High Urban Fantasy Jazz

Things I Want From the Wheel of Time Show

I don’t remember the exact timeline, but I read The Hobbit…uh…oh, shit. Okay…okay, wait, I remember reading it on the car ride to Michigan for a summer trip, and my sister and I were singing All Star a lot, so it was either the summer of ’99 or ’00. Tangent: The first time I ever saw a black squirrel in my entire fucking life was literal days after reading about them being in the Mirkwood. They’re not a thing we had in New England, okay? I thought they were a fiction, and then three days later I see one of the motherfuckers scurrying up a tree in Michigan. Perhaps why I’ve never been back.

So, of course after reading The Hobbit I went straight on to The Lord of the Rings, and I was somewhere in the third book when the first trailer showed up for The Fellowship of the Ring.

Fuck. Yes. My tweenage brain was blown. Second tangent: there was a guy in my showing of Fellowship who had brought the book with him and was attempting to follow along with an Itty-Bitty Book Light.

All of this is to say that The Wheel of Time series that’s coming out is the second time in my life that an adaptation has come out within months of me finishing the books. Am I excited? Yes! Do I believe this adaptation is going to be as good as The Lord of the Rings trilogy? No! Because I’m an adult and I generally don’t believe that the best or even the middle of the road ‘good’ option is ever going to happen ever again, but also because The Lord of the Rings trilogy being so fucking great is probably the only actual miracle anyone has ever experienced.

Last tangent: does anyone else remember how people on the news were getting mad at The Two Towers because they thought it had something to do with 9/11? Because I sure fucking do. It was mostly a joke, but you know for some people it wasn’t.

Anyway, here’s some things I hope are in the new WoT adaptation.

Already a Good Start Keeping It Away from the Networks

As I’ve said before, repeatedly, like, a lot, fuck network television. When they were the only game in town creators would put up with whatever sort of bullshit restrictions executives would come up with to keep the Steak-Ums people happy because God forbid ABC try to exist without that sweet, sweet Steak-Ums ad revenue or whatever, but now that there’s a bunch of websites who don’t have to simp to advertisers and an ever-increasing percentage of viewers that have cut their cable apron-strings I seriously question why anyway would want to try to get their shit on broadcast television anymore.

I’m not talking about sex. Besides a lot of ceremonies and rituals where the ladies have to strip down to their business and a seriously curious amount of women getting spanked, the book series is strangely sterile. There are only a few sex scenes in fourteen books, and those are more of the ‘kissing in bed and then the camera pans away to the window’ variety than the ‘someone find out if the Cheerios people are okay with nipple’ sort. I’m talking about the double-handfuls of other reasons nothing should be made for network television anymore.

If this show were heading to NBC, the first season would be twenty episodes long and somehow drag in the middle. Every episode would be tailored to forty minutes (to fill the hour with commercials, of course) and if it wasn’t doing exactly as well as they hoped by the fifth episode it would be shifted around on the schedule and hemorrhage viewers, so it would be moved around again, until finally it would be put in the Friday Night Death Slot and cancelled by April. Do they still do the thing on broadcast television where they cover the bottom quarter of the screen with ads for their other shows? Because if they do, that would happen. Loial would be entirely CGI for some reason, despite the fact that they barely have the budget for convincing costumes.

I’m not saying the show is definitely going to be good, but it’s probably going to be better on Prime than on any of the single digit stations.

No English Accents

I’ve seen the trailers and this one is already blown out of the water but I’m putting it here anyway because I still want it. I hate that anyone making a high fantasy show or movie feels the need to make everyone have an English accent (I mean, also, any period drama at all no matter where it’s set, like motherfuckers running from the ash in Pompeii were all, ‘I say, good sir, it appeahs to have gotten quite gloomy!’). Fine, a lot of the old stuff was written by Englishmen in England and locations were based on the stuff they were used to. Still doesn’t make Middle Earth fucking Derbyshire.

The Wheel of Time series was written by Robert Jordan, an American southerner, and Brandon Sanderson, who is from fucking Nebraska and currently living in Utah. A place so diametrically opposite to England it’s a scientific fact that any person from Great Britain who sets foot past the state lines will simply be warped back to a specific field outside Cardiff as a safety measure. Furthermore, the books don’t really take place anywhere recognizable. Based off a few scenes, it would seem like they take place on something approximating our Earth, but so far in the future as to be completely unrecognizable. There is no England, so why the fuck would everyone be talking like it’s almost time for cucumber sandwiches and Doctor Who?

Even beyond all that, the world Jordan created is so intricate that different nations have accents and dialects so recognizable other people can instantly ping where they’re from after a few sentences. It’s not some island nation, it’s an entire fucking continent that characters routinely mention takes weeks or even months to cross. Moraine is Cairhienan and Rand and the others are all technically Andoran, which means she should have a different accent than the others but nooooo, it’s all the same shitty accent that’s as bland as their food.

Yay, I’m angry.

Steal Shit From Game of Thrones

I only ever watched the first season, I remember basically nothing, and then the ending was so terrible mothers were dragging their five-year-olds into the social security office to change their names. Meanwhile, Mr. Martin’s current plan to finish the book seems to be dying of old age and appointing someone else to do it in his will. I’m not watching that series and I’m not reading that series so go ahead and steal whatever the fuck you want because I will either not notice or not care.

Except the opening credits, which should 1000% be stolen. The evolving credits are, like, the only thing about Game of Thrones I remember and like and literally every show in this genre should be unabashedly stealing that. It’s a great idea.

Jack Black as Thom Merrilin

I know they cast another dude, I don’t give a shit. Now that I’ve had this thought I literally cannot imagine any other person as Thom. Can you not picture it? Jack Black, in his technicolor dreamcoat, juggling and playing the harp and whipping knives at people with a ‘skidoosh?’ Maybe if they hadn’t been cowards and decided everyone had to be vaguely European…God, I’m still so mad about this. Who do I have to talk to around here to get some high fantasy filled with fucking Brooklyn accents and Minnesota nice and ‘howdy, y’alls?’ Why is the only company with the sort of balls to break from the mold and make a fantasy in the desert with grizzled prospector types Square Fucking Enix?

It’s a FANTASY in the DESERT with TRUCK STOPS and ROADSIDE DINERS and a MECHANIC in a THONG and her GRANDFATHER wants to KILL YOU for reasons UNRELATED TO THE THONG

This should have been an American cast, or barring that, make up a fucking accent like they did for Wakanda. You know what?

Which Accents Should Have Been Used to Represent the Different Nations

Fucking strap in, because we’re going Full America, folks.

The Two Rivers

The Two Rivers is East Bumfuck. They technically belong to Andor but they’re so isolated no one in the Two Rivers knows that and no one from Andor has been around for taxes or anything so fuck it. They’re basically abandoned hill folk and should speak as such, which is why I think a southern accent, specifically from the Kentucky area, is perfect. Rand, Mat, Perrin, Egwene, and Nynaeve should all be talking like they haven’t left their holler in years. I want y’alls and drawls. Everybody already thinks Rand and company are a bunch of hicks and are shocked when they’re not only competent, but great at something, so given our own biases out in the real world a thick southern accent is perfect.

Andor

The nation that the Two Rivers belongs to should also be a southern accent, but given their high royalty and sort of up-their-own-butts attitude, I’m thinking an old fashioned, Tennessee Williams Cat on a Hot Tin Roof, Big Daddy Southern accent. Long, slow drawls. “I do declare.” “Maggie, you are ruining my liquor.” Just a bunch of old southern belles being bitchy to each other and doing that southern thing when they meet one of the Two Rivers folk, you know, that slow lookover with their eyes and a ‘Bless your heart.’ Real Foghorn Leghorn shit.

Shienar

The Shienarans live right on top of the Blight and their whole thing is fighting back trollocks and generally being badasses. They live far to the northeast and don’t need your fucking help, ever, which is why I think these guys need a good Maine accent. Have you ever actually met someone from Maine? Stubborn as mules, especially the old guys. As a nurse I once had a patient from Maine who insisted he didn’t need me doing my rounds and that if he needed something he’d get it himself. He was there because his blood pressure had tanked and he’d passed out in a JC Penney’s, so when I told him he wasn’t even allowed to get out of bed without calling someone he was pissed. Bonus: they’ll all sound like they’re from terrible Stephen King adaptations.

Aes Sedai

Okay, here me out on this one: Aes Sedai are from everywhere, but they congregate at the White Tower for pretty intense training. Part of their whole thing is being ambassadors to rulers, so that means they have to be understandable to everybody, right? Who, in our society currently, spend a chunk of their training learning a particular American accent to be able to be understood by the whole country?

That’s right: newscasters. Aes Sedai, no matter where they’re from, should be able to speak in that over-pronounced General American accent that is the staple of every Cindy Mapleton and Joe Shortsleeve across the country. Bonus points if they have a scene where they code switch back to their actual accent.

Illian

A nation on the water with lots of little waterways pushing into it and already canonically with an odd dialect where ‘He’s going to the boats’ becomes ‘He do be going to the boats’ means I want the thickest Cajun accents imaginable for these guys. Nigh unintelligible.

I could keep going but there’s still, like, fifteen other groups to go. You get the idea.

This was supposed to be about more topics but apparently I’m going to be super salty about the accents the entire time I watch this show. Hopefully there will be other great things about the show to distract me, but I’m pretty sure I’m going to be pissed they’re all talking with the same fucking English accent all seven episodes.

Want, Need

The house, as she pulled up in her dark blue sedan, seemed warm and inviting. A sprawling Greek revival type tucked at the end of a block otherwise populated with the same half-ranch from the fifties. White columns rose up two stories on either side of the front door, drawing her eyes to where a widow’s walk perched on the roof. Funny thing, that widow’s walk, since they were about fifty miles in from the ocean.

In her line of work Marty went to lots of houses. Architecture had become a sort-of side hobby. Now, when she was in the car, zoned out and only half hearing the radio, she would tick off the houses she passed like a litany. Federal. Victorian. Mid-century. Another Victorian. Cape Cod. The worst was ending up in the neighborhoods like the one that surrounded the Greek in front of her. The ones where a single builder had bought up acres and acres and got to building the same thing over. Then it became like a chant in her mind. Split-level ranch. Split-level ranch. Splevelanch. Splanch. Splanch. Splanch.

Marty shook her head. She’d been idling in front of the house, still in drive with her foot on the brake. The house was warm, yes, and inviting, that was true. Painted all white, clearly redone every summer or the dirt and the grass would have tainted it. It was early-November, so the maples out front still held onto a few red leaves. Mostly, though, the trees were bare and the leaves were crinkled and brown and being blown about by the wind. It was a dark time for some. Marty loved it.

She didn’t love this house. Even as it invited her in, there was something…something. Huh. Can’t put a finger on it. Something that didn’t want her there. Or did want her there, but for reasons Marty wasn’t going to like. It was simply an uneasiness that made her eyes water as she examined the wood siding.

Maybe it will be unrelated to the job, she thought as she finally put the car in park and cut the engine. A house this old has to have multiple problems, right?

Yeah, and if frogs had wings and all that.

She fetched her old doctor’s bag from the trunk, didn’t bother locking the POS, and walked up to the front.

Before Marty could even make the front steps the door had been pulled open to reveal a thin blond man with those frameless glasses and a cell phone clinging to his severe face.

“No, tell him he doesn’t need any of that,” he said into the phone while motioning for Marty to come in. “I don’t care what he wants, I’m telling him he doesn’t need it, and if would just listen to me on this he could save himself about sixteen thousand. Look, look, I need to take care of something. Tell him that, and if he doesn’t listen then give him my cell phone number. But not until after lunch. Okay? Okay. Bye.”

The house inside was about what Marty expected. These centuries-old houses could keep pretending it was 1823 or whatever out front, but the insides were always at war. Whatever could be kept of the original was kept, but the second it got to be dangerous, or too broken, or even just an inconvenience it was out the window and replaced. Some of the floorboards looked original, as did the wallpaper. The flat screen television in the next room over definitely wasn’t. The stair banister wasn’t, either. Kids toys were scattered around, the kind for the little ones barely old enough to be at school. The blond man – Mr. Morris – pushed toys away to the side of the hall as he led her down to the kitchen.

“You’re the specialty locksmith, right?” he asked over his shoulder.

“That’s right,” she said. “Martha Franklin. Call me Marty.”

“We’ve had eight other locksmiths out here, Miss Franklin,” Mr. Morris said. “All of the locksmiths in the immediate area and then we were able to coax another out from Braintree. He was the one who gave us your number. He said you work all over New England?”

“Mostly, yeah,” Marty said. She had assumed he was leading to her a jammed pantry or rusted over bulkhead down to a crawlspace, but instead he led right her through the kitchen to a narrow set of stairs going up. “Been down to New York, Jersey, and Pennsylvania quite a bit, too. Canada, even, a couple of times.”

