Murray 42 inch deck belt size

Respect Juggernaut! (Marvel, 616)

2023.06.01 06:00 Analypiss Respect Juggernaut! (Marvel, 616)

Respect Juggernaut

This won’t hurt me! Nothing can!
♫Theme
Cain Marko was the son of nuclear scientist Kurt Marko, who worked in Alamogordo, New Mexico with Brian Xavier. After Brian died in a lab accident, Kurt married Brian’s widow Sharon for her family’s money, resulting in Cain becoming the stepbrother of the Xavier’s son Charles, the eventual founder of the X-Men. Kurt proved to be an abusive father to both Cain and Charles, which combined with Cain’s jealousy over his brother’s telepathy, fostered a lasting resentment between the two of them. After Kurt died saving them from another lab accident, Charles and Cain would end up serving with the army together in Korea. During their service, Cain would stumble across a cave that had a temple dedicated to the powerful mystic being known as Cyttorak. Touching a crimson gem at the heart of the temple, Cain was transformed into Cyttorak’s avatar on Earth, an unstoppable human Juggernaut. Shortly after, the cave collapsed, with Xavier barely managing to escape. Years later Cain would dig his way out and seek revenge on Charles for the perceived slights he had inflicted upon him. In doing so, Cain would come into conflict with the X-Men, Hulk, Spider-Man, Thor, Doctor Strange, and many other superheroes before eventually burying the hatchet with his brother. However, despite joining the X-Men and later Thunderbolts, Cain would return to being a villain each time. Throughout his life and various goals and motivations, only one constant has remained for Cain Marko. No matter the obstacle, he will never stop.
This respect thread is abridged due to Juggernaut’s large number of appearances. A full version is available on the Juggernaut Mega Respect Thread, with links to the unabridged sections posted where appropriate.

Key and explanation of periods where Juggernaut was stronger or weaker than normal

Strength

Unabridged Force Field and Advancing Sections

Force Field

Advancing

Unabridged Striking and Lifting Sections

Striking

Lifting, pushing, pulling, throwing, grip, etc.

Unabridged Durability Section

Durability w/ Force Field/Armor

Blunt

Piercing/Cutting

Sound

Heat

Cold

Electricity

Light

Energy

Chemical

Adhesive

Biological

Matter Manipulation

Phasing

Magic

Soul/Life Force

Power Absorption/Nullification

Mental

Durability w/o Force Field/Armor

Blunt

Piercing/Cutting

Sound

Cold

Heat

Gravity

Light

Energy

Chemical

Biological

Mental

Unabridged Endurance, Speed, Skill, and Temporary Powers Sections

Endurance and Regeneration

Speed

Skill

Temporary Powers

Telepathy

Mystic Abilities

Trion

Captain Universe

Kuurth

Once upon a time, there was a man. A man who got everything he wanted. In the end it wasn’t enough. In truth, it could never be enough. No amount of power could change who he was. It could never quench his thirst for power. He was now and forever the Juggernaut. And he would never stop.
submitted by Analypiss to respectthreads [link] [comments]

2023.06.01 05:41 Pacmyne [WTS] Price Drop Tonight Only! Bullet/Tampon Bags - HK Hook Belt/Molle Clip Lanyards - Molle Dump Pouch

Timestamp: https://imgur.com/a/dTfxtZK
Pictures: https://imgur.com/a/LIStYxd
Only running this discount tonight!
New version of the Bullet Bags! Inspired by a custom order request. New design has 2 loops of webbing and 2 D rings on one end to attach to my belt clips or a carabiner to hang off your belt or pack or any gear. 3 inch by 1.5 inch field of loop for patches. Offering 2 sizes for handguns and rifle caliber bullets. Little guy holds atleast 300 bullets and could hold more but not certain how much more weight it can hold I haven’t tested more than 200 9mm rounds. I double stitched every seam and triple stitched on some so it should hold a good heavy load but not tested much. Available in Multicam Black, Woodland, MC Tropic, Ranger Green, Coyote, Flecktarn, Alpine Snow, Scorpion Ocp and Black. Currently only have the three patches variations show in the picture 9mm, 556, and ''Freedom Seeds''. Each bag will come with one patch of your choice. At the moment I can not sell the patches separately from the bags due to inventory. $30$27 shipped for smaller pouch $35$31 shipped for larger pouch ** Every person to buy 2 or more bags gets an EDC HK hook belt clip of your choice.
​HK hook belt clip lanyards to hang your keys, gloves, or any other tacticool gear you can think of. The belt clips wrap around your belt and velcro onto itself. They can be weaves through Molle if you don’t want to wrap around your belt. I offer 2 sizes one for EDC belts that are up to 2 inches wide and don't hang as low. The Battle Belt clips fit belts up to 2.5 inches wide and hang about an inch lower. At the moment I have Coyote, Multicam Tropic and Arid, Black, Ranger Green, Woodland, Multicam Black, Hawaiian Sunset, Black Hawaiian, Black, and Blue Polynesian materials on hand. Currently have 2 of each color and size for the belt clips but plenty more materials and making more daily. EDC clip $15$13.50shipped and $10 for each additional clip Battle clip $17 shipped and $12 for each additional clip First person to buy 4 or more belt clips gets a free 2 point quick adjust sling that I make!​​
Molle or belt loop dump pouch. Either slide your belt through the loop on the back or weave 2 malice clips through the molle on the back to your belt. Malice clips not included. Dump pouch has a drain hole on the bottom and folds into a small 3 inch x 4 inch square. Have sold many of these and havent had one bad review so far. Made out of 500 or 1000D cordura which is tear and water resistant. The Flecktarn pattern however is not cordura but is still very durable and makes a great pouch. Can make these in MC Black, MC Tropic, Alpine Snow, Coyote, Ranger Green, Flecktarn, Woodland, Scorpion OCP, and Black but only have the one tropic pouch that is shown at the moment. Making more tonight right after this post. $30$27shipped for Coyote, Ranger Green , or Black.​​ $35$31 shipped for all other Camo Patterns​​
This discount last tonight only! Post dibs and I’ll pm. PayPal or Venmo add 3% for goods and services. Thanks for any and all support.
submitted by Pacmyne to GunAccessoriesForSale [link] [comments]

2023.06.01 04:37 vagrant_icosahedron Help fixing a tape deck

Help fixing a tape deck
Hey everyone I bought a pioneer CT 502R hoping to replace the belts.
I just made my first replacement of the left deck and pressed power but I’m getting nothing really.
Well technically I’m getting a slight whirring sound as the motor runs and spins the belt for a split second before stopping. Could it be that the belts I chose are too tight? I tried to match the size by eye.
No buttons seem to do anything and I have to turn it off and on to get anything to happen again.
Any ideas?
Thanks!!!
submitted by vagrant_icosahedron to vintageaudio [link] [comments]

2023.06.01 04:00 Analypiss Strength - Force Field and Advancing

Key and explanation of periods where Juggernaut was stronger or weaker than normal

Force Field

Advancing

submitted by Analypiss to JuggernautMegaRT [link] [comments]

2023.06.01 03:59 DudeRichie Space issue

Space issue
How do I get more space? It’s says that I have 291 gb in “other” what is it and how do u get rid of it?
submitted by DudeRichie to SteamDeck [link] [comments]

2023.06.01 01:45 Pacmyne [WTS] Bullet/Tampon Bags - HK Hook Belt/Molle Clips - Molle Dump Pouch - Shooting Bags

Timestamp: https://imgur.com/a/dTfxtZK
Pictures: https://imgur.com/a/LIStYxd
New version of the Bullet Bags! Inspired by a custom order request. New design has 2 loops of webbing and 2 D rings on one end to attach to my belt clips or a carabiner to hang off your belt or pack or any gear. 3 inch by 1.5 inch field of loop for patches. Offering 2 sizes for handguns and rifle caliber bullets. Little guy holds atleast 300 bullets and could hold more but not certain how much more weight it can hold I haven’t tested more than 200 9mm rounds. I double stitched every seam and triple stitched on some so it should hold a good heavy load but not tested much. Available in Multicam Black, Woodland, MC Tropic, Ranger Green, Coyote, Flecktarn, Alpine Snow, Scorpion Ocp and Black. Currently only have the three patches variations show in the picture 9mm, 556, and ''Freedom Seeds''. Each bag will come with one patch of your choice. At the moment I can not sell the patches separately from the bags due to inventory. $30 shipped for smaller pouch $35 shipped for larger pouch ** First person to buy 2 or more bags gets an EDC HK hook belt clip of your choice.
​HK hook belt clip lanyards to hang your keys, gloves, or any other tacticool gear you can think of. The belt clips wrap around your belt and velcro onto itself. They can be weaves through Molle if you don’t want to wrap around your belt. I offer 2 sizes one for EDC belts that are up to 2 inches wide and don't hang as low. The Battle Belt clips fit belts up to 2.5 inches wide and hang about an inch lower. At the moment I have Coyote, Multicam Tropic and Arid, Black, Ranger Green, Woodland, Multicam Black, Hawaiian Sunset, Black Hawaiian, Black, and Blue Polynesian materials on hand. Currently have 2 of each color and size for the belt clips but plenty more materials and making more daily. EDC clip $15 shipped and $10 for each additional clip Battle clip $17 shipped and $12 for each additional clip First person to buy 4 or more belt clips gets a free 2 point quick adjust sling that I make!​​
Molle or belt loop dump pouch. Either slide your belt through the loop on the back or weave 2 malice clips through the molle on the back to your belt. Malice clips not included. Dump pouch has a drain hole on the bottom and folds into a small 3 inch x 4 inch square. Have sold many of these and havent had one bad review so far. Made out of 500 or 1000D cordura which is tear and water resistant. The Flecktarn pattern however is not cordura but is still very durable and makes a great pouch. Can make these in MC Black, MC Tropic, Alpine Snow, Coyote, Ranger Green, Flecktarn, Woodland, Scorpion OCP, and Black but only have the one tropic pouch that is shown at the moment. Making more tonight right after this post. $30 shipped for Coyote, Ranger Green , or Black.​​ $35 shipped for all other Camo Patterns​​
Square shooting bags. This bag is 8 inches tall and 10 inches wide depending how you place it and shoot off it. Has a field of loop on one side for any cool kid patches you would want to put on there. One side opening slot with hook and loop to stuff material inside. Made with 500 or 1000D cordura that is water resistant except the flecktarn. At the moment I will be selling these empty so you can fill them with whatever you like. Once I get a cost effective way to stuff and ship them I will offer pre stuff bags. You could stuff with beans, rice, bean bag filler, airsoft bb's and the list goes on. Kitty litter could work but you would have to worry about it clumping up if moisture gets inside. I can make these in all the pattern choices of the bullet bags and dump pouches. $25 shipped​​
Post dibs and I’ll pm. PayPal or Venmo add 3% for goods and services. Thanks for any and all support.
submitted by Pacmyne to GunAccessoriesForSale [link] [comments]

2023.05.31 21:51 OppositeAct2236 List of Recommended improvements/Ideas/BrainDump. from avid Snowrunner enjoyer.

1:Tires give all trucks a mud option like MHS1 and dually rear options like OHD1
2:Chains. give all tires the options for chains. instead of making only select tire have chains. maybe not msh1and2/ZMH/DHMS1/T01/Stocktractortires. since all of those are Very aggressive mud's.
3:Give all vehicles an option to unlock some kind of roof rack with fuel and such either by completing some kind of trial or just by level. or vehicles with excess interior space like the lo4f is a van you could store stuff inside without increasing the center of gravity much. Yar87/Tatarin/antartic/jeeps/landrover,ect.
4:Cargo Supplies. have a customizable single slot and double slot palatalized supplies. like 4 30 gallon drums of fuel a stack of 4 tires and 300 repair parts. each being a quarter of a single slot cargo of supplies. make a place to pick up or purchase these at all the garages. customize what you can get on the either 4 slot single cargo slot or 8 slot 2 cargo slot.
5:Add more trailers. idk how complicated it is to do but having a lot more trailer options would be awesome. like more useful high saddle trailers like 6 slot with ramps.
6:Medium scout Class. make all in this class be able to connect to both scout trailers and full size trailers. and have Autonomous medium winch. yar87/Tatarin/zikz5368/Step39331/int1700/Warthog/zikz566a/F750/Crocodile/tatra805/azovSprinteTH357.
7:Give any truck that has large winch on back of cab a winch point on it where it is and give it a 50 percent bonus to power from that location. but disable the quick winch from the spot. and option for all with it to remove winch on back and put yellow crane. Kolob74941/Derry4520/M916A1/P12with spare tires on/6900TwinSteer. maybe make the strong winch an addon for Trucks that can have a crane.
8:Vehicle improvements.
1.All pacific trucks need a little love. drop a new engine for P12/P16/p512 in Yukon somewhere. like 250k torque. give p512 AWD option and increase fuel capacity to 90 gallons. give all 3 of them magic upspec OHD 1 tires and with chain option. P12 needs a full sweet of fame options cause its not very useful atm and it has a long frame like azov 73210 so give it all the same add-ons. p16 add yellow crane behind cab and logging crane if it will fit.
2.All Vehicles with articulated steering need some improvement to their turning strength and grip. cause all of them are annoying to drive. maybe make a improved steering upgrade that makes them adjustable strength and speed for driver to tune in the way they like it. k700/k7m/antarctic/cat745c
  1. Cat 745c/770g and make both big cats fuel tanks be able to carry water for missions and increase there capacity. give 745c ability to carry cargo on container carrier. give both cats large V12 cat engine with 280k-300k torque unlockable by completing missions in quarry's maybe all quarry missions. give 770g high saddle. and make special trailer usable. and purchasable at trailer store.
4.Tractors both of them are articulated and hurt me lol. add a smaller tractor with normal steering like mud runner. and add tract CAT farm tractor like challengermt775b. give k7m full output version of kzgt-8 530t engine or just like a little more than 420t cause its got no guts for pulling anything uphill. give snorkles to tractors.
5.Azov 42-20 Antarctic. Steering improvements... give it roof rack on cab. increase fuel too 100 gallons. give option to remove Cabin on back for more room for a yellow crane or a longer bed or log loader and carrier front combo. 1 spare tire on back of cab when you remove cabin and lock the diff full time cause with out it it just kinda dumps the power in random wheels. give it more add-on options. give it special antarctic studded tires for ice. lower center of gravity a little.make this beast more of a treat when you finally reach level 30 and can use it.
6.Tatra Phoenix/Force/T813. give them all more add-ons. i like them but never use them cause they are so useless. give them low saddles and cranes at least. give the force a lift! or addaptive suspension cause it just leans forward all the time. and its special ramped towing platform a full suit of repair points and spare wheels make me want to use it! maybe a hair large tires like 53 or 55 with lift and this thing would rock. Phoenix. small lift 50 inch tires optional love its stability more addons. T813 more Addons. just give them all a low saddle and yellow crane and i would use them.
7.Derry 3194 and 4520. 15c. 3194- give option to remove dead axle. giant flat area behind cab. supplies or yellow crane. cool truck. maybe small lift and 55 inch tires. 4520- better engine and lift option with bigger tires like 55s. yellow crane behind cab. large wide tire option like real truck. 15c- lower center of gravity a little. fun truck. give multipurpose gearbox a High range Gear. let it pull a trailer with fire tank on. and let fire tank double as fuel carrier. same for any truck that has water carrier. same size but fuel.
8.Navistar 5000-MV awesome truck. give more exhaust options so i can see lol maybe reduce exhaust make the yellow crane fit with low and high saddle. thing looks solid so give it roof rack supplies. like 20 gallons and 200 repair points and 1 tire. mud tire options. lvl locked switchable diff lock.
9.give all small scouts the ablility to be upgraded to wider axels and 44-50 inch tires so they can actually be used in the worse maps. like if jeep had wider axles and 44-50 inch mud tires upgrades i could actually get around on the worse maps. jeep add carrier around spare for holding fuel and repair points. maybe add similar setups for scouts with spare on back.
10.Paystar5070. give bigger tires with the lift. maybe msh3 and 4 tires for better stability options. maybe another engine option but its power is ok for a truck you can get earlier on but should have late game option.
11.Paystar5600ts. my baby the 10 wheeled thirsty lady. a little bigger fuel tank. or a lot bigger.90-140gallons im a little biased. but small center of gravity improvement it likes to end up on its roof and a spare tire behind cab in the spot between the stairs. cause im always poping tires in this thing. small roof rack. and a High saddle!!! maybe 4 slot cargo bed. give option for van body with yellow crane behind it and low or high saddle if it will fit. :D
12.Loadstar 1700 more options and mud tires one of my favorite scouts. more capacity for bed storage and special vanbody add-on. crane and small bed combo if it will fit. low saddle crane combo roof rack.
13.Voron Grad. cant connect trailer when sideboard bed and crane are on. but there is plenty of room. could push crane and bed forward about a foot. Takes too much suspension damage
14.give zikz 605/mastadon/derry15c medium log carrier
15.Tayga 6455b. turns like a boat. and takes a too much suspension damage.
ive been brain dumping all my random thoughts for 2 hours so this will do. add your opinions and ideas or for the game down bellow. or critique some my change ideas or add your own. :D
submitted by OppositeAct2236 to snowrunner [link] [comments]

2023.05.31 20:50 lululock "Upgrading" the screen for less than 10€

I bought a pack of Brotect matte films for my Steam Deck. I already had the same film applied to my laptop touchscreen and I was pleasently surprized by how easy it was to apply for a 13 inch film. It is also pleasantly less prone to get fingerprint marks when used compared to a bare screen.
On the Steam Deck tho, application was a bit harder than on my laptop because of its smaller size. I had to remove the film 3 times, remove dust from the film (it is a bit static) and try again. In the end, I managed to have no bubbles ! The margins are very tight, about 0.5mm total on each dimension.
So it is a film, but I don't mind. A pack of 2 is dirt cheap and I don't need impact protection (I doubt a tempered glass help much because of how heavy the SD is).
On the before pics, it had a random Aliexpress tempered glass I put on when I got it back in August. I play mostly indoors and the glare from my lights were kinda distracting on darker scenes.
Sure, there's a little loss in screen clarity, but that's the price to pay to have less glare. I'm pretty sure the 512Gb etched glass screen has this "issue" as well. I don't mind that, as I don't play with the screen glued to my face. It's a 800p screen anyway.
submitted by lululock to SteamDeck [link] [comments]

2023.05.31 20:46 WillFreelance4food [WTS] Holsters, AR Parts and Accessories, Peltor, Belts, AK Parts, Chest Rig

