Small Talk: 90 Words Per Minute

[Christina]

A Redditor has posted some 90 Day Fan Fiction The link takes you to his account where you can read them, but I'm adding them under the spoiler tabs because of their length. They were posted to NoSleep, which are your campfire horror stories. It's been a few days since I read them, they may be NSFW due to language.

Room 114: 90 Day Fiancé Has A New Spin-Off - Starring Darcey and Tom 

Spoiler

I just wanted to be famous. Just like anyone else... Especially when I could get paid good money for playing “myself.”

After marrying Darcey, I’d done my part for reality T.V. I’d sacrificed my dignity for a chance to be on the telly. 90 Day Fiancé: Before The 90 Days made me a household name to both desperate housewives and dutiful husbands everywhere. My Instagram was constantly flooded from thirsty women. My “fame” helped me get invited to so many parties and events. My life now a B-list celebrity’s wet dream. Just like I’d always wanted.

Coming from England, I had no idea how far the fame game went in the States. I mean I had no acting experience. But of course, that didn’t matter on a show like 90 Day Fiancé.

I liked to think I was tall, dark, and handsome but instead, I was more tall, pasty, and handsome. I did well with the ladies, sure. But I also had fashion sense and wit to spare. Combine those with the blue eyes and I had Darcey hooked from the start… not that it took much effort on my part.

While neither of us catfished, upon meeting Darcey, I realized we both liked our filters… I was a little chubbier at the first meeting. Darcey in similarly rough shape… But she was still pretty. Darcey had a mad radiance about her, and sometimes, that craziness could be attractive. Then again, we were both drunks so I guess that helped.

Finances were never an issue either. And neither was work. What can I say, both of us came from well-to-do families. English high class meets All-American sass. And those TLC checks certainly helped. Darcey and I were a match made in trash T.V. Heaven.

Along with this beautiful if maddening heiress, I now had a chance to snag the spotlight I always wanted. A real shot at stardom. To my relief, I wouldn’t need much help to secure attention either... not with dear old Darcy leading the way.

I must say the Silva twins had this shit figured out. Both Darcey and Stacey played up the cameras like two pretty court jesters.

They claimed to have acting “experience,” but I took that nonsense with a grain of salt. What these twins did have though was an insatiable drive for fame… The same drive pulsating through my veins. The sisters also shared a competitive spirit when it came to chasing guys and flaunting their outrageous behavior for all the world to see. Perfect for these TLC freakshows. And the Silvas were naturals at it… well about as natural as one can get behind the layers of make-up and surgeries. Or whatever other formulas they could find in their ever-increasing need to look younger.

Recently, Stacey got married. And over time, I began to suspect I’d chosen the wrong Silva dollar…

You see, when I met Darcey I was ready for a committed relationship. But little did I know that I was about to be committed to an asylum rather than a stable girlfriend. I guess I should’ve been careful what I wished for…

Being followed by cameras and crew was one thing. Living with Darcey Silva was another. Beyond the platinum blonde hair and demented but somehow charming smile, Darcey’s pendulum of emotions swung everywhere. There were moments where she begged me to propose. Moments she’d latch on to my bottom or crotch in public. Moments where she’d make her hugs into a hangman’s noose I’d never escape.

Then there were the other times... The times she’d grow jealous over a woman eyeballing me. The tantrums Darcey would throw when I just wanted to stay home. And don’t even get me started on her incessant crying… Darcey’s waterfall had long been perfected and patented for the cameras. She could even cry on cue. Not to mention Darcey loved displaying that obsessed gaze of hers… That look TLC so often exploited. To this day, Darcey’s desperation still a huge selling point for 90 Day’s success.

Through the good and bad, I could always count on my darling to be drunk by noon. To somehow fit herself into those skin-tight clothes. And to top it all off, Darcey was still hung up on her ex Jesse.

Jesse was a younger man in his twenties. A blonde Dutch fellow who was nice enough from all the “chance” encounters TLC arranged between us and him. He certainly checked off all of Darcey’s superficial boxes: muscles, abs, ass, stylish… foreign. Only this cub ran away from his cougar once Darcey had him shipped over to the States.

I knew Darcey still hadn’t moved on. And neither had the show’s producers judging by how much they’d force Jesse into our lives and your living rooms. Apparently, the thirstier viewers couldn’t get enough of his bodacious body or smug arrogance.

That being said, I didn’t have a problem with the guy… The problem was Darcey still did. In our brief meetings, Jesse would tell me as much. Particularly how a drunk Darcey would leave him vampire voicemails well after midnight. Apparently, she saw Jesse as another escape to a sweet, promising youth that’d left her long ago.

Honestly, I cringed too much to be jealous. Hell, at this point, Jesse could have her back for all I cared. Certainly would’ve made my life easy now that I’d already secured my fifteen minutes of fame, ahem, love.

But much to both my horror and excitement, Darcey and I were still a hit. So much so I had to end up marrying the wannabe actress. I can’t say I was too happy… but there was more money and fame to be made. Then of course, the inevitable happened: TLC wanted a spin-off. And now that we were married, my darling wife agreed to it without even asking me. Darcey’s desperation had prevailed again… Just my fucking luck…

With filming starting soon, Darcey and I retreated to Atlanta, Georgia. A brief break before the chaos began. But I had other plans... a little surprise for Darcey.

On Friday night, we checked into the Hotel Non Dormiunt. Somehow, Darcey found this brick behemoth. There were no reviews on-line, no history of the hotel existing whatsoever. But I let Darcey pick. Even when she was beyond drunk. And even when we drove past the city limits to find this place, I didn’t complain. Especially since it’d be the last hotel Darcey Silva would ever choose.

The Non Dormiunt was expensive but at least the interior was prettier than the towering mausoleum it resembled outside. The lobby was spacious, clean. Full of glowing lamps giving off a reddish tint everywhere. Surrounded by painted portraits of people I’d never heard of. Down to the phonographs and telephone booths, the hotel looked to have been forgotten over time... Gone with the wind.

And to no one’s surprise, there was plenty of room.

“Anywhere except the seventeenth floor,” the middle-aged receptionist told us. She was a black lady dressed in a skimpy purple uniform. The type of uniform best used for selling cigars rather than premium hotel rooms.

Adjusting my thin glasses, I glanced over at Darcy. The tight black dress fit her well tonight. For once. Then again, maybe my own drunk buzz was distracting me. “Seventeenth floor?” I said in confusion.

“Yes,” the receptionist said. She leaned in closer. “It’s out of order.” Taking control, Darcy grabbed my arm. “Well, we’ll take something on the first floor.”

The bellboy was quiet on the way to room 114. The purple suit covered his body, the purple cap his hair and age. His short body screamed high school but the craggy face screamed mid-sixties.

Darcey kept trying to make small talk to no avail. Both with me and the bellhop.

Finally, we reached the room. To our relief, there was a minibar. One that would need to be restocked before Darcey and I checked out.

I put our bags by the queen-size bed. Took a quick shot of Scotch. And then another one. Then scanned our home for the night...

The room fit the Non Dormiunt’s aesthetic to a tee: classy, elegant. The warm air cozy… But the whole scene felt a bit off with the times.

Sure, we had the bare minimum in electronics. Dim lamps, an unreliable air conditioning unit. The tombstone radio. Even a bulky T.V. that likely promised us HBO and pay-per-view.

The bland white walls contrasted our colorful rugs. We had a stone fireplace... And those red Victorian curtains surrounding the bed were a good touch.

As if on cue, Darcey pulled the curtains apart. Over and over. “This’ll be good for later, Tom!” cried her obnoxious rasp.

I did my best not to grimace. Instead, I just stepped away. As much as I wanted to walk out the room, I turned the lock, entombing myself with Darcey’s manic madness. “Of course,” I replied.

The repetitive swoosh of those curtains felt like knives jabbing me deeper and deeper. I ran my hands along my arm. Over the blue suit jacket.

I stole a glance at our wide windows. At the darkness hovering outside.

“Ooh, I can’t wait!” I heard Darcey exclaim.

My restless eyes faced the fireplace. The mantle above it had several miniature statues. Wide sculptures portraying a lynx and goat. All of them realistic enough. Maybe too realistic... Their snarling faces unsettled me. But amidst my rising nerves, I felt relief to see there was room for one more item up there.

“We’ll have some privacy!” Darcey said.

