find. This results in potential criminals fearing to call the police bc if there is an investigation the police could nail the caller. If a sex worker has HIV and does not disclose their HIV status it counts as sexual assault, meaning if a John beats her up, risky to call the cops on him.
If have PR status and found guilty could be deported/removal. Some drug addicts only are PRs.
Anytime you speak to police you are making a statement. Crown can use these statements to convince someone else to plead guilty or convict. Your silence cannot incriminate but your statement might.
Police allowed to lie. Will do anything really to get a statement. Don't react to any of their behaviours, comments, or questions since that can be a statement. Try to remain silent. But many ppl do not have the privilege of remaining quiet, ex that can worsen police behavior.
Rehearse how to speak to police without providing any incriminating statements if you think you want to make a statement.
Police cannot arrest you if they don't identity at least 1 offence. On arrest they give undertaking paper or hold you until court date.
After released by police, prosecutor might decide not to prosecute. If police are holding you after arrest your 1st court date happens after 1-3 days. Sentencing may be postponed until therapy/school/work etc is complete.
1st court case is usually 1-3 days after arrest, then bail applies for the 2nd court date in like months/yrs. When released after arrest can be released without conditions.
If plead guilty with lawyer, lawyer can negotiate to have certain charges withdrawn
Cannabis act covers cannabis.
You can be acquitted of 1 charge while charged with the others
Willing blindness: you are supposed to inquire about the nature of a delivery you are driving if the package seems suspicious.
4(1) Possession, "Simple possession": to prosecute evidence needed: knowledge/willful blindness that substance in your possession and knowledge/willful blindness that it is a controlled substance named in the cdsa and measure of control/consent to their possession Law requires measurable quantity of drug, ex residue in a bag If there are drugs in your car and you are the driver or passenger, it cannot be the only reason for a conviction. Possession - drugs don't have to be on you. Willful blindness - you ought to have know you have the drugs in your possession Knowledge of your possession is proven by it's location (hidden or in sight), whether police have statements by you or others. Schedule 4 substances and lower cannot be found guilty of simple possession, but can be found guilty of other offences like trafficking
Double doctoring/ 4(2) obtaining a practitioner: asked dr for prescription or drugs without disclosing that info about the drug that u received in the last 30 days. Both for personal usage and for dealing. Uncommon charge.
5(1) Drug trafficking, trafficking in substance: proof must prove that you did 1 of the following or that you offered to do one of the following: - Selling drug or prescription: incl if the sale is not completed. - helping or encouraging someone to buy/sell. Bringing the buyer to the seller and if without this help the sale would never have taken place. Introducing a potential buyer to a seller is sometimes prosecutable depending on the judge. It sounds like it might only be an offense if accused works for the dealer and arranges the meeting between buyer and seller, but not clear. - giving drugs for free or for "free" is still trafficking - cannot administer illegal drugs even if asked too - if transporting home for personal consumption only, simple possession. But if or the purposes of sharing with friend, roommate then trafficking. Exceptions: inside safe injection site for drug checking purposes. Buying doesn't seem to be trafficking. Selling a prescription (the paper) is trafficking - Max sentence is life
5(2) Possession for the purposes of trafficking: simple possession + purpose/intent of trafficking. Large quantity helpful to prosecutor but not required. Presence of measuring, packaging equipment, multiple bagged quantities, large amounts of cash, notebooks can be evidence. - Max sentence is life
Drug trafficking: sale, gift, administrating drug, transport of drug.
Case study: Nat brought cdsa drug to share with client at motel. Client overdoses and Nat has to call 911. Police show up too. She admits to cops that she bought the drugs and that he asked for them so the cops know it was his idea. She is convicted of trafficking.
6(1) Import (or export) and 6(2) possession for the purpose of import (or export): all must be proven: Bought drugs/organized their entry into Canada Knowledge/willful blindness/recklessness that controlled substance Intention to import the substance Bring drugs or organize their entry into the country: happens as soon as drug enters/leaves any country and continues until drug arrives at final destination in Canada in a person's possession. If in transit through mtl and Toronto offence has take place in both locations. You don't have to have been personally transporting the drugs or even present at the place of entry to be charged. If police intercept the drugs in transit, irrelevant to defense. Crown doesnt have to prove you know the precise nature of the drug. Recklessness: ex accused caught with 2 bottles of wine that contain dissolved cocaine, since the cocaine amount was large, the producer prob wouldn't give this bottle to a blind courier. Behaviour following importation may provide convincing evidence of participation in offence: meeting with ppl, receiving calls of short duration at late hours, coded language by accused+accomplices, using public telephones to talk to "accomplices" despite owning a cell. After drug arrives to final destination, other ppl cannot be prosecuted for "possession for purposes of import" Police are specifically looking for fake suitcases on flights being carried by women 30s-40s
7(1) Production of substance, 7.1(1) possession, sale, etc for use in production or trafficking: production - manufacturing, harvesting, growing, etc. Offence includes offering to produce drug Evidence must prove you have some control over location/operation of production: cannot be convicted for simply being in a place of production. Police usually do detailed surveillance against accused first. Warrants for interception of private communication, track/trace (surveillance device on car), garbage searches, search warrants Police usually find out when purchase of large or suspicious purchases that are commonly used in drug production.
If police are at your house for a DV investigation and they see a baggie of what looks like heroin, can result in arrest.
