Run This Town Movie Stream no sign up Without Sign Up Full Length

Run This Town Movie Stream no sign up Without Sign Up Full Length
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Published by: Manjur Ahmed
Info: Networker


Run This Town is a movie starring Ben Platt, Mena Massoud, and Damian Lewis. An emerging political scandal in Toronto in 2013 seen through the eyes of young staffers at city hall and a local newspaper

liked It 50 votes

Countries Canada

Directed by Ricky Tollman

genre Drama



Run This Town Movie stream online

Brasil 🇧🇷. I demand a second season of this anime.

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This song reminds me of my friend Irma Morton

Run This Town Movie stream new. Roll. Freaking. Tide.

Run this town movie stream. “Man, I haven’t been here in years” Mickey said as we walked into The Black Umbrella, a run down bar at the end of the street adjacent to ours. She said it right as we crossed the threshold, almost as if on cue. “I wonder why. ” I muttered. Mickey sucked her teeth and walked ahead briskly. The Black Umbrella may sound like a black and neon concert venue frequented by hipster vampires or perhaps an Ivy League secret society but no, it is instead a dirty old dive bar with none of the nostalgic charm you might expect from a place like this. The one thing that set it apart was that, for whatever absurd reason, all of the drinks were served in beakers. It felt oddly familiar to me. I knew I hadn’t been there before. At least not in the past five years. Two men sat at the bar, uninterested in our arrival. To the left of them, a hole in the wall. A gaping maw. Pitch black and inexplicably eerie. It didn’t look like anyone had ever attempted to patch it up. We ordered our drinks. “Lets get a booth. ” Mickey grabbed me by the wrist and pulled me to the back of the establishment. I sipped at my whisky ginger in a flask half heartedly. I couldn’t get my mind off of the strange hole in the wall. It resisted being ignored. I found myself glancing at it frequently. “When was the last time you were here? ” I asked. “Hm, probably when I was—“ Mickey took a sip of her drink, a vodka soda in a graduated cylinder. One of the only glasses they had that had a flat bottom and could be placed on the table. “Oh. I mean, I guess I haven’t been here. Just a place like this. Y’know. Forgotten. Kind of odd. ” I nodded. “Sure. ” I couldn’t stop looking at that hole in the wall. As dusty and decrepit as this place was, it seemed weird that they would just leave it like that. The hole must’ve been two feet long and a foot wide. There was no torn wallpaper around its periphery and it seemed too perfectly oval in shape. As if someone had punched it out with a comically large hole puncher. “Oh come on. As if you didn’t frequent places like this in your rebellious teenage phase. ” “I didn’t really have a rebellious phase. ” What I meant was, well, I don’t know if I did. “Yeah right. I can totally see you rocking oversized band tees and, come on, what color was your hair? Purple? ” I tried to think back to my teenage years. I tried to think back to any time before five years ago. I couldn’t. I had no memories from before my twenty-third birthday. I didn’t even know when my birthday was, I simply called it that because it’s my earliest memory. I couldn’t remember my parents or any family at all. It’s almost as if I simply materialized one day. That day, March 27th, I remember standing in the street in the rain. Confused. I found keys in the jacket I was wearing, attached to a tag with an address on Bell Street. I went there and was welcomed by two strangers, Abigail and Amir, who were apparently my new roommates. They told me we had spoken online and on the phone. I didn’t remember any of that. I lived there for two years before they abruptly moved to Shitfuck, Vermont and I couldn’t afford the rent on my own. I’ve been living with Michaela since. Those first two years weren’t uneventful, there were a handful of weird instances including some inexplicable disappearances. When I lived with Abby and Amir, I tried to be social. I had successfully buried the unsettling feelings that came along with my amnesia by becoming the ultimate social butterfly. But my friendships never lasted long, for various reasons. I remember approaching the parents of my only close friend, asking after her, because I hadn’t seen her in weeks… I had been to their house before. I had spent the weekend there with her the prior Thanksgiving. They told me they didn’t have a daughter. That the mother was, in fact, infertile. My question had opened an old wound. I told myself I must’ve had the wrong house, the wrong couple. I had to convince myself of that because what else could I do? A year ago, I could’ve sworn I saw her. At a gas station a few miles from my apartment. We made eye contact briefly before she got into her car and drove away. Whenever I would try to remember my past, I would hit a wall. Sometimes, I felt a tug and a quiet ringing in my ears. That’s what I felt then, watching my friend’s doppelgänger drive away. It’s difficult to describe the tug. It wasn’t physical or emotional. It was almost as if my vision, no, more than my vision… My consciousness was a table cloth and someone was pulling on the bottom right corner. Gently at first, maybe trying to get a grip. If I dwelled on my past for too long, if I tried to uncover any memories from before that rainy day, the ringing starts to get louder and the tugging stronger. I start to lose focus. Something innate tells me I don’t want to know what would happen if the proverbial tablecloth was ripped off of the table. Something intense. Something explosive. “Helloo? ” Mickey was looking at me. The tablecloth snapped back into place. “I’m just kidding. You don’t have to look so serious. ” “My hair. It was green actually. How about you? ” I lied, taking a sip of my drink. The tables had holes in them for the drinks that didn’t have flat bottoms. I felt like I was drinking my high school chemistry project. Mickey was silent for a moment. A contemplative silence. “I don’t know. I don’t remember much of my teenage years. ” I thought she looked sad. Distant. The moment passed. “But I did drink a lot back then. ” She laughed. As we were heading out, I looked back at the far wall. At the hole next to the bar. “What do you think that's about? ” I asked Mickey, directing her gaze to the hole. “What? ” “That hole in the wall. It’s kinda freaky. ” Michaela was silent for a moment. “I don’t see a hole in the wall. ” She said. ——————— Two weeks later, I was walking home from work. It was only 4pm but it was starting to get dark. As I turned the corner onto my street, I noticed something odd. I had lived with Michaela in our shitty house on Bramble street for three years then. The house contained four units, only two were occupied. Michaela and I lived on the first floor. To get to the apartments on the second floor, you have to go around back. Our house was the only building on our street. Even if that weren’t the case, the place would still be hard to miss. It was an ugly saturated mauve that contrasted greatly with its surroundings. On the far side of the house was a vacant lot, overgrown with weeds and littered with cans of beer and energy drinks. The lot on the side closer to where I stood had also always been vacant, except it was paved. I always assumed it was an abandoned parking lot. It wasn’t vacant anymore. There now stood a small house. I guess I wouldn’t call it a house. A shack? It looked like a pool shed. It looked completely out of place in the center of this desolate lot. It didn’t seem to have a door. There was a person there. I couldn’t distinguish their shape or features. It seemed like they were slowly shifting as I watched. When I looked away and looked back again, they looked simultaneously like a new person yet exactly the same. They felt familiar to me. It looked like they were tending to the outside of the shack. Once I was standing before the door to my house, I gave them a long look. They hadn’t glanced in my direction. They seemed transfixed with what they were doing, which I could now see was wiping the wooden frame of the shack’s single window. A window that, I noticed, faced my own bedroom windows on the first floor. The first room to the right after entering the house is Michaela’s bedroom. Her door was cracked but I knocked anyway. “Come in! ” I walked in and sat on the couch by her door. Mickey was typing something on her laptop with one hand and reaching for an animal cracker with the other. Her auburn hair was tied in a messy bun. She missed the bag of crackers by an inch which forced her to divert her attention from the computer screen. “What’s up? ” She asked me. Her brows knitting together with concern. I realized I hadn’t said anything. “Have you seen that pool shack that popped up overnight next door? ” “Yeah. ” “Don’t you think it’s weird? It’s so tiny and out of place. Where did it come from? ” “I do… Actually, look at this. ” She jumped off the bed, almost knocking over her laptop. She opened the bottom most drawer of her desk and rifled through it. Finding what she wanted, she came over and sat on the couch next to me. She handed me a piece of paper. “This is the listing for this place. For a few years ago, when I found this place. ” I wasn’t sure why she was showing it to me. “Look. ” She pointed to one of the exterior photos. It was taken from an angle. You could see part of the street in front of it. Two cars were parked out front. The vacant lot was mostly visible behind the house. Except it wasn’t vacant. The same little doorless pool house was present. “That definitely wasn’t here when we moved in. ” “I know. “Maybe it blew away during some particularly strong winds and the owner has been meaning to rebuild it but hasn’t been able to until now.? ” “Is the uh, character outside, the owner? ” “Character? I have no idea who the owner is. I didn’t consider that someone might own that lot until now. ” “There’s someone out there now— Never mind. I just don’t get how it popped up like that. This is just weird. ” Mickey shrugged and ate a handful of animal crackers. ——————————— That night I kept thinking about the eerie Keeper of the shed. How diligently they cleaned that window frame. How they hadn’t glanced at me as I passed. They had seemed so disconnected from the world, only focused on their small, repetitive task. I wondered where they were now. They couldn’t possibly live in that little shack. I suddenly remembered that I could see the entire lot from my window. Something primordial told me not to look outside. I remember hearing the front door open and close quietly before I fell asleep. ———————————— The next day there was a snow storm. My boss called me early to tell me not to come in. I spent the day reading until Mickey came home and came to my room. She seemed a little dazed. Before I could say anything she mouthed something. I was about to ask her to repeat herself when she asked, audibly this time, “what time is it? ” I looked at my phone. “5:25” “In the morning? ” She asked, unfocused. “No. PM. ” It was November so it was already dark outside. She sucked her teeth. “Right. ” Pause. “Hey… Lets go to The Umbrella! ” Mickey had three more drinks than usual, four if you count the one she dropped because she forgot that beakers can’t balance on flat surfaces. She hardly said a word the whole evening. When we got up to leave, I noticed that the hole in the wall was gone. ————————————————— That night I couldn’t resist the urge. I raised my blinds and looked out the window. There was a light on in the window facing me. I tried to make out any forms inside. The shed seemed too close. Although the lot was next door, it was a rather spacious plot of land. The house was in the center, which was more than a few leaps and bounds away from me. But somehow that distance didn’t matter. I had the strange feeling that if I reached out, I would be able to touch it. I couldn’t look away. The familiar feeling of my mental tablecloth being pulled resumed. I let it happen for a minute or two. I felt myself leaning to the right. My head felt heavy. I pressed my cheek to my collarbone. My vision started to disappear into whatever void existed at the bottom right corner of my consciousness. The ringing was more of a buzzing. I had the strange thought that I was hearing the sounds of my neurons firing. Suddenly I remembered where I was. I had let it go on for too long as now it was physically difficult for me to extract myself. I had to pull myself away from the void. It tried to pull me harder in the opposite direction. Once I was free, I stepped away from the window. The light in the pool shack went dark. I had a feeling that that was for me. I closed the blinds on both of my windows for good measure. As I was falling asleep, I heard the front door open and close again. ————————————————— The next day Michaela didn’t come home. Her shoes and coat weren’t by the door. Though her bedroom door was locked, which I found a tad unusual because we never really locked our doors. I tried knocking just in case but got no response. I left for work an hour later and saw the Keeper standing on the other side of the shed this time. They were fixing something on the roof, which they could reach without a latter. I tried to say good morning but it seemed like they didn’t or couldn’t hear me. I took a few steps towards them. No reaction. I walked around them, a foot away from them. They seemed more familiar to me than before. For a moment, I saw something I didn’t understand the truth of at the time. They turned and gave me the most cursory of glances but it felt like an eternity. They were Abigail. My roommate before Michaela. They were simultaneously Abby and Amir, her fiancé. Husband. I was somehow looking at both of them at once, yet at each one individually. There was a muted agony in their faces. Their face? I felt hurt by this mockery. I didn’t feel like I had seen a ghost, I felt like I had seen the ghost of a ghost. A photograph of a ghost. A distorted facsimile. I felt like the Keeper was taunting me. Their eyes were entirely black. As black and unnerving as the hole had been the first time I saw it at the bar. I didn’t see Michaela for three more days. Until that Sunday morning, when I woke up and she was in the living room, drinking a cup of coffee. She greeted me as if nothing happened. I asked her where she had been and she happily told me about a new guy she had met and how she had spent a couple days with him. I didn’t want to poke any holes in her story because I was just glad that she was home. Her cheerfulness seemed exaggerated. I noticed she was holding her mug with her left hand. Was Mickey left-handed? My gaze found her right hand resting on her knee, bandaged up tight. “Jeez Mickey, what happened? ” “Oh, ” she said, unfazed. “I’ve got this weird rash. It’s totally gross. I’ve been using cream and shit. I think it’s getting better. ” Her whole hand was wrapped up in a way that left her unable to move her fingers. I didn’t say anything in response. That night when I came home from work, I immediately noticed that my blinds were up. I could see the mysterious shed. The light in the window was off. No. There was no window. In fact, I could only see hints of the wood paneling. Where the window used to be, there was now a massive gaping hole, perfectly oval and so dark it made my heart sink. I was overcome with this strange feeling that, despite it being inanimate and lacking eyes, that the hole was watching me. I felt exposed. I slept on the couch that night. The next morning, I noticed Michaela’s shoes and coat were gone. That night I dreamt that I was the Keeper of the shack. I was repairing a panel of wood that had become askew. Up close, I could see how rickety and unstable the shack itself was. It was a miracle it stayed up at all. I knew I had to keep the shack closed and secure. I felt it with every fiber of my being. I put my ear up to the wall. It had a heartbeat. Slow and steady. I knew something was growing in there. I felt it’s hunger. Then I felt hungry. Terribly, horribly hungry. Our hungers were indistinguishable. I was it. It was me. Suddenly the heartbeat went quiet. I was overcome with loneliness. I looked down and in my hand I was holding a black umbrella, dripping what looked like blood. When I woke up, I was outside, my back inches away from the shack. I ran back to the house as if someone had lit a fire under my ass. Several hours later, I heard the door open. Mickey snuck in, took off her coat and shoes, and entered her room. Still half asleep, I followed her. I stood in the doorway, obscured by the lack of light, and watched Mickey sit on the bed, seemingly out of breath. She unwrapped her hand and let out a soft cry. The moonlight filtering in from behind her blinds illuminated a gruesome sight. Her hand was a mess. I could hardly make out her fingers. It looked like it had been crushed under a heavy weight. It looked like it was… melting. As the moonlight hit her hand, I could see there were no fingers. Whatever this ailment was seemed to be extending up her arm now. I swear I saw it dripping onto her jeans. I gasped. Michaela looked in my direction but didn’t react. It was like she couldn’t see me. Like she was seeing beyond me. For some reason, I felt that her seeing me would put us both in danger. In the morning, I convinced myself what I saw the night before was a dream. But I didn’t see Michaela that day or for two weeks after that. Her door was locked. I tried knocking every time I left for work but she never answered. —————————— Those two weeks were monotonous as hell. Every time I left for work I would see the same ethereal figure of the being I had dubbed the Keeper, tending to some other part of the shack. The Keeper never acknowledged me and quickly I stopped paying them any mind either. I started leaving the blinds open because I knew whatever weird void-dwelling being lived next door could open them at their whim anyway. The light in the shack stayed off. Three days after I had last seen her, I walked around the side of the house, my back to the shack, and decided to look into Michaela’s window. There was something wet on the windowsill. It was thick. It was dripping over the edge and onto the ground next to me. I don’t know what I hoped to see. Part of me thought I’d see the Keeper leaning over her bloody carcass, biting into one of her kidneys. I could hear them behind me, using a tool to tend to something on the roof. It seemed there was always something about that shack that needed repair. I took a deep breath and looked into her window. There was nothing strikingly out of the ordinary. Except