Continuing… (It's Part 6 in the saga, I fucked up. Sorry.)
So, after a few re-fueling and impromptu cigar-purchasing stops in South and Central America, we wheel up to the deserted jetway at LAX.
“Thought we were going to Elmendorf?” I asked.
“This isn’t it?” the pilot replied, feigning worry.
“No.”, I replied, “Looks like California. Fruits and nuts. All around. What’s going on? One minute we’re off to Texas, then Cali, then Texas again, now we end up here at the California airport of the iconic tower.”
“Yeah, it’s confusing enough haulin’ civilians around. But when we get a call from Virginia, we tend to comply without any questions,” the pilot explains.
“Aw, shit!”, I sort of exclaim, “Rack and Ruin called?”
“Yeah”, the pilot replies, “Figures you’d know these guys. They said they were closer to LAX rather than Texas and had us divert here. In fact, you look over there, see that dark blue Chevy? That’s them; and evidently, your ride.”
I tipped the airman from earlier a couple of cigars as he helped me with my gear off the plane and into the trunk of Rack and Ruin’s plain-Jane blue late modeled Chevy. Had to move the Sidewinder Missiles off to one side, though.
“Most honorable Agents Lack and Luin!” I quipped in my faux-racist greeting. “What the hell, guys? I’ve got to get to Japan and get some newly rigidified digits.”
“Let’s see your hand”, Agent Rack asks. “Nasty.”
“Yeah”, I sigh “And with the medicos in South America and their penchant for plaster, I don’t so much have a left hand as more of an ankylosaur tail.”
“Or Thagomizer”, Agent Ruin tittered. “Anyone gives you grief, and one upside the head should set them right. Or dead.”
“You’re a riot, Ruin.” I replied, “But not entirely incorrect.”
We all agreed that I really didn’t need any extra accouterments to make myself look more dangerous. I mean with my severe haircut, stern beard clip, and perpetual ‘Go fuck yourself’ scowl.
“Yeah”, I replied, stroking the aforementioned beard, “I just can’t get that. I’m such a people person.”
After Agents Rack and Ruin finished drying their eyes from laughing what I thought was en extremis, we finally got down to business.
“So, what’s the skinny, guys”, I asked. “New marching orders?”
“No. Not as such”, Agent Ruin said, still sniggering over my ‘people person’ comment.
I see we’re moving. Agent Rack is just driving casually, like Chewbacca when they were waiting to see if the Empire went for that expensive Bothan code.
“Then, what?” I asked, getting a slight bit piqued.
“Well”, Agent Ruin noted, “When you went to South America, you took some of your artillery collection with, correct?”
“You know I did. You even made some snide comments about my personal choice of sidearms and their ‘excessive’ calibers, if memory serves”, I reiterated.
“And if you are proceeding normally, as you always do, they’re all nestled in the trunk of this very car. All cleaned, quiet, unloaded, and smelling sweetly of Hoppe’s Number 9 and WD 40, correct?” Rack inquired.
“Yes?” I cautiously venture.
“Well, ya’ big dummy, do you think they’re going to let you saunter into Tokyo armed like the Third Fleet?” Agent Ruin chuckled.
“Um…well…I do have a Diplomatic Passport.” I ventured.
“That’s not going to work this time.”, Agent Ruin said, shaking his head. “They’re tighter than Dick’s Hatband about sidearms. Want to bring in your Rigby SXS .500 Nitro Express double rifle? Not a problem. Sidearms, especially in your alien hunting calibers, nope.”
Well, that’s just….*dandy!”, I reply, semi-put out. “Now what the hell am I going to do?”
“Ever think that’s why Ruin and I are here, now?”, Rack asks.
“And here I thought it was just so you could bask in the warm glow of my fucking wonderful personality. Or that you actually cared about me as a real goddamn human”, I joshed.
“Ummm…yeah”, Rack replies, “There’s no way we can answer that without going on some Deadpool list. “
I agreed.
“OK, here’s the deal: you get your sidearms, ammunition, speed loaders, brass knuckles, Asp, laser range finders, Sap, Zeiss scopes, Kukri, Wisconsin Cheese Whittler, Buck folding skinner, Marine K-Bar, those two ultra-illegal Cheburkov Cobra titanium switchblades...”
“Three. Olga the KGB lady sent me one for Geologist’s Day.”
“Ahem. Those three ultra-illegal Cheburkov switchblades, that Wyoming Speedholer, your MASER Time-Distance Computer, garrote, pocket rail gun and whatever else lethal you carry and deposit it in the iron box in the trunk. We’ll ensure that it’s delivered to Esme post-haste. And by post-haste I mean one of our guys will deliver it personally.”
“Well…I suppose”, I conceded, “But best send someone who’s been to the house recently. I don’t know how much bigger Khan has grown since I left on this little fantasy trip. Wouldn’t want a star on the wall in Langley for someone eaten by a mastiff. Want to see a picture….Oh, bother. That’s right. My phone’s at the bottom of fucking Lake Maracaibo.”
“Good point”, Ruin interjects, “Guess we’ll do a little road trip and deliver it ourselves. Best call Esme and let her know what’s going on.”
“I have no objections to your proposals. Please give Esme this when you see her. I had some luck in the Calaveras Casino and if I don’t send her some mad money. Ouch. She’ll never forgive me for not taking her along to Japan.” I asked.
“But I thought Esme hated Japan? Too crowded and too ‘fussy’, I believe was her estimation.” Ruin asked.
“Yes, but once she saw the Ginza, all bets were off. Shopping the likes of which even Allah himself hasn’t seen.” I replied, slowly shaking my head.
“I see”, Ruin said, “Well, since you’re off to Sapporo, perhaps you can do a recon for Esme on the shopping there.”
“Not bad. Not bad at all.”, I smiled, “Now I know why I let you guys hang around with me.”
So, as advertised, I am now standing on the tarmac at LAX, basically feeling naked.
“Can’t I keep just one switchblade?” I moaned to Agent Rack.
“Go ahead, if you’re really keen on donating it to Japanese customs”, he replied.
“Fuckbuckets.” I groused.
“There, there now. That’s the usual Dr. Rocknocker of which we’re all so fond.” Agent Ruin chuckled.
“Remember, you do have that wallet-sized credit card gizmo from the Company. So you’re not entirely ‘naked’. Think of it as an emergency breechcloth.” He smiled.
“I’d like a larger model if you don’t mind. It’s chilly out here.” I joshed.
After Agents Rack and Ruin stripped me metaphorically naked as they de-weaponized me, they handed me a Business Class ticket to Tokyo, and a pass to the Japan Airlines Hospitality Suite and Lounge.
“So sorry you guys can’t hang around and have a few farewell snorts”, I chided, “But you’ve got a bit of a drive, so best be off before the weather turns to shit.”
“Who says we’re driving?” Agent Rack asked as he hooked a thumb over his shoulder at the ready and waiting C-130 cargo plane currently taxiing slowly in our direction.
“Well, in that case”, I smiled even more broadly, “Let’s invite the flight crew to join us. That’ll make the flight home all that much more interesting.”
After near tear-jerking farewell sentimentalities, i.e., “Piss on you”, “Get stuffed” and “Take a fuckin’ hike”; Agents Rack and Ruin, my weapons and the Agency’s plain-Jane Blue Chevy were all nestled snugger than buggers in ruggers in the belly of the thundering C-130.
Now truly on my own, I trudge the hundred thousand or so centisteps to my departure terminal, make a quick recon that my flight’s still slated to go in a generally westward direction, and hightail it to the nearest courtesy desk to ask for a motorized cart to take me and my remaining luggage to the JAL Hospitality Suite.
Hey. I’m old, infirm, and currently among the walking wounded.
Anyone that disagrees risks an Ankylosaur tail club swat or Thagomizer to the skull.
Finally ensconced in the JAL Hospitality Suite, Polo Lounge of course; I was drinking Tokyo Teas (3 oz. vodka, 2 oz. gin, 2 oz. rum, 1 oz. triple sec, 1 oz. Midori, good splash of lime juice, a slight splash of 7-Up (diet, of course), over ice with a lime wheel) with Pabst Blue Ribbon Extra 1844 chasers and Hangar One’s “Fog Point” vodka on the side, hiding from the brutish realities of this foul year of two thousand and twenty-something, Common Era…
I’ve already called Esme and we’ve had a good, long chat. She still managed to give me her shopping list for whenever I find myself bored on the Ginza.
She’ll be shocked when she learns that I’m not going to be in Tokyo long, but have 1st class tickets on the Bullet Train to Sapporo. Still, I’ll probably find myself in Pole Town or the Stellar Place there, trading piles of US greenbacks for locally produced Japanese curios and clothing.
I can hardly wait.
I order another round of drinks, as the wonderful attendants in the Hospitality Suite were bored out of their skulls because of the COVID-induced drop-in customers flying anywhere that requires a hospitality room stay, and I was virtually the only one around. They tried their level best to outdo each other when it comes to Japanese efficiency and friendliness.
After a couple of hours, they ask if I would like something from the grill, as the day chef had “the COVID” and the night chef just arrived. A quick perusal of the menu and I chose a 28-ounce dry-aged Porterhouse and another round of drinks.
I usually don’t like to eat too much before I fly, but JAL tells me the flight is going to be virtually empty, something like <121 pax, all told, so restroom availability shouldn’t be too much of a concern.
Plus, who am I to say no to a free, blue 28-ounce dry-aged Porterhouse?
There was a bit of difficulty conveying to the chef through the intermediaries of the hospitality just how I wanted my steak.
“Blue,” I said.
“Brue?” was the reply.
“Rare. Very, very rare.” I continued.
Look of total bewilderment.
I drag out my Personal Language Pro, speak “Steak, very, very rate” into the infernal gizmo, and hand the contraption to the attendant.
“珍しい、非常に珍しいステーキ?”[ Mezurashī, hijō ni mezurashī sutēki?]
“Raw! Nama!” I say, louder than need be.
They toddle off to find the chef.
“How is it sir, that you would like your steak cooked?” he asks.
“Very rare. Just a minute or two per side. Inside still cold.” I instructed.
All I got for the trouble was a puzzled smile.
“Give me the language gizmo…” I type in a few words…
“お尻を洗い、角をノックオフして、ここから出してください”
[O shiri o arai,-kaku o nokkuofu shite, koko kara dashite kudasai.]
“Wash its ass, knock its horns off, and walk it out here.”
“OH!” as the lightbulb pops. “Rare. Got it! Excellent!” the chef laughs and zips back to the kitchen.
Like I always say, I’m nothing if not the international ambassador of amity and goodwill.
“Crack tubes!”
Dinner was fantastic. I do wish I could have somehow mailed the Porterhouse bone back home for Khan. After that hambone incident, he might even taste it.
Finally on the plane, in an almost empty Business Class, the flight captain informs us that we’re headed to Haneda Airport Tokyo and anyone not headed in that direction better ‘haul ass off’ the flight or forever hold their peace.
Late-night international flights tend to be a bit more wooly than your average Chicago to Omaha gig.
Especially when the flight’s damn near empty and we have the next 12 hours or so to be best friends.
We taxi, turn and head into the wind. I’m doctoring up a couple of dossiers and keeping my personal cabin attendant, Luna since there were two of us in Business and two business flight attendants, busy with her trying to play ‘Stump the Geologist’.
“I’ll bet you never had this before.” She beamed and handed me a tumbler of very dangerous-looking brown liquor.
I cautiously sniff, take a modest gulp, swirl and glug the rest down.
“Ohishi Single Sherry Cask”, I say with a muffled belch. “Light. Fruity. An Englishman’s drink.”
“Oh. You knew. Let me try again.” She smiles beatifically.
“I have no objections to your proposal.” I smile as nicely as this crotchety old Komodo Dragon could.
She returns with another flagon of spirits; it smells of obsidian, leather, and earth.
I just had some of this back in LAX. I take a snort, smile, and shotgun the rest.
“Hibiki Japanese Harmony…lovely stuff.” I smile. “A little light for my jaded palate, but I’d never turn it down if it were free.”
“Oh, you win again. Wait. One more.” She smiles and skitters off to the galley.
She returns with another soupçon of some more dangerous brown liquor.
“Here, try this. It will make you very popular at social gatherings”. She smiles.
Sniff. “Splendid.” Snort. Swirl. Smile. Shotgun.
“Kanosuke New Born, if I’m not mistaken.” I smile back. “Very nice. I really do like this one.”
“You too good at this. One more!” she stands and stomps off defiantly. She returns in a trice and hands me the glass.
“Hmm…brown. Light notes of earth, leather, dating your daughter, and Kentucky…
“Beam Suntory, right?”
“You know them all!” she says, feigning irritation.
“And I thank you. Those were all excellent. Now, anything in the dangerous clear liquor category? I asked.
Luna smiled as I palmed off a 20k yen tip.
“Oh, no sir. Wait until we land.” She demurred, referring to the gratuity; which is know is not de rigueur in the Orient, but she didn’t seem to mind.
“Just in case we never make it to Tokyo”, I laughed, unknowingly presciently.
We both chuckled about that last line as she tried out various sakes and shōchūs and an actual Japanese ‘White Liquor’ (ホワイトリカー), which were all excellent as was the company.
I tell her that I need to get some work done and could she bring me a tall Rocknocker. After explain the origins and construction of the eponymous drink, she brings me one that must tip the scales at 1 or so liters.
She settles down to an empty seat and I get after the work that I need to finish before we land. I’m about ½ way through my drink when it felt as if the plane hit a brick wall. She quivered and quaked and clutched at herself while I made some comments about the pilot’s mental health.
We dropped like a paralyzed falcon, then just as suddenly, felt like it was an express elevator to Angel’s 11. The plane bucked and shimmied, wickedly. Then we slam-danced right and fell a few more stories. It was like we were in a Mixmaster and the owner was trying out every speed.
The emergency lights in the 777-300ER popped on, and the fasten seat belt sign barked loudly so even sleeping travelers could enjoy the show.
Rinse. Spin. Shudder. Repeat.
Finally, the ride smooths out and we hear the captain on the blower.
“This is your captain speaking…ah, we seem to have hit some uncharted turbulence back there.”
“Thanks, Captain Obvious”, I muttered.
“Everything’s A-OK. “ he reports.
“That’s good”, I note.
“But…”
“There’s always the but…” I groan.
“…we have a couple of warning lights for which we can’t quite account. So to just be safe and certain, we’re going to divert to Hawaii, get a clean bill of health and resume this flight once we make sure everything here is hunky-dory.”
There were scattered groans and applause. Add them together and divide by two and the average response on the flight was “Meh. Whatever.”
Except for the other guy in Business, with whom I hadn’t shared two words. He began to absolutely lose his shit.
“Oh, man! We’re so screwed! Mechanical malfunction? What does that mean?” he positively fizzed with fear.
The flight attendants tried to calm him down, to no avail. They basically gave up and said they’d report his misgivings to the Captain.
I motioned over to my personal flight attendant, Luna, and asked if I could be of service.
“Oh, Doctor Rock”, she smiled at me, “If you could speak with him. You are so calm, and he is…”
“Losing his bloody mind”, I chuckled as I finished her sentence for her. “Of course, I’ll take a stab at it.”
So, I grab my drink and ease over to my Business Class partner and introduce myself.
“Hey, pal. How’s it going? I’m Dr. Rock, gentleman, scholar, and connoisseur of cigars and things alcoholic. You doing OK?”
He looks at me with an ashen face and his eyes the size of bloodshot dinner plates.
“Yeah. I’m Todd Schotts. I’m flying to Japan for business.” He mumbles
“No surprise there,” I reply calmly and take a slug of my drink.
“But now we’re all going to die. The plane is busted and we’ll crash…” he started off again.
“So, Todd is it? Good. You drink?” I asked.
“Yeah?”, he stammered back.
I asked Luna to make us a fresh batch of my eponymous cocktails.
“OK, Todd, listen up”, I began after the drinks were served, “I have flown literally millions of miles over the last 4 decades. On Aeroflot when it was still the USSR. On TACA (Take A Chance Airways), on Chalk’s in the Caribbean, on Bob’s Verrifast Plane Company in Rhodesia, on regional carriers that don’t even exist anymore. All over the world. Had some bad experiences flying, and me ol’ mugger, this ain’t one of them. This is nothing more than the glitch for this mission.”
I chuckled lightly and complimented Luna on a fantastic drink.
“Yeah…yeah…yeah…but we have to land and check out some lights…” Todd squealed.
“Well now, Todd. It would be rather difficult to do any external assessment while in flight, don’t you agree?” I asked.
“But we’re diverting. We have to land and that adds more risk. We’re going to crash and die!” he was coming more and more unglued.
“I will bet you every cent you have on your person and home bank accounts that that will not happen”, I chuckled.
That took him by surprise. At least it shut him up for a while.
“Look, Todd. This is Boeing’s latest model. They have the most incredible safety record. And if a little clear air turbulence were to be knocking planes out of the sky, don’t you think we’d hear about it as the press went berserk?” I asked.
“But they don’t know what the lights mean! What if one of the engines’s out? How far can we fly on one engine?” Todd stuttered.
Having my fill of a supposedly grown man with inane childlike fears, I calmly replied,
“All the way to the crash site.”
He went white.
“...hope we hit something hard. I don’t want to limp away from this.”
He went limp.
Then I went to my seat and motioned for Luna to prepare a reload.
Of course, 45 minutes later, we land without incident at Daniel K. Inouye International Airport, Honolulu Hawaii.
We were told to just wait around until they figure out what the problem if any, was.
They had officials waiting at the end of the jetway to check our COVID status and passports before they let us loose in the terminal.
I asked Luna if she knew this airport. She noted that she did.
“Is there a JAL hospitality room here at this airport? I asked.
“Yes, Doctor. It’s the Sakura Lounge. It is located on the third level above The Local, Terminal 2.” She replied.
“Please notify whoever needs to know that that’s where I’ll be for the duration”, I smiled and handed her my business card. “See you soon, I hope.”
“Oh, Dr. Rock”, she replied, “I am sure it is nothing much. We’ll be back in the air within mere hours.”
“Well then”, I smiled, “Guess I’d better get ready to hoof it to the lounge.”
“Oh, Doctor Rock”, she smiled, “No rush. I will call for you a courtesy cart. You are injured, you are Business, you are priority.”
“I love that Asian efficiency.” I smiled back and toddled down the jetway.
At the terminus of the jetway, I show my COVID-clear papers, dates and times of my Anti-Virus vaccine administrations, the letter from Virginia clearing me of all detention, and my red Russian diplomatic passport.
While in the cart, whizzing our way to the JAL lounge, the driver said “Man! You must be some kind of VIP. You were through that welcoming committee in less than two minutes!”
“Me? Nah!”, I chuckled, “Just an old phart of a geologist that they didn’t want to mess with. Not on such a bright, sunny day as this.”
“I see you’re not wearing a mask.” The driver quipped.
“Very observant. There are reasons for that.” I replied.
He careens around a corner and if this were a normal pre-Covid day, I’m certain we’d have killed hundreds. However, the airport, as I’ve come to grow accustomed to, was virtually deserted.
“Yeah? Like what?” he asks.
“Well, Scooter, 1. I have an active and hardworking immune system that I let off the chain every once in a while for exercise. Got to let it know what it’s up against, right? 2. I’ve had all my shots and some that were experimental. They seem to have worked. And 3. I find it difficult to drink and smoke cigars while wearing a mask. However, if you’d prefer, I will mask up. No problem, though it still is optional.”
“Nah, man”, he said, “I was just wondering if you were one of those religious idiots or conspiracy nuts.”
Nope”, I smiled back, “Just another geologist out in the world plying his trade for cash. Y’know, whorin’ around for money.”
He laughs aloud as we skid to a stop right in front of Lounge.
I slip the guy a $20 and ask if he’d listen for the JAL flight I was just on. If we’re going on ahead today, I’d need him to scoot by and putt-putt me back to the plane.
He laughs and pockets the $20 as quick as a mink ruts.
“No worries. I’ll just hang around this area. I hear anything about the flight, I’ll come and let you know.” He grins.
“Good man”, I say, as I hand him my card. “I’m Dr. Rocknocker. Call me Rock”.
“And I’m Kapula Mano, call me Kap” he replies.
“Good man”, I say again, “Hope to see you in a while.”
He grins, floors his electric cart, and peels out at speeds approaching 4.5 MPH.
I wander into the lounge, show my credentials, and am escorted to a post up on Mahogany Ridge.
The bar is very quiet. Besides the bartender, I can’t see anyone else in the darkened and Smooth Jazz-infused drinking emporium.
I order a local drink, a Mai Tai, just for the experience and something a bit different.
It’s served in a goldfish bowl on a stem, bedecked with a slice of lime, a sprig of mint, a stick of sugar cane, a polychromatic orchid, and the obligate paper umbrella.
“Ah. Mai Tai. I will enjoy it.” I said to no one in particular.
One was enough, and I decided to go back to the old standard. Once I explained to the bartender what that was, he made them heroic and enthusiastically.
I’m reading up on a random dossier, making notes in a new file, and puffing away on a Fuentes Onyx double Maduro Churchill cigar.
I hear a slight cough coming from my right, and this here lovely lady, she sat to my immediate starboard and looked at me semi-quizzically.
Not in the mood for shenanigans of any stripe, I give her the obligate Baja Canada nod and tilt of the drink. I return to my dossiers and continue to read and take notes.
“Excuse me!” I hear.
Fearing the worst, either the woman is Karen-oid anti-smoking or a religious fruit-and-nutburger, I slowly turn to face her and reply, somewhat glacially, I have to admit.
“What?”
“That cigar…”
“Here we go…” I mutter, eyes rolling northward.
“Smells exquisite. Could you tell me the brand? My husband would enjoy some like that.” She notes.
Instantly my demeanor switches 180^0.
“Yes, ma’am. It’s an Arturo Fuentes Onyx. Churchill size, or 60 ring x 7” length, double Maduro. Here, take one for your husband. I have an ample supply.” I smile.
“Oh, no. I couldn’t. Could I?” she asks.
“Please. I insist.” I smile the best I could given the circumstances.
“Thank you. You’re too kind…umm…Mr….?”
“Doctor. Doctor Rocknocker. World traveler, oilman, and international ambassador of amity, good drinks, and fine cigars. Call me Rock” I said.
“Oh! A Doctor?” she brightens.
“Yes, of Petroleum Geology and Engineering. Not medicine.” I chuckle.
She chuckles back.
“And I am Hella Aaberg”, as she offers her hand for a quick shake.
“Interesting name, Hella. Scandinavian or Old German heritage?” I ask.
“On my father’s side. He’s Finnish.” She replies.
“But I’ll wager your mother is not Scandinavian, correct?” I ask.
“She was from Truk, an island…”
“In the South Pacific, Micronesia. Was she from Weno city?” I asked.
“Why yes. How could you possibly know that?” she asked.
“Oh, I’ve been there. Great diving amongst the WWII wrecks. I think it’s actually called ‘Chuuk Lagoon’ or something like that now.” I said.
“That’s right! Amazing. Where else have you been?” she asked.
“Anywhere there’s oil, strife, booze, cigars, heavy explosives and typically long distances from whatever most normal people call civilization,” I replied with a chuckle.
Suddenly, I hear a voice booming out behind me.
“Why don’t you save that rapier-like wit for those musky-fuckers back home, Rocko?”
My expression changes. My eyes pop fully wide open.
“Hella?” I asked.
“Yes?”
“May I ask you a favor?”
“You can ask…”
“Thank you. Now, looking over my shoulder, is there a hulking goon of a person, thin up top, paunchy halfway down with the most ridiculously tiny sized shoes you’ve ever seen for a so-called grown man?” I ask.
“Yes. Yes, there is.” She replies.
“I thought so. Many thanks.”
I spin and launch off my barstool and grab Toivo by the hand. He hadn’t seen my left-hand Thagomizer yet.
“Toivo! You old sumbitch. What the flying fennec fox fuck are you, of all people, doing in Hawaii?” I laughed.
“Just keeping an eye on you, Rock!” he laughed equally as loud.
“No, fucking-A, seriously. What the actual fuck? What are you doing in this actual nice place?” I asked.
“Just headed to Tokyo to conduct a bit of service company business. I walked into the lounge and smelled a foul cigar. I figured it can’t be the venerable Dr. Rocknocker. He’s back at some school up north terrorizing geology and engineering grads and undergrads.” Toivo laughed.
“But there I was. Surprise!”, I laughed and pumped his hand.
“What the fuck, Rock. Now what did you do?” he asks, referring to my Ankylosaur tail club left hand.
“Ah, fuck. Long story. Oh, pardon me. Toivo, this is Hella. We were just talking about the South Seas Islands.” I said.
“Planning on running off together?” Toivo laughs, to the amusement of neither party.
“Oh, and this idiot is Toivo, a man with a congenital foot-in-mouth disorder. He’s mostly harmless.” I noted to Hella.
Greetings were shared all around. Hella made some small excuses and said she needed to depart. I gave her another cigar for her husband, shook her hand, and wished her well.
“Here’s my business card. If your husband has any questions, have him drop me a line.” I noted.
Hella smiled beautifully. She said she would. Then she thanked me shook our hands, and like that, there she was, gone.
“Well Toivo, you old bastard. Don't just stand there in the doorway like some lonesome goddamn mouse shit sheepherder, get your ass over here and have a drink.” I motioned over to my perch on Mahogany Ridge.
“Don’t mind if I do”, he says as he deftly winds his way to a seat to my left, snagging a cigar out of my pocket on the way over.
“You might want these”, I say in an exasperated tone, and hand him my gold Dunhill Hobnail lighter and V-cutter gizmo.
He cuts and fires up his heater.
“What you drinkin’, Rock”, he asks.
“Anything with alcohol, as usual. You know that Toiv.” I reply.
“No. I mean right now.” He clarifies.
“Well, I had a Mai Tai. Very nice if you like fruity, flowery drinks. It’s the locals’ favorite.” I reply.
“Sounds good. I’ll have several. And you?” Toivo asks.
“My usual. The bartender is already apprised of the situation.” I reply.
Toivo smiles the smile of one knowing his sobriety is going to be taken out for a swim. Hell, taken out and tossed into the deep end.
Toivo and I sit there, swapping lies, smoking cigars and sipping at our toddies.
Hell, Toivo was slurping them like a sump-pump during an extra-wet summer.
We chattered about family, work, whether or not Tokyo was going to host the Olympics or if the COVID-boogie man scared everyone off.
Toivo, always one afflicted with TB (“Tiny Bladder”) got up to go to the loo for the third time that hour. He left his pocket organizer on the bar and I swear on a stack of Origins of Species, I didn’t touch it.
I reached over to his vacated seat to retrieve my cigar lighter when I looked down and saw in his organizer a tab that reads “Rack & Ruin”.
“Oh. No. Fucking. Way.” I recoiled as I’d just reached out and petted a 6-foot hungover scorpion.
“One of my best friends? Secretly allied with the Agency? No. Not possible.” I drained my drink and called for another.
“No. No. No. It can’t be. No. No fucking way…” as doubt began to dissolve when I thought back to all those times I had just ‘run into’ Toivo.
“But he’s oil patch as well. That could be chalked up to coincidence.” I ruminated quizzically in my brain.
I quickly reflected back on J.M. Darhower: “Yes, you see, there’s no such thing as coincidence. There are no accidents in life. Everything that happens is the result of a calculated move that leads us to where we are.”
She may be the author of the execrable New Adult Sempre series, which Esme likes and I loathe, but she might just be right on this occasion.
Toivo return, lighter in the bladder and good sense. He never even noticed he’d left his organizer out in broad bar light for all to see.
“So, Toivo, when’s your flight?” I ask.
“Oh, man. Was I lucky. The JAL flight to Tokyo from Los Angeles had mechanical trouble and had to divert here. I got a ticket on the plane for that flight, when it continues.
“You mean ‘if it continues’,” I replied.
“Yeah. Yeah. That’s what I meant. Hey! Was that your flight?” he asks innocently. He’s really innocent of fieldcraft.
I decide to have some fun at my old friend’s expense.
“Yep. Hit some CAT (Clear Air Turbulence) and the JAL pilots reported some lighting problem. No apparent ruin to any of the systems. They relay racked their brains to figure it out, but they couldn’t that’s why I here.” I said, waiting for the words to swim upstream in Toivo’s coconut and make some sort of connection.
“Yeah. Double lucky. No problem with the plane and I get to go to Japan early.” Toivo crookedly grins.
“So, no trouble with the plane? Then why haven’t I heard that the flight’s going to resume?” I asked as I pushed a fresh, seriously strong drink to Toivo.
“Oh, must have heard it in the john.” Toivo countered and tried to cover his tracks by taking a huge gulp of his drink and damn near dying coughing.
I pound on Toivo’s back.
“Heimlich time?” I ask.
Toivo signals ‘no’.
“Jesus Christ, Rock. What was that?” he asks.
“Just my usual”, I innocently replied.
“Holy fuck. No wonder you have the reputation of…” Toivo realizes too late that he’s said too much.
“Yeah. They can rack you out. Really ruin a person if they’re not careful.” I reply icily.
“Why, Rock. Whatever do you mean?” Toivo slurred as he realized he’s been caught out.
“The jig is up, you turncoat. You know Agents Rack and Ruin from the agency. Right? You keeping tabs on me for them? You Quisling! You Benedict Arnold!” I almost was on the verge of losing my cool.
“It was nothing. They approached me years ago as I kept being mentioned in your reports. They asked me for some information. One thing leads to another…” Toivo was ready for an Ankylosaur tail club swat to the bean.
“Oh, put your fucking hands down, you asshole.” I smiled and chuckled.
“You’re not mad?” Toivo slurred badly. I had the bartender make him another special drink.
“No, Toivo. Not mad. Just disappointed.” I said, smiling like a Komodo Dragon just finishing up a fortnight-old wildebeest.
Toivo sat there and puzzled and puzzled until his puzzler was sore.
“You’re not going to kill me or anything rude like that?” Toivo asked, half-assedly trying to inject humor into the proceedings.
“Nah. The paperwork’s too ridiculous for me to do another liberation. But, Jesus Fucking Christwagons, Toivo; you could have mentioned it to me. Fuck, I thought we were friends to the end?” I said, dejectedly.
I was really getting through to Toivo. I could tell he was loaded; feeling like shit and massively deplorable.
Great fieldcraft, indeed.
I told him things “are what they are” and that I won’t blow his cover nor his honorarium.
He began to feel better. I often wonder if he was serious about the sanctioning thing.
Then I delivered the strategic missile strike.
“Just remember, Toivo. I wrote your dossier for the Company…”
He swivels to look at me.
“And one for the KGB. Olga says ‘howdy’.” I grin evilly.
Toivo short-circuited at that. Russia is his company’s bread and butter. Now he has the KGB as well as his best buddy looking over his shoulder at every move.
I bought him a few more drinks and continued to needle him about his ’leading a double life’. He was well and truly fuckered when the electric tap-tap driver from before came looking for me to whisk me back to the plane.
Seems it was simply some knocked-out wires on the plane, or slammed bulbs that were generating a false positive, indicating something other than the system that alerts one to something haywire went haywire.
Toivo was pretty much down for the count. I got him sober enough to hand them his ticket and ensure that he was really supposed to be on this flight. Thing was; h e was in Economy, and I was, as always, in Business.
I spoke to Luna, and the plane was going to be even less crowded than previously because some folks could or wouldn’t wait, or didn’t want to go on with the rest of the trip on a ‘damaged’ aircraft, or were just stupid and superstitious.
“Luna, could I pay for the difference between Business and Economy for my less than 100% conscious friend here? He’s had a rough day.” I asked.
“Dr. Rock. Just put him into Business. No one will be the wiser. Luna says so.” As she gave us a grand smile.
“Luna, I owe you. Thanks so much.” I said.
“Now get on board. Your friend looks like he needs all the downtime he can get.”
“Yes, ma’am!” I said and saluted here be best I could which dragging a schnozzled Toivo down the jetway.
I dumped Toivo in a window seat well away from my seat. I know Toivo. He snores like a semi-load of live hogs rocketing downhill locking up the brakes at 88 MPH.
Surprise! There was no one else in Business. Luna looked at me, at Toivo, and gave me a thumbs up.
Whatever I can write to further her career at JAL, she’ll have it before I deplane.
We finally get everyone settled, and with Captain Kangaroo at the helm, we bounced gracelessly off the tarmac, into the warm, tropical Hawaiian air, finally headed for the Land of the Rising Sun.
Toivo was snoring like a chainsaw hitting rusty nails as I worked on the various letters, communiques, and dossiers which needed updating before we reached touchdown. I gave Luna a thick letter with instructions not to open it until we were on the ground and Toivo and I were well off and away into the terminal.
We left Hawaii at 1300 hours, so we should arrive at Tokyo Nareda around 4:00 pm, the previous day. I was so bereft of time and time zones, I couldn’t figure out what time it really was, as judged by my biometric rhythms, so I asked Luna for a stiff drink as I was kicking off my boots and going to attempt to get some kip.
She brought me another liter or so eponymous drink. I was sawing logs by the time I slurped the last swig of that nifty drink.
Suddenly, or later, I have no idea really, some loudmouth drunk asshole from way-the-fuck-back in economy-land toward the ass end of the plane staggered into Business demanding free drinks.
Luna was nothing but civil, and asked him to both shut up and return to his seat. His air cabin hostess, or whatever the fuck they’re calling them these days, will attend to his needs.
“Naw they won’t! They want me to pay for more drinks! I’m broke but I demand more booze! You fucking owe me.” railed the asshole. “I sat at the bar in Hawaii for four hours. Them fuckers charged me an arm and a leg!”
“No, they don’t owe you shit”, I said in a voice that unmistakably loud and clear.
“Fuck you, old man! You stay the fuck out of this!” he bellowed. “Shut up or I’ll do ya’!”
“’Old man’? ‘Do me’? Excuse me. Luna, may I have a word alone with this individual?” I asked sweetly.
Luna shook her head in the affirmative, and I stood up to confront this flagrant asshole.
“Now look, Scooter. You have gone way, way over the fucking line. You are loud. You are abusive. You are obnoxious. And you stink. Plus you insulted a person who is just barely containing his righteous wrath right now. So, I’m giving you one and one only chance to shut up, sit back down before your body spontaneously develops all sort of bruises, contusions, broken bones, and unconsciousness.” I said calmly, evenly, and threateningly.
“What da’ fuck you think you’re going to do…old man?” he screeched, trying to inflate himself into full mammalian threat posture, all 5’ 9” of it.
He didn’t notice Toivo walking up quietly behind him, as Toivo was returning from the head, quiet as a moose.
“Well, Scooter, I am an Air Marshall. Duly appointed, fully trained, and properly pissed off. Right now, I can arrest you, physically detain you, turn this flight around and take you to the Hawaiian police, at your cost for the inconvenience of the entire flight. Or I could arrest you, physically detain you, and turn you over to the Japanese authorities when we land. It’s really your choice. Choose wisely.”
To be continued…⇝