Possession means: you have it on your personal possession, you know a friend is holding it for you, you know that you have hidden it somewhere. If your friend is holding a cdsa drug for you and they know it's cdsa drug, then you both are in possession. If the cops raid your grandma's house and you stores cdsa drugs there, she will not be convicted.
Knowledge of the drug: you just have to know it's a controlled substance, not what it is specifically to be convicted.
Judges sentence more harshly depending on drug type. Ex if there are current anti meth events or media, worse sentence.
Possession of methadone/opioid agonist treatments (OAT): - Health care providers don't need permission to prescribe, administer, sell/provide methadone to patients. Patients need a ordeprescription. To own methadone must be a patient or health care provider basically.
Initial meeting with a judge after arrest is a bail hearing.
To get bail: - better odds if minor crime - have $ via bail or signing a "recognizance" that says you'll pay bail. Get both back later on. A "surety" (friend) can pay for you. - fixed address that isn't a homeless shelter - ties to the community - family, legal job, studies, community engagement - proof of how will support self legally - having a friend reserve you a spot in rehab - indigenous
Conditions can prevent you from owning a cell phone.
Causing death by criminal negligence and manslaughter for giving drugs to someone who overdosed. rare. Can be convicted if you and a friend are shooting up together and you shoot them up at their request and then they die. Accidentally bringing a drug that contains fentanyl and your friend dies. Harsher punishment if accused is much older than decreased or if deceased is not much of a drug user.
Crown can withdraw some charges but keep others.
A guilty plea only may help improve sentencing. If pleading guilty better to do it before the trial.
Didn't type up schedule 1-7 drugs pg 38, 39 Schedule 1: opioids, meth, Adderall, ghb, methadone, MDMA Schedule 2: synthetic cannabinoids, most cannabis is regulated by the cannabis act now. 3: shrooms, lsd 4: zolpidem, steroids, benzodiazepines 5: not in the book if it exists 6: ingredients to manufacture drugs 9: manufacturing equipment ex machines to fill pills
Selling other medications like idk ibuprofen could be a civil matter where the gov might issue a large fine against you and failure to pay the fine results in conviction.
Sentencing - court determines punishment, ex prison, fines
If your lawyer and prosecutor agree on a specific sentence during a guilty plea, judge will most likely accept that, but judge doesn't have to.
Types of sentences: un/conditional discharge, fine, suspended sentence with probation and conditions (ex community service, rehab) imprisonment in institution or in community.
Being guilty can have other effects like travel ban to USA.
Sentencing considers: type and context of offence, circumstances of arrest, criminal record/priors, first charge for this kind of offence, current situation, level of detail and assurances in rehab plan, are there victims, prosecuted as summary or indictable offense. Unofficially judge considers bias like being anti-sex worker.
Prosecuted for either indictable offense or summary offense. sometimes the law decides which, sometimes prosecutor does. Determines max sentence and severity judge will serve.
Indictable offense - more serious. Some crimes are always indictable. Summary - less serious
Aggravating factors - reasons court gives harsher sentence: - Not having a drug addiction at the time of offence - priors - commited offence for financial gain - breach of trust - etc
Mitigating factors - reasons court gives better sentence: - guilty plea - been in drug rehab if had drug addiction at the time of the crime (get letters from case workers) - age - remorse - community involvement - etc
Mandatory minimum sentences, Mms.
Since 2012 Mms higher and a bunch of drugs moved up in schedule
Gladue report: - optional for accused. - affects all parts of court - prepared by some org - for anyone who identifies as indigenous
Impact of race and culture assessment IRCA: - A few provinces have this - gladue for black ppl - judge can legally ignore it - exists bc black ppl have faced a lot of adversity
Stimga = negative stereotypes
Ppl who use drug usually get worse treatment from justice system.
If you participate in a treatment program pre sentencing, it can reduce your sentence oand delay legal proceedings. Court needs to recognize its value and legitimacy. Court can also force you to attend a program of their choosing which can be like prison-lite. You can propose your plan to the court.
Special tribunals in mtrl regulate the provincial court treatment programs.
Many sex workers gain access to new resources and opportunities which can allow them change their condition and protect themselves. Anti sex worker laws deny them of this and their agency.
Drug addicts and sex workers are constantly stimgatized especially if they do sex work and use drugs.
Sex workers: Try to represent as a victim for a reduced sentence: - apologize and show remorse about your sex work - talk about how you're a victim of sex work - allow the court to paint your sex work as all the problems in your life - make no claim about the useful of sex work in your life - be poor, get exploited by clients/pimps - when the court tells you to stop talking to other sex workers, drug users, clients, do it.
If you are between 12-17 YO: - youth criminal justice act or director of youth protection applies to you, 1 or the other, you can sorta pick - "very serious" crimes you're prosecuted as an adult, so public criminal record - if an adult works with you on a crime it worsen the adults sentence
Police can charge you for possession of a weapon of they find a scissors or pocket knife
If police find you with a gun, they can easily give you 3 yrs. Weapons bans are 10 yrs.