the stain on the bed. More than a stain. A strange viscous spill which covered most of her bed and some of the floor. It looked like baby puke. If someone had mixed puke with slime. As I stared, I noticed that some of the liquid trailed to the window. Like it was trying to escape. It was the very same liquid which was dripping onto the ground to my right. I was overcome with the nauseating feeling that the slime was aware of me. I quickly looked away. There was a thin trail of slime leading to the shack. I thought of who I could call. I didn’t know a lot of Mickey’s friends. Or at least not well enough to know how to reach them. I had never met her parents either, though I knew they lived just outside of town. I wondered, if the roles were reversed, who Mickey would call for my sake. There wasn’t anyone she could call. I tried to remember someone. Anyone. A guardian. A teacher. A parent. I was met with the same block as always. The nagging nothingness where my memories should be. The mind is capable of understanding so much. It is capable of making connections faster than we could ever consciously fathom. In fact, the human mind is so advanced that it even also knows when to purposely misunderstand things or refuse to comprehend them at all. This is a mercy. This is the creator’s, whoever they may be, if they exist at all, greatest gift to humanity. The inability to correlate certain things. I knew there was something I was subconsciously ignoring. I spent the next week and a half going about my life. I started going out for drinks with coworkers. We would go to an Irish pub twenty minutes from my house. None of them had ever heard of The Black Umbrella. The more time I spent with them, the less real they felt. I kept finding myself thinking they were actors or that I was imagining them. I kept telling myself that that was crazy but I couldn’t shake the nagging feeling that I was the only person left in the world. One night at the pub I ran into my neighbor from the upstairs unit. This guy with sandy hair named David who we rarely saw because he was in a competitive graduate program and worked two jobs. He had a cotton shirt wrapped around his right hand and a large bandage on his neck. “You look awful, ” I told him. He smiled at me sadly. “I haven’t been sleeping well. ” When he stood up, he left behind a sticky spot on the bar. One night I came home earlier than usual. There was a vague buzzing in my ears, which I ignored because it wasn’t anything unusual. The auditory distortions came and went without cause. They usually didn’t get worse unless I strained myself. I passed out almost immediately only to wake up several hours later, laying on my back, staring into a familiar void on my ceiling. It was almost comforting. Once the familiar tugging began, I averted my gaze and sat up. I sat against the wall which divided my room from Michaela’s and put my face in my hands. I wanted to cry. I wanted to feel something potent. I wanted to mourn Michaela because I knew she was gone. I wanted to feel fear. Fear of the unknown looming above me. Fear of what would happen next. I felt something touch my back. It was a gentle, incomprehensible prodding. It felt like someone was massaging my back with a baseball bat. I couldn’t move. Something resembling fear shot down my spine. I was frozen. It moved across my back slowly but intentionally. I had the thought that maybe it was trying to get a grip but couldn’t. Because it didn’t have fingers. I quickly turned around. There was nothing there but the wall. I didn’t dare look back up at the void. I left my room and stopped in front of Michaela’s. Before I knew what I was doing, I had broken her door down. Aside from the broken door, her room seemed neat. There was nothing viscous on her bed or on the floor. I stood in the doorway for a minute, unsure of what to do. On the couch to my left, I found a note inside an envelope with my name on it. I tore it open. It read: “I lied to you that night at the bar. I did see the hole. That was the third time I had seen it. The previous two were in the apartment. As stupid as this sounds, I know it saw me too. I didn’t say anything because I felt that the more I acknowledged it, the more untethered I would become. I kept seeing it after that. Everywhere I went. Some nights I would wake up somewhere totally different. Only to blink and be staring at the hole on my ceiling. The person outside. They started acknowledging me. One night when I was particularly inebriated, I asked them what the fuck they were doing there, day in and day out. They didn’t even turn to look at me. I heard their voice in my head, “I like to keep busy” They said. It said. I said. It was my voice. It was my goddamn voice, coming from that thing. The time after that, I couldn’t resist. I climbed right into the void on the wall between our rooms. I couldn’t stop myself from going in. I saw things I wasn’t mean to. I went somewhere devastating. I ended up inside the pool shed. I wouldn’t wish that on anyone, especially not you. I somehow managed to escape. I couldn’t tell you how. But it’s too late. It has me. It’s destroyed me. Literally. I can feel myself being disassembled. All I want is to be back inside the shack. It feels safe there. I feel that I’ll be safe there. But these don’t feel like my thoughts, my impulses. But I can’t resist them much longer. If I know anything, it’s that I’ll be gone when you read this. I had to know what it was. I shouldn’t have gone. But I did. Don’t do what I did. It’s better not to know. If you see me again, it isn’t me. Please be careful. ” With the note was a stack of photos. There were about ten of them, each a few years apart. They were all of the ugly mauve house I knew so well. In some of them, the shed was visible in the background. In others, just an empty lot. The shed seemed to come and go inexplicably. I grabbed my shoes and a fleece and walked to The Black Umbrella. There was David, to my left. He gave me a polite smile. He looked healthy. Healthier than I had ever seen him. No more bandages. Seeing him made me uncomfortable. I ordered a shot of vodka which was served to me in a test tube. I returned home at around four in the morning. The street was abnormally quiet. The air seemed thick and there was a palpable tension. Every time I tried to ignore that damn pool house, I felt my gaze inexplicably being drawn to it. Riding on a rare surge of bravery and adrenaline, I approached the house. I had been right in my observation; there was no door. I didn’t let that stop me. I hesitated before entering but I figured I had nothing to lose at this point. I blinked and found myself inside. The only light was coming from the street lights outside filtering in. The Keeper was crouched over something, working it with their hands. They didn’t react to my entrance. Their presence didn’t unnerve me for some reason. I tried to distinguish their form but couldn’t. I could see it clearly yet it still evaded me somehow. It was as if I was only seeing a small fraction of what they were. What it was. It was as if my human senses were inadequate for the task of comprehending what was in front of me. I felt that surrounding their human form, there was something bigger. Something overwhelming. Something otherworldly and ancient. In that moment I understood that the Keeper was only a small part of it. As disposable as a limb to a creature that had hundreds and the ability to regrow them at will. I started to hear the familiar ringing in my ears. I let that thought go. The Keeper was massaging what looked like a pile of clay. It sat on the wooden floor. It was two feet high and shaped like a person. It was a person. A clay sculpture of a human bust. I felt like they wanted me to see it. It was a bust of Michaela. It looked so real. A mound of clay sat to the side of the bust. But it wasn’t clay. It had a nauseatingly viscous quality to it… The bust blinked. A quiet agony in the clay eyes that no longer looked like clay. I looked at the Keeper. Where their entire face had been, there was now a void. A gaping primordial maw. Although it had no teeth that I could fathom, I heard the sickening wet sounds as it devoured my roommate. Watching it eat was the single most repulsive thing I have ever seen. I couldn’t fathom how a jaw could be so malleable. I remembered the image I had concocted of the Keeper eating Mickey’s kidneys a few nights prior. This was far worse. I couldn’t have concocted this image myself. She was looking at me. Michaela. I couldn’t read the expression on her face. It was over in less than a minute but it felt like an eternity. I have no way of knowing how much of Michaela was in that bust. I have to keep telling myself she was dead long before that. The next thing I remember is waking up. In my own bed. I had no recollection of getting there. I wiped the remnants of sleep from my eyes and went to get a glass of water. My heart fell into my stomach and out of my ass when I saw Michaela, bright and jovial as ever, making breakfast in the kitchen. “What’s that look for? ” She asked playfully. I could hear my heart beating between my ears as I watched her salt the eggs in the frying pan. “I don’t feel so good. ” I told her. I don’t know why I bothered saying anything. Maybe because I didn’t want her… I didn’t want it to suspect anything. I walked back into my room. In my periphery I could see that the shack was gone. I lay back down in bed, wondering why it hadn’t eaten me too. I thought about the first time I had met Michaela. We had met at a cafe after talking online. She had been half an hour late. I tried to push further back. Remember anything. Something. I heard the buzzing. I felt it in my skin and bones. I was too tired to fight it and soon it washed over me. I had fought this spell for years, feeling that it was the precursor to something I should avoid. I wish I hadn’t resisted it for so long. The tablecloth was pulled from the table and I truly woke up for the first time in five years. ———————— “I think… Oh my god! ” “Holy shit. Holy shit! ” “Get over here! ” “Hey! Can you hear me? ” I knew that that was directed at me but I wished they would all shut up. The voices were so loud. Everything was so loud. I tried to say yes but all I could do was mumble and drool. Somewhere deep down I could hear questions bubbling, struggling to reach the surface. They would have to wait. I was so tired. “She seems stable. Let her rest. She’s been through a lot. ” Bea was always the sensible one. I’d have to thank her for that later. My eyes shot open. I knew who these people were. I remembered. More memories were coming back to me every second. I could name all four people in the room… Beatrice, Paulette, Thomas and Hayden. My friends. “I’m awake” I managed. ———————— During the next several weeks, my entire life came back to me. And with the help of my friends, I finally had answers. I recovered relatively quickly. My health didn’t seem to be compromised. I had come back with everything intact. I had met Thomas in college. I went on to go to graduate school with him. I went for Cultural Anthropology and he went for Surgical Technology. He met Paulette, Beatrice and Hayden through his program. Paulette’s parents were world renowned in the medical field for their development of experimental therapies. Because of this, they were often traveling, giving lectures, changing the world… Which left us with access to their private laboratory. There were several others who were involved with this arrangement but we were the core group. Mind you, I was the least qualified so I mostly just observed. We used to concoct all sorts of unsavory experiments at that lab, only to clean them up before Paulette’s parents returned. When it was all new and exciting, Thomas had suggested we come up with a name for the laboratory. To make us sound clandestine and mysterious, like a secret society. “Quick! Get the radioactive samples to The Silver Temple! ” Thomas had shouted dramatically. “Something like that, y’know. It sounds cool! ” “That is terrible, ” Paulette had said and rolled her eyes. “I know, ” I had said, glancing at my backpack against the far wall. I could see its contents spilling onto the floor. A chapstick. A notebook. My trusty black umbrella. “The Black Umbrella. ” And so it was. For a while, playing scientist lost its charm. Until Hayden discovered a strange biological mass in the cave structure he had been exploring. I’m not sure if he had gone to explore because he suspected he would find something or if it was an accidental discovery. I guess I should ask him. Anyway, It was small enough that he easily contained it and brought it to the lab. I remember sitting on a stool, waiting for the test results, anxious and curious. I remember listening to the technical jargon being thrown about and not understanding a word of it. I asked them to explain it to me like they would to a fifth grader. The tests had come back unlike anything they had ever seen. The mass was apparently made up entirely of brain tissue. Elements of the tests were inconclusive and/or confusing, the brain tissue seemed to be both human and something else. In fact, consecutive tests came back with slightly different results each time. We were all so excited. It was a completely unheard of form of life! Hayden dubbed it “SBE” for Strange Biological Entity. Soon we started calling it “SOB” for Son of A— The more we studied it, the more confused we got. The lab results seemed to be meaningless with how different they were each time. We could find no consistency among them. That was our first hint that we were in over our heads. The first contamination had occurred when Hayden invited over some friends from work. He had been bragging about his discovery and felt the need to provide proof. At first, we were just fucking around. I remember we were drinking whiskey. Using Paulette’s father’s expensive equipment to impress the coworkers, we did full brain scans. The super crazy kind where we catalogued the individual’s entire brain and created a coherent map of it. It’s probably either not as cool as that sounds or way cooler than I can comprehend. Hayden was properly drunk when he brought out the SBE. He’s lived with the repercussions of that decision since. One of his coworkers, David, ended up being overzealous and handsy. In a moment of excitement and curiosity, David had touched the mass with his bare hands. It immediately attached itself like the world’s most bloodthirsty leech. The majority of the mass had dropped off after a couple hours, but the part that had come into contact with David’s hand had remained. Attempts to extricate it were unsuccessful. We stayed in the lab for days, attempting to work out a solution. It only took a few days for it to devour him. The part of the mass which had remained on his skin seemed to crawl up his arm, hugging it like a sleeve. We did amputate his arm when we realized it was spreading quickly. I vaguely remember the sounds of his cries. After the arm was removed, we found traces of the biological entity in his blood stream. He was being eaten from the inside out. When it was over, the SOB left no trace of his body. But during the following weeks of testing, we discovered something interesting: brain waves. On a hunch, we cross referenced them. They were David’s. Over time the waves would do some interesting things. I don’t understand the jargon well enough to know exactly what. But I did understand the implication that David was still alive, in some way, within the incomprehensible organism we had discovered. We agreed not to reveal the mass to the world. We were in too deep and we were scared. There was another breach a year after the first event. This time, three of our peers from the same graduate program failed to follow proper safety protocols. I wasn’t there and I didn’t ask for details. All three of these students were infected and devoured. There were many attempts to save them. Some seemed really promising but none of them were successful. Still, they learned a lot. We couldn’t save them and we were too scared to get authorities involved. They were kept in quarantine for their last days. Those last days were quiet, as we all awaited their fate. It’s hard to say for sure but we think one of them infected me somehow. Paulette showed me the framed photo of her deceased peers that she kept on her desk. The photo was from university. Paulette stood in the middle, her hair much shorter. The girl all the way to the right, I recognized as Michaela Wood. She looked happy. The other two were Abigail and Amir. “I lived with her. ” I said, holding the framed photo gently. For some reason I was afraid I would break it. “What? ” Paulette asked, confused. “In there. We lived together for three years. In… In there. ” I wanted to cry but I didn’t. Instead I asked the question that had been marinating in my mind since I woke up, “Why am I alive? ” Paulette shook her head. She didn’t know for sure. They assumed I was a genetic anomaly. The SBE couldn’t “read” me as easily. That’s not to say it wouldn’t have devoured me whole if it had had the chance. But alas, my friends had learned a lot from the deaths of Michaela, Abby and Amir, and managed to extract it from my body. But it had reached my brain quicker than they anticipated. The medication stopped it from spreading throughout my entire brain. Despite that, I had fallen into a coma. My brain activity had been so minimal, they had almost declared me brain dead. But there was enough activity that they held out hope. “You had shown signs of waking through the years, but you never came back. Until now. ” I didn’t know how I was supposed to feel about that. I was still looking at the photo of Michaela. Paulette explained to me that the SBE had been properly contained since my incident. That absolutely no one comes into direct contact with it anymore. They’ve been discussing passing it on to the proper authorities, after all of these years of hoarding it to themselves… “Can you do something for me? Can you see if Michaela’s brain waves are still… detectable? ” An hour later, Paulette and Hayden returned to my room. Hayden wheeled in a giant monitor. It reminded me of high school, when the substitute teacher would let us watch a movie. It was weird to remember high school. He turned on the monitor and immediately a clip of brain waves appeared, along with a bunch of numbers, symbols and graphs I didn’t care to try to understand. The waves looked active. Alive. I felt a brief flash of happiness before I remembered that this was a visual representation of a prison sentence. I felt immensely sad. “Those are Michaela’s? ” Hayden cleared his throat. Not a single trace of hers. These are yours. ”.