Compelled, I walked up to the fireplace. There was a spot in the middle of the mantle. Just perfect…

“I just wanna look pretty enough,” Darcey rambled on. “I don’t want to look bad for you, Tom.”

Forcing a smile, I stopped at the mantle. “Nonsense, dear.” With slick speed, I reached into my jacket pocket. The small candlestick felt heavy in my hand. The handle so firm. “You look fantastic.”

I could hear Darcey stagger toward me. Her heavy, carnal footsteps. “But Tom!” said that cry I’d recognize anywhere. The cry of a dying, sex-starved coyote.

And then I knew I had to act quick. In a split second, I placed the golden stick right there on the mantle. Right in that perfect spot.

“I wanna be sexy for you!” Darcey continued.

I turned to see the drama queen get closer. The man-made Barbie doll shook her ass in a most hideous fashion. Her drunken smile bigger than those overemotional eyes. “Is this hot, babe?” she asked. A rhetorical question she didn’t want the answer to.

Fueled by ferocity, Darcey’s eager hands gripped my shoulders. Her colorful claws fastened deep into my flesh. Now I was face-to-face with her pretty mask.

“I wanna have fun tonight,” she cooed. “Just me and you, Tom.” Like a hungry animal, Darcey leaned in close. Ready for that wet kiss…

Until I held her back. I stumbled on my words. “I thought you were gonna call the manager?”

Darcey flashed that wicked smile. “Nobody answered.”

I stole a look at the windows. Took note of their locks… All I needed to know for my perfect plan. “Figures,” I muttered. “Goddamn Southerners.”

“I did order room service,” Darcey said.

I faced her. “Room service?”

“Well, yeah.” She let out a drunk chuckle. “I got hungry.”

Nodding, I looked back at the candlestick. My future murder weapon. My key to freedom. “Again...”

“I’ll pay for it!” Darcey said. She ran a hand along my chest. “You know that.” Her other hand grabbed a hold of my ass. “I hope you don’t mind,” she said in a soft voice... An attempt at a seduction no one asked for.

Battling my disgust, I leaned back against the mantle. “Right…” I looked into her beaming eyes. “You did tell them room 114?”

Darcey giggled. “Duh! That was like thirty minutes ago!”

I looked on at her. Dreading her demands… Especially the ones in the sack. “They take their time, I see,” I quipped.

“Mmm-hmm.” Unable to control herself, Darcey leaned in for another kiss. The sudden movement possessed by passion.

Trying to delay the inevitable torture, I stole a glance at the red door. “I mean how long does it take for room service to get to the first floor...”

Just inches away from my lips, Darcey grabbed my chin, making me face her. Deliberating on her own “kill.” “You okay, Tom?” she teased. “Here, let mama cheer you up.”

I played along. Left with no other choice, I felt on Darcey’s juicy buttocks then moved along to those breasts. Her boobs were hard to miss, after all. All the while, my other hand strayed toward that candlestick. My escape.

I held the brass handle in a tight grip… Forced myself to keep fondling Darcey’s warm boobs. Even if the touch sickened me. Much like her moans…

“Keep going, Tom!” Darcey yelled. Shutting her eyes, she snatched my wrist. Guiding me to those breasts. “Oh, yes!”

Caught between disturbed and intrigued, I watched Darcey sway before me. Her eyes closed, her tongue hanging out. Darcey a blonde dog in heat. Permanently for that matter...

Staying silent, my grip tightened on the stick. Ready to transform this night from agonizing to euphoric…

Then I felt a cold touch near Darcey’s boob. A sharp edge. Padding that was all too dangerous.

Startled, both Darcey and I confronted one another. Nervous expressions conquered us. Darcey’s eyes in heightened shock.

“Oh!” I yelled. Drawing my hand back, I fell against the mantle. I struggled to stay smooth… especially with the candlestick still in my grasp.

“I’m sorry!” Darcey said. With trembling hands, she patted down her huge boobs. Her focus stuck on her chest. “I’m sorry, Jesse.”

I cracked up. Now I held on to the stick even tighter. Felt even more sadistic excitement rush through me. “Oh, Jesse?”

Shivering from stage fright, Darcey faced me. “Oh, Tom. I didn’t mean it like that-”

“Where did Jesse come from?” I interrupted with a smug smile. Man, I was going to enjoy killing Darcey… especially when she was this embarrassed.

Darcey took a step back. Awkward beneath my drunk, unwavering stare. “I didn’t mean to,” she said in a shaky, defensive tone. “I didn’t mean to, Tom!” Pleading, she grabbed my arm. Teardrops already forming on her campy canvas. “I promise!” Pushier than ever, Darcey lunged in closer. Literally cornering me. Now I felt those mammoth breasts. The suppressed beer gut… and the hard metal lodged somewhere in Darcey’s mysterious boobs.

I wasn’t scared or unnerved. Such strange shit was typical for the Silva sisters. Particularly in their endless quests for perfect bodies by any means necessary. Self-loathing was one Hell of a drug…

“Tom, tell me something,” Darcey bellowed from the bottom of her insecure soul.

Those claws caressed my shoulders in a death grip. Finally, I was forced to let go of the candlestick. Struggling to hide my agitation, I kept my gaze neutral. The death dream delayed for this agonizing “magic moment”...

“Am I still pretty?” Darcey continued. Thick tears ran down her face. Her make-up overflooded into puddles of foundation.

Trapped in her clutches, I nodded. Prayed my glasses weren’t giving away the bored indifference in my eyes. “Darcey, you’re beautiful,” I told her, playing up the elegant British accent for all it was worth. “You really are.”

“Jesse always said I needed to lose weight!” Darcey continued on, ignoring my weak attempts at reassurance. “He said I wasn’t pretty enough!”

Code red. I knew now I had to start acting earlier than anticipated… Time to play lovey-dovey husband once more. I leaned in toward Darcey. Too close for comfort but I had no choice if I wanted to talk her off this anxiety ledge. I even forced myself to grab a hold of her wax hand. Darcey’s kaleidoscopic jewelry nearly blinding me. “You are pretty, darling, I promise.”

Salivating her downward spiral, Darcey turned away. The avalanche of tears still rolling on down. Now she trembled in my grip. Not from nerves but from excitement. The high she got anytime I held her hand and pointed this spotlight on her constant outbursts.

“That’s why I go to the doctors,” Darcey said. Still avoiding eye contact, she motioned toward her face and body. “That’s why I get all this, Tom! I wanna be young!”

“But you’re already pretty-” I started.

Snapping into violence, Darcey pushed me back. Her strength sudden but never surprising. Especially when she got like this. I fell back. Felt the wooden mantle smash into my back. Heard the loud collapse of those statues… and candlestick.

Darcey’s bulging glare ate me alive. “I wanna be prettier!” she yelled.

Uneasy, I stared on. Struggling to talk to my gargoyle wife. “Darcey, I think you’re beautiful, darling.” I reached toward her face. “Jesse isn’t here, he doesn’t matter.”

Darcey snatched my hand. “Then fuck me then!”

Horror conquered me. I kept from cringing… or at least I hoped I did. “Darcey-” I started.

Before I could finish, Darcey grabbed me and sent my shaky hands straight into her cleavage. A suicide mission for my soul.

Our dignity died right there on the spot. Darcey forced my touch through those melons. On their firm, tough texture. All the while, my fingers kept brushing against that bizarre metal…

I stood still, helpless. A husband held hostage.

Her histrionics growing crazier, Darcey tilted her head back. Closed her eyes. The tears replaced by slobber. Her trembling became convulsing… As if Darcey was experiencing an orgasm out of this world....

“Fuck me, Tom!” she screamed, her voice at a hysterical high pitch. “Prove to me I’m pretty!” While guiding my journey through silicone Valley, Darcey gave my ass a tight squeeze. “Come on! Show me, Tom!”

Facing my darkest fears, I moved in toward those bloated lips. Talked myself into getting any sort of arousal. “I will, darling,” I said.

“Come on, Jesse!” Darcey shouted.

I stopped and glared at her. Ready to call her a complete bitch...

Until a hard knock interrupted our “love.” Startled, Darcey and I faced the door. Darcey’s thirst paused for the moment… giving me a much-needed intermission.

Another knock erupted. “Room service!” cried the beaming voice.

Eager to leave, I maneuvered away from Darcey. God knows I needed the space. “I’ll get it!”

Darcey reached toward my arm. “Are you sure?”

