Their exchange carried them through the week-night 'til the sun turned red. The big blaze was setting on Bull Creek, & they had gotten drunk enough to prove it. Turner hunched over his hickory countertop, ice rattling in his empty glass. His Stetson hung low, his gray fuzz suspended over the table's fine wooden ridges.
At his home that evening was kindred spirit, Digby Jones, running the opposite end of the counter. Another old man clinging to the dark hair of youth. He sat back on the creaky barstool, lifting up his pint to polish off a bit more whiskey. Alcohol was hard on the ol' liver for Jones, ever since he cleaned up his act. He was still soaking up his rye.
"Awful nosy people 'round here, then." Turner muttered. Jones fought to keep him grounded. "Ain't that the truth. Either that, or ya really do got some'n fancy in that ol' hatch."
The banter caught a coy wheeeeeeeeeeze from the man, pulled from his mix of pondering & drunken stupor. Jones beamed at his grin. "No, I ain't got nothin' in that cellar. Just more of this shit!" Turner raised his glass for emphasis. Jones laughed, his bud backtracking into offended confusion.
"Now-- who's even sayin' all that? Who's got business in my floorboards?" He waved a perplexed hand. Jones pressed his palms into the hickory, tapping the table as he leaned in. "Isaac reckons it's some'n to do with Dean Whitley's daughter!" He reeled his head with a cackle. Turner pounded the counter with a balled fist.
Gruff teeth-grinding spat out his mouth. "Damnit, I knew it. I done told that boy..."
"Oh Lawrence, say it ain't so! You, with the paper-man's daughter?"
Rolled eyes. "C'mon, Digs, it's not like that." Jones' laugh drug on & dried up. "I know, I know. It doesn't sound like you anyway, Lawrence. Not with your Catherine expecting, now." His burned-out chuckles left in a sigh. But Turner had said nothing. By then, he was clasping the countertop with both hands, pinning Jones' attention with dry eyes.
He had already given up his oath to secrecy.
"Do you really wanna know?"
--------------------------------------------------------------------
The wooden cut-out raised, peeling back on its iron hinges. A lantern passed through, carried by two boot sets. The hatch closed.
They stepped past crisscross shelves with moonshine décor. In a corner, Jones outlined rods & a bucket hat sat on a barrel. Remnants of Turner's fishing days in the south-east. He trailed in pace with the brother, stepping 'round a wood beam here, over a canyon portrait there.
The journey stopped with the lantern sat atop a dresser. Jones stood over Turner's side. His wrinkly fingers slid the top nook back, unveiling a patterned chest in the dim gas-light. The top lifted off, & he gently plucked the contents of a red bandana, sitting it by the lantern.
There was silence. Still, Turner lifted a finger to his lips. Shh.
"What am I looking at?" Jones whispered.
His buddy unfolded the bandana wrapping, a six-piece tucked inside.
He buried his suspicions within. "...Hell of an iron."
"You act like you've never met her."
"...Met her?"
"Yeah, Digs." A piercing, oiled gaze. "It's Catherine."
--------------------------------------------------------------------
His Stetson hung from its hook, his gray fuzz rocking back 'n forth in the hickory chair. His constant movement, the homeostasis of drunken restlessness. A sandy breeze tumbled in their far-off gaze. And Jones was frozen, nails curled 'round the end of each armrest; an anxious slouch in his chair.
Their eyes were best left apart. Under the lantern glow and moonlight, they instead peered into the desert. It was like a pebbled ocean. A long beat sat in the air; the saddle of confession.
"...You told us she went to see her mother, up north."
The soft whale-sound of the bellowing night wind.
"I did."
Sweat drunk in his scalp, watching the old coot finger with the frame. Just as, wind chime kisses rang overhead.
"...Why her?"
It came out like a demand.
"She bit my shoulder."
An avian dot curved in the black sky.
"...I don't understand."
Turner rocked. And rocked. And stopped to think for a moment.
"Life's complicated, Digs."
And he rocked. Crickets sounded in the dunes. Jones tried to lighten the mood, in denying disbelief.
"...Shoot her any?"
"Fuck no."
Another injection of adrenaline to Jones' system. He clamped his eyes shut.
"...Why not?"
Another end to Turner's rocking. Even he pondered on his quick response. A perverse stare mapped out each ridge of the sidearm. Wherever he was looking, he arrived.
"Lord knows I hate to give her away."
Jones lifted a hand to sponge the liquid caking his cheek.
Turner lifted the muzzle, pointing its tip like a compass into the night.
"Y' see it?"
Eyes scanning the deep.
"No sir, I don't." Jones panted.
The wasteland's belly groaned, and the aching was the wind.
"It rides at bedtime. A posse like thunder. Horses without hooves..."
The man leaned forward in his chair with a squint.
"They're wranglin' somethin' out there."
Jones was out of questions. He didn't want to know anymore. He nestled his temple in his palm. By then, he had just been speaking on Turner's accord.
"Is that right, Lawrence?"
Turner's index coiled onto the trigger, his thumb fingering the hammer.
"Yeah."
The hand over his head had become a mask for his eyes. Jones offered a final inquisition.
"What are they wranglin' on, Lawrence?"
Catherine clicked. Her voice was a gargling of blood. Her intonation said she had accepted that bubbling red long ago. By now, she only tasted moonshine.
"The spirit of Dean Whitley. It's out there, in that desert. Maybe it's the hooves."

Honestly? I have no idea how to start this one. In fact, I don't even know if I should post this, period. My parents brought me my phone a couple hours ago, and scrolling through YouTube and Reddit doesn't do much to take my mind off of things. I might as well write my heart out, right? Maybe somebody out there can find my story helpful, insightful, thoughtful... I dunno. Anyways, I might as well get writing before another couple officers walk in, looking for some details that they missed the last time I told them about what happened on June 3rd.
This part isn't exactly central to the story per se, but I'd like to just honor my buds, say what I thought about them before I forget. These guys, to me, were like a second family. The type of guys you'd call to help get rid off a body, the type of guys who would follow you anywhere. I've known them since I transferred in 4th grade. Only pair of dudes that would give me the time of day in the entire school, Andy and Gabriel. Andy was a sort of short and skinny guy, but he'd talk so much you'd swear he was six inches taller than he was. He'd always go on like he was God's greatest gift on Earth, especially when it came to sports. He'd yell Kobe and miss a rebound, or tell us to call him Messi and miss every goal. Your typical jokester. We didn't start off as friends either. It was around the fourth time
in the Office for fighting that I got wise, looked over at him, glanced at his bruised eye, then felt my own jaw. "Hey, we good? I got my licks-" I paused to scratch my cheek for effect- "and you definitely got yours..." Andy just looked me up and down once, checked himself, grinned like a Hyena and that was that. I met Gabriel through Andy. He was the only one of us you could call a popular kid. He's good at Baseball, really friggin' athletic, tall, built like a milk truck, and kind. Super kind. Like you could just ask him for a french fry, or a slice of bacon off his burger or something and he'd just do it. Didn't expect anything back. Didn't say anything. He'd glance up and just give you whatever you needed, no BS. We were walking back to Gabe's house after a party at a Junior's house, some slacker that wears a bunch of fake bling to school and takes "bathroom breaks" to vape in the stall. Some dude destined to be handing you a Big Mac in a couple years, you know? Not exactly the shining example of morality, not that I would know. Anyways, I really only showed up to shoot the shit with my buds and for some "apple juice" in those plastic red cups. I was going to bounce when I figured out this dude who was hosting the party, Mr. "I'm too cool for school", didn't have anything that could get me plastered. As it turns out, Gabriel wasn't feeling the party either, and Andy was "having no luck with the ladies", (Giggity,) so we all decided to nab a couple of waters and cookies for the road and stepped out into a warm summer evening. (Seriously, Andy gives me pedo vibes sometimes)
It wasn't exactly dark when we left the house. It was that perfect time of night where there was red, orange and purple reflecting off of the clouds in the sky. I snapped a photo 'cause I'm that kinda guy, and we started walking. This neighborhood was one of those aging 60's neighborhoods with all of the one story buildings, rusty chain-link fences, crack houses, senior citizens, that sort of stuff. Perfectly square blocks and blocks of houses with the peeling paint, broken sidewalks, barking dogs, you get the picture. If you were to think of the neighborhood from the top down, it would be like a big square with about three streets of depth inwards, with a big forest in the middle. Inconveniently, the party was in the western corner, while Gabe's house was down a slope, on the exact opposite side, the east side of the neighborhood. Basically a big pain in the posterior. Now just to be clear, we couldn't call Gabriel's mom for a pickup because of the nature of the party, and we weren't really feeling like taking the shortcut path through the woods at night, so we took the long way around. about a quarter of the way down, like 10-15 minutes into the walk, the lights lining the street flicked on. Now, that didn't bother us too much, because Gabe's casa was su casa, or whatever. In short, we had spent a lot of time walking around here before. Anyways, when the lights turned on they sort of dazzled my eyes, and a whole thing happened with me and the sidewalk called tripping. I went down and cut up my hands real nice and both of the guys turned around to help me up. It took them a second to spot me, because the lights lining the street were spaced in such a way that they would have a sort of staggered area of effect when they turned on. I had happened to trip right in one of the dark spots, so like I said, it took them a second to get me off of the ground. I got up, and did that thing you do when your hands hurt after a fall and you smack them together and rub them against your pants.
"You good?" asked Andy.
"Yeah yeah, I'm fine," I said, still slapping my thighs.
I looked up and saw somebody standing underneath the closest streetlamp. They were positioned in such a way that they faced the road from the lip of the sidewalk they stood on, with their head cocked slightly way from us and down, like they were staring intently at a bug or something in the road.
they guys must have seen me gazing off into the distance and they turned around to stare with me. the figure was around 20 feet away, right underneath the halo of light that the streetlamp made. they were wearing an old ice cream coat and uniform, like something out of the 60's. The folded cap on their head at a jaunty angle, a shock of slicked back golden hair just underneath it.
"Whaaaaat theeeee fuuuuuuck..?" I whisper to no one in particular.
When did he get there?
We had started walking towards the man, transfixed, and stopped just outside of the light's reach. He looked gaunt, sickly, almost. His mouth was pulled into a thin customer service sort of smile. the uniform he wore was a bit dirty, with a twig or two hanging from his pants like he had been running through the forest or something. that something on the ground seemed to be pretty interesting to him, so we all turned to try to sot what was capturing his attention. Looking back, I should have known right there. Have you ever seen someone doing or wearing or saying something that had compelled you to stare at them? Like a junkie downtown or some dude wearing a sign saying the end is nigh? And do you remember how you tried not to stare but kept that person in your peripheral vision, because they were interesting or suspicious or whatever? That's exactly what this guy was doing. He was looking at us. We never even noticed. Anyways, we hadn't seen anything on the ground so we looked back at this dude. BOOM! Instant time-out. Somewhere in that quick glance when we weren't paying attention, his head snaps up and locks us with this piercing stare. Now my heart's going a mile a minute. Fight or flight's kicked in and I tense up. my hands come up and I'm making fists. Meanwhile, the rational, thinking part of me is analyzing this guy. He hasn't broken that unnerving, artificial customer service smile. in fact, it looks almost wider, almost hungry. that's not the worst part. there's blood on his left thigh, black now after so much time. His eyes. I'm going to remember those eyes 'till the day I die. Even at night, his pupils were a darker black than anything in the world had any right to be. All consuming, omnipotent, soul-seeing eyes. The killing intent radiating from this thing was overpowering. Time-in.
"Jesus Christ!" Gabe barks.
It's the first time I've heard him swear. Andy's transfixed.
"What's the game plan?" I say, surprising myself with the icy calm in my own voice.
