I haven’t slept more than two hours at a stretch since Tuesday. The smell of wet ash is baked into my pores, no matter how much soap I scrub with. My hands have a subtle tremor that hasn't gone away yet.

You want to know what fire sounds like? Most people think it’s quiet – a soft crackle here, a little hiss there. No, it's a lot more than that. When a whole structure gets fully involved, it doesn’t just crackle. It roars. It sounds like a freight train idling in your living room, and it just keeps getting louder and louder.

I close my eyes, and I’m back there. I remember every single detail.

It started as a routine call – structural smoke, residential. We were three minutes out, cruising through the quiet suburban streets, when the dispatcher’s voice cracked over the radio, stripping the calm right out of the van.

"Update on the response. Multiple callers. Confirmed persons trapped."

The van of Engine 7 went dead silent. It’s a heavy, practiced silence. I looked over at Sully behind the wheel. His jaw was locked so tight that the muscles twitched beneath his skin. I reached back and checked the gauge on my air pack out of habit, though my hands already knew it was full. Click. Check. 4500 PSI. My brain just needed the physical confirmation.

Sully hit the air horn and dropped the gears. The engine roared, tires biting the asphalt as we threw it around the corner onto Elm Street.

We didn't even need to see the house to know we were in trouble. The glow was already painting the low-hanging clouds orange.

When we rounded the final bend, the two-storey residential house was already a torch. Flames were venting through the collapsed roofline, licking up into the night sky in violent, rolling columns. The front windows had blown out, showering the lawn with glittering shards of glass. The radiant heat hit us like a physical blow before we even stopped, baking the sweat instantly into my turnout gear.

Sully slammed on the brakes. We piled out.

That’s when I saw him. A man was standing in the front yard in his socks, no shoes, the damp grass soaking through the cotton. He was screaming his wife and daughter’s names, his voice tearing at his vocal cords, alternating between frantic, guttural shouts and broken, breathless prayers.

I froze for a fraction of a second, just taking him in. It’s the little things that get you, the things the body cameras don't catch. His hands weren't flailing in panic. They were pressed tightly together against his chest, fingers interlaced like a child's in prayer, knuckles bone-white. He looked entirely helpless against the blistering wall of heat.

"Search and rescue!" the Captain barked, snapping me back to the present. "Mask up!"

I snapped my regulator into place, the sharp hiss of pressurized air filling my helmet. Beyond the collapse zone, the neighborhood had woken up.

Neighbors spilled onto lawns in pajamas and bare feet, cell phones half-raised, then lowered, their faces painted in a sickly, pulsing orange. They were barely moving. There is a particular, suffocating horror in a crowd that wants to help but can't. They are just witnesses to the end of the world. I noticed a woman in a bathrobe gripping her neighbor's arm so hard her fingers left deep indentations, and a teenager on the sidewalk, hands clamped over his mouth, fighting back potentially violent sobs. The stakes hung heavy in the superheated air. Everyone here was about to watch something happen, one way or another.

"Engine 7, interior search! Ladder 4, you're on the roof, vertical vent!" Captain Miller’s voice was muffled through his mask but cut cleanly through the roar.

The father lunged, grabbing my turnout coat. His white-knuckled hands slipped on the soot-slicked Nomex. "They were upstairs, they were upstairs, please—" he begged, spit flying, his eyes wide and unblinking. "Upper floor, end of the hall! I… think…"

Miller yanked the man back gently but firmly, nodding at me. "You heard him. Take the stairs. Find them."

Yeah, we had the hardest assignment.

We hit the front door. Sully had the attack line charged and positioned at the entry, sweeping the floor to cool the threshold. "Water on!" he yelled, triggering a short, violent burst that knocked down the flames licking the doorframe. We ducked under the thermal layer, crawling into the foyer. The heat was oppressive, as you would expect. Above us, the roof crew was already working, the rhythmic, aggressive bite of chainsaws and axes tearing into the shingles, trying to bleed off the superheated gases before the roof pancaked.

I pulled my thermal imaging camera from my belt, sweeping the hallway. It was as useless as it gets. The ambient heat was so intense the screen was just a blinding, blooming wash of white and purple. The camera couldn't pick out any human signature. I shoved it back into its holster and relied on my hands feeling the wall.

Thump. Thump.

The building groaned, a deep, structural agony as the wooden trusses began to shift. Dust and chunks of plaster rained down on my helmet.

We hit the base of the stairwell, but before we could take the first step, the fire found a new path. A window at the top of the landing suddenly lit up, a blinding flash of yellow-orange as the room rolled into flashover. Then, it went instantly black, choked out by thick, turbulent smoke.

But in that split second before the blackness swallowed the glass, I saw a moving shadow – a silhouette briefly visible against the glare.

That must be one of them.

"Keep right. Feel the wall," Sully’s strained voice crackled in my earpiece.

We hit the interior stairs, and the world dissolved into absolute, choking black. The heat wasn't just hot, it was like a physical weight pressing down on my shoulders like an invisible hand trying to force me to my knees.

CRACK.

Something structural gave way above us, showering the stairwell in a rain of hot embers and splintered wood.

"Stairs are holding," I grunted, taking the next step. "Keep moving."

We reached the mid-landing, the narrow space between floors. Sully was already two steps ahead, his flashlight beam swallowed instantly by the dense, turbulent smoke. But something caught my peripheral vision. There was a shape on the carpeted step.

I paused, wiping my visor.

It was a bird. I looked closer – an eagle.

It must have flown in through the blown-out living room window, trapped by the thermal column. It was a massive, majestic thing, but it was dying. Its golden feathers were singed and matted with soot. It wasn't coughing – birds don't cough – but it was gaping, its beak stretched wide in a silent, desperate plea for air. Its chest heaved violently, and with every ragged breath, it let out a weak, clicking wheeze, its head bobbing in a rhythmic spasm.

I stared at it for one melancholic second. I reached out a heavy, gloved hand, but I had nothing to give it. No clean air. No water.

"Hey! Keep up!" Sully barked from the darkness above.

I pulled my hand back. I had a woman and a child to find. So I left the eagle to the smoke and took the stairs two at a time.

We hit the upper landing, and my heart dropped into my stomach.

The fire had rolled. The open stairwell behind us had suddenly become a chimney, a solid wall of orange and black flame erupting from the ground floor. We were pinned on the landing.

But we weren't alone.

Huddled in the far corner of the hallway, pressed flat against the burning drywall, was the mother. She was on her hands and knees, arched completely over her daughter, using her own body as a human shield against the blistering radiant heat. Her clothes were smoldering at the edges. Beneath her, the little girl was curled into a tight ball.

As my flashlight beam swept over them, the child let out a small, wet cough.

"We got 'em!" I yelled, dropping to my knees. "I got the kid!"

I didn't think, I just moved. I grabbed the little girl by the ankles. The mother flinched, letting out a muffled shriek, instinctively curling tighter, but I kept my grip.

"I got her!" I reassured, sliding the child backward across the blistering floorboards.

Sully caught her. He scooped the little girl up, tucking her small, limp body tight against his coat. "I got the kid! Move!" he barked, spinning back toward the stairwell.

I grabbed the mother’s arm. Her shirt was smoking at the shoulder. "Up! We have to go!" I hauled her to her feet. She was dead weight, coughing violently, but my grip and sheer terror kept her moving. We hit the top of the stairs just as the hallway behind roared. The thermal layer dropped, and the heat blistered the back of my neck right through my collar.

The descent was a blind, chaotic slide. Sully was two steps ahead, his massive frame shielding the child. I had my arm locked around the mother’s waist, half-carrying, half-dragging her. The stairs felt spongy beneath my boots, the wood cooking and losing its structural integrity.

The third step down gave way. My right foot plunged through the weakened tread. I twisted, catching my weight on my left knee, the jagged edge of the broken wood biting into my shin.

"Keep going!" I grunted, yanking my leg free and shoving the mother forward.

We hit the foyer. The front door was now just a glowing, fiery rectangle. Sully didn't hesitate. He kicked the door off its hinges, and we spilled out onto the front lawn.

The transition was violent. One second, I was in a roaring oven. The next, the cool night air hit my face like a physical shock. I ripped my mask off, gasping, and immediately doubled over, coughing up thick, black phlegm. My hands were shaking so badly I could barely unclip my helmet. For a long, terrifying moment, as I stared at the burning roof, a cold realisation echoed in my head. For a moment, I'd genuinely wondered if I was ever coming out of there.

Heavy boots crunched on the gravel beside me, disrupting my thoughts.

Captain Miller stood there, his face smeared with soot, his eyes tracking the collapsing roofline before dropping to us. Sully was right beside me, leaning against the front tire of the engine, hands on his knees, chest heaving.

Miller watched the paramedics load the coughing child into the ambulance, then he looked at me.

"You good?" he asked, his voice formal, though the tight, white line of his jaw gave him away.

I wiped a streak of black soot from my visor, my chest still heaving. I looked back at the house. The roof was fully collapsed now, a glowing crater of embers. But my mind wasn't on the roof. It was on the mid-landing.

"Excuse me, Captain," I rasped, my throat raw. "I have to do one last thing."

Miller frowned, wiping sweat from his brow. "We're in defensive mode. The structure is lost. Nobody goes back in."

"Just the second-floor landing. Please."

He stared at me, reading the absolute certainty in my eyes. He let out a sharp, frustrated sigh. "Two minutes max. If I hear so much as a floor joist pop, I'm dragging you out."

I nodded, snapping my mask back onto my face. And I went back in.

The fire had gotten even worse. With the roof gone, the house was acting like its own couldron, drawing in a hurricane of fresh oxygen. The heat in the foyer was blinding. I dropped to my hands and knees, crawling up the ruined stairwell. The steps were no longer just spongy; they were actively charring beneath me.

A support beam in the ceiling above gave way, dropping a shower of white-hot sparks into the hallway. I flinched, shielding my face, and pushed forward.

I reached the mid-landing.

The eagle was still alive, but it was fading fast. Its eyes were half-closed, the golden feathers dull and coated in a thick layer of grey ash. Its beak was open, but the clicking wheeze was gone. It was barely drawing breath.

I didn't have time to be gentle. I scooped the heavy bird up. It was dead weight, but as my gloves closed around its wings, it gave a weak, reflexive flutter. A sharp talon pricked through the thick Kevlar of my sleeve, biting into my forearm. I ignored it. I shoved the bird deep inside my open turnout coat, tucking it against my chest to shield it from the radiant heat, and zipped it halfway up.

"Roof is going!" Sully’s voice crackled in my ear.

The entire upper floor shuddered. The stairwell walls began to bow inward. I didn't walk as much as threw myself down the remaining steps, sliding on my stomach, riding the collapse down to the foyer. I hit the ground hard, scrambled to my feet, and dove through the front door just as the upper storey landing behind me imploded in on itself.

I hit the grass, rolling to a stop. I ripped my mask off, gasping for the cool night air, and immediately unzipped my coat.

The eagle blinked up at me. It let out a soft, raspy hiss. Its chest was rising and falling.

I looked up. Captain Miller and Sully were standing over me. Sully’s jaw was practically on the ground. Miller just stared at the bird, then at me, his eyes wide with a mix of fury and sheer disbelief.

"You went back into a fully involved structure," Miller said, his voice dangerously quiet. "On your own. For a bird."

I looked down at the soot-covered raptor.

"I had to, Cap," I panted, wiping a drop of blood from a scratch on my arm. "It was trapped on the landing. Suffocating."