Run This Town Movie. Why would you not want Kanye on a song. honestly. Run This Town Movie stream of consciousness. Run This Town Movie stream. Well you really screwed up this time, didn’t you? You found a gnarly deal on a beautiful home that almost seemed too good to be true, and you jumped at it. And now that you’re all moved in, you’ve started to notice some anomalies. You know the type: the spooky-dooky anomalies of the supernatural persuasion. Bumps in the night, doors opening and closing by themselves, auditory hallucinations of voices and whispers. It’s more common then you may think, but not everyone realizes the danger. These signs could be proof that some forsaken lost souls inhabit your property. Maybe the previous grandmother self-immolated in the attic. Maybe dear old dad went suddenly insane and repainted the house with the blood of his children, or mom tried seducing demons in the basement. If this sounds even vaguely familiar to you – and you are looking to the good ole internet for help, then you’ve come to the right place. You see I have this friend – well, had this friend named Nathan. A couple months back, Nathan found a house for sale in southern Georgia. It was nestled along a remote stretch of woods just outside of Waycross. It was a historical area - an old colonial style home just under 5, 000 square feet, six bed/ six bath with white picket fences and a dozen acres. The quintessential American dream house by all accounts. The price was unbelievably low, but after Nathan contacted the real-estate agent he found that the price that he had seen listed was indeed the price that was being asked. For most people, I imagine this would’ve raised some pretty big red flags, but Nathan was an idiot. The confident type of idiot that believed machismo is substantial for conquering all of life’s obstacles. I know it’s not kind to speak ill of the dead like that (spoiler alert), but I’m just trying to give an accurate portrayal of the kind of person Nathan was. Y’know the alpha male who hits on your girlfriend, lives at the gym and probably spanks his meat to his own selfies. For people like Nathan, friend is really just another word for ego-reinforcer. He was cocky, and often let pride get the better of him. His wife Janelle was actually my ex-girlfriend from awhile back. Bit of a skank, but practically a supermodel. They had two kids; Natalie and Mason who were both spoiled brats. Again, I’m just trying to give an honest perspective of them in hopes that we may all learn something from what happened. You see what happened to Nathan (which I’ll get into later) was something which I believe could’ve been easily avoided if only he had followed a few simple instructions. After the funeral, I got to pondering on the matter, and realized that what we all really need is a set of rules to follow if you believe your house is haunted. Let’s begin. Rule #1 – When looking to purchase or rent a house, always ask for the history. Odds are if a house is being offered at way below market value then there is a very good reason for it being that way. Nathan didn’t do this, and thought that the under-market price was simply the universe handing him something he didn’t really earn as it often seemed to do. Nathan jumped at the offer, and within a few weeks he and his family were approved to begin moving in. I volunteered to help them move in, and I’ll be honest, the house was absolutely gorgeous. Things were great for them at first, but Nathan soon started noticing some odd occurrences. It started with this knocking sound, that seemed to reverberate all over the home at odd hours. He said he could never seem to pinpoint where it was coming from, and it never seemed to originate from the same place twice. Eventually he just chalked it up to the house settling, but that was just the beginning. Rule #2 – Trust your gut. Your home is the last place you should feel uncomfortable. If you get that inkling of discomfort in the back of your mind that never seems to fully dissipate, pay attention to it. It’s probably your subconscious trying to warn you. Nathan tried ignoring these sounds, told his wife that it was just normal or the wind and comforted his children when they felt scared. He had two dogs; Rusty and Sailor. Both of them black labs and both seemed to become very anxious after moving in. Nathan did his best to get medication to help the dogs relax, but it didn’t seem to help much. That brings us to rule number 3; along with your gut, you should also trust your pets. Animals have instincts far greater than humans. It’s been said that man is the only creature who will sense danger and still wander into it. Animals have a sense for the supernatural; dogs and cats in particular. If you find them growling at what appears to be nothing, or constantly staring into specific areas of the house, then pay attention to that. Odds are they can see something you can’t. Nathan told me that Rusty; the older of the two dogs would pace the hall each night for hours. He said it was like he was standing guard over something. On more than one occasion, Rusty suddenly blurted into a ferocious bout of barking and snarling. Nathan would come out into the hall, but never found anything. He grew concerned for Rusty and took him to the vet, but the vet confirmed he was in good health. Meanwhile Sailor – the younger dog slept at the side of Mason’s bed each and every night. The poor boy soon developed crippling nightmares that would torment him relentlessly, and Sailor seemed to sense it. Each time Mason would wake up screaming, Sailor would be there to try and comfort him. And that segues perfectly into our next rule. Rule #4 – beware the nightmares. Young children are similar to animals in the way that they seem more perceptive to things that adults are not. This one can be difficult, because there are many root causes of nightmares with things like anxiety, depression and other mental illnesses. The telltale sign, is whether your child suddenly develops them soon after entering the home. Poor Mason had absolutely horrific dreams and night after night he would be tormented by them. He often spoke of ‘the blurry man’ that came to him while he slept and whispered terrible things. He even said that sometimes he would see the blurry man while he was awake, but never more than a quick glimpse and always in the shadows or outside in the woods. Nathan and his wife worried that perhaps Mason was Schizophrenic, but multiple doctors confirmed this was not the case. They tried giving Mason sleeping pills, various supplements and burned incense to help him sleep more peacefully. It worked for a while, until Natalie started having them too. Rule #5 – Try to determine what kind of spirit you’re dealing with. If you see flashes of a small child running through the halls at night, or orbs spiraling in the air, then odds are your ethereal neighbor is rather benign. Some people even discover they rather enjoy life with a spectral roommate, and find their antics to be rather interesting. Most believe that spirits who pass away before completing what their soul desired will become stuck in a sort of purgatory. Many are scared, confused and angry, but some – primarily young children seem to be almost jubilant at times. Most of these are unnerving but altogether harmless, but then there’s the other spirits. Rule #6 – If you or any member of your family develop inexplicable bruises, cuts or lesions then do not take them lightly. This should be a massive red flag, and is a very bad sign. If you feel as though you are being attacked as you sleep, and wake up with unexplained scratches or wounds then just get the hell out of the house, honestly. A malevolent spirit capable of inflicting physical wounds is not something to be trifled with. Odds are it’s a demon, and honestly that is the best-case scenario. There are other non-Abrahamic related entities that could be responsible as well. They are very rare, but if encountered, well I’m afraid even my handy set of rules won’t be enough to stop them. Natalie and Mason suffered multiple scratch marks, wounds and even a few bruises that almost looked like bite marks. Nathan’s wife Janelle was also subjected to these attacks. The children’s teachers at school began to notice, and became quite worried for their safety. Obviously their first thought was not paranormal, but rather that the children were being abused at home. Only when social services threatened to remove the children from his custody did Nathan finally agree to move them out of the house. Janelle and the kids moved in with her mother a couple hours away, and Nathan was left all alone with the dogs. Rule #7 – Let people know what is going on. Yes, I know the thought of admitting to a close friend that you believe your house is haunted may be a daunting one, but it’s usually better than the alternatives. The modern world rarely takes these claims seriously. We put ghosts in movies and video games, but when someone actually claims to see one, we aren’t so quick to believe them. Technology and science have led us to believe we are safe. That is our folly, but it’s also a topic for a different day. This is yet another rule that Nathan did not abide. The worse that things got for him and his family, the more secluded he became. On numerous occasions he phoned the police saying that he believed someone had broken in, but they never found evidence of it. Eventually they even put him on a blacklist, and warned that any further contact would result in legal trouble. Rather than tell his parents or brother or any of his friends what was going on, he retreated into himself. He became fidgety and paranoid, at times refusing to return phone calls and texts from his loved ones. He just broke contact, and things only got worse. Rule 8 and 9 sort of belong in the same category, although one is a little more extreme than the other. Rule #8 - If you suspect something is up, it doesn’t hurt to perform a cleansing. Like I said earlier, the modern world has little time to entertain the notion of ghosts and the supernatural, but that shouldn’t ward you off. If you’re unsure about whether your home is being haunted or not, then a routine cleansing can do wonders for you. I’m willing to bet there are mediums and priests in your town that can get the job done. Even if you can’t find anyone local, you can always just go online and find instructions for yourself. It’s not as effective that way, but it’s better than nothing. Rule #9 – if you’re really feeling as though you are in danger, get someone to perform an exorcism. It’s the step that no one wants to take, but desperate times call for desperate measures. Priests and spiritual leaders are your go-to for these kinds of things. Even if you yourself are not religious, these people honestly do know how to help. There’s some evidence that Nathan was attempting to do this, but it’s unknown why exactly it didn’t work out. Maybe he second guessed himself, and thought he could handle it, or maybe his ego took control once again. Nathan had been collecting evidence for a while, and had amassed quite a stash of clues. He had audio recordings which relayed banging on the walls and footsteps in the attics. He took multiple videos, but none of them really showed anything except for the last one, but by that point it was too late. In his journal he also wrote that he experienced items in the house levitating on several occasions, but sadly he had no recorded proof of this. Rule #10 – the big one! Whatever you do, don’t try to antagonize the spirit. This should really go without saying, but angrily challenging the spirit or daring it to manifest is a really bad idea. But as you may have guessed, Nathan and his unlimited stream of testosterone decided to do just that. He got really drunk one night, and began ruminating on all that had been happening. Nathan was always a skeptic, but even he couldn’t ignore the psychological impact on his family whether it was imagined or not. He realized his relationship with his children and wife were being heavily strained, and his new house had become a place of hostility. This made Nathan very angry. So Nathan stood up, and shouted at his empty house for the spirit to come forth and face him. He was met only with silence, and so he shouted again. Never once did the spirit’s answer his call. After a few more verbose challenges he broke into a bout laughter, probably believing himself to look ridiculous. Apparently not everyone who was watching felt the same though. Nathan managed to stumble into bed not long after, and was out cold within a couple minutes. Nathan had kept a security camera in his room in hopes of capturing proof, and that night he found something. At around 2:13 am, Nathan is seen beginning to stir in his sleep in the security video. He grunts and speaks briefly, but the words were unintelligible. Suddenly his eyes sprung wide open in the bed, and began glancing around the room. Nathan appeared to be struggling, but his body didn’t move. It is believed he was suffering an episode of sleep paralysis which left him temporarily paralyzed. His eyes continued to dart rapidly around the room. Then something happened that no one who saw the video could explain. The bedroom door slowly rolled open, but the darkness of the hallway was all-consuming. Nathan’s chest began franticly pumping up and down, and his eyes stretched wide-open. Something was then seen moving in the hall. It could’ve been chalked up to a trick of the light at first, but then a hand was seen reaching through. It was gnarled and spindly, like the wretched malformed appendage from some abyssal denizen. The figure slowly sauntered through the doorway; it’s tall, dark silhouette nearly grazing the top of the door frame. It had no definite features, appearing only as a hooded, humanoid individual. No eyes or face, just a shadow corporealized from Nathan’s deepest nightmares. Poor Nathan was heard mumbling and whimpering franticly, but in his paralyzed state he was unable to fight back or flee. He could do nothing but watch in absolute horror as the thing approached him. It stopped at the foot of his bed, and just stared at him for about a minute. Nathan continued to hyperventilate and didn’t appear blink once during the entire ordeal. The thing then finally moved closer. It then leaned down only a couple inches away from his face and appeared to whisper something. It was too quiet for the mic on the camera to pick up, but needless to say it did not make Nathan feel any better about the situation. Suddenly the thing lashed out with it’s twisted hands, constricting like pythons around Nathan’s throat. In his paralyzed state, he couldn’t even struggle against his shrouded attacker. Within a minute Nathan’s chest stopped moving, and his eyes fell still. The entity retracted it’s hands and just stared at him for about a minute. Then – as if taunting those who would see the footage, it looked directly into the camera. It whispered something again, but again it was too quiet to discern what it was. Then as quickly as it had appeared, it waltzed out of the room and vanished back into the darkness. Nathan was found by his wife Janelle a few days later, and she called the police. After an autopsy Nathan was determined to have died via strangulation much as what was shown in the video. Cops scoured the premises and found footprints from the intruder. However, the footprints were soon matched to a pair of Nathan’s own boots. The police of course were not so quick to believe that Nathan was simply killed by supernatural forces. They conducted interviews with neighbors, friends and family members, but none of them seemed capable or motivated enough to have done it. There were no signs of breaking and entering, and nothing had been stolen from the home. They came to me and conducted an interview as well, but of course, that was a futile effort. I mean sure; the fact that Janelle was my ex-girlfriend was reason to suspect me, but I quickly dissuaded their accusations. Nathan was my friend, despite him not really being a good friend. What kind of friend bones your girlfriend behind your back anyways? I’m not bitter about it though, at least… not as far as the police are concerned. My alibis were solid, and that’s good enough for them. This brings us to my final rule; rule number 11. Make sure you exhaust all other options before coming to the conclusion that your house is in fact haunted. If only Nathan had taken a little more time to investigate his home and himself more thoroughly then maybe he’d still be alive today. Maybe he would’ve found the mini wireless speakers hidden in his attic to play the sounds of knocking. Maybe he would’ve found the patches in his air ducts that leaked mild doses of hallucinogenic drugs into his home. Maybe he would’ve detected the dog whistle alarm that caused his dogs to react so strangely. If he bothered to check himself, he may have found trace amounts of Suxamethonium; a paralyzing toxin that once ingested will leave the person immobile yet conscious to all pain. It would’ve been difficult to find - as even coroner’s do not normally test for the substance unless specifically requested. No matter how you really slice it, this entire ordeal really comes back to Nathan himself. If only he had been a better person and not constantly demeaned his peers at every turn. If only he hadn’t been so stubborn and proud. If only he hadn’t gone behind my back and boned my ex-girlfriend thus ruining our future and sending me into the spiraling depths of crippling depression, then maybe I would’ve helped him. So, you may be wondering; is this my confession? No, of course not. This is only my list of suggestions and rules for how things may have turned out differently for Nathan and his family. These are all hypothetical explanations, and are in no way to be considered incriminating evidence to be used in court against me or anyone else for that matter. Besides, if this really was a confession, then that would make anyone who read it an accessory to murder, and we certainly wouldn’t want that. I hope you can understand that, and I do hope that we can trust each other in this regard. After all, I have really good software for tracing IP’s and reddit makes it incredibly easy to access them. We wouldn’t want YOUR house to suddenly become haunted, now would we?