Andy's practically talking to himself. "I-I think we should-" he swallows audibly- "go around?"
The light creates an invisible barrier between us and the man-thing. we shuffle along the edges of each streetlight's effect. The neighborhood goes silent, save for a slight breeze along my back. every time i glance towards the ground to make sure I stay out of the light, he seems to get closer. of course he doesn't in actuality, because every time I look up in fear, he's still standing there, right there on the curb. We finally make it around that first light and turn around to face the second one. He's right there. Right on the border. that invisible line that separated the living from the dead.
Andy falls backwards. His arm falls into the light and instantly it's upon him. it's nails have turned into long, wicked claws. They rip into his upper arm and shoulder. It managed to nick his artery before we pull him out of the light. Andy is screaming bloody murder and I take off my shirt and tie it around the worst around the worst of his wounds. An uncaring, cold part of me surveys the damage and notes that Andy is unlikely to live more than an hour without emergency care. I hate that part of me. I hate how in that time of crisis, I could come to terms with one of my best friends dying to a freak on the street. Did it even matter? those years of friendship, now that I look back? That's one of the reasons I'm writing this story I guess. This story is me caring, right? The fact that I'm writing this shows I care, right? Anyways, in that instant I know we're screwed. there's no way we can get Andy back to Gabriel's house in time if we have to deal with this thing. The Ice-Cream Man surveyed his work as Gabe tried calling his mom for the fourth time. Andy had stopped screaming and passed out. I ended up holding his hand, staring up at this monster. It seemed to enjoy hurting us, enjoy it's handiwork. I grimaced and turned to Gabriel.
"Time to go, dude." Gabe looked up at me, still holding his buzzing cellphone to his ear. there was desperation and shock in his eyes, and I guess it was the same for me too. "We've got to go."
I made it clear this wasn't a conversation to be having.
It's sort of an open secret that I'm the thug of the school. At least, that's what everyone else thinks. It's not like I'll try to rob you or anything, but everyone knows that time I bent a kid's knee backwards. I didn't get into major trouble because of it, due to the fact there was a recording showing three guys ganging up on me, hurting me. I didn't have to make that kid a cripple, but I did. I got beaten for a year and a half, by those same three guys, and it all came out at once. I wanted to hurt him, and I did. but when you do that to someone, no matter how justified, people treat you different. especially when they're the same people who watched me get punched, and kicked, and hit, and put down. In a heartbeat, I was an untouchable. No more social life. No girlfriend, or anything like that. So, my only friends on this earth were Andy and Gabe. Blah blah blah, I'm sure you don't care about the sob story screw-up called my life. Anyways, the important part is that Gabe knew my business voice when I spoke.
"Okay, here's the idea." I glanced over to Mr. Freak. "We're going to take the forest path. It doesn't have any lights, so we'll be fine. if we move fast on the downhills, we can make it to your Mom's house and go to the hospital before..." I spared a glance to looked at Andy's face. he looked like he was sleeping. I felt around for his pulse.
He was still alive, thank God.
Gabe looked like he wanted to say something, and I knew exactly what he wanted to say. We were going to cross that bridge when we came to it.
We had, like I said, been around the block before. we made it to the trailhead, with that thing following us all of the way. jumping from streetlight to streetlight. The streetlight that would normally light the signpost and path into the forest was out, and it had been for years. That wasn't the issue. The issue was that the exit, the exit that was a short jog away from Gabe's house, had been replaced just last summer. we both knew that it was very likely that someone wouldn't make it. Gabe hoisted Andy into a fireman's carry, and we started our descent down the hill in silence. I made a sparing glance backwards, and there the Ice-Cream Man stood waiting.
It was hard keeping track of which trail we were on and where to turn in the pitch dark. It was around 10:00 now, and Andy seemed to get worse as time went on. We almost got lost a couple times, and we had to double back every now and again too. Gabriel and I said nothing as we went downhill. We said nothing when we saw the trail outlet at the bottom of the hill. We said nothing when the Ice-Cream Man appeared right underneath the lamppost. The sign read; "Rubicon Valley River Loop: 1.1 mi". We came right up to that invisible border again.
"I'll go first."
"Will you? We both know-"
"Shut the hell up and listen to me."
Gabriel. He was good at Baseball, really friggin' athletic, tall, built like a milk truck, and kind. Super kind. Like you could just ask him for a french fry, or a slice of bacon off his burger or something and he'd just do it. Even if there was a deadly monster chasing you, with his Mom's house just a short jog away. Even if you were willing to fight it instead, even if it didn't make sense for him to stay behind. Even if he knew you wouldn't want to keep living without him and Andy. Didn't expect anything back. Didn't say anything. Even though I'm writing this story just 6 hours later, I can't remember for the life of me how I got across that halo of light without him right behind me. Gabe's Mom flew down the porch when I rounded the corner of the cul-de-sac. I bet she was wondering why we were home so late, why Gabriel wasn't with us, why I was staying clear of the streetlights.
I remember her asking me where her niño was.
When I woke up in the hospital, the police asked me where the wolves attacked us. I didn't correct them. What was the point? I assume they knew what was actually out there. After all, wolves bite and tear. It was just a line for the news stations. Turns out I was raked across the back by a wolf too. The doctors told me I was very lucky. They said if Gabe's Mom was a second slower getting us to the ER, I would have ended up like Andy. I feel cold. I haven't been crying. Do I even care? I feel like I'm a horrible person. I hope that I'm allowed to go to their funerals, pay my respects. My Dad has a Machete hidden under the bed. That Ice-Cream Man better be counting every second he has left, because I'm going to do more than bend his knee backwards next June 3rd.

Welcome to Camp Redwood! The feel-good camp for ALL AGES.
We toast marshmallows around the fire, tell spooky ghost stories, and hide in random secret military bunkers under the campgrounds! Because SOMETHING IS HERE WITH US.
Camp Redwood is the PERFECT PLACE for a summer getaway where we start EVERY DAY with a CAMP REDWOOD SMILE. Where our counselors disappear every five minutes, and our campers disembowel us for funsies! Did I forget to mention our littles aren’t actually eight years old, but fully grown adults?
We hope you enjoy your fucking stay!
We are also not responsible for any counselors revealing they are not who they said they are—and not who they appear to be.
...
So. There’s a LOT to tell you and not a lot of time to tell it.
Right now, I suppose you could say we are under lockdown—if that is the word. I want to go over the last several days to get you up to date. That’s all I can do right now. I can hope and pray the thing with Teddy’s voice does not get in here, and once again cry out for help—that I know is not coming. Not from the authorities, at least. But hey, if any of you fancy coming to rescue us, we’re in the middle of the Canadian wilderness. The closest rest-stop is maybe three fucking hours away. So have fun. Has it really almost been a week since I posted? Well, we’re still here!
And surprise, surprise, help is not coming. So, please excuse the salt. I am seventeen years old and I have been abandoned by the adults who were supposed to be looking after us.
Who were supposed to act under protocol if something like this happened. I know they were waiting for it—there are specific fucking guidelines on an emergency evacuation for counselors if this ever happened. But then the little shits took over before we could do anything. I guess I’ll start by letting you know that there are two of us left. (three, if we count Rowan, but I’m not). What I thought was going to be a quiet summer getaway with kids my age has turned into a nightmare.
For one, we have been cornered inside the head counselor’s underground secret bunker. If you want to know why she has a secret military bunker, I guess you should keep reading.
Because shit gets weirder than animal crackers having the power to turn adults into kids, and vice versa. When I made my first post, I thought that was it for us. I thought for sure there must have been a self-destruct somewhere—which meant whoever was running this camp was waiting for something like this. I was sure we were going to die, so after making the post, I have to admit with ya’ll—I just slept. I curled up, tried to ignore Harry and Carmel calling our names through childish laugher, and went to sleep with the thought in my head that I was completely at peace with what I had done with my life.
Sure, I was young. Seventeen years old is too young to be ripped apart by littles who are in fact grown adults. But as I was falling into slumber and allowing myself to fall, with my head resting in my lap, my head turned towards a separate pile of files on the other side of the room—I realized I really wanted to know how this was possible. There was so much I needed to know. Why did eight-year-old Eleanor Summers have a file where here birthday dated back to 1979? Why had supposedly innocent sugary snacks turned our adorable littles into mini psychopaths?
These kids were not kids, somehow. But how? How was that even possible? Could it be that the files were wrong?
1979 was definitely 45.
But Eleanor Summers couldn’t be 45 years old. I knew what 45 looked like. I knew that they thought like. They spent half of their time on Facebook laughing at outdated memes, and the other half… I don’t know, working? They have job’s! They’re happily married with kids, maybe soon grandkids! That was not Eleanor Summers. Because Eleanor Summers was most definitely eight years old. I had played several rounds of teddy-bears picnic, and spent hours reassuring her that Harry's ghost stories were in fact not real, enough times for me to know that this little kid was little—and a kid.
But something was bothering me. More than the secret military bunker, and magic age-regressing animal crackers. When I first signed up to Camp Redwood, one of the tag-lines to gain attraction had been, “Solve mysteries in the woods in the dead of night, with nothing but a flashlight and your fellow campers!” I had no idea I would be solving this thing on my own, trapped inside a bunker.
“What are you doing?” Rowan, who was still looking through Allison’s dinosaur laptop, turned to me with half lidded eyes, when I slowly got to my feet, careful not to make too much noise, and crept over to the pile of separate files which seemed to be crumbling apart from age. He kept his voice low, but it sounded almost like a whine. He could have been scared, but from the way he was sitting, cross-legged with a frowny face, I figured something must have been going on with him. The guy looked tired. More tired than normal.
The bags under his eyes were practically shadowing his face, and were an odd contrast to unusually ashy colored cheeks and slightly dilated eyes. Still though, Rowan refused to look vulnerable. I caught glimpse of Harry’s raybans sitting on his head, pinning back thick dark brown curls from falling in front of sleepy eyes. Maybe he was finally losing his cool and breaking out of the well-constructed façade he had been hiding behind since Teddy disappeared.
We had just narrowly escaped a crowd of psycho littles high on age-regressing sugary snacks who were doing who-the-fuck knows to the other counselors who had been captured, so I didn’t blame him looking like that. I guess he couldn’t look me in the eye, because in Rowan’s mind, he was the reason why this happened. He was the leader, and the camp had fallen to psychopathic little eight year olds who had taken half of the counselors hostage, and the other half—most likely taken apart in the physical sense, after what we had witnessed in Cassie’s cabin. Still though, it wasn’t Rowan’s fault. He could sit there and pull a face all he wanted, it’s not like I was going to blow up at him for getting us stuck down here. He actually saved us.
And trapped us, judging from the footsteps upstairs, Carmel and Harry still bouncing around looking for us.
It was a game in their heads. The little’s thought it was cat and mouse. Harry and Carmel were the oblivious cats prowling, while we were the mice, hoping to fucking GOD we weren’t caught and eaten. Ignoring Rowan, I glimpsed what looked like a box full of DVD’S—all of which were labelled with dates and names. I saw familiar ones, my heart racing into my throat. Phoebe. Eli. Cassandra.
Each DVD had one of the kid’s names scribbled on the front, as well as a date.
I found Eleanor’s right at the back of the box.
Eleanor Summers.
08/05/2021. (PM)
Before I could hesitate and think what I was doing, I slid the DVD into the portable player attached to the MacBook. Rowan, to my surprise, didn’t move. But he did make an acknowledging noise when the screen flickered to what looked like video footage. Peering at the screen, I found myself staring at a small white room. There was no door. Only a wooden desk and a chair, and sitting on it was a middle aged woman with dark blonde curls tied into a strict ponytail. She was wearing what looked like a prison jumpsuit.