I moved quicker. Just escaping her grasp. “Yeah!” At the door, I stole a glance back at the mantle. The candlestick was still lying there. Still awaiting my bloody touch and even bloodier crime.

Of course, Darcey’s mad smile stayed on me. Moving beyond her control, Darcey’s hands strayed back toward those boobs. All while she watched me… Yet another embarrassing attempt at seduction. No thanks, Darcey.

Shaking my head in dismay, I opened the door. Sure enough there was a female bellhop. One with the same height and frame as Darcey. Probably just as annoying... The purple cap hid her hair, highlighting the lady’s make-up smorgasbord of a tan face. A familiar face...

Smiling, she held up a long tray. The silver cloche ready to be pulled. “Room 114?” she asked in a squeaky-clean tone.

I shivered and stumbled back. The hallway’s cold air even affecting this Englishman. “Uh, yeah, that’s us.”

Without hesitation, the woman jumped inside, slamming the door behind her. She fixated those eager eyes on me.

Her crazed Darcey look sent chills down my spine. My trembling arm waved at her. “What the Hell are you doing! Get out!”

In a vicious taunt, the bellhop looked me up and down. Like a starved creature studying its prey. “I’m here for you, Tom...”

She yanked the cloche off and dropped it to the ground. The clang shattered our tension. But didn’t stop the dread. Or my ever-growing fear...

There on the silver platter was a pristine hatchet. The blade so shiny. The wooden handle so firm. An all natural weapon… Next to it, I saw a small camcorder.

“What the fuck!” I cried.

Cackling, the bellhop scooped up the hatchet and camera. Threw the tray down by the cloche. The woman’s grin grew wider. “You don’t recognize me, Tom?” said a voice reverting back to its natural rasp.

I stumbled back by the mantle. Closer to my candlestick. My defense.

The lady tore off the cap and shook her head in supermodel fashion. With a delusional supermodel’s flourish.

Long flowing blonde hair exploded all around her. The extensions were obvious. Much like the full rack jammed beneath her uniform...

Through the orange tan, the bellhop’s identity was illuminated: Stacey Silva. She had that pointed nose, one of the few differences between her and her twin. Both of them basically bloated Barbies. The psychotic smiles shared between them.

“Stacey…” my uneasy voice muttered.

“You got me!” she beamed. Holding the camera steady, Stacey pointed it right at me. “You ready for the show, Tom?”

Playing a confident executioner, she then raised that sharp blade. Stacey was thirsty, alright. Thirsty for blood. “I’m afraid you’re only in one episode.”

She took a menacing step toward me.

Fueled by adrenaline, I turned toward the mantle. My sights set on the stick. I lunged for it.

A knife shot into my stomach. One quick plunge. The blade went in deep… held in place by a kaleidoscopic grip.

Crying out, I looked down at Darcey’s army of rings. The gaudy bracelet… And the heavy kitchen knife she’d kept hidden in those heavier breasts.

Following the blade’s reflection, I looked up at Darcey’s demented eyes. The crazy smile.

“Sorry, babe,” Darcey quipped.

Both my hands latched on to Darcey’s wrist. Warm blood flowed through our fingertips. But Darcey refused to let go… I couldn’t speak. Couldn’t move.

“It’s for the show, Tom,” Darcey continued. She gave me a kiss on the lips. A farewell kiss so long and sloppy…

Darcey pulled back. Her grin still locked in on me. She caressed my hands, her emotions too extreme to be insincere. Darcey never that good of an actress. “Now you’ll be famous like you always wanted.”

Darcey thrust the knife in further. I cringed… for once, not from sex and Darcey. But from pain.

More blood sprayed across the rugs. More red to match the Non Dormiunt’s eerie decor.

Satisfied, Darcey stepped beside Stacey.

Breathing heavy, I stumbled down to one knee. Now my smiling wife stood up over me. My body was too weak, the knife too deep for me to pull it out.

“I got it, sis,” I heard Stacey tease.

Straining, I turned to come face-to-face with the other Silva. Now it was her turn…

The hatchet gave me a savage whack across the temple. Fresh crimson coated my glasses. And the war paint became the Silvas’ latest make-up.

I hit the ground. Darcey’s kitchen knife sunk in deeper. My voice now joined my dignity in death.

Helpless, I looked on at the twins’ grins. Felt my head turn into a sprinkler… The blood kept bursting out in intermittent sprays. A huge chunk of flayed forehead dwindled over my eyes...

But I still saw it. Buried deep in the fireplace was a red light. A large studio camcorder tucked away in the very back… Right next to a couple of boom mics. Standard stuff for TLC’s productions… When we were filming, that is.

“Can you help me carry him?” I heard Stacey ask Darcey.

My breaths slowed to an agonizing gasp. I looked toward the fallen tray. A white card lied just a few feet away from me. On it, there was a familiar number trapped in a familiar dark box: 90. And there was the familiar logo: 90 Day Fiancé The words added beneath it chilled me to the bone: New Series: Death After 90 Days Season 1, Episode 1

“Yeah, he’s gained weight, hasn’t he?” Darcey replied.

The candlestick caught my eye. The weapon well out of reach… And now I saw a pair of small camcorders resting beside it on the mantle. Each of them hidden by those ferocious statues. The lynx and goat now ominous observers for my funeral.

“The producers will help get rid of the body though, I thought?” Darcey continued.

Through the mutilated migraine, I faced the Silvas. My head fell back on the floor, my eyes growing weaker.

“That’s the plan, right?” Darcey said to Stacey.

Stacey stole a look over at me. “Oh, yeah! You’re right!” With a mad chuckle, she pointed the hatchet at me. “He had no idea, did he?”

Darcey’s smirk confronted me. She never looked prettier. Then again, those blood stains certainly hid the blemishes better than her endless foundation. “He just knew we had our own show. That’s it.”

The literal headache further tormented me. Blood built up under my body… My hands stuck to the red glue. The crimson warming me from Death’s cold grip.

Like a demented director, Stacey aimed the camera at me. Filming every second of my impending death. The cute carnage. “You think this’ll work?” she asked Darcey.

As I laid dying, I watched the sisters. This deathbed so uncomfortable. But within, I felt some relief. At least Jesse wasn’t involved. He wasn’t the one killing me… Darcey apparently knew my murder would be more tragic. A bigger draw for her fans. And so had TLC.

Darcey gave Stacey a light hit on the arm. “Yes!” she said, adamant. “Jesse said wearing human blood relieves your stress! It’ll free your anxiety!”

I fucking cringed.

Intrigued, Stacey faced her. “So we just gotta wipe Tom’s blood all over our body?”

“Yes!” Darcey replied. “Jesse told me! He knows all this weird shit! It’ll make us look younger, I promise!”

All around me, the cameras kept rolling. Kept filming my bloodbath. My depression. Finally, Tom Brooks closed his eyes. Well before Death could. Goddamn, Jesse...

The Last Full Service Gas Station In Parrott, Georgia

Spoiler

I had nowhere to go. I wasn’t in any particular rush at all on this grueling Georgia highway. I had no job. No family. No boyfriend. Nothing but my own aimless thoughts and broken dreams… nothing but my lonely cynicism for company.

Sure, I got by okay. Once in awhile, I sold a creepy painting or two. But as a struggling artist, my income wasn’t steady. And now here I was at thirty: single, homeless. Still chasing a mirage. A Millennial drifter without a cause.

But this Monday afternoon, I stayed calm and collected. Behind my blue Aviators, I stared on at the bruising sunlight. Late February and I didn’t even need the heater on. Not even a hoodie. The white Arctic Monkeys tee and tight jeans were enough to combat this lukewarm Georgia winter. One that’d been growing weaker since Valentine’s Day.

Like a captain cruising this smooth Southern sea, I drove on down this four-lane blacktop. Not a soul was in sight. No cops. No houses. Yet another lonely road trip for Lee.

I’d just come back from completing a sale out in Columbus. Now with some spare cash for once, I was making my way back to my hometown: back to Cairo (pronounced Kay-Row), Georgia. I had some possible business down there… Brad Haskell was wanting me to do some gory book design. He’s one of those indie horror writers. I think he tried teaching but failed at that… Haskell apparently the reclusive type, from what I understand. Then again, so was I.

Normally, I took the interstate to Cairo… but what was the rush? Hell, Haskell wasn’t expecting me till tomorrow. My family was long dead. What good would a haunted homecoming do?