Immigrants: - try to get either type of discharge (conditional or unconditional), that's the same as not guilty in immigration law. - refugees without Canadian citizenship can be deported - if you don't have PR, a hybrid offense or 2 summary offenses can get you deported - PR: receive a 6 month sentence or guilty of a crime that has max sentence of 10 yrs. - with an expired visa, cops database doesn't have that kind of info, but they could call Canadian Border Safety Agency (CBSA)
worse charges for drug trafficking if offence happens near school or other place frequented by minors, or on correctional facility grounds, or in a gang, setting traps, using someone else's building, creating hazards in a residential neighborhood
Indictable offence usually don't have fines associated with them.
Cannabis act (CA) - distribution and trafficking are the same thing - having on possession for sale is illegal - public place: public has assess too and any vehicle located in public view - generally refers to dried cannabis, usually 30g or equivalent
Illicit cannabis is illegally obtained cannabis. It doesn't have the gov stamp of approval
Some ppl give a fake name to cops bc risk of being identified is worse than the risk of obstruction. If you give police a fake address, they might mail court papers to that address and you won't be able to receive them. If you give the cops a fake name and need to retract it, try to say it's a "nickname but my legal name is x"
Recording cops: - legal for you to record cops unless property owner has rules against it, recording actually does interfer with the investigation - police may tell you that it's illegal. Might charge with obstruction, or say you're breaking like privacy, take your recording device, demand you erase recording, say they're seizing your phone bc it contains evidence - if police seize your phone, they could find incriminating evidence to charge you or someone else with another crime
Frisking: - cops can legally if u are arrested. Only supposed to if they thinking you have a dangerous item on you and are a threat to someone's safety. If you get upset this increases the odds they'll search you. If they are searching you for weapons not supposed to search you for other things like drugs, phones, tattoos etc. They can use this to search for needles to identify you as a drug user - searching you for evidence of the crime they say you committed - if you're temporarily detained/being questioned same thing - if you give them permission to search you or your property, they will. To prevent this say loudly "I do not consent to the search" and "je ne consens pas a une fouille" (jeh neh koh sehn pah ah oon foo yeh) - if an illegal search results in say drug charges, the drug charges could be withdrawn - if unlawful arrest (ex police brutality) then the subsequent search might be illegal
Seizures: - can seize items in a warrant. Ask to see and read the warrant. - if the warrant is to search a location, must have that address, specific area they can search, and list items theyre searching for - ask cops for a copy of the report identifying the seized items and where the items are being held Can seize items without warrant if they think it's related to a crime, ex: - weapons that may have been used in the offense, Items that provide evidence like phones, scales, note books, items obtained through criminal offenses like money from drug selling, They can seize items before any arrests While you're detained they will frequently go through your phone Note down: everything they seize, when, whom, where you were at the time. Careful about "obstructing" police while you do this, record officer name, patrol car number, badge number and other identitying info, knowing seizing location helpful for trying to get your things back, if an item is evidence you won't get it back til the end of the case, if it's considered proceeds of a crime you'll likely never get it back, illegal things you will never get back
While detained, you can try asking a guard or lawyer if you can use your phone to get phone numbers, usually they'll say no. Guards will be able to read your phone while this happens. Memorize the numbers of potential sureties.
Don't have incriminating evidence about yourself or your associates
Drug use equipment: - can legally distribute unused drug equipment - if you have drugs on you, having sterile drug equipment can be used as additional evidence against you - may still be seized by security - If you're hanging out with a drug users and you're searched and they find sterile needles, they may then search your companion
Being detained: - physical detention is like being cuffed - psychological - they tell you you're not free to leave/act like you can't leave - can detain for: you're connected to a crime, being a witness, victim, breaking a bylaws, warrant however discretionary power means they might not for a warrant, being present at a raid - technically don't have to identify yourself, but police will likely arrest you for obstruction - police have to tell you why
Being stopped and questioned: - just bc you are in the area a crime took place, doesn't mean they can stop and question you legally unless you match suspect description. They will anyway if they want
Warrants apply country wide
Arrested: - cops must tell you what you're being arrested for - they'll let you go with an "appearance notice" that may include conditions - you'll receive a "summons" in the mail is really an appearance notice - keep you in detention for a few days until a judge sees you - If you have kids, get a criminal lawyer and family law lawyer - if you're an immigrant criminal lawyer and immigration lawyeexpert - arrest warrant: must have name of person to arrested
You can negotiate conditions, like if banned from an area but have dr appointments there. Lawyer can do this.
If cops question you or tell you to go with them: - ask "am I free to leave? Am I being detained or arrested" if unclear ask again, if still unclear make motions to leave and leave if they don't stop you - if detained: "what am I being detained for?" - if arrested: "what am I being arrested for?" -- you have the right to ask and to speak to a lawyer - technically illegal for them to detain you due to trying to bring you to a shelter or rehab etc
Police legally have to wear badge number and name tag and have to identify themselves if you ask them to
After abusive police interaction, note down: - when, where event happened - held anywhere? Conditions of where you were held? Location? - officer names, numbers, car numbers - what was searched? When, where, how did it happen? - who was searched? How and where were they searched? Name and badge number of cop. - Dmges? take pics - who was detained? We're they offered an interpreter of needed? Do they speak the same language as the officer? - give all the info to lawyer
If cop grabs you and you pull away they might try to charge you with assault of an officer
Prep for dealing with police: - anyone in my party break a law? Any warrants? Youth protection involved with anyone? - if we're stopped by police, are we all staying silent, all giving the same info? Other plan? - are cops targetting me, the neighborhood? - if cops targetting someone else, can I walk away? - is my hangout area heavily surveilled? Is my party heavily surveilled? - if I have id, does it reflect the name I'm gonna tell the cops? What happens if an officer shows up who knows me? - how to respond to cops if my kids are with me? - condition breach? - am I carrying anything arrestable? Plan if they search me? - are all my incriminating items hidden from plain view? - what police consequences is most harmful to me? What am I most concerned about? What am I willing to do to avoid these? - can I role play with someone?
