WOLFMANS 15: RETURN TO RAJADA ~DAY 2 ENDS 7PMEST~

There are worse ways to spend the time, but not many.

Postby can't » Thu Feb 18, 2016 7:18 pm

The unabridged autobiography of some one plays quietly on rajada pirate radio plays in the kitchen while justin builds his new ikea shelving unit. Justin is not listening but every once in a while the man is referred to as "Titty" which makes him goggle a bit. Anyway, he's too preoccupied and drunk on expensive beer to change it.
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Postby adamtrask » Thu Feb 18, 2016 8:13 pm

Part IV

Life in Barnstable quickly became a blur. Between caring for his mother, leaving his lavish social life in Boston and attempting to forge a new one in Cape Cod, Maxwell dug deeper into his books and his writing than ever before. He still drank like he was throwing his Beacon Hill parties, but less often with others around. His idea of a party now was drinking while reading the poetry of TS Eliot, and then, in the young morning light, bellowing along with his favorite opera records, waking his wife. Marilyn, always gentle with her husband, simply came to his study and put him to bed, though she knew he would embark on the same journey tomorrow, and if not then, the next day.

His mother died without fanfare in 1997, and though he was sorry he felt this way, he didn’t feel particularly sad. It was a quiet and peaceful death, and really, Maxwell thought, about all you could ask for in death. He had a quiet and small funeral for Margaret Titcomb. And thus he was the true master of the house. Although he had not known that he craved this arrangement, he was suddenly very aware how happy this new seclusion made him, giddy even.

The late Barnstable years were happy for Maxwell in the way that only those monied and without work can know. Although his drinking problem continued to grow as he aged, his money and stature meant that no one would ever call him out, and he did not have any obligation to leave unfulfilled. Marilyn seemed unhappy once in awhile, he noticed, but she still put him to bed quietly in the early morning hours and let him sleep until noon, when he would immediately pour himself a sherry and shut himself in his study to read poetry. He published a review once a month in the Boston Globe, an arrangement that paid him but a pittance, but gave him the satisfaction of knowing that he was still a force in the literary scene in his beloved Boston. Some weekends he traveled to the city to attend various galas thrown by the Boston elite, and he always came home to Marilyn sunken and hurting from the non-stop revelry. But he was here now, he had finally found a way to relive those memories of infancy.

It was January of 2014 when Marilyn passed, and Maxwell didn’t know how to handle the pressure of her death. He fell apart and immediately began to drink himself helpless, and two of his old Boston friends came to the Barnstable estate to help him with funerary arrangements. He didn’t remember the funeral, but he was told it was a beautiful event at the large Catholic church in Barnstable, after which a group of Marilyn’s closest friends gathered to throw her ashes into the ocean. Maxwell did not attend that second part of the funeral, instead alternating between sleep and large gulps of expensive scotch on the maroon couch in his study. Counter to the protests of his closest Boston friends, he locked the doors to the estate, and Maxwell wasn’t seen for a week.

After that, he only left the house to purchase food and liquor. As the year came to a close, he developed a cough that would not go away, no matter what kind of syrup or lozenge he tried. After a few weeks of fighting a losing battle, he went to the doctor, and he was diagnosed with chronic bronchitis. The only way for the cough to go away was for Maxwell to move somewhere drier than his native Barnstable, perhaps Arizona, he had suggested.

And like that, Maxwell sold all but his most important belongings, and he bought a large manor sight-unseen in a new development in Arizona called Rajada View Estates. He left the sale of the Barnstable home to his lawyer, arranged to have his few possessions shipped southwest, and booked a train to the desert.

In January of 2015, Maxwell boarded an Amtrak with a small weekender bag, found a seat, and pulled out a volume of TS Eliot poetry. His next destination would be the desert, a place he had never in his life imagined living, the hot emptiness, the vast, lonely expanses… Rajada.
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Stuntman wrote:The party's over and we're just the people who are too drunk to drive home and everyone is fighting over who gets to sleep on the couch.
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Postby adamtrask » Thu Feb 18, 2016 8:21 pm

At the time of Return to Rajada, Maxwell Titcomb has lived in Rajada View Estates for one year, mostly drunk, mostly alone, but not without his proponents, especially the proprietor of the high end liquor store at the very edge of town and the two housewives he has convinced to join his modernist poetry reading group that meets once a week at his Rajada estate.
Stuntman wrote:The party's over and we're just the people who are too drunk to drive home and everyone is fighting over who gets to sleep on the couch.
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Postby can't » Thu Feb 18, 2016 8:23 pm

justin keiler watches internet porn on his apple watch and tries to jack off with his other hand
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Postby surly » Thu Feb 18, 2016 8:46 pm

Know your role, and shut your mouth.