Timestamp: https://imgur.com/a/UdO5AIr
$60 4 x 1911 Mags in 45acp
$60 Sylvan Arms Ar15 magwell conversion to take G/19/17/34 Mags
$60 Vortex 30mm 0.90” rings
$75 Skd Bush Boar 5.56 8 mag Chest Rig
$30 5.11 Banger Bag
$45 Grey Magpul Ak Fruniture includes ak trigger group and 9mm ak muzzle break.
$15 2x Magpul maglink (Dual Ar Mag clamps)
$45 Grip pod
$40 Peltor Comtac PTT
$45 Crossbreed Reckoning G43x/G43
$15 G19 OWB Alien Gesr Holster
$15 G19 Bravo Concealment Holster
$20 Desantis Slim Tuk for G43/X
$20 Taurus 856 OD Holster with Ulticlip
$20 Custom Kydex G19 with x300 holster
$25 Comptact Mintoaur with Inserts for XDS Shield 9mm and G30
$25 Original Soe bungie sling black No sling hardware included.
$100 Bravo Alpha Gear 2 piece Belt Size 42 never worn
$45 Wilder Tactical minimalist belt pad (No Inner Belt just pad)
$115 Blue Alpha Gear 2 piece War belt size 42
All prices are shipped. Venmo/cashapp/zelle preffered.
submitted by WillFreelance4food to GunAccessoriesForSale [link] [comments]

2023.05.31 20:17 weluvmusic Beatport Drum & Bass Top 100 May 2023

GENRE Drum and Bass RELEASE DATE 2023-05-29 CHART DATE 2023-05-02 AUDIO FORMAT MP3 320kbps CBR 44.1 kHz SIZE 926MB beatport.com/genre/drum-bass/1/top-100
  1. Eksman, Hedex - MHITR (Semi-Automatic) [feat. Eksman] (Original Mix) (02:54)
  2. Phibes - Bassdrop (Original Mix) (02:52)
  3. Rusko, Mozey - Hands In The Air (VIP) (03:06)
  4. Mozey - Break It Down (VIP) (03:24)
  5. Sub Focus - Fine Day (Original Mix) (03:52)
  6. Bennie - Mercenary (Original Mix) (03:40)
  7. Odd Mob - LEFT TO RIGHT (Subsonic Remix) (04:05)
  8. Amplify - Skrewface (Original Mix) (04:38)
  9. Lockerz - The Noise (T95 Remix) (04:27)
  10. Logan, Jappa, Napes - Full English (Original Mix) (05:37)
  11. Amplify - Get Out (Original Mix) (04:32)
  12. Supermode, 1991 - Tell Me Why (1991 Remix) (04:04)
  13. Amplify - Machine (Original Mix) (03:55)
  14. Paul T & Edward Oberon - Somewhere Else (Serum Remix) (04:46)
  15. DJ Zinc - Super Sharp Shooter (T>I & D*Minds 'Run In The Jungle' Remix) (04:02)
  16. Zero T - On the M.I.C (Original Mix) (04:08)
  17. London Elektricity, Liane Carroll - Billion Dollar Gravy (Watch The Ride Remix) (04:52)
  18. Ella Henderson, Switch Disco - REACT (Culture Shock Remix) (03:27)
  19. Formula - Workin (Original Mix) (04:16)
  20. Sub Focus, ACO - Vibration (One More Time) (Original Mix) (04:02)
  21. Jappa, Napes - Where Is The Promoter (Original Mix) (03:12)
  22. Lens, Javeon, Pola & Bryson, goddard. - Way Up (Original Mix) (03:22)
  23. Toxinate - Nope (Original Mix) (03:43)
  24. Amplify - Warmed Up (Original Mix) (04:34)
  25. Basstripper - Ricochet (Original Mix) (03:45)
  26. Ed Solo, Deekline, General Levy - Junglist (Kleu VIP Remix) (03:46)
  27. Kanine - Take Me Up (Original Mix) (03:35)
  28. Sota - Wait For Me (Original Mix) (02:51)
  29. Harriet Jaxxon - Story Of Women (Original Mix) (02:42)
  30. B Live, Bou - F*ck Jump Up (feat. B Live) (Original Mix) (03:44)
  31. Disrupta - Come In (Original Mix) (03:02)
  32. Particle - Let It Go (Original Mix) (03:26)
  33. Turno - Killer (Original Mix) (03:40)
  34. TC - Tap Ho (Formula Remix) (04:18)
  35. Trex - Out The Box (Original Mix) (05:07)
  36. Bennie - Black Belt (Original Mix) (02:57)
  37. Deekline, Specimen A - The Fugitive (Original Mix) (03:01)
  38. Formula - Now You See Me (Original Mix) (04:20)
  39. Fatman D, Amplify - You Better Move (Original Mix) (04:35)
  40. Pola & Bryson, Emily Makis - Phoneline (Original Mix) (03:46)
  41. Ozone, Bennie - Goose Chase (Original Mix) (04:48)
  42. Kanine - Ultralight (A.M.C Remix) (03:49)
  43. Doktor, Sigma, Watch the Ride - Trouble You (Original Mix) (02:45)
  44. Ekko & Sidetrack - No Good 4 Me (Original Mix) (03:49)
  45. Calyx - Pull Up (Original Mix) (04:11)
  46. MC Spyda, Disrupta - No Chat (Original Mix) (03:46)
  47. DJ Marky, Alibi, Charli Brix - Natural Feeling (Original Mix) (03:13)
  48. Öwnboss, SEVEK - Move Your Body (Hedex Extended Remix) (03:42)
  49. Rizzle, Operate, PAV4N - Pleiadians (Original Mix) (03:29)
  50. AIRGLO - Sandstorm (Extended Mix) (03:09)
  51. Bou - All U Gotta Do (Original Mix) (03:45)
  52. Doktor, S.P.Y - Bad Boy Dub (Edit) (02:56)
  53. Metrik - Immortal (Original Mix) (04:08)
  54. Break, Lorna King - Wait for You (Original Mix) (04:39)
  55. Basstripper - Milky Way (Original Mix) (03:41)
  56. DJ Guv - Execution (Profile Remix) (05:10)
  57. Impish - Leave (Original Mix) (03:40)
  58. Particle - Double Stack (Original Mix) (03:23)
  59. Speaker Louis - Flip The Fader (Molecular Remix) (04:00)
  60. The Prodigy, Camo & Krooked, Mefjus - Breathe (Mefjus & Camo & Krooked Remix) (03:44)
  61. Amplify - Rendevous (Original Mix) (04:28)
  62. Sub Focus, Dimension - Ready To Fly (Sub Focus & Dimension) (03:24)
  63. Dread MC, Bennie - One Gun Finger feat. Dread MC (Original Mix) (04:08)
  64. Bennie - Giant Killer (Original Mix) (03:00)
  65. Pythius - Implant (Original Mix) (04:13)
  66. Bennie - Hijack (Switch) (Original Mix) (04:28)
  67. Ozone, GRAY, Diagnostix - No Face No Case (Original Mix) (03:19)
  68. Benny Page, Dope Ammo, Cat Mctigue - I Need Your Loving (Bladerunner Remix) (05:36)
  69. Dimension, Poppy Baskcomb - Where Do We Go (feat. Poppy Baskcomb) (Original Mix) (03:24)
  70. Bad Company UK - Torpedo (Insideinfo Remix) (04:29)
  71. Calyx - Feel The Sway (Original Mix) (03:53)
  72. Creatures, Ill Truth - Taco Disco (Original Mix) (04:31)
  73. Flowdan, Rohaan - Musket (feat. Flowdan) (Original Mix) (03:03)
  74. Wilkinson, ILIRA, Tom Cane, iiola - Infinity (feat. ILIRA, iiola & Tom Cane) (Original Mix) (03:33)
  75. Dirtyphonics - Scorpion (Tantrum Desire Remix) (04:26)
  76. MoMo, Alcemist - Stars On The Roof (feat. MoMo) (Original Mix) (04:02)
  77. Strategy, Sustance - Undercurrent (Original Mix) (03:24)
  78. Lens, Bcee - My Time (Original Mix) (04:08)
  79. Ed:It - The Keep (Original Mix) (05:06)
  80. Ray Volpe - Laserbeam (Blanke's ÆON:REMIX) (02:44)
  81. Sota, Primate (BE) - Realise (Original Mix) (03:15)
  82. Simula - Running Out (Original Mix) (04:26)
  83. Sub Focus, Cherish, ACRAZE - Do It To It (Sub Focus Extended Remix) (04:31)
  84. Hyroglifics - Albany Road (Original Mix) (03:17)
  85. Kevin Lyttle, Bru-C, Luude - TMO (Turn Me On) [feat. Kevin Lyttle] (Original Mix) (02:39)
  86. Bad Company UK - Spider (Optiv & BTK Remix) (06:31)
  87. Dub Head - Your Style (Original Mix) (04:38)
  88. Magenta - Bad Girl (Original Mix) (04:31)
  89. Justin Hawkes, Andrew Hellier - Better Than Gold feat. Andrew Hellier (Original Mix) (05:20)
  90. Kublai - Feel with it (Original Mix) (04:46)
  91. Netsky, Daddy Waku, Chantal Kashala, Babl Lemmens - Everybody Loves The Sunshine (Original Mix) (03:20)
  92. Bluejay, Ill Truth - Street Art (Original Mix) (03:51)
  93. Ed Solo, 4K - I Can't Help It (Original Mix) (04:36)
  94. Benny V, Subcriminal - The Ending (Original Sin Remix) (04:03)
  95. DRZ - Air I Breathe (Original Mix) (04:33)
  96. Impish - I Need (Original Mix) (03:21)
  97. Nia Archives - Baianá (Original Mix) (02:32)
  98. Simula - Tension (Original Mix) (04:23)
  99. Primate (BE) - All Of Your Love (Original Mix) (03:02)
  100. Objectiv - Burnt Toast (Original Mix) (04:06)
​
https://specialfordjs.org/dj-chart/70218-beatport-drum-bass-top-100-may-2023.html
submitted by weluvmusic to u/weluvmusic [link] [comments]

2023.05.31 19:18 Neocanoe 50 [M4F] #Chicagoland, Nice man wants to explore with nice girl

I am a nice single, sane guy ,who is interested in a nice girl to explore our desires together . Surely, you have some naughty fantasies. Perhaps you'd like to be touched in certain way. I like kissing , long soft kisses , and erotic touching. What parts of Your body are sensitive and you want to be touched ? Breasts, feet, butt, front ? Perhaps you'd like your whole body to be kissed and licked slowly , every inch. Maybe you've been a bad girl and deserve to be spanked. You want to feel that warm, stinging , tingling sensation I'll spank you with my bare hands , a belt maybe ? Perhaps you get turned on by watching me jerk off or you want to jerk me off. I have some oil that you can use. Maybe you're totally inexperienced , a virgin and want me to make sweet love to you for the very first time. We can do all that in my safe private place. And of course discreetly. I am open to your body size / shape , big or small and looks too. Let me know , lets make this a memorable summer. And be 18+ and serious
submitted by Neocanoe to AgeGapPersonals [link] [comments]

2023.05.31 18:18 milfydonna [FS] [USA] [Worldwide] B*V, D1ESEL, VC@, [email protected], L*V Necklaces, Viv1enne Westw0od, And3rsson B3ll, WOOYOUNGM1, RHUD3, Suprem3 Bags

Vouched seller. Venmo & Paypal F&F Only. I've sold over 3000 items on here in the past three years.
Price includes shipping within the US. Worldwide shipping available starting at $9.49 for Canada and $11.99 for the rest of the world.
Items paid will be shipped next business day
Timestamp and tagged photo: https://imgur.com/a/nqrJHB4
​

Clothing

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Diese1 J-Blink Nylon Biker Jacket
$79 SHIPPED WITHIN THE US, Size S, Brand New with tags
Photos: https://imgur.com/a/1WzJGEF
Made by Sixi, best rep of this jacket. Most popular Diesel jacket under the new designer. About 22.5 inches pit to pit. Cropped fit. Its better to wear as a slim fitting jacket.
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B0ttega Venet@ Green Graffiti Tee
$25 SHIPPED WITHIN THE US, Size Large, Brand New
Photos: https://imgur.com/a/nf9Bv2X
About 23 inches pit to pit and 29 inches length
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V1vienne W3stwood Two Layer Wool Flared Trousers
$65 SHIPPED WITHIN THE US, Size 42, Fits size 31-32 waist, Brand New
Photos: https://imgur.com/a/cu6EEF6
Made by Turn On My Own. Best quality rep. Fully branded with custom tags. Fits size 31-32 waist.
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And3rsson B3ll Double Knee Pants
$39 SHIPPED WITHIN THE US, Size M, Fits size 31-32 waist, Brand New
Photos: https://imgur.com/a/jLYRASS
Suede patch for the double knee. Relaxed fit. Fully branded with custom tags. Fits size 31-32 waist.
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W00YOUNGMI Flared Pants
$49 SHIPPED WITHIN THE US, Size 46, Used, Worn twice
Photos: https://imgur.com/a/kQCIAJ3
Made by Deeds. Fits size 30 waist for me. Adjustable flare with straps on the bottom. Fully branded with custom tags. Much better than the Holyshit batch.
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RHUD3 Flight Jacket
$59 SHIPPED WITHIN THE US, Size Medium, Brand New
Photos: https://imgur.com/a/xGXjJpw
Fully branded with custom tags. Slightly oversized fit.
​

JEWELRY

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VC@ [email protected] C1eef & Arpe1s Alhambra Black/Gold Bracelet
$45 SHIPPED WITHIN THE US, Gold, Brand New
Photos: https://imgur.com/a/fCIjDEl
Quantity Available - 2
Worn by many male celebrities recently as they are unisex bracelets now. Approximately 7.5 inches from end to end. Properly branded with engraving on the inside. Made with stainless steel and wont tarnish or turn green.
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VC@ [email protected] C1eef & Arpe1s Alhambra Silver Lasered Bracelet
$45 SHIPPED WITHIN THE US, Silver, Brand New
Photos: https://imgur.com/a/vmdf9Kl
Quantity Available - 3
Worn by many male celebrities recently as they are unisex bracelets now. Approximately 7.5 inches from end to end. Properly branded with engraving on the inside. Made with stainless steel and wont tarnish or turn green
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VC@ [email protected] C1eef & Arpe1s Alhambra Gold Lasered Bracelet
$45 SHIPPED WITHIN THE US, Silver, Brand New
Photos: https://imgur.com/a/wQAQlGG
Quantity Available - 3
Worn by many male celebrities recently as they are unisex bracelets now. Approximately 7.5 inches from end to end. Properly branded with engraving on the inside. Made with stainless steel and wont tarnish or turn green
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L*V x N1go Duck Necklace
$45 SHIPPED WITHIN THE US, Silver, Brand New
Photos: https://imgur.com/a/m41FFcT
Quantity Available - 4
Properly branded with engraving on the inside. Made with stainless steel and wont tarnish or turn green. Adjustable length. The ring in the middle can be taken off the necklace.
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L*V Tiger Pendant Necklace
$39 SHIPPED WITHIN THE US, Silver, Brand New
Photos:https://imgur.com/a/eVnGQg1
Quantity Available - 1
From Louis Vuitton X Nigo collection. Perfect for the year of the tiger this year. Properly branded with engraving on the inside. Made with stainless steel and wont tarnish or turn green. Adjustable length.
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L*V Monogram Dogtag Silver Necklace
$39 SHIPPED WITHIN THE US, Silver, Brand New
Photos: https://imgur.com/a/BzHQvGu
Quantity Available - 1
Properly branded with engraving on the inside. Made with stainless steel and wont tarnish or turn green. Adjustable length. The ring in the middle can be taken off the necklace.
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[email protected] Love Ring Silver
$29 SHIPPED WITHIN THE US, Silver US size 7, 8, 9, 10, 11 Silver, Brand New
Photos: https://imgur.com/a/dBqbbHM
Quantity Available - 8
Properly branded with engraving on the inside. Made with stainless steel and wont tarnish or turn green. Please refer to the size chart at the end of the album if you are unsure about your sizing. Only whole sizes are available.
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[email protected] Love Ring Gold
$29 SHIPPED WITHIN THE US, Gold US size 6, 7, 8, 9, 10, 11 Gold, Brand New
Photos: https://imgur.com/a/dBqbbHM
Quantity Available - 9
Properly branded with engraving on the inside. Made with stainless steel and wont tarnish or turn green. Please refer to the size chart at the end of the album if you are unsure about your sizing. Only whole sizes are available.
​

BAG

Suprem3 SS19 Black Duffle Bag
$59 SHIPPED WITHIN THE US, Black, Brand New with Tags.
Photos: https://imgur.com/a/JmK9fC4
Quantity Available - 2
Approximately 21x13x10 inches. Perfect duffle to go on a trip for the weekend. UTX hardware and YKK zips.
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Suprem3 SS17 Black Backpack
$55 SHIPPED WITHIN THE US, Black, Brand New with Tags.
Photos: https://imgur.com/a/S5oGxlE
Quantity Available - 3
Approximate dimensions: 19x11x7 inches. Fits up to 15/16 inch Macbook Pro in laptop compartment. Would fit everything you need for work/school, even for day trips. UTX hardware and YKK zips.
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Suprem3 SS18 Black Shoulder Bag
$29 SHIPPED WITHIN THE US, Black, Brand New with Tags.
Photos: https://imgur.com/a/ytHovds
Quantity Available - 3
Can be worn as bum bag or waist bag. Adjustable strap length. UTX hardware and YKK zips.
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Supr3me SS18 Beige Waist Bag
$29 SHIPPED WITHIN THE US, Beige, Brand New with Tags.
Photos: https://imgur.com/a/TjFoA60
Quantity Available - 1
Can be worn as bum bag or waist bag. Adjustable strap length. UTX hardware and YKK zips.
submitted by milfydonna to FashionRepsBST [link] [comments]

2023.05.31 17:16 Kingsuperbia TV 📺 Backer Max Weight?