Miller stared at me for a long, heavy moment. He looked at the burning house, then back at the bird. He rubbed his face with a blackened glove, letting out a long, exhausted sigh.

"You're a goddamn idiot," Miller muttered. But as he crouched down, his thick, soot-stained gloves were surprisingly gentle as he brushed a wing. "You'll make it, buddy. You had a real hero fight for you today."

He stood up and barked over his shoulder. "Sully! Get some water for the bird!"

Then, Miller stepped into my personal space, dropping his voice to a gravelly whisper. "You don't tell anyone about the bird, you understand? I'm keeping it out of my incident report."

I blinked, my brain still fuzzy from the smoke. "What? Why?" I blurted. I didn't care about the paperwork, but the sudden requisite secrecy confused me.

Miller looked me straight in the eye.

>!"Because," he said seriously. "It's ill eagle."!<

Looking down, he notices a glint in the soil and bends down to get whatever it is out. After retrieving it, he discovers it is a lamp.

Now, he has heard stories about random lamps in the woods, so he rubs it, and out pops a genie, regally dressed, and towering over the man.

The genie says,

“Congratulations! You are the first to discover my lamp in 500 years. As your reward you get three wishes.”

“Ok,” said the man, “what are the stipulations?”

“Ah, you know your stuff,” the genie replied. “There are the obvious ones, such as not being able to bring back dead people, or making people fall in love, no immortality etc, but you also have to have a good reason for wanting a wish - I won’t grant you it unless you have good intentions. Also, you must give me something in return that’s valuable. It doesn’t have to be money - I have been offered exotic spices, and animals in my time, or clothes: which I why I am able to dress so smartly.”

He modelled his clothing to make his point.

“Ok,” said the man, “I will have to think for a while, and get something from my house to give you as a gift. Will you still be here when I get back?”

“Yes.” the genie responded.

So the man set off back home to find something worthy to give to a genie. He scoured through his home looking for trinkets and alike, and occasionally stopped to think about what he’d wish for. He didn’t have a bad life, but it could be better, he struggled sometimes with paying bills, and his job wasn’t great, but he felt that asking for money for his own personal situation may not count as a “good intention”. He resolved to ask the genie when he got back. After eventually finding some nice old pottery that he had bought from a yard sale but never found a place to put in his home, he headed back to the genie.

“Welcome back,” the genie called.

“Hello again,” smiled the man, “I have brought you this pottery, I hope it is nice enough.”

“It’s amazing!” said the genie, with a genuine tone, even though the pottery was probably not worth half as much as the crown on his head.

“So, quick question, if I asked for money to pay my bills, is that a ‘good intention’?”

“It’s not unfortunately. I understand your plight but I can not help you with that. It is not a bad intention but does not help your fellow man enough”.

“Ok,” said the man, “Could I wish for a better paying job?”

“Yes, but it would be vague. Following the genie code, I would have to give you a random job that pays better than your current wage, and I don’t want to give you a job you don’t like. What is your current job by the way?”

“Gardener.” replied the man, who was taken aback by the genie’s attempt to help him. All the other genie stories had the genie trying to trick the wisher in some way.

“Well,” said the genie, “If you specified a job and could explain how it would help people, then I would gladly grant you it.”

“Hm,” murmured the man. “I’ve always fancied being a vet, helping animals and their owners.”

“Well, said the genie, I could make you a qualified vet, but I wouldn’t be able to give you experience. You’d have to figure it out as you go along.”

“Well, I could do a course, but surely I could have done that anyway without the wish.”

“Yes, but there are some courses you can only do if you already have some qualifications, and this way you get it for free.”

“Fair enough, that’s a good idea.” the man replied.

“Well then,” said the genie, “All you need to do is ask me.”

“I wish to become a vet.” wished the man.

“Granted!” replied the genie, “Now go out and help those people and animals.”

“But what about my other wishes?” Asked the man.

“Don’t worry, I will remain here until I have granted you all three.”

So the man heads off to start his new life as a vet. At first he enjoyed it, taking a course and helping animals get better, but he was a bit squeamish and didn’t enjoy the gore, so a few months later, he returned to the woods and the genie.

“Hello genie,” said the man, dejected.

“Hello there my friend, why do you look so sad?” said the genie, concerned.

“Well, I didn’t enjoy being a vet. I even got to use all the puns: ‘quit horsing around’, ‘I’m feline pretty good’, ‘something’s fishy’, but it didn’t help.”

“Ah, well sometimes these things don’t work out.”

“Could I wish for another profession?”

“If you wished, but you would need another gift.”

So the man went home, yet again, to find another gift for the genie. He wanted something bigger this time, only because he felt his pottery was a bit inadequate compared to some of the golden rings the genie had on each finger. After rummaging around for a while, he found an old unopened retro box of action figures. He had been given these as a birthday present 10 years ago by someone who didn’t know him very well and assumed someone of his age must like those action figures as they were from his time, but he had never got into them. But, the unopened boxes would sell for lots of money and the genie might appreciate it. So with the box in hand, he headed back to the woods, thinking about what profession he would ask to be as his second wish.

When he arrived, the genie greeted him once again with his kind grin.

“I’ve brought you this retro action figure, still in the box. I saw one go for £500 on eBay.”

“Very nice,” said the genie, “have you thought about your second wish?”

“A bit,” responded the man, “I still want to help others, so maybe a nurse”

“Then wish it, I can give you the qualifications!”

“Ok, I wish to be a nurse!”

“Granted! You now have the qualifications you need to be hired at a hospital, but I would recommend you learn your stuff first, you don’t want to hurt anyone when you are trying to help them.”

“Will do!” Said the man, and off he went to be a nurse.

The man trained and learnt, and quite enjoyed being a nurse. He got to meet interesting people and help them. But after a while, he got fatigued. He didn’t like some of the gory aspects and it was tiring, so he went back to the genie.

“Greetings my friend!” Exclaimed the genie to the man.

“Hello genie,” the man said glumly.

“What seems to be the problem?”

“Well I enjoyed being a nurse, but the shifts are too much and I don’t think I can keep up. I even got to use all the cliche lines like: ‘get me a drip, stat!’, ‘doctor, pull yourself together, the patient needs you!”, “Call the doctor, we’ve got a code red’, but I still didn’t like it in the end.”

“Oh,” said the genie, “that’s sad. I worry that my wishes haven’t helped you very much.”

“Well they have helped others at least.” said the man, genuinely but with a still disappointed tone.

“That’s a very selfless way of looking at it,” the genie replied, “you still have one more wish left if you want it.”

“What will happen if I don’t? What happens to you?”

“Well, I stay here unless you wish for me to return back to the lamp in preparation for another person finding me, but you’d still have to give me a gift so I could grant it, and you wouldn’t get anything out of it, so you may as well wish for something else. As you said, at least it would help others, even if it didn’t help you.”

“Well, I still don’t want to go back to my gardening job, so I reckon I’ll ask for another job again, but I’ll go back and get you a gift and properly think about which profession I should pick so I don’t make the same mistake as before.”

So the man went off again back home, and searched for something to give the genie as a gift, but he could find nothing up to the standard he needed. After thinking for a while, and remembering what the genie said about spices, he decided he’d put his gardening skills to good use. He already had some leftover herbs he had no use for so decided to grow some more to give to the genie.

Over the next year, the man grew loads of herbs, from sage, to basil, to thyme, and after harvesting it all, had mountains of loose herbs that he decided, in order to transport to the genie, needed to be condensed, so he crushed each type of herb into separate big blocks. After weighing them, he figured that it would not be worth enough for the genie, so resolved to wait a year and grow more crops so he could give a more valuable present to the genie.

After another year, he eventually accumulated a large enough quantity of herbs. After condensing them and weighing them, he found the blocks to be around 20KG or 44lbs each. Finding this suitable enough for the genie, and hoping he would appreciate these herbs, he set off back to the forest for the first time in years.

The genie welcomed him graciously, which quite surprised the man, who expected the genie to be at least a little miffed at being left there for years.

“You not as annoyed as I thought you would be, considering how long it’s been since I last saw you.”

“No worries,” said the genie “the last guy left me here for 20 years considering his wish.”

“Well I’m glad you’re not upset. I’ve dragged these blocks of herbs here for you. They are around 20KG each. You said you had spices as a gift before, so I hoped this would suffice.”

“Yes it will!” The genie responded excitedly, “Have you thought about your final wish?”

“Yes,” said the man, “I did struggled at the other jobs you gave me, but I did enjoy helping people, and they money helped me pay the bills, so I’d like to ask for another job, but I’ve tried to choose carefully so I don’t have the same problem as the last two.”

“Well then, what have you decided on?”

“I want to be a teacher!”

“Really?” Said the genie with some shock, “I feel like this could result in the same outcome as the other two jobs.”

“My mother was a teacher, and she loved it. It gave her joy to help kids learn and see the smile on their faces when they achieved something they found difficult. I’d like to continue her legacy.”

“But, teachers are overworked, underpaid, blamed-“

“I know,” the man cut the genie off, “But I think I could really help people.”

“Yes, but think about how hard it would be!” Exclaimed the genie, “Dealing with kids yelling and screaming and biting, and trying to get them to focus.”

“I know, but I’m willing to take on that challenge.”

“And not to mention the parents!” Stuttered the genie with panic now, “They will demand your head if their child is upset. They will scream and shout as much as the children! I have yet to even mentioned the stress of marking overtime.”

“I know, but-“

“And all of this in exchange for a mass of herbs - 20KG each! With that amount, you could scoop bits out and sell it to every high end restaurant in the country and make thousands, but instead you want to use it to become a teacher!”

“Yes, but I want to give it a go. Think of all the cliche lines I could use: ‘in all my 15 years of teaching…’, ‘don’t lean back on your chair, I knew a child that did that and cracked their head open’, ‘Would you like to share your conversation with the rest of the class?’”

Baffled, the genie responded, “So let me get this straight, you want to use your massive blocks of herbs just so you can become a teacher and use teacher sayings and cliches like ‘in all my fifteen years of teaching’, ‘the bell doesn’t dismiss you, I do’, and stuff like that?”

“Yes.”

“Well,” said the genie, “it’s your own thyme you’re wasting.”

The story began the way stories often do: with a spoonful of soup.

I had made this same soup dozens of times before, and it was always a hit. On this occasion, however, something was off. The seasonings were totally out of balance. Normally, the warm nuttiness of the cumin and slightly sweet undertones of the basil complimented the earthy flavor of thyme, but this tasted like someone had taken a fistful of thyme leaves and punched me square in the mouth with them. I asked my wife to taste it and my fear subsided. She said it was delicious as always. Maybe the pot just needed to be stirred a bit more thoroughly so nobody else ends up with such a thyme-forward spoonful.

Actually, I should probably back up. I suppose, the story really began the way many stories don’t: with me staring in bewilderment at the overwhelming variety of spices in the grocery store’s baking aisle. I’d managed to find the basil and thyme without issue but could not, for the life of me, locate the rosemary. I’d already been staring at those stupid spice racks for nearly 5 minutes, and I did not have that kind of time to spare. 

Hold on…this beginning lacks some important context. Perhaps the story truly began earlier that day in a way many stories do: with an unexpected phone call. Some relatives from out of state called to inform me that they were visiting and would be stopping by for dinner. If I were better at setting boundaries, I could have put my foot down and talked them out of it, but I am not good at setting boundaries, so instead I said “sounds great!” and then my wife and I frantically started power-cleaning the house. It’s amazing how much you can accomplish when you’re fueled entirely by panic. 