Mr. Morris glanced over his shoulder, giving her a look unreadable from the angle and the dim light. “I hope that means you’ll be able to take care of this quickly.”

The hackles on the back of Marty’s neck went up as a shiver went down. As they reached the top of the stairs she realized it was probably just so Mr. Morris could go back to work.

Unfortunately, that did not mean Marty was now walking through good vibes. That feeling, like a tickle in the sinuses not strong enough to start the sneeze, was back. It filled the hallway, wafting through her, and even before they got there Marty knew exactly where Mr. Morris was taking her: the last door on the left.

They had passed three other doors as they walked the hall. All had been replaced sometime in the past half a century, and freshly painted in the past year at that. This door had not been painted, nor had it been replaced. It was clearly the door the house had been built with. It may, in fact, have been the only original piece of the house left.

It was cracked. Warped. And that unease oozed out of it like sap out of the maples in the front.

“The door’s been like this since we moved in,” he said, shaking the brass knob as a display. “Was like that for the previous owners, too. No one knows the last time it was opened, really, it’s probably all, whatchacallit, expanded and stuck in the jamb. Really stuck. Can’t move it at all.”

He shook the door again and Marty fought the urge to puke.

“If it’s never been opened before, why do you need it now?”

Mr. Morris looked at her like she’d just asked why they needed the sun. “My wife’s pregnant again and my mom…I don’t want her living alone anymore.”

Marty stared at the man in the way she had learned. People don’t like the quiet, mostly, especially when it’s only two people. Two people, standing near, not talking, some people couldn’t take it. She guessed, from the way he had been on the phone, Mr. Morris was one of those.

He grunted, and leaned a hand on the doorframe. “Hell. Even if all that weren’t true. I paid for this house, Miss Franklin, and the thought of having a whole room I own and can’t get to…well, it fucking bothers me. I want to be able to go everywhere in my own home.”

There. Honest truth.

“Nothing to be ashamed of, Mr. Morris,” Marty said. She stepped forward and let her hand hover over the door. Churning. It was the only word to describe what she felt and only a little correct. “Did the other locksmith tell you what I do?”

“I mean…don’t you do what he does? Better?”

“Honesty, Mr. Morris. If you want this door open, you must be honest. With me. And with yourself.”

She glanced at him and restrained a sigh. It was apparent from his face there would be no honesty. At least not right now.

“It’s a jammed door,” he said.

“It is that,” Marty said. “Why don’t you go back to work, Mr. Morris? I’ll find you if I need you.”

He didn’t need to be told twice. After giving her vague directions to his home office that Marty barely heard he hustled down the hallway, not looking back. He probably didn’t admit it to himself, but it was clear.

Mr. Morris didn’t like being in this corner of the house.

She’d only been there a few minutes, but so far neither did Marty.

“Okay, you old thing,” she said to the door. “Tell me your secrets.”

Half an hour later she found Mr. Morris’ office. It was clear on the other side of the house, facing the street and the maples. In fact, you couldn’t get any farther from that room unless you left the house or went down to the basement.

Mr. Morris was yelling into the phone again, and after getting a single ‘hold on’ finger Marty patiently waited in the hall, examining the family photos hung there.

“Is it done?” he asked her.

Marty took a breath. If he didn’t notice the way her hair was mussed or the red in her eyes…well, she always knew this conversation could be hard.

“Can we sit?”

“Is the door unlocked?”

“That’s what I want to sit and talk about.”

Mr. Morris stared longingly at his computer, but relented. He took his cell phone and showed her back to the kitchen.

“This is a nice table,” she said as they sat.

“Antique. Not as old as the house, but pretty close. My wife and I found it in the middle of nowhere Vermont. Had to rent a truck to bring it back. My brother thinks it’s ridiculous. Said we didn’t need it.”

Marty piled up the crusted Cheerios she had picked off the bench seat. With a smile, Mr. Morris shrugged.

“We don’t baby our antiques. Put them behind glass so everyone can stare at them. We use what we buy.”

“Which is why you want to get into that room.”

“Yes. Is it…?”

“No. But it can be.”

The crestfallen look was immediately replaced by tight annoyance. “Then why isn’t it?”

Marty placed her hands on the table, palms down. She found when she did this, people were more likely to believe her.

“There is something trapped in that room, Mr. Morris.”

“What, like a raccoon?”

“Please. I know you can feel it. The…anger. Hatred. Disgust…oozing out of that room, why, I could feel it out front sitting in my car. I know I’m far more sensitive to these kinds of things than the average person, but it’s so strong even you must notice something, now and then.”

Mr. Morris looked confused.

Looked confused.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“You do. In a way. You couldn’t wait to get away from that room earlier. And I’m sure the other locksmith must have said something about my…unconventional ways.”

“They said no one else could do what you do,” he said with a shrug.

“That’s incorrect, Mr. Morris, but I am the only one of my Guild working in this area. The kind of locksmithing I’m capable of is an incredibly rare skill, even in my sort of circles. Now, Mr. Morris, I’m going to speak plainly. This scares some people, and I usually don’t like to do it, but I feel like you need to hear it.”

He shifted in his seat, crossing his arms, but said nothing.

“Have you ever heard of the ship of Theseus? It would seem your entire house has been slowly replaced, bit by bit, until hardly anything remains of the original. In fact, besides a few stray boards and the columns out front, I think that room is the only original part of the house. Because of this, whatever evil this house contains is locked in that room. I can unlock that door, Mr. Morris. I can give you that room. But not without giving you whatever is inside it.”

Mr. Morris rolled his eyes. “What, you mean a ghost?”

“Maybe. Like I said, whatever is in there is locked in so tightly I can’t quite get a read on it. Could be a ghost. A spirit. Perhaps, when the house was first built, a terrible and angry person lived there. Houses are like sponges, Mr. Morris. They soak up energy, take on the personalities of the people who lived there. A rotten person can blacken a house from the inside out.”

“This is insane. I thought you were a locksmith.”

“I am a locksmith. Some things aren’t locked with interlocking bits of metal. Have you even noticed there isn’t a lock on that door?”

“Of course there is!” Mr. Morris stood up so fast the bench behind him scuttled back. “Lady, I don’t know what any of this is. There’s a room in my very old house that won’t open. Not because of some evil, or some ghost, but because it’s old as fuck and the wooden door has warped into the frame. I hired a locksmith to get the thing open. That’s all. That’s all this is supposed to be.”

All of the fire was gone by the time he got to the last sentence. There was a glint in his eye, not unlike what Marty had seen in the eyes of trapped wild animals. Snarling, biting, trying to look frightening, before the fear takes over entirely.

Maybe the man realized that was what he was doing. He stood up straight and jutted out his jaw.

“If you can’t open that room, then you should just leave.”

“I can open it.”

Mr. Morris snorted. “But you won’t, right?”

Marty clasped her hands together. “The rules of my Guild are clear, Mr. Morris. If you still want that room to be opened, I will open it. But,” she held up a finger. “Only after a full warning. There is something in there. I know you know that, I can feel it rolling it off you in waves. If I open the door, I am releasing whatever it is, and while I don’t know what will come out, I can tell you that nothing good will come from it. In fact, you will probably wish you had never opened it. This is not a joke, Mr. Morris, it’s not a prank. I’m not crazy. If you want that door opened, you will only invite disaster and ruin to your family. You need to leave it shut.”

For a full three seconds, Marty believed she had reached him. His eyes drifted to a family portrait hanging over the table. Four kids. A fifth on the way. They obviously had money, if they were living in a house like this. They could build an extension. A mother-in-law suite over the garage. Or they could move. So many options besides the one that would destroy them all.

Then she watched reality creep back into his mind. ‘Reality.’ Ha. More like wool over the eyes.’

“Open it.”

Mr. Morris followed her back up to the room, his heavy footsteps and full breaths exactly the sort of shield he needed to pretend he wasn’t afraid. The door loomed at, ready and eager.

“Mr. Morris, are you sure-”

“Open it,” he said again, standing next to the far wall.

Marty sighed. She reached out a hand, pointer finger extended, and gave the brass doorknob the slightest touch.

The door popped out, creaking in a few inches.

There was no gust of wind. No moans or shrieks. The lights did not flicker and the temperature did not dip.

Marty knew anyway.

“See?” Mr. Morris said, his face a little green. “Nothing. It’s just a room. Perfect for-”

Marty held up a hand. “Please, Mr. Morris. If it were up to me, I would have never opened that door. I would have left. I very much do not want to know what you’ll do with that space. I’ll be going now. I can show myself out.”

“Your payment-”

“No.”

Mr. Morris stepped back, startled at her sudden firmness.

Marty stepped back herself, smoothing the front of her blouse.

“I take no responsibility here, do you understand? I told you what will happen, and I was forced to open that door as part of the Guild’s rules. I see myself as only an intermediary in the middle of this terrible idea, and will not accept even a cent of payment or a word of thanks. Be wary, Mr. Morris. True evil bides its time.”

As she walked down the hall she felt it. Something pushing her along. She spared a single glance behind her before she hit the stairs only to see Mr. Morris pushing open the door and walking inside.

By the time she was at her car she could feel it. That simple uneasiness she had felt when she had arrived and exploded into unearthly waves of hatred, anger, and resentment. It turned her stomach. She thought she could smell something. Sulfur one minute, offal the next. A young woman was pushing a stroller across the street, and as she approached the house her attention snapped to it. Confusion and fear painted her face as her baby started crying, and she nearly broke into a run hustling past.

Marty took a deep, bone cracking sigh as she got into her car.

I’m going to hear about this one on the news.

Midnight Mass and the Queen of Mean

Spoiler Alert

If you have any interest in watching this show, get the fuck out of here right now and watch it first. I want to discuss the characterization and arc of a very large character, and to do that I have to, you know, talk about the show, and this is absolutely the sort of show you want to go into with as little foreknowledge as possible. I’ll be getting into some stuff immediately after the Spoiler Chocobo, so absolutely none of this article is safe. Proceed only if you’ve already watched it or want to read about a character in a show you have no plans on actually seeing. I mean, I think I’m funny, but not that funny.

Final warning: If you want to watch Midnight Mass and haven’t yet, make like a tree and fuck off.

Okay, we all good? Everyone here watched the show?

Anyway, what I really wanted to title this article was

Midnight Mass and Fuck Bev Keane, the Spiteful Bitch

But I’m not out here trying to spoil shit in titles.

She’s the Christian that makes non-Christians hate Christians.

She’s the Christian other Christians avoid after church.

She’s Dolores Umbridge with a God complex (a more literal God complex, I guess).

She was definitely going to hell even before all of this began.

From the very second we met Bev Keane I had a feeling she was going to be a mondo-bitch. It’s literally all in the way she stares down Riley Flynn and his mother, the way she holds herself, and the tone she takes with Sturge. In the space of about ten seconds she manages to bully Sturge into believing that he somehow missed Monsignor Pruitt on a ferry boat the size of a backyard swimming pool, because she and Pruitt had agreed this was the boat he would be on, and no one would dare go back on what they agreed with Bev Keane.

Seriously, Samantha Sloyan fucking nails this role. Bev Keane is an immediate, fantastic asshole and it only gets worse from here. The next scene she’s in, where the town prepares for an incoming storm, spells everything out in perfect clarity: Things are to be done the Way They’ve Always Done Things, aka Bev’s Way, and anyone who disagrees or argues is going to get spoken to in that condescending bullshit way these types of Christians always seem to master.

Bev Keane is a fucking monster.

Bev Poisoned Joe Collie’s Dog

I mean, I feel this show makes this pretty abundantly clear, but just in case:

She killed a dog. This self-righteous, supposed woman of God poisoned a dog because it barked at her and because it belongs to the town fuck-up.

The kicker, of course, is she doesn’t think she did anything wrong.

Twisted Morality

For most of us, it’s the sort of things a person does that makes them ‘good’ or ‘bad.’ It’s not really as simple as a dichotomy, either, we can recognize that some bad people have good qualities and some good people have bad ones. ‘Shades of gray’ and all that. It’s also not a fixed label – a good person can be driven to doing bad things and a bad person can do a faceturn, if you will, and begin to do good things. Humanity, and being human, is complicated.

Well, not for Bev Keane! See, good old Bev got all this shit figured out a couple of decades ago and she just crossed all that off her bucket list. Why spend half your life analyzing situations and changing your perceptions as the situation calls for it when you can give everyone a label and call it a day?

For Bev Keane, ‘goodness’ or ‘badness’ is not a quality of actions, but of people. A person is not made good or bad by the things they do. Rather, a person is either good or bad to begin with – based off Bev’s own personal reasoning – and the actions that person takes is rendered good or bad simply because they’re being performed by that person.

So, for instance, Bev is of course a good person. Therefore, the fact that she’s handing out bibles and proselytizing in a public school is a good thing. When Sheriff Hassan asks her what would happen if he came to school one day handing out Qurans, Bev skirts around the issue but we know what she is thinking: that would be a bad thing, simply because it’s being done by Sheriff Hassan who has already been assigned as a bad person for…let me check my notes here…being Not Catholic, Muslim, and brown-skinned.