TV 📺 Backer Max Weight?
Hello 👋,
TLDR;Trying to figure out a good max weight to stay under for a TT TV backer… recommendations? Experiences? Stories?
Extreme TT newbie here, doing a bunch of studying and reading and YouTube skimming and have been for the last two weeks… I also plane on taking some courses RV and Trailer maintenance, etc… anyways introductions aside…
I can’t seem to find solid info on TV backers anywhere… we are signing the paperwork tomorrow afternoon for our new 2023 Forest River Cherokee (Cascade*, DOS)… I’ve been to a couple forums and to the Forest River page to dig through the Owners Manuel… and most of the literature I come across lists basic dimension… when honestly with how light and thin modern TV’s are… I think 🧐 it would be better to list weight instead… idk that’s just me I guess…
Trying to figure out a good max weight to stay under for a TT TV backer… recommendations? Experiences? Stories?… I wanna put an LG C2 or C3 in the bedroom - 42” C3 is 28.4lbs @ ‎6.7 x 36.7 x 22.7 inches, 48” C3 is 46.3lbs @ ‎9.1 x 42.2 x 26.6 inches… the older C2’s for both sizes are roughly 6lbs lighter… and on the entertainment system above the fireplace I want to put a Samsung S95B 55” or 65” - respectively 46.1lbs @ 11.3 x 48.2 x 30.2 inches, or 57.3lbs @ 11.3 x 56.9 x 35.1 inches… tho I am considering an LG G2 above the fireplace which is roughly more then 7lbs lighter in both sizes then the Samsung, not to mention a thinner overall profile… and small consideration - most of the wall mounts I am looking 👀 at are all roughly 6lbs then a selves…
Fallow-up question… After all is said and done… Could I place a (couple) separate smaller mounts on the same wall below or to the sides of the TV above the fireplace? Like a sound bar or video game system - example an Xbox Series X is about 10lbs (PS5 is also below 10lbs)…
submitted by Kingsuperbia to traveltrailers [link] [comments]

2023.05.31 16:43 Santiagodelmar The Curses I Bear

Please Support this story on nosleep here.
The common consensus on what a curse even is can be ambiguous, so many cultures and ideas reframe and retool to fit the central tenets of their thematic cores. One thing is common amongst all interpretations however, their aim is to cause harm. One might wonder at what point is a curse conceived, not just the rituals and requirements that are needed to conjure a curse. No, what is it that makes up a curse, what feeds it? Some might answer hate or jealousy, and while those might be true for some. For me, the curse I bore and the curses I will bear are made up of one thing. Resentment.
I first noticed its infection one morning while getting dressed for classes. Running my fingers along the slight depression brought out goosebumps. It was slightly tender and if I pressed on it hard it elicited a painful pinch that caused my insides to tangle in panic. Withdrawing my fingers to inspect them I noted a slickness I couldn’t account for. A slight black tint colored my fingertips and I quickly rinsed them under hot water but it did little to wash away the wave of anxiety that had come over me. I tried to push it aside, I had classes, term papers, and tests to worry about. I held out until the middle of my 3rd class, by then all I could think about was the series of horrible and fatal medical implications of the indentation. I ran all the way home, body wracked with shivers, and slammed myself inside my dorm bathroom, stripped off my shirt, and took a good look at it. It had gotten deeper, at least 2 centimeters into my chest now. It was where my sternum was, dead center between my two pectoral muscles. I pushed my finger in and it actually gave some, causing a shudder of agony to blossom and ride through every nerve in my body. I spent the rest of the day researching what I could, some stuff about dietary insufficiencies causing swelling and easily depressed skin, but this was different. The anxiety attacks started then and continued for the next few hours. My roommate walked in during the midst of one and saw my huddled form, trying to breathe. I heard the audible click of his tongue and he left.
3 am neared and I still hadn’t escaped that sinking feeling, the one that feels like an endless plunge towards death, and all the while your lungs struggle to pull enough air to fuel a scream. Drowning in plain sight. I looked desperately through Jake’s things and found a bottle of Benadryl. I washed a couple of them down and waited until my eyelids grew heavy. I was barely able to crawl into bed before I fell into a deep slumber. The dreams it brought were bizarre and vivid. I was wandering through a landscape of abandoned suburbs, going from door to door, looking for one that was the right color. It was late into the night when I finally found it, a dim street lamp casting down an amber spotlight in front of a dilapidated two-story with a red door.
The door opened as I walked up to it, revealing a barren living room lit by a corner lamp that flickered every few seconds. At its center was a cobblestone well, ancient and unnerving. I recognized it. I had seen it countless times. On my worst days, I had dreamt of standing before it, yearning for hope or absolution. I had been silent instead, letting all I could not say seep into it. This inverted well, one that fed on despair instead of dreams, was now vibrating, shifting. Something was rising from its depths to greet me and I was ready for it, yearned for it. Black fluid erupted from its opening, spraying the ceiling and walls and splattering across my face.
Somewhere, a scream was reaching a fever pitch. I looked down and saw that my chest had split open and the black fluid was streaming down in a cascade of pitch. An eye blossomed from the depths of that gaping ravine in my chest. It stared, focused, and recognition flooded into the empty white. From the hole in my chest, something was rising - a realization. The screaming… it had been me the whole time.
I jolted awake, the pain in my chest the first thing to greet me. I heaved to suck in a breath and my senses came alive. Next was the sweat-slick coat that had pooled around me and I turned over to flip on a lamp. Light flooded my vision, but still, I was surrounded by darkness. No, not darkness, but stains. Black ink had seemingly spurted from my chest and splattered my bedding and floor. I ran my finger through it, all along my sternum, but I could not find the indentation, nor a source for the fluid.
I got up in a panic, looking around the room. I was alone, my roommate never having returned, but there was a trail of black ooze. I followed the most prominent streak to a corner. There was a lump there, a polished shiny black orb where the oily ooze seemingly seeped from. My heart thundered as I approached it, I swore I thought I saw it twitch. I was in the middle of my hands and knees crawling towards it when it jerked, moved, and stood.
I fell back on my ass letting out a half yelp, frozen as my gaze locked with it. It was the size of a rabbit, its tar-black skin reflective and polished. It had these beady eyes that were somehow darker than the rest of its body, and it waddled forward on stubby legs no longer than two inches. It had arms too, stubs too, and they reached for me. I was scooting away from its path when it spoke in a pained and squeaky voice as if its anatomy was ill-fitted for human speech, even its grasp of human words was feeble.
“No harm. I’m an ally.”
“What?” I couldn’t help but respond.
“You fed me, so now I repay you?”
“How? In what way? What are you?”
It blinked as if contemplating how to answer my barrage of questions. It didn’t have a mouth, but it spoke regardless. There was distance to its voice, so I was certain that it didn’t speak directly to my mind, but then again I didn’t even think that was possible until now.
“I am grown, don’t know from where, or why. I think I could be a tool or weapon. I eat bad feelings, but I was left with no one around to feed me. Then you came and fed me, for a long time. Now I’m finally strong enough to repay.”
“Repay me how?”
“I have fed on the dark of your heart. I know what it desires, I can take the shape of a curse,” it said
“You’re going to curse me? As repayment?”
“No, that’s not what was in your hearts. Yes, you hated yourself, but you hate others more. I can be the curse you cast on them.”
Something clicked in place and made its way closer to my mind, but didn’t bridge the distance entirely. It spoke, knew that I’d ask it how.
“Pick the kind of curse. I can be misfortune, blindness, madness… even death, a killing curse,” it said.
I reached towards it, even as its body distorted and elongated and reshaped into a foot-long, skinny, jagged oily centipede. I froze but it skittered forward, crawled across the back of my hand, and wrapped around my wrist. It tickled my skin, slick but warm. Almost uncomfortably so.
“Pick the kind of curse you want me to be, and feed me to whom you want to inflict. It’s easy, but curses burn up in daylight if not attached. You’ll have a few hours past dawn before I turn to ash.”
It fell silent afterward as if slumbering, but I couldn’t sleep. I sat in the corner thinking, watching the black stains left by the living curse dry up and evaporate into nothing. I had to look periodically at the oily centipede wrapped around my wrist to remind myself that I wasn’t dreaming, but all it did was convince me that I had careened off the precipice of sanity into some functional hysteria. I sat there until the sun rose, and like a clockwork mechanism, I got dressed and went to class. I was on autopilot, more depersonalized than I had ever felt before I watched myself go through the motions of my life. It should have been a cry for help, you could see it spelled out clearly as day and no one could have missed it. But they did - or rather, they chose to ignore it, because that was what you were supposed to do with people like me. Dull rage set in and it was what I stewed in as the hours ticked by, a building fury that could have blown but only boiled over and settled into dejected acceptance. I was ready to leave it at that, to let myself fade into a shadow like I had my entire life. To give up and crawl away to some recess, never to be found. But the searing pain of dozens of clawed insect legs digging into my flesh brought back presence of mind “Now. Now! Now! NOW!” a voice chirped. I ran into a storage closet, barred the door, and pulled back the sleeve that hid the living curse.
“What is it, are you about to die?”
“Not die, return. Back to the labyrinth. Pick a curse now, feed me to your enemy, before I disappear and all you’ll be left with is ash.”
“And if I haven’t picked anyone? If I don’t want to hurt anyone?”
“Then let me burn in the light, let me go, never visit my well, never feed me again. Move forward from your life, move away from me, and you’ll be free of me”
It could be that easy to rid myself of this wretched thing. I thought about my day, my life, and the people closest to me. I couldn’t let go, not when they had all walked by ashamed or indifferent, or worst of all, fearful. I had done nothing and they feared me.
“I won’t let it go, I can’t. I don’t know what I’ll do, but I can’t move on from this. I can’t give you up, but I can’t choose someone to suffer you.”
“Then eat me.”
I looked at the wriggling centipede confused, black fluid dripping from its body.
“If you eat me, you inflict the curse upon yourself. Not at full potency, but I’ll live until you’re ready to choose. If you hate enough, if you have the resolve, you can cast a shadow of my curse on all who meet your gaze, but you must hurry, my time… fades.”
“I don’t know what to pick. I don’t want to suffer.”
“Then pick the curse that causes the least pain.”
“Which is? I don’t know, pick for me!”
“I am delirium, now eat me, before it’s too late.”
I didn’t notice any change in the curse, except for the small cracks appearing in its carapace and the fraying of its antenna. I hesitated until a large crack formed across its back; at that moment, I hoisted it up and opened my mouth wide, closing my eyes as I lowered it. It did the rest of the work, jerking free of my grip and slithering down my throat with brute force, trailing that oily substance, I gagged, screamed, tears ran and I choked. But once it was down and settled I was alone in that room, nothing different.
Until I stepped out, and it began. A blurring of the world, where every sound was too sharp and grating, every color too vibrant. My head was swelling with immense pressure as it was filled with hundreds of trivial conversations, all spewing from the mouths of every student and professor in this wing. I couldn’t handle it, so I ran, flinging the doors open to the outside.
Except outside wasn’t outside, no, the doors opened up to a hallway I had been trying to forget all my life, framed with pictures of me and my family. I turned, hoping I could reach the living room so I could leave through the front door but what faced me was another room, one I had forgotten about until now. A barred door, walls burned black, stained with soot and char. A sound jolted me back around, the sound of a belt being unbuckled and fabric hitting the floor. Panic rose within me and I felt like I was in free fall, plummeting from astral orbit, through the earth's crust, and straight into the pits of hell. Except I wasn’t. No, I was in my middle school nurse's office. The scent of floor polish and cheap perfume tickled my nose.
“If it hurts you can stop it anytime, you know? Just change your habits, it’s not that hard,”
Ms. Rena, my middle school nurse, was talking to me. I stared into her eyes, and the world quieted and came into focus. They were green, as beautiful as emeralds. I couldn’t help but stare at them every chance I got. They brought forth feelings within me I had never felt before, an awakening. I blinked and they were burning now, bright green flames that sloughed the flesh from her face and I turned away and screamed. The scream pitched, bent, and distorted into a siren, ascending and descending endlessly. I don’t know how long I was caught in its loop but I couldn’t cling onto a single coherent thought longer than a second, as if my mind had been partitioned half a dozen times and all were battling for the sphere of influence that was my perception.
Then clarity, or an illusion of such. In reality, it was only a fleeting break from the delirium, long enough for me to gather my faculties so that the second dive into madness would hurt just that much more. But time was relative here, stretching out longer than it had any right to. The curse was there, in the hallway of my dorm, no longer a centipede but a tall humanoid thing, seemingly made of old motor oil.
“What’s happening? What did you do to me?!” I pleaded.
“You are suffering the curse of delirium. You chose this, remember?” it said, its voice no longer airy and whistling, like a bird’s. Its speech was no longer jilted and tenuous. Now when it spoke, its voice was deep and full of power.
“You said it would be weaker, subdued.”
“This is subdued, I’m a powerful curse after all.”
“What are you? Where do you come from, I don’t understand.”
“I don’t know, I’m searching for the answer myself. I was malnourished for so long that my mind splintered, I suffered my own madness, and I just know bits and pieces now. I know that in the city of Cradle, the word they call me means ‘Demon Seed’. That’s all I know of my identity.”
“I-I didn’t want this,”
“You’ll grow accustomed to it, with time. Not fully, if you could ignore the delirium it wouldn’t be much of a curse. If it’s too much for you to handle, if the pain is unbearable, you can always make it go away.”
“How?”
“Expel me from your body, feed me to someone else, or let the sun take me.”
I exhaled long and slow, and felt the prickling at the corner of my mind. The madness was near, but all I could feel was anger. At the curse, at myself, at the world. I turned away and faced a world of static and incomprehensible whispers, deafening and all-consuming. I collapsed into myself, held my hands to my ears, and balled into the fetal position. It did little to shut out all that was happening, but it did dull it for a moment until a quiet, throaty keening cut through and pierced my mind directly. I imagined a small undying animal having an army knife stab them at consistent intervals, the pace changing periodically so it could never get used to the pain. And then the violence was reflected onto me except there was no perpetrator. An invisible force sliced into the flesh of my sides, my back, until I was ridden with countless wounds. The pain spurred me to crawl forward on all fours, hoping to escape it but it was endless. I was bleeding so much, black blood, my blood was black. I laughed, then cried, and then crawled forward as the stabbings continued, except now the pain had dulled into an ache that still caused my breath to hitch.
I crawled for what seemed like hours, never getting used to the barrage of thoughts, images, and sounds, all the while the stabbing refused to stop. Even after my body had been shredded to ribbons and I had been bled of all its blood it continued, lazily now, as if the invisible force had grown tired but not enough to cease. Then I hit a wall, flesh, thin, like an amniotic sac, and on impulse I pushed through into it, harder and harder until it started to rip. Somewhere someone was breathing heavily, no more than one, with a rising rhythm and intensity, like a panic attack reaching its peak. I struggled forward, trying to break the damn thing, but it would not give. I was exhausted and so collapsed into it as if sleeping, but time passed and sleep did not come. But the end of the breathing did, once it reached a fever pitch. I shifted, realizing the stabbing had stopped, trying to move but then of all times the amniotic sac burst and I fell into whatever lay beyond it.
I was in my dorm room, a break in the madness. I was free for a moment, act, I had to act. Dawn was starting to peek through the window blinds. I stood up and froze, seeing what the rays of light were cast onto. My roommate Jake lay in his bed, naked. A woman just as naked was wrapped around him, body slick with sweat, its scent perfuming the room. He had seen me suffering, in the midst of a panic attack, left me to cope with it alone, and when I hadn’t returned he took the chance not to look for me or tell anyone, instead using it for his own benefit. Anger coursed through my veins, a fresh injection of hate kicking me into action. I opened my mouth and with my pointer finger and thumb reached in, the curse met me halfway and slid into position. I gripped it and pulled it, hand over hand now as a seemingly endless centipede being expelled from my stomach. I looked at the black segmented body, it writhed and moved in such a way that it reminded me a bit of an umbilical cord, and in a way, it was. A curse was being birthed, having grown stronger after I had housed and fed it with my own being. It was time to cut the cord then, I walked over to the pair as I pulled the last of the length free.
The curse popped out like a cork, sending a spray of black fluid across the couple. Droplets of varying sizes landed and stained the woman’s breasts, most of it pooling in between them at her sternum. I stifled a laugh as that’s where I had first gestated this curse. I looked at Jake, the black spray had stained his face, beard, and clavicle, and a particularly large globule resting upon his lower lip. I shifted my gaze to the wriggling centipede before me. It was at least four feet long now and twice its original width.
I shuddered, clarity flooded over me, and at that moment I realized that sometimes clarity was just perspective. I thought I knew suffering, thought I knew what it meant to shuffle through every day dreading that the next day would be more of the same. But the inescapable madness brought a new understanding to me. I could have changed. At any point in time, I could have ended my ostracization. Sure, it was socially imposed, but it was not an incurable delirium. Follow the rules, conform, and you’ll be mostly fine, you can make the hurt stop anytime you want. So why didn’t I, why can’t I now at this very moment? I knew now that it was because it would be a rejection of self, the world goes on and on about how you should be yourself. That in itself was a virtue lauded and held up as one of the most important facets of existence. But now I know what they really meant was “Operate within the constantly shifting parameters of acceptability - fail to adhere, evolve or predict, and you are a threat.” The true self that others reveled in evaded people like me, instead we had to construct a facade we passed off as real in order to thrive.
But so many didn’t, couldn’t, wouldn’t. How could they? It was all they knew, how could you discard that which defined them, the filter of their reality? I know what I am now, a worm that slinked through grime and lived in darkness, and when others took me and held me to the light, saying, “See, this is how you should be, and why you should be, it’s for the better of everyone,” it didn’t bring me to enlightenment, but to resentment and hate. I knew what I could do to make them see more than just a freak, a threat, but unconsciously I never took the steps because I knew only what it was to exist within the margins, in a periphery. An exile imposed by all, including myself.
I held the curse higher, feeling grateful that I had survived it, suffered it, and was blessed by its clarity. Light streamed in now as the sun crossed the horizon into a bright morning. The curse was still, despite the lethal light upon it. Let it go and move on, or revel in it? I looked back down at the pair, at Jake. He was an acceptable version of me, softly rebellious. Had thoughts, beliefs, mannerisms, and behaviors that neared the boundaries but never crossed them. Scruffy-faced, soft-eyed, short hair spikey and messy but never disheveled, charming in an irreverent way, unassuming cock but he fucked like a jackhammer obviously. An outsider that wasn’t really an outsider, he never was the great other that haunted dreams and fueled paranoia. I held the curse out in front of them and spoke to it.
“Your choice, Demon Seed. Wither in the sun, or choose one to torment. I don’t care which.”
It was still for a moment before diving into Jake's mouth. Silently, effortlessly, it slipped inside him and was gone. I walked out of the room, legs wobbling a bit, I was riding a high I had never felt before.
Jake was dead by the end of the month, he had been institutionalized until he wasn’t and then he stumbled onto train tracks. Rest is history, no body left to bury. His girlfriend, lover, or whatever the fuck was the one to break the news to me. Thought because I was his roommate I cared or at least should care. It was a few weeks later when I felt that sting and oil-slick fluid in my sternum, Demon Seed, the curse had enjoyed itself.
Twice more I’ve birthed a curse, let it choose its victim, let Demon Seed choose its form. He is the shaky finger of tragedy that strikes without cause or rhyme, deliriously pointed at someone, anyone. And I am the great well of resentment that feeds him. We are the what world needs, a calamity, the great other, something to fear, something to hate. And with each glare and impassioned condemnation, the curse grows stronger within me.
TW
submitted by Santiagodelmar to grimoireofmadness [link] [comments]