Her eyes were eerily glued to the camera, unblinking. Her wrists were cuffed in front of her. Though from the look on her face, she saw the restraints as a game. Her eyes lit up with intrigue and I could practically see the cogs in her mind starting to turn as she struggled with them.
As soon as I saw this woman, I felt all of my nerve endings set alight. I wanted to turn the screen off, or look away. But once I was looking at the screen, I couldn’t bring myself to tear my eyes away. “Let’s try this again.” There was a woman offscreen. She sounded young. Too young to be in that kind of authority. I figured there was no way teenagers were being hired as special ops agents, but I guessed I was wrong. She cleared her throat. “It is 4:35 exactly. August 5th 2021. My name is Agent Lemrac,” she stated. “I am asking once again for you to comply with us. As I have said several times, the court are willing to lessen your sentence if you plead guilty with insanity.”
The woman surprised me with a snorting laugh. She seemed to come alive, leaning forward with animated features, her brow reaching her hairline. She was acting like a child, bouncing up and down in the seat, her lips stretching into a wider grin. “What did you just say?”
There was a pause. I could tell the woman was intentionally antagonising the interviewer.
“It means you have been legally declared insane,” the interviewer stumbled over her words slightly. “Mrs Summers, it would be in your best interest to work with us to lessen your current sentence which at the moment is standing at,” the sounds of shuffling paper crackled through the speakers. The interviewer cleared her throat again rustling paper. “Thirty six years. Without parole.”
The woman didn’t speak, only continued to smile—and the interviewer delved further into the sentence. “If you do in fact plead guilty with declared insanity, you will be sentenced to a program which is in the process of supporting and rehabilitating people with your…” she caught herself for a moment. I could tell this interviewer had a biased opinion and it was definitely showing through her interviewing style. I could hear the rapid intakes of her breath as she hurried through what seemed to be a script she was reading from. “Conditions.” She finished. “The Redwood program aims to help people exactly like you.”
Redwood? I thought.
Like… Camp Redwood?
Rowan whistled behind me. I guess I could call that a reaction. The guy was probably still in shock after seeing Café de Teddy splattered all over little Cassie’s cabin floor. I should have known those little bitches weren’t playing Operation for eight hours straight. Turning my attention from Rowan and back to the screen, the woman in the jumpsuit appeared to have changed tactics. Her expression twisted into nonchalance. She leaned back in her chair. “I am not pleading insane because I am not insane.”
“Mrs Summers—”
The woman cut her off. “I am not crazy.” She raised her hands “I am doing what needs to be done.” She leaned forward. “Humanity suffers in the skin. We age and die— and how is that fair? What if we want to see the next millennium? And the next two millennia after that? Why should our bodies dictate our lifespan? Why should we sit here and wait to rot and wither and die when we have the intelligence and mindset to do it? If nobody else is willing to throw ethics aside to take a step forwards in human evolution, I should do it myself.” She folded her arms across her chest, again, like a child. “I did what was to be done.”
“Dr. Summers.” The interviewer’s tone grew stiff. “You and your colleagues conducted illegal and unethical procedures on your family and friends—as well as four other victims.”
The woman inclined her head. “You have a daughter, am I correct? I have a son.”
“A child you killed, Dr Summers.” The interviewer retorted in a hiss which was definitely expressing emotion. She ignored the mention of her daughter, but I could tell it had rattled her to her core. Her voice had cracked. This case was close to her.
That was obvious. Without seeing the interviewer herself, I could sense how uncomfortable she was, shuffling in the chair. Every so often I would hear the sound of her rubbing her hands on her knees and tapping her shoe against the chair leg. She oozed anxiety, not just from her tone of voice, but the way the frame seemed to move with her. “Dr. Summers, you used your son in your research, along with several of his friends. This was not science.” Her voice shook. I heard her sharp inhale. Unprofessional, but very human. Instead of staying stoic and keeping to script, this agent was cracking apart. “It was murder.”
“Agent Lemrac, concentrate on the interview only.” An official voice crackled through what sounded like an intercom on screen.
“Got it.” She spoke through her teeth.
The woman was finding wounds and pressing on them. She was scanning the interviewer for vulnerabilities and preying on every insecurity. She leaned back speaking through a sigh. “Without my son’s sacrifice we wouldn’t have created an answer to death. To growing old and dying, and leaving loved ones behind.” Her voice softened into a murmur, but I didn’t trust it.
After identifying the shattering pieces of this interviewer which were very clear visible in her view, the woman was taking advantage.
“Agent Lemrac, you have a daughter. Am I correct in saying her name is Mari?
“That… that is not relevant.”
“Glioblastoma.” Dr. Summers lips curved into a sickening smile hidden behind mocking sympathy. “A sickness of the brain--which, unfortunately, I cannot fix. If your daughter’s brain was in my hands, I would try. However, not even a brand new body would help her. One which would never age or grow sick. And for that, I am deeply, deeply sorry.” She reached her cuffed hands forwards. “My condolences, Agent Lemrac. Honestly. I have to hand it to you. You are incredibly brave for coming here today and talking to me while abandoning your sick child.” She shook her head.
“Your daughter is dying of an incurable illness, suffering inside fragile skin which will break and fall apart and be unable to keep her standing for much longer. While my son will live on forever. He will see every millennia, a planet which will crumble and build itself back together. And maybe the end of the universe itself.” There was a twitch in her expression and a glitter in her eye I did not recognise. Insanity.
She was fucking insane. I was seeing the pure of it, the depraved and disgusting gleam in eyes empty of remorse and regret. This woman did not care what she had done. I could tell from the look on her face. If she had the chance, she would do this again.
But there was no way they were trying to say her cruelty and complete disregard for her son’s life was due to insanity.
“You are sick, Dr. Summers.” The interviewer said after a moment of gathering herself.
The woman shook her head with a chuckle. “I told you. I am not sick--”
“Sick in the head!” The interviewer’s voice exploded through the speakers in a shriek—a terrified cry she had been trying to hold in. I finally saw her—or at least the back of her. She was a young woman with light blonde hair falling loose on her shoulders. She was trembling. Slamming her hands down on the table, she screamed at the orange jumpsuit woman.
“You are psychologically fucked in the head! You psycho bitch! That is my sister!” She spoke through strangled sobs rattling her whole body. “Mari is my little sister. She is not my child.”
Her breaths were strangled and harboured. I noticed figures looming in the background, but she was continuing. “You killed your own fucking son,” she spat. “You are not legally insane, you are sick!” she shrieked. “You planned and put this together! You sit there and you talk about your son like he’s a… like he’s a tool! You deserve to rot. Do you hear me?” I noticed the orange jumpsuit woman was still smiling, satisfied with the interview’s reaction. Her words were spoken in a vicious poison as she leaned forward and spat directly in orange jumpsuit’s face.
“Agent Lemrac!” Whoever her superiors were—were panicking. “I told you not to turn it off. I knew this was going to happen. Can we stop the demonstration, please? Human emotions present inside an Aceville soldier are too powerful—"
Voices were murmuring in the background, and Agent Lemrac raised her hands. “I want to stop.” She choked out, her hands trembling. She spoke like she still had control over the situation and wasn’t being apprehended. “I want to stop. Do you hear me?” The interviewer was crying, I realized. “Stop the recording! I can’t do this. Oh god, I think I’m going to be sick—”
When the footage ended in a burst of static, I found myself backing away, something slimy creeping its way up my throat.
The woman in the orange jumpsuit who had murdered her son and countless others in what sounded like an attempt at playing god, was Eleanor Summers. I thought back to Teddy’s corpse, and the surgical precision of every organ’s removal. The young interviewer had mentioned colleagues of Eleanor.
Was it possible that Camp Redwood was in fact nothing more than a rehabilitation camp for murderous criminals? There was a loud bang from above, and I was torn from my thoughts.
I turned to Rowan, who had been unusually quiet. And I realized why, when I twisted around to find him three inches from my face, his laboured breath tickling my cheek.
The boy jumped back with a chuckle—like me noticing him was some kind of game, before diving back into the chair. I did notice something odd, as my thoughts spiralled. Rowan couldn’t sit still. Slumped in the leather spinning chair, he fingers tapped a rhythm on the armrests while his feet jumped up and down. In the dim light of the bunker, I glimpsed a sheen of sweat glistening on his forehead and the flesh of his neck. He looked to be… feverish—and now that I was looking at him properly, all of my attention on the boy, I noticed small things which seemed… off about him.
For one, he wasn’t coming up with a plan. Rowan always had a plan. Even if he wasn’t completely sure of it, or was completely winging it. This time though, he was strangely quiet. I found my voice when he stuck out his tongue at me. “What are you looking at?”
“Rowan.” I spoke softly, careful not to garner attention from above us where Harry and Carmel were still clamouring around, playing games. “Are you… feeling okay?” I asked, when he turned back to the laptop, manically biting his fingernails.
“I dunnnooooo, Josie! Am I feeeeeeling okaaaaaayyyyy?” He surprised me with an uncharacteristic laugh.
But I did know it.
I knew it from earlier when he reacted to Allison’s bunker and I had been too freaked out to realize that I was dragging along the enemy with me.
Because the fucking idiot had consumed animal crackers. I had seen him for myself earlier, pouring a pack into his mouth for a snack. Which meant either the ‘kids’ had intentionally dosed him with mind altering sugary snacks, or the more likely, he could not resist those preservatives which was the equivalent of caffeine. It’s not like I could blame him when he harboured the weight of an entire camp, but come on, did he really have to sacrifice his own fucking mind to keep himself awake?
Rowan wasn’t just biting. His nails. He was gnawing. Which he previously thought was a filthy habit. He had yelled at a camper for chewing on her nails a few days earlier.
Now that I was noticing it, I couldn’t… stop noticing it. The boy’s whole demeanour had changed; the way he was sinking into the chair, instead of sitting up straight like usual—- I used to call it having a stick up his ass. The boy started typing on the laptop, ignoring me. But when I watched the pattern of his fingers, he was just typing gibberish. Footsteps pounded above us, Harry and Carmel acting as the kid’s’ brainwashed foot-soldiers. Or, more likely somehow, if the animal crackers had caused the littles, or I guess, the fully grown forty year old criminals, to relapse in age-- then maybe it was possible for the same thing to happen to us. To Rowan.
I could feel myself starting to back away, but there was nowhere to run. I just slammed into a cupboard. My gaze flicked to Rowan again, who was tapping a beat on the laptop tracking pad, swaying back and forth, his eyes elsewhere before his gaze found mine. “Marcoooooo!” Harry shouted from above, giggling with Carmel.
I had to guess their mental age had to be at least 8-10 years old. Which meant I wasn’t just dealing with a camp full of forty-year-old psycho’s, I was also dealing with mentally relapsed counselors acting like toddlers.
Rowan seemed to jolt in the chair, twisting his head around, his eyes suddenly incredibly childlike and playful, and very Un-Rowan, were finding the ceiling, his mouth stretching into a smile, like he was seeing butterflies. His eyes flashed to me, and I caught a twitch in his lip. I knew that look. It was the look on my seven year old sister, who knew mom was mad at me, and wanted to make it even worse.
His cheeks were starting to blossom scarlet from what must have been the overwhelming urge to laugh. Rowan pressed his lips together and held in a breath like a hamster, and the asshole was fucking with me. Waiting for me to beat him to it by accident. Kids were fucking ruthless, but there was something terrifying about an 18 year old with a little kid’s mind.
I lifted my index to my lips, miming for him not to even try, but the boy just mimicked me, bugging out his eyes and pressing his finger to his grinning mouth. “Don’t you fucking dare.” I managed to whisper. The boy was definitely playing his own game, moving in twitching movements, baiting me. When he cupped his mouth, I almost let out a cry, but then he dropped his arms with a giggle, as if to say, “I’m just kidding!”