Good Samaritan overdose act (Good Sam law): - If someone is overdosing and you call 911, police legally aren't supposed to arrest you or anyone else there, incl overdosee for simple possession or simple possession condition breaches - everything else they can arrest you for. And they are known to use the opportunity to extract arrests Consider: throwing away/hiding your illegal drugs, tell others there you called 911 so they can leave, tell dispatch that area is safe so maybe police won't come, should I leave and get someone else to stay or leave a note on the overdosees,
Security guards, transit officers, etc: - no legal requirement to speak with them - they can citizens arrest you physically legally if they see you doing it - cannot legally search you - can legally use reasonable force to remove you from a building - Montreal public transit security can become special constables easily and can detain and arrest ppl suspected of criminal activity on mtl transit. Can access police database. - All public transit security can fine and issues tickets related to their public transit. You're required to provide them name, address, dob
Driving a vehicle: - if you are driving, police have more authority, like asking for ID, breathalyze - police can stop vehicles bc: see a driving violation, believe the vehicle is related or a crime, routine police blockade for like drunk drivers passing - often use license plates to determine if the car was stolen or a getaway vehicle or whatnot - police pulling over ppl in high crime areas for no other reason is illegal - important to not have knife, drug residue on plain view - if you're too shaky, pink eyes, they know lol in the car as drug dealers, they're more likely to find you suspicious - after arresting driver, they can legally search your vehicle if it's related to why they arrested you, ex they arrest you for drugs and then they can then search the vehicle for more drugs - more likely to search your vehicle if you're wearing a bulletproof vest - can search the vehicle legally for "safety", they see you have weapons charges and then they search the vehicle or if they have reason to fear for imminent evidence loss, fear imminent threat to someone's safety - legally easier for police to search your car then pat you down. - police can only legally ask driver for ID unless they turn the stop into an investigation in which case they can then ask everyone in the vehicle for ID - sleeping in your vehicle: take keys out of ignition, sleep in the back. Police may still harrass you and say it's in relation to criminal charges
Investigations: - begin for any reason, even via anonymous tip line calls - often police with surveill and if they see suspicious activity, they get a warrant
Residential location: - greatest privacy from police here legally, however: if owner unknown, abandon, frequented by marginalized ppl, police more likely to invade - when can they enter your house: generally police cannot enter without a warrant unless the person who answers the door consents, if they think someone inside is about to commit a crime or that a crime is in progress, in hot pursuit and the runner enters the house, if they think someone inside's life is in danger - if you don't consent to them entering say: I do NOT consent to you entering, je ne consens pas a ce que vous rentrez (jeh neh Kon sen pah ah seh voo rehn-tray) - can get warrants to enter for unpaid tickets, money owed to revenue Quebec - police search your home when: someone being arrested there and police think something is a danger to other potential occupants, police fear imminent lose of evidence, medical emergencies (Medicare card, suicide notes) - if they see something suspicious (drugs, scales, large sums of cash) in plain view (from your door, or anything they see if you allow them to enter. Even if you let them in, they're not supposed to search your house or roam to other rooms) they can seize it. - an arrest warrant isn't enough to search a place
Hotel/motel: for your room, generally same rules as residential, but a bit less privacy - for public areas, no privacy benefits - if cops get keys from hotel staff or permission from hotel staff they'll use that to enter your room - often will say the housekeeping staff saw something suspicious
House keepers: - if they see drugs, lots of condoms, paraphernalia, sex work publications or drug publications they may contact police. There is an increasing trend for this happening under the guise of human trafficking prevention esp if you're a marginalized/racialized women who uses drugs. - they are allowed to enter your room
Hospital: - usually won't provide the cops with much info unless they have a warrant for a patient. Sometimes even will not let cops into your hospital room - will contact law enforcement. Usually have low threshold to attempt to kick out ppl as it relates to arguments, raised voices, disruptions - if you are with a patient, hospital more likely to provide info on you to cops, so careful what info you give cops - as a patient u may have to change clothes and that could lead to dropping suspicious items out of your pocket - if you go to the hospital with a friend, tell them to stfu about providing info about you - bringing a friend can help by taking notes, advocating for you. Ideally your friend isn't know to the cops, can stay calm.