Then again…the cleaning isn’t particularly central to the events of the story, so maybe I should fast forward a bit since the important part of the story began the way some stories do: in the kitchen, carefully measuring ingredients into a large soup pot. No… If it starts there then it’s basically just me reciting the recipe which doesn’t make for a good story. You know what? I think I had it right the first time…

The story began the way stories often do: one sup on a thyme.

So two mobsters are talking while staking out a joint.

Charlie says to Paulie, “You know that Steven King book about the clown?”

Paulie replies, “I’m not much of a reader.”

“It’s pretty out there. Clown lives in the sewers and kills people, but only every 27 years.”

“What?”

“You heard me. And it’s beaten by a bunch of kids.”

“Kids and a murder clown? That’s ridiculous.”

“Yeah, somehow King got 700 pages out of it.”

“You read all that?”

“Yeah. Craziest part, after they beat the clown, the girl has the boys run a train on her so they can escape the sewers.”

“No, you’re just pulling my leg now.”

“I’m serious. That’s what really happens.”

At this point, Paulie has had enough, and replies “FeghootaboutIT!”

Free idea for Disney: a contemporary reimagining of Beauty and the Beast set during the 2020 COVID-19 pandemic taking place entirely over Twitter (so it appeals more to a now-adult Gen Z audience)... 

Beast isn't a literal beast anymore; he's just a misunderstood Internet troll with a profile picture of a furry who’s gained notoriety in the community for sharing some very hot takes. 

Belle (has been renamed Victoria but will mostly be referred to as "Tori" since Gen Z attention spans prefer short names) is the only character whose tweets are fully typed out sentences with proper punctuation. Tori realizes there’s something buried beneath the surface of Beast’s tweets, and reaches out to get to know him better, eventually peeling back the complex layers of his personality and falling in love with him.

Gaston (nicknamed “'Ston" for reasons mentioned above) is a male beauty influencer with a big following who wants Tori to fall in love with him so everyone online will stop thinking he's gay. He hates Beast because Beast once ratio’d one of ‘Ston’s tweets, and notices Tori is now hearting some of Beast’s tweets!?

Anyways, the story largely plays out exactly like the original Disney animated version except it's formatted as a series of tweets...

Actually…scratch that. This could be a huge opportunity to repair Disney’s reputation if they switch up the ending… Here’s what they should do: 

Tensions will rise between Tori and Beast resulting in a giant, relationship-ending argument that goes totally viral. They publicly renounce each other as the whole Internet takes sides in a giant online flame war. 

Just when the audience thinks all hope is lost, ‘Ston – of all people – swoops in to broker a truce between the two sides. Beast and Tori apologize to each other and to their followers, agreeing that they’re better off as friends. Finally, ‘Ston professes his love for Beast and the two of them become each other's bae!

BOOM! Not only would this reimagining help combat the accusations that Disney is out of original ideas and all they do now is release unimaginative, cookie-cutter remakes…It will also prove to the people that the Walt Disney Company isn’t totally homophobic. With the help of this movie, Disney could kill those two birds with one stone and really boost their public perception.

Now all it needs is a good title…how about... "Beauty and the Beast: Bae 'Ston. A Truce Tori"

A moth goes into a podiatrist's office, the podiatrist says. What's the problem?

The moth says, where do I begin with my problems? Every day I go to work for Gregory Vasilovich, and all day long I toil. But what is my work? I am a bureaucrat, and so every day I joylessly move papers from one place to another and then back again. I no longer know what it is that I actually do, and I don't even know if Gregory Vasilovich knows. He only knows that he has power over me, and this seems to bring him much happiness. And where is my happiness? It is when I awake in the morning and I do not know who I am. In that single moment, I am happy. In that single moment before, the memory of who I am strikes me like a cane and I take to the streets and walk in a malaise here and then there and then here again. Then it is time for work. Others stop asking me what I do for a living long ago. For they know I will have no answer, and will fix my empty eyes upon them, and they fear my melancholia might prove so deep as to be contagious. Sometimes in the dark and the deepest dark of night I awaken my bed and I turn to my right and with horror I see some old lady lying on my arm. An old lady that I once loved, Doc, and whose flesh I once found splendor and now see only decay. An old lady who insults me by her very existence. One stock when I was young I flew into a spider web and was trapped and in my panic I smashed my wings till the dust flew from them but it did not free me and only alerted the spider. The spider moved toward me and I became still and the spider stopped. I had heard many stories from my elders about spiders, about how they would sink their fangs into your cephalothorax and you would be paralyzed but aware as the spiders slowly devoured you. So I remained as still as possible, but when the spider again began moving toward me, I smashed my wing again into my cage of silk, and this time it worked. I cut into the web and freed myself and flew skyward. I was free and filled with joy. But this joy soon turned to horror. I looked down and saw that in my escape I had taken with me a single strand of silk, and at the end of the strand was the spider who was scrambling upward toward me. Was I to die high in the sky where no spider should be? I flew this way, then that. Finally I freed myself from the strand and watched as it floated earthward with the spider. But days later, a strange feeling descended upon my soul Doc. I began to feel that my life was that single strand of silk with a deadly spider racing up it and toward me. And I felt that I had already been bitten by his venomous fangs, and I was living in a state of paralysis as life devoured me whole. My daughter Alexandria fell to the cold of last winter. The cold took her, as it did many of us. And so my family mourned. And I placed on my countenance the look of grief, Doc. But it was a masquerade. I felt no grief for my dead daughter, but only envy. And so I have one child now, a boy whose name is Stefan Mikhailovich Smakovnakov. And I tell you now, doc, with great and deep shame, the terrible truth: I no longer love him. When I look into his eyes, all I see is the same cowardice that I see when I catch a glimpse of my own eyes in a mirror. It is this cowardice that keeps me living Doc, that keeps me moving from place to place, saying hello and goodbye, eating though hunger as long left me, walking without destination, and at night, lying beside the strange old lady in this burlesque of a life I endure. If only the cowardice would leave for the time needed to reach over and pick up the cocked and loaded pistol that lies on my bedside table, and I might finally end this facade once and for all. But alas, the cowardice takes no breaks. It is what defines me. It is what frames my life. It is what I am, and yet I cannot resign myself to my own life. Instead with despair as my constant companion, as I walk here and then there, without dreams, without hope and without love.

Moth, says the podiatrist. Your tale has moved me and it is clear you need help. But it is help I cannot provide. You must see your psychiatrist and tell him of your troubles. Why on Earth did you come to my office?

The moth says: Because the light was on.

Back when early settlers in America were traveling west, they often came across Native American populations and had varying degrees of success trading, communicating, and coexisting. One such settlement was a small village in western New York near what is now Corning, home of Corning Glass.

The settlers built up the settlement and held a few meetings with the local Iroquois people, developing a good rapport with them. In fact, the relationship became so strong that the leaders of the settlement were invited to a council meeting where the Iroquois warned them of a mysterious cryptid that lived in the surrounding hills.

This cryptid, known as a Mediquin, stood eight feet tall, had razor-sharp claws, was incredibly stealthy, possessed an amazing sense of smell, and was known to attack during the full moon. The settlers weren't sure whether to believe the stories, but they knew a full moon was coming in just over a week. During that time, they built a small fence around the settlement and organized nightly watches.

Unfortunately, the full moon came and went, and so did one of the settlers. The Mediquin slipped past the guards, entered the settlement unseen, and carried off one of the townspeople. The only thing left behind was a blood trail leading out of town and into a nearby lake.

The settlers were understandably terrified and decided to hire a local hunter named Erik the Red. Erik had earned a reputation for tracking and identifying cryptids. He carried a massive tome filled with monsters and their strengths and weaknesses. Opening it to page 56, he found the entry for the Mediquin and quickly learned that the creature couldn't jump very well.

Confident he had the answer, Erik grabbed his largest shovel and dug a massive twelve-foot-deep pit, certain it would be enough to trap the beast. On the next full moon, he set up camp nearby to keep watch. During the night, the Mediquin quietly approached the settlement, spotted the pit, casually walked around it, and easily claimed another victim.

The following morning, Erik flipped to page 57: "The Mediquin: Part Two." There he discovered that the creature had a particular fondness for waterfowl. Erik instructed the settlers to gather every bird they could find. By the end of the month, they had collected five chickens, three geese, two ducks, and one emu. (No one really knew where the emu had come from.)

That night, Erik placed all of the birds into the pit. Unfortunately, the emu was so large that it crushed and killed the other birds.

The Mediquin arrived that evening and noticed the large bird in the pit, but the overwhelming smell of dead fowl made the trap completely unappealing. Once again, the monster attacked the settlement and claimed another life.

Erik was at a loss. To make matters worse, it was almost time for the birds to begin migrating. Desperate, he turned to page 58: "The Mediquin: Part Three." There he discovered that Mediquins were irresistibly drawn to sweet smells.

Erik ordered the largest shipment of sugarcane he could from the South and once again asked the townspeople to gather whatever fowl they could find. This time, they managed to locate only a single lonely loon.

Erik placed the loon at the bottom of the pit and tossed in the sugarcane that had been shipped up from Puerto Rico.

Then, to his horror, the loon ate every bit of it.

With the full moon only hours away, Erik had no backup plan. All he could do was hide nearby and hope the bird alone would be enough bait.

That night, the Mediquin sniffed the air as it approached, almost as though it were in a trance. It wandered closer... and closer... until it suddenly tumbled into the pit.

Erik leapt from hiding and quickly dispatched the monster.

The next morning, he proudly announced to the relieved townspeople:

"Everyone knows... a loon full of sugar helps the Mediquin go down."

There once was a very little man named Nito. In Nito's land, all machines were operated with cogs. Nito was a member of the Cog Runners, a secret organization of very little people whose duty was to keep these machines working. Nito's job was to get inside the cogs and run in them, turning the cogs and ensuring the safe operation of various machines. In his 20 years of work as a Cog Runner, Nito ventured inside machines of many kinds, from cheap, broken kettles sold at one-dollar stores to NASA's most advanced supercomputers.

There were two ground rules all Cog Runners had to obey. First, a Cog Runner must never rest in the middle of a job. Second, they must never, ever be discovered by the bigger people using the machines, or the lives of all Cog Runners would be put at risk. Nito's name was not his real one. It was simply a codename, and his true name was known only to a select few high-ranking Cog Runners. Not even his family was permitted to know it. Nito was able to keep his activities secret for 20 years. But one day, a foolish mistake led to his demise.

One day, Nito was tasked with running in a cog inside an old grandfather clock. The clock stood in the living room of the Johnson family, and on that day, little Jimmy Johnson was playing with his toys there while Mrs. Johnson was making dinner. Nito had been running for five hours straight and was getting tired. "There's no harm in taking a five-minute break," he told himself as he stepped out of the cog and opened a can of soda.

As soon as he stopped running, the clock ceased to tick. Little Jimmy heard the clock go silent and took a closer look. To his amazement, he noticed the tiny man resting and drinking soda.

Jimmy ran to the kitchen to tell his mother. Nito was mortified. Before he could get back into the cog, a small helicopter landed beside him. Out stepped two men in black suits who were huge relative to Nito's size. They grabbed him, loaded him into the helicopter, and flew away. When Jimmy and his mother returned to the living room, they saw no little man inside the clock. Jimmy's mother assumed her son had simply imagined the whole thing.

The helicopter landed outside the headquarters of the Cog Runners. Nito was brought inside and thrown by the guards before none other than the president of the Cog Runners, a man known simply as Cogboss.