Why it sound kinda like t.i.? Or is it just me. 2019 ?❤.

Middle east:HOW CAN I GET RID OF THIS ISIS. Philippines:Observe

Run This Town Movie stream.nbcolympics. Run This Town Movie streaming sur internet. Rayan bayut a pilipino soldier who fought in that war said 'sir i am surrounded with enemies pleeses bomb this area Litererly sacrifised himself. Run This Town Movie streams. EDIT: My husband wrote this story and I really wanted to share it with you guys. I had to change all the locations and specific streets he mentioned so I could post here, AND THERE WAS A SHIT TON. Hope you enjoy as much as I did, even with the edits. It had been almost a month since I had reported to my P. O.. There was no doubt in my mind that the county had issued an arrest warrant. I was scheduled to report to the probation office weekly as well as go in front of the judge every Tuesday morning. I had been getting high for months. It started in the halfway house with the intention of quitting before I came home. As assertive and self confident as I am, I always get bullied by drugs and submit to the schedule they want me on. I had been functioning on the brink of destruction for the 2 months that I inhabited this apartment. ​ Each time I met with my P. O. I was carrying a clean urine contraption in my Polo boxers. I’d cut a small slit in the flap of a pair of boxer briefs. Then I would empty out a small bottle of hand sanitizer and fill it with clean piss wherever I could find it. That bottle was then warmed up and placed with just the tip sticking outside the underwear fabric. On my way to the office my body heat would keep the temperature regulated. With this invention I could give the fake sample even if I was being watched and I was always being watched. Most times the officer would stand outside the bathroom and watch as your back was turned but some of the more devious officers would look right at my hammer while I was putting piss in a cup for them. 95% of parole and probation officers are the worst type of people. If you ask me anyone involved in the just system has some lack of self esteem that would drive them to impose there power on others. Especially Richard Dye and Janice Coble two people who did their best to help me ruin my life. At this time I could no longer keep up the façade of a sober productive citizen. I had come to the same crossroads that I had passed through many times before. I could give up the drugs and re-adjust to a healthy wholesome lifestyle, or I could give up the last semblance of a normal life and keep on with the excitement and madness of being a junkie. The junk was way more seductive than the prospect of regularity ever could pretend to be. I waved the white flag at square life and “took it on the run” from probation. ​ For the first few days I talked with criminal advisors of all types. Drug users who had been in the same boat, drug dealers who ran from football numbers for years, and Ex convicts who had long since turned to family men. As I was only facing a 3 year sentence with half that time already served the general consensus was to turn myself in and get this situation behind me. However, I was in the clutch of a daily speedball addiction and I couldn’t find it in me to just walk away from that steamy romance. ​ One day as I was in the midst of a strong dope nod the plan unfurled in front of me. I could collect the security deposit from my apartment, take a train down south, and eventually find a job on some sort of Caribbean boat. I would have to stop using but I would work it out so that I started a new life on whatever island felt right. I was so disgusted with my life and the justice system of the state I live in that the fantasy of never coming back to the country filled me with more satisfaction than the best drugs around. Somedays I still dream of how pleasant a simple life on a small tropical island could be. After the plan was hatched I couldn’t think of anything else. I hadn’t felt the freedom that leaving would give me in years, if ever. I couldn’t leave today because I didn’t yet have the money. I also need to acquire a stash of detox drugs so that I wasn’t diminished to a trembling, crying, puking pile of crumbled junkster on my way to execute operation “Detoxy Freedom”. That meant waiting a few more days if not weeks. My landlord was a clean cut businessman, but was no stranger to the other side of the law. I had explained to him my situation and apologized profusely as I humbly asked for his help by returning my security deposit. With no hesitation he agreed. The catch was that he needed a few days to get it together, whatever that may have meant. In the meantime I needed to make sure I stayed low. I had a buddy who lived a few towns north of the city I live in. His town was a quiet place made up mostly of forest and farmland. It was a great place to hide out. As long as I stayed indoors no one would ever suspect that I was there. I had brought some drugs with me but not enough. By my third day there I was in the midst of an ugly withdrawal. My Buddy McFlave knew I was using and showed sympathy but he wasn’t a part of this lifestyle and couldn’t do much to help me out as far as getting another fix. I knew that the only way to end my current physical suffering was to get back down to the city and get a fix but I was so close to freedom that I was scared to risk it. That fear only lasted for a day. When McFlave returned home from work one night, I had a half meltdown and told him I had to get back to my hood. He initially tried to bargain with me, it was to no avail. ​ We hopped into his 1980-something Reliant K station wagon to make the 8 mile drive. With my physical discomfort and the prospect of alleviating withdraw, the 20 minute ride felt closer to an hour. We stayed mostly silent as I shivered and sweat in the passenger seat. The trees and fields transitioned to buildings and lots as we weaved through the back roads. My internal paradox had intensified as we arrived in the city. The anxiety grew since there was a greater possibility for capture in the city. At the same time, the serenity rose knowing that soon I would have some relief from my opioid induced malady. ​ The sun was on its way down. It was one of those humid summer nights where the sky glows all shades of orange and purple just before sunset. While arriving out front of my apartment building I found solace being back amongst the trash strewn streets. For years I had felt my connection to life through the crumbling infrastructure of the inner city. McFlave solemnly bid his farewell as if I was a soldier shipping out to war. He wasn’t far off. I would be shipped before 24 hours was up. ​ I didn’t even bother to walk upstairs into my apartment. I sat on the bench out front of the store and called Brownie. He didn’t answer. During my time in this city I think I saw one open air dope spot. The word was that the whole neighborhood had hustlers on every corner. If they were there I never saw them. It’s also possible that I was looking for the wrong situation. In a different city, where I had spent most of my days, the dope spots were not camouflaged. Young black, brown and occasionally white brothers stood proudly on corners and let each passerby know which drugs could be purchased there or close by. Then, the hand to hand transaction was made outdoors only using two vehicles or buildings as cover from any nearby police. My understanding of the city I was staying at during the time was that the dope was sold inside of the brownstone tenement buildings on the 10-15 blocks surrounding A certain street. So anyone who wanted a particular brand of skag would have to know which building it was sold inside of and they would walk into the front door to be served. I dealt with a similar process a-little further north of the state, however at that time I had never been locked up for any length of time as an adult so I was quicker to throw caution to the wind. Being on Probation in The Town, I wasn’t keen to spend hours in the hood searching for drugs and socializing with low level junkies. Brownie was a dope dealer I met while I was still in the halfway house. My Bunkie Ross was from the neighborhood and one of the illest hustlers I’ve ever met. Ross could turn a dime to a stack inside of a week and very seldom made his profit with drugs. He did know the guys who made their living selling crack and smack though. I think it was Ross who originally put me in touch with Brownie. Brownie was a hood anomaly. He spent years getting high on heroin. At some point he stopped using and started selling. He lived in a homeless shelter and I think part of the reason was because that was where most of his clientele was. ​ As I was realizing that I was gonna have to take a train to a different city just to get one bag my phone rang. Brownie was calling back. It didn’t ring twice before I picked up. “Hey yo” I greeted meekly, showing myself just how weak the withdrawal made me. “What’s happening Shane” Brownie asked. He always called me Shane and I never corrected him. In the street using your real name can be detrimental. ​I told him I needed 2 and asked for 2 on consignment. My credit score in life is non-existent but in the dope game it was 850. I almost always got drugs fronted to me. Brownie told me to meet him at the 6ABC building next to the train station. I argued and told him that’s a terrible spot but he insisted. That part of the city was rampant with police and pedestrians and was about the worst place to buy drugs, especially as a fugitive. It seemed shifty but I let go of that notion relatively quickly. Any of the lethargy evaporated as I ran up to my apartment 2 steps at a time to grab my bike. While still at the halfway house I had acquired a murdered out, gunmetal beach cruiser with high rise handlebars. The only component on the bike that wasn’t black or gray was the thick whitewall tires. I kept my bike, apartment, and sneakers pristine. ​ It was about 20 blocks from my apartment to the train station downtown. I pedaled down the street through a lively neighborhood. I caught a few notes of the narcocorrido songs playing at Chapala, the corner bar. Immigrant’s children played on the sidewalks as I passed. Every car that rode by me sent tremors through the block from heavy bass in the songs they played, mostly Trap and Latino Hip-Hop. I thought to stop at the liquor store across from the park, but there was a menacing crowd of MS-13 outside. Those were the only gangsters who ever made me nervous because my wit and charm would be useless without full command of the Spanish language. Past the park I weaved through a few quiet side blocks and turned left heading north onto the Ave. ​ The Ave was generally an unassuming city street. It varied between residential blocks and strips of storefronts. The blocks south of the Dye St bend were Latino restaurants, barber shops and blocks started to get visually poorer. Most of the storefronts were abandoned, as well as some of the homes, and the intersections looked like the perimeter of a landfill. The only business that appeared to have some measure of success was the Chinese Food/Liquor store. It wasn’t clean but the large brightly illuminated windows gave it that appearance. It was always busy and drew an unsavory crowed who milled about outside. I made a mental note to stop and grab a drink on my way back home. ​ 2 blocks past I crossed over a small truss bridge that spanned a few railroad tracks leading to the train yard of the train station. This bridge signified the boundary of downtown. I didn’t like being in the city right now, and it was amplified while travelling through territory that housed poilice precinct, state buildings and other high security areas. People poured out of the station entrance from an incoming train and it helped me to relax. The more faces that were around the less likely a cop would focus on mine. Brownie was on the far side of the traffic light sitting alone inside a covered bus stop. I hopped off my cruiser and leaned it on the side of the structure. As we shook hands Brownie tried to nonchalantly pass off the product. However, it clumsily dropped out of our grasp as it did everytime I copped from him. Brownie always blamed me for this but I maintain that he was the klutz. ​“That’s 6” he said as I sat down with him, “2 are from a new connect, do those first and let me know what you think” I couldn’t help cracking a smile despite my depressed demeanor and anxiety riddled mental status. Testers weren’t uncommon on well established drug corners. I never got any from Brownie and this was a pleasant surprise. I would be able to have a bag or two when I woke up the next morning. With subtle incognito movements I reached in my pocket and placed two $10 bills on the bench next to me. I had no time to sit and chat I had to get the hell outta dodge and get high. ​In a blink I was back on the Cruiser and heading back down The Ave. As I sped past the Chinese liquor spot the thought of stopping for a drink had already disappeared. I was nauseous, anxious, in pain and had a mean case of diarrhea brewing. With the cure in my pocket I mutated from crippled junkie to Lance Armstrong. Each pedal stroke was taking me closer to the goal I would nearly die to achieve. Had I met Brownie in a different section of the city I would already have shot a bag of dope and been moseying my way home without any particular urgency. Downtown I didn’t know of one safe place to stop and take the few minutes to set up a syringe. My white T-shirt and gym shorts were soaked with