Slowly, I turned around, grabbed the salt I’d found in Allison’s cupboard, and a flat can of soda. Without making too much movement, I poured a handful of salt into the can. But Rowan seemed to know exactly what I was doing. Because in the time it was taking me to advance towards him with the can of salty soda, one arm shakily ready to grab hold of him, and put him into a headlock, he was cupping his mouth, all logic and everything adult, everything he had been as our leader, igniting in playful eyes, leaving me the last one standing.
“Pollloooooo!”
By the time Rowan had managed to reveal our hiding place in a spluttered laugh, I had hold of the squirming boy, one arm wrapped around his neck, my other forcing the can of soda into his mouth. I had definitely miscalculated his strength. During camp Redwood activities, he was always the last one to come back from the trail, holding his knees and panting. I figured he was unfit. However, I was wrong. Underneath his shirt, the guy had some serious muscles.
It was like attacking a brick wall. However, Rowan was mentally a kid. So, I had my intelligence and logic on my side. When it became obvious I wasn’t going to get anywhere with brute strength, I resorted to tickling him, which made him squirm, squeaking out a laugh. When he opened his mouth to yell at me to stop, I took my chance, thrusting the can into his lips and holding his nose so he swallowed it down.
“No!” His laughter turned into muffled yelling, as he batted his fists at my chest. “No, no, no! Get off, get off!”
His body convulsed as the salt did its job, causing the boy to lurch to his knees and choke up forbidden animal crackers in a gooish sludge which turned my stomach. By the time Rowan seemed half himself and half not, still kneeling, his head pressed against the floor, Harry was poking his head through the door with a goonish grin. “Found you!” He giggled, before forcing the door open, allowing Carmel and Callen, freshly caught and mentally turned into littles, to advance down the stairs with equally terrifying grins. There was something wrong with Harry’s face, and I only realized it when the guy himself was hauling me from the bunker, Carmel dragging a barely responsive Rowan. There was nothing in Harry’s expression, only blind childish excitement at winning the game. When he dragged me out of Allison’s cabin and threw me to the ground, I realized he too had insane strength I had not been expecting. But that thought quickly retracted when I was seeing his face in the light of a crescent moon lighting up the sky an eerie glow. Harry’s cheeks were puffy and swollen, his right eye way bigger than it should have been.
When he spoke, his voice was more of a lisp. This was something far more realistic than magical animal crackers fucking with his brain.
“He needs help!” I managed to choke out when Carmel wrapped jump-rope around my wrists. Next to me, Rowan was refusing to get up, still choking up salty soda, groaning into his hands. Every time Callen tried to restrain him, he hissed out like an animal.
“Do you hear me?!” I struggled violently. “Harry needs—”
BANG.
Is what it felt like. The feeling of something—what felt and sounded like a toy car—colliding with my temples, sent me onto the ground, my head spinning itself off of its axis. I remember lying on my back and frowning at the moon which almost looked like it was getting closer to me, blurring into a white ball of light—before reality sunk in, and it was in fact Carmel’s converse coming down to finish me off. I didn’t stay knocked out for long. But I did dream.
I think you can call it a dream? I was lying in bed at home; my room drowned in the dark. I was cosy, curled up in my blankets, when a clammy hand slammed over my mouth, rousing me from slumber. There were two figures in my room. They didn’t have faces. They just existed as shadows, silhouettes. Before one of them raised something above their head, and… impact.
It was the same impact as the toy car hitting me, snapping me back to that night. It wasn’t a dream. Because I remembered his clammy fingers over my mouth, and his hisses for me to shut up as he dragged me from my room.
My parents stood in front of me with expressions of sympathy. Basked in warm light, my mom and dad looked almost otherworldly. “For the best.” Was what they mouthed when my own phantom screams slammed into me. I asked them why, and they didn’t reply, allowing him to pull me further and further from what I knew, from my life as I knew it. But.. that couldn’t be real. I had memories of getting on the bus to camp Redwood. I could recall the whole journey. So, why… why was my tangled mind saying otherwise?
When I gathered myself, the first thing I realized was I was sitting down. I was outside, cool night air grazing my bare arms. There was something attached to me, jerking violently, And it took me several disorientating blinks to understand that I was tied back to back with Rowan. My head pounded, and something wet and warm dripped down my temple. Great. I could add head injury to the long list of things to worry about.
“Let me go you little fucking witch.”
Rowan was back to himself, though from the muffled hissing and the sound of choking—I had to guess he was being force-fed animal crackers.
“Let me—mpphmmm. little…. fucking… mphmmphhmhppmm!”
“Rowan.” I managed to get out in a croak. Through flickering eyes, I caught glimpse of a familiar figure dancing around us. Shivers rocketed down my spine, and I wrenched at the jump-rope restraints, but they did a surprisingly job of restraining my arms behind my back.
Eleanor was with Rowan, while Eli was knelt in front of me. Looking at him, the boy had definitely aged in the face—and I couldn’t help wondering what exactly he had done as a forty something year old to be sent to this place.
“Josie!” Rowan responded in a wail. “Josie. Wake the FUCK up.”
“Stop swearing.”
Eleanor spoke with the cold tone of her actual age.
“Oh, yeah?” Rowan spluttered. “Fuck you.” The boy’s laugh was still rough from almost vomiting his insides out from too much salt intake. “I’m sorry, you were a fucking boomer all along?!” He wriggled in the restraints, lunging forwards, which sent me backwards.
“Stop swearing, Rowan.” Was all the girl responded with calmly.
“Like I’m going to listen to you!” He sneered. “Fuck, fuck, fuckity, fucking fuck!” What are you going to do, huh? Bite me with your false teeth?” The sound of saliva hitting skin made me wince. He was pissed. I had no doubt his completely rational anger was going to get us killed. Rowan was also somehow getting mixed up between forty and eighty. Though he was unwillingly snacking on mind bending sugary goodness.
“Fudge, Rowan.” Eleanor spoke in a giggle.
“What?!”
“Say fudge. Not fuck.”
“No.”
His hiss of pain caught me off guard. I don’t know what she was doing to him, but it was hurting him.
“You fudging fudge! I’m going to fudging kill you when I get out of these fudging ropes—“ his manic cursing became a muffled yell.
“Say fudge,” Eleanor hummed, followed by his hiss when the palm of her hand skinned his cheek. “Fuck is a bad word. You even said so yourself and you’re my favourite counselor.”
He heaved out a breath.
“You fudge,” Rowan spat. “When I get out of this, I am going to fudging kill you, you fudging—” His manic ranting morphed, once again, into muffled yelling, after another fistful of animal crackers were forced into his mouth. When I risked twisting around, I could see his rebellion slowly starting to simmer out as he relaxed slightly. I wanted to yell at him to keep a clear head before cold fingers were dipping under my chin and forcing my head around where I found myself face to face with Eli.
“I like you, Josie,” he said, before untying me and pulling me to my feet. Now at the age of nine or ten, he was a lot stronger. When I tried to pull away, the cruel blade of a knife grazed my gut. I caught his grin. “But we don’t need you.” Eli pointed to Rowan.
“We just want them.”
I followed his pointer finger which went from Rowan to Harry and Carmel, who were just standing there like fucking idiots, probably awaiting the next game. Harry’s face was getting redder. It looked like he was suffocating, and yet his grin was growing wider and wider, splitting his lips apart. “Rowan Atlas.” Eleanor said, dragging him to his feet. Something was stapled to his forehead head, which caused him to howl in pain, hissing another strangled line of “Fudge”. but I couldn’t read what it was.
“Camp leader. Intelligent, and problem solving skills.”
“Harry Carlisle.” Eli nodded his head with a smile. “Quick thinker. Strong minded.”
“Carmel Locke.” Cassie spoke behind me. She had her arms folded, a wry smile on her lips. “Smarter than she makes out—- an independent learner, and can work well under pressure.”
Looking at these kids, I felt sick to my stomach. They were planning something—and had the intelligence of renowned scientists, which was what I gathered from the footage on the MacBook. “What?” was all I could hiss out, as Eli prodded the blade of the knife into my back, ushering me to walk. “What are you talking about?”
“Duh.” He spoke in a more tweeny giggle. “Like I said, Miss Josie. You’re my favorite counselor but we don’t need you, so I’m going to use you for parts.” He laughed when a shiver spiderwebbed down my spine. “See! I told you I was going to show you my collection!”
“But… what do you need them for?”
Eli pressed his index finger to his lips with a laugh before forcing me to face forwards. “That’s a secret!”
When I didn’t, or couldn’t move, he shoved me into a stumbling power-walk, and I managed to turn my head quickly, making feverish eye contact with Rowan.
“Rowan.” I said calmly through the gutter in my throat. “Get…. Get help.”
If I was going to die, I needed him to get a hold of himself and somehow alert the outside world what was going on.
“From whom, Josie?!” He wailed back—and as I was dragged away, I could once again sense the childish undertones in his voice.
I had no choice but to obey Eli’s orders. If I didn’t want a knife in my back. He took me to the main lunch cabin, which, when I set foot inside, almost sent me to my knees.
Something lurched inside me, and I was screaming with no voice, staggering backwards, only to be shoved onto my face. In front of me was what had been the lunch hall, fully converted into the beginning of a laboratory.
What had been cafeteria tables were fashioned into makeshift gurney’s and beds, and I was looking at all of the missing counselors. Yuri and Noah had been skinned completely, their faces laid out on a makeshift surgical table. Joey had been ripped open, his heart and brain removed, a glittering metallic substance creeping its way across his forehead. It was then when I remembered Eleanor Summers words.
She wanted to prevent death and preserve the human mind. Looking at what was in front of me, this was the start of it. There was equipment I had never seen before. Lily’s body was empty, carved out completely, tubes forced inside her. When I glimpsed her fingers move and begin to ball into a fist, I saw red. I saw fucking red. The exit was so close and yet Eli, fucking Eli, wielded his knife. I think that is when part of me gave up. My brain just stopped. It short circuited. Seeing my friends murdered and yet somehow being kept alive through playing god, my body slumped to the ground. I was numb. Completely numb.
I’m not sure what would have happened if those bloody saws and instruments which had been used on my friends were used on me too.
Luckily, that did not happen. Before Eli could get his slimy hands on me, he crumpled to the ground in an almost cartoon-like fashion, and standing over me was Harry. Who was looking better. When he grasped hold of me and helped me up, I only had one word. “Out.” And he was nodding, his eyes glistening as he drunk in our friends’ fate.
“How?” I managed to sputter out, when we made it out of the cabin, ducking behind a tree. Harry turned to me, motioning for me to shut up. There was a group of now ten to eleven year olds already running around, searching for what I guessed was him.
“I’m allergic to peanut butter,” Harry murmured, his grasp tightening on my wrist as he led me across the camp, the two of us stumbling.
“What, and you just magically healed?”
He didn’t respond to that, which bothered me.
“The bunker is our best shot,” I hissed out. “I think we can get in contact with someone down there.” I paused, unable to stop myself. “What makes you so important?”
“Dunno. Maybe I’m their favorite.”
When we found Allison’s cabin, which was more of a safehouse (an exposed safehouse) I found Rowan sitting on the wooden porch with his legs swinging over the side. “Rowan!” Harry groaned. I found it hard to believe their roles had been switched. Now he was the one yelling at the camp-leader. “I told you to stay inside!”
He ushered the boy inside, before barricading the door with some hefty looking equipment. I could tell from the grin on his face that our so-called leader was once again no longer himself.
I had to bite back a groan. “You’re kidding.” I said, pointing to Rowan, who buried his head in his knees and blew a raspberry. “Does he look and act like our leader right now?!”