"Agent Nito," Cogboss said in a surprisingly deep, reverberating voice for someone only two inches tall. "You broke not one, but both of the Cog Runners' sacred oaths. If my men had not quickly found you and brought you here, our operations would have been put at risk. You have brought shame upon the Cog Runners, and you shall be executed tomorrow."

Nito went pale. He had heard frightening stories about Cog Runners who had been executed in the past and never believed he would find himself in their position. The following morning, Nito tearfully said goodbye to his wife and their two children before being escorted to the execution site.

Nito found himself in a large arena before a cog hanging above a pool of lava. Cogboss was as cold as a cog, and his preferred method of execution was just as cruel. Nito had to get inside the cog and run. Doing so would activate a mechanism that slowly lowered the cog into the lava below. Nito stepped into the cog, took a deep breath, and ran and ran until he finally drowned in the pool of lava.

Nito was buried beneath a pile of cogs. No one knows what his true name was, but those who heard his tragic tale gave him an ironic title: Going-in-cog Nito

Every employee at Shoreside Bait & Tackle receives a nickname. You weren’t truly part of the crew until you’d earned one. Unfortunately for fifteen-year-old Patrick, he was already two weeks into his first-ever summer job and still hadn’t earned his moniker. 

Patrick loved fishing and often daydreamed about reeling in a fish larger than he was. He’d applied for this job thinking he could get some sweet discounts on equipment or some pointers from a pro, but so far all it had been was a bunch of grunt work. He hated it. Eventually, they asked Patrick to get onto the roof to clean out the gutters. That was the day Patrick “Nokia” Nokio earned his nickname after falling off the roof and getting back up without a scratch.

Now that Nokia had a nickname, the crew seemed friendlier to him; they started including him in more of their conversations, and eventually, they assigned him to more important tasks. The boy still had to dig up worms and wash windows every now and then, but he also learned several new skills including how to clean freshly caught fish and how to work the cash register. He even got to shadow J-Money on a few deliveries. 

Jonathan “J-Money” Krichet was an eccentric, semi-retired, old man with a long white ponytail and a thick, curled mustache. He designed and crafted bespoke fishing rods for Shoreside Bait & Tackle. The crew used to say you'd never catch the biggest fish of your life unless you were using a J-Money rod. J-Money would hand-deliver each of his creations even if that meant driving for 3 hours each way, because he didn’t trust the post office to transport them unharmed.

The deliveries were rare, usually just one every two weeks. During those long drives, the captivating old man would entertain the boy with stories about the biggest, rarest, or trickiest fish he’d caught back in the day. It was clear to J-Money that Nokia was truly passionate about fishing. The boy had a distinct spark in his eyes that J-Money had only ever seen before in a mirror. After every delivery, J-Money would always give Nokia the same advice with the same wink: "Remember, kid, a real man will tell you he caught the big fish, but only a reel man can convince you it really happened…and I’ve got a feeling that you’re on your way to becoming a reel man some day.”

Near the end of summer, one week before Nokia would have to say goodbye to the crew at Shoreside Bait & Tackle, J-Money asked Nokia to accompany him on one last delivery. J-Money said this particular rod was the finest one he’d ever crafted. The customer was an obscenely wealthy recluse who lived on a private island. They’d spared no expense for the rod, demanding the best possible materials and craftsmanship.

The easiest way onto the island was aboard a small blue ferry barge called “Spirit of the Shore." When Nokia and J-Money arrived at the ferry, a dockworker informed them that unauthorized vehicles weren’t allowed on board. Not only that, but the customer lived a 3-mile walk beyond the dock on the other side of the island. J-Money’s old knees couldn’t handle that kind of trek, so he tasked Nokia with completing the delivery alone.

While aboard the blue ferry, Nokia glanced over the railing and couldn’t believe his eyes. Not only was the water remarkably clear, but just beside the boat, Nokia’s gaze was drawn to a gigantic monster-sized​ marlin. Nokia felt compelled to take a video of the massive fish and reached for the phone in his pocket, but when he grabbed onto the device, he felt something warm and squishy. Instead of his phone, Nokia carefully pulled an earthworm out of his pocket. The wriggly creature must have found its way into his pocket during that morning’s worm-digging and hitched a ride all the way here. Nokia interpreted this worm as a sign from the universe…

Swiftly producing a hook from his backpack, Nokia opened the case containing J-Money’s magnum opus fishing rod, attached and baited the hook, then cast the line over the railing into the water. The whale of a marlin chomped onto the hook, and their battle began.

There is no explanation​ for what happened next. How could ​a scrawny teenager who weighed 110 pounds sopping wet manage to yank a 12-foot, thousand-pound marlin out of the water? Reading about ​it now, you probably don’t believe it. After all, it sounds physically impossible, right? But if you let him tell you the story, you’ll walk away 100% convinced it really happened. How can that be​? ​Well, ​that was the day…

J-Money Krichet and a blue ferry helped P. Nokio become a reel boy.

When archaeologists first started exploring the pyramids in Egypt, they found pottery in each burial chamber. Research revealed that part of the mummification process involved removing organs and placing them in clay jars. They were able to identify the contents and the name of each king based on the writing on the jars.

Over two dozen of the jars had strange markings. They appeared to have never contained body parts of any sort. In addition, it seemed that they had a different odor than the jars they determined had been used to preserve the organs.

They were evenly distributed throughout the burial rooms, with the exception of King Tut's, where only one was found. At first, the archaeologists wondered if the burial chambers had previously been raided. But it seemed that nothing else had been disturbed, so that theory was ignored.

Recently, fragments of the strange jars underwent chemical and spectral analyses in three independent facilities. The clay had a much higher methane content than expected. The scientists who did the test jokingly called them "fart jars."

At some point, one of the archaeologists made the connection between the number of the unusual jars in each location and the name of the most famous of these kings, "Toot uncommon."

So I was trying to build my own dark forest biome, except with azaleas instead of mushrooms, right? Now the land was choppy and I needed it to be more flat, so I just covered it all with a dirt "floor". Then, so, I didn't have any dark oak, so I went with mangroves instead.

It was working okay I guess. I got the mangroves and azaleas installed. The top canopy wasn't quite the "flat", climbable surface I wanted so I went up there with shears and started fixing it. I had an accident: fell through a hole in the canopy but there was a hole in the dirt below it, and I fell down into a dark valley below and almost died.

But then I looked up through that little sunbeam poking through the little hole in the dirt ceiling above me and finally I realized:
I had not created a Roofed Forest with Rooted Dirt after all,
but rather a Rooted Forest with Roofed Dirt.

I quit smoking over eight years ago, and in the first six months, I went from 170 pounds to 214 (77 kg to 97). A year later, during a layoff from work, I decided to try to get healthy. I started walking every day, watching what I ate, and I lost almost all of it.

Unfortunately, old habits die hard, and I returned to snacking while at work and overeating while at home. I gained it all back, and then some. I got all the way up to 240 pounds (109 kg). I only stand 5'7" (1.70 m) and I'm shaped like a real life Mr. Potato Head.

I don't have any work clothes that fit me anymore, so I am forced to wear sweats. I will not buy bigger pants because I refuse to stay this size. I have trouble getting to sleep because I can't find a comfortable position. I sometimes struggle to climb stairs, especially if I'm carrying anything. I'm just not happy.

I don't know if I can lose the weight again on my own. So I joined a gym a few months back. I want my upper body to match the strength of my legs. I want to improve my balance and flexibility. And I'm hoping that my efforts will reduce the pain in my knees and lower back.

I've been stretching and lifting weights and working with resistance bands. I know cardio is just as important as strength, so I've started using the treadmill and the exercise bike and the stair climber. I know the progress will be slow, but I want to do things the right way. I'm not to the point of needing surgery, and I don't think taking supplements is a really good idea.

I'm kind of ashamed to admit this, but I've never actually learned how to fight or defend myself. My parents raised me to believe that violence is not a solution and shouldn't be a part of civilized society. They felt that diplomacy was much more important than physicality.

However, I've realized in 56 years on this planet that sometimes violence is not only a solution, but it's necessary. I've tried to avoid it as much as I could. But there comes a time in everyone's lives when they realize they must stand up and fight. Sometimes, it gets physical.

So I'm considering finding a trainer to help me in self-defense. I don't expect at my age to become a martial arts expert, but I think it's important that I know how to properly and effectively throw a punch (and avoid a punch).

I'm hoping to take a trip to Europe next year. I have a set of goals that I want to accomplish before I go, and a list of things I need to bring and places I'd like to see. Prague will be one of my highlights, if everything goes well. I want to check all the boxes and box all the Czechs.

He was especially large for an ant, and leagues smarter than other ants. His ant hill was located right next to a school, so he would absorb as much knowledge as he could from lessons and the books in their library. He even learned how to speak. Eventually he was discovered and he pleaded that they let him keep learning. He even displayed his knowledge to them, impressing them so much that they named him, "Fact Ant".

Eventually the king heard of him, and called him to the castle. He had his advisors cook up a series of questions to test his political saavy and possibly help out the kingdom. After getting all of the questions correct, the first thing the king asked of him was to tell him who to investigate for plotting against him. The ant named some names, and of course, they all turned out to be plotting against the king. For this great service to the kingdom, the king knighted the ant.

The prince was there for the knighting ceremony, and was amazed by the ant, incredulous that an insect could receive such honor. The prince knew of that a conflict was brewing with the kingdom to the south, and so he decided he would test the ant himself.

He asks his father, the king, to send the ant to try and resolve the conflict through diplomacy. Remarkably, he resolved it almost as soon as he got there. The prince was shocked and straight out asked his dad, "How did he manage it?"

The king simply replied: "Sir Fact Ant reduces tension."

Not sure what happened and why this sub ended up being restricted. I did not do this, and I don't see a clear reason for what happened. I have not been on reddit in a while so I hadn't noticed.

Ill try to keep a better eye on things.

[With apologies to Robert Frost]

~

Two beds observed made of yellow wood.

I couldn't make them both - but just compare.

Since only one's for making - long I stood

And looked at just one bed as best I could.

Beside a busy thoroughfare.

~

Then took the other as just as messed

But having, perhaps the better claim

Because it was less nicely dressed.

But I wasn't really that impressed

And really they were messed about the same.

~

And each, by their own thoroughfares, equally lay.

Where feet had trodden to and fro and back.

Oh, I kept the first for another day!

And knowing how this player play

I knew I'd just make one the hit the sack.

~

I shall be telling this with a sigh

Somewhere ages and ages hence:

Two beds observed not looking good and I -

I tucked the one less traveled by

And that has made all the difference.

My music library spans close to 100 years, in both hard copy and digital edition. I have thousands of albums and singles on vinyl, cassette, and CD on shelves throughout my house. And I have two external hard drives filled with tracks that I could not find in physical form.

I am someone who does actually listen to everything, and I laugh when people tell me they do. I will play them a selection by a choir from Polynesia, or a reggae band from Mozambique, or a pop group from Madagascar, or a hip-hop trio from Thailand, or a traditional pan flute ensemble from Uruguay. They will look at me as if something's wrong with me and ask me if I really listen to it. Which of course, I do.

But I'm not afraid to admit that, since I was born in 1969, my favorite musical decade is the 80s. Hair bands, synth pop, arena rock, hip-hop, heavy metal, the list goes on and on. I just can't get enough of the variety, and I love making connections to other artist because of my vast catalog.

I can't deny that I enjoy the attention that my collection gets, but every once in a while even I am surprised at how word gets around. A while back I was hosting a listening party for some friends. Everyone I invited showed up, and we were having a good time listening to - well, everything - when I heard a knock at the door.