Artist: Run The Jewels
Album: RTJ4
Date Released: June 3rd, 2020
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Artist Background
The duo consisting of Atlanta rapper Killer Mike, and legendary underground produceMC El-P, known together as Run The Jewels, originally came together as a result of Adult Swim executive Jason DeMarco who introduced the two in 2011. After his 2011 album PL3DGE peaked at #115 on the US charts, Killer Mike told Jason that he wanted to make his own AmeriKKKa’s Most Wanted. Jason informed Mike, “If you want AmeriKKKa’s Most Wanted modernized, the only producer I know who comes close to the Bomb Squad-level of production is El-P”. The duo’s chemistry was immediate, as El-P went on to produce all of Killer Mike’s 2012 last solo album R.A.P. Music, and Mike featured on El-P’s final solo album Cancer 4 Cure. Mike and El’s respective albums released within a week of each other in May 2012, and the two embarked on a twenty-city US tour in the following months. After returning from tour, the pair had found a friendship growing between themselves, and made the decision to put other projects on hold and focus on the chemistry that had been sparked. Recording at an upstate NY studio beginning in April 2013, the duo re-appropriated the phrase “Run The Jewels” from the LL Cool J track “Cheesy Rat Blues", and released their self-titled collaborative album, for free via digital download, only a mere 2 months later in June 2013.
36” Chain vs. Pistol & Fist
Run The Jewels discography currently exists in a distinct pairing. With Run The Jewels as their debut, this record set the group's tone as a light-hearted, braggadocious duo with as much confidence in their abilities as swag in their punchlines. Just over a year later, the sequel Run The Jewels 2 took the foundation set from their freshman effort and dialed the insanity up to 11. RTJ2 pushed the boundaries of their aggression and flows to new heights; with incredible energy in their verses, and absolutely impeccable beats, blending El-P’s signature industrial sound with sharp synth arpeggios, chopped Zach De La Rocha vocals, and absolutely bonkers Travis Barker drums.
It was then nearly 3 years before Jamie and Mike followed up their breakout RTJ2, with Run The Jewels 3 being released again ahead of its scheduled release date via free digital download, this time on Christmas Eve 2016. Instead of these two attempting to outdo the pure insanity and in-your-face attitude found in their predecessor, Mike and El decide to evolve themselves as a group. The duo had noticeably pulled back on the swag and dick jokes which made such a splash on RTJ2, instead choosing a more subdued, electronic approach to their beats, as well as a clearly stronger political approach in their lyrics. This change in sound and style is demonstrated in the album cover’s artwork. The first two records featured the distinctive RTJ “Pistol and Fist”, with the fist tightly gripping a chain. The chain, in my opinion, represents the swag and braggadocio that drove the aggressive nature of their first two albums. In RTJ3 the chain is removed, leaving only hands that have transformed from bleeding and bandaged, to a pristine gold.
This brings us to early 2020. It’s been nearly 4 years of living in a post-Trump America, and El-P announces that Run The Jewels fourth record has been completed. Mike and El live-stream the first single “yankee and the brave” on Instagram on March 22nd, 2020. Lyrically and sonically, RTJ4 exists as the successor to Run The Jewels 3, with Mike and El again taking the good from their previous effort and launching it into the creative stratosphere. El-P’s beats are again leaning towards the synthetic, electronic side, this time with the intensity dialed all the way up to 11. From a lyrical perspective, RTJ takes the politically-charged lyrics from their predecessor, and again, up the ante, laying down some of the hardest hitting and politically poignant bars either of these two have ever spit.
Album Review
2020 was a year that none of us will soon forget. An unprecedented global health crisis kept the majority of us inside for months at a time. RTJ4 was announced on May 12th, 2020, with a release date slated for June 5th, 2020. However, with 2020 as the gift that won’t stop giving, the end of May was highlighted by the unjust killing of George Floyd. The phrase heard around the world, “I can’t breathe” instantly became a rally-cry for the oppressed to finally take to the streets to demand systemic police reform, as Floyd’s death was not the first time this phrase was uttered in an unjust police killing. In fact, a 2020 study by the New York Times showed that at least 70 people have died in police custody after using the same phrase over the past decade. As millions of American’s began organizing protests and demonstrations in the wake of Floyd’s death, Run The Jewels made the decision to release their latest chapter two days ahead of the scheduled release. El-P tweeted, just minutes ahead of the drop, “Fuck it, why wait. The world is infested with bullshit, so here’s something raw to listen to while you deal with it all. We hope it brings you some joy. Stay safe and hopeful out there and thank you for giving 2 friends the chance to be heard and do what they love”. In line with all past Run The Jewels releases, the album was made available for free digital download, two days ahead of its scheduled release date, on June 3rd, 2020.
THE RETURN (we don’t mean no harm but we truly mean all the disrespect)
RTJ4 opens with the first single, “yankee and the brave (ep. 4)”. Using the team names from their respective hometown baseball teams, Mike and El use the opening track to prove that they’re not just a hip-hop duo, they’re brothers, for better or worse. El-P kicks this installment off with rapid-fire, machine-gun esque snares, matching Killer Mike’s aggressive flow and tightly packed rhymes, before El jumps in to trade some dense rhymes as well. Mike and El depict themselves as outlaws, with Mike surrounded by cops with only one bullet remaining. He contemplates suicide instead of allowing the police to take him alive, until El-P jumps back in, offering Mike a way out, with a getaway car waiting outside. This tense situation is depicted lightheartedly in this song’s music video, which was released via Adult Swim and features the duo animated.
The trade-off between Mike and El’s short verses are reminiscent of late-80’s EPMD flows, while the production sounds like boom-bap that’s been sent to us from the future. This distinctive blend of old-school rap roots and forward thinking production is what continues to separate Run The Jewels from absolutely all of their contemporaries. While so many artists are continually playing catch-up with the latest trends, RTJ are side-stepping the trendy and moving forward with the mind-bending.
FLEXIN’ (ayo one for mayhem, two for mischief)
The second single “ooh la la” samples a Gang Star track "DWYCK (feat. Nice & Smooth)" as the basis for the chorus. I say “samples” as that’s how it is credited in the album’s liner notes, however it’s truly an interpolation of Greg Nice’s bar, slowed down slightly, and sung by El-P and Greg Nice himself. El-P is a true old-head at heart, and it’s abundantly obvious in his work, even going as far as to recruit legendary producer DJ Premiere to handle the scratching on the back end of this banger.
Out of key piano chords are looped to quickly create an unsettling aura surrounding the track, before El-P’s voice cuts through the infectious piano like a whip. Pounding, up-tempo drums are introduced after the chorus’ first iteration, creating what is possibly El-P’s first danceable beat. Lyrically, Mike and El-P initially seem scattered on this track, however the music video quickly makes their point very obvious.