(The roles have all been PMed.)
lordofdiapers wrote:damn it Greedo will forever fuck that word for me
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Postby VHB » Thu Feb 18, 2016 8:58 pm

.
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Postby sevenarts » Thu Feb 18, 2016 8:58 pm

Neil reflects for a moment on how happy he is to just be an ordinary guy, not drafted into whatever weird intrigues are forming around town.

So everyone, just contact me if you wanna buy a painting, and I'll be out of your hair in no time. And I guess if you're gonna buy I'll humor you and talk about whatever other wacky shit is going on in this shithole.
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Postby VHB » Thu Feb 18, 2016 9:02 pm

.
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Postby fuckles » Thu Feb 18, 2016 9:03 pm

im a bear
Cyril Sneer wrote:INSANE post. I could literally read it for hours.
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Postby sevenarts » Thu Feb 18, 2016 9:12 pm

VH Balanced wrote:Do you have any landscapes of the desert?

The final showdown in the desert from the sequel between Dunston and Eurotrash Supervillan Manhed von Lichtoffen (played by the late Alan Rickman in one of his final and finest roles) is probably the best scene in the history of cinema. So like, a desert landscape would be cool to have.


Man, I've got nothing BUT fucking desert landscapes. My uncle just sat out there in his cabin, day after day, doing what he loved in absolute peace and quiet. God it sounds like hell.
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Postby mudd » Thu Feb 18, 2016 9:37 pm

The first thing you see is the uniform from behind, the same grey you would expect from a white car in a new england winter. apart from the thin black belt it's basically a sack from the slightly oversized cap to the backs of the knees. The courier is backing carefully out of the door the the town paper shop, arms laden with a stack of carefully labeled envelopes teetering above eye level, and swaying dangerously with every step. A messenger bag of a similar grey and printed with a muted post horn hangs from the bicycle leaning against the elegant cage surrounding one of the stubby half-drowned trees that line mainstreet. Delicately, with a grace thoroughly unexpected from the gawky, teenage frame, the courier dances around the swinging door, pivots to face the bicycle, and aims the stacked letters directly into the bag. Peering around the tower to check before letting go, he is distracted by a motion in the street and looks up and notices the large black bear meandering by.

all the envelopes end up in the soggy dirt inside the tree cage, and the courier is back inside the paper shop and hiding behind the counter before they even hit the ground.

m
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Postby Alice » Thu Feb 18, 2016 9:38 pm

Alice has made her way down the hill and now we see her as she sits in the coffee shop just a few doors down from her boutique. She spends a lot of time there, especially early in the morning before the sun rises. She likes to take in the majesty of Rajada from the street it all started from as the sun rises. She finds a lot of her inspiration from Main Street, from the land, and from the native cultures that are now virtually nonexistent here in Rajada. She calls it appropriation.

Alice herself is mostly skin and bones. Her skin is a deep shade of tan. She has short, messy white hair. She's wearing a white and grey Hopi-styled poncho, cinched at the waste with a black belt. Large wooden-beaded jewelry hangs around her neck. She is a seriously hip looking grandma. Over the years she has kind of naturally fit into the role of fashion icon for the ladies of Rajada. We watch her as she idly sips her coffee. She has moved from writing little memories to doodling some patterns for a new line of fabrics she's planning on debuting this summer. The patterns are proving to be very Navajo-inspired, lots of geometric shapes and stripes!


This might be better suited if I pull out my graph paper, she mutters to herself.

After a few minutes of frenzied doodling, she has filled up several sheets of graph paper and the table is littered with papers, squares and colors everywhere. Graph paper is the best.
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Postby The Unblinking Eye » Thu Feb 18, 2016 9:59 pm

Flowermoon ambled along the dusty road towards the bright lights of Rajada View Estates. "It's not home," she thinks. "But at least it's not the desert. Maybe I can finally get something to eat." As she scales the gates that surround the suburb, a strange feeling comes over her, one reminiscent of deja vu. "This all seems so... familiar?" She wanders aimlessly through the streets past the McMansions and golf courses until a certain street sign catches her eye - Albert Hoffman Lane. "That's strange. Isn't that the name of our street back in Adajar?"