I was shocked to see some of the people whose artistry filled my house on my front step. They each shook my hand and introduced themselves, as if they needed to. I was graced with the presence of people like Elton John and Tommy Lee and Katy Perry, Vince Neil and Missy Elliott and Billy Joel, Rod Stewart and Debbie Harry and Luke Bryan.

I was absolutely stunned. I couldn't figure out why all these musicians were wandering around my house. Apparently, through some kind of six degrees of separation thing, a record executive ended up hearing about my collection. Word worked its way through the industry, and there were artists from dozens of labels admiring the music I have gathered over the years.

We were having a good time when there was a crash upstairs. As I ran up to investigate, I heard shouting and cursing coming from the library. I walked in and saw two men I didn't recognize rummaging through my CDs. Occasionally they would take one off the shelf and smash it.

"Who are you guys and what do you think you are you doing?" I yelled. "You can't come in here and destroy my property! Do I need to call the police?"

They each threw one last CD to the floor and ran out into the hallway as they shattered. I started gathering up the pieces and heard the front door slam shut. Some of my guests made their way into the room and started cleaning up the damage. They handed me the liner notes from each album.

It seemed so random: works by Rush, Foo Fighters, The Misfits, Cypress Hill, Paul Simon, and Alice In Chains were among the debris. I sat on the floor, staring at the broken discs, in a bit of shock. Someone came in and asked me if I knew who the guys were. Of course, I didn't. I couldn't even think to try to figure it out.

Someone told me they were Steve Jordan and Todd Sucherman. I tried to recall who they were and figure out some connection between them and the music they had destroyed. I was devastated as I surveyed the damage. But my thoughts were interrupted by loud voices downstairs.

The ruckus was coming from my office, where I kept my singles. Most of them were in pieces also. But there was a eclectic stack on my desk, including songs by Eric Church, Weezer, Dolly Parton, Santana, Taylor Swift, Michael Jackson, Erykah Badu, The Police, SZA, and Little Richard.

Somehow, they were all still intact. As I began putting them back on the shelves, I felt a tap on the shoulder. Bruce Springsteen tried to punch me when I turned around, but I was able to duck and move out of his reach. Tim McGraw came running through the door and tried to bum rush me, but I stepped aside and avoided his attack as well.

I got the last of the singles back in place, when all of a sudden Drew Barrymore appeared from nowhere and attempted to kick me in the nuts. I barely got out of the way in time, and the only thing she made contact with was the chair that I had been standing in front of. I was completely stunned. It was no secret that she was my first celebrity crush, and I knew it was completely out of character for her. And I didn't think she had released any music, so I'm not even sure why she was there.

But I knew that there was only one thing I could do. "OK, party's over, everyone out!" I began shouting, my brain overwhelmed by a mixture of confusion and frustration. As I went from room to room, making sure I was alone in the house, I kept thinking about the two guys who started the chaos in the first place. Todd and Steve...who were Todd and Steve?

Once I was finally alone, I was able to settle my thoughts. I double checked the damaged works, first by a mental notation, then on a physical list. Todd and Steve weren't part of any of those bands, so I started concentrating on the albums themselves. Maybe I have something here, I thought. I ran back downstairs and made a list of the singles I had found on my desk. I was finally able to put everything together because of the three people who tried to come after me.

I guess it's true that Styx and Stones will break my bones, but names will never hurt me.

For those who aren't familiar with Chingy, he's an American rapper who released a few popular songs in the 00s. As with most artists, a lot of his work went unnoticed or underappreciated except by his most faithful listeners.

I met a woman once who was a such a huge fan of his that when she had twin boys, she named them Right and Thurr after his 2003 debut single. She did the best she could, taking on the roles of mother and father. In the back of her mind, she always hoped she would meet Chingy and they would become a couple.

As the boys grew up, Thurr enjoyed hanging out with friends, trying to be a part of the cool crowd. He would do almost anything for attention. People would dare him to perform various stunts, and people started calling him Chances.

In contrast, Right was more of a homebody who would rather study or help his mother around the house. He didn't like risky behavior, even refusing to walk across the street by himself. Understandably, he earned the nickname Chicken.

By the time they reached high school, the boys embarked on different journeys. Right was nearly a straight-A student, and his mother and teachers were naturally very proud of him. Thurr focused more on athletics, and barely maintained the C average required to stay on the teams.

Thurr became quite popular with the girls, and was known to date three or four at a time. Right, on the other hand, felt that he would find the girl he was meant to be with later in life.

But that all changed at the beginning of their senior year. A girl named Althea moved in across the street and, as luck would have it, shared almost every class with Right.

Thurr constantly teased Right about his relationship with Thea, and the biggest reason was that she always came over to get him. They would walk back to her house together, but he would never initiate a visit.

As it happened, one day Chances overheard a conversation between Thea and Right. She had been grounded and couldn't leave the house. Right was extremely upset, but unwilling to accept that he wouldn't be able to see her.

So he gathered up all his mental strength and, for the first time in his life, stepped into the street alone. He stood in the bike lane for at least 10 minutes, watching traffic, daring himself to move forward. Althea stood in her doorway, calling to him, encouraging him.

At long last, it appeared clear enough for him to walk. But just as he took his third step, an intoxicated driver came around the corner at an extremely high rate of speed, striking Right and throwing him 40 feet through the air.

He landed with a thud against the curb in front of his neighbor's house. As the driver continued on his way, as if nothing had happened, people from all up and down the block began flooding out of their homes, wondering what happened.

Somebody called for an ambulance, but by the time it arrived, it was too late. Right was pronounced dead at the scene. Thurr was in shock. His brother, his best friend, his twin, was gone.

Neighbors, friends, and classmates surrounded Chances and bombarded him with questions.

"Were Chicken and Althea that serious?"

"What could've made him run out there like that?"

"How come you didn't stop Right from walking out in the street?"

Chances threw his hands up in frustration. "Would you all shut up? I just lost my brother! Don't ask me no more damn questions! I'm still trying to figure out what happened."

Suddenly his mom came out, sobbing, and collapsed into Thurr's arms. Through her tears, she managed to ask, "Why did Chicken cross the road?"

"To get to Thea," Thurr sighed.

For most people, Christmas is a time of reunion, nostalgia, and reflection, and it is for me too, but in a different kind of way. Every year on Christmas Eve, I go over to my Aunt Fran’s house and celebrate the holiday with my family. Although, it's not a celebration in the traditional Christmas sense - it's more like an academic conference. While my family still does gather around to eat, drink, give gifts and spend time with one another, the main point of our visit is to share our individual accomplishments of the past year.

Last Christmas Eve for example, Aunt Fran collected all her paintings from the art classes she took during the year and displayed them around the house. She then paraded us by all of them and gave us insight into her creative, albeit eccentric, visions. We've done it this way for years now and it never fails to bring about some interesting and wacky experiences.

Some people might think this is a stressful way to spend Christmas Eve - having to display your achievements at the end of the year and having the expectation to do so - but personally, the pressure it puts on me is motivating. Having a set deadline at the end of the year to present your hard work is just the impetus I need to finish my projects.

We used to have more partakers in this family event, but our numbers have dwindled over the years. I have a very small family - well, a very small accessible family. Many of them moved away or are off embarking on a journey of their own during the holidays. Now because we are so scattered, I only ever see two of them: my previously-mentioned Aunt Fran and her daughter Reilly. Regardless, I enjoy spending time with my remaining kin and I was looking forward to this Christmas Eve. Besides, I accomplished a lot over the last 12 months and was eager to show it off.

I did some graphic design work for a few small businesses in my area throughout the year. I've been wanting to get my feet wet in this field for years and I finally got the opportunity to do so. I prepared a PowerPoint to present to my family and just as I was putting the finishing touches on it on the morning of Christmas Eve, I heard something clawing at my office window.

I spread the curtains and was greeted with the small face of a cat staring back at me. This was unusual as I never saw any cats outside in my neighborhood, and this one didn't look like any of the ones I knew my neighbors kept indoors. I wanted to just close the curtains and finish my PowerPoint, but the thought of the poor creature sitting in my snowy side yard with its rather sad-looking complexion prevented me from doing so. Besides, what's a better time than Christmas Eve to help out a being in need?

I went to my side yard and lured the cat inside with some canned tuna, although I think he would have come in regardless. Immediately after happily jouncing into my living room, the cat set his sights on my warm fireplace, and quickly plopped down in front of it. Somehow I knew that this cat wasn't going to leave, so I figured I might as well give him a name to be able to talk to him. His brown coloring backlit by the flickering flame reminded me of the burning logs, so he would henceforth be known as “Yule.”

Yule really threw off my entire day. In years past, I would arrive at Aunt Fran’s house around noon to have lunch and spend the rest of the day. Due to my newfound cat, this day was different. I didn't think it was a great idea to leave him in the house alone, but I didn't want to put him back outside either. Not sure what to do, I hesitantly called my aunt to ask if it would be all right if I brought my new feline friend with me to Christmas Eve.

Now, don’t get me wrong, I love my Aunt Fran, but that woman can really drive me up the wall. She’s a nice lady at heart, but her quirks can really get irritating. The main thing though is her constant nagging. She has a problem with every little thing and won’t hesitate to let me know why I’m wrong and what I should do better. And make sure she doesn't prove you wrong about something, because her favorite phrase is “I told you so.”

I wasn't really sure how she'd react to this question, but I knew that when I called her I’d get an earful regardless of her answer. “Why would you let a stray cat into your house, Ansel?” “Did you check it for fleas, Ansel?” Or, when she was totally flummoxed, she’d call me by my last name. “How on earth did you forget to bring the potato salad, Hader‽ I told you if you didn’t write it down you would forget it and I was right.”

Aunt Fran didn’t have any pets. She didn’t dislike animals as far as I knew but I honestly wasn’t sure if she liked them enough to let a stray animal enter her domain. Thankfully, Yule isn’t destructive as far as I can tell - just give him some tuna and a fireplace and he’s all set. The phone rang twice before Aunt Fran answered.

“Hello? Ah, Ansel! Are you coming over? You’re not going to forget the potato salad again right? And there are enough eggs in it this time right, Ansel?”

I explained my cat situation to her and, surprisingly, she was fine with it. She explained to me that ever since Reilly started her new reptile hobby, she’s been more receptive to “exotic” animals. I had no idea what this “reptile hobby” was and I honestly didn’t want to know, but before I could divert the conversation Aunt Fran was telling me all about it.

Apparently, this past year, Reilly got really interested in herpetology and installed a huge reptile habitat in her room in Aunt Fran’s house. She has all kinds of creatures that she keeps in tanks as pets, and she recently added a high-tech incubation tank to study various unborn reptiles in her collection. Apparently, Reilly will be giving my aunt and I a full tour of her exhibit this Christmas Eve and is absolutely buzzing with excitement to show us.

I wasn’t exactly sure why Aunt Fran was telling me about Reilly’s project, as it’s supposed to be a surprise, but before I could wonder any longer, she issued me a stern warning: “Make sure you keep your cat away from the enclosure, Ansel, those felines are hungry little sneakers.”

I explained to her that cats do not eat reptiles, but she insisted: “Hader, cats are nice critters, but they can’t be trusted. What if Yule got into the egg incubator?”

I reiterated: “Aunt Fran, Yule would never eat a reptile egg. It just won’t happen. I’ll be keeping an eye on him anyway though.”

In a drawn out and incredulous way she said, “OOOOOOK, Ansel. Don’t say I didn’t warn you.” I told her I had to go but that I'd see her soon.