”we imagined the world on the day that the age old struggle of class was finally over. a day that humanity, empathy and community were victorious over the forces that would separate us based on arbitrary systems created by man.
this video is a fantasy of waking up on a day that there is no monetary system, no dividing line, no false construct to tell our fellow man that they are less or more than anyone else. not that people are without but that the whole meaning of money has vanished. that we have somehow solved our self created caste system and can now start fresh with love, hope and celebration. its a dream of humanity’s V-DAY… and the party we know would pop off.”

The video envisions a society celebrating the fact that the class system we currently exist within has finally imploded. Money is worthless, and we have rejected the desire to bind ourselves to the constraints of capitalism. All creeds and colors unite to burn the system that has so effectively controlled us for over a century. It’s a party, and if there was a song to celebrate the end of the world as it is currently known, “ooh la la” is that song.
Mike’s last verse features a few metaphors and comparisons celebrating the destruction of capitalism, saving the most poignant for last:

I used to love Bruce, but livin' my vida loca
Helped me understand I'm probably more of a Joker
When we usher in chaos, just know that we did it smiling
Cannibals on this island, inmates run the asylum

Premo’s expertly cut scratches lead us into the equally hard hitting sample flip of “Misdemeanor”, by Foster Stevens as the basis for the beat to “out of sight”. Lending yet another nod to the old-school greats that laid the foundation for RTJ, “out of sight” samples the same track as The D.O.C.’s “It’s Funky Enough”, only adding a bouncy, electronic synth atop the inverted chord hits, and uptempo, industrial drums, to create an absolutely infectious groove for Mike and El’s dynamic chemistry to shine, rapidly jumping between each other’s two line flows in the first verse.
“out of sight” shows each MC providing insight into how each of them earned a living and achieved their current status. Mike and El’s opening verse each details themselves robbing people in order to eat. El alludes to the fact that he crossed his accomplices in crime for the whole bag, while Mike details the fact his assailant tells him it’s an “honor” to be robbed by his mother’s only son.
While El-P’s production is the obvious stand out on first listen, Killer Mike comes through with one of the most sonically pleasing and technically proficient verses of 2020.