2023.05.31 16:29 Santiagodelmar Some Curses Are Shaped Like Centipedes

The common consensus on what a curse even is can be ambiguous, so many cultures and ideas reframe and retool to fit the central tenets of their thematic cores. One thing is common amongst all interpretations however, their aim is to cause harm. One might wonder at what point is a curse conceived, not just the rituals and requirements that are needed to conjure a curse. No, what is it that makes up a curse, what feeds it? Some might answer hate or jealousy, and while those might be true for some. For me, the curse I bore and the curses I will bear are made up of one thing. Resentment.
I first noticed its infection one morning while getting dressed for classes. Running my fingers along the slight depression brought out goosebumps. It was slightly tender and if I pressed on it hard it elicited a painful pinch that caused my insides to tangle in panic. Withdrawing my fingers to inspect them I noted a slickness I couldn’t account for. A slight black tint colored my fingertips and I quickly rinsed them under hot water but it did little to wash away the wave of anxiety that had come over me. I tried to push it aside, I had classes, term papers, and tests to worry about. I held out until the middle of my 3rd class, by then all I could think about was the series of horrible and fatal medical implications of the indentation. I ran all the way home, body wracked with shivers, and slammed myself inside my dorm bathroom, stripped off my shirt, and took a good look at it. It had gotten deeper, at least 2 centimeters into my chest now. It was where my sternum was, dead center between my two pectoral muscles. I pushed my finger in and it actually gave some, causing a shudder of agony to blossom and ride through every nerve in my body. I spent the rest of the day researching what I could, some stuff about dietary insufficiencies causing swelling and easily depressed skin, but this was different. The anxiety attacks started then and continued for the next few hours. My roommate walked in during the midst of one and saw my huddled form, trying to breathe. I heard the audible click of his tongue and he left.
3 am neared and I still hadn’t escaped that sinking feeling, the one that feels like an endless plunge towards death, and all the while your lungs struggle to pull enough air to fuel a scream. Drowning in plain sight. I looked desperately through Jake’s things and found a bottle of Benadryl. I washed a couple of them down and waited until my eyelids grew heavy. I was barely able to crawl into bed before I fell into a deep slumber. The dreams it brought were bizarre and vivid. I was wandering through a landscape of abandoned suburbs, going from door to door, looking for one that was the right color. It was late into the night when I finally found it, a dim street lamp casting down an amber spotlight in front of a dilapidated two-story with a red door.
The door opened as I walked up to it, revealing a barren living room lit by a corner lamp that flickered every few seconds. At its center was a cobblestone well, ancient and unnerving. I recognized it. I had seen it countless times. On my worst days, I had dreamt of standing before it, yearning for hope or absolution. I had been silent instead, letting all I could not say seep into it. This inverted well, one that fed on despair instead of dreams, was now vibrating, shifting. Something was rising from its depths to greet me and I was ready for it, yearned for it. Black fluid erupted from its opening, spraying the ceiling and walls and splattering across my face.
Somewhere, a scream was reaching a fever pitch. I looked down and saw that my chest had split open and the black fluid was streaming down in a cascade of pitch. An eye blossomed from the depths of that gaping ravine in my chest. It stared, focused, and recognition flooded into the empty white. From the hole in my chest, something was rising - a realization. The screaming… it had been me the whole time.
I jolted awake, the pain in my chest the first thing to greet me. I heaved to suck in a breath and my senses came alive. Next was the sweat-slick coat that had pooled around me and I turned over to flip on a lamp. Light flooded my vision, but still, I was surrounded by darkness. No, not darkness, but stains. Black ink had seemingly spurted from my chest and splattered my bedding and floor. I ran my finger through it, all along my sternum, but I could not find the indentation, nor a source for the fluid.
I got up in a panic, looking around the room. I was alone, my roommate never having returned, but there was a trail of black ooze. I followed the most prominent streak to a corner. There was a lump there, a polished shiny black orb where the oily ooze seemingly seeped from. My heart thundered as I approached it, I swore I thought I saw it twitch. I was in the middle of my hands and knees crawling towards it when it jerked, moved, and stood.
I fell back on my ass letting out a half yelp, frozen as my gaze locked with it. It was the size of a rabbit, its tar-black skin reflective and polished. It had these beady eyes that were somehow darker than the rest of its body, and it waddled forward on stubby legs no longer than two inches. It had arms too, stubs too, and they reached for me. I was scooting away from its path when it spoke in a pained and squeaky voice as if its anatomy was ill-fitted for human speech, even its grasp of human words was feeble.
“No harm. I’m an ally.”
“What?” I couldn’t help but respond.
“You fed me, so now I repay you?”
“How? In what way? What are you?”
It blinked as if contemplating how to answer my barrage of questions. It didn’t have a mouth, but it spoke regardless. There was distance to its voice, so I was certain that it didn’t speak directly to my mind, but then again I didn’t even think that was possible until now.
“I am grown, don’t know from where, or why. I think I could be a tool or weapon. I eat bad feelings, but I was left with no one around to feed me. Then you came and fed me, for a long time. Now I’m finally strong enough to repay.”
“Repay me how?”
“I have fed on the dark of your heart. I know what it desires, I can take the shape of a curse,” it said
“You’re going to curse me? As repayment?”
“No, that’s not what was in your hearts. Yes, you hated yourself, but you hate others more. I can be the curse you cast on them.”
Something clicked in place and made its way closer to my mind, but didn’t bridge the distance entirely. It spoke, knew that I’d ask it how.
“Pick the kind of curse. I can be misfortune, blindness, madness… even death, a killing curse,” it said.
I reached towards it, even as its body distorted and elongated and reshaped into a foot-long, skinny, jagged oily centipede. I froze but it skittered forward, crawled across the back of my hand, and wrapped around my wrist. It tickled my skin, slick but warm. Almost uncomfortably so.
“Pick the kind of curse you want me to be, and feed me to whom you want to inflict. It’s easy, but curses burn up in daylight if not attached. You’ll have a few hours past dawn before I turn to ash.”
It fell silent afterward as if slumbering, but I couldn’t sleep. I sat in the corner thinking, watching the black stains left by the living curse dry up and evaporate into nothing. I had to look periodically at the oily centipede wrapped around my wrist to remind myself that I wasn’t dreaming, but all it did was convince me that I had careened off the precipice of sanity into some functional hysteria. I sat there until the sun rose, and like a clockwork mechanism, I got dressed and went to class. I was on autopilot, more depersonalized than I had ever felt before I watched myself go through the motions of my life. It should have been a cry for help, you could see it spelled out clearly as day and no one could have missed it. But they did - or rather, they chose to ignore it, because that was what you were supposed to do with people like me. Dull rage set in and it was what I stewed in as the hours ticked by, a building fury that could have blown but only boiled over and settled into dejected acceptance. I was ready to leave it at that, to let myself fade into a shadow like I had my entire life. To give up and crawl away to some recess, never to be found. But the searing pain of dozens of clawed insect legs digging into my flesh brought back presence of mind “Now. Now! Now! NOW!” a voice chirped. I ran into a storage closet, barred the door, and pulled back the sleeve that hid the living curse.
“What is it, are you about to die?”
“Not die, return. Back to the labyrinth. Pick a curse now, feed me to your enemy, before I disappear and all you’ll be left with is ash.”
“And if I haven’t picked anyone? If I don’t want to hurt anyone?”
“Then let me burn in the light, let me go, never visit my well, never feed me again. Move forward from your life, move away from me, and you’ll be free of me”
It could be that easy to rid myself of this wretched thing. I thought about my day, my life, and the people closest to me. I couldn’t let go, not when they had all walked by ashamed or indifferent, or worst of all, fearful. I had done nothing and they feared me.
“I won’t let it go, I can’t. I don’t know what I’ll do, but I can’t move on from this. I can’t give you up, but I can’t choose someone to suffer you.”
“Then eat me.”
I looked at the wriggling centipede confused, black fluid dripping from its body.
“If you eat me, you inflict the curse upon yourself. Not at full potency, but I’ll live until you’re ready to choose. If you hate enough, if you have the resolve, you can cast a shadow of my curse on all who meet your gaze, but you must hurry, my time… fades.”
“I don’t know what to pick. I don’t want to suffer.”
“Then pick the curse that causes the least pain.”
“Which is? I don’t know, pick for me!”
“I am delirium, now eat me, before it’s too late.”
I didn’t notice any change in the curse, except for the small cracks appearing in its carapace and the fraying of its antenna. I hesitated until a large crack formed across its back; at that moment, I hoisted it up and opened my mouth wide, closing my eyes as I lowered it. It did the rest of the work, jerking free of my grip and slithering down my throat with brute force, trailing that oily substance, I gagged, screamed, tears ran and I choked. But once it was down and settled I was alone in that room, nothing different.
Until I stepped out, and it began. A blurring of the world, where every sound was too sharp and grating, every color too vibrant. My head was swelling with immense pressure as it was filled with hundreds of trivial conversations, all spewing from the mouths of every student and professor in this wing. I couldn’t handle it, so I ran, flinging the doors open to the outside.
Except outside wasn’t outside, no, the doors opened up to a hallway I had been trying to forget all my life, framed with pictures of me and my family. I turned, hoping I could reach the living room so I could leave through the front door but what faced me was another room, one I had forgotten about until now. A barred door, walls burned black, stained with soot and char. A sound jolted me back around, the sound of a belt being unbuckled and fabric hitting the floor. Panic rose within me and I felt like I was in free fall, plummeting from astral orbit, through the earth's crust, and straight into the pits of hell. Except I wasn’t. No, I was in my middle school nurse's office. The scent of floor polish and cheap perfume tickled my nose.
“If it hurts you can stop it anytime, you know? Just change your habits, it’s not that hard,”
Ms. Rena, my middle school nurse, was talking to me. I stared into her eyes, and the world quieted and came into focus. They were green, as beautiful as emeralds. I couldn’t help but stare at them every chance I got. They brought forth feelings within me I had never felt before, an awakening. I blinked and they were burning now, bright green flames that sloughed the flesh from her face and I turned away and screamed. The scream pitched, bent, and distorted into a siren, ascending and descending endlessly. I don’t know how long I was caught in its loop but I couldn’t cling onto a single coherent thought longer than a second, as if my mind had been partitioned half a dozen times and all were battling for the sphere of influence that was my perception.
Then clarity, or an illusion of such. In reality, it was only a fleeting break from the delirium, long enough for me to gather my faculties so that the second dive into madness would hurt just that much more. But time was relative here, stretching out longer than it had any right to. The curse was there, in the hallway of my dorm, no longer a centipede but a tall humanoid thing, seemingly made of old motor oil.
“What’s happening? What did you do to me?!” I pleaded.
“You are suffering the curse of delirium. You chose this, remember?” it said, its voice no longer airy and whistling, like a bird’s. Its speech was no longer jilted and tenuous. Now when it spoke, its voice was deep and full of power.
“You said it would be weaker, subdued.”
“This is subdued, I’m a powerful curse after all.”
“What are you? Where do you come from, I don’t understand.”
“I don’t know, I’m searching for the answer myself. I was malnourished for so long that my mind splintered, I suffered my own madness, and I just know bits and pieces now. I know that in the city of Cradle, the word they call me means ‘Demon Seed’. That’s all I know of my identity.”
“I-I didn’t want this,”
“You’ll grow accustomed to it, with time. Not fully, if you could ignore the delirium it wouldn’t be much of a curse. If it’s too much for you to handle, if the pain is unbearable, you can always make it go away.”
“How?”
“Expel me from your body, feed me to someone else, or let the sun take me.”
I exhaled long and slow, and felt the prickling at the corner of my mind. The madness was near, but all I could feel was anger. At the curse, at myself, at the world. I turned away and faced a world of static and incomprehensible whispers, deafening and all-consuming. I collapsed into myself, held my hands to my ears, and balled into the fetal position. It did little to shut out all that was happening, but it did dull it for a moment until a quiet, throaty keening cut through and pierced my mind directly. I imagined a small undying animal having an army knife stab them at consistent intervals, the pace changing periodically so it could never get used to the pain. And then the violence was reflected onto me except there was no perpetrator. An invisible force sliced into the flesh of my sides, my back, until I was ridden with countless wounds. The pain spurred me to crawl forward on all fours, hoping to escape it but it was endless. I was bleeding so much, black blood, my blood was black. I laughed, then cried, and then crawled forward as the stabbings continued, except now the pain had dulled into an ache that still caused my breath to hitch.
I crawled for what seemed like hours, never getting used to the barrage of thoughts, images, and sounds, all the while the stabbing refused to stop. Even after my body had been shredded to ribbons and I had been bled of all its blood it continued, lazily now, as if the invisible force had grown tired but not enough to cease. Then I hit a wall, flesh, thin, like an amniotic sac, and on impulse I pushed through into it, harder and harder until it started to rip. Somewhere someone was breathing heavily, no more than one, with a rising rhythm and intensity, like a panic attack reaching its peak. I struggled forward, trying to break the damn thing, but it would not give. I was exhausted and so collapsed into it as if sleeping, but time passed and sleep did not come. But the end of the breathing did, once it reached a fever pitch. I shifted, realizing the stabbing had stopped, trying to move but then of all times the amniotic sac burst and I fell into whatever lay beyond it.
I was in my dorm room, a break in the madness. I was free for a moment, act, I had to act. Dawn was starting to peek through the window blinds. I stood up and froze, seeing what the rays of light were cast onto. My roommate Jake lay in his bed, naked. A woman just as naked was wrapped around him, body slick with sweat, its scent perfuming the room. He had seen me suffering, in the midst of a panic attack, left me to cope with it alone, and when I hadn’t returned he took the chance not to look for me or tell anyone, instead using it for his own benefit. Anger coursed through my veins, a fresh injection of hate kicking me into action. I opened my mouth and with my pointer finger and thumb reached in, the curse met me halfway and slid into position. I gripped it and pulled it, hand over hand now as a seemingly endless centipede being expelled from my stomach. I looked at the black segmented body, it writhed and moved in such a way that it reminded me a bit of an umbilical cord, and in a way, it was. A curse was being birthed, having grown stronger after I had housed and fed it with my own being. It was time to cut the cord then, I walked over to the pair as I pulled the last of the length free.
The curse popped out like a cork, sending a spray of black fluid across the couple. Droplets of varying sizes landed and stained the woman’s breasts, most of it pooling in between them at her sternum. I stifled a laugh as that’s where I had first gestated this curse. I looked at Jake, the black spray had stained his face, beard, and clavicle, and a particularly large globule resting upon his lower lip. I shifted my gaze to the wriggling centipede before me. It was at least four feet long now and twice its original width.
I shuddered, clarity flooded over me, and at that moment I realized that sometimes clarity was just perspective. I thought I knew suffering, thought I knew what it meant to shuffle through every day dreading that the next day would be more of the same. But the inescapable madness brought a new understanding to me. I could have changed. At any point in time, I could have ended my ostracization. Sure, it was socially imposed, but it was not an incurable delirium. Follow the rules, conform, and you’ll be mostly fine, you can make the hurt stop anytime you want. So why didn’t I, why can’t I now at this very moment? I knew now that it was because it would be a rejection of self, the world goes on and on about how you should be yourself. That in itself was a virtue lauded and held up as one of the most important facets of existence. But now I know what they really meant was “Operate within the constantly shifting parameters of acceptability - fail to adhere, evolve or predict, and you are a threat.” The true self that others reveled in evaded people like me, instead we had to construct a facade we passed off as real in order to thrive.
But so many didn’t, couldn’t, wouldn’t. How could they? It was all they knew, how could you discard that which defined them, the filter of their reality? I know what I am now, a worm that slinked through grime and lived in darkness, and when others took me and held me to the light, saying, “See, this is how you should be, and why you should be, it’s for the better of everyone,” it didn’t bring me to enlightenment, but to resentment and hate. I knew what I could do to make them see more than just a freak, a threat, but unconsciously I never took the steps because I knew only what it was to exist within the margins, in a periphery. An exile imposed by all, including myself.
I held the curse higher, feeling grateful that I had survived it, suffered it, and was blessed by its clarity. Light streamed in now as the sun crossed the horizon into a bright morning. The curse was still, despite the lethal light upon it. Let it go and move on, or revel in it? I looked back down at the pair, at Jake. He was an acceptable version of me, softly rebellious. Had thoughts, beliefs, mannerisms, and behaviors that neared the boundaries but never crossed them. Scruffy-faced, soft-eyed, short hair spikey and messy but never disheveled, charming in an irreverent way, unassuming cock but he fucked like a jackhammer obviously. An outsider that wasn’t really an outsider, he never was the great other that haunted dreams and fueled paranoia. I held the curse out in front of them and spoke to it.
“Your choice, Demon Seed. Wither in the sun, or choose one to torment. I don’t care which.”
It was still for a moment before diving into Jake's mouth. Silently, effortlessly, it slipped inside him and was gone. I walked out of the room, legs wobbling a bit, I was riding a high I had never felt before.
Jake was dead by the end of the month, he had been institutionalized until he wasn’t and then he stumbled onto train tracks. Rest is history, no body left to bury. His girlfriend, lover, or whatever the fuck was the one to break the news to me. Thought because I was his roommate I cared or at least should care. It was a few weeks later when I felt that sting and oil-slick fluid in my sternum, Demon Seed, the curse had enjoyed itself.
Twice more I’ve birthed a curse, let it choose its victim, let Demon Seed choose its form. He is the shaky finger of tragedy that strikes without cause or rhyme, deliriously pointed at someone, anyone. And I am the great well of resentment that feeds him. We are the what world needs, a calamity, the great other, something to fear, something to hate. And with each glare and impassioned condemnation, the curse grows stronger within me.
TW
submitted by Santiagodelmar to nosleep [link] [comments]

2023.05.31 16:10 chuckhustmyre [TH] 100 CEMETERY (Part Two of Two) by Chuck Hustmyre

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
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2023.05.31 16:08 chuckhustmyre [TH] 100 CEMETERY (Part One) by Chuck Hustmyre