sweat from withdrawing in August while riding a bike. I looked like a possessed man passing by nice Colombian families enjoying an Aguardiente in the summer heat. My legs were cramped and damn near inoperable when I reached home. I left my bike on the side of the building and stumbled up the stairs to fix a shot. ​ The apartment was sparsely furnished and spotless. Years of incarceration had engrained a moral sense of duty to be clean and organized. I kept my tools of the trade in the nightstand near my bed. My hands trembled while I poured the tan powder from a white wax envelope into a water bottle cap. I add 10cc of water for each bag; no more, no less. Using the back of the diabetic syringe I stir up the cap until all the powder dissolves. I think “this is some good dope” when it turns the color of ice tea. I re-use the same speck of cotton for days at a time, dropping it into the cap to be used as a filter. Gently resting the tip of the needle on the browned filter I pull back on the syringe plunger and suck up 25 cc’s of the antidote. In the movies they squirt a few drops out to make sure there’s no air in the spike. I wouldn’t dare waste a few cc’s like that. I flick the body of the needle twice to let the air bubbles rise and then push the plunger just enough to remove them. All of my movements are made in a hurry but very methodically. I don’t want to spill the potion or miss a vein. The leather Polo belt snaps as I grab it off the bedroom door knob. I stick my right arm through the belt, wrap it twice and sink my teeth in to hold it in place. A thick vein inside my elbow pushes the yellow bruised skin up just enough to make its presence visible. Along that lump runs an inch of scars from previous years of needle pokes. The needle is old and dull so when I jab at the vein it hurts a bit more than normal also my nerves are on edge and it adds to the sharp prick. Immediately I see a bit of blood swirl up into the cylinder of the syringe. A red dragon from the same Asian country as the heroin its dancing in. I drive down the plunger as fast as it will go. Before I can pull the arm dart out and wipe the blood I get a tingle starting at the bottom of my back. It’s a warm euphoric version of your foot “falling asleep”. The pins and needles dance salsa up my back. When they reach my head the tingle shifts to an explosion and a wave of warm goo drips from my skull to my feet. I close my eyes and float in the feeling. Without even having the chance to take the needle out I fall out of consciousness in the most heavenly way. At 5:30 the next morning there was a knock at my door that woke me. My eyes opened and heart pounded. The soft light from the window signified that it was still early. I lay for a moment with my blood pressure pulsing all over my body. I knew at this time of day the only people showing up at my apartment were the police serving a warrant. My mind spun and the anxiety was unbearable. ‘This was it. ’ ‘Or was it? ’ If they were knocking than maybe they weren’t gonna kick the door down and I would be safe just staying still. They would leave at some point and I would make a break down south immediately. A few more moments of silence, I was frozen stiff. I started thinking that maybe I didn’t really hear a knock, ‘I was just dreaming. ’ I wasn’t sure that I heard a knock, it did happen while I was sleeping. A knock came again, but it wasn’t the normal cop knock. It was a knock to the rhythym of the Clipse song Grindin’. Now I’m all the way scared and confused. ‘Was it not the cops? ’ ‘Were they trying to throw me off so I’d answer the door? ’ It was only seconds but it felt like minutes when the next hip-hop knock came. This one settled my heart as it was accompanied by a voice. “YYEERRROOO!! COOOVVV!! ” The relief was on par with last nights fix. The voice wasn’t immediately recognizable. I was sure, though, that whoever was at my door before the birds started chirping was friend not foe. With a dried stream of blood crusted on my forearm I got up from the bed and wobbled through the living room. Before the next knock came I peered through the peephole. It was Machine Gun Funk. Gun Funk was one of the most unique characters I’ve ever met. We spent a half of a year together during a bid, a lockdown program to be exact. He was a white kid from the suburbs. He built a name for himself running through The city with the Fruit Town Brims. Fruit Town was a set of Bloods that originated in a section of Compton California. There aren’t many Brims out here but they are always official. Brims refer to each other with some form of the moniker Funk. P-Funk, D-Funk, Lo-Funk, etc. Gun Funk didn’t look like a gangster to the untrained eye. He wore khaki cargo shorts with leather sandals. He rocked a generic middle class white guy hair cut and fake diamond earrings. His face looked like he could have had a sprinkling of downs syndrome and he had a wrist full of friendship bracelets and leather bands. People who met Funk for the first time were more likely to think he just came home from Coachella Festival rather than a Correctional Facility. There were 2 things about Gun Funk that let the streets know he wasn’t your average college stoner. His tats and his beads. He wore red and white beads around his neck that blended in with the rest of his rave jewelry but were actually a symbol to his alliance to “Them Hat Boys”. He had a bunch of regular tats on his skin but the important one was on his forearm. In the joint someone inked an orange tree and a top hat below his elbow the tree symbolizing Fruit Town and the hat for Brim. I had talked to MGF a few weeks prior via Facebook and told him my door is always open now that I was in his backyard. I never thought he would show up but I was too happy to see him to be angry that it wasn’t yet 6am. We had both seen better days. I bypassed his outstretched hand and went straight for a hug. “What the fuck is going on? ” I asked with intent and not just as a greeting. I stepped away from the entryway and we both sat on the old living room couch. Gun Funk offered me a Maverick Menthol but I declined and pulled out a Newport from my own pack on the coffee table. I was eager to find out why this guy who I hadn’t seen in over a year was showing up on my doorstep. He began to break down the story. Like me MGF was a vivid storyteller which was a great skill for street dudes who wound up in the most unusual situations. A picture was painted for me of a night of drugs and sex that ended here in my apartment. Funk had been sniffing blow with a barely legal teenage girl in her parent’s house down the street. As he told me more of the details it became clear that he was pretty fried. They did the normal sniffing lines off her ass kinda stuff. Sometime before the sun rose and the coke was getting sparse the girl’s father woke up to get ready for his work day. Pops must have heard some commotion from his precious daughter’s bedroom and looked to find his baby girl with Ol’ Funks gun in her mouth. I’ve never laughed so hard before my morning coffee and shot. Her Pops threw Funk outta the house like he was Jazzy Jeff. I saw the freshly scraped elbows that were proof. With his phone and wallet still in homegirl’s bedroom MGF figured to try his luck at my house. I believed every word of his story. It wasn’t too far off from a situation I had or may find myself in. I was glad to see him and even more elated that he came bearing such an outlandish story. I made us a pot of coffee. After years of jail time Gun Funk adjusted to drinking his coffee John Wayne, meaning no cream and no sugar. I made my cup a Little Wayne, just sugar, I hadn’t bought cream or milk since my last shopping trip a few weeks ago. We sat for a few minutes as I told him about my fugitive status and plans to get out of The Town a. s. a. p.. He wanted to kick it at my spot for a few hours until he could safely retrieve his phone and wallet. That was fine by me, I was glad to have some company for the day. I handed him the remote and told him to watch what he wants. I hadn’t paid the cable bill in a while but they hadn’t cut it off just yet. I went to the bedroom and grabbed my tools for a morning fix. I did it in the bathroom then hopped in the shower. After getting dressed and making my way back to the couch, I saw that gun funk had dozed off. He had crashed from being zooted all night, and wouldn’t be waking up anytime soon. I decided to head downstairs to the deli that was the first floor of the building. I figured I could talk to my landlord and see if he might have had my security deposit for me. As I stepped foot out the door my landlord Johnny greeted me with his friendly smile. He had an espresso cup in one hand and a Marlboro in the other. Johnny was a family man nowadays but had grown up in the streets back when this part of the city was a tough Italian part of town. I believe he genuinely felt for me and didn’t like to see me living this life. We had talked about my plan for getting down south, if I really felt like this was the move and what I would do long term. He told me that by the end of the day he would have money for me. I felt uncomfortable in more ways than one. I didn’t like putting Johnny in the spot I did. I also didn’t like standing out in the open during broad daylight. As we chatted I watched every car that past. One of those cars was an older model, dark gray Crown Victoria that may have had government plates. Later on it registered to me that the driver of that car looked an awful lot like my Probation Officer. Since he didn’t stop at the time I made the choice to believe it was just a coincidence. After shooting the breeze for an hour or so I made my way upstairs to do another shot. Knowing that money was coming my way that afternoon stopped me from being conservative with my last few bags. Gun Funk was still dead asleep when I came out of the bathroom from doing a double shot. The Regis and Kelly show wasn’t holding my attention so I grabbed the remote off the coffee table and put on Animal Planet. It was a dry documentary about cheetahs, the perfect background noise to nod out to. I layed on the floor with my head propped on the base of the couch and focused on losing focus. “ BOOM BOOM BOOM BOOM” four heavy knocks on the door. I sprang to my feet. Funks eyes shot open and we stared at eachother our eyes lit with fear. There was no mistaking that knock. The panic had surged my adrenaline and any inkling of being high had vanished from my body. I was hoping against all odds that my door wasn’t about to kicked off the hinges. As quietly as I could I crept to a spot where I could look under the door. My nightmare was confirmed. I saw more than a few pairs of black boots on the floor of my apartments vestibule. I mouthed the words to Machine Gun Funk “Black Boots! ” I was expecting at any moment to see the door come flying open. Instead I heard another round of aggressive taps with an angry woman’s voice afterward “T***** Police”. I remained as still as I could though my heart beat as loud as the cop’s knock. I couldn’t breathe. Deep inside I thought that maybe they were going to leave had I not answered the door. Then came the only sound worse than a battering ram busting the door down. It was the most fearful sound I could have imagined at that point, and it was no louder than a phone’s vibration. I heard a key clicking into my doorknob. “ohhh fuucckk” I muttered breaking my silence. The door swung open with dynamic force knocking the Crucifix above it off the wall onto the head of the 2nd cop through. A brunette lady cop with her gun drawn at my face yelled to get down. I was paralyzed staring at the barrel and the enraged face behind it. “Hit the fucking ground!!! ” the second time she punctuated the statement with a wave of the gun. I snapped from my trance and dropped face first on the carpet. Funk did the same while in the crosshairs of a different gun. Immediately after I got down two linebacker sized pink skinned piglets in plain clothes pounced on me. I caught a gun butt in the back of my head that should have required a few stitches. I took a few swift boots to the torso. I wound up with a knee grinding my face into the floor while another pansy twisted my arm backwards way beyond its capability. Dazed from the blow to the head I can only imagine that MGF got the same treatment. After a few moments I was lifted to my feet violently to see that Sgt. Swine Slut was rummaging through my cabinets. She looked like the captain of an NCAA womens hockey team. In a momentary lapse of judgment I said to her “You looking for something to eat? ” That earned me a quick but weak jab to the gut from one of her flunkies. She didn’t bother responding after that. Two more plain clothes doughboys stood over my cohort and asked me with malice “who’s this? ” I remained silent as Gun Funk uttered his government name. I didn’t have the chance to hear anymore of that conversation as I was drug down the steps out to an unmarked police cruiser. As I sat in the back of that car the only thing I could think of through the pain throbbing in my head was that “I only missed a probation meeting, I don’t deserve this”. I didn’t have trouble believing that I took this beating from the Police. It only added to the disgust I had for the justice system and government. Behind the shit storm of emotions and underneath the silent tears I knew one thing. I was glad this is over. Being on the run, even for this short period had taken its toll on my soul. I looked forward to getting to jail so I could finally get some rest.