“It’s Rowan, Josie.”
“He’s a liability.”
“He’s our friend! Wouldn’t Rowan do the same?”
Yes, he would. But. He would also realize we’re lost causes.
“Gag him with something.” I said. “If he makes any more noise, we’re dumping him.”
“He’s a kid!”
“Just the mind of one.”
I don’t know how animal crackers worked, but his age seemed to be progressively younger. This time he just sat with wide eyes watching us.
Harry almost tore apart the place looking for means of communication, before an old fashioned ringing sound made me jump.
“What was that?” Harry turned to me with his lip curled.
“How am I supposed to know?!” I hissed. “Keep looking!” But when I ducked under the table, my hands crawled under the desk, finding a wire—and attached to that, an ancient looking phone which looked straight out of a 1940’s movie, a bright green rotary phone.
Hesitantly, I answered it, lifting the phone to my ear. “Hello?”
“Did you awaken the subjects, Agent Salta?"
The voice on the other end was a woman, an oldish sounding woman with the tinge of a British accent.
“What?” I shot a look at Harry before shaking my head. “No. My name is Josie Greenfield. We’re at Camp Redwood, and we need help.”
The woman paused.
“Where is Agent Salta?” She cleared her throat. “This line is reserved for communication with agents only.”
“I don’t know who the fuck you’re talking about!" I squeaked out. “My name is Josie, and whatever is happening here, we need help!”
“Josie. Did you awaken the subjects?”
I paused after a moment, shooting Harry a look when he tried to take the phone off of me. “Yes.”
“And… are our agents unavailable?”
“I don’t understand.”
“When a health and safety breach is activated, our agents are awakened to deal with the Project Spearhead subjects if they were to ever go rogue, or become conscious enough to think. Josie, can you tell me what is in front of you? Describe it to me.”
I held my breath. Next to the hidden phone under the desk was what looked like mismatched wires, all of which had been severed. I lowered myself slowly, poking at mess. “Wires. I see… cut up wires.” I whispered. “Does this mean they know about you?”
She hummed. “Ah…That makes sense. The only way to activate our sleeper handlers would be to send out the signal. You appear to have been sabotaged. Unless activated manually, our agents cannot help you. I am sorry. They are your problem now.” The woman paused.
“If I were you, I would hope and pray they have not sabotaged the self-destruct. If you find that, then you may be able to save yourselves and find peace.” She cleared her throat. “Thank you for your service, Josie Greenfield.”
“Wait.” I managed to get out. “Wait, no! You can’t just… you can’t leave us! We need help!”
I found myself yelling at nothing when the phone went dead. The dull tone of the dead ringtone was clanging in my ears before footsteps from up above. “Fuck this.” Harry picked up a lead pipe. “They’re still little kids, right? I mean, their head must still be partly kids—- so let’s fucking beat their heads in.”
He noticed something, then, starting forwards towards the mess of files I had left earlier. Harry knelt on the ground and picked up Eli’s file, his eyes wide. But he wasn’t staring at the dates confirming the little boy’s age.
Instead, Harry pointed at the bottom of the file. “I don’t want to freak you out, Josie,” he whispered. Initially, I didn’t know what he was trying to show before I glimpsed notes scrawled at the bottom of the file, followed by a signature. “But I’m pretty sure that is my fucking writing.”
Harry was right.
I pulled the paperwork off of him, flicking through each file before turning my eyes to him. “Who the fuck are you?”
A clanging sound from above broke the tension, and whatever Harry was about to reply with was strangled in his throat. He slammed a hand over his mouth.
“Guys?”
The voice twisted me up inside, threatening to release a shriek from my mouth I had managed to clamp shut.
Teddy.
“Are you down here?” His voice was strained, and had an odd tone to it. “I can’t… I can’t see you.”
…
Can someone please tell me what the fuck is going on?! It’s been a blur of a week. We’ve managed to stay down here, surviving off of Allison’s rations. Rowan isn’t getting any better. He seems to have stopped mentally de-ageing at the age of maybe six. Harry has spent the last few days trying to get in contact with anyone, but it’s like they are IGNORING US.
I’ve been looking through everything I can find on Project Spearhead, but nothing points to Harry being involved. So. How is his signature all over the files? How is it possible that two friends I thought I knew several days ago, are now complete strangers?
Teddy keeps coming back.
He’s crying out to us.
I think he’s… in pain.
My god, I can’t stand this anymore. Please. CAMP REDWOOD NEEDS HELP.

A few months back, I started following a Facebook group for fans of a certain nail polish brand. I wanted to start painting my own nails instead of spending $$$ for the salon, and since I already own many of this brand's polishes, I joined to get inspiration and cool ideas.
However, I ended up leaving the group due to the sheer amount of excessive buying on display. People proudly boasting about owning every polish the brand has ever made (nearly 200 polishes), and talking about spending most of their paycheck on the brand. Women talking about lying to their husbands about much they've spent on nail polish, or hiding their packages when they arrive so their husbands won't find out they've ordered more. Or talking about using Pay in Four to finance multiple purchases.
And all of this is actively encouraged by the other group members! When I first saw a comment of a woman talking about lying to her spouse/hiding packages, I expected to see responses telling her how unhealthy that behavior is, and how it's a sign of shopping addiction. Nope. Every comment was:
"Girl same"
"Lol, I hide my packages in the closet and sneak away to open them later"
Etcetera.
Not one person is pointing out how these are harmful habits that could eventually land them in major debt, or cause a ruined relationship.
A while back, someone made a post asking the group members which polish they should choose from a selection of two very similar shades. Everyone in the comments was telling them "you need both!"
The brand is also constantly releasing new collections of polish. When a collection comes out, everyone buys the whole collection instantly and makes a million posts raving about it. Then when the next collection comes out, everyone forgets about the previous collection that just came out like two weeks ago, and goes to buy the new one and make a million posts about how it's amazing and you have to go buy it.
As a (mostly) recovered shopping addict who is still paying off debt from the height of my addiction, it was way too upsetting. The fact that people are practically bankrupting themselves, developing compulsive spending issues, and lying to their loved ones-all for some bottles of nail polish. Just little bottles of glittery liquid that will likely sit on a shelf gathering dust.
I don't really know how to conclude this post. I just hate brands and I hate cosmetic companies telling women that we need to give up our financial freedom in exchange for a bunch of colored powders, creams, and liquids.

So I’ll start off by saying I am a fidgeter. If there is a napkin on a table, I’ll will tear it up, if there is something on the table I will tap it, if there is a receipt I will twist it up, etc. I find nail biting itself to be highly satisfying for this same reason. Something about successfully pulling off the end of a nail gives maybe a feeling of accomplishment or control. I am not quite sure how to further describe it. If anyone knows what I am talking, let me know if they relate and can better describe it.
More importantly, I am trying to understand how to best replace this. Has anyone had any success with replacing the habit that stems from this?

Hello beautiful community ,
I just saw an interesting post today, seeing how our generation will inherit the most wealth we've ever experienced in the years to come , I would like to share this plan of action :
My name is Alex , I've been a financial advisor for the last decade. If you got an inheritance of a large amount you should try this :
- If you know nothing of banking or investing , bring someone you trust who is competent for this :
- Go see the 3-5 largest banks ask them to set you up with their best private bankers.
- Ask them to set you up a plan for life return on investments - Normally you can expect a bank to produce a 5% return on the safer side each year with all fees paid. Meaning 50k$ year return on 1M dollars ( if you have more, good for you ).
- Do all 3 appointments and take 1 more appointment with each one of them again and tell them eachothers plan for you. They will fight tooth and nail to have you as their customer.
Tell me if you like this plan,
Hope this helps,
Alex

Never. It’s never happened before. Some torontology folks are saying it’s normal for men because they don’t know where they stand. You’re either straight or you’re not. Straight men don’t wear nail polish, we don’t wear dresses and thongs, we don’t wear purses, and heels. North American metrosexual men might do that but straight men worldwide don’t engage in this business. Only in the west will you see a man buy a full on Chanel women’s purse or Hermes Birkin bag talking about “drip”. Only thing dripping is that nyash between your legs partner. When you drive you’re either in the lane going forward or the opposite lane going the other way. This is the way of life. Then there’s Brampton where they drive into oncoming traffic. Those are the bisexuals, they don’t know which way they’re going they’re just going. I felt like DJ Khaled when I seen Drake come out with his nails painted it, in my best Khalid voice “it breaks my heart!”
I watched drake go from legendary inspirational Toronto moments making it out and ending up on bridal path to him chilling with lil yachty and go down bridal path trying to be a bride with them nails. There’s nothing gay about getting a manicure or pedicure that’s hygienic but painting your nails like women do, with colours? The only thing to address this coonery is 20 lashes and 100 for lil yachty for bringing this culture to Toronto and I don’t mean womens lashes when I say that even though I secretly believe lil yachty would like it

What's this, a weapon tier-list more than a decade after the game is published?
Yes.
I have Dead Space on the brain and I misspent many hours of my young adulthood on this game, so please suffer through my autism rant. My truth yearns to be told. I've stress-tested solo runs of every weapon back in the day and ran them through the Transit Hub fight as a testing ground to learn all the mechanics. And it needs escape after being penned-up for a decade. I love this franchise.
What's surprising about Dead Space 2 is that most of the guns are actually viable and fun. So even guns lower down on the list can comfortably beat the game if you know what you're doing. And there are very few actual truly bad weapons.
That said, here we go:
#1 Pulse Rifle (S-tier)
Best gun in Dead Space 2. Blasphemy. I know, I know, I love Plasma Cutter as much as the next guy, but after many many many playthroughs in Hardcore and Zealot, I have to narrowly award this the best gun.
Plasma Cutter is almost as good as the Pulse Rifle, but Pulse Rifle has a grenade launcher. So it has a built-in panic button that can just delete Necromorphs in a hurry. And like the cutter, has infinite range, fast reload, good damage and ammo capacity.
With the Cutter, I just leave it on horizontal cutting 100% of the time and never interact with the alternate fire mode. So the simple fact that there is a nuclear option on the Rifle puts it over.
You can animation cancel the Pulse Rifle to interrupt the burst to only fire one bullet. You do this by starting the firing animation then dropping the ADS midway. So you can always get pinpoint precise one-bullet shots doing this.
It's a bit hard to pull off under stress, but it's a great way of saving ammo if you have time to pick shots or just don't want to waste ammo on smaller and weaker targets. (The children Necros, for example.)
#2 Plasma Cutter (S-tier)
This needs no explanation. Plasma Cutter is the gold standard by which the other guns in this game are measured by. You can solo the entire game with this weapon and it's entirely self-sufficient and versatile in every situation.
While Plasma Cutter doesn't have a real "alt fire" mode, Stasis more than makes up for it. So that's not a real problem. And even so, it's an excellent gun if you position correctly. You don't really need "shotgun" support because the Cutter really is just that strong on its own.
#2 Javelin Gun (S-Tier)
The Javelin is just straight-up the superior version of the Seeker Rifle in every way. There's no tunnel-vision from scoping. It has pinpoint accuracy, high damage and high rate of fire. You can just kill Necromorphs by double-tapping Necromorphs in the chest. Weaker types just die in one-hit when fully upgraded. Also, it's ammo is stupidly cheap.
On top of that, its alt-fire mode electrifies the last javelin you fired and then detonates it. So it's also an AOE explosive. You can also animation-cancel javelins to get them to detonate prematurely by firing another spear off.
Basically: This gun is just about spamming death spears without caring about cutting off the limbs mechanic. If one spear doesn't kill it, then two or three will. Who cares? High ROF and cheap ammo. If you somehow have terrible aim, don't worry, just buy more.