Evil often wears a mask.
John Burke felt his tendon tear. It happened just past the DEAD END sign, an instant after his foot struck the edge of the pothole. His right ankle folded and he went down hard--real hard--on the rough asphalt road.
Mid-summer morning, just outside New Orleans. Nylon jogging shorts and a tank top were no protection against road rash. His right knee hit first, then his hands. The pebble-studded pavement devoured the skin on both then bit into his hip, but he barely felt the hip. Maybe the shorts helped, or maybe by then John was in too much pain to notice.
He lay in the street--thank God cars were rare on Cemetery Road--bleeding, clutching his leg. Everything forgotten except his pain. He could see his ankle already starting to swell, turning purple along the inside. When he tried to flex it a white hot bolt of pain shot up his leg.
This is bad, John thought. Really bad. Doctor Van Dykes, surgery, months of physical therapy...
First thing--get off the street. John rolled onto his left side and had to stop and catch his breath as a wave of nausea washed over him. As the blood ran from his hands and knee where the road had carved away hunks of meat, he watched bright crimson drops splash onto the asphalt.
Hundred-year-old oaks overhung Cemetery Road, their branches draped in gray beards of Spanish moss that shaded the street. A quarter-mile past the DEAD END sign, the road bridged over the Chinchuba River, a slow-paced tributary no more than a couple dozen yards wide. Some mornings, mist drifted off the water's surface and into the woods on both sides of the road, giving the place a surreal look.
A perfect place to jog--run--John Burke didn't like using the "J" word. Jogging was what people did on weekends as they watched their bellies grow. John was a runner. At least four times a week with half-a-dozen races a year.
The nearest house--the only house on Cemetery Road--stood at the end, half a mile away, next to the graveyard for which the road was named. Maybe, just maybe, he could limp there, borrow a phone, call Gail. John looked at his watch, just 7:15. His wife didn't leave until eight. If he could get to a telephone she could pick him up and drive him straight to Doctor Van Dykes' office.
The trip was torture. Taking short hops on his left leg, he could make it only ten or fifteen feet before he had to rest. To rest John had to drop his right foot down and put a little weight on it and that sent waves of pain shooting up his leg. Behind him, he saw a trail of blood like red tears on the ground.
At the end of the road, the pavement gave way to a gravel driveway flanked on either side by two white stone columns. A six-foot, spiked, wrought-iron fence disappeared into the woods on either side. Hinged inside the columns gaped a pair of wrought iron gates. Mounted on the left hand column was a brass plaque with the number 100 etched in black. 100 Cemetery Road.
John paused at the top of the driveway and leaned against one of the gates to catch his breath. The drive descended at a slight grade, curved to the right, then vanished into the woods. He'd run past the driveway hundreds of times but had never actually seen the house or the cemetery. There was always something slightly unsettling about the look of it, something that made him pick up his pace as he ran past.
After a deep breath, he started hopping down the gravel drive, using trees along the way as resting points. The house was a hundred yards past the gate. A big two-story, clapboard construction, that looked run down, almost seedy. It had suffered years of wood rot and badly needed a coat of paint.
The gravel path ended at a two-car garage attached to the right side of the house. Left of the house, on the other side, past a stand of trees, John caught a glimpse of the cemetery. He could just make out a low iron fence and a few gray tombstones.
A wooden porch with a decayed railing spanned the front of the house. The front door was solid wood, without windows.
He leaned against the frame and knocked. A minute passed. John knocked again, this time pounding with the bottom of his fist. At least another half minute went by before he heard slippers shuffling on the floor just inside. The door opened just a crack and a white haired old lady peered out. "Yes," she said, suspicion in her voice.
John held up his right leg, showing his bloody knee and black and blue ankle. Exhausted, he didn't have time to mince words. "I'm hurt. Can I use your phone?"
The old lady looked down at John's leg. A look of concern washed over her face as she threw open the door. "Come in. Oh, my goodness, come in."
John stretched his arms across the doorjamb as he hobbled inside the threshold. "If I can just use the phone, my wife will come pick me up."
"What on earth happened?" she said, leading him through the foyer.
"Twisted my ankle in a pothole."
"Oh, my word," she said, turning to look. "Is it very bad?"
"I think so."
"Come sit down. Let me get you something."
The foyer floor was tile, but he wanted to be careful. "I don't want to get blood on anything."
She shook her head. "Don't be silly. Blood washes right out." The old lady stepped toward John and took hold of his left arm, letting him lean some of his weight on her.
In the den, John was relieved to see a wooden floor. As he dropped onto the sofa, he nodded toward a telephone on an end table. "If I can just use the phone..."
A strange look flashed across the old lady's face, but was gone in an instant as she nodded toward the telephone. "That one doesn't work." She pointed toward a door that looked like it led into the kitchen. "You stay put. I'll call somebody for you in just a second, but first let me get you some water."
John tried to protest, but she was determined. While she was gone, he eyed the room. The den was big, with six bay windows overlooking the woods behind the house. The room was filled with old-fashioned furniture and had a cavernous fireplace at one end, but it also had a worn look, and a smell. A smell John always associated with old age, with his grandfather's house in the last few years before he died.
Next to the dead telephone was a framed black and white photo of a pretty young woman in a riding outfit, posing at what looked like the front gate of a ranch. It was the old lady, much younger and much thinner.
When she came back carrying a tall glass of ice water in one hand, John still had both hands clutching his swelling ankle. He jabbed an elbow toward the photo, more for something to say than anything else. "Is that you?"
She nodded. "My father owned the Rocking R ranch.
The name was familiar. One of the biggest meat suppliers in the state. "Owned?" He stressed the past tense.
She nodded. "After Daddy died, we had to sell. Rising interest rates and the drop in beef prices, we got just pennies on the dollar." She sounded bitter.
For a second she stood quiet and John used the lull to introduce himself and explain how he'd hurt his ankle.
She handed him the glass. "I may have seen you jogging before. Looked like somebody was chasing you."
John thanked her and smiled at the image that popped into his head of this nice old lady lurking in the woods close enough to see the road. As he took a long sip from the glass, he noticed a slightly bitter taste that reminded him why he drank bottled. "You live here alone?"
"No. My husband and I are retired. For forty years we owned Muller and Son funeral home."
"That's where we had the service for my father," John said.
"I'm sorry." She patted his shoulder. "When did he pass?"
He had to think for a second. Time flies. "Two years this past spring," he slurred.
She stared at him with a look of compassion. "Our son would have handled that. We sold the business to him four years ago."
John's head began to spin. The glass slipped from his fingers as he crumpled to the floor. Darkness.
* * *
John Burke cracked his eyes and saw blinding lights. Then felt thumping. Someone was thumping on his chest. He opened his eyes all the way. White light, bright white light. Flat on his back, he tried to raise his hand to shield his eyes but his arm wouldn't move--at least not far. Just a couple inches then something held it. Same thing happened when he tried to use his other hand.
John felt a cold hard floor beneath him--the rough surface of cement--as he rolled onto his side. There was something wrong with his hands. They were trapped at his waist as he tried again to shield his eyes from the blinding light.
More thumping, this time on his left shoulder. He blinked several times to clear his vision. His eyes focused on a bearded, bare-chested, fat man, squatting on the floor next to him. A pair of steel handcuffs clamped on the big man's wrists were fastened to a belt encircling his waist.
"You okay?" the man said.
John just stared at him, realizing the man wasn't just bare-chested, he was completely naked.
"I said, are you okay?" the bearded man asked again.
"Where am I?" John's head felt like it was going to split open.
The naked fat man shrugged. "I don't know."
John looked down at himself and saw that he too was bare-assed, his own wrists handcuffed and bound to his waist by a two-inch wide leather belt. Using his elbow and good knee, John started to snake away from his new acquaintance.
"You can't get away," the man said.
Get away from where?
The pain in his ankle made him stop. He looked around, saw he was in a room maybe thirty feet by thirty feet. Besides him and the fat man, there were four other men in the room. All naked, all handcuffed and belted.
The bearded man hadn't moved. "It's not me you got to be afraid of." He pointed toward the room's only door. "It's the old man."
* * *
The old man had been in four times to bring food. Slop was more like it. He came into the room carrying the thick brown paste in a couple of five-gallon buckets. The stuff tasted like it had a lot of lard in it.
"How long have you been here?" John asked.
The bearded man--Skeeter he called himself--just shrugged. "The old man always keeps the lights on so we can't tell the difference between day and night."
Along one wall was a chest-high trough into which their keeper poured the paste. A second trough along the adjacent wall held water. Like animals, the men stood in front of the troughs, stuck their faces into them, and slurped.
Like everyone else, everything of John's had been taken from him while he was unconscious: shorts, shirt, socks, shoes, and most important, his watch. In addition to belted handcuffs, the other men wore leg irons, essentially a pair of oversized, stainless steel cuffs with a foot-and-a-half of chain between them. But John had been spared that, probably due to the size of his swollen ankle.
Skeeter didn't know why he was here, why any of them were here. "I was just hitchhiking"
"Hitchhiking?"
He nodded. "On the interstate."
"The old man was driving a van. Pulled over and gave me a ride. After a few minutes he reaches into a cooler between the seats and hands me a beer. I'm talking about a sealed up beer. Popped the top on it myself. I took couple of sips, remember thinking it tasted kind of funny, like it got spoiled. Next thing I know I wake up here--like this." Skeeter tugged at his handcuffs, rattling the chain looped through the belt.
During the next several feedings John got pretty much the same story from three of the other four men. All hitchhikers, all picked up by the old man. The fourth guy, the one the others said had been here the longest, didn't talk. Just leaned against the wall in a stupor.
"Something in the food," Skeeter said.
"What do you mean?"
Skeeter patted his gut. "I didn't have this when I got here." He nodded toward the food trough. "And it makes you tired all the time."
* * *
Feedings. That's the only way John Burke had of marking the passage of time. Seemed like they were spaced out evenly, several hours apart, figured maybe three times a day. It was after the seventh feeding that the old man came and took away the guy who wouldn't talk--the sleepy guy.
He came in wearing a full-length plastic apron and carrying an electric cattle prod. He used the prod to shock the sleepy guy in the ass and wake him up, then delivered a couple more jabs to drive him from the room. Just after the door closed behind them, John heard the two bolts shoved into place.
"What the hell was that about?" he asked Skeeter.
"That's the third one I've seen him take."
"Do they come back?"
Skeeter shook his head.
"Where do they go?"
"I don't know. But...I'm afraid my turn's coming."
"I want to get out of here," John said, "and that looks like the only way out."
"Bad as this place is, I got a feeling what's on the other side of that door is a lot worse."
Hungry as he was, John barely ate. A couple things he'd noticed, the other four men were flabby and they slept a lot, especially after a feeding. The food--slop they called it--had to be the reason. The thick brown paste made everyone fat and sleepy. Something in it, some type of sedative, and maybe something else, something that made you want more. John couldn't remember ever being so hungry. Still, he only took a mouthful at each feeding.
And while the others slept, John worked. The leather belt around his waist was buckled at the back and secured with a small padlock. The handcuffs ran through a stainless steel ring in front. He'd tested the steel parts, the buckle, the lock, and the ring, but didn't think there was any hope of attacking them; the only weak spot was the leather itself.
So as soon as the others filled their bellies and nodded off, John would hobble to the drinking trough. He'd found a slightly rough edge at one corner and had begun scraping the belt against it. The belt was thick and the leather tough. The going was slow, but at least it was something. And something was better than nothing.
* * *
Just after the twenty-ninth feeding, that's when the old man came and took Skeeter away. He'd taken two more since that first one, and two new ones had come in. They came in one at a time, three feedings apart, and just like he imagined it had happened to him, the old man dragged them unconscious into the room and left them. They'd each awakened, naked, shackled, and groggy.
Then it was Skeeter's turn. He must have known because as soon as he heard the bolts slip back his face turned white. He backed himself into one of the far corners, trying to put as much distance between himself and the door as he could.
Skeeter had told John he used to be a wrestler, high school and college, back before the drugs and the booze, back before he'd hit the road. Since then he'd ridden his thumb, crisscrossing the country in search of a good time. Skeeter put up the best fight John had seen from any of them, but the belt, the handcuffs, the leg irons, and the cattle prod were just too much. One two-minute round was all the former wrestler had in him. After that, he was lying on the floor in a puddle of his own urine, a blubbering pile of flabby flesh covered in scarlet welts.
The old man grabbed the chain between Skeeter's ankles and dragged him through the door. Helpless, John just watched. The most terrifying thing was the old man's lack of emotion. No spark of evil in those eyes, just the look of a tired man trying to get through another day.
By the thirty-fifth feeding--John figured eleven or twelve days since he arrived--he had managed to saw through almost the entire two-inch leather belt, just an eighth of an inch remained.
Only one other of the original five who were in the room when John woke up was left. The old man came in, wearing his black plastic apron, and carrying the prod. In a minute it was over. He'd prodded the man through the door on hands and knees, the poor bastard doing everything he could to keep from getting shocked. This time only one bolt clicked into place.
For what seemed like an hour John sat in the middle of the room and watched the door, his stomach twisted with fear. Just as exhaustion overtook him and his head started to nod, the bolt shot open and the old man swept back into the room, wielding the cattle prod like a sword. John slid backward against the far wall as the old man's eyes fixed on him. But there was no hatred in them, nor malice as he strode toward John, waving the tip of the prod in a "come here" motion. As the cool wall pressed against John's back, he felt his bladder let go, felt the warm liquid spill down his thighs.
I'm going to die.
(to be continued...)
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2023.05.31 15:31 JohannesMeanAd2 The Centennial Series, S2E2: 1923 Indianapolis 500 - Indy goes international!