Or, another example: killing Joe Collie’s dog because it barked at her (and belongs to Bad Person Joe) doesn’t make her bad a person! That was a bad dog that needed to be sent home to God, so it was a righteous thing to do. Being a good person makes that act good.

Wow, hope that’s not, like, foreshadowing or anything.

To her, people like Riley Flynn and Joe Collie can never be ‘good’ people. They both made mistakes, and that’s enough for her. It doesn’t matter to her at all that Riley has spent his entire life since that mistake atoning. It doesn’t matter that Joe Collie has clearly been haunted by what happened and is now trying to fix himself. In Bev Keane’s eyes, they can never fix themselves. She’s damned them to hell without even consulting anyone about it, because she doesn’t think she needs to.

Taking the Lord’s Name in Vain

Everyone knows this one, to the point where we mince the shit out of anything that might even sort of be blasphemous:

By golly
Bejeepers
Cripes
For crying out loud
For goodness’ sake
Gee whiz
Jiminy Christmas
Jumping Jehosephat

But did you know there’s another interpretation of the phrase? Someone could be said to be taking the Lord’s name in vain when they start issuing proclamations or orders that they say come directly from God, but in reality contradict everything a Christian God actually stands for and clearly just comes from their own wants and desires.

Bev Keane, party of one, your table is ready.

The Untimely Death of Joe Collie

Joe Collie is only two AA meetings in (and showing progress) when he is unfortunate enough to put himself directly in front of Pruitt, a starving new vampire. When Bev finds the body, she doesn’t fucking care. She feels nothing.

Okay, not nothing. She feels what she always feels: superiority.

She makes a very impassioned speech to the Mayor and Sturge to convince them to haul ‘the body’ away in a rug and dump it in the ocean that essentially boils down to: Fuck him. He sucked and he deserved this (oh, and also your daughter is walking, Mayor, and you can’t get to keep the good without the bad).

As an aside: she comes with this ‘dumping the body’ plan fucking quick, man. She’s not panicking in the slightest and gives the men detailed instructions. Our girl here has definitely killed someone.

Anyway, Joe Collie’s death only solidifies all of the fucked-up opinions she already has. Monsignor Pruitt killed Joe. Monsignor Pruitt has not killed Bev. He also expresses that he has no remorse for what he did to Joe, chalking it up to being an act of God. Therefore, Bev was right all along. Joe sucked and she’s awesome and she can just continue to be Queen Shit of Turd Island.

The Turning of Riley Flynn

Bev makes it fucking abundantly clear – as clear as anything that comes out of her mouth can be, the way she twists everything to make it sound like its only coming from concern or some shit – that she doesn’t think Riley deserves what has happened to him.

Now, I don’t think that either, but Bev and I are coming from two very different places here. I don’t think Riley deserved to get turned into a fucking vampire because that sucks and he was honestly trying to turn his life around and definitely didn’t want this. Honestly, the scenes in episode five of Riley waking up to this new fucked-up existence might have had me clenching my teeth harder than the church scene in episode six.

Meanwhile, Bev is either still not getting it or is still in denial. Pruitt is a good man, therefore it really is God working through him. Riley getting turned isn’t an existential horror, it’s a gift. One he doesn’t deserve, because she’s already determined that Riley is ‘bad.’ She is clearly pissed from the beginning that Riley was ‘chosen,’ never mind the fact that it was an accident. And when Riley chooses to meet the sun rather than live, ooh, the self-righteous fury is so hot you could burn your face on it.

A Revelation Turned Weapon

It’s never clear, by the end, if Bev understands that what’s happening is not the stuff of God and angels. What is clear is that, to her, it really doesn’t matter. What follows is the scariest line of thinking I’ve ever heard in my life.

Bev comes to the conclusion that what is happening to them at St. Patrick’s is the beginning of the Biblical Armageddon. And she is fucking pumped about it.

See, she’s managed to spend the entire show finding scripture that justifies everything that happens. She even manages to pull something out of her ass to turn on Pruitt after he comes to his senses and realizes that the only thing he’s made is a mess. So, starting at as early as episode five with Riley she begins twisting events to match up with Revelation. This is the beginning of the end. The vampires are actually ‘God’s chosen’ who will inherit the Earth after the dregs are wiped from the planet. The fires that she fucking set are a sign from God!

This ultimately becomes their plan, and while Pruitt is at first on board I can almost guarantee you he did not actually orchestrate any of this. This is all Bev. She wants the faithful on the island to turn, and then massacre the rest of the island – who would have been saved if they had been coming to church, natch – and then they take their show on the road. Everyone goes to the mainland and starts turning the righteous and feeding on the ingrates. And who, exactly, is deciding who is worthy?

Take a Fucking Guess

As soon as Bev has Pruitt out of the way, as soon as she becomes the one truly in charge, the real Bev Keane comes out.

She has the entire town burned to the ground so that all of the new vampires have to stay in the rec center (the rec center definitely built so she could launder money back in the day, by the way). Sturge shows up with someone from town who didn’t go to St. Patrick’s, a friend of his who he wants to save. But Bev isn’t having it. He’s not a Good Person, so he doesn’t get salvation. That’s the beginning and end of it for good ole Bev Keane.

The Most Satisfying Ending

I’ve written about two thousand words describing how awful this woman is, when Annie Flynn sums it up in space of a few seconds:

“You aren’t a good person…God doesn’t love you more than anyone else…God loves [my son, who accidentally killed someone in a drunk driving accident]. Just as much as he loves you, Bev. Why does that upset you so much? Just the idea that God loves everyone just as much as you?”

Bev is still riding high on her insane plan, so none of that really sinks in (nor does Annie stabbing herself in the neck faze her), but Annie has reached into Bev and touched the gross, black, stinking heart-shaped void in the center of her: Bev believes God loves her more than the people she deems ‘bad.’ Maybe God loves her the most. Certainly he will after she kickstarts Armageddon, right?

Later on, the actual good guys of the story manage to burn down the rec center, and because Bev destroyed the rest of the town out of control and spite, the new vampires don’t have a place to hide. While almost all the rest go to the town’s center to face their fate, Bev goes to the beach, cries a bunch, tries to dig her own grave in the sand, and failing that dies screaming in agony and panic.

It’s better than garlic bread.

Vamps Go to Heaven, Bev Goes to Hell

The show leaves it ambiguous to what actually happens to people after they die (or, potentially, declares Buddhism the winner depending on how you interpret Erin Green’s final dying monologue), but I feel like if there is a heaven and hell in this universe, it’s pretty apparent where everyone is going.

A major theme of the show – and also, like, Christianity in general – is that God forgives. But He’s not handing out Oopsies Passes willy-nilly. You have to meet Him half way. To Christians like Bev, the only way to gain true salvation after fucking up is…oh, whoops, file not found.

But in actual Christianity, forgiveness is there if you ask for it. Not by prostrating yourself, or whipping yourself, or going to church every second you’re awake. Just by recognizing your faults. Accepting you fucked up and that you need to be better. Trying to be better. Actual atonement.

By the very end of the show, most of the islanders realize that they’ve been led astray to do horrible things. When they stand in the middle of town, waiting for sunrise, it isn’t just giving up. There’s a clear air of waiting for judgment. The Serenity Prayer is used heavily throughout the show, and these people have been granted the serenity to accept the things they cannot change.

Ali finds his dad and apologizes, helping him to the beach where they each perform morning prayers until the sheriff keels over from his gut wound and the sun finds Ali.

Meanwhile, Bev is down at the beach absolutely losing her shit, because despite decades of pretending to be a Christian, she doesn’t actually know what happens next.

I do. Everyone else has accepted fault and goes to heaven. Bev has never once in her life believed she’s done anything wrong, so way down she goes.

And there was much rejoicing.

Seriously, Fuck Her and People Like Her

We’ve all known people like this, seen them on TV or on Facebook. Maybe even been stuck with them in a terrible conversation filled with holier-than-thou righteousness and barely-veiled white supremacy. So, I declare Annie Flynn to be the real hero of the show, for managing to do what we’ve all thought about in those situations: stabbing ourselves in the neck just to get out of it.

Check out my other article on Midnight Mass where I just sort of ramble out vampires and shit.

Don’t Rock the Boat: Pacific City

Pacific City

They followed the man with the white hair down the paved stones that wound its way through the private bungalows. Peggy had pulled the handkerchief she kept in her jacket pocket out and had it pressed up to her face. The scratches from the bark of the branch would heal pretty quickly, but the black eye and fat lip were going to linger. Aster was walking close enough next to her that their arms were brushing up against each other. After passing a couple of the bungalows Peggy took Aster’s hand and squeezed. They gave her a watery smile. It had never happened to Peggy, but she couldn’t imagine being possessed was a fun thing you could just throw off.

There were no paparazzi back here, probably because there was hardly anyone to photograph. They passed one person as they followed the man, an impossibly buff young man in a tight suit walking from one bungalow up to the main hotel. He gave them the smile and nod you gave to strangers as he passed by, and then Aster was squeezing Peggy’s hand hard enough to make it burst.

“That was Bradley Brown!” they hissed in her ear, looking to make sure he hadn’t heard.

“Oh, yeah. I met the photographer trying to grab his picture. They think he’s here with Celeste Carmichael.”

“Why the fuck didn’t you tell me?”

“You were possessed.”

“Oh. Right.”

Maybe being possessed was something you could throw off.

“This way,” the man said.

There was a single bungalow left, down a path overgrown with what passed for a jungle in southern Golden. Creeping vines and palm trees and some kind of flowering bush that seemed to reach for their ankles as they walked by. This bungalow stood apart from the others but otherwise looked the same. Small, stucco, clay roof. The man with the white hair opened the front door and ushered them in.

“Uh…Peg?”

“Yeah…I see it, too.

The space they were standing in could not have fit inside the bungalow. This was not the front of a modest but decadent hotel room. This was the front hall of a mansion. Rooms spread out in front of them. A pair of grand staircases rose up on either side and led to a second floor that, outside the bungalow, didn’t exist.

The man led them across the main hall, the heels of his shoes hitting hard against the black tiles. He knocked twice at a set of heavy French doors, and after getting some sort of signal neither Peggy nor Aster could hear he opened the doors.

The room on the other side was some kind of formal sitting room. Stuffy, pale rose couches with gold worked along the sides surrounded an ornate table that looked like a coffee table but surely was older than the phrase. There was a fireplace with a stone hearth sitting cold on one wall. The facing wall was a wet bar, with three shelves filled with expensive bottles, some unlabeled. Standing at the far end were two women talking. One had short brown hair, slicked back down the middle with both sides shaved. Piercings were in her nose, ears, and lip. She was wearing an intricate sari, green and gold weaving in and around each other.

The other woman wore a dress just as elegant, only in a western style. A deep purple that snugged around her curves and flared out at the bottom, with a black shawl draped over her dark brown shoulders. Her hair was in braids, starting in an elegant twist on top of her head and then converging into a single fishtail braid that rested on her right shoulder. Despite the two women looking nothing alike, they shared a single feature – deep purple eyes.

“Here they are,” she said, her voice as serene and regal as the rest of them. “The heroes of the hour.”

Aster pulled themselves closer to Peggy as they squeaked, “Heroes?”

“Yes, of course. You’ve saved me quite the headache. We were just beginning to see the threads of Rupert’s schemes, but we wouldn’t have found him on our own for weeks. And here you two come, just bringing him along with you! If you hadn’t angered him so, there’s no way he would have come so close.”

Peggy shifted her weight. “You’re Andromeda?”

The man with the white hair growled. “Your highness, to you.”

A light laugh came from the woman in the sari. “Oscar, you’re too formal for your own good. Neither of them are contracted to redwave magic.”

Oscar said nothing, only resumed the glares he seemed to have for everybody except Andromeda.

“Yes, I am Andromeda. I’m sure you’ve heard some things about me, by now. Mostly from, um…what are their names? The imps?”

“We call them the Steves,” Aster said, “uh, ma’am.”

“Right. The Steves. You’ve met Oscar, my right hand. This is Priti, my left. We only wanted to introduce ourselves to the people who helped us in our time of need. And to receive help from someone on the blue side of things! Miracles, and such.”

“We both had our reasons for wanting…Rupert?…to cut the shit,” Peggy said. “The people that he tricked into contracting with-”

Priti waved her hands once across her body. “The contracts were broken the second Rupert was sent back home. It will be a long time before he crawls his way back to the crust.”

“Okay. Great. Um. Thank you, then. I guess we should be going.”

“Oh, yes! Aster Basa. Margaret Murphy. It was so nice to meet you both.”

Peggy turned for the door. Aster sketched out a curtsey, then a bow, then waved before following. They were at the door before Andromeda said something.