The only reason it isn't higher on this list is because it has a low magazine capacity and its just a bit awkward to deal with swarm enemies. But it's still an S-tier gun. It's entirely self-sufficient and can deal with any situation in the game.
#3 Force Gun (A-Tier)
I'm dropping this gun down to A-Tier for a couple reasons.
First, it's not entirely self-sufficient. There are a few cutscene events where this gun will not do any damage. So you're forced to complement it with other weapons as companions to get through those parts.
Second, it has inferior range to every gun in S-tier. It's still very good range. It just isn't theoretically infinite.
But all that aside, it's a very comfy space shotgun. The primary fire zones enemies in your face and the secondary fire is a large blast that goes up to a good distance and does good amounts of damage. It's very forgiving and bypasses the need to aim at specific limbs. Counterintuitively, the primary fire is the utility while the secondary is the actual damage.
There is a bit of a charge delay to fire off the secondary, but I haven't found this to be a real drawback in actual stress-testing in gameplay. It's an easy weapon use to get excellent results.
#4 Flamethrower (A-Tier)
Yes. Flamethrower is a weapon players have been sleeping on. Yes it's better than everything lower on the list. Mald. Like the Force Gun, this weapon excels in medium to close ranges.
And by medium range, it's further than you think. The mistake most players (and myself) have made is that you underestimate its reach. It goes out a good distance so you need to fire a little early.
It like the Force Gun and Javelin gun doesn't care about aim. Just wash it over everything in reach and you will stunlock everything to death in a pretty short amount of time, even in Zealot. It's very good at zoning and controlling everything in reach. It has high capacity so you don't feel it's "wasted" on weaker enemies.
The alt-fire also throws a fire bomb canister as an AOE explosive. And it will pretty much one-shot most enemies. That said, it's strictly just a worse version of the the Pulse Rifle grenade because it doesn't detonate on impact, bounces for a bit and is a bit slow to fire and reload. Still, it's nice that you have the option.
Another downside is that it's not self-sufficient in all cut-scenes so you will have to companion it some of the time.
#5 Seeker Rifle (B-Tier)
This gun is extremely fun to use, but has a high skill ceiling to get the same results as better guns. You have to just completely change your playstyle altogether to solo-run the entire game with this.
It's good in all situations theoretically, but really really hard to master. It has a medium rate of fire, low magazine cap and high damage. You can just body shot enemies to death because it does so much damage. The ROF is just low enough that you really can't make too many mistakes.
I've figured my way around this by just keeping the Seeker Rfile on full-magnification. I only pull up ADS when I'm ready to acquire a target rather than tunnel-visioning at all times. It's definitely a weird mentality to approach the game, but it taught me to start doing that on other guns since it's easier to maintain peripheral vision if you're not hard-scoped all the time.
#6 Line Gun (B-Tier)
It's just a worse Plasma Cutter.
Sorry, I want to like it, but I don't. It's theoretically self-sufficient in all situations, but its rate-of-fire is painfully slow and its alternate timed explosive is extremely awkward and slow to place. On paper, it sounds like a great weapon, but the details of its implementation suck.
It has a higher skill ceiling for worse results than any other gun above this one. There are a lot of situations where Necromorphs slip in between the pacing of my shots. And that's no accident. Every gun above this one can basically just stagger stunlock enemies with a high rate-of-fire, then follow up the stuns with more precise killing shots at a low investment in time/cost.
You cannot miss with the Line Gun. You have to be perfect to never take damage. And its high damage and forgiving width doesn't justify how clunky it is overall. It's a good gun held back by a few major flaws.
Keep in mind, I just listed two guns that are pretty much AOE weapons and are braindead to the point of never needing to aim. And here? You have a slow gun you have to aim. And on top of all that, those other guns just have better alternate fire modes.
The more precise guns higher up on this list don't need to be precise all the time. You can just hammer the chest of a Necromorph to stunlock it then slowly creep your shots over to a killing shot. Just that barrage of shots will kill faster than you think.
#4 Ripper (C-Tier)
So take all the complaints I had so far and apply it to this gun.
The primary fire only zones a tiny space in front of you. The Flamethrower and Force Gun far outclass it here. It also has a very low damage over time effect and you can lose the sawblade if you're hit by an enemy.
So yeah, you lose your defensive zoning if you're hit. The number of times I've had an enemy just jump past my sawblade to hit me is too numerous to count. This is not an issue with the other short-range guns.
It's alt fire is theoretically mid-ranged projectile. Just inferior in every way to every other gun above this one. Line Gun sweeps a larger area without any projectile drop off. Javelin has high ROF, pinpoint accuracy and raw damage. Flamethrower just blankets a cone that you can sweep back and forth while stunlocking anything caught by it. Force Gun has better AOE hitscan coverage.
This gun is the most overrated gun in the Dead Space fandom. It's a fun gun but it's just a security blanket for bad players. A crutch. I almost want to put it lower on the list out of spite, but it's technically viable without wanting to pull out all your teeth.
Oh and it's not self-sufficient because it won't work in all cutscenes. Just to add insult to injury.
#5 Contact Beam (D-Tier)
It's just a worse version of the Seeker Rifle and Javelin.
Yes it one shots enemies. But has a longer charge time than the Force Gun, which does pretty close to the same damage in most situations. The difference is the Force Gun barely needs to be aimed.
Seeker Rifle can basically pop off two shots in the same time. Javelin could hurl out 2-3. The Pulse Rifle probably can just more cost-efficiently spam grenades at everything.
Its alternate fire is just garbage. Again it one-shots in an AOE, but who cares? It locks you into the animation to execute and you will and can take damage during it. Stasis is just better in most situations.
Oh and all the ammo is expensive. There's just no point to this gun. Spamming Javelins is way cheaper and does more damage.
Yes, I know I angered the Contact Beam fanboys. I don't care. Your gun is slow and tacky and you're bad at the game. The Seeker Rifle has its faults, but it forces me to play the game like a Zen archer. The same can't be said about the Contact Beam.
#6 Rivet Gun (F-Tier)
This is the DLC weapon. Again, fun for meme runs, but it's just a bad gun. It has a high rate-of-fire and high capacity but somehow does less damage and is less forgiving than the Ripper or Plasma Cutter. It's like the worst combination of every weapon.
The alternate-fire mode is wonky and inconsistent with its physics. Basically it explodes all the nails you've already shot into an enemy, but even this doesn't guarantee a kill. While other alternate fire modes just don't need all this set-up to instantly delete enemies.
#7 Detonator (Worst Gun)
Okay, in fairness this gun isn't supposed to be a primary weapon. I think its intent is to be this minelayer gun that you can use to prep the battlefield.
It's just bad at that too.
The Detonator basically sets lasers in a line. It fires projectiles if anything trips those lasers. Also I think it explodes? It's been awhile since I played the game, much less used this weapon. I just remember hating it.
It will explode if you manage to hit it perfectly on an enemy. But if you miss it'll just latch onto wherever it lands.
So you can't theoretically use it as a direct fire weapon. But it's hitbox is small and you'll miss a lot. And it won't guarantee a kill even if you do land the shot.
As a trap, it just isn't practical. You could spend the entire game mining every vent. But this is boring and unfun. Not every vent will spawn an enemy. And even if it does, the lasers are so precise and finicky that you can't guarantee that an enemy will trip it, let alone die instantly from tripping one.
You'll have to metagame to even use the weapon properly and it'll still suck.

Staked: 193.15u, Profit/Loss: +8.41u, ROI: 4.36%, Parlay Suggestions: 51-21
Scroll down for UFC 289 Breakdowns. Below is just a review of last week’s bets.
UFC Vegas 74
Staked: 18.70u
Profit/Loss: -3.31u
Parlay Suggestions: 3-2
✅ 2u Alex Caceres to Win & Arlovski/Mayes Over 1.5 Rounds (+100)
❌ 2u Jim Miller & Jamie Mullarkey to Win (-125)
✅ 2.5u Jim Miller ITD (-105)
✅ 0.5u Jim Miller in Round 1 (+235)
❌ 2u Abubakar Nurmagomedov to Win (-105)
❌ 1.5u Andrei Arlovski to Win by Decision (+200)
❌ 2u Muin Gafarov to Win (-125)
❌ 3u Luan Lacerda to Win (-125)❌ 1u Luan Lacerda to Win by Submission or Decision (+100)
✅ 2u Philipe Lins to Win (+140)
Once again I was my own worst enemy, making some good reads once I initially dropped the preview (Lins, Caceres, Elliott) but consistently made tweaks in the build-up that sent things south. I really need to be more disciplined and block out the noise once I’ve made my initial conclusions. I remember when I started posting here I was tipping about four bets maximum…now I apparently have action across almost every fight.
Going forward I think I’ll stop analysing each bet in this section, as no-one seems to really comment on that stuff and it just eats into the overall character count.
So let’s get into the PPV.
UFC 289
This is a weird, weird PPV card. I guess they kind of have to have a title fight at the top of the billing over a number-one contender bout as co-main, but to see Mike Malott, Nate Landwehr and Eryk Anders perform before Charles Oliveira…and then Amanda Nunes as the main event, is quite funny. Canadian MMA has been in ruins since GSP and Rory MacDonald left the UFC, and none of the guys on this card are not the one to restore its glory.
I know I say it every time the PPV event rolls around, but MMA oddsmakers are very sharp for these higher profile events. Once again I find myself coming to very similar conclusions for a lot of the fights here, so I very much expect this one to be a much smaller slate for me. Definitely a good idea given what I said in the review of last week.
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Amanda Nunes v Irene Aldana
There’s a very loud narrative surrounding Amanda Nunes these days, and it’s a hard one to ignore. Having been in the UFC for a decade and holding a title for 7 years, there’s literally nothing left for her to do. She’s had the big money fights that Women’s MMA can offer (Rousey, Cyborg & the “redemption” sequel with Pena), and she doesn’t seem interested in setting up another fight with Shevchenko (who, to be fair, she’s beaten twice). What else is there for Nunes to be motivated for?
Outside the cage, She’s started a family with Nina Ansaroff, who also retired very recently and has spoken about wanting a second child with Nunes. The Brazilian has spoken quite candidly about her aspirations to retire very soon as well, and I believe that she would have laid her gloves in the centre of the Octagon if she’d beaten Pena in their initial meeting. She had to right the wrongs in the sequel, but a victory over Pena at UFC 289 to make it 2-1 in the series was probably enough of a narrative for Nunes to put her career to bed then and there. It’s a bold prediction, but I have a hunch that Nunes has done this whole training camp knowing it’s going to be her last.
Unfortunately, Pena was forced to withdraw and Irene Aldana steps in to challenge for the belt instead. Mexican MMA is absolutely booming right now, with three champions in the last few months, and the stage really feels set for Aldana. She’s always had very impressive boxing, as well as some opportunistic submissions…but her inability to stuff takedowns has often been her undoing in her career. Given that Nunes has relied heavily on her wrestling in recent years (20 takedowns in her last 4 wins), I think it’s fair to say Nunes should once again be favoured here.
Women’s Bantamweight and Featherweight have been underdeveloped weight classes for some time now, where the same names that were competing for the belt in like 2019 are still in the top 5 (looking at you Holly Holm!). The next generation seems to have broken through at Flyweight, with Valentina losing her last two title defences (not officially, but I scored the first one quite confidently for Santos). Nunes has been fortunate enough to govern over a division that doesn’t have many of those up-and-coming prospects yet, but those on the rise are still training and competing in a modern MMA context more frequently than the champion – which makes me think the changing of the guard could happen sometime soon. (For more on this, I asked a hypothetical question in the comment section).