She starts sprinting towards the lot where she knew their run-down bungalow once rested. Whisperfox was not her favorite parent, but she was the only one Flowermoon knew how to find. As she raced back home, she failed to take notice of her surroundings. The trailer homes and yurts that once housed her neighbors had transformed into chain restaurants and big box stores. She had always had a good sense of direction, and soon it told her to stop - here is where home should be. But this wasn't home, not at all. She stares at the Eddie V's seafood restaurant that towered over her. "How could this be?" She was sure she was in the right place. She could feel it in her bones. "Maybe I'm just in need of food and can't think straight. After all this is Rajada View Estates, not Adajar. It's just a coincidence."

"Ugh, another dirty hippie" sneers the hostess. "Maybe you'd better wash up?" Flowermoon is too tired to feel insulted by this and limps towards the bathroom. She runs her hands under the cool stream of water and splashes some on her faces. She rubs her eyes and takes a long look at herself. Instead of the young girl of 12 she remembers herself as, she's now significantly older. "What in the world?" Her mouth gapes frozen in disbelief for some time, but she is suddenly jolted back to reality as a fluorescent sign flashes on outside the window. She can see it reflected in the mirror - SETATSE WEIV ADAJAR.
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Postby adamtrask » Thu Feb 18, 2016 10:22 pm

Maxwell Titcomb stood in his foyer-- if you could call it that in this monstrous contemporary home-- dressed in his usual fashion of a grey tweed jacket and brown pants. He had in his hand a glass of sherry, amontillado of course, and only of the La Garrocha brand, which he ordered by the case directly from Spain. He rarely drank anything else these days, although he kept a large and well-stocked bar in his study for his friends in the modernist poetry reading group. It was important to be a good host.

The large house was decorated in the nautical stylings of Cape Cod, and the ocean and sailing motifs contrasted starkly with the desert that crept further into his yard every day. The air conditioning cooled the house to 68° at all times, though it struggled to maintain this low temperature every time the door opened, and so Maxwell very seldom left the house. In fact, he seldom left his study, where he kept most of his books, his collection of opera LP's, and his record player. Out of habit, he closed the door when he spent time there, though no one else lived in the house with him.

He finished the last swig of sherry and stared out the small window of the front door. The sky was blue and cloudless, and the heat rose from the cement of the street like steam. It was very peaceful here, he thought, and I have such respectful neighbors. He let out a short laugh. They don't even complain about my late night opera habit, he grinned to himself. He knew it was due to this newly built house, which he found to be horribly ugly and quite frankly quite gauche, but every day he realized that it was exactly what a man like himself needed. He walked in his socked feet back to the study to pour himself another sherry.


Blasted hippies best not try to ruin what I've got here.
Stuntman wrote:The party's over and we're just the people who are too drunk to drive home and everyone is fighting over who gets to sleep on the couch.
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Postby bongo » Thu Feb 18, 2016 11:16 pm

i am.. i am geof.. geoffrey firmin. i am here. hello? you call me The Consul. i am in an outpost that i dont quite understand, its a cabin with a broken toilet and a hammock. the floor is just broken mezcal bottles. i keep cutting my foot. i am here to die. i will fight for this city while i can. fucking bastards. i will walk into town tonight and get into a fight. i will have someone break my jaw if just.. to feel something. fucking hell. i am ALIVE

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Postby Catullus » Fri Feb 19, 2016 12:03 am

Shanti sighed as she put her samples back in her case and packed up at last to go home. It was quite a different life these days, selling pharmaceuticals instead of tea and bullshit readings. Her parents weren't nearly as happy about her change in career as she would have hoped (they still thought she should be a doctor or at the very least a pharmacist), but they vastly preferred her new lifestyle. They could at least speak of her without embarrassment. Life in Rajada was so much different.