Supervised injection site, SIS: - inside cannot be charged with simple possession. Cannot give to others or administer to others. - staff cannot be charged with trafficking for providing the venue or material facilitating the drug usage. Same with staff checking drugs, which would normally be trafficking - police can do whatever outside of the building. If arrested for simple possession, could tell lawyer you were on your way to the sis/on your way back home - if you are investigated in relation to a sis, make sure your lawyer speaks with the sis bc your lawyer prob doesn't know the basics of the sis. - to use a sis, usually don't need to provide real name or info. If you give your real info, easier for medical staff at hospital to look you up if needed
Speaking to police: - if arrested cops suppose to stop asking you questions once you request to speak to a lawyer, but they will often still ask you questions anyway. After you speak to a lawyer they have the right to question you again - they will attempt to provoke you into speaking - interrogator will ask random questions to build rapport (ex personal life, interests). Will often promise or claim to help you if you talk to them - legally can lie about most things. Ex evidence, other ppl's statements, "if you leave now we can't help you later", "if you cooperate now you will get a more lenient sentence". - don't react to their questions
Initial appearance in from of a judge before bail hearing: - you appear before a judge within a day. If it's a weekend or holiday then after that. Have a lawyer come with you. This is when you plea guilty or not guilty - can try to exchange 1 release condition for another, discuss this with your lawyer beforehand - if you receive a fine, some organizations can you get a payment plan. Community service can also be used to pay off a fine.
Bail hearing - you can schedule the meeting with a judge at a later date to give you more time to prepare for how to make bail - usually happens within 3 days - prepare in advance how to get released on bail - Prosecutor will often argue you shouldn't be released bc: you won't attend your next court date, you pose a risk to the public, public will lose faith or you're released. - your lawyer will likely argue: you have a fixed address (can be friends, family), will obey your bail conditions - sometimes to make bail you need: bail money/recognizance document saying you'll pay latesurety. Surety should have legal job and no criminal record. Show that you have routine, like school, clubs, job, family. Can have someone who ideally does not have a record come testify to your character. Proof of income. Someone to book you a spot in rehab. - if the court takes your passport, photocopy the important pages
Cdsa and cannabis act are frderal criminal laws, but are often prosecuted by provincial/municipal forces
Law reform/Stella: The term decriminalization is getting more widely used and the meaning is recinding. Stella says decriminalization of drugs and sex work is a necessary first step to guarantee human rights. Drug use is not always an illness or problem. Abstinence is not the only way and thinking it's the only way is harmful. Drug sellers should be be categorized as bad ppl. If 1 law is repealed cops will often just target a sigmatized group with a new law. Alternative punishment instead of prison is still not decriminalization, aka Portugal model. For things like cannabis, even tho self possession of an amount is legal, you still can face police surveillance, unwanted police contact, trouble with landlord, etc. Individual prosecution directors, police departments can set guidelines, but those are not related to laws. Guidelines can say more or less punishment.

When the old man got within range, John kicked at him with his good leg, but the old timer was quick, much quicker than he looked. He ducked to his right, side stepping John's lashing foot, then darted in and touched the tip of the prod to John's leg. Fire--that's what it felt like. White hot fire. A jolt went through John's body that made his eyeballs hurt. And just like that, the old man slipped in again and jabbed him in the stomach. Then, as John rolled onto his belly, the tip touched his back.
John curled into a ball and hugged his knees to his chest.
"Get through that door, boy," the old man said. "Move it, now!" Like herding an ornery animal.
And like an animal, John Burke responded, lifting himself onto all fours and crawling toward the exit. Halfway across the floor, the old man jammed the cattle prod against John's ass. He cried out and scampered through the door.
As soon they were out of the room, the old man clicked his cheek a couple of times like he was calling a dog. "Get on your feet, like a good boy." John struggled to his feet as the door closed behind him and the bolts slammed into place. He stood at one end of a narrow passage, dark, except for a single bulb hanging from the ceiling at the far end. Again, John felt the prod touch his back.
"Get!" the old man said.
John limped toward the light.
The passage emptied into a windowless room, low ceilinged and big. The old man forced him into a chute--a cattle chute. Horizontal steel poles on each side formed a walkway barely wide enough for a man's shoulders. The poles were stacked four high, the top pole about five feet off the ground. Every six or eight feet stood a vertical brace.
The old man closed and locked a sliding wooden door behind them, then bent and slipped between two of the horizontal poles. Outside the chute, he prodded John to keep him moving. As John walked toward the end, the old man thumped him two or three times with the prod but didn't shock him.
Suddenly, an overpowering stench hit John and his feet stopped moving. He looked to the right, toward the source of the smell, and saw a stainless steel table, on top of which lay a man's lifeless body. He was on his belly with his head turned and John could see the face of the man who'd been goaded out of the room just before him. The white-haired old lady stood beside the table gripping an electric carving knife in one latexed hand, while with her other gloved hand she pressed the man's leg firmly against the table. Bile gurgled up into John's throat as the old lady thumbed the switch on the carving knife and sliced a hunk of meat from the back of the dead man's thigh.
John spewed vomit and dropped to his knees. "Get up, boy," he heard from behind him as the prod juiced his lower back. John screamed in pain as he staggered to his feet. "Move it," the old man said. With legs like jelly, John stumbled forward.
The cut he'd worked into the leather belt was just to the right of the steel loop through which the handcuffs ran. Only an eighth of an inch of leather remained. Using his body, John shielded his hands from the old man's view while he tugged on the handcuffs and hobbled along.
The sides of the chute closed in on him as he reached the end. Near panic, John tried to turn around, but before he could the old man slid a gate closed behind him that penned him in.
Trapped.
From the corner of his eye, John watched the old man. Saw him step towards a workbench against the wall, fifteen feet away, and toss the cattle prod onto it. He pulled a ballpeen hammer down from a wall above the bench. It had a big stainless steel head with a foot long wooden handle. The old man turned and walked toward John with a casual, bored look on his face, just another day in the slaughterhouse.