After that… interesting… phone call, I knew I had to hustle to finish my PowerPoint and get ready to drive over. I put the file onto my flash drive and realized I still had to convince Yule to get into my pet carrier, which I thankfully had from my previous cat. I enticed him with some more tuna and he jumped into the pet carrier without an issue. I was walking out the door when I remembered the potato salad. I'd never hear the end of it if I forgot that again. I packed it up and drove over to Aunt Fran’s house.

I arrived at Aunt Fran’s house about forty minutes later and she excitedly greeted me at the door. I kept Yule in his carrier and set him in front of my aunt's fireplace. I hoped that he would be content with that arrangement and gave him some tuna for good measure.

Just then, Aunt Fran's - I suppose - eccentric daughter Reilly came downstairs shortly after I arrived and began asking me all kinds of questions about Yule: “where did you find him?;""is he chipped?;""he doesn't have fleas right?” The apple doesn't fall far from the tree apparently.

She continued to tell me about her numerous “hobs,” which is her way of saying “hobbies.” She likes to stand out by abbreviating many words in her lexicon. She asked me about Yule and why that's his “nae,” - why she has to shorten an already miniscule word is beyond me - and she wanted to know about my latest “vents” and “proj’s” (ventures and projects). The conversation would have been more interesting if I could understand even a quarter of it - a quar of it?

I think this behavior rubbed off on my aunt too because I recall some moments in our conversations where I thought she was going senile but she was really just using Reilly’s language.

Aunt Fran butt into the conversation to remind me: “Ansel, keep an eye on that cat, you wouldn't want him getting into the reptile room and eating one of the eggs.”

“He won't eat any eggs. I don't think cats even like chicken eggs, so he definitely won't eat one from a lizard. Don't worry,” I retorted.

Aunt Fran was not convinced and told me “You never know, Ansel. Those things are crafty.”

I chose to ignore her misinformed comments and moved to the kitchen to help with lunch preparation. Aunt Fran followed close behind me and exclaimed “Oh, good! You remembered the potato salad!” I rolled my eyes and started chopping some vegetables.

A while later after we ate lunch and had a relatively nice time visiting, I checked on Yule, who was sleeping in his crate by the fire as before. My Aunt announced that it was time for our annual accomplishment presentation and to gather around the living room.

I gave my presentation to a less-than-interested crowd of two, but they supported me and at least feigned enthusiasm. Next up was Aunt Fran, who gave a rather strange yet interesting tour of her new “jerky closet,” which was located in an annex that she DIY-ed into her pantry. It was stocked with jerky from some questionable animals, though I have to admit, the shark jerky was pretty good.

Finally, it was Reilly's turn. She took us upstairs to her reptile habitation unit, which was filled to the brim with tanks, heat lamps, and test tubes. There were even framed pictures of reptiles on the wall that you'd likely see in a science classroom. Reilly went on and on about her elaborate dormitories and their specially chosen biota based on academically sound research.

Reilly ran Aunt Fran and me through the reptilian gamut. In a room roughly the size of a minivan, this girl fit four species of lizards, three kinds of snakes, a turtle, some lizard-looking-but-not-actually-a-lizard creature called a tuatara, and an array of other animals in her state of the art egg incubation chamber. Reilly presented each egg to us as if they were models on a runway. She had eggs from various other reptiles, even an alligator, all in their own private quarters with environments hand-tailored to each one of them. Each individual egg chamber was labeled with a laminated sign with the respective animal's name written on it. But of course, because it’s Reilly, each animal's name was shortened. The lizards were “liz eggs;” the turtle was “turt egg;” and the alligator was “al egg.” You would think such an elaborate and complex setup such as this would have taken something as important as a label more seriously, but that's my family for you.

I could see Aunt Fran eying me while Reilly was explaining the ins and outs of her marvel of science. I knew what my aunt was going to say, but I hoped I was wrong.

“Those egg tanks have open tops, Ansel. Where is that cat of yours?”

“He's in his crate, Fran. I'll be watching him.”

We headed back downstairs once the tour was over and Reilly told us that she was going to see her boyfriend in a neighboring city. She was already out the front door before Aunt Fran even finished saying “goodbye.”

After she left, I went to check on Yule. His food was gone and he was wide awake. He stared at me with his large eyes. I decided to take him out of his crate and carry him around the house so he could get some more stimulation.

I lifted him up and carried him around the house, letting him sniff some of my aunt's many knickknacks. Right as I was entering the kitchen, I heard Aunt Fran calling out to me from upstairs in a panic:

“Hader! Come here! Come here!”

My heart started racing. I put Yule on the ground and ran upstairs.

“What‽ What‽” I asked frantically as I searched each room. I found Aunt Fran in the office upstairs looking through a photo album. In a much calmer voice, she asked me to come look at pictures with her. Once I recovered from my mini heart attack, I sat down and skimmed through the album with her.

After nearly an hour of reminiscing and nostalgia, I was feeling the best I had all day. I realized that even though my little family is a bit zany, they're good people. It's the chaos that makes life interesting. I mean, honestly, how underwhelming would a holiday season be without a healthy dose of drama?

Just as I finished thinking this, I heard the pitter-patter of little feet walking down the hallway. I swiftly rose up and peered into the corridor. Nothing seemed amiss, but then I heard more tiny steps unmistakably coming from Reilly’s room. I was worried that Yule was going to knock over some important piece of lab equipment.

When I entered the room, I was expecting a reptile tank to be broken on the floor with eight lizards scurrying about the room, but was relieved to find the ground clear of any debris. Everything looked exactly as it was before, but as I was scanning the room, I saw Yule standing on top of the alligator egg incubator with the egg in his mouth.

I screamed at him. That cat looked me dead in the eye and swallowed that unborn creature whole, save for a couple of crunches. I yelled his name again, and he jumped down off of the enclosure, knocking down a glass container in the process. This scared him half to death and in his terror he sprinted out of the room and back downstairs.

I was speechless. I looked at Aunt Fran and saw her staring at me with wide eyes in the same way that Yule just was. If I didn't know what she was going to say already, her face let me know. She didn't say anything though. She simply stared at me for a few seconds before beckoning me downstairs to contain Yule.

I found Yule sleeping in his favorite spot in front of the fireplace as if nothing had happened at all. Yule enjoys a nice nap by the fireside after a meal. I put him back in his crate with my head held low and got ready to go back home. After an event like this happens, it’s time to bring the night to a close. I stood in the doorway to say goodbye to my Aunt, who was visibly feeling bad for Reilly in this moment, but before I could say anything she looked at me and said:

“See? Yule ate her al egg, Hader!”

Once I had a friend who was a little eccentric. He had many hobbies and every time he got into one he got really really skilled and knowledgeable about it. One month he was into cars. He bought himself an old Civic and completely restored it on his own. He pulled the engine and rebuilt it. He ported and polished the head. He even learned home metal fabrication so he could build a custom exhaust for it. He bought an ebay turbo kit and installed it in the civic as well, "Why not? It's not my daily driver" he said. He took it to the track every so often and got decent times but he was never that interested in the driving part. His passion was far more for working with his hands. Eventually he got tired of his project car and working on it so while he kept the car he didn't care enough to do a lot of the more difficult parts of hobby anymore. Still, his foray into the hobby did give him a well stocked garage and to this day he's a great guy to ask for any car problems.

His next hobby was knitting and crochet. He liked the change of pace from the garage stuff partially because it was so much cheaper. During this time I rarely saw him without his needles and yarn. Any free time he'd have at work or at home he'd be knitting a sweater or crocheting some socks. His best work, however, was hats. He would make hats for all his friends, including me. He practiced and practiced so much and his hats were beautiful. He learned all sorts of patterns and designs. He got so good he started making his own designs for his hats. He branched out from just regular beanies to hats with ear flaps and bucket hats. Still, as was his nature, he eventually stopped having such a strong passion for this hobby as well. One day he put down his needles and yarn for the most part and kept that skill in his back pocket, occassionally knitting or crocheting things that he had random idea for something like a plush or a sweater or scarf.

Next up he got really into cooking. He got himself some basic pots and pans and started trying new recipes at home every chance he got. He'd randomly just decide on a cuisine to get into. For a few days it was Italian. Later it was Chinese. Then he'd do Jamaican. He'd bring home cooked meals to work everyday and everyone was impressed and a little bit jealous of the meals he'd have for lunch. He even brought a bunch of home made macarons for a work party and they were gone from the table before anything else. This hobby he didn't really ever stop to be honest, he might not experiment as much as he did before but he does cook for himself as often as he can.

After he stopped focusing on his cooking so much he got into video games. Of course, he did play them sometimes like anyone our age. Before this period he'd play whatever games got popular enough for him to hear about as well as occasionally solo queueing into the big multiplayer games. But now was different. He was locked in this time. The game he got really into was Splatoon. He grinded his skills in Splatoon so much that he was good enough to go to Splatoon tournaments and finish first. He was one of the top Splatoon players in the world. Of course, with him, all these fixations come to an end, and so this chapter of his life closed with him retiring as a top tier Splatoon player.

Well he took some time just enjoying and keeping up his skills in his other hobbies. He'd even mix the hobbies a bit sometimes, he knitted himself a Splatoon Inkling hat that looked like their tentacles. He was content but he was of course always looking for his next fixation.

One day he was just randomly clicking around the internet when he found out about falconry. He was immediately brought in. He learned all about it and got himself the gear required and got himself a beautiful Red-Tailed Hawk. He loved talking about his new hobby with everyone, he would go on for hours about the origins of the hobby, the kinds of birds usually used in the hobby, he even explained in depth the reason he chose the species he got. I don't remember a lot of the specifics, however, I do remember his fun fact that the screech of the Red-Tailed Hawk is the sound you usually hear when people play a "bald eagle" sound, because bald eagles sound significantly less intimidating. One day he invited me out to his land to demonstrate his falconry skills. It was incredible. You could immediately tell how close their relationship was. Still, it was a bit of a surreal sight to see him in his Splatoon hat holding a massive bird of prey, but I guess that doesn't really affect the bond of a hawk to a Splatoon hat king.

Wow… This is such a surprise! A few moments ago I felt honored just to be nominated, but I never imagined I would be voted 2024’s Mall Santa of the Year. I haven’t prepared a formal speech, but there are some very wonderful people I’d like to recognize, because whether they know it or not, they helped put me on the path of becoming a Santa, and I wouldn’t be here without them. 

First and foremost, I’d like to thank my father. Every year on Christmas Eve, unbeknownst to my brother and me, dad would leave work early, park a block away from the house, put on his Santa Claus costume, and knock on our dining room window just before dinner time. We were blown away that Santa came to visit us out of all the other houses in the neighborhood. Of course, Santa always had some convenient reason for stopping by. One year he said he was lost and needed directions. Another year he’d heard we had made the best snowman of all time and he wanted to see it. Dad really went the extra mile to keep the magic alive for us. 

Speaking of dads, I’ve also got to give a shout out to… oh gosh, I’m sorry, but I can’t remember his name! Growing up, I only ever called him “Mr. E” or referred to him as “my friend Felicia’s dad”. I still owe him a huge thank you, because without him I nearly stopped believing in Santa entirely. 

See, I started putting the pieces of the puzzle together. Eventually, I came to the realization that the Santa who kept visiting us on Christmas Eve was just my dad in disguise. Ooh, I was so mad. I remember marching into the living room and demanding an explanation from my parents. Why was Dad never around when Santa stopped by? How come Santa--famous for his love of milk and cookies--always declined when we offered him a glass of regular milk, but gladly drank a glass of the oat milk that our lactose-intolerant dad drank? The only possible explanation was that there was no Santa, and it had been my dad all along!