“I’m sure we’ll be seeing each other again,” she said. They turned back to look at her, a smile playing on her face. “You know, as you proceed with this new venture. I do hope the next time we meet it’s something like this. With all of us on the same…side.”

“Yup, me too, sounds great,” Peggy said. She opened the door and pushed Aster out into the hall. That calm, in control image Andromeda had been portraying had started to crack at the end, letting Peggy see the dangerous woman underneath.

They were sitting across from each other on the train, both of them staring out at Pacific City rushing by. The afternoon rush was over, and the train car was only half full. Neither of them could shake the feeling they were still being watched until they were back on their side of town.

“Did we just make a friend? Or an enemy?” Aster asked, pulling themselves out of their slouch in the chair.

“Both. Neither. Frenemy. Do the kids still use that word?”

“Who gives a fuck about the kids?” Aster asked. “Hey, why did she call you Margaret?”

She shrugged. “Because that’s my name.”

“No,” Aster said, sitting forward. “Your name is Peggy.”

“Peggy is a nickname for Margaret.”

“What? Why? How? That doesn’t make any sense. Where’s the P in Margaret? Shouldn’t you go by Maggie?”

Peggy pulled her long braid out from behind her and draped it over her shoulder. “I do. Sometimes. But I prefer Peggy. And are you really going to argue with me about my preferred name?”

“Low blow, Peggy,” Aster said through a smile. “You know, by my count we saved three people today.”

“More,” Peggy said. “We don’t know how many books Gary sold before we caught up to him. Could be double digits. That’s some pretty good work for the first job of the Pacific City Defenders.”

Aster’s eyes went wide, and the smile they had turned into a grin. Before they said anything though they crossed their arms in front of them and made the smile a frown. Tried to, anyway.

“I thought you didn’t like the name,” Aster said.

“It’s good enough for now. We can figure something better out later.”

Aster gave up trying to be stern. Their grin almost split their face in half and they punched the air a few times.

“Pacific City Defenders! I’d say we should celebrate, but I am so God damned exhausted. Apparently getting possessed takes it out of you. Hey. What do you say to coming back to my place, smoking a bowl, and watching nature documentaries?”

Peggy smiled. “We need to stop at the Gulp ‘n’ Go first.”

“For the Steves?”

“What? No! When I get high I get munchy as fuck.”

Peggy was having a very nice dream where she and Bradley Brown were sitting in a hot tub in the mountains passing a joint between them, and even if it never became a sexy dream the kush was good. And then her fucking phone started to ring.

“You’ve got another job for us already?” Peggy mumbled into the phone.

“What ‘already?’ It’s been a month.”

Peggy sat up straight in bed. She had been expecting Aster’s quick and light voice. Compared to them, Joey sounded like a fork stuck in a garbage disposal.

“What is it?” Peggy asked.

“Train job. Be at the factory by six. And Maggie…be nice.”

“You don’t pay me to be nice.”

But Joey had already hung up.

Previous Next

November

Maybe November hurts more because the land still remembers.

Winters are brutal, but it’s a different pain. The freezing and reviving and stinging of fingers, toes, ears, nose, but everywhere, everywhere. The pain of white, white, white. Color has abandoned this place. Warmth has gone south. Winter is the depths, so removed from anything that isn’t half an inch from death it doesn’t remember the world as anything else.

November remembers. The cold and the dark come faster than it can forget. There are still leaves on the trees, stragglers, holding on even as the color leeches and the water evaporates and they are nothing but crunchy, useless husks with roots too strong for their own good. But they are there, and November remembers when they were small, and then wide, and then strong, and then green, and then yellow.

The sun still has some heat. It is not just a pale light in the sky, a pretender, but the real thing. The clouds get pushed away and the sun comes out and it has warmth. Some. The shadows the sun make are thin and stark. Razors of black cutting across fallen leaves, icy ponds, and brown grass.

It wasn’t so long ago at all the sun was all heat and power. It filled the sky and it baked the land and sometimes it was too much but that was a problem for then, not for now. Now all November has are the memories, and in memories even the bitter can seem sweet.

Everything is dying but not quite dead.

Everything is cold but not quite frozen.

This is not the end, but the beginning of the end, and even as the darkness creeps in around it November can remember when things were bright. The remembering is the pain that pulls the heart down and makes bitter tears freeze on cheeks.

Netflix’s Midnight Mass: Nothing Good Ever Happens On an Island

Spoiler Alert

If you have any interest in watching this show, get the fuck out of here right now and watch it first. I want to discuss the show’s themes, characters, and ending, and to do that I have to, you know, talk about the show, and this is absolutely the sort of show you want to go into with as little foreknowledge as possible. I’ll be getting into some stuff immediately after the Spoiler Chocobo, so absolutely none of this article is safe. Proceed only if you’ve already watched it or want to read a bunch of speculation and theory on a show you have no plans on actually seeing. I mean, I think I’m funny, but not that funny.

Final warning: If you want to watch Midnight Mass and haven’t yet, make like a tree and fuck off.

We all good? Everyone here watched the show? You better not be lying to me. Okay, let’s go.

Jesus Fucking Christ

…is what my husband and I said at the end of every episode. This Mike Flanagan person sure knows how to ramp up the unease until it’s dread, and then blow right past dread into existential crisis territory. Your typical Flanagan production looks like this:

First Episode: Establishing the baseline terror level of the universe, which is usually already cranked a few notches higher than our universe.

Early Episodes: The show is a poorly pressurized submarine dragging you down into depths so dark you can only peek at what’s lurking around you.

Middle Episodes: Shit is popping off and you can no longer sleep without the bathroom light on.

Later Episodes: AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA

Final Episode: AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa (muffled sobbing)

AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA

The only other work of his I have seen is The Haunting of Hill House, and the hidden ghosts in that one were enough to send me off the terror-ledge very early on. With Midnight Mass, though, it was less outright fear and more…Jesus fucking Christ.

Don’t Say the ‘Zed’ Word

Yeah, that leathery motherfucker was a vampire.

I will not be listening to any disagreement on this one. You want to talk about how that thing is actually some fucked up angel you go make your own blog and write about it there. Make a YouTube video about it. I don’t care. This is my page, and I’m calling it like I see it.

This asshole:

Looks like that
Gets burned in the sun
Feeds off human blood
Can turn others into vampires like himself by feeding them his blood and then killing them

Ack-twua-lly, he can go into people’s houses without an invitation! And he could share a space with holy relics! And he was more a man-bat, not so much a man who could turn into a bat, so CLEARLY he wasn’t ACK-TWUA-LLY a vampire.

Do y’all hear yourselves when you talk like that? This is why you’re single, Brian.

There’s a handful of traits that pop culture has glommed onto lately, but vampire myths include a wide variety of fucked-up-ed-ness for creators to choose from. Did you know The Count from Sesame Street is a vampire because in eastern European folklore vampires were obsessive to the point of having to count literally everything in front of them? I’ve only ever seen that in one other version of vampires and it was that one off episode of The X-Files.

Vampires aren’t real, so you can do whatever you want. Stephanie Meyers’ vampires are vampires because they kill people and drink their blood and, most importantly, because Meyers says they are. Hell, there are myths about vampires that don’t drink blood, instead feeding off energy or emotions whatever.

So, yeah, he’s missing some of the bigger traits that Hollywood likes to use, but when this batwinged fuckface is so intensely obsessed with fresh blood he doesn’t notice he’s getting mutilated, I think we’re still hanging out in Vampire Country.

The show goes to great lengths to not say the V Word. By halfway through the show we were speculating if this took place in some sort of alternate dimension where somehow vampires were real by vampire myths weren’t, much like it seems everyone who lives through a slasher movie has never even heard of Friday the 13^th. But a scene in the sixth episode cuts to the doctor saying something about ‘these myths’ and hitting that second word pretty hard, so ultimately I think the show was just being coy.

Which Means All of the These People Had to Know What Was Going On

At least, on some level. They had to realize that everything that was happening to them checked off a lot more ‘vampire’ boxes than ‘angels and miracles’ boxes. But they all had their own reasons for ignoring it.

Pruitt/Paul has almost completely lost his mental faculties when he trips into the buried chamber and finds the vampire, and it’s honestly a darkly hilarious situation. Man with serious dementia thinks a vampire is an angel. You could plug that idea into What We Do in the Shadows. In the final episode, he reveals that after he had been restored the only thing he could think of the entire way back to the island was saving the love his life, Millie, in the same way, and as much admits that blinded him to the true nature of his ‘angel.’

The same sort of logic is what keeps the mayor and his wife on the crazy train. Before they knew anything about what was going on, they knew that Father Paul had performed a miracle and given their daughter use of her legs back. Even as evidence mounts for them that what happened was not an act of God, they have to ignore it all. Because if what is happening is evil, what happened to their daughter is evil, and they can’t mentally handle that.

I fully cannot explain what was going on in Sturge’s mind at any given moment in this show.

And then there’s Bev God Damned Keane, who I discuss in detail here.

The Scene That Fucked Me Up the Most

You might think it’s the church scene at the end of the sixth episode, and yes, I was sore for a few days after watching that one because I had every muscle clenched so tight. But even worse than that were the scenes in episode five after Riley wakes up.

Every single part of the second half of the fifth episode was suffocating. They never say the V word, but I’m willing to bet Riley knew the real score by the time Bev shoved her gross neck in his face if not before. So, he’s stuck sitting there, trying to wrap his head around the fact that vampires exist and now he’s apparently one of them, while Father Dude sits in front of him and tries to use this situation to sell him on God. Again. Some more.

Riley probably chose to end it before he ever left that room. He could see the truth: it wasn’t a miracle. It was trading one addiction for another, and this new addiction would definitely leave a string of bodies behind him and he hasn’t even gotten over the first one.

There was just…so much about this that made me existentially uncomfortable. The helplessness of this new situation, where all you need is honest help, but instead you get locked in a room with a crazy person who won’t let you leave until you tell him everything he wants to hear.

Man, it’s super awesome that’s not a representation for what highly vulnerable people are often subjected to by religious groups just to get any sort of help or something.

What The Fuck Killed Father Paul?

One of the things I really liked about this show is how much they don’t spell out for you. There’s a lot of little details the show trusts you’re going to work out for yourself.

Part of the tHeY’rE nOt VaMpIrEs confusion comes from the fact that for the first few weeks (too many fffffffs, help) Father Paul is walking around unaffected by the daylight. But, for the first few weeks, he wasn’t a vampire, just a human being sustained on vampire blood. Then, at the end of episode three, he keels over in front of Bev Keane and a few others and dies in a manner suspiciously similar to the way the dog died. Next time we see him, he’s burning up in the sun and killing innocents coming to him for help with no guilt.

The thing is, the show never fully explains how he died. A popular theory was that Bev figured out ‘Paul’ was actually Pruitt and was forcing some kind of miracle, but he was shown having stomach cramps and passing out before Bev saw the old news article with the picture of a young Pruitt (which he really should have taken down once he got home, but obviously there are some gaps in the good priest’s mentation). The two best theories I have are:

A human can only drink so much vampire blood before eventually it starts poisoning him, and Father Paul/Pruitt was practically doing keg stands with the stuff.
Bev Keane did poison him, just not directly. She stated she was leaving the stuff out to kill whatever had killed all the stray cats, and we know the batwinged fuckface was killing critters on the island until it was time to graduate to the humans. The poison wouldn’t hurt him, obviously, but it probably stewed in his blood and that’s how it got into Father Paul.

The second explanation is my favorite, because it would explain why he died frothing at the mouth like the dog did. Ultimately, though, the show doesn’t give a straight answer and leaves you to figure it out for yourself, because it doesn’t really matter how he died. Just that he did, and now he’s a full vampire and ready to carpe the fuck out of the noctem.

A Teenage Muslim Walks Into a Catholic Church…

Another example of the ‘figure it out, fuckos’ attitude the show has is poor Ali and the whole church thing. His dad was barely letting him go in the first place, solely to keep the peace, and before he went for the first time had an exchange about the sacrament. Ali says he won’t take it, and the sheriff tells him he’s not allowed to, anyway.

Which, by all normal Catholic rules, he isn’t. Because he’s not Catholic. I think, at the very least, you need to have First Communion? I don’t know, I only ever got as far as First Communion and I have vague memories of CCD and they’re not of anything I learned, just sense memories of sitting in a classroom after dark with a workbook in front of me, and all these websites I’m looking at use a lot of big words, but anyway, the basic rule is No Catholic = No Communion. So, yeah, in a regular situation Ali would have had to hang back when everyone went up for their bland crackers and day drinking.

At the end, when Ali drinks the Flavor-Aid…Wait

Bev Keane Is So Fucked Up She Doesn’t Even Bother with the Flavor-Aid

It’s just straight poison. Look at those cups, that liquid is completely see-through. Like, are you shitting me? You can’t even drop some powdered ice tea in those things? What the fuck, you lemon faced bitch.