Bent as far forward as he could, John thrust his hips back and jerked his cuffed hands forward, but the leather belt held. Behind him he heard the old man's shoes scrape the cement floor. Desperate, John twisted his hands to the right. The leather still held. Just an eighth of an inch between a chance for escape and a hammer to the back of the head.
A shoe scuff on the floor. Afraid to look, John stared at his hands. He groaned as he thrust his hips to the right and jerked his hands to the left. The leather tore and the belt pulled free from his waist.
"Where you think you're going?" the old man said.
John ducked and heard the top pole ring as the ballpeen hammer glanced off of it. With the belt still dangling from his handcuffs, John doubled over and stepped between the two middle poles on his left side. To his right the old man cursed him and swung the hammer between the bars. The hammer thumped into John's right hip but he didn't stop. Once through the bars he ran--hobbled on his painful ankle--toward the wall, trying to put as much distance between him and the old man as possible.
"Momma, momma, he got loose!"
"Catch him quick 'fore he gets away," the old lady screamed.
John Burke was lost. He didn't know where he was our how to get out. He turned, saw the old man race around the end of the chute, hammer cocked over his shoulder. John's back was to the wall. Wildly, he glanced around for something he could use. There was nothing.
To his left, twenty feet away was the corner of the room and a closed door.
The old man saw John looking. "You'll never get out." But he slowed down, approaching cautiously, angling toward the door to cut off John's only escape route.
The old man looked nervous about the door. John broke and ran. Waves of pain shot up his leg from his swollen ankle but he ignored it. The old man lunged toward the door to intercept. John tried to stop and start, throw a fake at the old man, but his ankle folded and he hit the floor.
The old man dropped to one knee beside him and raised the hammer over his head. "Got you!"
But as the killer blow came down, John shifted slightly to the side and the hammer struck the cement beside his head, sending tiny chips flying into his face. He lashed out with his good foot, missed the old man's head but caught him in the ribs. As the old man grunted and toppled over, John got to his feet and struggled to the door.
Locked.
John twisted the knob and screamed in rage. The old man stood up. Mounted on the wall next to the door was a gray metal circuit box, the handle protruding from its side angled up in the on position. An electrical shut off.
"Get him, poppy," the old woman screamed from the other side of the room. A nice old couple who called each other momma and poppy.
John grabbed the handle with both hands, shot a glance at the old man, saw him bearing down, and pulled.
Lights out. Total darkness.
Just in time John ducked. He heard the old man grunt as the hammer dug into the drywall. With his manacled hands, John shoved the old man, then ran along the wall to his left. Moving through the dark it felt like a mile. The old lady screamed.
Cuffed hands out in front with the torn leather belt dangling from them, John ran into the wall and turned right. He had no idea where to go or what to do. Just knew he had to put as much distance as he could between him and the old man. At the next corner he turned right again. Just up ahead he heard the old lady. "Poppy, I can't see."
He slowed down, tried to catch his breath. Then the lights came on. Poppy must have gotten to the switch. John found himself next to the stainless steel butchering table, and face-to-face with the old lady. With the power on, her electric carving knife started buzzing.
"I got him, poppy!" she said and chopped at him with the knife.
John jerked his head back as the humming blade passed less than an inch from his eyes.
"Momma!" the old man screamed.
John looked across the big room at the old man by the door. Hammer swinging from his hand, he started to run towards them but had to go around the cattle chute. The old lady again cut at John but this time he managed to catch her wrist in his hands. As he kicked her in the shin he heard one of his bare toes crack, but she loosened her grip on the knife and he was able to jerk it out of her hand.
The old man rounded the end of the chute and howled in rage as he saw them struggling. Momma clawed at John's eyes with both hands, but he managed to close them just as her nails raked his face. Carving knife in hand, he slashed at the old lady. The vibrating blade ripped into the side of her neck and cut across her throat. She gurgled up a foul smelling blast of air from her open trachea that made John gag. With her eyes wide open, the old lady looked stunned as her knees folded and she collapsed to the ground.
John Burke turned and the old man was right on top of him, screaming, swinging the hammer at his head. As John raised the carving knife, the hammer snapped the blade off and knocked it from his hand. The old man lunged closer, grabbed him by the throat with his left hand and raised the hammer again.
John threw an awkward jab with his shackled hands and hit the old man in the face with just enough force to stun him into losing his grip on John's neck. Then with a two-handed uppercut to the gut, this one with a little more behind it, he doubled the old man over, then ran for the door.
Standing in front of the door, he jerked down the power switch and again shrouded the room in darkness. He raised his good leg and kicked the wooden door as hard as he could. It gave just a little. Behind him he heard the old man crying, and something else--things being knocked over, things hitting the floor, the sounds of searching.
As John kicked again, his bad ankle screamed in pain, yet still the door held. He caught his breath, raised his good leg and managed one more kick. This time the knob splintered off and the door flew open. Stairs led up.
Behind him, a two-count metallic click echoed through the room. The unmistakable sound of a shell being chambered. A shotgun.
Fighting back the pain, John loped up the stairs as the shotgun blasted behind him. Upstairs he found himself in an empty kitchen. He moved down a short hallway that opened into a room he recognized, the den of the old lady's house. It was dark outside and only a few lights were on inside the house.
Footsteps on the cellar stairs.