We the motivating, devastating, captivating
Ghost and Rae relating product of the fuckin' '80s
Coke dealin' babies, never regulating, bag accumulating
It would not be overstating to say they are underrating
The pride of Brooklyn and the Grady, baby
We don't need no compliments or confidence
Our attitude and latitude is "fuck you, pay me"

The dense, intricate rhyme schemes smack you in the face, almost distracting you from Mike’s delivery and blistering flow on the verse; flexing his legendary status while paying homage to his drug-dealing past. This absolutely stunning display of technical skill, story telling, and complex rhyming illustrates how RTJ seamlessly integrates the best of both old school and new school hip-hop.
“out of sight” also features a guest verse from 2 Chainz, and he continues to lay the braggadocio on thick. Considering Tity Boi’s dedication to trap stylings, his verse feels right at home on the flex track, despite it’s late 80’s tribute sample, a considerable departure from his usual sound palette.
Up until this point, I haven’t mentioned any of the El-P’s lyrics specifically. El-P is a great rapper, but Killer Mike… Well, Killer Mike is an incredible rapper. He’s the guy who draws you in. El-P is the one who lays the foundation for greatness and Mike is the show stopper, and that’s generally the case for most RTJ tracks. But on “holy calamafuck”, El-P seems determined to make people stop and ask, “Who the fuck is this?!”.
A sharp, yet nearly minimalistic drum kit backing a heavily distorted synthesizer melody lays beneath rhymically knocking cow-bells. This aggressively set stage allows Mike and El to flex as the dynamic duo they are, until the beat suddenly takes a turn for the chaotic. A gnarled, ultra-menacing synth overtakes everything while Mike screams into the abyss, until a distorted snare, enormous 808s, and skeletal hi-hats cut through and launch the beat switch into another dimension. The minimal, yet incredibly dark soundscape allows El-P to snap in a way I have never heard from him previously. His rhymes schemes are reminiscent of an old MF DOOM lyric notebook, while his topics flawlessly combine flexing, psychedelic use, and his well-cemented legacy in the hip-hop community. Cutting and pasting a few of his bars into this review could not convey a fraction of how stunning El-P’s performance on “holy calamafuck” is.
Slightly later in the track list, making liberal use of the Ether song “Gang of Four”, “the ground below” samples and loops the sharp guitar riff and adds aggressive, pounding drums as the basis for the beat; this is finally reminiscent of the forward-thinking, stridulous production El-P has built his reputation on. Capitalising on the classic RTJ moment, Mike and El both flex in their own unique ways. Mike compares himself to Godzilla taking on Tokyo, and El-P demands respect for his name as the legend he is, threatening to smack dying children for mispronouncing his name with his middle finger to the world; his complete disregard for human life and confidence in his abilities are summed up at the end of his verse.

You see a future where Run the Jewels ain’t the shit
Cancel my Hitler-killing trip
Turn the time machine back around a century

SO¢IAL JU$T-ICE (until my voice go from a shriek to whisper...)
While the first few tracks aren’t without their social and political themes, the back-end of RTJ4 is where Mike and El start to bust out the heavy topics. “goonies vs. E.T.”. starts off light, with El-P pointing to the irony of how once he finally started to make it “big” in the industry, the world began to descend into chaos due to climate changes, increasingly obvious social injustice, and political madness. He culminates his frustration with our disregard for the Earth with a fantastic quotable.

Fuck y’all got, another planet on stash?
Far from the fact of the flames and our trash
That is not snow, it is ash, and you gotta know
The past got a wrath, it’s a lover gone mad

Mike’s verse takes the light-hearted frustration expressed by El-P, and turns the aggression to the next level. Aiming his sights against the ruling class and their society that’s been designed to oppress people for profit, who have very meticulously painted themselves as celebrities and idols to the American public. Mike accepts that he will be villainized by these people for speaking against them, but he welcomes the nefarious role, knowing that the working class will eventually eat the rich, no matter how much they are stomped into the dirt.
And this is just the warmup.
If it’s possible for a song to represent a moment in time that captures the absolute shit storm that has been 2020, “walking in the snow” is that song. It’s release coincided perfectly with the protests for George Floyd which were sweeping the nation. Killer Mike’s verse directly references the phrase “I can’t breathe”, the last words of Eric Garner, which also happened to be the last words of Floyd as well. The fact that this verse was reportedly written in November 2019 perpetually underscores the importance of the content and perfectly represents how persistent this problem is. “walking in the snow” is a true encapsulation of both a defining moment in time and an ever-persisting issue.
But he doesn’t just stop at the racial injustice. Mike goes on an absolute rant about the American education system; how it’s not designed to teach people, but to discriminate against poor populations, limiting their legitimate opportunities, and therefore disproportionately leading them into a criminal lifestyle. He calls out the media as fear-mongers, and the apathy of the American public in the face of indecency. Fortunately for Mike, by the time we finally had the chance to hear this masterpiece, we were already on our feet, using this album as a war cry to mobilize against a tyrannical government that militarized against its own citizens simply for asking that we recognize systemic racism and demanding change. Killer Mike has the best verse of the year, no doubt in my mind.
The only drawback is that Mike’s verse is so fucking good that it completely overshadows El-P’s, which is also amazing. A menacing guitar riff and haunting synths kick the track off into a bouncy groove, where El-P unleashes a flurry of internal rhymes that does not relent for about half his verse. Even adding layers of social commentary within the densely packed bars, El refuses to quit and continues on his political tirade; criticizing ICE’s detainment center practices and the “pseudo-Christians” who support them, with a bar that now lives in my head:

Pseudo-Christians, y’all indifferent, kids in prison ain’t a sin? Shit
if even one scrap of what Jesus taught connected you’d feel different
what a disingenuous way to piss away existence, I don’t get it
I’d say you lost your goddamn minds if y’all possessed one to begin with

The combination of two of the best verses spit by any rapper(s) this year and production help from El-P and long time RTJ collaborator Little Shalimar, create a bouncy, aggressive, deeply truthful banger. “walking in the snow” not only encapsulates the crux of 2020 with lyrics that will become more powerful as they age, but will also forever be associated with the Black Lives Matter movement and the determination to expose continuing racial and societal injustices.
The sonic palette of RTJ4 holds an extremely unique place in El-P’s discography. Jamie is the definition of a self-made 90’s hip-hop legend. This is the dude who put New York underground hip-hop on the map with Company Flow, and he did it with his unique flavor of dark, noisy, dense, boom-bap. Whether he was doing it with the help of Rawkus, or completely independently during his Definitive Jux run, El-P has never made music with the intention of becoming famous. Funcrusher Plus, Fantastic Damage,I’ll Sleep When You’re Dead, and Cancer 4 Cure are all highly revered as industrial, technical, abrasive, and completely unsuitable for the radio or a party. The fact that three songs on RTJ4 could easily be heard on the radio, at a party, or in a TV series credits scene is frankly, astounding. In a 2002 interview/documentary on El-P’s budding record label Def Jux, he stated that his friend bet him $500 that he could not make a beat that was “happy”. At the time of the interview, El-P said that he had not won that bet yet. While I might not qualify the beats on RTJ4 as “happy”, if you showed El-P the beat for “JU$T” in 2002, I believe he might have won that bet.
Pharell opens “JU$T” with the pre-chorus, spitting varied examples of how we’re all slaves to our current system throughout the track, over echoing snares and bouncy 808s before bright synth chords and up-tempo hi-hats burst in while Killer Mike delivers the chorus, pointing to the fact that the majority of the people featured on American currency owned slaves at one point in their lives. Mike’s verse touches on the fact that he has committed crimes to get where they are today. Mike is publicly open about his past as a drug dealer. So why is he a criminal, but Benjamin Franklin isn’t? These are the people who built our country, and they built it on the backs of slaves. He illustrates this theme with a more recent examples:

You believe corporations runnin marijuana? Ooh (how that happen?)
and your country gettin ran by a casino owner (ooh)
pedophiles sponsor all these fuckin’ racist bastards (they do)

When corporations are able to sell cannabis legally, but the government continually incarcerates people who trap, our president is a notoriously fraudulent businessman, and the people who helped put him in power run a pedophile ring, yet none of them face consequences and are allowed to continue to profit and remain in power while people suffer; well, we might be closer to slaves than previously imagined.
Rage Against The Machine frontman Zach de la Rocha also makes his mandatory feature appearance at the end of “JU$T”. As the only artist to feature on three Run The Jewels albums, Zach is essentially an unofficial member of the group at this point. His fiery verse is spit with the same “Rage” energy that set him apart in the mid-90’s, ending the track questioning his place in a capitalist society as a recipe for his inevitable demise, since his “breath”, or art, as his weapon to express himself is still being exploited for other’s profit.
Continuing with RTJ4’s heavily synthetic sonic palette, “never look back” features wavering synth leads resting above the slow-jams snappy snares and thumping bass, while a haunting voice echoes in the background. This unsettling aura provides additional gravity for Jamie and Mike to continue self-reflecting on defining moments in their childhood, and as well as how far they’ve come from those moments. Mike and El are both self-made men, and while they have a certain fondness for those gritty moments that defined them, moving forward in life is undoubtedly more important.
Skeletal drums reminiscent of a slowly pounding heart opens “pulling the pin”, before rhythmic hi-hats and textured, watery synths fluttering in the upper register resting above a bouncy synth lead, and punchy 808s, burst in. The track digs itself into a slower, marching groove and shows the duo figuratively doing exactly what the title implies. Painting a portrait of a society that has turned on itself, Mike and El are ready to pull the pin and start over.
The duo both detail their despise for the ruling class, pointing out multiple examples of how the elite have designed our society to keep poor people in their class. Simultaneously recognizing their own hypocrisy for profiting in a system that inherently discriminates; Mike reflects on his own success, knowing that living the lifestyle he enjoys is one built on oppression, and expresses the guilt that has caused him. El-P opens with a brutal metaphor for police, implying that they’re the root cause of the “wretched state of danger” our society exists within, and that the only effective corrective action is to numb yourself with drugs. Despite his advice, Jamie knows this is not a permanent solution, but one that causes more self-inflicted wounds.
The final piece of the puzzle that is RTJ4, “a few words for the firing squad” begins to close the album with ever crescending strings, and loud, thunderous drums which never seem to resolve, continuing throughout their verses. While the drums that lead to nowhere can be sonically unpleasant, the unresolved melodies are intentionally representative of their current mindsets. Their verses are reflective and grim, but simultaneously optimistic and envisions a world where tragedy is a less common occurrence.
El is grateful for what he has now but recognizes his entire life has been skewed by traumas, so out of place feels normal for him. He reflects on his current success, noting that the worst people tend to end up with the most, which makes becoming “rich” something not as desirable as it once was.
Mike opens up about the death of his mother who died while he was on an airplane, admitting his struggles to not cope with his trauma with opioids. However, his wife provides him the most important reason to stay clean “but my queen/say she need a king/not another junkie rapper fiend” while a heartbreaking saxophone solo highlights the gravity of his lyrics.
The track ends with what sounds the like wrap-up voiceover to a TV show, a conceptually satisfying ending, as the opening track “yankee and brave (ep.4)” began with El-P stating:

”This week, on Yankee and The Brave”

This voiceover paints the duo as brothers on the run from the law and crooked cops, and while this does close this “episode” out as intended, the critic in me is bothered by the slightly kitschy outro to such a spectacular album. The voices singing over and over, “Brave, brave, braaaaaave, Yankee and the Brave” would be, simply put, better left on the cutting room floor. The ending of this track alone is what knocks my score of this album down a few points. Despite its stellar lyrical content, with drums that never seem to reach that “holy shit!” moment, and the easily skippable outro, it’s upsetting to me that an album this great ends on such a low note.
Overview
RTJ4 is by far my favorite album of the year. El-P’s cutting edge approach to their sound, blended with lyrical content that continues to be more relevant by the day, the duo have come together with what is objectively their most accessible album to date. RTJ4 is the natural evolution of sound and subject matter for the duo; taking the foundation set by Run The Jewels 3 and evolving it into a more concise, more accessible, and more conceptual album. While I still personally prefer the “fuck the world” intensity and experimental nature of Run The Jewels 2, RTJ4 opens themselves up to a whole new world of exposure, and when you’re as talented as these two, you know they’re going to capitalize on it. RTJ is currently at their apex, and they’ve created an album that will make many new life-long fans going forward.
9.2/10
Discussion Points

• How does this compare to other RTJ releases? How about in comparison to the member’s solo works?
  
• Does the overwhelmingly positive critical reception of this album surprise you?
  
• How will this be looked back on in 5 years?
  
• What are your favorite lyrics?
  

Gents,
First off, happy Thanksgiving. Hope all y’all are happy and healthy this holiday.
I can only carry one knife a day, and over the past couple months I’ve found a few “home run”, all-time-great knives for me that I want to carry all the time. Which means about half my collection, including some really lovely pieces, is not getting carried at all. So it’s time to sell em.
NOTES
Everything here is priced aggressively. I’m more interested in getting these out of my hands into good homes than I am squeezing every dollar I can out of em. If we’ve worked together before, or you want multiples, message me! Looking to sell. The only things I will consider trades for are John McNees, John Gray or Ed Cope Customs. Last note: Shipping on Monday. I have commitments all weekend that prevent me from getting to the post office. I will probably have things packed before then, but they won’t be on the road til then.
Y'all, I'll be cheffin, eatin and with family until about 8PM PST, so I'll be checking timestamps when I get back for the most part. I WILL get back to everybody, so please, if I don't get back to you right away, don't be too concerned! Remember, clear yolos take precedent over offers / asking questions. Thanks!
ALBUMS Folders Fixies
KNIVES