Okay, anyway…

Teenagers Are Stupid

All teenagers, everywhere, are fucking idiots. Like, yeah, fine, if I was a teenager and the local church had actual miracles instead of weekend lock-ins where a youth pastor tried to be hip and all the kids pretended they weren’t horny, I might have been more interested. And, yeah, if I were fifteen and my mom died and the first thing my dad did was move me from a major city to some cracker-filled island in the middle of nowhere where I’m the odd man out, I’d be pissed too. But, just…

“I choose God,” he says.

What a stupid, teenagery thing to say. “I choose God,” are you kidding me? You have very much already chosen God your entire life. It’s the same dude with a different name, you have to know this. It’s why I love this line, because it is exactly what a teenager pissed at his dad and not thinking straight would say in that moment, making his life into a movie.

Anyway, I thought Ali was fucking dead, because strictly speaking he shouldn’t have had the sacrament. But I wasn’t surprised when he popped back up a few minutes later. They never explicitly showed Pruitt breaking the rules and giving Ali the sacrament, but of course he was. He wanted as many people on the island to take it as possible, and he’d already shown that as far as he was concerned, the traditional Catholic rules were out the window. I’m amazed he wasn’t out there with a Super Soaker, shooting everyone one in the face with it.

“I’m Afraid It Was the Buddhists. Yes, the Buddhists Were the Correct Answer.”

I mean, I don’t know about real life. Also, I don’t even really know for the show. But that sure seems to be the conclusion Erin Greene comes to.

In his guest essay on Bloody Disgusting, Mike Flanagan goes into detail on the creation of Midnight Mass, including his own history with religion. The short and relevant part: raised Catholic to the point of being an altar boy, went to college and started questioning religion, and “connected pretty intensely with Buddhism for a few years.” A fact which greatly explains Erin Greene’s monologue as she’s dying:

“Myself. My self. That’s the problem. That’s the whole problem with the whole thing. That word, ‘self.’ That’s not the word. That’s not right, that isn’t…that isn’t…I remember that every atom in my body was forged in a star. This matter, this body is mostly just empty space after all, and solid matter? It’s just energy vibrating very slowly and there is no me. There never was…I remember I am energy. Not memory. Not self. My name, my personality, my choices, all came after me. I was before them and I will be after and everything else is pictures, picked up along the way…Just by remembering, I’m returning home. And it’s like a drop of water falling back into the ocean of which it’s always been a part. All things…a part. All of us…a part. You, me, and my little girl and my mother and my father, everyone who’s ever been, every plant, every animal, every atom, every star, every galaxy, all of it. More galaxies in the universe than grains of sand on the beach and that’s what we’re talking about when we say ‘God.’ The one. The cosmos and its infinite dreams. We are the cosmos dreaming of itself…There is no time. There is no death. Life is a dream. It’s a wish. Made again and again and again and again and again and on into eternity. And I am all of it. I am all. I am that I am.”

This is a pretty perfect explanation of Buddhism’s rejection of the self. I don’t consider myself a Buddhist, but in the stressful parts of my life I turn to Buddhism, and I recognized what she was describing instantly. I don’t even need to explain the not-self tenant of Buddhism because it’s all there, in the monologue. Here’s a video summing it up in a minute and a half.

It’s practically word for word what Erin says: the human ‘self’ is really a collection of experiences, but beyond that there is no distinction between a human and the rest of the universe. Her use of “I am that I am,” a common English translation for what the burning bush tells Moses in the Hebrew bible, sums up her interpretation: the entire universe put together is God, and I am the entire universe, so I am God.”

It is a little curious for Erin Greene, raised Catholic and still Catholic up to her death, to come to such a conclusion as she’s dying. Most of Buddhism doesn’t exactly jive with Christianity, especially this part: the idea that there is no self or soul is very much not what Christianity teaches. That the very Catholic Erin Greene would have such a revelation upon her death feels like Mike Flanagan is making a statement about the true nature of death. At least, in this fictional universe.

Anyway, I’m Pissed Because the Show Beat Me to the Punch

With all these hymns getting sung throughout the show, I wanted to make a joke that the only hymn anyone should be singing is “Nearer My God to Thee,” because this fucking ship is going down.

And then that ending.

Yeah, I was crying. But I was also pissed. How dare you make the same reference I was going to use.

(It’s the last song purportedly played by the band as the Titanic went down, by the way. Just in case you weren’t also a tween when Titanic came out and became mildly obsessed for a few months.)

I Know Way More About Vampires Than I Do About Religion

So, you know, if I messed anything up dissecting this wide-awake nightmare, let me know. About religion. Like I said, they were fucking vampires and I don’t want to hear any different from anyone.

I’ve got a whole article for next week about why Bev Keane is a pasty-faced bitch who should have been set on fire long before the end, so click here!

Someone is Wrong on the Internet

Frankenpire86: Do you even realize how ignorant you sound right now?420gerbilsinmyass: Oh, sure, I’M the ignorant one here. Come over here and say that in front of my doctorate you punk ass bitch.
Frankenpire86: A doctorate in what? Eating ass? Being a whiny baby bitch boy?
420gerbilsinmyass: HAHAHA sour grapes much?? I bet the only time you’ve seen the inside of a college is when they brought you in for experiments.
Frankenpire86: I HAVE TWO MASTERS DEGREES FUCKFACE. I’m just not using them to weasel out of fights I know I can’t win.
420gerbilsinmyass: You wanna fucking go? Where the fuck do you live?
Frankepire86: lololol I live outside Des Moines nice try asshole.
420gerbilsinmyass: Guess what u fucking chode, I live in Ames.
Frankenpire86: GREAT!!!!! GUESS WE’RE FUCKING DOING THIS. YOURS OR MINE?
420gerbilsinmyass: 525 Kellogg Avenue
Frankenpire86: I can be there in an hour and a half.
420gerbilsinmyass: When you get there ask for Ronin.
Frankenpire86: Ronin?
420gerbilsinmyass: RONIN DEEZ NUTS ACROSS YOUR FACE

The green sign above said their exit was in a mile. Samantha checked her mirrors before switching over to the right lane, then checked the time. Quarter past eight on a Tuesday. The remaining day was nothing more than a thin line of light to the west. Most of the light came from the headlights of the other cars. And, of course, the soft glow of the phone screen lighting up Kevin’s face.

“Stop looking at it, babe. You’re going to work yourself up.”

“I need to be worked up,” Kevin said, not looking away from his phone. “I need to maintain this energy. How much farther?”

“Getting off the highway now.” Samantha sighed. “I should be sitting on the couch watching The Bachelor with a glass of wine…”

“This is the first time this has ever happened to me, Sam. I couldn’t turn this down. I have to stand up for myself.”

“Why couldn’t you stand up for yourself online? You know, where all this started?”

Still with his eyes on the screen, Kevin reached out and placed a hand on her knee.

“I need to do this,” he said again, softly. “And I’m so glad you came.”

Samantha sighed again. She put her hand on his and gave it a squeeze.

“I’m always here for you. Even when you’re acting like an idiot.”

Kevin shrugged. “That’s most of the time.”

Her GPS took them through Ames to the center of the city. Samantha took thin breaths through gritted teeth, waiting until the GPS lady said ‘you had arrived!’ only to find themselves in front of some rundown apartment or shady looking park. When they passed a twenty-four urgent care Samantha took note of the address. She had heard these internet-based fights usually didn’t end up in hospital trips. Usually.

The GPS lady told them to take a left and then the destination would be on the right. Samantha’s eyes grazed the right side of the street, her heart pounding, until she found it.

Ames Police Department.

Her next sigh was one of relief.

“Thank Christ,” she muttered as she pulled into an empty spot in the parking lot.

“Oh, fuck, did I not mention Ames has an IDER program?” Kevin asked, finally looking up from his phone.

“No! Are you kidding me? I’ve spent this whole…” she glanced at the clock. “Hour and twenty-minute drive thinking we were going to somebody’s house or something.”

Kevin squeezed her hand again. “I am so sorry, I should have mentioned. I looked up the address before we left. I never would have come up here otherwise.”

Samantha gripped the steering wheel. Maybe she should leave. Put the car in drive and gun it down the road before Kevin could even start objecting. He could tell 420-whoever the fuck that his girlfriend had taken him away against his will.

Yeah. And wake up in the morning to find out Kevin had gone up on his own.

“Fine. It’s fine. Whatever. Let’s get this over with, I have to be at work early tomorrow.”

She’d never been in a police department before, and didn’t relish breaking that streak. She wasn’t there as a criminal. She could tell herself going through the metal detector and getting wanded was just like going through TSA at the airport. Still, her heart was in her throat. Like they were going to scan her purse and find the gun she had totally forgot was there. She didn’t even own a gun.

Then they were through security and standing in a rather dull-looking front lobby. It looked like it could have been a post office, or the DMV. Those standing barriers created a line that snaked back and forth. A front counter made of cracked wood was split into three windows.

“The movies always make these look so much more…dramatic,” Kevin said, looking around. “Shouldn’t there a bench with a bunch of hookers cuffed to it or something?”

There was no hooker bench. There was just a bored-looking officer in uniform standing at the spot where the line started. Thumbs hooked into his belt, he gave Kevin and Samantha a once over as they approached.

“What’re you here for?” he drawled.

“The, uh, the IDER program,” Kevin said, his voice cracking. His face was flushed. Maybe he was as nervous as Samantha was. Maybe he was finally seeing how stupid this whole thing was and they could leave.

The officer sighed so deeply Samantha thought he might pass out. “Did you call ahead?”

Kevin’s flush grew deeper. “I…uh, I…no, I didn’t know I needed to.”

“This is a college town, sir. Most of the people who wander in here are looking for the IDER program.”

He lazily cocked his head over his shoulder. A large window on the other side of the room looked into another. It was half-filled with a bunch of angry looking people. Mostly dudes, mostly white, and almost all a decade younger than Kevin.

“If you didn’t call ahead, you’re looking at a three hour wait.”

Samantha stepped back and popped out her hip. “I can’t stay that long. I have an important meeting tomorrow at seven.”

“Sam, please. I said I would come, I can’t look like I punked out now.”

“Does this really matter that much? You don’t even know this guy.”

Kevin put his hands gently on her shoulders and lowered his voice.

“He has to know how wrong he was.”

The officer blew out air. “Do you know if the other party called ahead?”

“I don’t,” Kevin said, immediately turning his attention.

The officer made the same over-the-shoulder gesture he did before. “Go to the window at the far left, Officer Macy will tell you if they called.”

“Great. Thank you!” Kevin scurried down through the winding lines. Samantha was tired and annoyed, bordering on pissed off. But it was nice to see Kevin this excited about something. He looked twenty years younger, a kid scuttling down the line for a new ride at the county fair.

“There’s coffee and donuts from the Winchell’s across the street,” the officer said to her. “And at this point the urgent care leaves one of their EMTs here at all times.”

She gave him a wan smile. “Thanks.”

By the time she got to the window at the end of the counter Kevin was smiling broadly, filling out some paperwork.

“He did it! 420gerbilsinmyass called ahead, right after we got off the chat! We’re only second in line!”

“That’s great, babe!” Sam said. Her enthusiasm was obviously fake but Kevin was happily checking off boxes on his sheet, too excited to notice.

Office Macy behind the window noticed, and gave Sam a sisterly smile behind her glasses. She pushed a second form and pen toward Sam.

“You’re Mr. Jackson’s second?”

“I, uh…I guess? What does that mean? I don’t have to fight, do I?”

Officer Macy chuckled in a not-unfriendly way. “No, honey, don’t worry about that. This isn’t quite like an old school duel. You’re more like a chaperone. We need to know someone will be here to drive him home. Or the hospital.”

“Let’s hope it doesn’t come to that.”

Samantha handed Officer Macy her driver’s license and set about filling out the form. All the usual boring stuff. Address. SSN. Former aliases. Had she ever been found guilty of any crime or misdemeanor? Any known aliases? Will you waive the Ames Police Department of any blah blah blah.

She frowned. “Babe, I don’t even know what this fight is about.”

“Don’t worry about that,” Officer Macy said, holding her hand out for the form. “It only needs to be on his form, we haven’t updated yet.”

Officer Macy went through both forms, making sure every line was filled and box was ticked. Once she was satisfied, she handed them back their IDs with arthritic hands and leaned over the counter.

“Parties are split up into two waiting rooms until their turn. You will be in Waiting Room B, just down the hall there. When it’s time an officer will come get you.”

History of the IDER Program

The Internet Discussion and Emotional Release Program was started in 2007 in New York City and quickly spread to police departments across the country. Currently there are 986 departments with an active IDER program!

As the internet grew in size and began reaching into every facet of our lives, officials were noticing a startling trend: people were bringing their fights ‘offline.’ Calls for aggravated assaults and batteries rose by 200% in a matter of five years across the nation, and the cause was nearly always the same: an internet disagreement that had gotten out of hand. Clearly, something had to be done!