So, overall, I think there are a lot of valid asterisks on Nunes’ name at the moment, and I think her career is coming to an end sometime soon, if not after this fight. However, if she’s fighting at her optimum then Aldana’s weaknesses can certainly be exploited, and are enough to deem her the Champion as favourite. With that said, I actually think Aldana could more than hold her own in the striking, so I would already be lining this one closer than Nunes normally is…and after adding in the narrative that surrounds the fight I think it gets even closer.
Therefore, I’ll be playing a 0.5u “value bet” on Aldana. It’s not something I expect to win, but I think her chances of winning are much greater than the odds available.
How I line this fight: Amanda Nunes -175 (64%), Irene Aldana +175 (36%)
Bet or Pass: 0.5u Irene Aldana to Win (+300)
Notable Props: I'd encourage you to play Nunes by Submission or Decision if you wanted to play her.
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Charles Oliveira v Beneil Dariush
Oh this is a spicy one. Charles Oliveira holds a special place in my heart as being my favourite fighter of all time, and he’s the fighter I’ve definitely made the most money on in my time betting on MMA. At the start of that massive win streak he went on, you could get a decent price on Oliveira ITD against so many prelim guys, and the underdog prices available against Kevin Lee, Tony Ferguson, Michael Chandler and Dustin Poirier were even better.
But, as we know, Islam Makhachev exists and did a sensational job against Oliveira. Such a good job in fact, that I expect it to be footage that Beneil Dariush and his camp have dissected in great detail.
Dariush is an equally exciting fighter to watch. He’s got a brilliant skillset, but he’s not particularly athletic which makes him a very unassuming fighter. He looks like some bloke that works in HR in your office…not an elite Lightweight UFC fighter.
I think Dariush’s BJJ abilities are going to be the key to this fight, as we’ve seen many times in his career already. High level BJJ is a brilliant quality because not only does it make you dangerous at finishing fights, it also improves your defence and provides the platform for a wrestling based offence. We saw Dariush make full use of this in his wins over Tony Ferguson, Carlos Diego Ferreira (x2) and Thiago Moises, as well as his takedown defence on display against Gamrot. I feel like he’s going to be able to dictate where the fight takes place here.
What interests me is the competitiveness of the striking. If you’ve been watching this sport religiously for over seven years, you’ll still remember when Dariush was thought to have a glass jaw, where the likes of Alex Hernandez, Drew Dober and Drakkar Klose hurt him badly with strikes. I feel like Dariush has had quite favourable matchmaking against that weakness on his recent streak, and Oliveira is potentially one of the biggest threats he’s faced on the feet in recent years in terms of power.
On the flipside, Oliveira is still as reckless as ever, and has been knocked down or hurt in each of his last four title fights. Only Makhachev came away with a win in those fights, because his grappling was at a good enough level that he was happy to follow Charles down to the mat when he knocked him down, and capitalised fully to secure the submission soon after. Dariush has sneaky power himself, and if he is able to land a knockdown on Oliveira then I think we see him capitalise too.
The volatility is going to be massive in this fight, as both men are hard hitters with durability concerns (maybe not in a fight ending sense, but they frequently get rocked). With that in mind, I think any sort of finish is going to be very live in this fight. If not, I think you have to give Dariush the decision winning potential, as I think his ability to find top position is greater than Oliveira’s. It’s enough to make Benny the favourite, but not by a whole lot. I think the books have got this one priced spot on, actually.
How I line this fight: Charles Oliveira +110 (48%), Beneil Dariush -110 (52%)
Bet or Pass: Pass
Notable Props: FDGTD is probably a decent parlay piece at -200 or better
Live Betting Lean: I think the longer this fight goes, the more it favours Dariush due to his round winning superiority.
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Mike Malott v Adam Fugitt
Honestly the fact that I’m breaking down this fight straight after Oliveira v Dariush is hilarious. I wouldn’t even question it if this was on the prelims of an Apex card.
I underestimated Mike Malott in his last fight against Yohan Lainesse, and my take was so bad that I looked like an idiot. He impressed me a lot, and I think he impressed the UFC too for them to give him this spot on the main card.
Malott looks to have really good submission ability, but I’m still a bit concerned that his striking might be a few too many steps behind. People will say things looked improved in the Lainesse fight, but I think that was more a case of Lainesse having no real interest in engaging or committing to his strikes in the early goings (he has become gunshy as to manage cardio). The fight against Mickey Gall was a massive, massive red flag for Malott…no one in the UFC should really be getting outstruck by Gall. That footage was from a year ago though, so there’s a chance he has improved things since then…but I don’t think you can really use the Lainesse fight as evidence of that.
Malott faces Adam Fugitt, who took the ‘sacrificial lamb’ approach to entering the UFC when he was paired up with Michael Morales – who is lowkey a very bright young prospect. It’s important not to judge a fighter by their performance in that type of fight, it’s best to instead treat their sophomore fight as their ‘real’ debut. We saw that with Fugitt, as he dominated Yusaku Kinoshita as a +260 underdog earlier this year.
I was quite impressed with Fugitt in his loss to Morales. His striking clearly wasn’t on Morales’ level, and he’ll have to be careful of Malott’s powerful hands, but he showed decent defensive awareness and had a couple of moments of his own. Fugitt’s a bit too kick heavy for my liking, but it looks like it confuses opponents and actually works well at establishing range. It did exactly that in his Solomon Renfro win.
Malott’s fight against Renfro however, despite only being 90 seconds long, really sums up his abilities as a fighter. He was getting tagged on the feet, but managed to find one moment to land a powerful shot and sinked in a choke in the blink of an eye. He was losing 98% of that fight convincingly.
The big question for this fight revolves around Fugitt’s grappling ability on bottom, and initial takedown defence, as that’s where most of Malott’s win equity is going to be. Unfortunately we have not actually seen him defensive grapple, so honestly it’s impossible to accurately line this fight given how integral it should be. The only inclination I have is that Fugitt’s takedowns have looked really good in his two fights. DC was very impressed with how he got Morales down, and his trips were also looking on point against Kinoshita. He did great work on top as well when he did establish position, and worked his way to a finish efficiently.
However, there can sometimes be a big disparity between a wrestler’s grappling ability on top vs on bottom, which is why BJJ is so important to MMA (see the breakdown of Dariush!). Therefore, complimenting Fugitt’s top position grappling doesn’t mean a whole lot, as he could be atrocious on bottom, and even if he does use wrestling himself he’s going to dive headfirst into Malott’s nasty guillotine.
So in conclusion, you can’t have super strong opinions on this fight, but you can deduce that Malott has more ways to win. If Fugitt isn’t winning via striking, it’s likely he’s not winning at all. Malott, on the other hand, could win with a big shot on the feet, through takedowns and top control of his own, or even from a guard submission on bottom.
Therefore, with Malott being the hometown hero and likely taking all the betting action on the moneyline, I think the books have the liberty to juice his odds a fair bit. -200 is probably an example of that, but it’s not too far off where I’d line this fight. There are still enough unknowns about both men that I wouldn’t be too surprised to see Fugitt pull off the upset, but I think the +170 available on him in return isn’t providing a whole lot of value. Smart work by the oddsmakers.
How I line this fight: Mike Malott -175 (64%), Adam Fugitt +175 (36%)
Bet or Pass: Pass
Notable Props: Malott by Submission would be the bet I’d make at +200 or better if someone told me I had to. Won’t be playing it though.
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Dan Ige v Nate Landwehr
Well it seems the UFC matchmakers have confirmed their position on Dan Ige. He’s a top 15 gatekeeper now! His string of losses to Evloev, Emmett, Korean Zombie and Kattar did put one too many nails in his title aspiration coffin, but those bounce-back performances against Gavin Tucker and Damon Jackson were pretty impressive to me.
Ige is still a very, very tricky fighter to beat because he’s so well rounded, as most of the top 15 at Featherweight are. Ige faces Nate Landwehr, who has been on an entertaining run of form in the UFC – beating the likes of Ludovit Klein, David Onama and Austin Lingo. Whilst running through his record, it is important to note he went to a close decision in a striking bout against Darren Elkins, and also lost to Herbert Burns and Julian Erosa.
As I say quite often in higher level FeatheBantam/Fly-Weight breakdowns, they’re very tricky divisions to identify skill gaps in. The elite in the division are all very well-rounded offensively and defensively, so it often feels like you’re splitting hairs when you’re trying to find attributes that favour one fighter over the other.
The same can kind of be said here, except Dan Ige has the much better record in terms of actual wins and overall experience. If I imagine Nate Landwehr competing against Ige’s last eight opponents, I genuinely think he might win 1 or 2 of them…whilst Ige has won 4, not been finished in any of the losses and given a good account of himself on each scorecard (except the Evloev loss).
So honestly, the only real thing I feel I can reference here in terms of differentiating between both men is ‘levels’…but I genuinely think that’s enough for Ige to be about -200 here. You can’t go any further than that because this fight should still be reasonably competitive, but given what Ige has done to the opponents he’s stepped down in competition for (Damon Jackson, Gavin Tucker), I think you can have a certain degree of confidence that he should find that extra 10% to clearly win this fight. That equates to around -175 in my mind.
How I line this fight: Dan Ige -175 (64%), Nate Landwehr +175 (36%)
Bet or Pass: Pass
Notable Props: Ige ITD could be of some interest, as he’s started showing real power in his hands, and Landwehr is quite finish-able in his losses.
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Marc-Andre Barriault v Eryk Anders
Eryk Anders is one of the most frustrating guys to watch. He had so much athleticism and decent skills, but just doesn’t put his best foot forward. Barely any evolution to his game, poor fight IQ…but the occasional glimmers of potential – enough to stop you from writing him off despite his constant underdelivering.
Marc-Andre Barriault is kind of the opposite really. He’s a jack-of-all-trades, master of none…but he will do everything in his power to maximise his advantages to turn the fight in his favour. He isn’t a physical specimen and doesn’t really have much power…but he can hustle hard for 15 minutes and use a mixture of striking, takedowns and clinch work to win rounds.
Anders has actually had some of his better performances in recent fights, looking in great shape and form against Kyle Daukaus, arguably beating Jun Yong Park by decision, and outpoint + KO’ing Darren Stewart (x2) beforehand.
If this fight was happening two years ago, MAB would be like -200 here due to his reliability to out-hustle Anders, but his recent performances have been a little bit lacklustre (Hernandez ragdolled him and Chidi Njokuani folded him like a deckchair). Couple that with the fact that Anders FINALLY looks to be growing into the potential he’s always been on the cusp of with a recent change in training camp…I think you’re looking at a closely lined fight here.
I predict this one ends up being a 29-28, possibly split decision type of fight. One man has activity whilst the other has power. The subjectivity of judging will be in full effect and everyone will call this one a robbery, depending on who they bet on.
How I line this fight: Marc-Andre Barriault +100 (50%), Eryk Anders +100 (50%)
Bet or Pass: Pass
Notable Props: Barriault by Decision would probably be my preferred choice.
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Jasmine Jasudavicius v Miranda Maverick
Miranda Maverick is a Women’s MMA fighter that I hold in very high regard. The back-to-back losses put a real halt to her hype train, but I think she’s easily got Top 10 potential and got robbed against Maycee Barber anyway. I think her style is one that can very easily exploit a lot of opponents in her division. Her striking’s okay, but her wrestling and top pressure are very dominant tools.
She takes on Jasmine Jasudavicius, who has also used her wrestling ability to good effect in the UFC/DWCS so far. Neither woman is a particularly good striker, and I expect this one to turn into a bit of a scramble fest pretty quickly.
Their statures have been very important factors in their grappling successes so far, but for different reasons. JJ is basically a size bully at 5’7 and will have a 4 inch height advantage once again. Maverick, on the other hand, is going to be the stronger of the two during those close quarter engagements, because she’s pretty damn jacked.