The Centennial Series, S2E2: 1923 Indianapolis 500 - Indy goes international!
Hello everyone! I hope you all had fun watching the Monaco Grand Prix this weekend, filled with many different strategic twists and turns and showcasing some of the finest displays of driver ability we've seen this season!
As we all know, the Monaco Grand Prix is one of the most historic motor races on the planet, with a rich heritage going all the way back to 1929. However, there is one other open wheel race that has historically been run on the same day, but halfway across the world in America: The Indianapolis 500. With speeds in excess of 230 miles per hour and attendance soaring past 300,000 on race day, the Indy 500 boasts arguably the most impressive CV of any active motor race in the world with its over 110-year-long history. Makes sense, then, that this would be our next destination for The Centennial Series retrospective.
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The Start of the 1923 Indianapolis 500. Image credits to michaeljesse.net
For those of you on this sub who don't know, I make a series of commemorative posts for Grand Prix-adjacent races that occurred exactly 100 years ago as their anniversaries pass by us. Here's my most recent one in case you're interested in reading further. This will be the second installment in this year's retrospective, so let's get into it!
Just like today, in 1923 the Indianapolis 500 held a special place in the motor racing world as arguably one of the fastest and most exciting races out there. If we had a holy trinity of races in the 1920s, they would be the Italian Targa Florio, the French Grand Prix, and this race. Indy represented the peak of American motor racing since the end of World War I, when rival events such as the ACA Grand Prize and the William K. Vanderbilt Cup fell into abeyance and irrelevance.
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Aerial view of Indianapolis Motor Speedway, 1923.
You might be wondering, "this is a race that's still held today in the IndyCar series. Why would you do a retrospective on it if it's not a Grand Prix?" That's a great question and the answer lies in the past. Though it may seem strange, unlike in the 1950s, during the 1920s the Indy 500 was equally as relevant to the Grand Prix racing world as it was to that of racing in the United States. Quite often, many of the best manufacturers of Europe sought after victory in the Indianapolis 500 as a means of proving their race cars’ (and road cars) worthiness on a global scale. Some successful examples include Delage in the 1914 running, and Peugeot, who successfully won three times in 1913, 1916 and 1919.
As such, it made sense that the then-organizers of the Indy 500 (and most auto racing in America), the AAA Contest Board, wanted to keep in touch with the latest developments in international racing to maintain that worldwide interest in the Sweepstakes. In the previous year's Indianapolis 500 (Which you can read my post about here), the technical regulations remained the same as they had been since the end of World War I, that of 3.0 liter engine regulations, on the grounds that the American auto industry still hadn't fully recovered a regular peacetime manufacturing capacity after The Great War.
However, this would all change for 1923. In 1922, the Automobile Club de France, or the ACF, adopted new, 2.0 liter engine regulations with slightly smaller weight requirements as the first true "new" post-war regulation. In the pursuit of maintaining international interest in the Indy 500, the AAA decided to follow suit for the 1923 season. In recognition of unifying their formula, the folks in Europe known as the AIACR (Association Internationale des Automobile Clubs Reconnus, the FIA of its day) designated the Indianapolis 500 as a Grande Epreuve (French for “big test”), which was back then the term for an "official" international Grand Prix race.
And so, with the race now genuinely having international importance once more, it's time to see who's who and who the favorites were for the 1923 Indy 500:
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The Team of Bugattis lining up for a photo at the 1923 Indy 500. Image credits to Simanaitis Says.
The first major European manufacturer to jump at the Indy opportunity would be Bugatti. Led by the great Ettore Bugatti himself, the Alsatian manufacturer had gained a reputation for punching well above their weight in the Grand Prix scene, with multiple voiturette victories to their name in 1920 and 1921, and making the step up to the Grand Prix races in 1922. Despite their gentlemanly lineup, their results were very promising, taking runner-up in France and third place at Monza. For 1923, they planned bigger and better things, but for the sake of getting their name out, Bugatti set out with their 1922-spec Type 30, modified to only have one seat (because back then Grand Prix racers still needed two seats).
Their drivers would be led by Pierre de Vizcaya and the legendary Polish designer Count Louis Zborowski. They were joined by a series of other wealthy aristocrats interested in a flick of speed, including the Parisian Prince de Cystria, and the Argentinians Martin de Alzaga and Raul Riganti. With just 90 horsepower on tap, Bugatti's best chances came from capitalizing on attrition. But still it's quite incredible that they're out here having only made it to the big leagues a year prior.
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The Supercharged Mercedes M7294. Stripped down to only one seat for Indianapolis. Image credits to Supercars.net
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Christian F. Lautenschlager. Image from Fine Art America.
And now for a manufacturer I'm sure everyone is familiar with: Mercedes! By this point, Mercedes were still virtually the "exiled genius” of the European racing world. Their status as a German car manufacturer left them banned from taking part in the French Grand Prix after The Great War, but that did not stop the engineers at Stuttgart from innovating and being ahead of the curve. At the 1922 Targa Florio, they introduced the world's first supercharged (and by extension, forced induction) racecars, capitalizing on a gray area for the Grand Prix regulations of the time. Seeing the potential of the supercharging device, Mercedes opted to take it one step further for 1923. In a design that complies with the 2.0 liter Grand Prix regulations, they introduced the M7294, designed by Paul Daimler himself. This 120-horsepower beast used centrifugal supercharging to make up for the below-average RPM compared to the naturally aspirated American racers they'd be up against, making this the first effort for a supercharged race car at Indy.
As they were once again playing with hot stuff, Mercedes entrusted only their absolute best and most knowledgeable drivers with the M7294. The headlining driver would be two-time Grand Prix champion Christian Lautenschlager, alongside their top testers Max Sailer and Christian Werner.
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Duesenberg Special at Indianapolis, 1924. No good photos of their 1923 special exist. Image credits to Indiana Memory Collections.
The rather abrupt nature of the switch from 3.0 liter engines to 2.0 liter engines for the Indy 500 sent a paradigm-changing shockwave to the balance of power among American racing teams. Many manufacturers found themselves largely underprepared or ill-equipped to handle making all new designs in such a short time for the 1923 Indy 500. One such example would be the Duesenberg brothers. High off of an incredible upset victory at the 1921 French Grand Prix, and a record-breaking Indy 500 win (both with Jimmy Murphy at the helm), it’s safe to say Duesenberg were a staple of American open wheel racing, and in 1923 their absence was very much felt. In the hurried rush to put together a special car in time for Indianapolis, they depleted most of their resources, and sent out three cars, mostly for relief drivers. Only one car would start the race, for their chief relief driver Wade Morton, making his Indy 500 debut. Quite the contrast to see only one car from such a big team.
The Detroit-based Packard team were able to create a reasonably strong package for the 1923 season, managing around 115 horsepower from their new 2.0 liter special. Although not in as desperate of a situation as Duesenberg were, Packard still put together a strong team, fielding the legendary Ralph DePalma as their headlining driver, alongside Joe Boyer and 1916 winner Dario Resta.
Others wouldn’t be so fortunate as Duesenberg and Packard to survive the sudden shift. The Frontenac Motor Corporation, a joint venture between Louis Chevrolet (yes, that Chevrolet), Joe Boyer and car salesman William Small, was the dominant force in Champ Car racing during and after The Great War, with Chevrolet himself leading the race team to glory. After a suboptimal 1922 race in which none of Chevrolet’s cars finished in the top 5, the devastating news that they’d have to rebuild everything they had was the nail in the coffin that would make the Frontenac project go bankrupt, ridding American open wheel racing of one of its strongest teams. Can you imagine that happening to Chevrolet and Team Penske today? Because that’s what this felt like at the time.
Miller Type 122 Special, as entered by HCS. Image credits to ConceptCarz.
However, where some had failed or struggled, others would absolutely thrive. In the immediate post-war years, The Wisconsonite Harry Miller was the owner of a very successful carburetor-selling business, generating over $1 million in yearly revenue. Miller would put this money to good use, developing a durable and fast racing engine for the Indy 500 (inspired by the old Peugeot engines), which in 1922 would be used by the overall race winner, Jimmy Murphy on his special Duesenberg chassis. The record-breaking pace of Murphy's win ignited huge interest in Miller's fast-growing racing team. Luckily for Miller, his team would stay ahead of the curve for the 1923 regulation change, developing a strong 2.0 liter engine for an elegant and functional design: the Type 122 (named such for the engine size in cubic inches).
The Miller 122 was the very first dedicated single-seater race car in the United States. Talk about an innovative race car for the time, back in those days the top Grand Prix cars mandated two seats for driver and mechanic! However, as the need for a mechanic was now optional for the Indy 500, the 122 only had the one seat. The car also boasted a very impressive 120 horsepower. A similar power output to Miller's previous engines, but far more dense given the smaller engine size.
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Cliff Durant.
With the promise of stability at over 110 miles per hour, and especially given the short notice of the regulation change hurting other American manufacturers, Harry Miller's design would have an explosion of interest from many drivers of the American Open Wheel racing establishment. There were no less than eleven of these bad boys lining up for the 1923 Indy 500, making this car a clear favorite for race day. There were two top teams fielding Millers this year, including Cliff Durant’s stable of eight cars with champion drivers such as Earl Cooper and Jimmy Murphy headlining his team’s attack. They would be rivaled by the Harry C. Stutz team (H.C.S. for short), who had just two cars, but packed a real punch by fielding two past Indy 500 champions: Howard “Howdy” Wilcox, and Thomas “Tommy” Milton.
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Headline for Indiana law prohibiting sporting events occurring on memorial day. Taken from The Daily Republican, January 25th, 1923.
So now that we have the exposition out of the way, it's time for the race itself. Well, almost. You see, at the start of 1923, the Indiana State Legislature passed a law that prohibited all sporting events from occurring on Memorial Day, which included the Indianapolis 500 itself. This was done on the grounds that not enough respect had been given to the fallen American soldiers, and that the day was instead used for “games, races, and revelry.” Although this reasoning was sound, many people found this law un-American for limiting free expression. This included the organizers of the Indy 500, who relied on a holiday to guarantee maximal race attendance. There were talks of moving the race to the Saturday before Memorial day (May 26th in this instance), and even potentially making Saturday a special holiday! Honestly, it kind of reeks of making a town around the racetrack called “Speedway” (which actually happened). As no better solution could be found due to the organizers’ insistence on running on a holiday, the race would be held on a Wednesday, May 30th.
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Joe Boyer in the Packard Special, 1923.
Now that we know when the race happens, it's time to actually get into the swing of things. Most teams used the entire month of May leading up to the race to get in private practice sessions, to have the best possible independent data regarding average speed and reliability. As such, there was a pretty clear picture of who had better overall speed, which turned out to be everybody. Before the 4-lap time trials began on Saturday the 26th, Harry Hartz in his Cliff Durant Miller car set a 106 mph average speed lap, which was nearly SIX miles per hour faster than Jimmy Murphy’s pole lap from the year prior. This speed would soon be matched by the likes of Murphy and Milton. Already this Indy 500 was promising to be a showstopper with these speeds.
Qualifying began on Saturday, the 26th. Just like it is today, the starting grid would be set by doing 4 laps of the Indy oval at speed, with the average lap (measured in speed, not time) determining your placement. The gentleman Bugatti drivers had very consistent lap speeds, even if their trials were rather slow for the time. The best lap came from Raul Riganti, clocking in at a 95 mph average speed. The Mercedes cars fared only a little better. Lautenschlager and Werner both showed very strong speed in excess of 105 mph on the straights, but had to back off quite a bit in the corners. This evened out to give a lap speed of approximately 95 mph from Werner, and 93 mph from Lautenschlager.
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Cars lining up for the start of the 1923 Indy 500, ground view, pace car in front.
As the European manufacturers struggled, the Americans fared much better. Packard and Miller would both have drivers that beat out Jimmy Murphy’s 100 mph qualifying record from 1922. For Packard, it was DePalma, at around 100.42 miles per hour, promising to the public that this wouldn’t be a Miller whitewash as far as speed goes. But even then, the Millers stood head and shoulders above the rest, particularly with the HCS-entered cars. Tommy Milton would throw down the gauntlet with a murderous speed of 108 mph for pole position! Talk about crazy improvement from the year before. For reference, this year’s record-setting Indy 500 pole speed improved on last year’s by only 0.2 mph. Really speaks to how much of a wild west era 100 years ago was like. Milton’s time would be closely matched by the top two from the past year, Jimmy Murphy and Harry Hartz. They would be joined in the top 5 speeds by Cliff Durant himself, and Packard’s DePalma.
And now for the race itself. In front of a rambunctious crowd of over 100,000 strong (there were far less grandstand tickets back then), the pace car led the 24 cars to a rolling start as they roared into turn 1. Tommy Milton built up a very strong lead in the first lap, but Jimmy Murphy negotiated the cars in front of him from the third row to pass Milton by turn four, with Boyer and Hartz closely following. By lap three, Milton overtook Murphy to return to first place, setting the stage for the opening 50 laps of the race, which would be a constant back and forth tussle between these two drivers, both representing the top teams using Miller cars: Murphy for Durant Racing, and Milton for the H.C.S. Motor Company. The crowd could hardly believe such a close and fast battle, no one had ever seen anything like it (they would swap the lead 25 times). Joe Boyer and Ralph DePalma helped keep Packard within touching distance, and the supercharged Mercedes’ proved to surprise in race trim, with Werner reaching the top 10 very quickly.
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Leaderboard after Lap 10. Credits to goldenera.fi
The first 50 laps would see several retirements, including two high speed crashes. On lap 14 Mercedes’ Christian Lautenschlager skidded into the wall at turn 1 at nearly 90 mph, with the driver mostly uninjured. His riding mechanic Jakob Krauss was less fortunate, as he’d suffer a left leg contusion. Lautenschlager was the only driver in the field with a riding mechanic, and the mechanic’s injuries called into question the safety of even having one at all.
The other crash would come from Tom Alley, relief driver for former national champion Earl Cooper. Alley lost control at 105 mph entering turn 3, crashing straight into the fence and throwing Alley 20 feet from the car. Alley survived with serious lacerations to his back, but the sheer impact of his car on the catch fence would tragically take the life of a young local spectator, Herbert Shoup. I know it’s very upsetting, but in this day and age it’s always important to remind ourselves of, and respect, the consequences of the danger these drivers, and the people who watched them, faced when racing.
A stillframe of actual footage of Howdy Wilcox, Tommy Milton, and Jimmy Murphy battling for the lead in the 1923 Indianapolis 500. Taken from the official Indianapolis Motor Speedway YouTube channel.
Leaderboard After 20 out of 200 laps.
After Joe Boyer hit the pits for an extended period of time by lap 30 to change spark plugs, Packard’s best hope of a win faded, making it a Miller show up front. But the battle for the lead ramped up considerably by lap 50. Now, joining Milton and Murphy were their team-mates at HCS and Durant respectively, making it a two on two battle. Howard Wilcox had recovered from a serious qualifying mistake putting him much lower on the grid and now was in the mix with Milton, and Murphy was joined by the owner of the team himself, Cliff Durant. The Mercedes of Werner slowly improved once more, now up to 6th, showing promise that the supercharger may really be the game changer Mercedes had made it out to be.
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Jimmy Murphy (right). Image credits to Sports Car Digest.
Wilcox’s charge wouldn’t last very long, as by lap 60 his car had a broken clutch, dropping him out of the race. He would soon be followed by Murphy, who by the same time had problems brewing from within his Miller that slowed his pace a good bit. He went into the pits for nearly five laps to resolve these issues, which put him well down the order and hoping for a miracle for a repeat victory. This left only Durant and Milton up front, with only 10 seconds between them, and Harry Hartz half a track behind, though Durant began to ease off due to slowly-building exhaustion that would go on to affect several drivers throughout the day.
Even though they showed promise early on, much like the Frontenacs from the year prior, Packard would have a devastating and sudden end to their 500 charge. On lap 59, they lost Joe Boyer due to a defective differential, and it would seem that some of the mechanics didn’t check the head gaskets on the other two cars, as those breaking would be the downfall of both DePalma and Dario Resta, on laps 69 and 88 respectively. Less than halfway through the race the biggest challenger to the Millers on outright speed would be gone in a flash.
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Christian Werner, circa 1924. His car was the strongest of the Mercs at Indy that day. Image from Mercedes-Benz digital archive.
Where some challengers would flounder, others would silently surprise. By lap 80, the two remaining Mercedes’, piloted by Werner and Sailer, had found themselves in the top 5. Although not challenging race leader Milton for pace, it was as clear as day that the two Germans had consistent speed and utmost confidence with the M7294. With that being said, driving it at the pace they were proved extremely exhausting. Multiple stops had to be made to rotate drivers out of the cars, sometimes requiring assistance to even get out of the car. Despite all of that the Mercs maintained position, and by the halfway point had found themselves in third place.
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Howdy Wilcox in H.C.S. Special, 1923.
By that point, however, the battle for the lead had cooled off. On the back stretch of the circuit, Cliff Durant came to a dead stop. The exact reasoning never got clarified, but eventually his car restarted and he rejoined the race more than 6 laps behind the leader. This left his more conservative team-mate Harry Hartz inheriting second place, one of the only cars left to not get lapped by Tommy Milton. With a huge lead now established, the HCS team pulled Milton in to give him a rest, as even he isn’t impervious to severe exhaustion. Milton had blistered, severely injured hands, which prompted the team to order Milton to have some rest, handing the car over to Wilcox, who remained on standby after his own car had dropped out. With only Hartz and Werner anywhere near their huge lead, Wilcox took over, with only one goal in mind: to keep the car on the track until Milton recovered.
Leaderboard after 120 out of 200 laps
Wilcox would relieve Milton for 48 laps, and the car remained firmly in the lead over Hartz, even extending it to one full lap ahead. In that time several other cars would be vanquished through spending countless dozens of minutes in the pitlane, fixing mechanical problems that developed over time. This included the Mercedes of Werner, which by lap 120 was the only good Mercedes left. Their race was compromised significantly when the car caught fire in the pitlane, though it would be extinguished very quickly. As Werner’s car left the pitlane, relieved by Sailer, the crowd gave the Germans a standing ovation! Talk about ways of catching people’s attention, a pitstop fire is definitely one of them! Although this frantic moment almost took them out, at its very next pitstop at 140 laps, Werner’s battered Mercedes came into the pits overheated and clearly in need of a rest. They would rejoin after spending dozens of laps in the pits, but with the dream of a supercharged podium at the fastest race in the world officially over.
The excitement of the beginning of the race wore off by lap 150, as due to the high temperatures of the day, many drivers had to be relieved and substituted by their designated stand-ins, removing the grandeur from what started as such a competitive race. The high “driver attrition,” so to speak, caused the race to be significantly slower than the 1922 Indy 500. Although Milton had recovered in time to return to his HCS Miller, his lap speeds dropped off significantly, which did allow the catching Jimmy Murphy to unlap himself a couple times, but never enough to actively challenge for victory.
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Official Race Results as reported in The Indianapolis Star, May 31st, 1923.
Tommy Milton crossing the line to receive the checkered flag for victory.
After 200 laps, five-and-a-half hours, At an average speed of approximately 90 miles per hour, bruised and battered, but NOT beaten, the H.C.S. Special Tommy Milton crossed the finish line in first place, making him the first-ever two-time champion of the Indianapolis 500. The crowd roared in excitement for such a valiant effort, very deserving of over $30,000 in winnings he received. Cliff Durant’s team also performed admirably despite failing to win, with Harry Hartz once again finishing 2nd only one lap behind Milton, and Jimmy Murphy taking home third place. This Indy 500 would go down in history as a groundbreaking one, putting Indianapolis back on the global stage and providing the best framework in the world for close wheel to wheel racing at high speeds, just like the Indy 500 does today.
Manufacturers left this race both brilliantly satisfied and extremely disappointed:
Bugatti wasn't exactly the fastest manufacturer out there, having only one finishing car in 9th place, 56 minutes behind Milton. But the aristocrats that funded their entry had an absolute blast driving at speed down the fastest racetrack on Earth, and for that you gotta at least respect the effort. The independent work of Prince de Cystria and his fellow aristocratic racing enthusiasts helped put Bugatti on the map across the pond. Within one year, Bugatti had made their Grand Prix debut at home, raced in the first Grand Prix at Monza, and now raced at Indianapolis. It’s safe to say their future looked bright at this point in time.
Packard, by the skin of their teeth, and thanks to a truly great driver lineup, had proven that they could come close to challenge Miller’s outright speed, but their mechanical shortcomings on the biggest stage would prove to be the most embarrassing. Just like Frontenac and Chevrolet before them, Packard would “pack up” their racing efforts at the end of the 1923 season, unwilling to spend more money on what they and the general public viewed as a losing effort.
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With this result, it became 100% clear that Miller 122 was the open wheel race car to beat not just in America, but the world over, having been the only car to complete the full 200 lap distance in less than 6 hours, and occupying the entire top 4. Although several of the top brass manufacturers in Europe hadn’t raced their designs properly yet, in the first year of American-European convergence, it seemed quite clear that the Americans had a real threat up their sleeve. Rest assured, this would not be the end of Miller’s escapades in Grandes Epreuves this season…
It seems history is destined to repeat itself. Just like the Mercedes Formula 1 team of today, in this race Mercedes came with a vision, and despite a very slow start, they steadily improved their position, making the overall podium late in the race. This great result showed the world that a supercharged design really is a viable option in the racing landscape, and it’s safe to say that many in America took notice of their heroics. The M7294 sadly wouldn’t race again in 1923, but rest assured, supercharging would make a ferocious return later in the year…
And that concludes my retrospective on the 1923 Indianapolis 500. I want to give a big shoutout to all of the online resources I have used to compile images for this post, to give a more visual aspect to the race we’re looking back on. I also cannot thank enough https://www.goldenera.fi/, the absolutely phenomenal interwar Grand Prix racing website, for the more obscure and detailed information that simply can’t be found anywhere else, especially with the intermediate leaderboards. I adored writing this up, but it wouldn’t be what it is without the invaluable research by the other incredible racing historians that came before me.
I hope you guys enjoyed reading about this race as much as I did writing it up. Like I’ve always said, it's important that we remind ourselves of our history, especially with races as long ago as these, as they definitely deserve a fair shot in this fast-paced day and age. The Centennial Series will return in July, for the most important race of the year, and one which bears relevance even in today's racing world: The 1923 French Grand Prix.
Until next time, folks! :)
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2023.05.31 15:23 chuckhustmyre [TH] THE DETOUR by Chuck Hustmyre