The first IDER program in NYC, then casually referred to as Internet Fight Club, began after an officer lost an eye trying to break up a backyard fist fight about whether Batman could defeat The Flash with only an hour’s prep time. The precinct had been breaking up two or three of these fights a night and even after a PSA push about the dangers of fighting, these calls were not slowing down. They began to wonder if there was a better way – if they could give disgruntled internet users a safe place to vent their frustrations. Thus the first IDER program began!

Benefits of the IDER Program

The IDER program works in multiple ways:

Make the two aggrieved parties drive to a secondary location, giving them time to cool off.
Once the two aggrieved parties have arrived, there is an additional obligatory thirty-minute cool off period.
If both parties still wish to continue, they have a neutral location refereed by a neutral party, usually an available officer.
Medical attention for any personal damage suffered during the fight is available swiftly.

Rules of the IDER Program

Parties will remain anonymous – internet ‘handles’ only
Parties must disclose weight and physical strength status
Parties must disclose any underlying co-morbidities
Parties must disclose any mental health history
Hosts of the IDER Program may deny hosting a fight for any reason
No weapons
No boxing gloves
No rings
All jewelry must be taken off and left with your second
All long hair must be pulled back
No hair pulling
No kicking
No biting
No spitting
No hits below the belt
No acrylic nails
Winner will be declared via tap out or KO

Samantha folded the glossy pamphlet back into its thirds and put it back in the little wooden holder on the table. The plastic chair underneath was starting to dig into her butt and she shifted, keeping an eye on the burnt coffee in her little Styrofoam cup. The last thing she needed after all this was hot coffee spilled down her blouse.

The little room smelled like burnt coffee and sweaty balls. It looked like an old interrogation room had been converted. The walls were cinderblock painted gray. Blue plastic chairs were scattered around, but there were still screw holes in the middle of the floor where presumably a table had been. Posters were hung on the walls. One repeated the list of the rules she had gone through in the pamphlet. Another had a cartoon man sagging behind bars surrounded by the words REMEMBER! FAILURE TO DISCLOSE ANY ATHLETIC OR MILITARY HISTORY CONSTITUTES FRAUD! A third poster across the room was a copy of the second set of pamphlets sitting on the table: a list of local therapists and help line numbers.

Kevin was standing in front of her, shadow boxing. He had only been sitting next to her, staring at the chat on his phone, until one of the others waiting had gotten up and started doing squats. Then another had gotten off his chair to do push-ups. Soon enough it had been obvious who was there to fight and who was there to ‘chaperone.’

Everyone besides the two of them looked like they were barely out of high school. Most were wearing shirts or hoodies with the local college’s name on it.

Children, Samantha thought. I have a budget meeting in the morning and I’m surrounded by children all getting ready to pummel each other. And pummel my stupid, idiot boyfriend.

“I don’t suppose the cool down period has worked it’s magic?” Samantha asked, biting a nail.

Kevin didn’t stop punching the air. Awkwardly. Samantha didn’t know how to throw a punch, but she’d seen enough brawls on television to see Kevin didn’t know what he was doing either.

“He’s wrong, Sam,” Kevin said between pants. “And he needs to know it.”

She sighed. “I don’t think you’re supposed to tuck your thumb in your fist.”

“What?”

“Your thumb. I’m pretty sure I heard somewhere if you tuck your thumb you might break it.”

Kevin rolled his eyes. “I think I know what I’m doing, babe.”

Coffee almost got snorted into her sinuses. She had known Kevin since grad school. He was roughly the same height as her and a little on the chunky side. He was funny, and intelligent, and gentle. Their cat at home, Misty, had been obtained by Kevin stopping on a busy road and rescuing the poor thing from the middle of an intersection. The only fight experience he might have was from video games. She had thought, up until tonight, that they both knew that didn’t translate into the real world. Now her gentle, loving thirty-five-year-old Kevin was going to get his lights punched out by some college kid with rage issues.

She rolled the coffee cup between her hands. Just this once. Let him do it once, and then maybe he’ll know better in the future.

The door to the room opened and everyone stopped. Samantha’s heart jumped into her throat and she almost squeezed her cup into a pulp. A new officer they hadn’t seen before, just as tired as Officer Macy and the one at the door, stepped through with a clipboard.

“Um…Frankenpire86?”

“That’s me!”

“This way.”

He led them down the back hallway, through the…well, on television they always called it a bullpen. Was that the word for real life, too?

Across the room against the far wall ran a long bench. Three women in colorful scanty clothes and heavy makeup sat there looking either pissed off or bored.

Oh, my God, it’s a hooker bench, Samantha thought as her eyebrows rose into her hairline. Am I even in real life anymore?

“Let’s just go, babe, please,” she said, tugging on his shirt. “You’ll never see this guy again.”

“We’re in the same chatrooms, babe.”

“Tell him your girlfriend told you to go home! Blame me!”

“Samantha. I have to do this.”

“No, you don’t. What if this guy is huge? What if he has actual training?”

“That’s what the forms are for. They wouldn’t let us fight if it was lopsided.”

She gave up. There was no talking to him when he was like this. All Samantha could do now was start drafting the texts she’d have to send to his mother once they were at the hospital.

“Outside?” she asked as the officer held the door open.

He shrugged. “We don’t exactly have a gym here.”

It was a small back parking lot, fenced in on all sides.

“No one told me this was going to be a cage match,” Samantha muttered.

Kevin giggled a little too enthusiastically while the officer made the face you make when you’ve heard the same joke half a dozen times that day alone.

He instructed them to stand over to one side. Samantha started shivering, and it had nothing to do with the night air which for September was practically balmy. The next guy to come through that door was going to be a monster, she just knew it. Six and a half feet tall, all pecs and biceps and abs layered on top of each other, probably wearing a gold chain necklace and those narrow sunglasses that screamed ‘I harass everybody with a darker skin tone than me on the bus.’ Her boyfriend was about to get his face broken by somebody named Rikk.

The door swung open behind her and she bit her tongue to keep from yelping.

At first, she didn’t understand what she was looking at.

Samantha froze, one arm bent underneath her breasts and the other out, her hand striking a curious pose in the air. Was there even air anymore? She didn’t seem to be breathing, despite her heart skipping along close to crash-and-burn speed.

“I’m sorry…what is this?”

The officer who had accompanied the new couple out to the official IDER area looked down at his clipboard.

“This is 420gerbilsinmyass v. Frankenpire86, right?” he asked the first officer.

“Uh-huh.”

The two men standing next to the officer were both fifty-ish, both about five and a half feet tall, and both wearing khakis. One was wearing a t-shirt with the local university on the front over a skinny frame and a pair of sneakers. The other had a decent beer gut and pounced on Samantha with a voracious smile.

“Oh, honey, this must be your first time,” he said. He held his hand out and Samantha flinched. When she was able to think again, she saw the candy on his outstretched palm. “Caramel?”

“I, uh…I think you’re supposed to stay on that side,” Samantha said, pointing to the other side of the fence.

“I’m supposed to, I guess, but we’re here enough Officers MacMillan and Jean know me. Isn’t that right, Gary?”

Officer Gary gave him a look but didn’t try to move him.

Samantha studied the man next to her, trying to figure out what his angle was. Eventually, she gave up – he didn’t seem to have one.

“Your…” She looked down and saw the ring. “…husband does this a lot?”

He gave her a knowing look. “He’s very passionate.”

“Gentlemen, please step into the center over here,” Officer Gary said, waving them over. Kevin, who had been shadowboxing again as he stared down 420gerbils, stopped and came over to Samantha.

“Kiss for good luck, babe,” he said, jutting his cheek at her. Samantha gave him a peck. She felt like she was in one of those dreams you get in the middle of a bad nap.

“You’re my world, babe!” 420gerbils called to his husband.

“Go get him, hon!” The husband looked back to Samantha. “Don’t worry. This is his…oh, hmm, nineteenth fight?”

“Nineteen?”

“Usually with the same people, all in his field, so it’s nice that he’s getting to fight someone new. Did you two just move here or…?”

Samantha swallowed. “Uh, yeah…two months ago.”

The man clapped once. “I knew it! We’re not supposed to exchange personal information while we’re in the station, but afterwards the four of us should go get a drink together. It’ll be so nice to have some new friends.”

“Okay, gentleman.”

Officer Gary was now standing between Kevin and 420gerbils. The two of them were both hopping up and down, swinging their necks and letting their arms bounce, all while staring at each other.

“This is the last moment to stop this before it starts,” Officer Gary said, sounding like an eighth grader reciting a poem he’d been forced to memorize. “Would either of you like to talk this out, or walk away?”

“Not a chance,” Kevin said.

420gerbils smiled. “Best words I’ve heard all night.”

Officer Gary sighed deeply. “Okay, then. You both have had ample time to read the rules. Any breaking of the rules will end the fight as a victory for the other party and this officer will indicate the fight is over by blowing the whistle. If you do not stop fighting at the whistle, you will be arrested and held for assault. Understood?”

“Under-fucking-stood.” 420gerbils said in a light growl. After a brief pause, he leaned forward a bit. “You have to say ‘understood,’ too.”

“Oh, uh. Sorry. Yes. Understood. Sorry.”

420gerbils waved a hand. “That part’s not very well explained, you’re fine.”

“Ready?”

The two men immediately went back to angry like they’d never left it. Both of them shrunk down, tensing on bent knees.

The officer blew the whistle.

Samantha looked away. “Oh, I can’t watch this.”

She expected certain things from a bareknuckle fight. Grunts, or yells of pain. Big, meaty thuds as fists found muscle and abdomen. Maybe, if someone landed a rather lucky hit, the snap of a bone.

None of this was coming to her ears. What she was hearing was…high pitched wheezing and the flat sound of someone hitting a vinyl chair with a fly swatter. Holding her breath, she dared to look back.

“They’re…they’re slapping each other.”

420gerbil’s husband hummed. “Yes, he really likes fighting. He’s not good at it. Oh, dear, you didn’t think this would be, like, a fight fight?”

“I mean…”

“No, no, no! Think it through. What sort of people are sitting on their computer, getting mad at a stranger? Mad enough to fight about it?”

Samantha took a breath. For the first time that night, the vice that had been crushing her lungs was gone. “People like my boyfriend.”

“And my husband. The sort of men who would kill our guys with a single punch don’t come down to the police station for any reason, let alone for a fight refereed by police officers.”

In front of them, Kevin and 420gerbils were spinning around each other in a tight circle. Four arms were reaching out and slapping whatever they could get while trying to stop the other arms from connecting. Arms, chest, neck. Obviously, the fight would not be won by KO. It was going to be won whenever one of them got winded. Knowing Kevin, that’s probably only a few more minutes.

“I don’t even know what the fight is about,” Samantha said.

“Of course there was a paleolithic bear cult in Northern Eurasia!” Kevin screamed.

“I’ll kill you in real life!”

“Hey!” Officer Gary said, glancing up from his phone. “Language!”

“Sorry, Officer Gary.”

Samantha looked at 420gerbil’s husband. “So, where did you want to get a drink?”

I’m the Nurse You Should Be Afraid Of

I graduated with an English degree in 2009, right at the beginning at what at that point was being called ‘a once in a generation recession’ which, you’ll excuse me while I take a few minutes to laugh, cry, and barf at the same time. After spending a year bumming around, I realized I needed to go back to school and get a degree with a much more direct career path. Something that would be fulfilling enough to let me write in my free time (because I don’t know if you know this, but a great many minimum-wage, service industry jobs are so physically and emotionally draining that even thinking about participating in a hobby after work can cause cramping in the leg and lower abdomen area). My mother’s been a nurse since the eighties, so I figured why not? The fact that she choked on her lunch when I said I was thinking about getting a nursing degree might have been a warning sign.

After a year of doing pre-req courses (you’ll be shocked to learn an English degree isn’t loaded with the base science courses needed for a BS) and sixteen months of nursing school – the hardest sixteen months of my entire life, by the way. It was an accelerated course for people who already had a degree in something else and it was brutal. By the end of the second semester I was having panic attacks and crying on the reg, and my heart went into palpitations so often I could identify when I was trigeminy – I passed the NCLEX, got my nursing license and my first nursing job. I was a nurse for seven years, five years in inpatient and two years out.

Why, you are probably asking, am I the nurse you should be afraid of? Well, because of a single little word in that last sentence.

Was.

I was a nurse.

And there’s about to be a lot more of us.

Nursing Wasn’t Exactly Fun Before COVID

COVID-19 is 1000% the reason I think we’re staring down the barrel of a staffing shortage across all medical professions, and we’ll get to that, but first we need to go over what nursing was like in the Before Times. In short: it was a borderline-dangerous shit show.

(I’m going to be focusing on my time as an inpatient nurse, because inpatient is where, like, 97% of the problems lie. Outpatient facilities are where inpatient nurses run to when they’ve torn out all their hair.)