The following features a transcript from a short radio broadcast that has been picked up by various listeners across the continental United States. Many have been perplexed by its sudden appearance and how it seems to preempt whatever song or radio program they are listening to at the time. It has even been known to appear on streaming programs such as podcasts or Spotify. Listeners have described hearing different episodes and there have been many different situations and occurrences. Trevor contacted me with his story. He had heard the broadcast while driving in the southeastern United States. He spilled his story out to me in a venomous diatribe against the South. I was not sure what his vendetta against the region was. I knew that it had its problems and troubled history just like any other place in America, but he viewed it with a personal contempt that was jarring. This is his story. The Goddam South. Why oh why did my best friend have to move here? I guess these things are bound to happen eventually. You know someone all of your life: through kindergarten and junior high and high school and even end up at the same college together. But the real world comes along and so starts the job hunt and all of the offers and for some reason he accepts a job in Birmingham Freaking Alabama. There’s a big signing bonus and relocation fees and if you commit to three years at the company, you get another huge bonus. They’re practically bribing anyone with a STEM degree to come to these shitty little flyover states. I mean, we were from an almost flyover state in Pennsylvania and had gone to college at Stanford where I thought we had seen the light. The goal was to not end up in one of these places. The least he could’ve done was to go back to Pittsburgh. It’s really come a long way. For Tyler to move to a red state after all this time feels like a betrayal of all of our values and morals. I guess there really is a price tag on everything. We got really political together during our college years in Stanford. It was hard not to be. It was in the air and in the water down there, and it was a great way to make friends and meet chicks. When 2016 happened, the first presidential election that we were able to vote in, the politicking hit a fever pitch. First, when our boy Bernie didn’t get the nomination through some shadiness from the DNC and then when Trump won, whoo boy. We were full on in the whole resistance movement. It felt like we were part of something, you know? We even went to a couple of those protests in Berkeley that got a little out of hand. So after graduation when he told me the news, it was a huge kick in the nuts. What was I gonna do without Tyler? We were brothers in arms. Since kindergarten we hadn’t gone a full three weeks without seeing each other. Like hell I was going to follow him to that godforsaken hell hole. Alabama? It is possible that he moved there because of that gal he started talking to on the internet. From what little he talked of her, she was from somewhere down south. I thought it was just a one off thing, a line of communication to someone on the front lines of the resistance, but maybe not. He didn’t confirm either way when he called me and told me that things were getting serious and that he really wanted me to come meet her. The worst part of it was that he wanted me to come there. I offered to host them at my place in Portland, but he deferred my offer. “So I guess this is it, huh? You’re some kind of Southerner? ” “C’mon man, it’s not that bad. ” “Why didn’t you at least take a job in Austin if you wanted to go to the south so badly? Austin I could vibe with. ” “Austin isn’t in the South though, it’s Texas. ” “Whatever. How is it living in a third world country? ” “It’s Alabama. Not Mississippi. ” “You think you’re gonna fulfill your contract and get the hell out as soon as you can? ”“I dunno. I’m actually starting to like it here. It’s laid back. ” “Yeah, if you’re white. ” “It’s not what you think. Just come on down here and see for yourself. I haven’t seen you in a while and it would be good to hang. Things are getting really serious between me and Diane. I think she might be the one. I’d love for you to meet her and have your blessing. Make sure I’m not making a rash decision. ” “Fine, ” I sighed. “I’ll visit The Goddam South with its n-word using, gay bashing, illtierate, immigrant fearing, inbred hicks. ” “Hey man, cut the shit. You’re completely off base. You’ve never even been here. Do you even know how many immigrants we’ve got here? You know you’re really in your own little bubble out there. Cut off from reality. I didn’t see it until I moved out here, how out of touch we could be. You’re talking like some kinda “coastal elite”. How much diversity is there in Portland? How’s that homeless thing working out for ya’ll? ” Coastal elite? Ya’ll? It was really worse than I had feared. They were converting him. I knew I had to visit and soon. Not for a visit to catch up on old times and give him my blessing, but for an intervention. I apologized to him over the phone and began to make arrangements for my visit. Hopefully I could save him. **** I managed to secure some time off from work. I can’t get into the specifics just yet, but I was a programmer at a startup for a new app we were releasing that was going to involve car repairs and hopefully disrupt that industry. They were cool with giving me a full week off. I had never seen New Orleans and always kind of wanted to go, so my plan was to stay a night there and then drive up and over to Birmingham. I roamed up and down Bourbon Street alone and listened to some jazz and drank sazeracs and hurricanes and almost puked in an alleyway as I hear is tradition in New Orleans. Later, I got some beignets at Cafe Du Monde and it sobered me up enough to get an Uber back to my hotel safely. A late start the next morning on account of my hangover, I took I-59 North. I was ahead of schedule by a half day for when I was supposed to meet up with Tyler, so I figured I would drive over to Montgomery and check out this new memorial they had there. The interstates was a corridor with walls of tall skinny pines lining the sides. The walls of pines bordered large fields of brown, tufts of white popping out like snow. Cotton. The air was thick and hot and my AC was blasting. Large green vines crawled and completely covered low lying ravines and anything in their path. I could make out the shapes of trees under them that had been swallowed. I would later learn that this vine was called kudzu. Billboards appeared every now and then, advertising and sharing their messages. CHOOSE LIFE one said and had a picture of a baby on it. HOW WILL YOU SPEND ETERNITY? Asked another. Later, I would see one that read “GO TO CHURCH OR THE DEVIL’S GONNA GET YOU” and it featured a large red Satan holding a scythe. I pulled off at a large truck stop near a city called Meridian in Mississippi. I milled about for a while, looking for Southern artifacts. I saw a small area that sold T-shirts and keychains that had Mississippi flags on them and these looked like Confederate flags to me. There was a table with a couple of metal canisters with ladles sticking out of them and a sign reading “Boiled Peanuts”. I had never heard of such a thing. I peeked inside and the canister was full of slimy looking peanuts with the shells still on them, simmering in a brown liquid. Yuck. There was a fast food restaurant connected to the truck stop and the day after post drunken binge cravings were hitting me hard all of a sudden, so I ordered a greasy cheeseburger and fries. I sat towards the back of the restaurant. Maybe it was the hangover effects or maybe it was because I was in the South, but I was feeling paranoid and anxious. A big burly looking guy in a plaid shirt and a truckers cap shuffled into the fast food area, carrying a styrofoam cup full of the boiled peanuts and a plastic bag. His neck was thick and stubbled and his gut rested up against the table as he sat in a booth. He sat the peanuts down and looked at them for a long time. From the bag he pulled out a box of Benadryl and ripped it open, punching every single little pink pill out of the blister packet and onto the table. Soon, he had a small pile of pink pills as he swept the trash from the packaging aside. Next, he procured two plastic cylinders from the plastic sack and sat them next to the pills. I watched in bewilderment as he began to pick at the boiled soft peanut husks with his stubby fingers and squeeze out the nuts within. He placed these back in the styrofoam cup and tossed the dessicated shells onto the table. I watched this bizarre ritual for a while until he had shelled the entire container. The Goddam South, I thought, shaking my head. What a freak. He pinched a handful of the benadryl tablets and dry swallowed them. His Adam’s apple bobbing as he stared up at the ceiling with his eyes closed. He looked back down at the peanuts for a long time, psyching himself up. He then slid his fingers in, pulled out some peanuts, and then shoveled them into his mouth. He did it again and again, until his mouth was full, and his jaw worked and worked. What in the Dixieland fuck? I thought. He got the first mouthful down, gasped for air, and then shoved another handful into his mouth. At the top of his hairy chest I could see pink splotches starting to spread upwards and across his neck like expanding enemy territories on a map. Putting another cache of nuts into his mouth, he picked up one of the plastic cylinders off the table, flicked off a cap, and shoved it right into his arm. Through his shirt and everything. An epipen. Holy shit, this guy’s allergic! What is he thinking? The invading splotches on his skin had advanced across the stubbled territory of his neck and over the crest of his jaw line. His lips had begun to swell and bits of chewed peanut flecked his cheeks and chin, yet he still continued eating and eating. He jabbed another epipen into his arm while he was still able to see, for his eyes were now almost swollen shut, the sockets inflated with fleshy bags that formed cracks where his eyes should have been. He was huffing and puffing for air, a loud whistling wheeze that could be heard from across the room. Drool ran down his chin and neck and his eyes watered. Yet, still he chewed. Still he consumed. Still he swallowed. “Hey man, whatchoo doing? ” a bystander asked him. “You’s havin’ a reaction to them. ” The bystander reached for the peanuts, but the anaphylactic man swatted him away, his face a bloated and hideous mask with slits for eyes. He tipped the styrofoam cup back towards his swollen head and dumped the remaining peanuts down his desperate maw, chewed and collapsed onto the floor. “Ayy yo, somebody call an ambulance! ” The bystander yelled. I could still hear the man’s whistling wheeze, still could see his fat stomach rising and falling, and I thought I have got to get the hell outta here. ### I had to ask Trevor, did the guy die? He tells me he doesn’t know for sure, that he watched paramedics arrive and successfully intubate the man with the anaphylactic reaction and haul him away. He continued with his story. I arrived in Birmingham without further incident. That whole episode had frightened and disgusted me and I kept replaying it in my mind for the rest of my journey. I wasn’t used to seeing that sort of shit. Were Southerners so dumb they thought they could just eat something they were allergic to and not suffer any repercussions? Tyler lived in a revitalized urban area near downtown Birmingham. It seemed like an area that was an imitation of the trends that had started in bigger and hipper cities. There were hipster bars with craft cocktails, microbreweries, cool little restaurants, murals, and public art. I was actually surprised by it all. “You made it! ” he said when he answered the door. His apartment was nice and spacious. His girlfriend, Diane, had yet to arrive. “Barely. ” I responded. We sat for a while, drinking IPAs from cans, catching up. “So I guess this little neighborhood is pretty cool, ” I said. “Didn’t know they had anything like that down here. ” “Yeah, it’s really up and coming. This beer you’re drinking is from one of the local breweries. ” He seemed impressed by this and it was kind of depressing. We had more local microbreweries out on the coast per capita than just about anywhere. I spent weekends trying to discover them all, from Seattle to Bend, Oregon. In a couple years he’d be telling me excitedly about the local dispensaries that they had down here. I cleared my throat. I figured now was the time to talk some sense into him, not while Diane was around. “Is it like really racist here? How do you deal with it all? I mean I’ve been on Twitter a lot, reading the political headlines and I’m starting to think we should just expel this entire south eastern region. They’re dragging us down, man. All out tax dollars on the coasts helps these people and their hate out. ” “Trevor, it’s like any other place. Do you know that Oregon drafted a state constitution banning black people? I’m sure there’s racists and stuff around here, but I don’t really see any of it. As far as the red state stuff goes, do you understand gerrymandering? Voter suppression? The south east has a large black population, more cities that are majority African American than anywhere. Are just gonna expel them, too? I don’t know about you, but that sounds a little racist. ” “I dunno man, driving up here, it’s like the buckle of the bible belt. I think I’m going to hell now, by the way. ” “Just relax with all this political stuff. Quit trying to be so woke and right the world’s wrongs from your phone while you’re not really doing much else. Unplug from social media and Twitter and all of that. Start living in the real world for a change. Let’s have some fun this week. Miss ya bud, ” he said and gave my trapezius a stiff squeeze. “I've been off social media for a bit. There’s this thing the tech dudes are all doing called a dopamine fast. It involves getting off of that stuff periodically so your reward centers in your brain can reset and recharge. I haven’t seen pictures of you and Diane, yet by the way, because of the fast. ” “Welp, she should be up here shortly. ” She arrived and I must say that he had done well for himself. She was stunning and had a laid back personality and made me relaxed. I only had one main concern and it had to do with where he lived and who she was. She was black. ### I asked