If I’d been on this route before, I damn sure couldn’t remember. Not a good sign... But as long as this old Honda’s radio was working, I couldn’t complain. Even with no USB port and a CD player that’d been broken since 2016.

Besides, all the surrounding farmland and forests offered pretty scenery. Not to mention shelter for when I drank a few beers earlier. I passed a few highway towns about an hour ago but hadn’t seen shit since...

At first, the radio offered me solace from the boredom. But as the dull drive continued, the tunes faded away. All of them gone for good once Pharrell and Daft Punk’s “Get Lucky” hit sudden static. Each channel was the same... There were no familiar rock songs to comfort me. Hell, I couldn’t even find a country station or a mad preacher attacking the airwaves. Everything was scratchy. The sound of snow off a defunct T.V.

I stole a glance down at my iPhone 5. Of course, there was no service. What a shock.

Groaning, I confronted the highway. Felt my anxiety and awkward adrenaline rise.

The scan button didn’t help. Every station was a lost signal in this Georgia galaxy. The turbulence made me cringe. The high-pitched pattern scrambled my mind.

Up ahead, a speed limit sign caught my eye. 45 M.P.H. The drop-off so sudden.

I glanced toward the speedometer… And then my heart sank.

There was less than one gallon left. How the fuck did I not notice this... I’d just filled up in Columbus. No way this shot-out Honda huffed gasoline that quick.

Panicking, I looked out the windshield. No city signs offered me hope. I didn’t even see a house much less a gas station.

“Shit….” I muttered. Bracing myself for this endless montage of trees and crops, I gripped tighter to the wheel. Mashed the pedal down further. The speed little support for my ever-growing unease.

The parade of white noise still assaulted my ears and accelerated my fears. This transmission from Hell taunted me… only instead of being lost in space, I was trapped in south Georgia.

For the first time this winter, I felt sweat drip down my dark beard. My restless eyes stayed glued to the highway. To this mysterious terrain.

And then I saw it: a shabby building up ahead on the left. Its Woodall’s sign so prominent. The promise of gas pumps waving me in.

“Yes!” I shouted. With a victorious flourish, I turned off the radio. Relished this first real silence. A smile on my face...

Until I got closer. Then I saw the marquee underneath the Woodall’s sign: 4.12 read its unleaded gas price.

Holes and cobwebs covered the sign. Faded posters ran along the store’s busted windows. The parking lot long empty since 2008. This was a Great Recession graveyard. Those useless pumps nothing more than neglected tombstones.

“Fuck!” I yelled. Behind my Aviators, I checked the fuel gauge. The arrow drifted closer to E. I knew I needed salvation in the middle of nowhere. And fast.

Returning my gaze to the open road, I stayed on the lookout for another mirage. My body shivered beyond control. The dread dominant.

This rear projection of trees ran on and on… The intermittent flash of a barren field the only other sight I saw. Nevermind, cars. Nevermind an actual human being.

I stole a look out toward the woods. But even they looked empty.

“Goddammit, come on…” I faced the highway once more. My Honda feeling every pothole this old road had to offer. Despair latched in to me. In my gut, I felt the gauge’s weakening needle taunt me with every passing second.

A blue wooden sign appeared. A handmade beauty she was: Welcome To Parrott, Georgia The Town Of The Long Riders Painted Azalea flowers surrounded those letters in a colorful tapestry. The Southern shrine a sight to see for these sore eyes.

“Yes…” I said to myself. Now I really focused. Did my best to ignore the unwavering unease.

At first there was just more green inferno. More of this rural Hell. Until the cute wooden convenience store caught my eye. Tillinghast’s Country Store read the cursive sign.

The gas station was a sprawling log cabin. A row of many rocking chairs sat on its front porch. There were only two pumps… more than enough for such an isolated location.

Chuckling, I pulled in closer. Of course, there was nothing nearby. No houses or any real competition for Tillinghast’s. The store with a monopoly on desolation row.

I saw more advertisements tacked on to the main sign. Bright paint the closest these owners could afford to neon lights. Cold Beer Lotto Country Cookbooks proclaimed this tourist trap.

And then there was my favorite: Last Full Service Gas Station In Parrott, Georgia!

Now that was really something to be proud of, I joked to myself. My smirk stayed omnipresent as I made the left turn. Pulled right in to the pump closest to Tillinghast’s heavy front door.

I killed the ignition. Tore off my sticky sunglasses. Finally I could exhale. “Whew, we made it,” I confided to my Honda. The gauge needle hovered mid-way through the letter E. “We sure cut it close, sweetie.” Smiling, I gave the dashboard a reassuring pat. “You never let me down.”

Basking in the calm relief, I grabbed my useless phone. Stepped out into the February “heat.” The perfect weather stole my sweat. Not too hot, not too cold. The bright sun a spotlight for wherever the Hell I was stranded at….

Tillinghast’s was trapped in a time warp. Somewhere between 1950s small town Americana and post-Recession decay. Basically, a Woodall’s with a pulse. Albeit, a weak one.

Chipped paint coated those lifeless rocking chairs. The small speakers outside played scrambled static… white noise save for the occasional burst of Roy Orbison’s high notes or Patsy Cline’s confidence. I couldn’t hear much of anything except the powerful ceiling fan swirling out-of-control in the store...

I scanned the scene. Some trepidation halted my brief euphoria. I was the only car here… the only thing present from this millennium. But there were some signs of life... Not just in the spiderwebs but the garbage can chock-full of fresh trash. The wild skid marks running up and down the store’s battered pavement.

One look at the gas pump confirmed my suspicions: no card reader. That technology apparently hadn’t quite caught up with Parrott yet. After all, why curb their stranglehold on the full service industry?

“Great,” I said in my low Southern accent.

I faced the store’s red door. The peeling paint and rotten wood made me feel as if I was about to enter a crypt.

Sighing, I stepped toward it.

The door burst open. A dying ding erupted from its bell. And there stood Mr. Full Service himself: a tall man with stringy yellow hair. His bulging dark eyes wide awake for what must’ve been the longest fucking shift on Earth.

The gray coveralls fit over the man’s beer gut and broad shoulders. A cursive Tillinghast’s Country Store patch fitted over his heart. The uniform’s cap somehow over his dirty blonde cobwebs. And the patch’s name tag fit the middle-aged man’s unassuming grin: John.

Too weak to close on its own, the front door gave me a sneak peek at what awaited inside. I saw the ceiling fan still whirling. A wide array of stocked shelves. But not a customer in sight.

“How can I help you?” John said in a raspy voice. The gas station attendant looked dutiful but distant. A black-and-white caricature brought to life with depressing realism. Judging by his voice, those years spent in the fifties must’ve really made him dependent on cigarettes.

“Uh, I guess just fill it up” I said with an awkward smile.

Still staring at me, John nodded. He staggered toward my car. His steps slow and clumsy. Exhausted from the grueling graveyard shift.

I stopped closer to the doorway. And then I heard it. A light movement… Not a footstep but a quick dragging noise. A heavy sliding sound...

Turning, I looked over at John. “Hey, man, do you want me to pay first-”

In a sudden outburst, John confronted me. “No!” he said. “Just stay right there! I’ll let you pay inside later.”

Startled, I stood still. The noise was now gone. Gone within the depths of Tillinghast’s Country Store. “Okay,” I stammered. Now my fading beer buzz was gone for good. As was the fleeting hope I felt earlier...

The anxiety coming back with a vengeance, I watched John stick the pump’s handle into the tank. The routine nothing more than a miserable ritual for him. I stayed silent. Awkward.

Finally, John faced me. “You doing cash or credit?”

Beneath his cold stare, I hesitated. “Debit.”

John waved inside the store. “I’ll scan it in there.” He stole a glance back at the pump. Those crawling numbers still with a ways to go...

John looked at me. “You not from around here, are you?”

I forced a smile. “Naw. I was heading down to Cairo.”

Not saying a word, John turned his attention back to the task at hand. His eyes glued to the pump’s slowass ticker.

Harsh static filled our silence. Nervous, I looked up at the speakers. Those distorted sounds still scared the shit out of me.

“You know,” John began, his tone hitting a weary pathos.

I faced John. Watched him keep a trembling grip on the pump’s handle.

“The best thing we can do is get the Hell out of here,” John continued. His soulful eyes pierced into my baby blues. “That’s all we can do.”

My fear only increased. “Pardon?” I said.