Not every town is on the map.
"Daddy, I gotta pee."
Dale Thornton looked over his shoulder at his six-year-old son belted into the back seat of their Jeep Cherokee. As the boy squirmed around, Dale looked at his wife in the passenger seat beside him. "Didn't he just go?"
Carol glanced at her watch. "That was over an hour ago." She twisted to look into the back seat. "Can you hold it?"
In the rearview mirror, Dale saw Jesse shake his head. His wife checked her watch again. He could almost see the wheels turning inside her head. She was the family mediator, and she had just come up with something that made perfect sense. One of the reasons he loved her so much was her ability to change gears. In himself, Dale recognized his single-mindedness as a drawback. He admired her flexibility. In more ways than one, he thought. She was a good wife and a good mother.
"It's almost five," Carol said. "Let's stop at the next town. We can all use the restroom and get something to eat."
Dale tugged the spiral-bound road atlas down from where he had wedged it between the visor and the roof. They had left Tulsa that morning, headed for Mardi Gras, and he hoped to be in New Orleans by 10 p.m. Looking at the LOUISIANA page, his eyes traced the route he had highlighted in yellow. They had detoured down old U.S. 167. Rural America was disappearing and Dale wanted his son to see something of it before it was completely gone.
They were somewhere south of Ruston. He couldn't remember if they had passed Jonesboro or not, so the next town was either that or--if they'd already passed it--Winnfield. The gas gauge was on a quarter of a tank. They needed to stop anyway. "All right, honey," he said. "We'll take a break."
Carol laid a hand on his leg. "I'm glad we came this way. You can't see anything from the Interstate."
Ten miles later they sprang upon a small town. There was an old-fashioned, carved wooden sign posted beside the highway. Dale read out loud, "Welcome to Batesville. Population 875."
"What's that mean," Jesse asked.
Dale glanced at his son in the rearview mirror. "That's how many people live here."
"When somebody dies, do they change the number on the sign?"
Carol smiled over her shoulder at Jesse. "I bet they change it when a baby is born."
Just like her. She didn't like to talk about death or dying. Instead, she liked to focus on the good things in life, babies, birthdays, and family vacations. She had always been like that but more so since her grandfather passed away last year. She had been very close to him, closer than she had ever been to her father.
Dale sneaked a glance at her. She was his angel but an angel with dark secrets. She had shared some of those secrets with him but not all of them, probably because she knew the abuse in her life disturbed him so much. "That sign probably hasn't been changed in twenty years," he said.
"Why put it up if it's not right?" Jesse asked.
Good question. "I don't know, son."
As they got into the little town, Dale was impressed. The side streets that cut off of the highway were lined with neat wooden houses, most of them with white picket fences. A lot of the little towns they had passed through looked run down and dirty, but not this one. Batesville was clean and pretty.
When they came to the town's only traffic light, Dale saw a business on each corner: a hotel, a gas station, a restaurant, and the Batesville General Store. Before the light turned green, Dale pulled the Jeep beside the pumps at the gas station. A middle-aged man wearing oil stained coveralls stepped out from the office. "What can I do you for?" he asked. His tone was friendly, something you didn't hear at many gas stations these days.
Dale stepped out of the driver's seat and stretched. "I need a fill-up and some food." Then he jerked his thumb toward the back seat. "And my son needs to use the head."
The man wiped his hands on a rag he pulled out of his pocket. Then he shook Dale's hand. "Dudley Simpson. I can help you with the gas and the bathroom for your boy, but as for food, afraid all I got is potato chips and sodas." He pointed to the restaurant across the street. "Right over there is the best food in town." He laughed. "Only restaurant we got, but I wouldn't kid you. It's really good. Restroom's not too bad either."
Jesse said he could hold it until they got to the restaurant, so Dale sent him and Carol across the street to get a table. When he reached for the gas pump, Dudley Simpson stopped him. "I don't charge extra for full service. Every car comes through here I pump the gas, look under the hood, and check the tires."
"Don't see that too much anymore," Dale said.
"Guess I'm kind of old-fashioned."
After Dudley finished, Dale added a couple of bucks to the bill. He felt a little awkward, unsure if he could tip the owner of a gas station without insulting him. But Dudley took no offense, just said thank you and asked him to stop in again on their way home.
When Dale turned the key, nothing happened. He turned it again and still nothing happened. Just a click. No dash lights, the motor didn't turn over, nothing. Dudley told him to pop the hood again. After Dale turned the key a couple more times with Simpson's head buried under the hood, Dudley said he'd found the problem. "Alternator's shot. You must've been running on battery for a good while."
"Can you fix it?"
The gas station owner looked at his watch. "Not today. Parts store is closed 'till tomorrow."
Great, just great, Dale thought.
"I could arrange a tow to somewhere else, next town down the highway has a Goodyear Service Center," Dudley said, "but even they won't get to it until tomorrow."
Dale nodded, his mind stuck on having to spend the night in Batesville instead of New Orleans.
"I'll get to it first thing," Dudley said. "Have you out of here by ten o'clock." He pointed at the hotel. "Mrs. Jensen has a nice place. A-C, cable TV, and no bugs."
Great. No bugs.
Dudley told Dale that he could leave the Jeep right where it was. No need to worry about it, he said. They had a town marshal but nothing ever happened in Batesville. So quiet the state police never even came by.
"Sorry I'm blocking your pumps," Dale said.
Dudley shrugged. "Other side's open." Then he looked at his watch. "Besides, it's five-thirty. I close in half an hour."
As he crossed the street, Dale remembered his gun. A Smith and Wesson .357 revolver that he always brought with him on road trips. You never knew what could happen. They might break down on the highway and get attacked by a drug-crazed motorcycle gang. The gun was in the cargo compartment, wrapped inside a cloth and tucked between the spare tire and the side wall. It would be safe enough.
At the restaurant he told Carol the news and in typical Carol fashion she looked on the bright side. "It'll be fun being stranded in a small town," she said. "Who knows what'll happen?"
"Do they have TV?" Jesse asked.
A cute young waitress served them. The plastic tag pinned to her blouse said her name was April. When she brought out their food she set Jesse's down first.
"That's the cutest little mark on your face," she said. "Almost looks like lipstick."
Unabashedly, Jesse pointed to the red oval shaped birthmark set high on his right cheek. "It means I'm special."
She smiled. "It looks like a kiss."
"Really?" Jesse asked.
Dale saw a look of contentment on Carol's face. Jesse's birthmark was something she'd never wanted their son to be shy or embarrassed about.
The waitress set out the rest of the plates. "I heard a mark like that means that right before you were born an angel kissed you."
Jesse turned to his mom. "Is that true?"
Carol smiled at her son and nodded. "I think she may be right."
April bent down and kissed Jesse on the top of his head. "I'm not an angel, but there's a kiss from me."
Dudley Simpson had been right; the food was excellent. After they ate, Dale got up to use the bathroom. "You need to go again, Jess?"
The boy shook his head. "No thanks."
Dale handed Carol a credit card. "Let's save our cash."
She nodded. "All right, baby."
"Back in a sec," he said as he turned away.
***
When he came out of the men's room, Carol and Jesse weren't at the table. The waitress had been quick. Most of the dirty plates were gone; the only ones left were his. Dale looked for his family near the front door, then up by the cash register, but they weren't there.
Maybe Jesse had changed his mind and Carol had brought him into the bathroom with her. So Dale waited, but after several minutes passed and they didn't come out, he decided to check outside. They might have gotten cold or Jesse could've gotten restless and they were waiting out front for him. But they weren't out front, either.
Across the street the lights were out at the gas station--Dudley was closed for the night. The Jeep Cherokee sat at the pumps. Anxiously, Dale looked at the hotel. Maybe...but they wouldn't do that, wouldn't have gone without him. That wasn't like Carol. Smart and independent, but she liked her husband doing the man things, and in her mind, checking into a hotel was a man thing.
Back inside he knocked on the door of the women's restroom. No one answered, so he cracked it open. "Carol?" No answer. "Carol, Jess, you there?"
"Can I help you, sir?" It was their waitress.
Embarrassed, Dale forced a laugh. "I seem to have lost my wife and son." He nodded toward the men's room. "While I was in there."
"Your wife and son?" She looked confused.
"When I came back they were gone."
She had a blank look on her face.
Annoyed, he said, "I ate with them."
The waitress furrowed her brow. "Sir, I didn't see you with anyone else."
Dale stared at her. For a second he thought that maybe he was wrong, maybe this wasn't his waitress. He checked her name tag, saw it said April. "You waited on us." Dale pointed to his right cheek. "My son has that little birthmark. You said an angel kissed him."
She shrugged. "I think I'd remember that."
He pointed to himself. "You remember me?" Then at their table. "We were sitting right there."
She nodded. "Yes, sir. I remember you, but you ate by yourself." She turned to the table where Dale's dishes still sat. "I was just bringing you your bill."
He raised his voice. "Is this some kind of a joke?" People began looking at him.
April took a step back and raised her hands. "You need to talk to Mr. Simms."
"Who's Mr. Simms?"
"The owner."
"Well that's who I want to see."
Mr. Simms was already scurrying over. "What's the problem?"
Dale turned to him. "I can't find my family." He pointed at the girl. "She was our waitress and she's telling me she doesn't even remember them."
Mr. Simms looked at April.
She shrugged again. "I'm sorry but he was alone. I've never seen his family."
Simms looked like he didn't understand. April tried to explain it again, but Dale cut her off and pointed to the table. "My family and I ate right there. I went to the restroom, came out, and they were gone."
Mr. Simms clapped a hand on Dale's shoulder. "Maybe they're outside waiting for you."
"I've checked outside," he barked. "They're not there."
Simms glanced at the waitress. "Why don't you get back to work. I'll handle this."
Dale grabbed her by the arm. "She knows where they are."
Everyone in the restaurant stared at him.
Mr. Simms jerked Dale's hand away from the girl. "Sir, she said she doesn't know where your family is."
April pleaded with her boss. "He didn't have his family with him."
"She's lying!" Dale said, as he inched closer to April.
Simms stepped between them. Looking at Dale, he said, "Have you checked your car?"
He nodded. "It's broken down at the gas station across the street. We've got to spend the night at the hotel."
Mr. Simms smiled. "That's probably it."
"What?"
"I bet they're at the hotel."
"He was by himself," April said.
The restaurant owner snapped his head towards her and pointed to the dinning area. "Go."
She looked at her boss for a second, a half-formed protest on her lips; then suddenly she spun on her heel and stomped away.
Simms looked back at Dale. "Have you checked the hotel?"
"They wouldn't do that."
"Have you checked?" Insistent.
Dale could feel himself losing control as the sweat dripped from his armpits. He took several deep breaths, trying to force himself to calm down. "No, I haven't."
"Maybe your kids got tired."
The deep breathing had made him light-headed. "Just the one boy." As Dale turned toward the door, Simms patted him on the back. "I'm sure everything's going to be fine."
But things weren't fine. At the hotel, he woke up Mrs. Jensen. Turns out she and Mr. Jensen had an apartment behind the office. Dale had banged on the glass door of the office for five minutes before a light came on.
Mrs. Jensen had come out first. A white haired old lady, covered in a paper-thin pink housecoat, imprinted with blue flowers the size of a quarter. A minute later, Mr. Jensen, looking about seventy, dressed in a full set of dark green, silk pajamas and a pair of matching slippers, stumbled into the office, smelling like he'd taken a bath in Jack Daniel's.
Dale's heart sank. He went through the story anyway, but as he expected, the Jensens said that no one had checked in or even come by since mid-morning.
Walking back to the restaurant, he looked at his Jeep. Still empty and no one near it.
A marked police car was parked near the restaurant's front door. As he got closer, Dale read the decal on the side, BATESVILLE TOWN MARSHAL. Maybe now he could get some help.
Just inside, near the cash register, Dale found April the waitress, Mr. Simms, and a heavyset man in jeans and a T-shirt, talking. As he walked up, all three stopped and stared at him. He felt like a freak in a boardwalk exhibit.
"Did you find them?" Simms asked.
Dale shook his head. "The people at the hotel haven't seen them."
The big man in jeans took a step toward him. "Mr...?
"Thornton. Dale Thornton."
The man stuck out his hand. "Jerry Stillwell. I'm town marshal."
"Saw your car outside." Dale shook the marshal's hand. "My wife and son are miss--"
"I understand there was a problem here earlier."
"Yeah there's a problem. My family disappeared."
The marshal and Simms traded glances; then he looked back at Dale. "So I heard. What do you think happened to them?"
Something didn't feel right. "If I knew that, they wouldn't be missing."
Marshal Stillwell stuck his belly out. "No reason to get smart. You all ready scared some customers. Don't make--"
"Scared some customers. Is that why you're here, because I scared some customers? My wife and son are MISSING!" Everyone in the restaurant had stopped eating and was watching the soap opera at the door. With a sharp edge to his voice, Dale said, "What are you going to do about it?"
The marshal jabbed a finger at him. "You better calm yourself down or I'll do it for you. Now I need to ask you some questions," his eyes swept the customers, "and I don't think this is the place to do it."
"I'm not going anywhere." Dale pointed to the completely cleaned off table where they'd eaten. "Half an hour ago my family and I ate right there. Now they're gone. Someone in here knows what happened to them."
The marshal dropped a big hand on Dale's shoulder and tried to guide him out the door. "We're going to find your family, but not here, not like--"
Dale pulled away. He pointed to Simms and the waitress. "They coming with us?"
"I don't see the need for--"
Dale reached out for April. "She's lying!"
With surprising speed, the town marshal slipped behind him and clamped a meaty forearm around his throat, sealing off his windpipe. Dale grabbed at the hairy arm and tried to twist it away as the marshal whispered in his ear, "Take it easy, son." Then something jabbed him in the kidney that sent waves of pain shooting up his back.
Seconds later, Dale was on the floor, his cheek pressed against the cool tiles, as the marshal handcuffed his wrists behind his back.
***
"She said it was the kiss of an angel, huh?" Marshal Stillwell asked. Things had calmed down some. Dale and the town marshal were alone in his office. Dale was still handcuffed, but the marshal had moved them to the front. He sat in a chair in front of the lawman's desk, watching him fill out forms with a ballpoint pen. Stillwell touched his finger to his right cheek. "That mark you're talking about is right here?"
Dale nodded.
"That's strange."
The handcuffs were uncomfortable. Dale twisted his wrists, trying to get some circulation back. "What's unusual about it?"
"We had a preacher in town few years back with the same kind of mark on his face." Stillwell traced a small circle on his cheek. "Heard him say once during a sermon it was from an angel's kiss."
Dale stared at the marshal, his flesh suddenly crawling with goosebumps.
"But he was a strange one. Lots of rumors. Guess it goes with the territory."
"What territory?"
"Young, good-looking preacher. Single. Moves into town, starts preaching all hours of the night." He gave Dale a knowing wink, like they were sharing a secret. "Giving special counseling sessions to half the women in town."
Grasping at straws, looking for anything. Dale said, "Is he still here?"
Marshal Stillwell shook his head. "Church burned down."
"What about the preacher?"
"We never found his body."
"He was the only one in the church?"
Stillwell looked down at the form on his desk and pressed his pen to it. "He had six or eight ladies in there with him. Supposed to be some sort of social club. Fire was so hot, we couldn't tell one body from the next. That was when the rumors really started."
Dale flexed his fingers. His hands hurt. "What kind of rumors?"
The marshal laughed. "Just gossip. People 'round here are simple minded, superstitious, that's all."
"What kind of gossip?"
Stillwell looked up. "Not everybody you understand, but some people have been talking about how the preacher isn't really dead, about how he's gonna come back some day."
Dale needed to get out, to find Carol and Jesse. There was something terribly wrong here. "Am I under arrest?"
Stillwell nodded.
In the corner stood a single holding cell, the door gaping open, waiting. "What's the charge?"
The marshal jerked a thumb in the general direction of the restaurant. "Disturbing the peace."
"What about my family?"
The man tapped the pile of forms in front of him. "I'll forward these missing persons reports to the state police in the morning; then I'll call the judge and try to get a bond set for you."
Dale sprung to his feet. "I've got to find my family tonight!"
Marshal Stillwell eased out of his chair and stood up. "Just calm down. Soon as I get this information to them, the state troopers will be on the lookout." He jerked his thumb toward the south. "Their office is just five miles down the road."
Dale nodded at the phone on the desk. "Call them now."
The marshal shook his head. "Can't do that."
"Why not."
"I got procedures to follow."
Dale Thornton squatted and shoved the desk into Stillwell. The marshal's chair rolled back on its casters but snagged on something and tipped over, spilling Marshal Stillwell onto the floor. Dale scrambled over the desk, knocking papers, pens, and a near full cup of coffee on top of the lawman, then dropped a knee into the man's big belly. The marshal curled into a ball and moaned.
Stillwell didn't have a gun on him, at least not one Dale could find. The way he was dressed it looked like he had been called out from home. Maybe he forgot his gun, or maybe he just didn't carry one. Dale grabbed a handful of shirt and dragged the marshal into the open holding cell, then kicked the door shut. It locked automatically.
By the time Stillwell staggered to his feet Dale was searching his desk. The marshal tried to rip the steel bars apart with his bare hands. "Let me out of here, you crazy bastard!"
Dale ignored him. In the bottom right hand drawer he found a gun, a .38 caliber, five-shot Smith and Wesson. Stillwell started shouting for help. Dale leveled the gun at him. "Shut up."
Stillwell quit yelling.
Dale kept searching.
A few seconds later, the marshal said, "You'll never get away with this."
Holding his wrists up, Dale rattled the handcuffs. "Keys?"
The cop pointed to the desk. "Bottom left."
After he got the handcuffs off, Dale finished going through the desk, then did a quick search of a filing cabinet that was set against the wall. There he found keys to the holding cell and a roll of duct tape.
As Dale approached the cell, Marshal Stillwell backed against the far wall. "What are you gonna do?"
Aiming the revolver at Stillwell's belly, Dale ordered him to lie on the floor. A few minutes later he relocked the cell door, leaving the marshal with his hands cuffed behind his back and a strip of silver duct tape wrapped around his head that sealed his mouth shut. On his way out of the marshal's office, Dale tossed the revolver back into the desk drawer and kicked it shut. That was trouble he didn't need.
The state police. "Their office is just five miles down the road," the marshal had said.
Darkness had settled over the Batesville. How long had he been in the marshal's office? Everything in town was closed and locked up tight. There wasn't a light to be seen, and not a soul on the street. He didn't see any payphones.
He had to get out of town. Which way had the marshal pointed when he mentioned the state police? Thinking about it, Dale decided it had to be south. They'd driven in from the north and he was sure they hadn't passed a state police troop.
The night had turned cold. If he was going to walk for five miles he needed a jacket.
It took just a few minutes to make it to the gas station. His Jeep was right where he'd left it, but when he reached into his pocket for the keys they weren't there. An image flashed through his mind. A close up shot just like in a movie. His hand reaching toward Dudley Simpson's, and in his hand, his keys.
Damn!
He looked into the rear window, saw their luggage lying in the back. Dale thought about breaking the window and getting a jacket, maybe his gun, too. Not the gun. He was in enough trouble all ready for what he'd done to the town marshal. Assault, kidnapping--maybe not kidnapping, he hadn't taken him anywhere, just locked him in his own cell--but something like kidnapping. Desperation had driven him to it. That's the only reason he had done it. Because he had to find Carol and Jesse.
He could make it without a jacket.
Old Highway 167 south. Dale Thornton started walking. Ten minutes later he saw headlights behind him, coming from town. He crouched in the bushes beside the highway, but the beat-up pickup glided to a stop next to him. An old man sat behind the wheel, alone in the truck. "You need a ride?"
Feeling like a complete fool, Dale stood. "Yeah, I guess."
"Where you headed?"
"You know where the state police office is?"
The old man nodded, then jerked his head toward the passenger side. "Hop in."
As he climbed into the pickup truck, Dale shot a glance at the old man. Probably at least seventy, with long ghost white hair and a bushy mustache, wearing a stained undershirt and a pair of denim overalls. Dale scanned the dashboard for a clock but didn't see one. "What time is it?"
The old man shrugged. "Haven't worn a watch in thirty years. Do things as quick as I can. A timepiece strapped to my wrist ain't gonna make me move any faster."
The drive was torture. Never did the old man go over thirty-five miles an hour. Only good thing was that he didn't ask any questions. Just dropped Dale off in the parking lot of the state police troop. As he walked through the door into the police station, Dale glanced over his shoulder and saw the old man's pickup rumbling down the highway.
Inside, sitting behind a chest high counter, was a uniformed trooper, sergeant stripes on his sleeves. Mid-40's, with an iron gray crew cut. "Can I help you, sir?" the sergeant said.
Dale spat out the story as fast as he could, leaving out the part about how he'd handcuffed the town marshal and left him gagged in his own jail cell.
The sergeant's face had remained inscrutable while Dale talked. "What was the name of that town again, sir?"
"Batesville."
The sergeant wheeled his chair over to a map hanging on the wall. "And where'd you say it was?"
The state cop demonstrated the same bureaucrat mentality as the town marshal. Any minute now he'd break out a sheaf of forms and start filling them out. Dale pointed north. "Five miles that way."
"What'd you say your name was again?" The sergeant glided the chair back over to his work area and pulled a pen from his shirt pocket.
"Thornton. Dale Thornton."
As soon as the sergeant finished jotting Dale's name on a pad, he looked up. "There's no town named Batesville."
"I was just there!"
The sergeant stood up. "Take it easy, sir. I'm sure you just got the name mixed up."
Just like in the restaurant.
"...get to the bottom of it." The desk sergeant was still talking, but Dale hadn't heard everything. He felt dizzy. Was everyone around here crazy? "We ate dinner there," he mumbled. "I left my car at the gas station. Dudley Simpson's gas station."
The sergeant nodded as he walked around the counter. A big man, at least six feet, with the beefy build of a weightlifter. "I know Simpson's place. Old 167 and Highway 90. But there's no town there, just the gas station."
"The gas station's smack in the middle of the town. There's a restaurant, a general store, and a hotel, too."
The sergeant closed on him, his body bladed, his gun side away from Dale. "I need you to put your hands on the counter, sir."
"What?"
With his right hand resting on his holstered pistol, the state trooper took hold of Dale's wrist with his left hand and pushed it to the top of the counter. Dale's other hand followed. The sergeant said, "Pull you feet back."
"What are you doing?"
"You have any weapons on you?"
"No! Of course not." Glad he'd left the marshal's gun, glad he hadn't gotten his own out of the Jeep.
"I'm just gonna pat you down."
"Why?" Dale said. "I haven't done anything. My family's missing?"
The sergeant slid his hands over Dale's waist and the outside of his pockets. "It's for safety, sir."
"Whose?"
"Yours and mine," the trooper sergeant said as he stepped backward a few feet.
"Something's happened to my wife and son. I came here for help."
"What happened to them?"
"I don't know," Dale said. "That's why I need your help."
"Mr. Thornton, I've worked this area for nineteen years. There is no town called Batesville."
"I don't care what you call it, but there's a town five miles away and we need to go there right now."
"Closest town is twelve miles from here and it's south."
The gas station. At least the sergeant knew about the gas station. Dale looked over his shoulder at the big cop. "Can I stand up?" After getting a nod, Dale pushed away from the counter and stood straight. Arguing wasn't getting him anywhere. "Look sergeant, maybe I seem a bit confused, but I know my wife and 6-year-old son are missing. Our car broke down at Simpson's gas station. Can you drive me there and help me look for them?"
The sergeant took his hand off his pistol and relaxed a little. "How'd you get here?"
"An old man in a pickup gave me a ride."
"You get his name?"
Dale's mouth opened but nothing came out as he realized he couldn't remember a thing about the old man or his truck. No details at all.
"What's the matter?"
Dale shook his head. "He...he just gave me a ride. I didn't get his name."
The trooper sergeant held up his hand. "Stay right here. Soon as I get someone to cover the desk, I'll give you a ride back to Simpson's."
Ten minutes later Dale climbed into the passenger seat of the state police car. The sergeant looked over at him. "Put your seatbelt on." Dale strapped himself in but noticed the sergeant didn't.
On the highway the trooper asked him to go over the story again. As Dale repeated what had happened, the sergeant asked several questions about Simpson's: what time of day, what was wrong with the car, who had the keys; but he asked nothing about what happened in the restaurant. The restaurant that wasn't there, according to the sergeant.
A few minutes later the police cruiser's headlights lit up the darkened gas station and Dale's Jeep parked at the pumps.
There was nothing else--absolutely nothing else.
The sergeant slowed down as he turned into the parking lot. "That your Cherokee?"
Stunned, Dale couldn't answer. Staring out the window, struck dumb by what he saw, or didn't see. No restaurant, no hotel, no Batesville General Store--no town. Just empty farmland and a few trees surrounding the gas station.
The trooper pulled his car up behind the Jeep, leaving a car-length gap between the two of them. "Stay here," he said as he pulled a flashlight from a charger mounted to the dash.
Dale leaned his head against the window and watched the sergeant creep up to the driver's door of his Jeep Cherokee, flashlight held out in front of him, his other hand on the butt of his pistol. The state cop opened the door--the locked door--and poked his head inside the passenger compartment of Dale's Jeep. The trooper backed out and held up his hand, Dale's keys dangling from his fingers. "Keys were inside," he shouted.
With legs quivering, Dale stepped out of the police car. He couldn't understand this. The Jeep had been locked, Dudley Simpson had the keys. He stumbled toward the trooper.
The sergeant shined his flashlight into the back, into the cargo compartment. Suddenly, his face turned to stone. He dropped the keys, drew his gun, aimed both it and his flashlight at Dale. "Don't move!"
Dale stopped dead. What the hell was...
"Get on the ground!"
Not comprehending, Dale just stood there.
The trooper screamed at him, "Get on the fucking ground--now."
Dale Thornton dropped face down onto the pavement. From the corner of his eye, he saw the sergeant side-stepping around him until he was behind Dale and to his left.
The trooper said, "Turn your head to the right."
Dale did as he was told. Then the sergeant closed in and cuffed his hands behind his back. Just the second time in his life Dale had been handcuffed, both on the same night.
After backing up a few steps, the sergeant keyed the radio clipped to his belt and called the state police troop. When the dispatcher answered, the sergeant said, "I need back up units," Dale heard him take a deep breath, "and notify the corner."
The tinny voice from the radio said, "What you got, sergeant?"
"Homicide," the trooper answered. "Suspect is in custody."
Homicide?
The sergeant hooked Dale's elbows and jerked him to his feet, then picked up the keys and opened the tailgate of the Jeep.
Lying in the back, in the cargo space, arms and legs twisted into a torturous configuration, was the naked body of his wife, Carol. At the back of her head, her golden hair was tangled and caked with dried blood. Her face chalk white, her forehead blown out where the bullet had exited. On the carpet next to her was a .357 revolver--Dale's .357 revolver.
She was alone.
"Jesse!" Dale screamed at the dark and empty fields.
***
In 1885 the town of Batesville, Louisiana burned to the ground. Scores of people were killed in the predawn fire that swept through the town. Among those reported killed in the blaze was the town's only minister, but many bodies were so badly burned that positive identification was impossible.
The fire started in the Batesville church and was allegedly set by a preacher from a nearby town. The preacher, a God-fearing and righteous man, was said to have been outraged at the evil deeds going on in Batesville, which he had called a modern-day Sodom.
The town of Batesville was never rebuilt.
THE END
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2023.05.31 15:07 myweightlossjourney3 Monthly update + NSVs for May