Frantically, John looked around, seeing the big bay windows, but no door to the outside. He knocked the dead telephone to the ground, snatched up the end table, and heaved it through one of the windows.
Outside the air was warm and muggy, the ground soft like after a rain. Naked, except for the handcuffs and leather belt hanging from them, John staggered toward the woods just beyond the house. As he reached the first trees he heard another shotgun blast behind him, heard glass shatter, heard pellets tearing through the trees to his right.
Into the trees, getting some of them between him and the house in case the old man ripped off another shot.
"Murderer! I'll kill you," the old timer yelled through the trees. Almost funny, a minute ago the old man trying to bash his brains in with a hammer but still had the nerve to call him a murderer. Not to mention the sweet old lady carving a man like a Christmas turkey.
John turned forty-five degrees to the right. Choosing a zig-zag over a straight line. A minute later he heard another shot, then the pellets ripped into the branches off to his left. A frustration shot. The old man had guessed he'd turn but he'd guessed the wrong way.
He'd gotten out of shape. Just a few minutes into the woods he was puffing like a steam train, a stitch like a knife twisting into his side. John could feel his ankle starting to swell. Time for the zag so he turned left, crossed through what he guessed was fifty or sixty yards of woods, then suddenly burst into a clearing--the cemetery. The high three-quarter moon cast short, dark shadows from the tombstones. Blackness in a sea of night.
Something crashed through the brush behind him in the distance, followed by bark of a big dog. John had trouble as he stepped over the low spiked fence that surrounded the graveyard. For a second he had to put all of his weight on his bad leg and came close to impaling himself.
John remembered another fence, a six-foot iron one that spanned the front of the property, the half-inch thick bars thrust at the sky like black spears. If it circled the whole property, how the hell was he going to get out?
The barking grew louder.
As he limped between the gravestones, John heard the old man cursing in the distance, farther away than the dog, but getting closer. Terror's icy hand gripped John Burke's heart. His feet stopped moving and he dropped down onto a soft, moist patch of earth and leaned his back against a marble slab that marked someone's final resting place, someone whose troubles were over for good. John put his head into his hands as despair washed over him.
He wasn't going to get away. Not on a bad ankle. Not with his hands cuffed. Not from a madman with a dog and shotgun. A madman who kept humans like cattle, who beat men to death with a hammer, whose wife ran a human butcher shop. They were close, the old man and his dog. John could hear the dog tearing through the underbrush just inside the woods, just beyond the cemetery fence. In a minute it would all be over. He wondered if Gail would ever find out what happened to him? To die like this, in a bone yard, victim to a crazy old man and his even crazier wife.
Fear, despair, hopelessness--these feelings surged through John as a sob racked his body so hard it bounced his back off the marble tombstone and shot a bolt of pain down his spine. Then, as if cleansed by fire, those feelings melted like snow, replaced by something new, by something better, by something that fueled him--Rage.
Perched in front of the grave next to him was a thick marble urn, holding a bouquet of long dead flowers. John rolled to it, grabbed the urn in both hands, and dumped out the withered flora. He felt the comforting weight of the urn, heavy enough to crush a dog's skull, or a man's.
He wasn't going to make it easy. If they were going to kill him, they'd have to work for it. The headstones were too small to hide behind unless he crouched down and John didn't want to crouch down and hide. He was through hiding, besides, his ankle couldn't take much crouching. Better to let the dog see him, try to get rid of the mutt before the old man made it out of the woods.
The underbrush got quiet. The dog was out of the woods. No more barking. The moonlight and the shadows played tricks on John's eyes. A glimpse of movement at the fence then nothing. He strained his eyes, willing them to see through the darkness but it was his ears that responded, picking up the quick thumping of padded feet on the wet grass. The sound coming from his left. John raised the urn and turned, then heard it behind him, much closer. A throaty growl. He tried to spin around but the furry beast hit him in the back.
Claws raked his bare shoulder blades as he slammed face first into the ground and the marble urn flew from his hands, useless. Sharp teeth gripped the back of his head and shook it like the stuffed head of a doll. His scalp tore--he actually felt it--as the dog growled and bit harder.
"Get him, boy!" the old man shouted from somewhere near the edge of the woods.
John used his good left leg to push into the ground and roll. The dog tightened its grip on John's head and tried to roll with him but John used his arms to topple the German Shepherd off of him. As the brute tried to regain his feet, John kept rolling until he was on top with the dog pinned under him. The canine's jaws sprung open, looking for something to bite as John grabbed the animal's big head, one hand on each side, and forced the handcuff chain and part of the leather belt into the back of its mouth.
With his naked body pressing down on the dog, John forced the Shepherd's head back. The handcuff chain cut into the roof of the dog's mouth as John pushed back harder and harder. The beast's nails ripped at John's chest and thighs, but still he forced the big head back until the dog's agonized yelping was cut short by a loud crack, like the dry snap of a rotten branch, as its neck broke and body went limp.
John rolled off of the dead dog and struggled to his feet. The old man yelled, "Did you get him, Butch? Did you get him?" John turned toward the sound of the man's voice and saw him stumble out of the woods, just on the other side of the fence, shotgun held across his chest. The old man's eyes locked on the animal lying on the ground. "Butch!" he cried, voice cracked with emotion Then he raised his shotgun.