The pump’s cryptic chime made me jump. All the numbers now dead still.

“You heard me,” John said. He yanked the handle out. “If we don’t get the Hell out of here, I’m gonna have to give you to him!” he said in a voice veering toward madness.

Shivering for the first time in February, I motioned toward him. “Look, I don’t know what-”

With a frightened flourish, John jammed the handle into the gas pump. “I’m telling you for your own good, boy!” he yelled behind a terrified expression. “We need to get out of here! Both of us! Now!”

I took a step back. “Naw. You’re not coming with me!”

John marched toward me. His footsteps loud. His crazed desperation even louder. “If you won’t, I’ll have to feed you to her!” cried a Southern accent crippled with pain. “I have no choice!”

Like a cornered child, I stumbled back against the wall. Held my pathetic hands out. “No, get the fuck back!”

“Help me!” John wailed. He reached toward me. “Please! Let’s go! Now!”

“Back the fuck away!”

John’s strong grip latched on to my shoulders. He leaned in, inches away from my face. His stare pleading me. “We have to go now!”

Straining, I struggled to break away. But John’s stranglehold was too tight. “Get the fuck off me!”

“Please!” John yelled. Tears formed in his eyes. “Please help me!” his quivering voice begged. “Help me!”

Using all my might, I gave him a hard shove.

John staggered back. Way off-balance. His look of horror met mine. Our scared eyes matching until John hit the garbage can and collapsed to the pavement. There was a sudden crash... a gruesome puncture piercing through the tension!

“Oh fuck!” I yelled. I ran up to the attendant. But I was too late... much too late.

John remained on the ground. All the fast food wrappers and empty bottles surrounding him like funeral flowers... Except for one beer bottle. The one John himself had crushed. The longneck’s glass stayed lodged beneath his head. The sharpest shrapnel stuck straight through his scalp, forever pinning the cap to John’s blonde hair.

Blood flowed amongst the Bud Light backwash. John’s eyes at a cold standstill. His breaths completely gone.

But the static continued. A sadistic chorus to my ears. An uncanny orchestra of scratches and distortion that never let up…

I watched John’s crimson flow to my feet. Felt the fear fillet my flesh. Shivering in that perfect weather, I now saw blood spread out in all directions. From under John’s cap, past the coveralls. Through the trails of trash. All this gore fresh paint for Tillinghast’s much-needed renovation.

Turning, I looked toward the open front door. The clinical lighting inside lacked warmth. The isolation immense. This convenience store still awaited its next customer…

“Fuck that!” I muttered.

Immediately, I hopped inside the Honda. Eager to escape, I jammed the key in. Turned it. The engine sputtered…. Gasping for breath in the steady sunlight...

“Come on!” I cried. Another turn did nothing. And neither did the next. The car wouldn’t crank. Hell, I couldn’t even get the radio on. The full tank had done nothing but erode what little was left of my Honda’s soul. She was a horse too weak to continue. Literally on her last leg.

But what disturbed me most wasn’t the car’s abrupt flatlining. Nor its futile final breaths… But the fact my gas gauge hadn’t moved at all. The needle was still stuck on E… Forever.

Now in panic mode, I checked my iPhone. There was still no service. Not to mention I had a battery now hovering under twenty percent...

I punched the steering wheel. “Goddammit!” Tears of horror slid down my cheeks. I sat there, helpless. All alone.

Until I turned to face the store’s front door. The opening just beckoned me. Providing me faint hope... yet another mirage.

I left the Honda behind. Stumbling to the store, my scared steps kicked up John’s blood. “Hello?” I cried.

Then I stepped inside. Saw the small room conquered by shelves and shelves of snacks. Fridges of cold beer and soda.

Trembling in the cold air, I looked all around me. The huge cash register was a coffin. The store’s famed cookbooks made up of yellow, rotten pages. Amidst my lingering unease, I realized the front door was my only way in and only way out. Except for a door in the very back… A door cracked open just ajar.

The ceiling fan’s constant assault further chilled me. The air conditioning the only modern luxury these mysterious store owners could apparently afford. As if Tillinghast’s had been preserved all these years not through profit but frost.

My teeth began to chatter. I folded my arms. The tee shirt giving me no chance against this man-made blizzard. Still I stared on toward the back. The door now open a bit more…

Then I heard that unsettling noise. The same slow, eerie drag… What must’ve been a long, heavy object sliding along the floor. There were no thumps or thuds. Just a slimey slither…

Cautious, I approached that back doorway. “Hello?” I struggled to say.

A quick slam startled me. A ferocious roar through the store.

I whirled around to see the front door now closed. Entombing me alive. Deep in my sickened gut, I knew there was no winter wind out there. Nor any person that could’ve closed it.

The nerves overwhelming me, I rushed up to the door. “What the Hell!” I cried. The brass knob gave me static electricity upon contact. But still, I turned that damn thing… Terrified if unsurprised to find it locked.

“Goddammit!” I yelled. I kept rattling the icy knob to no avail. “What the fuck!” Panicking, I looked out a window. My voice died on the spot. Hell, at this point, I felt my soul shiver.

The Honda was gone. And so was John. So was the blood. All signs of our most strange fight and tragic accident… All of it wiped clean from Tillinghast’s country canvas.

“No…” I muttered. I placed my hands against the icicycle windowpane. “No fucking way…”

Now I saw the rocking chairs swing to life. Their paint somehow restored. All of them rocked in unison. The most customers Tillinghast’s had had in years… Even if they remained unseen.

Outside, beautiful harmonies further frightened me. The Five Satins’ “In The Still Of The Night” drifted in from the speakers. Flawless and void of static… The group’s pretty performance commemorating what was shaping up to be this gas station’s grand re-opening.

I staggered back in fright. “No… no fucking way…” all I could mutter through the crippling cold.

An agonizing creak swept toward me. Over the hypnotic chorus of Tillinghast’s soundtrack.

Cradling my arms together, I forced my eyes toward the back. Just in time to see a red tentacle retreat further inside the room.

The long, slender tentacle slid along the floor. An anaconda arm with no eyes or snout. No features of a face or life itself. The tentacle was only blood red and covered in even redder ooze… And all the while dragging itself… making that same stilted noise I heard earlier...

The cold breath struggled to escape my lips. I stood there in terror. Watching that limb disappear into darkness. Back to wherever the Hell it came from...

Lying near the doorway, I saw the creature’s gift. Like a Christmas present laid out just for me... One I didn’t ask for.

Those pair of gray coveralls awaited my touch. My body. My enslavement.

In Georgia’s frozen tundra, I marched toward the uniform. Defeated, despondent. And still fucking scared. I stopped and stared down at the coveralls. Tillinghast’s Country Store read the patch. Then I saw the patch’s inevitable name tag: Lee it said in that flashy cursive.

“We need to get out of here!” John’s paranoid voice blared through my mind. “Both of us! Now!”

I confronted that back room. Not dare stepping any closer.

I could still hear John’s painful pleas. “If you won’t, I’ll have to feed you to her!” His voice driven by the desperation of a man on a nervous breakdown… or on the brink of death. “I have no choice! Help me! Please! Let’s go!”

At least the uniform would keep me warm for those eternal shifts. At this steady job I never wanted.

I gazed around my new office. My new home. Sure, the snacks and alcohol would alleviate some of the pain. But only some. And sooner or later, I’d have to go out there to fulfill my duties as the last full service gas station attendant here in Parrott, Georgia. Fulfill my duties for both Tillinghast’s and the monster in the back.

So the next time you’re driving home from Columbus or Atlanta, stop on by. Let me pump that gas for you. Make small talk with you in our friendly little town. Because boy, do we need customers.

 

[Gobi]

2 hours ago, Christina said:

A Redditor has posted some 90 Day Fan Fiction The link takes you to his account where you can read them, but I'm adding them under the spoiler tabs because of their length. They were posted to NoSleep, which are your campfire horror stories. It's been a few days since I read them, they may be NSFW due to language.

Room 114: 90 Day Fiancé Has A New Spin-Off - Starring Darcey and Tom 

  Reveal spoiler

I just wanted to be famous. Just like anyone else... Especially when I could get paid good money for playing “myself.”

After marrying Darcey, I’d done my part for reality T.V. I’d sacrificed my dignity for a chance to be on the telly. 90 Day Fiancé: Before The 90 Days made me a household name to both desperate housewives and dutiful husbands everywhere. My Instagram was constantly flooded from thirsty women. My “fame” helped me get invited to so many parties and events. My life now a B-list celebrity’s wet dream. Just like I’d always wanted.