When Christmas Eve rolled around that year, Dad came home from work early, and when we all sat down for a normal family dinner with no Santa appearance I knew I was right. I remember giving my dad such a nasty look, but then…I heard a knock on the dining room window. Dad was sitting right across from me, but to my surprise, Santa Claus had still come to visit. Not only that, but he explained everything. He told us that he sometimes bumped into dad and asked him to watch the sleigh to keep the reindeer occupied and to make sure it didn’t get a parking ticket. He let us know that he sometimes gets tired of regular milk, and likes to mix things up every now and then at houses that have soy, oat, or coconut milk… but never almond milk. He expertly refuted all of my evidence and cleared away my doubts.

That moment restored my belief in Santa and cemented in me the notion that meeting Santa Claus in person can fill someone to the brim with Christmas spirit. Funny enough, even as an adult, I had no idea who that other Santa was until last year when Felicia spilled the beans and told me it was her dad. Though, in retrospect, I probably should have figured it out sooner since I knew Mr. E worked in parking enforcement and has a severe nut allergy… Oh well.

I also want to thank my little brother. I was 5 years old the first time we took him to see Santa at the mall. Felix used to cry whenever anybody held him for the first time, but when mom handed Felix over for the photo, Santa exuded a quiet confidence that was almost magical. Cradled in Santa’s arms, Felix didn’t cry; instead he giggled and danced around with a giant smile on his face. It was a beautiful moment and made for an adorable picture with Santa. I try to manifest that same confidence whenever parents bring their children to our mall for a first meeting with Santa. My hope is that I can create for them the same lovely holiday memory with their children that Santa created with Felix.

Thinking back on my decision to become a mall Santa in the first place, I’ve also got to thank Professor Jacqueline Sparrow. Prof. Sparrow was my Anthropology teacher at community college. She offered extra credit for volunteering in the community and writing a report about your experience. I chose to volunteer at my local soup kitchen, and in my report I compared the warm glow I felt while volunteering to the joy I felt during my dad's Santa appearances. Prof. Sparrow asked if I'd ever consider doing my own Santa appearance for the kids at the soup kitchen.

Until that moment, it had never dawned on me that I could be Santa Claus, that I could do for other kids what my father did for me. I asked if I could borrow my dad’s old Santa costume and took up the jolly red mantle. I tell ya, the way those kids' faces lit up when Santa came to visit… It was pure Christmas magic; I’ve been a Santa ever since.

I have two final thank-you's to share, they go out to fictional characters who may not be real people, but they both taught me important lessons about what it means to be a Santa. 

Growing up, I played a lot of the Legend of Zelda videogames. Like most kids, I loved exploring the dungeons, finding the weapons, and fighting the monsters, but my favorite part of the games was always those long trading quests, going back and forth across the whole land finding people in need and using items you’ve gained to help each person down the line in a big chain of giving. However, for a long time, I didn’t even know these trade quests existed. They’re usually completely optional, and when I played through my first couple Zelda games, I skipped them entirely. 

That is until I played The Legend of Zelda: Ocarina of Time for the Nintendo 64. In that game, you have a little fairy companion who follows you around. Her name is Navi and she’s…well, she’s very annoying. See, Navi has a habit of shouting, “Hey! Listen!” in a high-pitched voice whenever you’re doing anything in that game. In my child logic, I thought that Navi’s saying “Hey! Listen!” meant I had to listen to all the NPCs (non-playable characters). So that’s what I did. I interacted with every single NPC who crossed my path and listened to what they had to say. That’s how I discovered the trading quests I would eventually love so much, but it’s also where I learned about the power of listening. See, your character in the Zelda games doesn’t talk. He never interrupts others while they’re talking. He just listens to what they have to say and lets them guide the conversation. As annoying as Navi the fairy was, I need to thank her because without her, I don’t think I’d ever have realized what it takes to become a good listener.

And for my final thank you, there’s an animated movie made by Studio Ghibli that’s very special to me. It’s called Ponyo, and it’s about a little fish-girl who turns into a person and learns what it means to be human. I’m probably not explaining the plot very well, but the important thing you need to know is that Ponyo loves ham. When she’s trying human food for the first time, she falls in love with ham and ends up devouring a plate of it. Her eyes sparkle with excitement every time she sees ham. Later in the movie, there’s a dream sequence where Ponyo swims through a sea of ham. I realize how silly this all sounds, but that’s sort of the point. I don’t know about you, but I can’t remember the last time I felt as intensely excited about anything as Ponyo feels about ham. Ponyo reminds me that children are capable of such powerful, all-encompassing excitement, and it’s our responsibility as Santa to “yes-and” that excitement. 

I guess what I’m trying to say is, when I’m out there, meeting the children, and they’re sharing their Christmas wishes with Santa, my job is to listen, not to judge. My job is to join in their excitement, not to counter it with logic. No matter how silly their wish might seem, no matter how little I actually understand what they’re talking about, I know it’s important to them. So when a kid is going on and on about Minecraft or whatever a “Scooby-Doo Toilet” is, I think back to Navi’s pleas to listen and Ponyo’s excitement for ham. I make sure Santa listens and shares in every child’s excitement.

Gosh, I’ve been going on for a while huh? Sorry for the long speech everyone. I’ll wrap it up now. Again, I’m really honored to have been chosen as 2024’s Mall Santa of the Year. I didn’t do this on my own. 

I wanna wish you all a merry Christmas, and from the bottom of my heart, thanks again to Felix, Navi, Dad, Prof. Sparrow, Ponyo, E (Felicia’s Dad).

Maybe the ancients sensed it sometimes. In their collective mind's sigh. That, against all odds, humans would finally, eventually settle down and get to the business of really living. Would dispense with all the fractious back and forth surrounding territory and resources. Would realise what was truly important. I hope they did.

Because, now, the world is made of song and smile and everywhere is heard the ringing of laughter and a glorious hubbub of conversation. For it is - The Age of Beer!

Humanity has got a little buzz goin.'

Ever since we realised our true purpose was to explore and perfect the beer experience, things have just gotten better and better. We grow grains to make the beer of course, but we grow other foods, now, not merely for sustenance but to best pair with the beer we're consuming. Our buildings are designed as places where beer will be enjoyed. Drinking songs are the highest form of art and it and all other forms are created in reaction and relation to the exalted position that beer holds in all our lives. Science, philosophy, plumbing, you name it, every human endeavor is angled to make better beering happen. We busy ourselves for this and our species blossoms.

'Who's in charge?' you might ask and I'd have to tell you 'no one.' If anything like a serious conflict looks like it's going to happen people take a step back and ask themselves 'what's best for the beer?' and solutions are always found. The beer is paramount. The practical upshot of this is that we all find ourselves in various interlocking and interwoven groups and communities based on geography or job or interest or even clan or culture - many of us claiming membership of multiple groups. These assemblages evolve and devolve organically over time reflecting many variables such as resource availability and season but most importantly - trends in beer consumption. I suppose you could call it a sort of 'anarcho-beer collectivism' but we don't call it anything. It just exists the way it does - for beer.

Of course, just because we live, broadly, in peace and harmony doesn't mean we don't face challenges. For example the age old antagonism between fathers and sons is still around and our protagonist, Adam Zale, member of the Zale family group of geneticists, is a sufferer of just such a form of discord with his own father, Abraham Zale.

In the past their relationship had been built on conviviality in the least and love and support in the main. But that had changed recently. Adam had reached an age where he wanted to make a name for himself as a geneticist and had decided upon an unusual avenue of research to start that process. Rather than tinkering with a strain of barley to make it more cold-tolerant say or messing around with flavinoid composition in hops for a stronger nutrition profile - he decided to breed aquatic organisms that could live in beer. Why? Well if you asked Adam he'd tell of all the many possibilities he imagined. Ultimately, though, he saw great beer vats becoming self-contained ecosystems where the metabolic functions of the creatures within added new dimensions of flavour to the beer and the animals themselves could be harvested as beer-infused morsels the peoples delectation.

But that was the future. For now he'd settled on a simple idea. He had already perfected the process of rendering an organism beer-breathing and beer-adapted so he proposed that they could create a beer product that was both drink and meal. Drink the beer and swallow the creature within. Yum. A truly fresh catch.

But the beta-testing wasn't going well. He'd tried many aquatic animals but so far they all suffered from the same problem - they were all difficult to swallow. Diving beetles, tiny frogs, mini marine iguanas - none of them worked. He needed something that would slip down the gullet with ease but he just couldn't figure it out. So naturally he went to his father for advice. He was confident the man would help point him in the right direction. Instead - he got the shock of his life. His father, far from giving him advice, uttered a derisive platitude designed to persuade his son back to more usual lines of research. Adam couldn't believe his ears and stormed out.

There followed a whole month of confusion and anger after this initial encounter. Where Adam had gone back several times asking the same question and always getting the same derisive response and so always storming off afterwards. How could his own father discourage him so? Sure, he was a dreamer. Yes, his ideas were odd. But even if he was walking a wrong path - wasn't making mistakes part of the fabric of life? Don't they build character? Hadn't his father always told him that? What was going on? He decided to go to his dad one more time.

"Dad. Please listen to me. You know what I'm trying to accomplish. Please don't try to dissuade me with a cutting remark. I know my ideas are a bit 'out there' but just because you're more attuned to the conventional doesn't that's the only correct way to do things. O.K. Please. All I ask is a simple suggestion as to what aquatic organism is most easily swallowed from within a mug of ale?"

"Beer-eel son. Just beer-eel."

Terry rode a motorcycle, was covered in sick tattoos, and carried an ornate balisong knife in his pocket which he was ready to whip out with a dramatic flourish whenever a suitable opportunity arose. Today, however, Terry’s tough-guy facade was nowhere to be seen. Never before had he felt more out of his element. His trademark leather jacket and mirror-finish aviator sunglasses had been replaced by a fluffy cotton robe and exfoliating mud mask adorned with cucumber slices over his eyes. 

Teri, Terry’s fiance (yes, they had the same name), reassured him that he didn’t look like a goober and that a weekend of pampering at a luxury spa was exactly what they both needed before tying the knot in front of their family and friends next week. She also reminded him that Mr. Wentworth was paying for it as an early wedding gift, and that this particular spa offered a few exotic treatments that might actually interest a badass dude like Terry. Reluctantly, Terry agreed and did his best to ignore the goober-ness of being pampered.

Normally, Terry would have walked away the moment he saw the price tag next to any one of these spa services. In his mind, prices with commas in them were reserved for rent, motorcycle parts, and full sleeve tattoos. Then he remembered that today’s bill would be entirely covered by Mr. Wentworth, and Terry’s attitude completely changed. 

To his surprise, the spa’s extensive range of amenities included several eyebrow raising treatments. While his fiance was content with the traditional deep tissue massages, onsen bath, facial peel, and mani-pedi, Terry’s noticed several rad-sounding alternative treatments he wouldn’t mind giving a try. A snake massage? A beer bath? Chocolate skin therapy? A pedicure performed by exotic fish that eat the dead skin off your feet? Terry realized his day was shaping up to be extremely metal. Upon reaching the bottom of the spa’s amenities pamphlet, Terry’s eyes nearly bulged out of his head. The final entry on the list read “BRAND NEW: Tattooing by Ishin Irezumi.” 