The Patients

You may be shocked to learn that the patients are a very small percentage of any nurse’s stress level. We all became nurses because we want to help people. There’s an understanding that when a patient is rude to you, it’s never really about you. They’re sick, they’re scared, they’re turning that fear into anger and you’re the closest person around. Sometimes it’s whatever they’re sick with that turns them into people they’re not. My first nursing job was on a liver unit, and if you’re looking for motivation to cut back your drinking go ahead and google ‘hepatic encephalopathy.’ I’ll wait.

That doesn’t mean all patients are saints. The act of putting someone in a hospital gown does not turn them into Mr. Rogers. Sometimes, shitheads need healthcare. And they continue to be shitheads even to the people who are trying to help them. You’ve got your:

Drug seekers, most of whom are Not Subtle and also think that nurses are not only not hyper-aware to their bullshit (we are) but also that we’re drooling idiots who can’t even comprehend what they’re up to. “I’m at a ten on the pain scale,” they say without me asking as they calmly type away on their phone. “Tylenol never helps my pain, the only thing that ever helps is a mix of Dilaudid and Benadryl. IV only.” Riiiight.
Classic Narcissists. You know those people who are super shitty to service-industry people? Like, the lady in front of you at the Dairy Queen screaming at a teenager because she didn’t get enough nuts in her parfait? Yeah, those people are also shitty to nurses and care techs in the exact same ways. We’re all there to serve Her Majesty and if we don’t do it the way she wants, it’s time to get a-screaming! I once got chewed out by an old lady for not bringing her a blanket fast enough. The fact that I had been next door coding one of my other patients meant nothing to her.
Malingerers, who find any and all reasons to stay in the hospital for as long as possible. Sometimes it’s just because they like the drugs and the snacks (old joke: what does RN stand for? Refreshments and Narcotics). Sometimes it’s because they like the attention. Ask any nurse who’s been working for a few years and I bet they’ve got a handful of stories they can tell you about people who almost definitely had Munchausen or Munchausen-by-proxy.

Before we move on, I’m going to give you an insider tip: nurses will generally work two to three shifts in a row, and when doing so we prefer to get the same patient assignment every night. It’s called ‘continuity of care’ and it’s better for everyone around, because you can get a sense of what a patient is like and anticipate their needs.

Sometimes, though, a patient is so fucking stressful we can’t handle them for more than one shift. Usually, this is because they are one of the sickest patients on the unit and need a lot of attention and care. Just as often, though, it’s because that patient is a shitty human being and if a nurse has to go in there two nights in a row they’re going to smother them with a pillow.

So, if you are ever hospitalized, don’t require a lot of care, but notice that you never have the same nurse twice? You are being such a piece of shit that the staff is rotating you out so no one quits on the spot. Fuck you.

Other Nurses

Think of the people you work with, whatever sort of business in you’re in. Do you like all of them? Are they all good at their job? Do you wonder, sometimes, how Bob from accounting got the job, or even how he finds a doorknob to get out of the house in the morning? Are there some people you would jump out of a window to avoid?

Despite the idea recently turned into a rallying cry that NURSES ARE HEROES!!!1!!, we’re not. We’re people at a job, just like you, and some of us suck. In all the ways your coworkers suck. Incompetent. Lazy. Mean. Stuck-up. I knew one nurse who worked on the opposite shift, and every time I got patients from her she would start with, ‘I fixed them for you.’ I usually spent the next three hours cleaning up the mess she made. Another nurse I refused to give any patients to at all to because she was such a bitch to everyone. Another nurse clearly had an active meth problem and it took the hospital literal months to find cause to fire her (on two separate occasions she ran away from me mid-report because she realized she had left her car running in the parking lot).

Most of the nurses I worked with were great, but we’re just people.

The Real Villain: Administration

I could tell you stories for days about shitty patients, shitty nurses, and shitty doctors I’ve had to deal with in just five years, but this is where most of the problems with nursing lies.

If you’re ever admitted to the hospital, I’m not talking about anyone you will ever meet. If someone ever walks into your room and introduces themselves as the unit manager or the nursing manager, they’re not it. I’m talking about healthcare administrators two or three or four levels above them. People who have not actually been face-to-face with patients in years, making absurd and inane decisions that look good on paper and in press releases but fail when implemented in practice. Decisions where the bottom line isn’t the patients, but the money.

Unsafe Staffing Ratios

In five years of inpatient nursing I never regularly had the amount of patients I was supposed to have. I was PCU, or step-down, and I was always promised three to four patients, sometimes five patients if we had to stretch. Turns out nursing is always in a stretch. When I quit inpatient, Med-Surg nurses in the same hospital would get up to six patients. Even ICU wasn’t safe. Due to the intensity of what an ICU patient needs, an ICU nurse has only been getting two patients since basically forever, but a lot of the ICU nurses in my last hospital were getting stretched to two ICU-level patients and one PCU-level patient who hadn’t managed to move yet. Easier patient? Yes. Safe? No.

HCAHPS

Shortly before I started nursing, hospitals began running themselves on a Customer Service model instead of a Healing Patients model. HCAHPS (H-caps, as we say) are the surveys patients now receive at random after a hospital stay. Hospitals needs high HCAHPS scores to get more reimbursement from Medicare and the like, so they want the highest possible survey scores possible at all times. Which looks good on paper, I guess. In practice, it means, oh, I don’t know, let me pick a totally hypothetical situation that definitely didn’t happen to me multiple times: diabetic patient with a bedtime blood sugar of over four hundred (normal should be between 100 and 140) wants graham crackers and ice cream. Their health tells me I should tell them ‘no’ and suggest something else or just tell them to wait. But this new Customer Service model of healthcare has taught the patient that no one should be saying ‘no’ to them, ever, and they will bitch and whine until someone gets them their God damned ice cream and then I’m calling the doctor later because their midnight blood sugar is now over six hundred and I need specialty orders and now the patient is pissed anyway because I have to wake them up to give them insulin and wake them up an hour later to take their sugar again. And then they end up giving us a bad HCAHPS score anyway. The Customer is Always Right is bullshit, anyway, and it becomes extra bullshit once you’re dealing with patients who don’t actually want to fix their health. They just want their fucking graham crackers and ice cream.

For the record: if you ever get a survey after any sort of medical experience, unless you have an actual issue you want addressed, rate every single thing the best you can. There is no partial credit, any option you choose that isn’t the best is equivalent to rating it zero.

Everybody’s Mistakes Are Your Fault.

Here’s a story I told every graduate nurse I precepted: about a week into starting my second job, a day shift nurse had just gotten on shift. She was still taking report when she started getting calls from one of the test areas. One of her patients – that she hadn’t gotten report on yet, mind – would be going down for a test and needed a medication first. The nurse tried to explain she was still setting up for the day and hadn’t even met the patient, but this person kept calling and calling and hounding her about it until finally she pulled the medication and brought it with her to give the patient while taking her first set of vitals. Turns out, it was wrong the patient. Turns out, the right patient wasn’t even on our unit. They were in the same room three floors below ours and had a similar name. The wrong patient, our patient, couldn’t handle the medication given and died as a direct result. The nurse was ‘gently pushed to an early retirement.’

Nothing happened to the guy who hounded the wrong nurse about the wrong patient.

Nurses are seen as the patient’s ‘last line of defense.’ It’s what we’re told in nursing school. You have to question literally every single order you carry out on a patient to make sure somebody else hasn’t ordered something that will kill them, because they won’t get in trouble. You will. Now remember that nurses typically have more patients than even the hospital acknowledges they should have. Nursing is mentally exhausting.

They tell you in nursing school that nursing is the way to go because ‘we’re in a nursing shortage, so it’ll be easy to get job. Move quick before they fill up!’

The jobs will never fill up. We don’t have a nursing shortage. We have hospitals running on unsafe practices to save a buck wherever they can that churn through baby nurses until they’re burnout, knowing full well they’ll get another crop of graduates every four to six months.

That Was All Before There Was a Pandemic. And Now There’s a Pandemic

I had burnt out on inpatient nursing by the time the pandemic started. Find a burnout quiz online, any one of them, and I had checked all those boxes. Caregiver burnout is real, and it’s dangerous, and the only thing you, as a caregiver, can do about it is recognize when to walk away before you do something. So, I did. I moved to an outpatient procedure area of a major hospital, and after five years of inpatient it was a fucking dream.

A year and a half after I’d made the switch, the pandemic arrived. And I was scared. About the pandemic. About the unit being reduced or shut down. But mostly: I was terrified that the hospital would demand I go back to bedside. Even after a year and half just the thought about going back made my skin crawl. And I wasn’t the only one. In fact, nurses who were comfortable going back to bedside were easily outnumbered by the rest of us who were considering quitting if it came to that.

We’re not bad people. We understood that things were about to get bad and help might be needed. But we had already been used up by the system. Abused by patients and administration, overworked, stretched thin, underpaid. We huddled together in the hall in groups, talking in small voices tinged with barely-held back panic about what we would do if the hospital told us we would be going to inpatient units for the duration. Leaving was a viable option.

I never worked face to face with COVID patients. I managed to get on a call center job phoning people their test results. Then I barely got into a nurse navigator position before the opportunity to quit altogether arose. And I took it without hesitation. Seven years of nursing that I don’t regret. But I’m still glad they’re over. And I’m glad I got out without having to treat COVID patients because GOD FUCKING DAMN.

Now There’s a Vaccine. And People Who Won’t Take It.

It was one thing, trying to save COVID patients in the beginning. Exhausting, yes. Dangerous, yes. Plenty of people who could have been wearing a mask or stayed home, but a lot of people who didn’t have the option to stay home. Who were taking all the precautions they could and got it anyway.

And now.

Now.

Current estimates say that roughly 98.6% of hospitalized COVID patients are unvaccinated. And at this point, roughly ten months since vaccine rollout started in earnest, there are two groups of people who are unvaxxed in America: the people who can’t for medical reasons aka part of the reason the rest of needs to get the shot, and the aggressively unvaxxed.

Most of the stories are about that second group. The people who refuse to get the vaccine. These nurses are facing people who don’t think they have COVID even as they are getting intubated. Families are accusing nurses and doctors of lying about COVID to pump up their numbers. Or demanding that their dying family member get Ivermectin or whatever other nonsense they’ve latched onto, even suing some hospitals to get what they want. And when their family members die, it’s clearly because they didn’t get IV vitamin D or aerosolized iodine or whatever.

Everything I went through five years ago is still happening. Dangerous patient ratios, money-hungry administrations, terrifying patients and coworkers. And now the people these nurses are trying to save are spitting in their faces.

I mean, how much would you be able to take?

Decompensation

I spoke of nurses because I was one, but it’s not only nurses. When hospitals try to save money, every type of medical professional gets fucked. Doctors. Respiratory therapists. Laboratory. The CNAs, oh God, the CNAs. If I’ve painted a stressed-out picture of what nursing is, please know the CNAs (or Care Techs, they go by a lot of names) are going through roughly the same shit with less help and less pay. They’ve all already been bullied for decades, and now there’s another shitty layer on top. Many of them will continue to tough it out. There’s something in them, call it a helping light or simply stubbornness, and even as they are used and abused they will continue to set themselves on fire to keep others warm.

Many others will join me.

They will quit. They will become ‘former.’ Hospitals will have patient ratios that they can’t ignore anymore. They’ll start incentivizing people to become nurses, pay for their school and trap them in a contract. They’ll fill their numbers again, having traded their experienced nurses for baby nurses with higher risks of mistakes. Will it completely break the system? I don’t know.

Let me tell you something about the human body: it is incredibly adept at compensating for disease. As long as something comes on slow enough, and the changes are small enough, the body can adjust itself over and over to continue working even in the face of great stress.

Right up until it can’t. And when the body finally decompensates, it’s usually fast and fucked up. It isn’t the body realizing it can’t take what it’s doing anymore and backing off a little. It’s the body finally realizing that nothing has been right for a long time and completely breaking down.

Too bad the people running hospitals don’t seem to have any sort of medical or nursing degree, or they might already know about that.

Gallows of Love

The DJ cut Rhianna off mid-sentence and announced that it was time for the first dance. Everybody in the large hall settled, twisting in their seats to see the dance floor or getting up to surround it, phones in hand and set to record. The bride, surrounded by the tufts of champagne lace he remembered helping her choose, smiled so deeply he thought he would melt. Arm in arm, the bride and groom stepped elegantly around the table and onto the glossy hardwood. An awkward pause, as the DJ made sure everything was set, bride and groom in the middle of a spotlight. And then a familiar song.

Up in the balcony, dark and empty, waves of shock and numbness ran the length of Ray’s body as he understood what he was hearing.

“The same song? Our song?” he muttered to himself, leaning on the railing. “Really, Brittany?”

“Who’s Brittany?”