Coming from England, I had no idea how far the fame game went in the States. I mean I had no acting experience. But of course, that didn’t matter on a show like 90 Day Fiancé.

I liked to think I was tall, dark, and handsome but instead, I was more tall, pasty, and handsome. I did well with the ladies, sure. But I also had fashion sense and wit to spare. Combine those with the blue eyes and I had Darcey hooked from the start… not that it took much effort on my part.

While neither of us catfished, upon meeting Darcey, I realized we both liked our filters… I was a little chubbier at the first meeting. Darcey in similarly rough shape… But she was still pretty. Darcey had a mad radiance about her, and sometimes, that craziness could be attractive. Then again, we were both drunks so I guess that helped.

Finances were never an issue either. And neither was work. What can I say, both of us came from well-to-do families. English high class meets All-American sass. And those TLC checks certainly helped. Darcey and I were a match made in trash T.V. Heaven.

Along with this beautiful if maddening heiress, I now had a chance to snag the spotlight I always wanted. A real shot at stardom. To my relief, I wouldn’t need much help to secure attention either... not with dear old Darcy leading the way.

I must say the Silva twins had this shit figured out. Both Darcey and Stacey played up the cameras like two pretty court jesters.

They claimed to have acting “experience,” but I took that nonsense with a grain of salt. What these twins did have though was an insatiable drive for fame… The same drive pulsating through my veins. The sisters also shared a competitive spirit when it came to chasing guys and flaunting their outrageous behavior for all the world to see. Perfect for these TLC freakshows. And the Silvas were naturals at it… well about as natural as one can get behind the layers of make-up and surgeries. Or whatever other formulas they could find in their ever-increasing need to look younger.

Recently, Stacey got married. And over time, I began to suspect I’d chosen the wrong Silva dollar…

You see, when I met Darcey I was ready for a committed relationship. But little did I know that I was about to be committed to an asylum rather than a stable girlfriend. I guess I should’ve been careful what I wished for…

Being followed by cameras and crew was one thing. Living with Darcey Silva was another. Beyond the platinum blonde hair and demented but somehow charming smile, Darcey’s pendulum of emotions swung everywhere. There were moments where she begged me to propose. Moments she’d latch on to my bottom or crotch in public. Moments where she’d make her hugs into a hangman’s noose I’d never escape.

Then there were the other times... The times she’d grow jealous over a woman eyeballing me. The tantrums Darcey would throw when I just wanted to stay home. And don’t even get me started on her incessant crying… Darcey’s waterfall had long been perfected and patented for the cameras. She could even cry on cue. Not to mention Darcey loved displaying that obsessed gaze of hers… That look TLC so often exploited. To this day, Darcey’s desperation still a huge selling point for 90 Day’s success.

Through the good and bad, I could always count on my darling to be drunk by noon. To somehow fit herself into those skin-tight clothes. And to top it all off, Darcey was still hung up on her ex Jesse.

Jesse was a younger man in his twenties. A blonde Dutch fellow who was nice enough from all the “chance” encounters TLC arranged between us and him. He certainly checked off all of Darcey’s superficial boxes: muscles, abs, ass, stylish… foreign. Only this cub ran away from his cougar once Darcey had him shipped over to the States.

I knew Darcey still hadn’t moved on. And neither had the show’s producers judging by how much they’d force Jesse into our lives and your living rooms. Apparently, the thirstier viewers couldn’t get enough of his bodacious body or smug arrogance.

That being said, I didn’t have a problem with the guy… The problem was Darcey still did. In our brief meetings, Jesse would tell me as much. Particularly how a drunk Darcey would leave him vampire voicemails well after midnight. Apparently, she saw Jesse as another escape to a sweet, promising youth that’d left her long ago.

Honestly, I cringed too much to be jealous. Hell, at this point, Jesse could have her back for all I cared. Certainly would’ve made my life easy now that I’d already secured my fifteen minutes of fame, ahem, love.

But much to both my horror and excitement, Darcey and I were still a hit. So much so I had to end up marrying the wannabe actress. I can’t say I was too happy… but there was more money and fame to be made. Then of course, the inevitable happened: TLC wanted a spin-off. And now that we were married, my darling wife agreed to it without even asking me. Darcey’s desperation had prevailed again… Just my fucking luck…

With filming starting soon, Darcey and I retreated to Atlanta, Georgia. A brief break before the chaos began. But I had other plans... a little surprise for Darcey.

On Friday night, we checked into the Hotel Non Dormiunt. Somehow, Darcey found this brick behemoth. There were no reviews on-line, no history of the hotel existing whatsoever. But I let Darcey pick. Even when she was beyond drunk. And even when we drove past the city limits to find this place, I didn’t complain. Especially since it’d be the last hotel Darcey Silva would ever choose.

The Non Dormiunt was expensive but at least the interior was prettier than the towering mausoleum it resembled outside. The lobby was spacious, clean. Full of glowing lamps giving off a reddish tint everywhere. Surrounded by painted portraits of people I’d never heard of. Down to the phonographs and telephone booths, the hotel looked to have been forgotten over time... Gone with the wind.

And to no one’s surprise, there was plenty of room.

“Anywhere except the seventeenth floor,” the middle-aged receptionist told us. She was a black lady dressed in a skimpy purple uniform. The type of uniform best used for selling cigars rather than premium hotel rooms.

Adjusting my thin glasses, I glanced over at Darcy. The tight black dress fit her well tonight. For once. Then again, maybe my own drunk buzz was distracting me. “Seventeenth floor?” I said in confusion.

“Yes,” the receptionist said. She leaned in closer. “It’s out of order.” Taking control, Darcy grabbed my arm. “Well, we’ll take something on the first floor.”

The bellboy was quiet on the way to room 114. The purple suit covered his body, the purple cap his hair and age. His short body screamed high school but the craggy face screamed mid-sixties.

Darcey kept trying to make small talk to no avail. Both with me and the bellhop.

Finally, we reached the room. To our relief, there was a minibar. One that would need to be restocked before Darcey and I checked out.

I put our bags by the queen-size bed. Took a quick shot of Scotch. And then another one. Then scanned our home for the night...

The room fit the Non Dormiunt’s aesthetic to a tee: classy, elegant. The warm air cozy… But the whole scene felt a bit off with the times.

Sure, we had the bare minimum in electronics. Dim lamps, an unreliable air conditioning unit. The tombstone radio. Even a bulky T.V. that likely promised us HBO and pay-per-view.

The bland white walls contrasted our colorful rugs. We had a stone fireplace... And those red Victorian curtains surrounding the bed were a good touch.

As if on cue, Darcey pulled the curtains apart. Over and over. “This’ll be good for later, Tom!” cried her obnoxious rasp.

I did my best not to grimace. Instead, I just stepped away. As much as I wanted to walk out the room, I turned the lock, entombing myself with Darcey’s manic madness. “Of course,” I replied.

The repetitive swoosh of those curtains felt like knives jabbing me deeper and deeper. I ran my hands along my arm. Over the blue suit jacket.

I stole a glance at our wide windows. At the darkness hovering outside.

“Ooh, I can’t wait!” I heard Darcey exclaim.

My restless eyes faced the fireplace. The mantle above it had several miniature statues. Wide sculptures portraying a lynx and goat. All of them realistic enough. Maybe too realistic... Their snarling faces unsettled me. But amidst my rising nerves, I felt relief to see there was room for one more item up there.

“We’ll have some privacy!” Darcey said.

Compelled, I walked up to the fireplace. There was a spot in the middle of the mantle. Just perfect…

“I just wanna look pretty enough,” Darcey rambled on. “I don’t want to look bad for you, Tom.”

Forcing a smile, I stopped at the mantle. “Nonsense, dear.” With slick speed, I reached into my jacket pocket. The small candlestick felt heavy in my hand. The handle so firm. “You look fantastic.”

I could hear Darcey stagger toward me. Her heavy, carnal footsteps. “But Tom!” said that cry I’d recognize anywhere. The cry of a dying, sex-starved coyote.

And then I knew I had to act quick. In a split second, I placed the golden stick right there on the mantle. Right in that perfect spot.

“I wanna be sexy for you!” Darcey continued.