Trevor why that bothered him. He responded that he was “worried about prejudice and stuff” and that Tyler had “never dated anyone like that before. ” Anyone like what? “You know, like a person of color, or whatever. ” When I asked him if he could expound further on these concerns, he really couldn’t. He continued on. The visit went well for the next few days. Tyler and Diane were gracious hosts and I learned a little bit about Southern hospitality from Diane, who had been born and raised in Atlanta. They showed me the sights of Birmingham and we ate a lot of that good southern cooking. Everyone in town seemed really friendly, too. I must admit that I was starting to reverse my stance on the South. It didn’t seem like a half bad place after all. But then I would scroll through news stories in the morning about the sad state of affairs our country was in and I couldn’t help but blame the legislators and senators in this part of the country and the people that voted for them. I would get this feeling that I was in the wrong place and get the urge to get the hell out of here. Tyler and I had a bit of a guy’s night out on what was to be my last night in town. We went to a neighborhood called Five Points South and spent the night hopping from bar to bar. If you didn’t focus too much, you could be anywhere. Only thing different was the accents, and even those weren’t too bad. As the night wore on, we were feeling better and better and having more and more of a good time. We snuck into a back alley, behind this dumpster, where Tyler magically procured a spliff. “Look at you! Where did you get that? ” I asked with drunken glee. “I have my ways. ” He lit it and we took turns taking hits. It was such a good night. A sudden melancholy fell over me. These nights were no longer the norm. From here on out we’d see each other less and less and less. I felt grief and anger welling up from somewhere deep within. Tyler was laughing at something he had just said and I felt a strong urge to lash out. "Man what a night, eh? Too bad these are gonna be few and far between from here on out. It was nice knowing ya. " "Aw man, we'll still see each other. How about Diane and I fly out and visit you in Portland? " “It won’t be the same, ” I mumbled. I was quiet for a while--we both were— and stared at the dirty ground, lit orange by streetlights. I started getting more upset. “We’re never gonna be able to just fuck off and go to Thailand or whatever. Burning Man. You’re gonna be down here, getting all established with your job and your girlfriend and next thing you know you’re married to your token black girlfriend and having little half-and—” An impact flashed across my jaw and my head jerked and I was sent stumbling. I would feel the pain later, but right now I was sinking. I hit the ground and lay there, dizzy and everything out of focus. “Fuck you, ” I heard Tyler say from somewhere above me. I didn’t get up. *** I stayed on the ground for a long time, feeling sorry for myself. Why not just stay down here forever? No one would care. I got bored after a while and got up and brushed myself off and realized my phone was completely dead. I staggered out into the street. Maybe I could borrow someone’s phone and hail an uber. I had a little bit of cash. Out on the sidewalk a group of black guys were walking my way, talking loudly and laughing it up. I got a bad vibe from them, so I quickly hurried across the street and headed in the opposite direction. I didn’t want to add being mugged to the night’s insults. I found a late night donut shop where I ordered some coffee and was able to charge my phone. Between the joint, the coffee, the water and being punched in the face by my best friend, I was feeling more sober than I ever had in my life. I decided right then and there that I was leaving and after my phone charged enough I hailed an Uber to my hotel, got my things and hit the road. I was heading east to Atlanta, where I had a direct flight back to Portland. I was heading east on I-20. It was about 415 in the morning. I was letting my phone charge and the XM radio was barely audible. A voice began to speak with utmost clarity, almost like someone was sitting in the passenger seat talking to me. It was the radio, the broadcast that people have been telling you about. Goooood mornin’ folks! I’m Buck Hensley and I’m here with another episode of “The Rules of the Road. ” Oh I wish I was in the land of cotton, old times there are not forgotten, look away! Look away. I don’t remember how the rest of that fucking song goes, but boy do I wish that I was in the land of cotton. Carla and I took a little tour of the region back in the day. That southern heat sure was sultry and the windows were down while our sweaty legs stuck to the vinyl seats as we cruised down gravel roads past fields of ubiquitous chirping of cicadas filled the air, soon to be joined by a chorus of frogs in the waning evening light. It was just downright beautiful. But a kind of sad beauty, you know? Carla must’ve thought so too as the tears streamed down her face all the while she kept smiling and smiling. I asked her what was wrong, but she didn’t have to tell me. We both knew. Speaking of that dixie song, did ya’ll know it from minstrel shows? A bunch of white folk dressed up as black people, wearing blackface and everything. It was even one of Abraham Lincoln’s favorite songs. Ain’t that something? Speaking of blackface, I feel like I’m wearing white face myself these a pale imitation at that. I may have to go fetch me a new one. This one’s getting a little torn around the edges. But I digress. Alrighty, on to tonight’s rule, if at any point during your journey you pull over at a gas station or convenience store or vegetable stand or whatever and you see that they have boiled peanuts for sale, then you must buy them. Ladle up a big ol heapin cup or bowl full of them delicious goobers, pay for ‘em, and eat them right there on sight. I promise I won’t be too jealous. Trevor tells me that this was a sudden revelation to him and he thought of the man he had seen at the truck stop. An eerie feeling came over him. He continued listening. Before you go off in a tizzy, I know what you’re gonna say. You’re gonna say, “Buck! I ain’t eatin’ no dang roadside boiled peanuts. I like my peanuts honey roasted and floatin’ in my Coke bottle. Who ever heard of boiling peanuts? Nuts are supposed to be hot and roasted and saltier than my girlfriend’s attitude. My mama made me chicken strips and hot dogs every night of my life and I’m afraid to try any sort of new food. I’m afraid it might come up and bite me or taste yucky. ” And to that I say, “Fair enough. ” But you might wanna pinch your nose and go ahead and swallow those tasty legumes down. For if you don’t follow this rule of the road, then you are in for a rude awakening. A slow and creepy crawling terror might just befall you. Watch your back and don’t get too settled for too long, because it might just slowly choke you out. Welp, that’s all I’ve got for tonight. The sun’s about to come up and I’ve gotta get a move on. I’ve got so many other faces to meet and places to see and folks to inform. Ya’ll stay safe out there. Stay alert. Stay lively. Stay lonely. I’m Buck Hensley, and these are “The Rules of the Road. ” “That was weird, ” I said to myself. Did that trucker back in Mississippi hear this broadcast? He must have. Why else would he have done that to himself, knowing that he had a nut allergy? How gullible and stupid could you get? The warning seemed vague. Even if he did believe it, wouldn’t he have much rather taken his chances? I was almost to the airport and needed to fill up the rental car before I turned it back in. Sure enough, at the first gas station I stopped at they had boiled peanuts for sale. I considered the broadcast and the rule I was given. There was no reason for me to believe this, but a little good luck couldn’t hurt. I opened a crockpot full of peanuts and ladled one into a napkin. I wanted to try it first. I peeled it out of its shell and popped them in my mouth. It tasted like some sort of bean. I spit it out. “Fuck the south, ” I muttered to myself and left the gas station. *** My flight out of Atlanta was cancelled. Something mechanical, they said. The airline comped me a room. Before I left the boarding area I overheard some flight attendants and a pilot talking about the issue. “Really? That’s the strangest thing. ” “Yeah, it was wrapped all up in both engines. And that’s not the strangest part. It was all over the landing gear, climbing up the side and into the engine. Must be some sort of sabotage, I guess. How else can you explain it? ” I looked out the window at the plane I was supposed to board, but I couldn’t make out what they were talking about, just something green hanging from the jet engine. *** " So yeah, I’m holed up in this shitty hotel, killing time and waiting for my flight. It leaves out at tomorrow afternoon. I got to Googling “The Rules of the Road” and to see if it was some sort of regional radio program or what, and that’s where I found your website and your call for those that encountered the broadcast. That’s really all I have. I didn’t follow the rules. I must admit that it did make me a little paranoid reading about the encounters on your website, haha. So, you’re behind this whole thing, huh? " I tell Trevor that no, I’m not behind it. I don’t know if he believes it. He asks me if this is some sort of ARG game, what company I work for. I tell him, not that as far as I know, the rules are very, very rule. I then ask him if he is pulling one over on me. He asks, are they going to make a movie about this? We ask each other more similar questions and then end the call. I’m worried about him. He may be a douchebag and a hypocrite, prone to a strange overcompensation, but I am worried about him. The rules don’t fuck around. Do douchebags realize that they’re douchebags? Are they aware of their behavior and its negativity? Maybe not in the moment, but after a period of self-reflection do they ever look back with regret? *** He calls the next morning, frantic. “Okay, so this is all a big joke, right? The cameras are gonna burst in at any moment and we’re all gonna have a big laugh. Did Tyler put you up to this? To teach me a lesson? ” I’m groggy. “Is this Trevor? What’s going on? ” “QUIT FUCKING WITH ME, MAN! ” “Trevor, just calm down. Tell me what’s happening. ” “I woke up and there were all of these, like vines. They were covering my entire body, my legs and arms and round my neck and everything. One was starting to go down my throat. ” “I had nothing to do with this, Trevor. It’s the goddam rules. They are real. I follow the ones I’ve heard. Where are you now? ” “I’m in the motel bathroom. I managed to yank most of them off of me, but one is still around my ankle and it’s on there really tight. They’re starting to move under the door. Oh shit, oh shit, oh shit. ” “Can you like call 911? Give them your location? If I was a prank show, I swear I wouldn’t have you do that. ” I hear him take a deep breath. “Okay, okay, okay. ” I continue to reassure him. I tell him that I will have my phone by me and for him to please call me back. After a very long five minutes, my phone rings. “They say they’re on their way. They didn’t sound like they believed me. So I told them I had killed somebody in my room and that I was going to kill more. That got their attention. Fuck, I’m so scared. ” His voice was growing more high pitched and manic. “SHIT! My fucking ankle’s bleeding! Holy shit, I can see the bone! ” “Trevor! Stay with me! ” “Oh God, there’s so many vines in here. It’s kudzu. That’s what it is. It takes over! ” He began to laugh hysterically and hyperventilate. I could hear the clang of a toilet tank lid. I could imagine him standing on it, the vine wrapped tight around his ankle, blood running down the porcelain, greenery advancing upon him and wrapping around whatever limb or part of his body it could find. “The shower rod! Whack them with the shower rod! ” Over the phone I could hear rustling and clanging and him hollering and screaming. “Oh god, they’re up my leg! Call Buck Hensley! I’m begging you. Please, please please. ” “Trevor, I can’t. Just…” I didn’t know what to say. The rustling grew louder and I could only hear him mumbling to himself, prayers and apologies to gods and people unknown. Then, there was a sudden scream, a loud bang, and nothing. I called his name again and again, but there was no response. Silence. *** “We found him out back, by the dumpster. In the brush and weeds. He was deceased. ” The authorities had found his cellphone in the hotel room and had contacted the last number that was called. “Detective, can you tell me how he died? You can be blunt. ” “Right now, I only have a couple of ideas. His right leg was missing below the knee, just torn off real messily, but it’s weird. It didn’t look like he bled out because whoever did this had wrapped a tourniquet on that thigh, preventing the massive blood loss that would normally cause shock in that situation. ” “Hmm, ” was all I could say. “So, that’s a possibility. But he had ligature marks around his neck, all made with vines. So he may have died from strangulation. But there were also vines in his mouth, down his throat, and in his abdominal cavity. One of the strangest things I ever saw. His whole body, just covered with vines, the silhouette of a person just out there in the landscape like a goddam art project. ” “I.. I don’t.. ” I could only stammer. “Where did you say you were from? ” I told him. “Well, we’ll be in touch. Right now we suspect some type of sicko ritual murder. The killer called us from his phone, so he likely had his time with him all night before the call. We haven’t even found his leg. So our best guess is that he had his way with this poor guy, wrapped him up in vines and shoved them in every possible place and orifice he could, and then presented him. Maybe it was this Buck Hensley fella. Whatever it is, it was like he was trying to make some kind of statement. ” I told him that I would help them in any way that I could. But I knew that there was nothing that they would be able to uncover that would make sense of this whole awful mess. Not unless the Atlanta PD had supernatural connections. “It’s a weird coincidence. They grounded a plane out at Hartsfield just yesterday. Had vines all wrapped up in the landing gear and both engines. Kudzu. They’d never seen anything like it. ” ~~~[ll].