He let out a squawk, gripping the gold railing to keep himself from launching himself over it and onto the flowery tables below. When he was finally sure he wouldn’t fly out of his skin, he turned.

Essie was there, just a few feet away. He’d been so entranced, watching, that he hadn’t heard her come up from behind.

“What are you doing here?” he hissed, glancing down to make sure no one had noticed. The room below was filled with a couple hundred people. All eyes were on the dancing couple.

“That’s what I was going to ask you,” Essie said. She leaned against the railing next to him, studying the scene below. “Cute couple. You know them?”

Ray shrugged, scratching the back of his neck. “No, of course not, why would I know them?”

Essie leveled her eyes at him. “You get that it’s way creepier if you’re watching a wedding from a dark balcony and don’t know anyone, right?”

After a few seconds of trying to come up with a retort, Ray slumped and cursed.

“The bride. Brittany. Well, actually, I know the groom, too. We used to work together. Greg, although we all called him by his nickname. Cuntface.”

Essie raised an eyebrow and stifled a giggle. Below, Brittany and Cu…Greg were still doing a slow waltz around the floor as Edwin McCain made promises he probably couldn’t keep.

“I’m going to guess you know Brittany better,” Essie said. “And liked her.”

Ray sighed. “I loved her. This was supposed to be my wedding. My life.”

“Ah,” was all Essie said. They stood together in silence for a while, watching the couple and the families and the DJ

“Have to say,” Essie said, “Doesn’t really seem like your style.”

“It is. Was. I wanted this. We used to talk about it all the time. Her dress. My suit. The venue. This song. All of it, just as we talked about.”

“Wait. All of this is how you planned it for your wedding? All of it?”

“Uh huh.”

Essie snorted, and Ray shot her a look.

“What?”

“Well, I mean…that’s fucking weird, right?”

“Look, just because you’d rather get married in…in a barn with string lights and a banjo player-”

“Stop being shitty. It’s not about the fact that we’re in an expensive hotel in the middle of the city or whatever. It’s about the fact that a wedding is supposed to be about two people, yeah? But you say this wedding is exactly what the two of you talked about.”

Ray shifted a little. “Not exactly. The flowers on the centerpieces aren’t the same colors.”

“Dude,” Essie said. “There should be more differences than just flowers. Unless you and Cuntface are exactly the same person.”

“Did you follow me here just to insult me?”

“I followed you because you fucked off without telling anyone where you were going and we all got worried,” she said. “Half of me thought I’d get to the end of your trail and find you dead in a gutter. What is with you?”

“I wanted to be alone.”

“‘Hey, guys, there’s something I need to check out, I’ll be back later.’ Bam. Done. Alone. Jesus fuck.”

Essie stalked off before Ray could decide if he wanted her to stay or not. It was a couple of minutes before he could even admit to himself she was right. About everything. If he had wanted to be alone tonight he should have just said something. None of the others were the type to pry or insist on coming.

And the wedding. The more he thought about it, the weirder it became. When he had come here, sneaking in through the back and hustling up a set of stairs to hide in the darkness of the balcony he knew they wouldn’t use, he had just wanted to see Brittany. Her wedding. For a few seconds, pretend the life he had was the one he had been promised.

But the things Essie said. They were true. The wedding he was staring at was exactly the way they had planned it. A few minor details were different, but everything else…the color scheme, the first dance song, the location. Hell, he had come up to the balcony with confidence because when they had planned their wedding they had thought using the balcony was tacky.

Everything was the same. Only the groom was different.

Ray examined the couple again as the song ended and they went back to their table. Brittany was glowing. Smiling at everyone. Almost everyone. She didn’t look at Greg once the song ended. Greg wasn’t trying to look at her, either. He was looking at one of the bridesmaids. Making eyes at her. Ray’s eyebrows climbed into the middle of his forehead as he had a realization.

This marriage was going to last a couple of years, tops.

He usually thought of the life he had lost, but what about Brittany and the life she lost? Ray had heard how fast she had jumped into Greg’s arms and thought that proved she had never loved him, at least not as much as he had loved her. But what if this was her way of mourning? What if she had forced whatever had happened with Greg so she could have the life she was supposed to have with Ray?

“No, wait. That’s fucked up, too.”

She didn’t love Ray. Not like he had loved her. He had gone along with all her ideas to make her happy. But she didn’t want Ray, specifically. She wanted to get married. To be married. To do all the things a woman in her standing was supposed to do.

She didn’t love Greg. The more he watched the more he could see it. Hopefully they divorced before kids came along.

Ray had come here to wallow in sadness, to allow himself to grieve for the life he had lost. He figured he’d watch the wedding, be melancholy, then go back to the others, get drunk, and cry himself to sleep.

Now, though…now, he couldn’t shake the idea that losing this bright life below him was a good thing. A bullet dodged. Now…now, he felt pretty good.

He slipped out of the hotel the same way he came in, heading for the closest liquor store to find an apology gift for Essie and the others.

The Horizon Zero Dawn Blanket: The Carja Blazon Master

The HZD Blanket

Can anybody actually do a magic circle to start a project in the round or is everybody on the internet just lying to me? I’m honestly starting to think it’s that, because no matter how many times I try I can’t remember how to do it. Even when I have a tutorial in front of me, 86% of the time the yarn is like, ‘what are you even trying to do here’ and I end up with loose knots that don’t accomplish anything. Moral of the story is magic circles are the devil and I’m going to chain four to begin my projects the way God intended.

Anyway, let’s get into this square starting with some…

Conspicuous Carja

Good lord, I’m having trouble finding decent synonyms for ‘notable.’

Avad

The actual king of the Carja and actual decent guy, Avad mostly wanders around shirtless and makes helpless faces, but if anyone gets to rest on his laurels for a while, it’s the guy who killed his shitrat insane father, freed all the people his shitrat insane father enslaved and were about to have gored to death for blood sacrifice, and continues to push progressive agendas to fix the society his shitrat insane father tried to destroy.

Because he was shitrat insane.

The other notable thing about him: He’s a good guy, he’s as pretty as the shiny machine pieces and baubles he wears, and he’s jacked, and even with all that he’s the only one of all the people who hit on Aloy that Aloy completely shuts him down. And, like, it comes up in a dialogue tree. Avad hits on Aloy – and Aloy is immediately turned off – and then you, as the player, have three different responses and all of them are variations of, ‘Ew, gross.’ You can be nice about it, or you can carve his heart out with a shiv, but you can’t make Aloy reciprocate even a little.

We don’t know what Aloy’s type is, but now we know she ain’t about those pretty boys.

Talanah

Avad is trying to create a more progressive Sundom, but Talanah Khane Padish is proof that you can’t just wish shitheads into the cornfield. Talanah is the player’s guide through the Hunter’s Lodge, this universe’s version of oh, you know, any hunter’s lodge you could find anywhere in America and probably Canada, I don’t know, I’ve only been there twice. Talanah’s father used to run the place, right up until he was killed as blood sacrifice by the shitrat insane king. Now Talanah would like to follow in her father’s footsteps but there are a couple of things standing in her way: 1) Even before all the ‘blood sacrifice’ shenanigans, the Carja were a pretty strict patriarchy, and 2) fucking Ahsis.

Ahsis is the current guy in charge and an all-around dickhead. He doesn’t think ladies should be straining themselves wielding those big, heavy weapons, and also he wants everyone to forget all the people who were killed by the last king, including Talanah’s dad. He’s lovely. I’m kidding. He sucks his own micropeen morning, noon, and night. Mild spoiler: his ending is super satisfying.

Anyway, Talanah is Aloy’s best Hunting Buddy. And all of the chemistry Avad wishes he had with Aloy is across Meridien in the Hunter’s Lodge. She’s reported to be coming back for Horizon Forbidden West, and we’ve already seen Erend in the footage released, so love triangle?

All kidding aside, I really hope there isn’t a romance subplot in Forbidden West unless they can make it not feel forced. I think I’d be happy if there was another dozen NPCs hitting on Aloy and getting shot down.

Nil

Ah, Nil. Nil, Nil, Nil.

Nil is…Well, he’s a…

Nil is a lot.

To sum him up in a sentence, Nil spent the last king’s reign (you know, the shitrat insane one) committing war crimes, then once Avad took over and they started rooting out the war criminals Nil admitted all the shit he did and let himself be locked up in a Carja prison, and then after he served his sentence he decided he could definitely still spend the bulk of his time killing a whole lot of people, he just had to be more choosy about it. So, he started killing bandits.

Okay, that’s two sentences. I tried.

If Talanah is Aloy’s Hunting Buddy, Nil is Aloy’s Murder Buddy. He’s the one who teaches Aloy about local bandit camps (and informs the player that, yup, there’s bandit camps in this one, too) and he hangs around outside of a few of them, waiting for Aloy to show up so they can kill everyone together. There’s a decent amount of people who ship it, but I don’t think the plot supports it because I don’t think Nil’s brain works like that. His likes include killing people and his dislikes include any period of time he’s not actively killing people, so there isn’t much room for romance.

The funniest thing about Nil is that he sort of sucks at killing. Usually when I cleared bandit camps I would snipe bandits from hidey-grass until I couldn’t see any more, then move to another patch and keep sniping until they were all dead. Which usually left Nil sort of squatting next to me like a well-trained puppy who desperately wants to run after the ducks. A couple of times I decided to take the more direct approach, solely to let Nil have some fun. I’d run into the camp, Nil would run in front of me, raise his weapon…and immediately get knocked out. He’d lay on the ground in an unconscious, feathery heap for a few seconds. Then, once he was back up, he’d run at another bandit and immediately get knocked out.

I mean, it’s entirely possible the man is so fucked up due to chronic traumatic encephalopathy from all these sub-concussive blows to the head.

The Outfit

The Carja Blazon Master was a new outfit added to the game with The Frozen Wilds DLC. Why, you may be asking, would a DLC taking place primarily in the frozen wastelands of Wyoming and Montana need to be adding a new fire protection outfit? Two reasons:

Just like the Nora Silent Hunter Master is an excuse to let Aloy dress like Sona, the Carja Blazon Master is an excuse to let Aloy dress like Talanah.
FUCKING FIRE BEARS

The outfit is not a copy/paste of Talanah’s with a palette swap to change it up a bit. The Blazon master combines the top from Talanah’s outfit and the bottom from the original Blazon, and the headpiece doesn’t include Talanah’s chinstrap.

Oh, maybe this is a good place to address the headpieces.

The Game Has a Setting to Turn Off Headpieces and I Exclusively Use That Setting Because I Really Dislike/Bordering on Hate 98% of the Headpieces and That’s Why I Never Talk About Them.

So. Yeah. That.

I also just realized Aloy isn’t wearing a headpiece in the gameplay trailer for Forbidden West so maybe they won’t even be in the next game. Either that or even Guerilla Games turns that shit off, too.

The Square

This pattern is called African Flower and is a very popular crochet pattern for Afghans, although usually with only six petals to create hexagons.

Because the Blazon Master is similar to the Blazon, I wanted to go with a similar design for the square.

Both outfits have the sort-of skirt pieces on the bottom consisting of a dark maroon-ish color surrounded by a yellow, but it’s not the same maroon-ish and yellow in each outfit, so while I used Hyacinth and Brass Heather in the Blazon, I’ve used Garnet and Caution here.

The outside stripes of Wonderland (light blue) and Solstice (dark blue) are meant to be the top of the outfit, with Wonderland being the undershirt and Sapphire the bandolier of machine pieces across the chest.

I initially had the center star made out of that same light blue Wonderland and bright yellow Caution, but ultimately changed my mind and went with the Dove Heather and Merlot Heather for a few reasons. I want the Carja squares to have the most colors in their designs because their outfits use the widest range of colors. I think using the plainer colors found in the little details of the outfit in the middle grounds the square and gives the brighter colors a place to jump out from. Also, the next outfit I will be doing, the Carja Silks, will probably be using a lot of the Wonderland color and I didn’t want those squares to look similar because the Silks and the Blazon Master look nothing alike.

This is another square made with only basic stitches, almost entirely singles and doubles. Triple crochet stitches are used in the first round of Wonderland to form the corners. Spike stitches are once again used to separate the petals and give them definition. As I said all the way back during the Nora squares, the thing I really like about crochet is once you have a handle on the basics you can make some really neat, intricate designs without ever having to learn anything more complicated. This square is my favorite so far. I didn’t think it would be, but I am a complete sucker for the way the Wonderland and the Solstice contrast with each other.

I am starting to get excited about how this is all going to look put together. Could be wonderful, could be a hot mess. I don’t know! This is my first blanket. Besides working on this, I’ve only made a handful of other things, mostly scarves and hats. Discovering how this is going to come out is a journey for us all.

Next up we’ll be going over the Carja Silks. After that, there’s only two more outfit patterns, three settlement patterns, a few special border squares, and stitching everything together. All in five months. You know. NBD.

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