I turned to see the drama queen get closer. The man-made Barbie doll shook her ass in a most hideous fashion. Her drunken smile bigger than those overemotional eyes. “Is this hot, babe?” she asked. A rhetorical question she didn’t want the answer to.

Fueled by ferocity, Darcey’s eager hands gripped my shoulders. Her colorful claws fastened deep into my flesh. Now I was face-to-face with her pretty mask.

“I wanna have fun tonight,” she cooed. “Just me and you, Tom.” Like a hungry animal, Darcey leaned in close. Ready for that wet kiss…

Until I held her back. I stumbled on my words. “I thought you were gonna call the manager?”

Darcey flashed that wicked smile. “Nobody answered.”

I stole a look at the windows. Took note of their locks… All I needed to know for my perfect plan. “Figures,” I muttered. “Goddamn Southerners.”

“I did order room service,” Darcey said.

I faced her. “Room service?”

“Well, yeah.” She let out a drunk chuckle. “I got hungry.”

Nodding, I looked back at the candlestick. My future murder weapon. My key to freedom. “Again...”

“I’ll pay for it!” Darcey said. She ran a hand along my chest. “You know that.” Her other hand grabbed a hold of my ass. “I hope you don’t mind,” she said in a soft voice... An attempt at a seduction no one asked for.

Battling my disgust, I leaned back against the mantle. “Right…” I looked into her beaming eyes. “You did tell them room 114?”

Darcey giggled. “Duh! That was like thirty minutes ago!”

I looked on at her. Dreading her demands… Especially the ones in the sack. “They take their time, I see,” I quipped.

“Mmm-hmm.” Unable to control herself, Darcey leaned in for another kiss. The sudden movement possessed by passion.

Trying to delay the inevitable torture, I stole a glance at the red door. “I mean how long does it take for room service to get to the first floor...”

Just inches away from my lips, Darcey grabbed my chin, making me face her. Deliberating on her own “kill.” “You okay, Tom?” she teased. “Here, let mama cheer you up.”

I played along. Left with no other choice, I felt on Darcey’s juicy buttocks then moved along to those breasts. Her boobs were hard to miss, after all. All the while, my other hand strayed toward that candlestick. My escape.

I held the brass handle in a tight grip… Forced myself to keep fondling Darcey’s warm boobs. Even if the touch sickened me. Much like her moans…

“Keep going, Tom!” Darcey yelled. Shutting her eyes, she snatched my wrist. Guiding me to those breasts. “Oh, yes!”

Caught between disturbed and intrigued, I watched Darcey sway before me. Her eyes closed, her tongue hanging out. Darcey a blonde dog in heat. Permanently for that matter...

Staying silent, my grip tightened on the stick. Ready to transform this night from agonizing to euphoric…

Then I felt a cold touch near Darcey’s boob. A sharp edge. Padding that was all too dangerous.

Startled, both Darcey and I confronted one another. Nervous expressions conquered us. Darcey’s eyes in heightened shock.

“Oh!” I yelled. Drawing my hand back, I fell against the mantle. I struggled to stay smooth… especially with the candlestick still in my grasp.

“I’m sorry!” Darcey said. With trembling hands, she patted down her huge boobs. Her focus stuck on her chest. “I’m sorry, Jesse.”

I cracked up. Now I held on to the stick even tighter. Felt even more sadistic excitement rush through me. “Oh, Jesse?”

Shivering from stage fright, Darcey faced me. “Oh, Tom. I didn’t mean it like that-”

“Where did Jesse come from?” I interrupted with a smug smile. Man, I was going to enjoy killing Darcey… especially when she was this embarrassed.

Darcey took a step back. Awkward beneath my drunk, unwavering stare. “I didn’t mean to,” she said in a shaky, defensive tone. “I didn’t mean to, Tom!” Pleading, she grabbed my arm. Teardrops already forming on her campy canvas. “I promise!” Pushier than ever, Darcey lunged in closer. Literally cornering me. Now I felt those mammoth breasts. The suppressed beer gut… and the hard metal lodged somewhere in Darcey’s mysterious boobs.

I wasn’t scared or unnerved. Such strange shit was typical for the Silva sisters. Particularly in their endless quests for perfect bodies by any means necessary. Self-loathing was one Hell of a drug…

“Tom, tell me something,” Darcey bellowed from the bottom of her insecure soul.

Those claws caressed my shoulders in a death grip. Finally, I was forced to let go of the candlestick. Struggling to hide my agitation, I kept my gaze neutral. The death dream delayed for this agonizing “magic moment”...

“Am I still pretty?” Darcey continued. Thick tears ran down her face. Her make-up overflooded into puddles of foundation.

Trapped in her clutches, I nodded. Prayed my glasses weren’t giving away the bored indifference in my eyes. “Darcey, you’re beautiful,” I told her, playing up the elegant British accent for all it was worth. “You really are.”

“Jesse always said I needed to lose weight!” Darcey continued on, ignoring my weak attempts at reassurance. “He said I wasn’t pretty enough!”

Code red. I knew now I had to start acting earlier than anticipated… Time to play lovey-dovey husband once more. I leaned in toward Darcey. Too close for comfort but I had no choice if I wanted to talk her off this anxiety ledge. I even forced myself to grab a hold of her wax hand. Darcey’s kaleidoscopic jewelry nearly blinding me. “You are pretty, darling, I promise.”

Salivating her downward spiral, Darcey turned away. The avalanche of tears still rolling on down. Now she trembled in my grip. Not from nerves but from excitement. The high she got anytime I held her hand and pointed this spotlight on her constant outbursts.

“That’s why I go to the doctors,” Darcey said. Still avoiding eye contact, she motioned toward her face and body. “That’s why I get all this, Tom! I wanna be young!”

“But you’re already pretty-” I started.

Snapping into violence, Darcey pushed me back. Her strength sudden but never surprising. Especially when she got like this. I fell back. Felt the wooden mantle smash into my back. Heard the loud collapse of those statues… and candlestick.

Darcey’s bulging glare ate me alive. “I wanna be prettier!” she yelled.

Uneasy, I stared on. Struggling to talk to my gargoyle wife. “Darcey, I think you’re beautiful, darling.” I reached toward her face. “Jesse isn’t here, he doesn’t matter.”

Darcey snatched my hand. “Then fuck me then!”

Horror conquered me. I kept from cringing… or at least I hoped I did. “Darcey-” I started.

Before I could finish, Darcey grabbed me and sent my shaky hands straight into her cleavage. A suicide mission for my soul.

Our dignity died right there on the spot. Darcey forced my touch through those melons. On their firm, tough texture. All the while, my fingers kept brushing against that bizarre metal…

I stood still, helpless. A husband held hostage.

Her histrionics growing crazier, Darcey tilted her head back. Closed her eyes. The tears replaced by slobber. Her trembling became convulsing… As if Darcey was experiencing an orgasm out of this world....

“Fuck me, Tom!” she screamed, her voice at a hysterical high pitch. “Prove to me I’m pretty!” While guiding my journey through silicone Valley, Darcey gave my ass a tight squeeze. “Come on! Show me, Tom!”

Facing my darkest fears, I moved in toward those bloated lips. Talked myself into getting any sort of arousal. “I will, darling,” I said.

“Come on, Jesse!” Darcey shouted.

I stopped and glared at her. Ready to call her a complete bitch...

Until a hard knock interrupted our “love.” Startled, Darcey and I faced the door. Darcey’s thirst paused for the moment… giving me a much-needed intermission.

Another knock erupted. “Room service!” cried the beaming voice.

Eager to leave, I maneuvered away from Darcey. God knows I needed the space. “I’ll get it!”

Darcey reached toward my arm. “Are you sure?”

I moved quicker. Just escaping her grasp. “Yeah!” At the door, I stole a glance back at the mantle. The candlestick was still lying there. Still awaiting my bloody touch and even bloodier crime.

Of course, Darcey’s mad smile stayed on me. Moving beyond her control, Darcey’s hands strayed back toward those boobs. All while she watched me… Yet another embarrassing attempt at seduction. No thanks, Darcey.

Shaking my head in dismay, I opened the door. Sure enough there was a female bellhop. One with the same height and frame as Darcey. Probably just as annoying... The purple cap hid her hair, highlighting the lady’s make-up smorgasbord of a tan face. A familiar face...

Smiling, she held up a long tray. The silver cloche ready to be pulled. “Room 114?” she asked in a squeaky-clean tone.