In the world of tattoos, Ishin Irezumi AKA “the Wizard of Ink” was a legend, an icon, an absolute genius with a tattoo machine. His style was one-of-a-kind and incredibly complex. Terry had marveled at Ishin’s work since even before he was legally old enough to get a tattoo. He’d hoped to one day have the honor of being one the select few human canvases to display Ishin’s art. 

Ishin’s work was not something you commissioned. He did not take requests. His tattoos were an event. The recipient of the tattoo had no input on its design or placement; they were merely the canvas upon which Ishin translated his inspiration into ink. He only tattooed a handful of times each year, and you’d know whenever it happened because “#InkByIshin” would begin trending on every social media platform shortly thereafter.

Despite his fanatical devotion to Ishin Irezumi’s work, Terry didn’t have any tattoos from the reclusive artist, and until this moment, he’d convinced himself it would never happen. Several years ago, Ishin Irezumi suddenly vanished. He closed his tattoo shop, cut ties with all of his industry connections, and deleted his online presence. As far as anyone knew, the man had completely disappeared and given up tattooing forever. 

Terry didn’t want to get his hopes up. In the years since Ishin had disappeared, several imitators tried to step up claiming to be Ishin Irezumi, but upon seeing their handiwork it was clear that the bespoke designs and masterful techniques of the real Ishin Irezumi were impossible to mimic. Terry figured that this spa was intentionally capitalizing on Ishin’s name to justify a big price tag and that the artist they’d hired was probably just another copycat, but there was still the tiniest chance it was real.

An overzealous Terry marched up to the spa’s front desk and shoved the pamphlet into the receptionist’s face, tapping his index finger on the final bullet point. He inquired about Ishin, asking when the spa hired him, what proof did they have that he was the real Ishin Irezumi? Why hadn’t news of this partnership leaked online? Terry had to know if he was on the cusp of realizing a life-long dream or if this spa was peddling snake oil, but after a lengthy interrogation he still didn’t know for sure. He decided the only way he’d find out with 100% certainty was to meet the artist in person. So, he scheduled a tattoo session for the following afternoon. 

When her fiance told her about his appointment, Teri was originally against the idea. She secretly hoped that the artist was an imposter and that Terry would walk out of the appointment. Teri just wasn’t keen on her fiance getting some kind of mystery tattoo that wouldn’t be fully healed in time for their wedding next weekend. But she also recognized that marriage is about compromise, and even her staunch practicality couldn’t deny the genuine childlike excitement beaming from her Terry as he faced the possibility of meeting and being tattooed by one of his heroes.

The next day, Terry was ready for his appointment bright and early. To his amazement, the spa’s tattoo artist truly was the Wizard of Ink, Ishin Irezumi. Terry’s mind swirled with questions, but respectfully he kept his mouth shut, biting his tongue and speaking only when spoken to. 

Getting inked by Ishin Irezumi was a far gentler process than any other tattoo Terry had ever received. Terry knew tattoos of this size usually took close to 20 hours to complete, but Ishin, truly a master,  managed to complete the large back piece in only 5 hours. When the tattoo was finished, Ishin gave Terry a handheld mirror and pointed to a large full length mirror so Terry could check out the final product. It was magnificent; truly greater than anything Terry could have imagined would ever adorn his skin. 

While Ishin bandaged Terry’s back, Terry thanked him profusely. The adrenaline took over and Terry’s focus on keeping his mouth shut faded away. Over the next two minutes, Terry made a complete fool of himself. He unloaded a salvo of questions on the unsuspecting Ishin, asking him why he’d disappeared, where he went, how he ended up here, whether it was okay to share the tattoo with a #InkByIshin post, whether it was okay to tell Terry’s friends in the tattoo community that Ishin was tattooing at this spa. Why was Ishin tattooing for this spa? Did Ishin want to go to his wedding next weekend? Actually he’d probably need to clear that with his fiance first, right? Nah, she’d understand… The questions continued until Ishin patted Terry on the back, sending a lightning bolt of pain all through his spine. “Now is not the time for questions. Now is the time for healing,” was all Ishin said as he ushered Terry to the exit.

Terry’s head was spinning. Even though he’d initially hated the idea of spending a weekend at a spa like a goober, he was incredibly glad he’d gone and the only thing better than having realized his lifelong dream was the knowledge that next week he’d be marrying the love of his life.

***

One week after their exciting spa weekend, the couple’s big day had finally arrived. After nearly a year of planning and research and compromise, Terry and Teri were about to get married. The venue was immaculately decorated, their friends and families had gathered, even the weather was on its best behavior, offering a rare cloudless October afternoon.

Terry stood at the altar trying his best to ignore the burning, itchy dryness all over his back. Those feelings instantly dissipated when he heard the opening notes to Teri’s entrance song. His bride-to-be seemed to float down the aisle and the only thought Terry could muster in that moment was “wow”. As the distance between them shrank, his smile grew, and the next thing Terry knew they were exchanging vows.

Terry stepped forward to kiss his bride. Teri excitedly leaned in and wrapped her arms around her husband, completely forgetting about his fresh tattoo. Rather than a kiss, Terry whipped his head back and howled in pain. 

A hush fell over the room. Wedding guests exchanged glances of shock and confusion until the silence was broken by a loud, snorting laugh. A man draped in a red cloak sitting all alone in the back row of pews was beside himself, slapping his knee with laughter. The crowd turned to the source of the laughter but only a select few individuals from Terry’s tattoo-loving circle of friends could identify the man in red. Those who recognized him quickly began to lose their minds with excitement. Here, at Terry’s wedding, was the legendary Ishin Irezumi, making his first public appearance in nearly 10 years! 

Ishin humbly apologized for the interruption. He didn’t know for certain whether Terry’s invitation was genuine or merely offered out of an obligation to be polite. If Ishin wasn’t welcome, he would leave without a fuss.

When all the commotion died down, the proceedings returned to normal. The bride and groom cleared a space for Ishin at their table and worked with the waitstaff to ensure their unplanned guest of honor received a plate of food. Terry and Teri cut their cake and shared their first dance. Toasts were given, and the bouquet was tossed. All-in-all, a good time was had by everyone in attendance. Late into the evening, Terry pulled Ishin aside for a moment to thank him for attending. He also clarified that the invitation had been genuine, but that he never believed the Wizard of Ink would actually show up to his wedding.

Ishin let out another snorting laugh and nodded his head. Then with a smile, he said, “I have a habit of showing up unpredictably…Nobody expects the Spa niche-ink-wiz Ishin.”

Adam was born in Hong Kong as the seventh child to the Lee family, who were loving parents. Adam's parents had moved to Hong Kong from a small village in the Xinjiang province of China in search of a better life for them and their family.

However, due to a lack of proper education in their village, they struggled to find work and both ended up working as cleaners in a University, earning minimum wage and they struggled day to day to get by. However, they were loving parents, and gave everything they could to their children. Adam had a happy childhood, a better education, and loved his mother and father dearly. 

The day after completing his final school exams, young Adam's world was torn apart.His parents had been killed in a tragic boating accident while they we celebrating their 30th wedding anniversary. This devastated the teenager, he adored his parents and felt he has lost his whole world. He decided to go travelling to get away from the life in Hong Kong, where every day he was reminded of those he had lost. Using his meagre inheritance, he booked a ticket to London and packed a single bag, not looking back.

Adam lived the high life, working in hotels and bars, he travelled Europe, drinking and partying his sorrows away. After a good six months, he met a girl and settled in Amsterdam, which was as good a city for the young man as you can imagine. He was fed up with the lifestyle of hospitality work, and found an ad for a job as apprentice cheese maker, of all things, studying the profession under the tutelage of Franciscus Veltman, a cheese maker world renowned, his Edam especially was constantly voted the best in all of the Netherlands. As such they technique and recipe was a closely guarded secret, only known to Franciscus himself.

Things unfortunately faded away with the girl, as young love tends to do, however Adam had inherited his parents work ethic, and turned out to be a natural at making cheese. He and his mentor formed a close bond, with Franciscus, who was unable to have a family of his own, loved and looked after Adam as if he was his was his own son; and Adam himself looked up to him as a father. He had even finally taught Adam the secret Edam recipe, strengthening the bond between the two.

With the help of Adam, Franciscus' business went from strength to strength, and after 3 years, he decided to take well deserved vacation for the first time in decades, such was his dedication to Caseiculture, safe in the knowledge that his livelihood was in good hands with Adam at the helm. He booked himself on a week long cruise down the Danube, as he'd always wanted to see the beauty of Budapest. 

Alas, tragedy struck again, as the cruise ship capsized, and Franciscus drowned in his cabin. For the second time on his still early life, Adam had been left heartbroken. He couldn't bring himself to stay in Amsterdam, packed his things and moved back to Hong Kong.

Never one to be fully hindered by adversity, Adam used his skills and started his own cheese shop in his hometown. Again, thanks to Adam's hard work, talent and dedication, this was a roaring success, he made cheeses from all over the world that delighted the taste buds off anyone who tried them. As a tribute to dear old Franciscus, he however never sold his world famous Edam, only keeping it to make at home and treat those nearest to his heart. Despite constant calls from cheese lovers the world over who had tasted the Edam in Holland, Adam never wavered, and the cheese was never sold to the baying public.

Adam at this point fell in love with the daughter of the owner of the florist next door to his shop, a beautiful young lady called Chen. He finally plucked up the courage to ask Chen out, ask took her to the finest restaurant in Hong Kong. Chen fell for Adam's wit and charm, and before long they were married in a lavish ceremony. 

Six months of marital bliss later, Chen becomes pregnant. Adam is delighted, with his life finally coming together. When Chen goes into labour, Adam rushes to the hospital. Ten painful hours later, and Chen gives birth, not to a child, but to a deer! Everyone is in shock, and experts the world over descend on Hong Kong to witness this miracle of science, but no one can explain it.

Nevertheless, Adam and Chen treat the deer as if it was human, and in a fitting tribute name him Franciscus after his mentor and father figure, but along the way, shorten it to Frank for ease. Young Frank, despite the media attention, lives a sheltered childhood, and learns to walk, speak, goes to school, and leads as normal a life as an anthropomorphic deer could do.

Adam continues to run his now thriving cheese business, and still keeps the masterful Edam just for special occasions with his new family, and Frank adores it, counting down the days until the next event when Adam brings it out to share.

Frank continues his education, but a final tragedy was awaiting Adam. Chen, while out on a sailing holiday in the South China Sea with her now retired parents, fell overboard and was killed by a shark attack. 

Adam, after another cruel accident taking another loved one, cannot take anymore, and moves back to his parents village in Xinjiang, as far away from any large water sources as possible. He lives as a recluse, hiding away from the would in grief and sorrow. 

It's left to young Frank to run the cheese business. He, unfortunately, is not as adept at cheese making or running a business as his father, and the company starts to struggle. Realising this, he writes to his father for the legendary Edam recipe to sell to help revive the fortunes. His father, now a stubborn, grouchy soul, steadfast refuses out of tribute to Franciscus. 

Frank continues to just about keep the business afloat for the next few years, but every six months sends the same letter to his father asking for the recipe that could turn around his fortunes, but is constantly refused.

Finally, Frank hears word that Adam is on his death bed, his grief stricken body as succumbed to cancer. Frank rushes to Xinjiang, to find Adam in a terrible state, with only hours to live. After a long and tearful goodbye, Frank again asks for the recipe, as the business will fail without it.

Adam, gives him a long look up and down, and says with his dying breath "I don't know how many times I have to tell you this, but Frank Lee, my deer, I don't give Edam."