Like in the US, hip hop took over as the most popular music genre in the country in Denmark this decade. Danish rappers have always pulled a lot of inspiration from the american scene such as West Coast and Crunk instrumentals. In the 2010s, they continued to do so, but the american scene wasn't the number one inspiration, since French, British and Spanish music really was easy to find in most of the big danish acts. We have a huge hip hop scene and people who are not ethnic danish have made it really big in the mainstream and here is a guide to their music. Molo (Short for Molotov Movement for the record) The biggest artists in Denmark for the past couple of years have been Molo, which is a group consisting of Gilli, Benny Jamz, Branco and Stepz (Branco and Stepz have always made music together in their duo, MellemFingaMuzik). Before Molo, Gilli and Benny Jamz were in the same collective B. O. C, which they still are apart of, though B. C have not made music together as a collective for a couple of years now. Still, their other members, such as KESI and Noah Carter are still heavyweights in the game, making solo music and often featuring on each others music. Most of Molo's lyrics are about drug dealing, flexing and the ghetto, whenever they make music together, but as individuals they also touch other subjects in their solo music. In the summer of 2018, they dropped their album M. L. O., which is actually a dope album, with no attemps to make radio hits and it's just hard hitting street rap. Their singles though, are big trap bangers for the most, which often has a hook from Gilli (who is the biggest solo name in Denmark hands down) Suggestions: Skejsen (Skejs is an old danish term for money) Bølgen (The Wave) the beat on this one is sooo fire, and can even be found on YouTube, as a Drake x Tory Lanez type beat Rolig (Easy or Calm Down) whether this is Gilli song or a Molo song is not known (since there is no Benny Jamz verse, and instead features another rapper, Sivas). This song has never been released so it's technically a leak, but it still became a hit, in the streets at least. Danish hip hop has had huge problems with leaks during this decade, and many potential has gone lost due to leaks. Molo, even had a whole album, Les Sabotages, which might have been scrapped due to leaks. Still, Rolig, is probably my personal favorite Molo song, due to it's lyrics being deeper and it actually has a good message connected to it. Gilli As previously mentioned, Gilli, is the biggest name in danish hip hop, and he has been for the past couple of years. His career began with B. C back in 2010-11-ish. They started by making Grime music, similar to the English Grime music and has dropped a few Grime classics around this time. In 2014, he had the lead role in the movie, Ækte Vare (The Real Deal/Thing), which is directed Fenar Ahmad, who is a young talented movie director and also very close friends with Molo and Gilli. Ækte Vare tells the story of Gilli's come up in the game similar to 8 Mile and Get Rich Or Die Tryin'. To supply Ækte Vare, Gilli released an 8-track-EP, under the same name which has gotten somewhat classic status in Denmark. On Ækte Vare, Gilli and his producers (Benny Jamz and Jens Ole McCoy at the time) had evolved from the Grime sound, into a more autotune filled universe, but still with hard beats and great technical raps. Grime suggestion: Fissehul (with KESI) Fissehul literally means Pussy Hole and was both Gilli and KESI's first song that created some buzz, they were around 17-18 years old when this was made. This was produced by Benny Jamz, who was a great Grime producer, but nowadays he mostly focuses on his solo rapping career, more than producing, though from time to time produces some heat. Best songs from Ækte Vare: Knokler Hårdt ("knokle" means to work very hard, so it basically means, Going Hard In or something similar) Probably Gilli's best song according to many. It has a fantastic beat produced by Jens Ole McCoy, and Gilli exhibits great flows in the verses and delivers great lyrical work. Though it's a fast rapping track, most people know the lyrics to this song, and has become one of the most iconic rap songs from this decade to the younger generation. Penge Kommer Går (Money Comes And Goes) Another Jens Ole beat, and Gilli again has some of his memorable lyrics and flows on this track. Ung Entreprenør (ft. MellemFingaMuzik) (Young Entrepreneur) One of the hardest, most grimy danish songs you'll ever find, and MellemFingaMuzik comes in with a dangerous feature. In the summer 2019, Gilli released his technical debut album, Kiko, after 5 years of waiting, but he still consistently released music throughout this time, and his name just got bigger and bigger. From 2015-2019, he changed his (and the entire scenes) sound a couple of times, released a ton of singles, and had a lot of songs leaked (which may be the reason why no album was released) In 2015, he released Orale (chicano word for hell yeah, but it has no real meaning, but is used a lot in speaking language), a song which built on his sound from Ækte Vare, but with more of a mainstream trap touch to it. He also released C'est La Vie (french for That's Life), which features MellemFingaMuzik, and a whole new sound, which would dominate danish hip hop, for years to come. The Afrotrap sound, which formerly was huge in France and southern regions of Europe and often features a spanish guitar on the instrumental. Gilli had the biggest Afrotrap songs in Denmark, and notable producers who made popular Afrotrap beats are Kewan Padre and Hennedub (who has tried to make it big in America these past couple of years. The Afrotrap sound is easy to recognize to due it's tropical instrumentation, song structure, and lyrics about how tough a life on the streets can be. Afrotrap Gilli classics: C'est La Vie (ft. MellemFingaMuzik) Tidligt Op (Early Up, as in waking early up in the morning. The Hook goes "Late to bed and early up") Habibi Aiwa (Hold On, My Dear in Arabic iirc) Rica (ft. KESI & Sivas) Spanish for hot girl, Rica is more of a spanish inspired afrotrap song, and was a huge summer hit. Langsom (Slow in danish) During this time, Gilli had a lot of songs leaked, and some of them even became moderate hits. He announced an album back in 2016, but only dropped singles for around 3 years afterwards. This was due to leaks, but also the fact that danish rappers would gain more streams for only releasing a single, than an whole album, because the scene weren't big enough at the time. That changed in 2019 however were pretty much every single rapper released an album. Also Gilli of course. He dropped the album, Kiko, and he has announced an album with Branco from MellemFingaMuzik dropping in January, called Euro Connection. They have already released a couple of singles together in 2019. Nicki Pooyandeh produced almost the entire Kiko album, and has produced pretty much everything the Molo members have been releasing for the past two years now. Best songs from Kiko (Kiko is a spanish name, but also the spanish version of the danish Kian, which is Gilli's birth name) Vai Amor (You can't really translate Vai Amor into english, but it's portuguese and means something similar to Go Love) The biggest summer hit in Denmark in 2019 by a mile. You could literally go nowhere without this song being played everywhere. It's a Baile Funk inspired song, a sound that was all over Kiko. Baile Funk is a Brazilian hip hop sub-genre, and Gilli even went to Rio to shoot the video. Culo (ft. Branco) (Culo is Spanish for Booty) Another Baile Funk anthem, that was huge this summer. Also features elements of EDM, which danish rappers have expiremented with since the start of 2018. Lyca (ft. KESI) (Taken from the British Mobile Networking Company, Lyca Mobile) Dag 1 (Day 1) Recommended singles with Branco from 2019 London Town This song has become a huuuge hit in the past couple of months, and to be honest, it's a fucking banger. All In KESI Also a member of B. C, KESI started out as a young Grime artist. These days, he is closest thing to Drake that Denmark has. He is not nearly as street as Gilli or Branco is, but he is very versatile, can both rap and sing, cover multiple subjects and is very charismatic. He was also the first from B. C to get mainstream attention back in 2012. He has two albums, the Grime debut album from 2012, Bomber Over Centrum (means Bombs Over The Centre as is what B. C is short for), mostly produced by Benny Jamz, and Barn Af Byen (Child of The City) from 2015, mostly produced by Jens Ole McCoy. After his two albums, he started releasing singles regularly like everybody else, and most of his biggest hits, spawned from here. Suggestions from Bomber Over Centrum Født I Dag (ft. Benny Jamz) (Born Today) GREAT VIDEO! Gadehjørne (ft. Gilli & StreetMass) (Street Corner) ALSO A GREAT VIDEO + GREAT PRODUCTION! Bomber Over Centrum (ft. B. C) Features every single B. C member, including a CTK (now known as Noah Carter), who was in prison at the time. Now he's out and actually making music in english. Suggestions from Barn Af Byen: Søvnløs (Sleepless) Dumme Penge (Stupid Money) These songs aren't really that good tbh, but were huge hits back in 2014-15. Has a Mustard feel on the production. Kesi's best singles (these are mostly produced by Hennedub): Mamacita (ft. Benny Jamz) Op (ft. Benny Jamz & Gilli) (Up) This song is a fucking banger, and features a great video which was shot in New York Kom Over (Come Over) More of a pop tune, but still has a good vibe Ekstra (Extra) Su Casa (ft. Gilli) (Mi Casa es Su Casa in spanish -> My House is Your House in English) Lav Lav (ft. Benny Jamz, MellemFingaMuzik) (Make Make) This song leaked and was never really released, but it's fucking fire, and contains a great verse from Benny Jamz. In 2019, KESI didn't release an album like everybody else, however he released an EP, 888, entirely produced by Hennedub Best songs from 888 Ik' Sådan Der (ft. Benny Jamz) (Not Like That) BDK (ft. Gilli) (it's unknown what BDK stands for and what it exactly means) MellemFingaMuzik (MiddleFingerMusic) - Branco and Stepz These guys started out back in around 2013-14, releasing their self-titled EP. Back then, they weren't really big, and were mostly played in more rough neighborhoods. Branco and Stepz are both former criminals, and their music has always been heavily influenced by their rough past. Their early sound was really rough and unapologetic, and most people got afraid just by hearing their name. Then in 2015, they released their modern classic, MILITANT MENTALITET (Militant Mentality). This album might be best album of every single album mentioned in this thread. It contains every single good element about MellemFingaMuzik and is a real game changer in danish hip hop. It has 6 features from Gilli - including A. P. MØLLER (A. Møller is legendary danish business and billionaire who founded MAERSK) and COCAINA (Spanish for cocaine). It marks the official beginning of Molo, since Benny Jamz is also featured a couple of times on this album. After the success of MILITANT MENTALITET, MellemFingaMuzik has been teasing a sequel ever since. Since then, a lot of songs have been leaked and they have also released a couple of singles. In the start of 2019, neither Stepz or Branco had any solo work apart from a couple of features, until they both released their debut solo albums in 2019. Branco has become a very popular solo artist this year, after releasing a banger album in BABA BUSINESS (Baba is dad in turkish iirc) and a bunch of popular singles with Gilli. Stepz' album STEPZOLOGI (Stepzology) also brought a bunch of popularity, but mostly on street plan. Whether a MILITANT MENTALITET II is coming or not is unknown, but it's definitely one of the more anticipated albums in danish hip hop right now. Pre-MILITANT MENTALITET songs PEPSI Was released as a hype track for MellemFingaMuzik, and it's a masterpiece. A. MØLLER (ft. Gilli) COCAINA (ft. Gilli) Post-MILITANT MENTALITET songs JACKPOT (ft. Benny Jamz) One of the Afrotrap tracks that defined the Afrobeat era in danish hip hop. AMG This was the first danish hip hop song with an EDM sound to it. A lot of songs have tried to copy this since AMG was released. JUNGLE The latest song they've released under the name MellemFingaMuzik. Branco - BABA BUSINESS suggested songs INGEN INTRODUKTION (4x4) (No Introduction) The album intro that features a video that tells the story of how Branco and his childhood friend nearly died in a shooting in 2018. This episode was what lead Branco to want to release solo music. RISIKO (Risk) A song that tells the story about having kids meanwhile living a criminal lifestyle and how that has changed, now that he has made money from music. EURO (ft. KESI) Probably the biggest hit on the album, although there were no obvious radio song on this album. S. G. (Penge Styrer Gaden) (Money Rules The Street) Not on the album, but a song that was leaked and also became a hit. Branco talks about his past on this while simultaneously drops a lot of references to the most dominant French football team - Paris Saint-Germain. Stepz - STEPZOLOGI suggested songs Cinco De Mayo Another EDM track, which has nearly the same flow as AMG. Rute 141 (Route 141) btw, Nicki Pooyandeh produced nearly both BABA BUSINESS and STEPZOLOGI himself. Benny Jamz Benny Jamz is the last member from Molo to cover. He started mainly as a producer for KESI and Gilli with B. C. Nowadays, he nearly dosen't produce anymore. His debut album 10/10, will be released in January, but he has already released some singles from that album. He released an EP back in 2014 called Brænd System (Burn The System), which contains a lot of hate to the establishment in the lyrics. He released it under the name Høyer Øje (which either means Higher Eye or Right Eye). Brænd System didn't get the same success as the other Molo members projects did back then, however Benny has made a lot of progress since then. When Molo started releasing music together, he went back to Benny Jamz, and since then has made a lot of singles. Benny Jamz suggestions Tjep (ft. KESI) (Tjep is an old danish term for quick) Spark (Kick) A track that mostly is about weed, since Benny Jamz has always been a heavy weed smoker. Uhh (ft. Branco & KESI) - This songs is a fucking banger! Balou - also a fucking Banger! Sivas Even though Molo and KESI are the biggest acts in danish hip hop nowadays, Sivas is probably the most important rapper to this generation of rappers. His debut EP from 2013, d. a. u. d. a., was what kicked this whole generation of rappers off and pushed them into the mainstream. Along with the EP, an app was released that explained the lyrics to every song and translated every single foreign word. Because these rappers use foreign words in nearly every single song and has somewhat changed the danish language. Sivas even won an award for this. He also helped bridge the cultural between ethnic danish people and people hailing from elsewhere. Therefore, Sivas has a lot of respect in the danish game, and he is also a regular feature on Molo members songs. He has with the years became a better lyricist with every single release, and he was probably the only one releasing albums in the singles era. Other than that, Sivas has always been using autotune in his music and he is very good at it. Nearly all of his music have been produced by his childhood friend, Reza, who also has produced a lot of Gilli and MellemFingaMuzik's early material. Nowadays, he nearly only produces for Sivas, but they still continue to elevate his autotune sound. Suggested Sivas songs: d. (ft. Gilli) - this song was what kicked all of these into mainstream nearly at the same time. Has a killer feature from Gilli. Kbhavana (Copenhagen + Havana) Det Gode Liv (The Good Life) Kun Hinanden (ft. Gilli) (Only Each Other) Lang Historie Kort (Long Story Short) Sidste Timer (Last Hours) 4Livet/Capitan (For Life / Captain) Ingen Skyer Solen Skinner (No Clouds Sun Is Shining) Ukendt Kunstner (Unknown Artist) Ukendt Kunstner, was a producer-rapper duo consisting of rapper, Hans Philip, and producer, Jens Ole McCoy. In 2016 they disbanded, after being on a great run of albums. They are different than everybody else here, because they aren't really rapping about the street life, but Hans still reps Nørrebro (one of DK's more tougher neighborhoods). They got together in 2012, back then, Hans Philip was a Grime rapper, riding the grime wave, under the name Skørmand (Crazy Man). Jens Ole we're just a teenager at 16 years old. When they got together, Hans dropped the Skørmand moniker, and started making lyrical rap, which came to display on their mixtapes Hælervarer A & Hælervarer B (Hælervarer = Stolen Goods). In 2013, their debut album, Neonlys (Neon Lights) was released to great critical reception, with lyrics touching subjects, such as girls, partying, hungover and depression, with a melancholic touch to it. The title track became a big hit. They continued to release great music for a couple of years until they disbanded in 2016. Jens Ole is probably the most versatile producer in the danish game. He can produce every single type of beat, and the musical landscape were always a level above other rappers' albums. Jens Ole went on to produce albums for Noah Carter and has even released some official soundtracks to movies. Hans didn't make music for a couple of years, until he out of nowhere came with one of the best albums of 2019 - Forevigt (Forever). Forevigt is a special album. It has no features, nearly no rapping and all of the songs is just Hans singing. He has become a great singer and has transformed himself into somewhat of a danish version of Frank Ocean. Ukendt Kunstner suggestions: København (ft. Murro) (Copenhagen) Hans raps about Copenhagen as if it's a girl over a 16 year old Jens Ole's production. Betonjunglen (ft. Gilli, Kimbo, Semih Automatisk) (The Concrete Jungle) Neonlys (Neon Lights) Langt Væk (Far Away) - MASTERPIECE! Stein Bagger (ft. Sivas) Stein Bagger was a dane, who cheated the danish government for millions of money. Alting / Ingenting (Everything / Nothing) Gennem Byen (Through The City) Overleve (Survive) - Outro song on their last album - MASTERPIECE! Hans Philip - Forevigt suggestions Siger Ingenting (Saying Nothing) Dagdrøm [1] (Daydream) Saa Blaa (So Blue) Noah Carter Noah Carter came up with B. C early this decade under the name CTK (acronym for CarterTheKid). Around 2011, he went to jail for unknown reasons. In the coming years he would be shoutouted on many songs including d. and Betonjunglen. When he got out he released Couch Dreams, and album entirely produced by Jens Ole McCoy and all the songs were in english. The album was met with great reception, however the follow up to Couch Dreams, 2nd Demo, didn't live up to it's expectations though Jens Ole again were all over the production. Noah Carter suggestions Come Alive Do You Birmingham Freestyle Wise Up - Great Outro!! B. No Favors / 5000 Ok, so those are the biggest names in danish hip hop, but here's a few I'll have to talk about for this thread. Jamaika Young danish rapper with a slick voice, who croons about life in the ghetto and life of crime. Seems to never stay out of jail sadly. Fun fact: up until this point, he has only released projects on January 1st. Blodskudt (Blood Money) - Top 5 song in this thread hands down Problemer Sover Ik (Problems Don't Sleep) Picasso (ft. Branco) NODE Fun rapper who is easily recognizable by his weird voice and big beard. The most Oui, is the most streamed song on Spotify here. Oui (ft. Sivas & Gilli) (French for yes) Super Mario Pakker Bar (Just Packin') Carmon Came up along with Jamaika and also has problems with the law. One of the hardest rappers in the game. Jailhouse (ft. Branco) Bando Stadig Original (Still Original) Fouli Gaden (The Street) ICEKIID ICEKIID made Afrotrap before Gilli and is the self-proclaimed King of The Afrobeat in Danish Hip Hop. His song, Gulddans, were made for FC Copenhagen, when they won their 12th Danish Championship in 2017. Gulddans (Gold Dance) Øjne På Mig (ft. KESI) (Eyes On Me) Artigeardit Ardit is different, because he has better bars and are better lyrical than most here, though he dosen't talk about the streets, but more about doing drugs and partying - though with self insight. værformi g Joggingsæt (Tracksuit) - HEAT! Sleiman Had some huge Afrobeat hits back in 2015-16. A song with him, Gilli and 6ix9ine recently leaked, where Gilli disses 6ix9ine! Bomaye (ft. Livid & MellemFingaMuzik) R. E. D. 6ix9ine, Gilli) ATYPISK An OG, who was active with his group, MFS, in the 2010s. Also legitimately a gang member to this day. Kærlighed (ft. Gilli & KESI) (Love) TLDR Ok, so I know just listening to ~85 songs in one setting is tough, so I made a Spotify playlist with all of these songs, and it'd be so cool if you guys checked it out! If you have any questions regarding danish hip hop, then please feel free to ask!



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