Knife	Price	Condition	Notes
Chris Reeve Large Inkosi, Insingo, FDE	450	B	I love love love LOVE the way this guy looks and feels, but I simply don't like the Insingo blade shape for my needs. I've got a DLC Tanto Inkosi coming, otherwise I couldn't bear to part this one. Even then, priced close to MSRP (has been lightly used, carried a couple times) just because I've gotta get some decent cash to part with it.
Shiro F95T	650	B	Bought off this post, second F95T I've owned and this was the better example. Great action, as expected, and other than the marks noted in the previous post, looks and feels pretty darn new. I may not have the box and card anymore, I'll have to look. The F95T is an amazing blade, but I like my flippers smaller than this one.
Strider AR .75 Tanto 3V	650	B	The only hype knife drop I've ever been lucky enough to get in on. Super-limited MonkeyEdge AR .75 in 3V, probably one of the toughest folders you'll ever find. Kills me to sell it, but my 3V Demko has always been the one I've grabbed. Unused except for a couple tests BUT there's some surface rust on the engravings. Haven't tried to do anything about it, it might scrub right off.
Les George VECP v3 Flipper	375 SOLD	B	Can't believe I'm selling this, but as much as I love this knife, I don't carry it. Newer version of the VECP (from this year) running on bearings, extremely smooth action, and a blade that cuts and cuts and cuts. Would make an incredible workhorse. Has been carried like, twice.
Ed Cope LR6	650	B-	Gorgeous knife from the Tom Mayo protege...3.5ish inches of Vegas Forge dammy, old-school-smooth action, literally faultless construction. Only problem is the beautiful mirror edge on here right now is literally dull as a brick, so it'll need sharpening before it gets used. Green schmutz is a brief attempt to strop it, which lasted about 3 seconds before I realized I don't know what I'm doing. I don't think it did a darn thing to the blade.
Anso Haddock G10	1000	B	Lightweight utility EDC from Jens Anso with really interesting patterned G10 handles. This isn't a "hard use" blade, but the sheepsfoot profile comes down to a screaming sharp edge that glides through most materials. Never thought I'd sell this one, but I've got another Haddock on the way from ens, don't need two, and I haven't been reaching for this as much as my various tantos. That said, if this one doesn't sell at this price, I'll keep it and just sell the new Haddock when it comes in.
Anso Casino, Bronze	650	B+	Just about new from Jens, carried once. The blade shape just doesn't work for what I need from a friction folder. Faultless construction, SUPER slicey blade, bronze gives it a little heft. Just a gorgeous, gorgeous piece. Would cost you $1050 to order the same build from Jens direct.
Anso Monte Carlo, FatCarbon	650	B	Similar to the other, gorgeous piece, but I just don't have enough use cases for it. Really interesting little pattern on the CF, super useful blade shape. If this one doesn't sell at this price or close to it, I think I'll just keep it for now.
Dervish Triple Aught Dauntless	1000	B	Nearly new, 1 of 3 in the world. Carboquartz and marbled CF scales, super-drop-shutty, huge-ass 20CV blade running on bearings. Not the sharpest thing in the world, but it's not meant to be. WAY lighter than it looks, would probably be a great semi-outdoors user knife.
Kingdom Armory Rook	700	B-	Somebody buy this fucking custom, seriously. $1500 table price, Hugin dammy with copper bolsters. Chonky. Only downside is the blade is super thin BTE but not all that slicey. With a bit of sharpening work, should make for an exceptional EDC. Some small marks near the front of the blade from light use.
SG Knives Murai	450	B	Got in a trade, lighter-than-it-looks, super flicky full custom from an Indonesian maker. Seen a lot of building hype around this guy, and it's earned...this thing rocks and would make a great EDC. Blade shape is like a bigger Sebenza flipper.
RMJ Jenny Wren	350	B	All 3 fixies are in one video. Nearly-new-but-for-some-kydex-scuffs lightweight RMJ hawk in the limited "Explore More" colorway. Super cool little piece that I thought would be a nice "shop axe"...cept I don't have a shop, and what do I need a shop axe for.
Strider DB-L, 3V	400	B	Such a hype-y little piece, but it's for a reason...this little mouse is as close to indestructible as anything you'll hold in your hands. Enjoyed having it around, but never used it, so I'll pass it on.
Strider WBMod10	400	B	This thing is just MEAN. S35VN, from the drop either this year or last year, forget exactly when. I'm second owner, but I never used it, and I don't think the last guy did, either. Probably not much you can't do with this guy...stab, pry, maybe even cut! Cord-wrapped handle is super comfortable. Never used.
GiantMouse Ace Grand	185 SOLD	B	Recently bought off here, it ABSOLUTELY lives up to the hype. Action, ergos, blade shape are all exceptional. GM killed it. Hasn't been used by me cept for a couple cut tests.
GiantMouse Ace Nimbus V2	175 SOLD	B	Got lucky enough to score one of these from BHQ. Like the Grand, totally lives up to the hype. Surely will be a perfect EDC, and the action is smooooth. Really really nice piece.
Spyderco PPT, S90V	175 SOLD	B	Best blade for the price in my collection. WICKEDLY sharp, will bite you if you're not careful. As secure in the hand as anything I've ever used, and the blade shape works exceptionally well for most EDC. Can't recommend the PPT enough.
Chaves Ultramar Liberation G10	275 SOLD	B	The most EDC-able Chaves of em all - light, slim, slicey, while still having decently thick bladestock and that sweet sweet Reate action.
QuietCarry Drift, Knurled Orange Ti	225 SOLD	B	The knife that really put QC on the map, in the boldest and most practical of colorways. Was carried a few times, loved how slicey this blade was, but hasn't seen pocket time since I got my Terrain365 Mako. This one is lighter and slicier, though.
GiantMouse Ace Biblio Bronze	175 SOLD	B	Another EDC monster from GiantMouse, wonderful little sub-3" flipper that thumb-rolls great, too. More useful than I ever thought it was going to be, and I like the extra heft the bronze gives it.
Strider DC	475 SOLD	B	Strider's new-ish chonky boi. Similar blade length to an SNG with bigger, bulkier, full-Ti handle. Really cool, and I'd be keeping it if I didn't have two SNGs...but I do, so out it goes. Still needs to be broken in.
Anso Neo	750 SOLD	B	Gorgeous flipper from Jens with, like all his other work, an exceptionally useful and slicey blade shape. Note, typical for Jens, it also has an extremely strong detent and lockbar tension, so you gotta keep your fingers off the lockbar to launch it...but if you do, it FLIES out. Not drop-shutty, more smooth and even. Here in his gorgeous "cuprum" finish, which is greey with hints of blue and bronze...it's like nothing else out there, and the micro milling completes the look.
Strider (Medford) AR .75 Tanto S35VN	400 SOLD	B	No idea what market is for these things these days, so don't yell at me if I'm off. Lightly used, fantastic grind, little bit of rust-lookin stuff in the thumbhole. Beautifully broken in.

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So. I want to put a huge disclaimer at the beginning of this story. If you have trouble with stories about/containing suicide then do NOT read this. It’s not gory or a first person tale of suicide, but I just wanted to give a fair warning.
The brown and green Quith female crooked an eye at that, her smooth damp skin glistening in the dim light of the bar.
“So you want to know about humans do you?” she asked, smiling a sad smile and looking down at her drink for a moment.
“I don’t blame you… they seem like a wild species to most, one of only five sapient deathworld species to ever break the light speed barrier and by far the most interesting of those five…” she said with a sigh.
“But you already know that… don’t you? Of course you do.” She said, chuckling softly and taking a large gulp from the mug in front of her.
“I’m sure you’ve heard all the stories about how unstoppable they are, how it is impossible to break them or beat them down.” She said, bringing a chuckle from a few of the barflies that were eavesdropping. “Yes, yes they truly have an amazing ability to survive whatever the universe throws at them don’t they?” She said sardonically.
“Well…” she said, taking a deep breath as if readying herself for something. “I know for a fact that that isn’t always true…”
“Okay, okay calm down…” she said, drawing a bit more attention before taking another long pull from her mug. “I’ll tell you my story… But you’re not going to like it.”
“It started as just a normal day as stories like these always do.” she said, eliciting another chuckle from the now grown crowd of eavesdropping barflies. “Like any other, I crawled out of my nice warm sleeping bog into the crisp morning air that leaked in through my windows, shrugged on my moisture retainer and a set of clothes, grabbed a fish from my tank for breakfast and headed out the door. It was another idyllic day on the fringe, another day at work like any other.” She said, her eyes glazing over slightly as she started to get lost in the memory.
“I hopped on a shuttle and headed into the office, I’d worked from home the past week due to a cold so I thought that it would be good to get out and see my coworkers in person after being cooped up for so long. To my surprise and delight an acquaintance of mine: a human janitor by the name of Frank whose company I had come to enjoy was sitting at one of the desks. He was asleep by the looks of things with a content smile on his face.” she said, smiling fondly at that memory before shuddering for some reason and taking a deep breath in through her nostrils.
“He was a quiet man, but hardworking and he always seemed to have something nice or interesting to say whenever he did speak.” She said, her voice trembling slightly as she described the human. “He looked peaceful, like he was getting some much needed rest after pulling an all-nighter so I decided there was no harm in letting the janitor rest and made my way to my desk, swallowing down the last of my fish as I walked.” She said, making some of the listeners comment about how they’d ‘been there’ before.
“I sat down and settled in to the happy monotony of my job for a few hours till a loud scream grabbed my attention.” she said, making the eavesdroppers hush their whispering as they realized the story was about to get interesting. “I stood up and quickly located its source, the supervisor – a female Quith like myself – was standing by Frank’s desk screeching in terror. I ran over, like many of my co-workers, and joined the murmuring crowd that had gathered looking for answers.” She said, her voice trailing off to a whisper and making everyone lean in a bit closer. “Everyone at the front of the pack was strangely still and silent so I carefully pushed my way past them and instantly saw why. Frank was lying limply on the floor, his chair knocked over and that same peaceful smile on his face with the supervisor quietly sobbing in the corner of his cubicle.” she said, shuddering slightly as she remembered the scene.
“I reached out a hand and tentatively touched Frank… He was cold and lifeless. Frank was dead.” She said quietly, looking down at her hand as she did.
The crowd was dead silent, and when she stopped looking at her hand she looked around. “From the look on your faces I can tell that you want to know how he died. What could have possibly killed the unkillable, indomitable human? Well… He killed himself.” she said, making everyone express some form of either shock or disbelief.
She continued talking, raising her voice slightly to talk over the crowd. “He’d bought a pen of human ‘insulin’ under the guise of a family member needing it and injected the entire thing into himself. He was dead long before I found him at his desk.” She said, tipping back her mug till it was empty.
“What?” she asked, setting down the mug. “Oh sorry. Yeah I don’t blame you, I wanted to know why too. After all, it seemed too fantastic to be true. All the stories that have humans dying are all about them bravely sacrificing themselves, or fighting against a force they had no hope of beating and taking with them as many enemies as they could… But I guarantee you that for every one of those stories there’s one like mine. Especially on rim worlds…” she said, looking down at her mug and waiving over the bartender when she saw that it was empty.
Her order was interrupted by one of the more inebriated patrons slurring something about ‘fringe’ and ‘rim’. “What?” She asked, prompting him to repeat himself. “Oh no you’re not wrong, I did say that the planet we were on was a fringe world, not a rim world, the start of the rim was about a hundred light-years away at least. It’s relevant I promise, I’ll explain everything. Just give me a moment.” she said, slightly disgruntled as she finished giving the bartender her order and waited patiently for him to refill her mug.
She took a long pull from it before continuing her story. “Anyways, like I said I wanted to know what could have prompted Frank to do this, so I asked the only person I thought might know something. Dave, the other human that worked in the office.” She said, smiling as she recalled the man.
“Dave had a reputation as someone you can talk to about anything. Especially if you were looking for advice, as he had probably been through a lot worse.” She said, still smiling as she played with the murky brown foam on her beverage. “Dave grew up on an industrial world about fifty light-years away in what was then the middle of the rim. From what I heard it was pretty rough: union busting raids, monopolies, gangs. Typical rim world, lawless but profitable by any means necessary… at least, profitable for those on top anyways.” She said, swallowing dryly.
“His family worked together, saving up money in secret then stowing away on a transport headed core-ward, hopping from planet to planet as their money allowed it and working odd and factory jobs when it didn’t.” She said, sighing and sinking into her chair slightly. “Eventually, they ended up on the fringe, where things were much easier for them. Food was cheaper, work was more plentiful, and after a while, Dave and his siblings were able to get decent educations.”
As she described the human family pulling itself up by sheer will the other patrons smiled briefly before remembering what they had previously been talking about. “Long story short, he ended up working in the same office as Frank and I.” she said, obviously deep in some memory or another.
“Anyways, after giving him a week or two to mourn his fellow human, I approached him and asked what could have possibly prompted Frank to take his own life… I’ll never forget the response I got…” She said, a shiver running down her entire form. “Dave sat down and sighed loudly before saying ‘He didn’t have anything keeping him here anymore.’”
“I balked at that,” she said with a pained chuckle as a sullen silence settled over the now noticeably larger crowd. “I asked him what he meant by that. That the statement made no sense! After all, Frank was a human! What could possibly be so bad that a human decides to give up like one of… _us_…”
She shivered once more and opened her mouth for a moment, only to close it and bite her lip. “Dave didn’t like that… He got very angry and asked me what I knew about Frank’s living conditions…” she said, her gills flushing in shame, “I admitted that I didn’t know much and he told me that ever since Frank got on world, he’d been bouncing from job to job, city to city, living out of a large electric van that he put together from parts he had to steal from a scrapyard… He told me that Frank was barely eating enough to sustain himself, and that he had been sending most of his pay back to his family out on the rim so that they could join him here someday…” She explained, sighing into her mug and taking another large gulp.
“While that sounded difficult, it didn’t seem like something that would break a human; especially with their tendency towards modern nomadism… But there was one part of that story that stood out, so I asked: ‘Frank was sending money back to his family?’” She slumped forward slightly, resting her forehead on the table and taking a deep, shuddering breath. “Dave responded with two words… ‘Yes, was’” she said, once again forcing a hush on the crowd as they realized the implications.
“It turned out that Frank had not been as lucky as Dave… Frank’s family lived on a cartel world…” She explained, making a couple of people wince or hiss. “Exactly,” she said, sighing and slumping back into her chair, as if resigning herself to tell the rest of the story. “Frank’s family had been saving up much like Dave’s had… But before they could afford to get everyone smuggled off planet, Frank’s father was injured working in one of the factories. They had enough money to treat it, but without his income…” she began, but couldn’t seem to find the right words.
“In the end, they decided to send Frank off world to try and get a better job and secure a place for them to reunite eventually… That was the plan at least… Until the Federation decided to take apart the Cartel that is.” she said, the pained expression on her face finding itself on several of the crowd as well.
“His family took in a wounded soldier that got shot in the shanty town that they were living in during one of the early assaults.” she explained, staring deeply into her mug. “They saved the young soldier’s life, and gave her everything that they had on the workings of the cartel that they figured out after years of living on world… The fastest routes around town, known safe houses and floating casinos, collaborators, hidden shuttles… Information that the soldier took back to her commanders and would prove to be extremely useful in taking down the cartel…” she said, draining the last of her mug with a defeated sigh.
“They would have been hailed as heroes when the town was liberated… that is… if one of their neighbors didn’t see the soldier sneaking out once she was healed enough to walk.” She said, a distant anger visible behind the drunkenness in her eyes. “By the time the soldier came back with the rest of the army, Frank’s family had already been publicly executed.”
“The soldier,” she began, after a long pause of staring hatefully at her empty mug, “Showed up on planet the day before Frank killed himself.” She said, closing her eyes and taking a deep breath. “She told Frank that his family saved her life. That they gave her the information they needed to keep any of the cartel from getting away. That they were heroes… And that they were dead.” She said, her voice dripping with sadness. “She told him that he should be proud of them. That they did the stories she’d heard of humanity justice… And that she was sorry for his loss…”
A hush fell over the crowd that nobody seemed to want to break as the Quith sat there staring sadly at her drink. “They were the only thing keeping Frank going… Day after day of going to bed hungry, and tired, and cold in a cramped vehicle that he put together with parts that he had to beg, borrow, and steal for… And the only thing that was keeping him together was the thought that with each day, each paycheck, he was getting closer and closer to bringing his family to him… And now they were dead…” she said, smiling sardonically and closing her eyes.
“You know the funny thing? Humans have this saying about themselves; more of an excuse really. They call it ‘only human.’” she said, smiling slightly. “‘Sorry, I made a mistake. I’m only human.’ they say, or ‘I can’t possibly do that, I’m only human after all.’ or maybe even ‘I need help. Please, I can’t do this on my own… I’m only human.’” she said, bringing a tear to many eyes capable of crying.
“The worst part is what Dave told me about how Frank saw the rest of us… Frank didn’t think that he could come to any of his colleagues with his problems. He didn’t think that they’d take him seriously. He’s human after all… What could possibly break a big, strong human in our eyes. What problems could they possibly have that we could relate to?” she asked, making looks of shame and discomfort spread through the crowd as everyone realized they’d thought that exact same thing at some point.
“Well take it from me that humans aren’t unbreakable… They’re the hardest to break species I’ve ever known, true juggernauts of willpower…” she said, smiling weakly. “But they still feel pain, they still feel depression… They’re still sapients just like you and me… They struggle along through life like the rest of us, clinging from one bit of hope to the next like the rest of us… and sometimes, they break like the rest of us.” she said, before smiling and taking a deep breath.
“So do the humans a favor. Don’t always assume that they’ll be fine or that they are always happy and healthy. It will go a long way for them to know that we care about them as much as they care about us.” She said, motioning the bartender over to pay her tab.
“You’re tab’s been taken care of,” the bartender said, nodding in the direction of a lone human, sitting at a table, raising a glass in her direction. His eyes were red, and his cheeks were wet with tears.