After recommitting to my weight loss journey at the beginning of 2023 I have lost 19.5 kg (43 lbs) and have lost 24 cm from around my waist (9.5 inches).
F34, 164cm (5'4"), SW 2018: 179 kg (394 lbs), SW 2023: 158 kg (348 pounds), CW: 138.5 kg (305 lbs)
My NSVs for May are:
- I fit in a chair in a waiting room and my sides didn't squeeze out.
- I can get in and out of the car without needing to open the car door as wide as possible. I can actually get in the car when someone parks a little too close.
- I took off the extender strap for one of my waist bags because my waist measurement is finally small enough for the bag to clip without it.
- I was able to buckle one of my in shape husband's belts around my waist in order to make my now oversized t-shirt dress fit better!
- Clothes that I put away a couple of years ago because they were too small fit now.
- I tightened the band on my fitness watch.
- I didn't hate how I looked in a video.
- Foods that I like are lasting longer in the house because I actually eat proper portion sizes of them now!
I would love to hear your NSVs!
submitted by myweightlossjourney3 to SuperMorbidlyObese [link] [comments]

2023.05.31 13:47 nelsondesignhomeplan 10 Small House Plans With Big Ideas

If you're looking for small house plans that maximize space and offer innovative design ideas, you've come to the right place! In this article, we'll explore 10 small house plans with big ideas that can transform your living space into a comfortable and stylish home. Whether you're a minimalist or someone who loves to make the most of every inch, these house plans from Nelson Design Group will inspire you.
1. The Cozy Cottage
The Cozy Cottage is a charming small house plan that embraces the concept of minimalism. With its open floor plan, high ceilings, and large windows, this design creates an illusion of spaciousness. The kitchen and living areas seamlessly blend together, providing a cozy and functional living space. The loft area can serve as a bedroom or a versatile workspace, making it perfect for those who work from home.
2. The Urban Retreat
Looking for a small house plan that offers a contemporary and urban vibe? The Urban Retreat is designed to make the most of limited space while providing modern comforts. With its sleek exterior and efficient floor plan, this design maximizes storage options and utilizes every nook and cranny. The rooftop deck adds an element of luxury, creating a private oasis in the heart of the city.
3. The Nature Haven
If you're a nature enthusiast, The Nature Haven is the perfect small house plan for you. With its large windows and open layout, this design brings the beauty of the outdoors inside. The wrap-around porch provides ample space for relaxation and entertaining, while the compact interior offers all the essential amenities. This house plan truly embodies the concept of living harmoniously with nature.
4. The Lofted Living
The Lofted Living house plan is ideal for those who appreciate a modern and industrial aesthetic. With its exposed beams, high ceilings, and open concept, this design exudes a sense of spaciousness and creativity. The loft area can serve as a bedroom or a versatile workspace, while the main level offers a stylish living area and a functional kitchen. This house plan is perfect for individuals or couples who value contemporary design.
5. The Farmhouse
For those who love the charm and warmth of a farmhouse, The Farmhouse Charm house plan is a dream come true. This design combines traditional elements with modern functionality, offering a cozy and inviting living space. The open floor plan creates a seamless flow between the kitchen, dining, and living areas, while the large porch provides a perfect spot for outdoor gatherings. The Farmhouse Charm is a small house plan that embraces the comforts of country living.
6. The Multifunctional Marvel
In a small house, every square inch counts. The Multifunctional Marvel house plan is designed to maximize space and functionality. With its innovative storage solutions, convertible furniture, and flexible layout, this design adapts to your changing needs. Whether you need a home office, a guest room, or a play area for the kids, this small house plan has you covered.
7. The Contemporary Oasis
The Contemporary Oasis house plan offers a sleek and modern design for those who appreciate clean lines and simplicity. With its open concept and minimalist approach, this small house plan creates a sense of tranquility and serenity. The large windows allow natural light to flood the living space, blurring the boundaries between indoors and outdoors. If you're looking for a sophisticated and contemporary home, the Contemporary Oasis is the perfect choice.
8. The Cottage Retreat
Escape to your own private retreat with The Cottage Retreat house plan. This small house design offers a cozy and intimate living space, perfect for those seeking a peaceful sanctuary.
9. The Modern Minimalist
Simplicity meets elegance in The Modern Minimalist house plan. This design embraces clean lines, open spaces, and a minimalist aesthetic. The large windows allow natural light to fill the interior, creating a bright and airy atmosphere. The functional layout maximizes space, offering a comfortable living area, a stylish kitchen, and well-appointed bedrooms. If you appreciate a clutter-free and contemporary living space, The Modern Minimalist is the perfect small house plan for you.
10. The Versatile Studio
The Versatile Studio house plan is an ideal choice for those seeking a flexible living space. This design offers an open-concept layout with a combined living and sleeping area, a functional kitchenette, and a bathroom. The compact size makes it perfect for a backyard guesthouse, a rental unit, or a cozy home for a single occupant. The Versatile Studio showcases that small house plans can be versatile and cater to various needs.
Frequently Asked Questions (FAQs)
1. Can these small house plans be customized to fit specific needs?
Absolutely! Nelson Design Group offers customization services for their house plans. You can work with their team of experts to make modifications that align with your specific requirements, ensuring that the plan meets your needs and preferences.
2. Are these small house plans suitable for families with children?
While some of the small house plans mentioned in this article may be better suited for individuals or couples, Nelson Design Group offers a wide range of plans that cater to families with children. They have designs with multiple bedrooms, functional layouts, and even options for expanding the living space in the future.
3. Can these small house plans be built on any type of land?
Nelson Design Group's small house plans can be adapted to various types of land, whether you have a narrow lot, a sloping site, or a compact urban plot. Their team of professionals can guide you in selecting a plan that works best for your specific land requirements.
4. Do these small house plans prioritize energy efficiency?
Yes, Nelson Design Group understands the importance of energy efficiency in modern homes. Many of their small house plans incorporate energy-efficient features, such as proper insulation, high-performance windows, and sustainable building materials. These elements not only help reduce energy consumption but also contribute to a more comfortable and environmentally friendly home.
5. Can I see more house plans from Nelson Design Group?
Certainly! Nelson Design Group has a vast collection of house plans on their website. You can visit their website at https://www.nelsondesigngroup.com to explore more designs and find the perfect small house plan that suits your needs.
Conclusion
If you're looking for small house plans that offer big ideas, Nelson Design Group provides an impressive selection of designs to choose from. Whether you're seeking a cozy cottage, a contemporary oasis, or a versatile studio, their small house plans showcase innovative solutions to make the most of limited space.
submitted by nelsondesignhomeplan to u/nelsondesignhomeplan [link] [comments]

2023.05.31 10:52 sheepishFalcon7327 Best Skateboard Brands: A Guide for Reddit Users

Best Skateboard Brands: A Guide for Reddit Users
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Skateboarding is more than just a sport or a hobby. It's a lifestyle, a culture, and a way of expressing yourself. Whether you're a beginner or a pro, you need a good skateboard that suits your style, skill level, and budget. But with so many brands out there, how do you choose the best one for you?
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In this article, we'll help you find the best skateboard brands based on the recommendations of Reddit users. We'll also show you some of the top products from each brand and where to buy them online.
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What Makes a Good Skateboard Brand?
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Before we dive into the list of the best skateboard brands, let's talk about what makes a good skateboard brand in the first place. Here are some factors to consider:
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-Quality: A good skateboard brand should use high-quality materials and craftsmanship to produce durable and reliable boards. The decks should be made of strong wood, such as maple or bamboo, and have proper concave and shape. The trucks should be sturdy and responsive, and the wheels should be smooth and fast. The bearings should also be rated according to the ABEC scale, which measures their precision and speed.
- Innovation: A good skateboard brand should also be innovative and creative, constantly coming up with new designs, technologies, and features to improve the performance and aesthetics of their boards. For example, some brands use carbon fiber, resin, or fiberglass to reinforce their decks, or add special coatings or layers to enhance their sliding or grip. Some brands also collaborate with artists, musicians, or celebrities to create unique graphics and styles for their boards.
- Reputation: A good skateboard brand should also have a good reputation among skaters and the skate community. This means that they have loyal fans and customers who trust their products and support their vision. A good reputation also means that they have a strong team of professional skaters who represent their brand and showcase their skills in competitions, videos, or magazines.
-Price: A good skateboard brand should also offer reasonable prices for their products, without compromising on quality or service. Of course, different brands have different price ranges depending on their target market and level of quality. However, a good skateboard brand should provide value for money and cater to different budgets and preferences.
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Best Skateboard Brands According to Reddit Users
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Now that we know what makes a good skateboard brand, let's look at some of the best skateboard brands according to Reddit users. We've compiled this list based on the opinions and reviews of skaters who have shared their experiences and preferences on various Reddit threads. We've also checked out some of the top products from each brand and where to buy them online.
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Minority 32-inch Maple Skateboard
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Whether you are a beginner or a pro, the Minority skateboard can handle your needs. It can support up to 220 pounds of weight.

Deck Specifics

The minority 32-inch maple skateboard has a 7ply hard maple deck that is cold pressed for durability. It has a medium concave shape that makes it easy and stable to perform smooth tricks. The trucks are made of real aluminium alloy and are very strong in any condition.

Wheels and the trucks

The bushing is made of 78A PU material that absorbs shocks well and is held by a carbon steel kingpin. Minority is a strong contender in the game because speed is a key factor for tricks. The bearings are chrome steel forged ABEC-9 precision bearings that work with 52mm 102A PU wheels.
If you have some experience and don’t mind paying a bit more, Minority is the smoothest board you can get in terms of performance. It also comes with various designs to suit your personal style.

Overall Specifics

Minority skateboards are popular because they are easy to use and have a reputable brand name. They also have cool graphics and a variety of options to choose from. This skateboard can handle almost any trick and surface. However, be aware that some beginner level tricks may cause some damage to the board.
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MINORITY Downhill Maple Longboard 40
Another great skateboard for beginners that you can find on Amazon is the Minority Downhill Maple. It has a distinctive design with a drop deck that sets it apart from the Minority Maple.

Deck Specifics

The 40-inch longboard has a deck made entirely of maple wood. It uses the classic downhill drop design that lowers the center of gravity and makes it ideal for high-speed rides. The deck is 10 inches wide and 8-ply cold-pressed hard rock maple, which makes it very strong. The wheelbase is 37 inches long, which adds stability to the downhill platform.

Wheels and the trucks

The wheels are 70x51mm in size and made of polyurethane material. They have a 78A durometer hardness and ABEC9 precision bearings. They are durable and smooth. The trucks are reverse kingpin and have a 45-degree adjustability. They help with great maneuverability.

Overall Specifics

This skateboard is a good choice if you are a beginner who wants a drop concept skateboard. However, be aware that some orders have reported issues with the wheels and trucks. This seems to be a rare occurrence and a manufacturer’s defect.
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Alien Workshop Skateboards Abduction
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So, if you are looking for a skateboard that can take your skating to the next level, you should definitely check out Alien Workshop. They have a wide range of products to suit your needs and preferences. You won’t regret buying an Alien Workshop skateboard.
Alien Workshop is a top-notch brand that has been making skateboards since 1990. If you want a reliable skateboard that can help you pursue professional skating, you should consider Alien Workshop. The brand is based in Dayton, Ohio, and has a loyal fan base of skaters who love their quality and style.
One of their best products is the full skateboard deck, which is made of 7-ply Canadian hard-rock maple. It measures 7.75 x 31.625 inches and has a sleek shape. It also comes with trucks that have 85A bushings, ABEC7 bearings, and 53mm 99A wheels from Alien Workshop. These components make the board smooth and fast. The board also has a stunning graphic of the Matrix Blue, which is one of their most popular designs.
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Blind Complete Skateboards
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If you want a skateboard that is ready to ride right out of the box, you should consider getting a Blind skateboard. Blind skateboards are pre-assembled with high-quality components, so you don’t have to worry about putting them together yourself. You can just grab your board and hit the streets.
One of the best features of Blind skateboards is their wheels. They have a 92A durometer and a 52-mm diameter, which means they are soft enough to roll smoothly over rough surfaces, but hard enough to give you speed and control. They also have ABEC7 bearings, which make them spin faster and longer. Plus, they come in different colors and designs to match your style.
Another great feature of Blind skateboards is their trucks. They have Tensor trucks, which are lightweight and durable. They also have 85A bushings, which make them responsive and easy to turn. You can adjust the trucks to your preference, whether you like them tight or loose.
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Enjoi Complete Skateboards
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The Enjoi Whitey Panda is a skateboard that is suitable for smaller or younger skaters. It has a 7.75′′ x 31.2′′ deck and a 13.88′′ wheelbase. It is made of 7-ply hard rock maple with Resin 7 construction, which makes it stronger, more durable, and more consistent in shape than regular decks.
The bottom of the deck has a white background with the classic Enjoi panda graphic near the front trucks.
The Whitey comes in different options, depending on your preference and budget. One option is to get it with Core trucks, which are decent entry-level trucks, 52mm TGM wheels with 99A hardness (good for normal skating), and Amphetamine Abec-5 bearings. Another option is to get it with Tensor trucks, which are also good quality trucks.
If you want a more advanced skating experience, you can also get the Whitey with Independent trucks and Bones wheels (51mm 100A), which are some of the best brands in the market.
For kids who are 5 years old or younger, there is also a “micro” version of the Whitey Panda, which has a 6.75′′ x 28.5′′ deck (12′′ wheelbase) and a soft top for extra comfort and safety.
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