"Oh hey, how's it going? Make sure to put me down for seeing Dr. Wisemann on Tuesday," Shanti said, turning her smile on bright for the secretary at the OBGYN. She left her card with the appointed time, and slipped the secretary a sample of the birth control she knew she used, winking. Always helped to keep the secretaries loose in her line of work. She exited the office, wheeling her sample cart behind her and hurried to her car. If she hurried she could make it to Appleby's before Happy Hour ended, and she had an appletini with her name on it.
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Postby kit fox » Fri Feb 19, 2016 2:29 am



drifting, drifting

a drippy sun hangs low over an endless highway. The Little Eliminator's balding tires hum on the hot asphalt. a gila woodpecker flutters from cactus to cactus before lighting on a sign that reads RAJADA 37 MILES.

BLAM

the front end of The Little Eliminator drops. metal clangs on rock, tires rip and squeal. saguaros and joshua trees blur together before Terry Rafferty's eyes as the Ranchero bites asphalt and spins out in to the desert sand, coming to an abrupt stop 40 feet off the shoulder atop a sage covered berm.

Terry sprang from the tub with a loud gasp, flooding the floor with lukewarm lavender scented water. The dreams were going further and further back. He hadn't thought about the day he came to Rajada in some time.

"Ooowww"

He moved carefully to the sink and fumbled around on the vanity for his glasses. After a splash of cold water to the face, and with the aid of his glasses, he surveyed the scene. It had become familiar at this point. With each year he became more and more similar to his father. He hadn't left that life behind so he could repeat it in a new zip code, and yet.

Gerry was friendly enough but he was a distant alcoholic. A recluse despite his fame. He tried to disappear but couldn't. Terry succeeded. He wasn't there to see his father at the end, he couldn't be. He had finally found a place where he could just blend in. By complete accident, he found Rajada. He let his mind wander back again.


after gathering his senses, Terry stumbles from The Little Eliminator. he curses the little man that traded the '60 Ranchero to him. he curses himself for being brash, thinking he'd make it clear across the desert without incident.

in the distance, a black van shimmers in the heat rising off the asphalt. Terry waves his scarf over his head. the van nears and pulls over to a stop. the sliding door rolls open and a young man calls out from the driver's seat.

"Need a hand?"

fuckit, Terry mumbles to himself. "a lift to Rajada'll do, I s'pose"


That was ten years ago. It was a big deal for him at the time, accepting help from a stranger. He had thought he'd stay a night or two, get The Little Eliminator towed to a shop and light out 2 or 3 days later at the most.


You used to think that it was so easy
You used to say that it was so easy
But you're tryin', you're tryin' now

Another year and then you'd be happy
Just one more year and then you'd be happy
But you're cryin', you're cryin' now


Time to get extremely high.
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Postby fox » Fri Feb 19, 2016 5:17 am

A slight screaming comes across the expressway. Stateless, nebbish Charlie Xof Murphy, newly-minted professor of Deep Aura Studies, barrels unthinkingly along in his Datsun, passing a toddler on a tricycle circling in a front yard.

There's an optimistic shine in his eye as he taps his hand arhythmically to the Gin Blossoms as they come through on the contemporary soft rock station. This will be the year, the one that he drives his car across the country, to new horizons and into the warm huddle of Luna State University. Behind him is the old world, before him, only opportunity.

He is dressed in a teal polo and a hat with an elastic band that came with his LSU introductory packet.

In the hatchback are carefully secured suitcases full of light clothing; boxes of blankets and shoes and sheets; pillows; a rolled up rug; a bicycle; and boxes and boxes of books, of Sontag, of Butler, of all of the classics of his field; VHS tapes of old fishing shows; rolling papers.

He can't wait for this new chapter of his journey to begin.
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Postby bongo » Fri Feb 19, 2016 9:08 am

grraahhhhff urggjk
yeaaaaaaaaaaaa american nostalgia love it suburban living civilized families this could be my life
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Postby bongo » Fri Feb 19, 2016 9:09 am

somebody powerwash my head
yeaaaaaaaaaaaa american nostalgia love it suburban living civilized families this could be my life
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Postby bongo » Fri Feb 19, 2016 9:59 am

i need to buy a rake
yeaaaaaaaaaaaa american nostalgia love it suburban living civilized families this could be my life
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Postby iambic » Fri Feb 19, 2016 10:43 am



first thing Ruggles H. Wastewater does after getting into the burg is ditch the rental Jetta, trading in new-car formaldehyde and pine freshener for the baked Rajadan air, the peculiar nuances of which do nothing for his mood. Oakleys in place, he clocks his FitBit and hits what the locals have so, so charitably designated "Main Street." the lawyer, Metzger, said to meet him at the Irish bar. said it would be blatantly, obviously the Irish bar. Ruggles considers pulling up directions on his iPhone 6s Plus, but is LTE even a thing out in the desert? plus, anyway, the inbound drive gave away how Rajada features more Starbucks than streets. he's a smart boy; he can figure it out.