Sozafi Zae had the wind knocked out of them as they slammed into the ceiling, and then they braced for a fall that never came. Being violently thrown into the air had been jarring enough, but there’s no way they could be so rattled they’d miss the return trip, could they? They tentatively opened one eye.
The floor loomed over--under?--them. At least the carpet in this penthouse was really soft. Maybe they’d only break one or two ribs, tops. Probably an arm.
“You picked the wrong apartment to rob, kid,” the old togruta woman said with a yawn.
In all the excitement of somehow finding themself pressed to the ceiling, Sozafi had almost forgotten about the person who put her there…
Onoam was beautiful, especially at night, when Naboo could be seen hanging in the sky. Or, Sozafi supposed, Onoam was hanging in Naboo’s sky. There was too much light pollution out there to really see many of the stars tonight, with all of the night culture still going strong, but some nights, when things were calm, Sozafi could still tell they were there. They could draw in the deep air of the sea and feel the galaxy swirling, the hundreds of beings in the city all milling about in gambling dens and restaurants and theaters. This wasn’t really one of those nights. Naboo was nothing but a large teal marble peeking out from behind the heavy grey-black clouds.
Rain had begun to fall, a light drizzle that made it all the more dangerous to be clinging to the side of a building. Moments earlier, the twenty something scrumrat had miraculously made it to the third floor, scaling the side of the building in a few bounds. It was a talent she had. If they concentrated, and got a running start, they could feel the world at just a slightly different angle. It was liberating to move through a space like that, feeling the ground retreat.
That was how Sozafi made a living as a second-story-neutrois. They were charismatic, and could be charming enough to steal from the tourists, but getting right into the apartments of the wealthy was always a lot more lucrative. Most people wouldn’t bother locking their balcony windows. After all, how would anyone get up there?
That wasn’t the case this time. The mark had actually taken precautions. That was just fine. They pulled out a set of security tools and knelt down at the lock, getting to work. With a little bit of concentration, Sozafi could feel the pins working into the right place, and with a gentle turn, the door opened with an unnoticeable click.
With that out of the way, they slunk into the room, carefully on the lookout for any signs of security. The mark was some kind of criminal, which meant that she wasn’t likely to have anything that would call official security, and the woman didn’t seem to have any backing. When it came to the distinction between legitimacy and criminality, the distinction was often arbitrary, but it was a safe bet that someone with this much money could stand to part with it.
Once the coast was clear enough, Sozafi started looking around for anything important. Credits, obviously, but anything that could fit in their pack and fetch a good price would be worthwhile. They had good instincts for hiding places, and this mark was definitely the kind to use plenty. Several, like the toilet tank or underside of the table, held holdout weapons like a thin barreled concealable blaster or a vibro-knife. They could stay where they were. There were also plenty of credits already tucked into a bug-out bag hidden in a false bottom of a clothes hamper. Sozafi had no need for the handful of fake scandocs for the togruta, so they left those where they were, but the credits would be very useful.
It was an hour into Sozafi’s gentle ransacking that their instincts seemed to lead them astray. Inside another false panel, they found nothing but a strange metal tube. The air of the penthouse seemed to grow cold as the neutrois touched the tube, and pulled it out to better look at it in the light reflecting off of Naboo.
“No way…” they murmured, suddenly afraid of the thing in their hands, like one wrong move would release a swarm of ravenous blister fleas down their arm. Sozafi knew it had only been twenty years or something, but this was practically a relic. And contraband. Suddenly all the scandocs, the bugout bag, it all made sense. But still, something inside of the felt… excitement. They could sense the aura of the device. It practically thrummed in their hand. Sozafi held it out, knowing the danger, and reached their other hand out to fiddle with the controls…
That was when Sozafi found themself Forcibly lifted into the air and pressed against the ceiling. They hadn’t even heard the woman come in, they were so enraptured by the artifact from a more civilized age. The togruta didn’t even look at it, leaving it where it was on the floor.
“Who are you?” She asked, looking up at Sozafi.
“How…”
The togruta rolled her eyes, and dismissively waved her hand with a sigh. Sozafi fell to the floor, shaky but on their feet. They were thankful for the thick carpeting, but they could tell that some Force had lessened the fall.
“Who are you,” the woman said again, this time more pointedly.
“I’m no one,” Zae coughed out. They cut a glance to the window. The orange-skinned woman was near the door, but if Sozafi could get to the balcony… Her eyes darted back to the erstwhile mark. “You’re a J--”
Before they’d even started to say the word, the togruta spit out “No, I’m not.”
There was a tension in the air. Seemed as good a moment as any to make a break for it.
Unfortunately the scrumrat didn’t get very far. There were no magic tricks this time, but the togruta was fast, and before taking a step further, she was blocking Sozafi, who actually surprised her by throwing a punch. They didn’t connect of course. The togruta on the other hand did, but Sozafi was no stranger to a punch, and rolled with it. It was followed up by a kick that the older woman didn’t seem like she should have been able to make, and Sofazi had to throw up both her arms to catch it with a block. They weren’t going to stay on the defensive, and lashed out with a blow. It didn’t matter what they did, though, her fists always came up short.
A sense of fear started to fill her. This was a legendary warrior. She wasn’t even breaking a sweat. She was toying with them. Sozafi tried to run again, but was jerked back, choked by the collar of their shirt, which ripped as the togruta pulled it. They were spun around, swinging their arm as they did, but once again they hit nothing but air, the woman ducking below the swing, only to throw a series of short, quick jabs to Sozafi’s ribs and breast, knocking the wind out of them.
Breathless, Zae saw the old woman stand up tall and lift her thigh up to her heavy chest and kick out like she was going to stomp flat a can of caff. Sozafi threw up their arms to block, but was still sent tumbling back and sprawling over a chair meant more for decoration than comfort. The chair came with them, and by the time they got right side up, the togruta was back in front of them.
In a flash of anger, Sozafi remembered the vibro-blade stuck to the bottom of the table, and without even thinking it was in their hand, shooting across the apartment, eliciting a startled gasp from the togruta. They bounded forward, lunging in anger, wanting revenge for all the bruises and pain she’d caused in just the last ninety seconds.
And then a sound like metal shearing erupted, and a thin shaft of brilliant green light aimed itself at Sozafi’s throat, her rage disbursed by the soft hum of the lightsaber blade.
“Force…” the scrumrat murmured with the tone of a swear, the vibro-blade slipping from their hand, forgotten. “You really are a Jedi…”
As if their words were an ion charge, the blade disappeared, and the reverent moment went with it.
“No.” The togruta said through clenched teeth. She took a centering breath, closing her eyes, her brow furrowed. Quieter, she finally added “Not for years now. There are no more Jedi.”
“Tell me everything.”
“There isn’t much to tell,” Azasham said, knowing this kid wouldn’t hear how weighed down with weariness her words were as she sipped the caf.
The two had stopped fighting. There wasn’t much point after that. Azasham had tossed her lightsaber aside, and with the same flick of her wrist, both it and the vibro-knife, now deactivated as well, had landed into the chair, which had also righted itself. If she was being honest with herself, Azasham was showing off a little. She hadn’t obviously used the Force like this in… over a decade, at least. And here was this Force Sensitive who had somehow avoided the notice of the empire. Was it because they were here on Onoam? It wasn’t like Palpatine’s home system was free of the bastard’s grip.
Beneath the tranquil streets and bustling tourist attractions, miners still toiled for the Empire, and while fully armored stormtroopers were unwelcomed by the galaxy’s elite with their vacation condos and chalets, crisply uniformed Imperial officers helped comfort the wealthy after the terrorist assassination of Moff Panaka three years earlier and had never left. Funny how the rich and powerful could be comforted if you just put the agents of imperial violence in a nicer uniform.
Had this guttersnipe managed to stay under the radar for two decades simply because the terrifying black armour and blood-bladed sabers of the Inquisitorius would be too frightening a sight for the members of the ruling class who came to Naboo’s peaceful moon with the luxury of forgetting about partisans and terrorists and unruly systems not yet brought to heel?
Or, maybe, a little ember Ashazam wished would burn out already whispered, maybe it was the will of the Force.
“What about me?”
“What about you?”
“Am I Jedi?”
Azasham let out a noise that the human neutrois considered rather rude, judging by their facial expression. “No, kid, there’s more to being a jedi than moving things with your mind.”
“Teach me, then.”
“No.”
“You want to,” Sozafi said, more as a statement than a question.
Azasham sipped her caf, not a single muscle moving that didn’t have to.
“I knew it,” the scrumrat said, eyes lighting up.
“I could just kill you,” she offered, only barely hiding her smile.
For a second she thought she might have been a little too stoic as the colour drained from the neutrois’ face. But it was only temporary. They weren’t convinced.
“You could have killed me from the start, but you knew I was a Jedi,” they said, wheels visibly spinning.
Another snort, another glare from the kid. “You’re not a Jedi.”
“Yes I am! You saw it. I pulled that knife to me, and I can sense things.” Sozafi’s wheels spun faster as things fell into place. “And I can run up walls! I just thought I was good at parkour… I can do all that because I’m a Jedi.”
The knife flew from across the room, causing Sozafi to jump as it whizzed by their head. Azasham put it down on the other side of the table from Sozafi.
“Do it again, then, Jedi.”
The knife stayed where it was, no matter how much Sozafi glared at it. They even stretched out a hand, fingers forming a claw, wrist slowly turning. There was grunting. Then, their shoulders slumped in defeat.
"That's what I thought," Azasham murmured.
Something about how she said it must have set Sozafi off. They gave out another growl of frustration and screwed up their face. It happened quickly, a little wiggle at first.
Acting before the vibro-blade even moved, Azasham's hand shot out to catch it. The sharp durasteel blade, luckily unactivated, dug into her palm, and her blood dripped into her mug of caf. For the first time tonight her heart rate had spiked.
Sozafi had once again lost all their anger, looking at the tip of the blade with wide eyes. It had completely ignored their outstretched hand, assuming right for their face. Without Azasham's lightning reflexes, they'd have been dead. The blade was only inches away from splitting their head like a melon.
"Oh fuck, oh fuck", they said jumping up so quick that another chair fell over. Sozafi panicked, looking around the room for something to fix this.
"Stop."
Sozafi did, though the panic didn't go away.
"Towel, by the sink."
They blinked for a moment, then rushed to grab it, holding it out as Azasham slowly opened her hand and let the knife fall. It was a mess, but the cut was clean. All that mattered now was staunching the bleeding, but she winced a little more than necessary, playing up how much it hurt. It would do the kid good to be scared.
"Now go get my medkit," she said, lekku shifting as she jerked her head to the bedroom. "It's in the bag from my hamper."
Once again, the neutrois did as they were told, quicker this time. Maybe this wasn't going to be so bad an idea after all.
A few minutes later, as she was gingerly coating her hand in a bacta strip, Sozafi finally spoke up.
"So I guess I am a Jedi, then?" They asked, voice cracking a little.
Azasham couldn't help but laugh. "No."
"Oh come on, seriously?"
"You're untrained, and dangerous. You're sensitive to the Force, but that doesn't make you a Jedi." After a pregnant pause, the corner of her lip curled upward and she added "yet."
Sozafi vibrated like the activated knife, their face splitting in an excited grin.
"You'll need to focus. I could just be training you how to get yourself killed spectacularly. Or I could be creating a monster.”
Sozafi laughed nervously, “A monster? Isn’t that a bit dramatic?”
Azasham’s durasteel glare made the scrumrat swallow, but their throat caught.
“You’re untrained, and that makes you dangerous. Which is why I need to train you. But in doing so, I’ll be making you more powerful.” Sozafi’s eyes brightened in a troubling way, though Azasham couldn’t fault them for the feeling. They did have the sense to feel conflicted about that excitement when Azasham gave a sigh. “The Dark Side is strong in you. I can feel it, particularly when you want something. You’ve killed before, haven’t you? Have you ever called upon the Dark Side to do so?”
Azasham wasn’t sure she even wanted to know the answer. Would she have to murder this youngling after all? Would it be easier to spare them being found and turned by the Inquisitorius, or worse, tempted by the Dark Side into abusive relationships, unfocused and untrained as little more than an animal with no restraint?
Sozafi was fidgeting, thinking before they spoke, which was at least a good sign.
“I… I don’t really know. I’ve called upon the Dark Side, I just don’t think I knew it, and always in fights. And I…” They bit their lower lip, chewing it in thought, “I have killed someone. In self-defense. But only twice. Well, once, I’m pretty sure the other guy survived, just never messed with me again. I don’t use it to cheat or steal or anything”
Azasham thought about it for a long moment. What kind of damage had living on the street done? Would the hardships have created a monster? She didn’t want to think that they had, but then again this kid was already growing on her. The eagerness, the excitement. This wasn’t something she had seen from someone in a long time, and certainly not in a Jedi adept.
“You were stealing from me,” She pointed out after considering it.
Sozafi blushed. “Well, I was going to. But you’re not from Onoam. No one who isn’t from around here other than the miners has good intentions. I thought you were just some rich person, and it doesn’t count if you steal from the rich. They all stole it from the poor.” They narrowed their eyes, and looked around, “wait, how did you get the money for a place like this anyway?”
Azasham’s lip curled to show the tips of her pointed teeth. “I stole it from rich people.”
Two days later, Sozafi sat cross legged in a field of blue-green grass across from Azasham, who still seemed to be lost in contemplation.
They’d come to these empty fields for Sozafi’s first lessons. Azasham had asked them to wait two long days, and now was still waiting. At least it was a nice day.
They’d still tried to experiment on their own, just a bit, trying not to get angry as they made a rock rise up from the floor of their poorly kept little one room hovel apartment in the poorer end of the local district. It was frustrating, but knowing that you really can do it tends to make things easier. They hadn’t even bothered to go out running any scams or stealing from anyone, since Azasham had given them enough credits to live off of. An act that mad Sozafi’s eyes go wide, but they never said no to credits.
By the end of those two days, Sozafi was slowly pulling their few bits of furniture round the room telekinetically. Azasham hadn’t seemed impress when they told her, demonstrating by levitating a credit stick. Azasham pulled the stick out of the air and wagged a finger at them, looking around the crowded street outside her much nicer apartment as they walked to the alley where her landspeeder was parked.
“You have to be more careful about where you use your… talents,” she admonished, one orange finger pointing at Sozafi.
The ride had gone by in silence, at least when Sozafi got the hint. And now they were sitting here in the grass, where the city was just a line of colour on the horizon.
Waiting for Azasham to finally make up her mind about what to do, Sozafi once again stretched out with their senses. This, too, they had come to realize, was a part of the Force. They’d never been so far away from the hustle and bustle of Onoam’s crowds. Even at night, the city was thrumming with beings experiencing the city’s nightlife. Here, it was… different. The sun warmed everything, and there was still so much life. Sozafi had never really thought about it, but the grass was alive. There was life in the grass--insects and small lizards and rodents, even nesting birds--but the grass itself was also alive, a hundred pinpricks of light all woven together.
Suddenly another presence eased itself into being. Not necessarily bigger, but deeper somehow. A being that was both aware and aware of her. Tentatively, Sozafi reached out her senses, just barely brushing the edges with her consciousness
“That tickles,” Azasham said, in a rather deadpan voice.
Sozafi opened their eyes and nearly fell over. “That was you?!”
The togruta smiled a toothy smirk, but didn’t open her eyes.
“That was you,” Sozafi said again, righting themself on the blanket. “You’re immense.”
Azasham snorted, and opened one eye, “I haven’t had time to watch my figure,” she said with another grin
Sozafi blushed, “Not like that, I mean…” They motioned incoherently with their hands. “I felt you. In there. In the Force, I guess.”
“In there is everywhere,” she said, finally opening her eyes and relaxing a bit. “You’ve got an awareness of your surroundings. That’s good. That's our first lesson. Are you familiar with midi-chlorians?"
“Aren’t those the folks famous for being bounty hunters?” Sozafi asked.
Azasham paused for the briefest moment in confusion and then continued.
“Midi-Chlorians are symbiotic beings found in all life. They are a part of us, and in turn we are a part of them. They connect us all, and connect to each other. This is the Force. You have the ability to communicate with the midi-chlorians.”
Sozafi had begun to stare at their hand, as if they’d see microscopic bugs crawling on it, giving them super powers. They knew that wasn’t quite how it worked, though. Probably.
“When you move things, you are working through them. When your actions are in balance, you ask them to move the object.” Azasham demonstrated this by levitating the stones around her. It was nothing compared to the outbursts she made the other night, but the control was astounding compared to the wobbling rise that Sozafi had managed. “But you are powerful, and you are not always in balance. Your emotions get the better of you, and that makes you dangerous.”
Sozafi sat quietly, their thoughts swirling. This was a lot to take in. They’d have to take this more seriously than simply throwing rocks around, but that was a lot of responsibility.
“When I’ve found balance, what am I supposed to do with this power?” they wondered, tracking one of the rocks as it made a circuit around Azasham, locking eyes with her for a moment as it passed her face, and then nervously snapping back to the rock’s path. “I mean, the Jedi kept peace, right? But I’m just a burglar.”
Azasham closed her eyes and thought about the question. It wasn’t one she even knew the answer to. What had she been doing with her power? Was she keeping the peace here on Onaom? No. She wasn’t. She was just being a burglar herself, albeit far more skilled than Sozafi would ever be without training. For over a decade now, she had barely been doing more than surviving.
The night came back to her. The night when Hex, Copper, Ransom, and the others had died. The night when the orders they had been born to follow finally came. The blaster fire. The sounds they made as her blades whirred through their plasteel armour. The limbs hitting the ground. She wasn’t sure if it actually was raining on Raxus that night, but she always remembered it that way.
But no, she hadn’t even been a peace keeper back then, had she? A lightsaber might arguably keep the peace, but an army of clones? Just how much of the war had Palpatine engineered so that the Jedi and their armies would conquer the galaxy for him? There was no peace to be had there, and certainly no peacekeeping involved in ripping off casinos.
So what was the point, then? What reason did Azasham have for teaching this youngling, well past their prime?
She looked at Sozafi, so full of determination, and of anger. It was all too familiar.
Azasham killed another Stormtrooper, sliding past him and slicing him in half. These weren’t the men she had fought with during the Clone Wars. They were sloppy. Even just seeing them wearing those uniforms, making a mockery of the men she served with, irritated her at this point.
“Just die already!’ she shouted in challenge.
She came up from her slide with a flourish and knocked a blaster bolt back where it came, causing a trooper’s head to snap backwards as his bucket helmet was caved in. There was only one left, his knees shaking. Azasham stalked forward through the flames of the building, lazily batting blaster fire away, her shoulders slumped. She was barring her sharp teeth, and could practically see herself from his eyes. With her montrals and lekku, and bloody, mess stained clothes she looked like some kind of a monster from his planet’s legends, a fanged demon
He had been an idealist at firsts, believing that Palpatine and the Empire wanted to bring peace. But by now he knew better, now he had done horrible things in the name of peace, and with the stalking togruta Jedi survivor coming closer, he couldn’t deny it anymore. She looked like something from Hell come to take penance for his sins.
He dropped his blaster and ran. His panicked fleeing was cut short as the armour around his chest crushed inwards, and he was dragged backwards, boots grinding along the dirty floor.
“No, please, no!” he shouted, reaching up to take off his helmet, his modulated voice giving way to the cracking begging of a real person. “I’m sorry!”
The stormtrooper tried to squirm around, still begging for his life.
Azasham glared at him, the icy fury coming off of her choking his screams. She looked into his eyes as the hope, and then life, faded from them. The lightsaber burned his flesh as it cut him smoothly from shoulder to hip, the plasma blade giving just enough resistance that she knew he was there. He held together and whimpered incoherently as he died, stumbling forward. His hands grabbed at Ashasam’s clothes and she watched him, fire still burning. She brought her saber up and stabbed him in the chest, and unneeded move that pushed him away and ended the last few moments of his life.
She looked at him, wound up like a Kodashi viper and nothing else to strike at and fill with the deadly venom other species always expected she had. She looked down at her lightsaber, gripping the hilt so tight her orange fingers became pale. Her anger and hatred for the Empire that took everything from her stretched out and collapsed inward, coalescing into her blade. Streaks of unmistakeable crimson cracked through the viridian like Sith lightning, and the humming lightsaber wavering in pain as it was made to bleed.
The kyber within lashed out, and pain flashed up Azasham’s arm. She dropped the lightsaber to the ground, blade still emitting. She fell to her knees next to it, reaching out trembling fingers.
“I’m so sorry…” she whimpered, wincing as the words left her lips. They sounded so much like that trooper’s words. She touched the hilt, worried that it would turn red again, but the blade stayed green and true. She held the blade up and knelt her head, controlling her breathing and began to meditate.
“The Force is with me. I am with the Force…”
“Whatever you do is up to you,” Azasham said in the present, her voice giving away very little, but still Sozafi sensed there was something more. “I’m only here to teach you balance. Control.” “Over my powers?” “No, over yourself. But, yeah, kid. You’ll learn all the cool powers. One day you might even need them. You’ve been incredibly lucky, Force preserve you, but there’s no way that will keep up.”
Over the next several weeks, Azasham put Sozafi through their paces. That first lesson was easy. If there was one thing that Sozafi could do, it was let their mind wander. Sending out their senses to the vastness of the galaxy was a lot easier than dodging heavy durasteel crates that Azasham moved around first back and forth and then in spiral patterns and finally seemingly at random.
Sozafi was still living on their own, but Azasham was loaded, and gave them enough money to afford a decent apartment. Not in the same penthouses that Azasham lived, but now they wouldn’t have to worry about getting stabbed when they were leaving. That had only ever happened once, and it wasn’t deep, but the new place was much better without having to worry about that.
After a few weeks of meditating and concentrating, trying to learn how to lift things of their own, and dodging crates as big as they were, Azasham finally started to give Sozafi “lightsaber” training. Except she didn’t want to give her the actual thing just yet. First to learn the forms, they had to use a collapsible baton.
“It’s the same thing,” Azasham teased, a baton in one hand and her lightsaber in the other. Sozafi felt the Force as Azasham extended the baton with it while igniting the lightsaber. “See?”
Then she turned the one off and let the other collapse. She tossed the less impressive of the two to her apprentice. At one point Sozafi might have been caught off guard, but now their reflexes had been sharpened and they flicked it out in the same motion as the catch.
“Yeah, I feel just like a jedi now,” they replied, waggling the security weapon in a way that didn’t at all seem threatening.
“Don’t worry, you’ll get the hang of it. We’re starting with forms, you won’t need to swing a laser sword around. “We’ll start with Shii-Cho, the Way of the Sarlaac. This is the first form that a Jedi learns, from the days when lightsaber combat was new…”
After that, each day added an additional lesson. Meditation. Stretching. Avoiding obstacles. Lightsaber forms. Meditation. Blaster training. Concentration. Combat training, with and without a weapon.
It was grueling, and each night Sozafi would go to bed sore and smiling. There was a meaning to it all. It was different from simply stealing from the rich and pawning their junk and hoping to make it through the week. Every day was another push forward to something.
Every so often, at intervals Sozafi could only guess at, they were given a reprieve from lessons, and left to their own devices, often with the instruction to practice some form maneuver or sophisticated telekinetic trick. Running a rock through some maze without touching the side or juggling objects with their mind. These reprieves would happen once every week or two, and could sometimes last days.
Sozafi had figured out by now that Azasham was actually some kind of a criminal, and that she often went off world, but it was still a shock when they were commed after a week long hiatus by a grunting and pained sounding Azasham.
“Kid…” her voice came from the speaker, distorted and crackling. “Get to my apartment. Hurry.”