John dropped behind a headstone just as a blast ripped through the air. Pellets smacked into the other side of the stone. Then, as the double click of a new shell being racked into the chamber echoed across the graveyard, John scrambled away on all fours, keeping his head below the top of the tombstones.
By the time he reached the cemetery fence, John could barely move. His breath came in ragged gasps; his chest, shoulders, and thighs were on fire; and the back of his neck felt wet and sticky. He lifted his cuffed hands over his head and wiped at his neck. His palms came away covered with blood, blood that looked almost black in the moonlight.
One foot got tangled going over the fence and John fell, landing with a thud on the other side. Behind him, fifty yards at most, he could hear the old man's quick shuffle coming across the cemetery. The old man mumbling and cursing to himself. Once John got into the tree line he felt a little safer, something between him and muzzle of that shotgun. But the going was slow. Much tougher than before. He started to feel dizzy. The dog had torn him up and he knew he was bleeding badly.
He'd made it this far but knew there was no way he could make it all the way back home, at least not tonight. Too tired and too hurt. But with the dog dead, all he had to do was shake the old man off his trail, then hole up somewhere until daylight. In the morning he would parallel the road just inside the trees to keep out of sight. His house was only two miles away. He would make it even if he had to crawl on his hands and knees the whole way.
He ran into the fence. Six feet tall, made of pointed wrought iron bars, no more than ten inches apart. Impossible to slip between them. The bars braced by two thin rectangular, iron beams that ran the length of the fence. One, a foot from the ground; the other, a foot from the top.
John hadn't gained any distance on the old man. He could hear his thrashing back in the trees, his slow, steady pace, his mumbling punctuated by curses.
There was only one way to get out and that was over the fence. John set his feet on the bottom support and grabbed the top crossbar with both hands, but with his wrists cuffed he couldn't spread his hands out. He couldn't climb.
He managed to pull himself up so his chin was over the top of the fence and then swung his good leg up. It didn't go high enough. Arms straining, he swung it up harder and managed to hook his heel on the top support, between two of the bars. That's when he lost his grip.
John fell but his foot stayed. He heard his ankle crack and he screamed. Caught between the two vertical bars and the horizontal support, his bare foot was wedged in tight and he hung upside down, naked, like a stuck pig being bled in a slaughterhouse.
The old man stepped out from the trees, shotgun held across his chest like a soldier. Fifteen feet from John, he raised it to his shoulder and grinned as he pulled the trigger. CLICK.
"Goddamit!" He racked the pump, took aim, and pulled the trigger again. Another empty click. This time he slammed the pump back and stared into the open chamber. "Son of a bitch," he mumbled, then grabbed the barrel in a two handed grip.
He swung it like a baseball bat at John's head and all John Burke could do was close his eyes. Just before the wooden stock crashed into his skull, he heard himself say, "Gail."
* * *
Gail Burke was on the toilet, in the middle of peeing, when the doorbell rang. "John," she heard herself say. "God, please let it be John." She pulled on her jeans and ran to the door, didn't even flush. But it wasn't John. It was a man, old but distinguished looking in a dark suit with a pale blue tie draped in front of a starched white shirt. She glanced behind him and saw a van parked in her driveway. Not a minivan, but a full-sized, white work van, windowless except for the driver and passenger doors. No name on the side.
"Can I help you?" she asked, losing hope her caller had anything to do with John.
He raised his hands slightly and she noticed they held a round plastic container. Rubbermaid, or Tupperware, with a lid on it. "Yes," she said.
"Mrs. Burke?"
Gail nodded.
My name is Muller, Frank Muller. He nodded to the right. "I live on Cemetery Road."
She gave him a brief smile.
"I've read about your...your husband's disappearance in the paper."
At first she'd had a lot of visitors like this. Well-wishers, sympathizers, but it had been two weeks and people had stopped coming by. Mostly, she guessed they thought John's disappearance maybe wasn't so mysterious after all. Middle-aged man, married for a dozen years, suddenly takes off. Maybe found a young girl. No mystery there. But she knew that wasn't what he'd done. Something terrible had happened. She could feel it.
"Thank you," was all she could think of to say.
He raised his hands again. "I've brought you something. Chili, my wife's secret recipe."
She looked at the container. The two-gallon size. That's a lot of chili, she thought. She caught a whiff of it as he slipped one hand under the container and lifted part of the lid with the other. He said, "Chock full of beef and beans. Put some meat on your bones."
Gail felt her face flush. Her jeans hung loosely on her hips. She'd lost ten pounds since John disappeared and hadn't had it to spare to begin with. "Thank you. Thank you very much, Mr..." She couldn't even remember the gentleman's name.
"Muller," he said.
"Of course," she said quickly. "Thank you again, Mr. Muller." Gail reached for the container. "To be honest I haven't felt much like cooking and that smells delicious. Please tell Mrs. Muller that I said--"
Mr. Muller shook his head. "Buried her recently."
"Oh, I'm sorry to hear that."
As she took the chili from him, he forced a smile. "I made it but it's her recipe so if it's good she gets the credit." He laughed a more genuine laugh. "And if it's bad, I'll take the blame."
She felt the heat through the plastic. They said goodbye and Gail Burke went inside to eat a bowl of Mrs. Muller's secret recipe. She felt her stomach growl with hunger. If it tasted as good as it smelled, maybe she'd have two bowls.
THE END