I think Maverick should be favoured overall as I think her wrestling is the superior of the two and should lead to more time in top position, but I’m definitely not keen to play her at -275. Miranda’s strengths are also her opponent’s strengths, and facing the lanky size of Jasudavicius could cause her problems when it comes to securing the initial takedowns against those long legs, or keeping safe from guard submissions or maintaining that dominant position in the first place. Also, if they do somehow end up choosing to strike for significant portions, I can’t actually guarantee that Maverick is the better on the feet (reach disadvantage plays a part too).
I do however like Maverick to win this one, but not by the confidence of the current odds. I’m expecting this one to go the distance, but I highly doubt we get a good line on it as Maverick couldn’t even finish Shanna Young last time out.
How I line this fight: Jasmine Jasudavicius +188 (35%), Miranda Maverick -188 (65%)
Bet or Pass: Pass.
Notable Props: Fight goes to decision. It's probably like -400.
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Blake Bilder v Kyle Nelson
There are a couple of fights on this card where one guy is clearly more populasuccessful/in-form than their opponent, but they’re still only around -200 (Dan Ige & Mike Malott are the best examples). Blake Bilder is the third. Before I jumped into research for all three of these bouts, I was instinctively thinking that I could easily want to bet all three at -200, as that didn’t seem short enough by my initial perception of their names. I came away from Ige and Malott agreeing with the line and feeling grateful that I looked into it…but I still think Blake Bilder’s odds are providing a bit of value.
Kyle Nelson is one of those fodder guys. The UFC are keeping him around to give to prospects and home-town fighters in the hope that they can invest in the future or the event itself. Jai Herbert notched a win for Team UK against Nelson on a UFC London card, Doo Ho Choi got given a softball to get him back on track for a card that was supposed to be in South Korea. Billy Quarantillo got given Nelson to put his name on the map with a highlight reel finish..and now Blake Bilder is being presented the chance to extend his UFC record to 2-0.
Bilder’s already fought a better opponent in the UFC when he beat Shane Young in February. We saw a very high pace being set in the third round of that fight, with both men landing 100+ significant strikes across the fight and Bilder also attempting 7 takedowns. His cardio is clearly quite decent, which will immediately give him the advantage over Nelson – who has often wilted in the latter half of a fight when the pace has been hectic.
Bilder’s a very well-rounded combatant, and has great BJJ once he gets established time on top. He’s a bit of a concern defensively though, where he can be taken down and can also get caught with strikes.
Kyle Nelson, on the other hand, doesn’t really seem to know what kind of fighter he is. He’s been a brawler for all of his UFC career, but comes out to land five takedowns and is seemingly not interested in striking with a Doo Ho Choi who has questionable durability. He didn’t do much at all with those takedowns either and actually put himself in danger in R1 by insisting on grappling.
If Nelson comes out looking to wrestle Bilder, I think they’re at different levels in the grappling and Blake should be able to turn things around in his favour. If they’re striking, I am aware that Nelson’s got fight ending power, but Bilder’s been much more patient and cerebral in his last couple of fights, so I trust him to stay safe and look for his openings. We saw him reactively find a takedown off of Shane Young’s kick, and Nelson’s offense is very body kick heavy.
Overall, I just think Bilder is the better fighter in pretty much every facet of MMA except one-punch power and, as long as he doesn’t get flash KO’d, I think he rolls here. -200 isn’t quite short enough, and I expect money to come in on him between now and fight night. I’ve already got my money down, just in case.
How I line this fight: Blake Bilder -300 (75%), Kyle Nelson +300 (25%)
Bet or Pass: 5u Blake Bilder to Win (-200)
Notable Props: Bilder ITD or R3 could be interesting. I'd probably be interested in that if I didn't have a lot of exposure already.
Aiemann Zahabi v Aoriqileng
There was a time where Aiemann Zahabi was considered one of the worst guys on the roster. Crazy that the standard of UFC fighter has gotten so much worse that that statement seems ridiculous now. To be fair, Zahabi did pull off a respectable upset in beating Ricky Turcios in his last fight..but it seems to be unanimously agreed that Ricky fought like an idiot in that fight and actually beat himself.
Aoriqileng is quite explosive and clearly hits hard, but he’s a bit too keen to hunt for the KO and it hurts his minute-winning ability. Against someone like Zahabi, who is quite composed and process driven (how could you not be when Firas is your family and coach), and I see that being a pretty key part to this fight. The big moments will side with the Mongolian, but Aiemann could just put together the more cohesive performance if he doesn’t get troubled by that explosiveness.
Overall this is just a pretty low level fight between guys who don’t compete very often. I didn’t have a whole lot to say prior to watching tape, and I’ve come away feeling equally uncertain of how this one’s going to end. An easy pass when there are more active and popular fighters for us to form a stronger opinion on.
How I line this fight: I don’t really know.
Bet or Pass: Pass
Notable Props: None
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Nassourdine Imavov v Chris Curtis
This one instantly feels like a pretty close fight, solely based off both men’s most recent losses. Imavov getting outstruck by Sean Strickland across 25 minutes was a bit of a shock to everyone, myself included. I expected him to lose via cardio dump, but it was actually just lesser volume, a lack of takedowns being attempted and obviously not landing anything of significance on Strickland.
It’s widely known that Chris Curtis and Sean Strickland are close training partners at Xtreme Couture, which I think makes for an added element to this fight. On six days notice, Strickland and the team managed to devise a pretty genius striking gameplan with disruptive rhythm that completely threw Imavov of. Can Chris Curtis do the same? Probably.
Curtis himself has problems of his own in the striking though, namely that his volume and output just aren’t where they often need to be. I’m not sure whether it’s the managing of his gas tank or what, but he just doesn’t seem able to commit to matching his opponent’s tempo across 15 minutes. He threw the first round away against Gastelum, and it cost him the fight. He bitched and moaned about it on Twitter, but social media’s been telling the guy what his problem is for as long as he’s been in the UFC haha.
I do suspect that there’s a little bit of recency bias on Imavov here, as the guy was a pretty well-respected prospect prior to the loss to Strickland. Some will tell you it was misplaced faith, but he certainly doesn’t have tempo issues in the latter half of fights and should probably have the higher volume across 15 minutes. I don’t see him taking Curtis down either, given the 100% takedown defence and the fact Imavov seemingly abandoned it in his last fight. It would be great if he did though!
So yeah, it’s a bit of a close one this. Off pure skillset I lean towards Imavov at like -150, but the asterisk of Curtis’ team being able to easily design a gameplan against the Frenchman gives me enough pause to not want to pick a side here. I’d be more interested in betting overs, if a decent price is available.
How I line this fight: Nassourdine Imavov -137 (58%), Chris Curtis +137 (42%)
Bet or Pass: 1.5u Fight Goes to Decision (-137 or better)
Notable Props: I think this one goes to decision at a pretty high clip.
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Diana Belbita v Maria Oliveira
My initial thought was “What would compel someone to bet on this fight?”, then I remember I placed 100 quid on Chase Hooper a few weeks ago…and it was a great bet haha! Given how most of my handicapping for this card has seen me in complete agreement with the books, perhaps looking into a lower level fight with significantly less interest could be the place to a strong opinion!?
Nope. I can’t do it. One quick glance at their records was enough for me. Belbita got 30-25’d by a wrestling Molly McCann and submitted by Liana Jojua, whilst Maria Oliveira got soundly beaten on the scorecards by Vanesa Demopoulos and voluntarily asked to stop fighting after 3 minutes against Marina Rodriguez.
This one isn’t good enough to open an Apex card, let alone sit on a PPV. I usually really dislike all the WMMA bashing on this sub, but this one isn’t worth the time.
How I line this fight: No.
Bet or Pass: No.
Notable Props: No.
Live Betting Lean: You could do something productive with that 15 minutes. Lift some weights, make some food, rewatch Ngannou v Lewis instead?
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Bets
0.5u Irene Aldana to Win (+300)
5u Blake Bilder to Win (-200)
1.5u Imavov v Curtis Goes to Decision (-137 or better) (Might not get this kind of price).
Parlay Do’s: Dan Ige, Blake Bilder, Imavov/Curtis GTD, Maverick/Jasudavicius GTD
Parlay Don’ts: Amanda Nunes, Mike Malott, Miranda Maverick

Friday night I (26F) went for a few drinks with my best friend downtown. It was a busy day with work, errands, and i got my nails done. The plan was just to have a few drinks and relax.
We were at the speak easy in the club section and that's where my memory clicks off. Only about 2 hrs into our night.
I wake up the next day with my dad checking on me. He tells me the most outrageous story of me coming home last night. I was so confused I accused him of lying to me and that I didn't think what he had to say was very funny. He tells me I need to call my friend and check my phone.
First message I see is, "How is your chin?" I'm so lost. I call her and head to the bathroom. My face is fucked up. It looks like someone took a cheese grater to my chin and upper lip. I also had tender purple bruises on my knees.
I call her and she tells me everything that happened. She thinks the DJ's friend had drugged me. He was super aggressive with flrting and wouldnt leave me alone/ take his eyes off me. He apparently tried to stop me from leaving the club with my friend and was aggressive/adamant i needed to stay( I don't remember that part). My memory just switched off. Last thing I remember was him asking me to dance and taking him up on it and doing that for a little.
Apparently soon after my friend said I started to pass out. I would just start buckling in on myself and falling like I couldn't stand anymore, just passing out. Apparently I just got worse while she was taking me back to the car. I fell and tore my face up. I have no memory of any of this.
She got me home to my family's house. Tried to get me up the stairs and I started to vomit while on my back unable to move. She got my parents up and they put out an air mattress for me and helped me. I guess I was just dead weight and couldn't move.
I felt dizzy and confused that Saturday morning. I wasn't hungover at all. I have been black out drunk before and this was not it. I thought I was being careful with my drink. My friend took me to the hospital in the morning to get tested. The ER turned me away saying I'd need a police report and since I wasn't sexually assaulted they wouldn't do anything for me.
What do you do to be safer while going out and if you drugged how did you feel? I'm feeling a mix of shame and embarrassment. I'm dredding going into work and them seeing my face and the questions they will ask. I thought I was smart but I guess I wasn't. I swear I didn't drink that much, I know my limits. I didn't want to party hard that night.
Tldr: Was drugged by a guy at the bar. Total memory loss from that night. Hurt my face really bad. ER turned me away from getting tested due to not filing police report and not being assaulted. How do you stay safe and what symptoms did you have? Also was the ER right to do that?

*Watching S2 right now, stopped mid ep 9 (cause I feel like a big sad is coming).
The first few episodes of s2 were a little hard to get through, they were very good but not entirely easy to watch- idk if that makes sense.
Then came the best/most fun two episodes yet, the troll! Oh god! Such beautiful episodes, the acting was amazing and the tone of the eps were really nice too. I loved watching it, especially the second episode of the two (both were very fun but seeing them try to explain to Uther it's a troll was hilarious). The acting was really really really great, she nailed it.
Then came the witchfinder episode who was very good too, in a very different way. He has a solid presence of course and the characters feel well done. Manages to make you feel sad for gaius, who's this neutral person who stood through as people died. Nice ep
Then the ep where author finds the truth about his mother- oh what an episode, I have mixed feelings about the characters but the episode is solid.
That's four continues good episodes and this one with merlin kissing what seems to be a cursed girl who just probably killed someone- ahh me no baby Merlin's heart to break 😭
Anyway- this season felt more solid than the first, I liked the last few episodes of the first season and this seems to continue the same tone and has better actors and writing or when it doesn't it makes up for it with its characters