Part 1 of this story garnered a pretty good reception overall, and in between all the usual comments mistakenly thinking I give a shit about their prequel opinions or telling me they stopped reading because I had the audacity to reference how the fans were divided over TLJ, there were a few comments asking me, like I teased, for the story of PP as a dungeon master.
So there is a LOT to unpack when it comes to PP's dungeon mastering style. First off, he wasn't very good at it. He would talk about his games a LOT between sessions, inevitably spoiling upcoming events. One time when we were playing a Star Wars game our Wookie player said, after the first session, that one day we should go to Kashyyyk to aid in the liberation. Without any prompting PP tells the entire group in a public chat that he had 'planned that for a later session.' No spoiler tags, no thought given, just effortlessly smashed any hopes that it would be an exciting and climactic goal to gradually build to on the side. Another thing he did was plan. Excessively. In his notes he had broken down aforementioned Star Wars game into what he called 'episodes,' and he had this idea that we'd get through one a session. And while that sounds alright at first there were a host of reasons why it sucked in-game. First, it meant he was literally never satisfied at the end of a session. If we spent even a split second not following the critical path objectives like a string of setpieces in a not terribly exciting modern warfare game (insert one of 50 billion) he would lament how much time we wasted. If we sped through the objectives like a WOW player on the last day of his subscription he would complain about us not wasting time exploring more. Second, it meant he would constantly rush things to get to some conclusion every session. The first and last thirds of the game would always go by at breakneck pace as he desperately tried to hurry us along to the end point, which would inevitably result in an ending that we hadn't in any way earned.
He was also, quite frankly, unoriginal as shit. Yeah, I know this is TTRPGs and cliche and monomyth are part and parcel of the fantasy fun of it all, but stop me if you've heard this one before:
Adventurers have to race to find three identical magic objects locked far away from one another that all bear a resemblance to art pieces and use them to unlock the way to something vague and unspecific before the bad guys can find them and sell them to the highest biddeuse them themselves.
Hauntingly reminiscent of that one animated Tintin movie as well as basically every adventuring story ever. All his other stories were the same: he would either not tell you the story at all, or it was something with so few original ideas that if you stuck pins in it all of AAA gaming would get twinges in its back. One time he literally had a shady guy in a bar pay us 5 million in credits to deliver a strange package to a space station without opening it, no questions asked. And expected the result to come as a shock. Surprise surprise, it was a bomb. Who possibly could have seen that coming? At that point though I had resigned myself to my fate and basically delivered the package and pretended to be surprised when his DMNPCs showed up to save the day.
He also sucked, I mean sucked, at roleplay. Every character we met would basically give us a list of what they wanted done and that was it. No attempt was made to characterise them, no dialog, nothing. Well, you could talk to them if you wanted, but if you can imagine the ground and the average height of a sheet of blank printer paper, that's the level to which his creativeness in roleplaying these motherfuckers stretched. He always replied in one of three ways: a monosyllabic noise, a repeat of what they'd already said, or a description of the NPCs ignoring you and walking away. All of them felt the same and it wasn't helped by the way his complete inability to come up with names on the fly always resulted in them saying their names were 'not important' or giving us the name of the famous character he was ripping off at that moment (one time we met a tough-talking no-nonsense black-haired ISB investigator who went by the name 'Detective Diaz.' I could only facepalm).
But his biggest flaw, the one I alluded to in the title and the one that has continued from his very first campaign to his last, is that he railroads like a motherfucker.
It's the worst kind of railroad too, one where he keeps psychotic death-grip control of the story and yet, the plot never moves along at all. The thing is, he gets bored with combat or puzzle solving or any kind of gameplay whatsoever, and so 90% of the campaign is just moving from point A to point B, keeping the story chugging along but never evolving or expanding. Our characters never actually do anything since all we're doing is following the lines. We escape a pursuing Star Destroyer but they deploy TIES and threaten to kill us unless we come talk with the officer, so we do but they just want us to do a smuggling job. We go to the planet, pick up the cargo, and deliver it to the drop zone, suffering no threat or adversity or even slight challenge along the way. We go kill a crime lord because that's what another crime lord told us to do, but he's already been killed by something else when we get there so we just board his damaged ship, look at his corpse, and then go. We go to rob a casino which he doesn't tell us is run by the First Order, so we walk in, basically walk right up to the main base console, download all their credits and escape without being pursued by a single guard. We find a planet in distress because these weird satellite things are blocking out the sun, so we board the main satellite. Fight four stormtroopers, all of which die in one hit and mysteriously whiff all their attacks against us, blow up station with one thermal detonator, end of story. I cannot tell you how utterly devoid of stakes and adversity the game was, because he didn't have the patience to build anything up or introduce any major villains. And that brings me to my second point about his DMing.
He is a horrible storywriter. In addition to treating the Big Book of Cliche like a free ideas bucket he never reveals anything about the current story to the players. At any point during the current Star Wars campaign I could stop, turn to the players and ask three questions that they would not for the life of them be able to answer: why are we here, how will it help us accomplish our major goals, and what are our major goals in the first place? He didn't have the patience to introduce actual villains for us to fight, so I'm genuinely unsure as to who we're supposed to be facing. And that cliche roundup I described a few paragraphs ago? That was literally the extent of what we have been told about the plot thus far. We literally trip over a secret moon base, its run by these totally-not-ewoks who find this random heavily-armed group of wanted criminals on their doorstep and decide that showing them every detail of their secret and incredibly high-stakes excavation based on some vague pretences of friendliness is just the tops. They show us these black orbs, explain that if we collect three of them then presumably something will happen, so we go to collect three of them. That is literally all we have been told. Did I mention the game has been going on for months now? Presumably you should have gotten to the part where you make your players give a shit before now.
He's one of those DMs who asks for every scrap of information about our characters but never pays it off in any way. There's no character hooks to get us involved in the story: our only reason for doing the Tintin thing is on some vague pretences that whatever happens at the end will involve a load of money. No attempt at characterisation is ever worth it because everything always pans out the same way: the way he planned for it to. I'm playing a handsome smuggler, a charmer and smooth talker who had a tendency to flip out and go completely banana fuckbuckets mental with very little warning. He had a deathwish and a flair for the dramatic, so he would do things like threaten to shoot himself during a negotiation or arm a series of seismic charges in the cargo hold of his ship purely to inform his captive audience who was calling the shots. I wanted to play him as this complete wild card, integral to the party's success (none of the others were playing characters that could effectively communicate) but completely unpredictable and you were never sure what motivated his actions. Kind of a Riddick sort of deal: he'd do something nice and you might think he does actually care about you, but throughout it all there was this definite sense that he could blow the entire room to cinders and not give two shits about it. BUT none of this mattered anyway because every dialog went the same whether he was calmly negotiating over tea or standing on the table with a thermal detonator in one hand and a gun pointed at his own head in the other: the NPC told us what they wanted, we did it. Over and over and over again.
One last thing before I go: anyone who suggests I 'just talk to him' about all this might as well save themselves the time. I have. I am, by nature, a very confrontational person and I have a bad habit of pointing out my every niggle with something even if it doesn't annoy me that much. He just doesn't get it. I don't even think he enjoys the game that much, but he just doesn't understand what's wrong and I can't get him to. It doesn't help that everyone else in the group is very non-confrontational and they don't enjoy getting involved in my lengthy criticisms.
Anyway, that's my story about PP's troubles behind the screen. Not just a Problem Player as it turns out, but also a Disinteresting Dungeonmaster!