two weeks blown on this misadventure, Ruggles huffs to himself—and in the middle of the fucking Exxon pitch, of fucking course. even from beyond the grave, his estranged blood-daddy is shitting everything up, which is totally usual. Ruggles had ordered Metzger to fax him the papers, said he'd sign whatever, be done with it. but the suit had insisted he fly west, see the sights. had said things were "in-tri-cate," all stress on the second syllable, rhyming nearly with "insipid."

turns out the estate of the late, hated Huck Mulligan would not be easily disbursed.
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Postby kit fox » Fri Feb 19, 2016 10:45 am

Terry settles in on the bar stool.The neighborhood bar and grill. Applebee's. A bright blue Bahama Mama in his hand, Hypnotiq subbed for grenadine. Terry has a thing for blue drinks and the Applebee's staff is accomodating.

"The advances in blue drink technology these last few years is quite remarkable" Terry shouts to the empty restaurant.

*crickets chirp*

The applebees is really only mostly empty. A teenager in the corner rolls silverware in preparation for the day. The chefs are prepping their microwave mise en place, cutting open bags of pre cut vegetables, portioning frozen apps and stocking the low boys for quick fry service. The lunch hostess spiffs up the entry rugs with a carpet sweeper. The store manager sits in her back office with the door closed, sneaking in a morning joint under the guise of putting in next week's orders.

In a few hours they'll be slammed. Apps, Margs, Handcrafted Burgers, 2 for $20s, you name it. For now it was quiet.
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Postby Alice » Fri Feb 19, 2016 12:56 pm

I'd like to let each and every one of you know that I have reached out to contact every person who hasn't been around since role PMs went out. I'm doing it with the hope of finding out the identity of The Cork Master before Day 3 has started. If you have a moment, please respond to my inquiry so I can cross you off the list, or just make an innocuous public post here in the thread. Thank you for your time!
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Postby lordofdiapers » Fri Feb 19, 2016 1:10 pm

Hey, I'm Kip, you all talk a lot. If you need help finding bad dudes let me know.
Stuntman wrote:Does anyone remember Late Night Cheeseburger? That was my jam. Tasted like BO.
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Postby grammatron » Fri Feb 19, 2016 1:22 pm

Howdy Neighbors. Name's Brangle Drummond. I'm the fella that, uh, acquired that big patch'a land out on the outskirts of town. If you'll pardon me, I don't know a whole heckuva lot about Rajada, but what I do know I like. I know it has a history of unfettered capitalism, and I like that. I know it has a strong sense of community, the kinda place where we take care of one another. I like that too. I also know it's a land of unmatched beauty, which is just perfect for me, my dog Jemp, and my goats. And before anyone starts any rumors, no, I do not fornicate with the goats. We live a peaceful life together, free from carnality. I've come out here to get away from the hustle and bustle of city livin', where I can relax, herd my goats, hang out with my dog Jemp, and finally get around to reading this copy of Atlas Shrugged I've had on my shelf for a while. Sure, the town has built up a little over the years, and yes, it would be nice if there was a little more grass for the goats, but fuck it, a goat will eat a cactus like it's nothing. They're insatiable, goats. all things considered, I'm happy to call Rajada my new home (barring some government intrusion that forces me to abandon the land I've worked so hard to, uh, possess).

If you see me out and about, say hi, and if you need anything, anything at all, just holler.
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Postby wendy » Fri Feb 19, 2016 1:47 pm

uses colored pencils with a controlled and moderate temperament
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Postby wendy » Fri Feb 19, 2016 3:42 pm

WHAT
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Postby granger » Fri Feb 19, 2016 4:57 pm

why's this thread so quiet? is everyone evil?
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Postby iambic » Fri Feb 19, 2016 5:15 pm

universe
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