With Cold Steel III fresh in my head 12 hours after beating it, I wanted to jot down some things that stood out about the game beyond the good stuff that most people agree on--i.e. the stellar gameplay, voice acting, scope of each chapter compared to predecessor games, music tracks and the way plot threads from earlier in the series are further developed and expanded on. Here's my list:

What Stood Out

• Patrick apologizing to Gaius for the racist comment he made all the way back in Cold Steel. I liked his development from an insufferable teenager to someone who's more humble and, like a lot of people, embarrassed of the way they were in high school.
• Toval's new nickname: Zero Artisan Randonneur. I remember seeing screenshots on this subreddit a few weeks ago of that scene from the top of the Pantagruel in Cold Steel II where the villains are listing off the titles of their opponents: "look, it's The Radiant Blademaster, Sylphid, Purple Lightning... and the guy who's good with Arts!" It would've been funny if they kept that up here. Despite his title, I don't really ascribe a lot of hype of Toval in my head despite what the game wants me to believe. I think it's his chill personality: it's not anime-chill like McBurn lounging on a couch in the Pantagruel while aloofly answering Rean's questions in Cold Steel II, but the kind of chill that seems relatable.
• The Courageous getting blown up. The Courageous flies in, everyone on the battlefield is rejoicing that the cavalry has arrived, and within minutes of arriving it's blown up--the whole thing made me laugh because of how pointless the intervention was. And then Alfin faints for the second time in 24 hours. In addition, the villain's side has enough powerhouses that I don't think Toval would really turn the tide, but that's my anti-Toval bias showing.
• Rean and the rest of the original Class VII finally having a decent showing against the power players. We don't have any "Bleublanc's mask shattering" moments like in Trails SC, but I enjoyed watching strong villains recognize Class VII as threats before or after various battles in the story. I was one of the people who was annoyed by all the victories in the Infernal Castle in Cold Steel II being undercut by Class VII having to be bailed out, so this was a nice change of pace.
• Four vs. four battles. I know storyline-wise, this was actually 7+ people vs. 4 in the few instances I saw this happen, (battle vs. Arianrhod and Stahlritter, battle vs. Intelligence Division, battle vs... misfits from the evil group), but damn I've been waiting since Trails the 3rd for the strong people to actually fight as a party instead of summoning some robots to help out or fighting a large group in pairs. Falcom, please make more of this, and make them all as hard as they would be if fought individually.
• Lechter winning big at the casino in Zero was explained, and the explanation surprised me. I didn't think too deeply into this at the time, especially because Lechter came off as a real anime-cool character, and these types usually have good luck. To have this explained as a form of precognition was a little surprising. I still don't think Lechter is particularly well done as a character but good job Falcom.
• NISA's resolution to the Tio English voice-actor problem. The problem itself is one that I'm sure those of us who played through the series in JP release order anticipated. Altina, who superficially resembles Tio personality, appearance and character-wise, had an English VA in Cold Steel II who sounded a lot like what we thought Tio would sound like when rendered in English. That led to the irl version of the in-universe "Crossbell Problem" - how were they going to voice Tio in this game? I'm pleased to say that although Tio's voice sounds a little nasally/breathey, it kinda sounded like what I'd expect her voice to sound given that an Altina soundalike was off-limits. I could not have done a better job, so great work NISA casting director.

Petty Complaints

Most of these are specific to Cold Steel III but can be applied to the rest of the series as well if I had more time to think about it.

• Women spend a lot of time extolling, fawning over, or staking their claim on Rean. I first noticed this in Chapter 2, when a lot of the opening scenes, taking place in different parts of the Empire, involve different women talking about how they miss Rean, how attractive he is, etc. I thought Aurelia Le Guin would be immune to this, but then there's a scene later in the game where she interrupts a group of girls talking about Rean in the bath and advises them on how to win his heart. This is way too much wish fulfillment and crosses into ridiculous and corny territory.
• Women are just not super well-done. I was playing through Chapter 3 with my roommate watching and doing his own thing and we were laughing at the baseline anime nonsense in the game: cleavage, short skirts, exaggerated sighs when resting at an inn/taking a shower, 95% of Musse's dialogue, etc. Then Sara recounts her sad backstory which we've seen or heard some variation of in other work (and probably earlier in the Trails series) and has her boobs out the whole time. Then this heavy conversation is punctuated by her kissing Rean and saying she's coming around the idea of being involved with younger men. What. Then, a few minutes later, Claire recounters her also sad-but-familiar backstory and the conversation ends with "'you remind me of my brother....' (kisses Rean on the cheek.) '... but after tonight, I won’t think of you as my brother anymore.'" Come ON. Late in the Chapter, Arianrhod takes off her helmet and among the first reactions from the crowd of onlookers is "she's beautiful," which I noticed comes up a lot when important women are introduced, including Alicia earlier in the game--there's always some comment about their attractiveness or physical appearance? Why? McBurn is objectively an attractive dude but no one comments on how hot he is unless it's in the context of the mesothelioma they contracted from him.
• The "haha, wink-wink, nudge-nudge" of pairing older men with younger women/girls. Tita is like what, 16? And Agate is in his mid-to-late 20s in Cold Steel III and it's been clear since Trails SC/the Third that they're being set up romantically. And then depending on the choices you make, Lloyd and Tita's bonding event basically ends with "when you're older, then maybe..." And now they're pushing Jusis and Millium. Ew.
• Lack of agency in individual games. This has been covered over and over in the context of Cold Steel discussions, especially the way you don't really get a clean victory over any big bad in Cold Steel II without it being undermined in some way, and especially the way that most Enforcer battles end with a "haha, this was planned from the start anyway." I won't retread that stuff much, except to say that when the final battles had Osborne and Alberich funneling the party into an arena with the dragon they needed dead to execute their plan, I knew Rean and co. were going to cause the end of the world. I know the game tries to get around this by saying "OK, let's restrain the dragon now" once the dragon is down and then Rean loses control of himself and kills the dragon anyway, but come on... why not swing your sword at that dick royal Cedric instead?? Cut off the dragon's arms and legs and let it contemplate its crimes. This really challenged my suspension of disbelief because I can say with some certainty that if I was overcome by an overwhelming demon power I'd target the dick royal over a dragon.
• Lack of agency in the world. In the context of the continent of Zemuria it really sucks when even the big things that you achieve, like the Liber Ark resolution, or the rescue of KeA from the Azure Tree, etc. get undercut at the end by stingers revealing that this was part of a larger chess game between world movers like the Grandmaster, Ein Selnate, Giliath Osborne, etc. and played out mostly as they intended. Come on, y'all do such a great job of worldbuilding somewhat familiar political structures and relationships between nations--why fall into the trap of ascribing the history of this world to the actions of a handful of "great" individuals? This somewhat relates to my next point:
• A lot of the horrible things that happened in the series stem from an evil curse, and not the follies of humankind. This undermined a lot of the backstory of the series and made me annoyed. False flag attacks like Hamel and a lot of the “evil” stuff ascribed to the curse of Erebonia happen in real life and have have rational causes. Like yeah two brothers fighting over a company, and one arranging to have the other offed in a car accident is not out of the realm of possible for humans in our world. That Osborne is following a plot laid out by the Black Records is equally ridiculous. The impression I had for most of the first two games is that he was a master of realpolitik and was pursuing the ends of realpolitik: amassing power for himself, and power for Erebonia, and projecting power as a deterrent for Calvard. But it all goes back to a plan that’s been written for centuries. Even Ash's assassination attempt couldn't just fall under bog-standard regicide that happened because he was pissed at the King for being aware of and participating in the cover up of the Hamel incident... there had to be some weird eye thing and evil fog coming over him. It cheapens some of the real politics/actions taken in the context of those politics when it all goes back to magical prophecies.
• "However, were it possible to reforge [the Great One's] scattered pieces into an even stronger being, I could use it to drown the world in conflict, the endless struggles leading humanity to even greater heights." For a series that lays out its themes explicitly in each game and then reiterates those themes over and over the theme that conflict makes humanity better had little to no explicit buildup that I can recall. I mean, I suppose the theme can be gleaned through the subtext of all the battles that are had just to get a better understanding of the opponent's motivations, like with Rean vs. Azure Siegfried, or self-improvement, like with Rean's training bouts vs. Aurelia.. but Trails isn't a series that has people infer, it puts its themes front and center... so I don't know.
• (cont'd from previous) did Osborne's allies know this was his goal? Like, Claire would go along with this crazy-ass goal because of the debt she feels she owes, but why would Millium go along with miring the world in endless conflict? Was it just me or did Lechter look surprised after Osborne revealed this at the end? Clearly Ouroboros sans Stahlritter grunts and most of the other Divine Knight pilots knew this was the goal, but I'm scratching my head at the more "gray" of the bad guys going along with this.
• Parts of the structures of these games borrow a lot from earlier games. As soon as I got on the Pantagruel in Cold Steel II I thought of the abduction to the Glorious in Trails SC, and there wasn't a lot done differently here--including the confrontation between the heavy hitters of both groups on the deck--that made me think this was a decent setpiece. Cold Steel III borrows from Trails SC with each region involving Enforcer(s) from Ouroboros enacting some evil scheme involving the region. And who can forget scaling a tower and fighting a lieutenant or lieutenants of the big bad at various checkpoints? It showed up in SC, Azure, Cold Steel II and now Cold Steel III. This game continued a new tradition established in Cold Steel II: the fake final dungeon. It's a dungeon that feels a lot like the final dungeon and has an epic battle against a final boss-like opponent, but oops that wasn't actually the final dungeon. I guess I don't mind it too much but it's funny to see how much is reused between games. Last thing I'll say about this is that Dudley from Zero/Azure is totally Michael from Cold Steel III.
• War criminals get way too many passes. From Colonel Richard being allowed to open his own intelligence agency after his first one led to a coup, to Arios playing house with Lloyd, Kea and Shizuku after what he did to Crossbell, to Jusis's dad somehow not being executed for everything he did, to Vita staying in the well-wishes of all of Class VII after spending weeks taunting them, generally being a dick, and embroiling Heimdallr in magical shenanigans that almost destroyed the city, Crow being beloved by all of Class VII... this series loves rehabilitating its war criminals. Now Mariabell is still at large but I love how the Azure had to give her a glimmer of potential future redemption by her revealing that she deliberately wounded Grimwood in such a way that he could be saved, and "don't be too pissed at my dad, he's not too bad of a guy" before teleporting out.
• Doctors, especially the mild-mannered kind, are shady individuals. So the "amoral scientist" embodied by G. Schmidt and F. Novartis is a well-worn cliché in fiction, but the series features so many mild-mannered researchers/doctors who end up being evil. There's Professor Alba from Trails FC, Dr. Guenter from Zero, and now Professor Lughman from Cold Steel III--shout out to G from Cold Steel, who was the most "gray" of all of the unintimidating professors who end up becoming villains so far. In the case of Guenter, Estelle and Joshua make a point of reiterating how much of a budget version of Weissman he is, which--while true--is a weird way to undercut the magnitude of the SSS's achievement in stopping him. Like, yay... I beat a lamer version of an earlier villain and even the game is rubbing that in. How many times will Falcom draw from the evil professor well?
• The existence of monarchs and royalty isn't really questioned. The closest we get to this is the concept of the nobility being interrogated in the Cold Steel games, but the interrogation never goes a step further to question why the institution of the royal family who established and presided over all of these nobles shouldn't be abolished entirely, especially given how passive Eugent is to Osborne. Even back in Trails FC, Duke Dunan provided the greatest argument for abolishing the monarchy but no, he gets rehabilitated by the time of Trails SC and people continue to love their monarchs without question. At least Ash attempts regicide, but it's only because Eugent isn't even sure Osborne is still mortal, lol.

Baseless Gripes

These are basically things I hope don't happen in the next game or later in the series:

• What if... Osborne... good? I am going to be super annoyed if Cold Steel IV reveals that this guy had good intentions all along and gives him a redemption moment. I'm already pre-emptively annoyed because given the games' track record, I can see this happening. What would make such a turn funny is that the dude has a clearly villainous voice--a bombastic voice that doesn't really change whether he's giving a speech, having a private one on one conversation, or talking into the speaker at the Morges' drive-thru, and always sounds like it's concealing some hidden agenda. He's clearly a villain. And yet the voice director for the English version had him put on this same bombastic voice in those flashbacks when he was praying to Aidios to let his son live. I did not take this seriously and now I'm imagining him putting on this same voice while trying to convey regret and kindness in a potential future "I was a good guy all along" reveal.
• Ok ok..... WHAT IF.... OUROBOROS GOOD??? I am going to be even more annoyed if future games in this series reveal that Ouroboros was operating for the greater good the whole time. Like he's a B.S. example I made up: Ouroboros saw that dragon veins were being drained far to the east due to Zemurian nations over-mining and over-processing sepith--the life energy of the planet--for orbments, and they wanted to stop the ecological catastrophe that currently threatens to consume the world if this goes unchecked (see: mass immigration to Calvard to escape barren land.) Ouroboros' goal is to gather the original Sept-Terrions to recalibrate the dragon veins--that means they were the good guys all along. What this doesn't explain is why the individual Enforcers and Anguis acted like aggressive, belligerent, evil dicks to the people who clearly had their hearts in the right place by protecting the cities, villages etc. being caught in the crosshairs of their plan. I know the game explains some dickish behavior by saying Enforcers are chosen because of darkness in their hearts, but I'm also thinking of Vita taunting and being a dick to Class VII from the time of Osborne's assassination through their adventures in the a spirit shrines, only for them to really be worried about where she is a week later after the final battle. At least most of the Anguis agreed that Weissman was a bigger dick than any of them. But yeah I hate that trope of "even though we acted evil and antagonistically, and we did nothing to endear ourselves while we taunted you and wasted your time with our games and tests, we were the good guys all along, what a twist!!" and I will be annoyed if the series does this with Ouroboros.