I shivered and stumbled back. The hallway’s cold air even affecting this Englishman. “Uh, yeah, that’s us.”

Without hesitation, the woman jumped inside, slamming the door behind her. She fixated those eager eyes on me.

Her crazed Darcey look sent chills down my spine. My trembling arm waved at her. “What the Hell are you doing! Get out!”

In a vicious taunt, the bellhop looked me up and down. Like a starved creature studying its prey. “I’m here for you, Tom...”

She yanked the cloche off and dropped it to the ground. The clang shattered our tension. But didn’t stop the dread. Or my ever-growing fear...

There on the silver platter was a pristine hatchet. The blade so shiny. The wooden handle so firm. An all natural weapon… Next to it, I saw a small camcorder.

“What the fuck!” I cried.

Cackling, the bellhop scooped up the hatchet and camera. Threw the tray down by the cloche. The woman’s grin grew wider. “You don’t recognize me, Tom?” said a voice reverting back to its natural rasp.

I stumbled back by the mantle. Closer to my candlestick. My defense.

The lady tore off the cap and shook her head in supermodel fashion. With a delusional supermodel’s flourish.

Long flowing blonde hair exploded all around her. The extensions were obvious. Much like the full rack jammed beneath her uniform...

Through the orange tan, the bellhop’s identity was illuminated: Stacey Silva. She had that pointed nose, one of the few differences between her and her twin. Both of them basically bloated Barbies. The psychotic smiles shared between them.

“Stacey…” my uneasy voice muttered.

“You got me!” she beamed. Holding the camera steady, Stacey pointed it right at me. “You ready for the show, Tom?”

Playing a confident executioner, she then raised that sharp blade. Stacey was thirsty, alright. Thirsty for blood. “I’m afraid you’re only in one episode.”

She took a menacing step toward me.

Fueled by adrenaline, I turned toward the mantle. My sights set on the stick. I lunged for it.

A knife shot into my stomach. One quick plunge. The blade went in deep… held in place by a kaleidoscopic grip.

Crying out, I looked down at Darcey’s army of rings. The gaudy bracelet… And the heavy kitchen knife she’d kept hidden in those heavier breasts.

Following the blade’s reflection, I looked up at Darcey’s demented eyes. The crazy smile.

“Sorry, babe,” Darcey quipped.

Both my hands latched on to Darcey’s wrist. Warm blood flowed through our fingertips. But Darcey refused to let go… I couldn’t speak. Couldn’t move.

“It’s for the show, Tom,” Darcey continued. She gave me a kiss on the lips. A farewell kiss so long and sloppy…

Darcey pulled back. Her grin still locked in on me. She caressed my hands, her emotions too extreme to be insincere. Darcey never that good of an actress. “Now you’ll be famous like you always wanted.”

Darcey thrust the knife in further. I cringed… for once, not from sex and Darcey. But from pain.

More blood sprayed across the rugs. More red to match the Non Dormiunt’s eerie decor.

Satisfied, Darcey stepped beside Stacey.

Breathing heavy, I stumbled down to one knee. Now my smiling wife stood up over me. My body was too weak, the knife too deep for me to pull it out.

“I got it, sis,” I heard Stacey tease.

Straining, I turned to come face-to-face with the other Silva. Now it was her turn…

The hatchet gave me a savage whack across the temple. Fresh crimson coated my glasses. And the war paint became the Silvas’ latest make-up.

I hit the ground. Darcey’s kitchen knife sunk in deeper. My voice now joined my dignity in death.

Helpless, I looked on at the twins’ grins. Felt my head turn into a sprinkler… The blood kept bursting out in intermittent sprays. A huge chunk of flayed forehead dwindled over my eyes...

But I still saw it. Buried deep in the fireplace was a red light. A large studio camcorder tucked away in the very back… Right next to a couple of boom mics. Standard stuff for TLC’s productions… When we were filming, that is.

“Can you help me carry him?” I heard Stacey ask Darcey.

My breaths slowed to an agonizing gasp. I looked toward the fallen tray. A white card lied just a few feet away from me. On it, there was a familiar number trapped in a familiar dark box: 90. And there was the familiar logo: 90 Day Fiancé The words added beneath it chilled me to the bone: New Series: Death After 90 Days Season 1, Episode 1

“Yeah, he’s gained weight, hasn’t he?” Darcey replied.

The candlestick caught my eye. The weapon well out of reach… And now I saw a pair of small camcorders resting beside it on the mantle. Each of them hidden by those ferocious statues. The lynx and goat now ominous observers for my funeral.

“The producers will help get rid of the body though, I thought?” Darcey continued.

Through the mutilated migraine, I faced the Silvas. My head fell back on the floor, my eyes growing weaker.

“That’s the plan, right?” Darcey said to Stacey.

Stacey stole a look over at me. “Oh, yeah! You’re right!” With a mad chuckle, she pointed the hatchet at me. “He had no idea, did he?”

Darcey’s smirk confronted me. She never looked prettier. Then again, those blood stains certainly hid the blemishes better than her endless foundation. “He just knew we had our own show. That’s it.”

The literal headache further tormented me. Blood built up under my body… My hands stuck to the red glue. The crimson warming me from Death’s cold grip.

Like a demented director, Stacey aimed the camera at me. Filming every second of my impending death. The cute carnage. “You think this’ll work?” she asked Darcey.

As I laid dying, I watched the sisters. This deathbed so uncomfortable. But within, I felt some relief. At least Jesse wasn’t involved. He wasn’t the one killing me… Darcey apparently knew my murder would be more tragic. A bigger draw for her fans. And so had TLC.

Darcey gave Stacey a light hit on the arm. “Yes!” she said, adamant. “Jesse said wearing human blood relieves your stress! It’ll free your anxiety!”

I fucking cringed.

Intrigued, Stacey faced her. “So we just gotta wipe Tom’s blood all over our body?”

“Yes!” Darcey replied. “Jesse told me! He knows all this weird shit! It’ll make us look younger, I promise!”

All around me, the cameras kept rolling. Kept filming my bloodbath. My depression. Finally, Tom Brooks closed his eyes. Well before Death could. Goddamn, Jesse...

The Last Full Service Gas Station In Parrott, Georgia

  Reveal spoiler

I had nowhere to go. I wasn’t in any particular rush at all on this grueling Georgia highway. I had no job. No family. No boyfriend. Nothing but my own aimless thoughts and broken dreams… nothing but my lonely cynicism for company.

Sure, I got by okay. Once in awhile, I sold a creepy painting or two. But as a struggling artist, my income wasn’t steady. And now here I was at thirty: single, homeless. Still chasing a mirage. A Millennial drifter without a cause.

But this Monday afternoon, I stayed calm and collected. Behind my blue Aviators, I stared on at the bruising sunlight. Late February and I didn’t even need the heater on. Not even a hoodie. The white Arctic Monkeys tee and tight jeans were enough to combat this lukewarm Georgia winter. One that’d been growing weaker since Valentine’s Day.

Like a captain cruising this smooth Southern sea, I drove on down this four-lane blacktop. Not a soul was in sight. No cops. No houses. Yet another lonely road trip for Lee.

I’d just come back from completing a sale out in Columbus. Now with some spare cash for once, I was making my way back to my hometown: back to Cairo (pronounced Kay-Row), Georgia. I had some possible business down there… Brad Haskell was wanting me to do some gory book design. He’s one of those indie horror writers. I think he tried teaching but failed at that… Haskell apparently the reclusive type, from what I understand. Then again, so was I.

Normally, I took the interstate to Cairo… but what was the rush? Hell, Haskell wasn’t expecting me till tomorrow. My family was long dead. What good would a haunted homecoming do?

If I’d been on this route before, I damn sure couldn’t remember. Not a good sign... But as long as this old Honda’s radio was working, I couldn’t complain. Even with no USB port and a CD player that’d been broken since 2016.

Besides, all the surrounding farmland and forests offered pretty scenery. Not to mention shelter for when I drank a few beers earlier. I passed a few highway towns about an hour ago but hadn’t seen shit since...

At first, the radio offered me solace from the boredom. But as the dull drive continued, the tunes faded away. All of them gone for good once Pharrell and Daft Punk’s “Get Lucky” hit sudden static. Each channel was the same... There were no familiar rock songs to comfort me. Hell, I couldn’t even find a country station or a mad preacher attacking the airwaves. Everything was scratchy. The sound of snow off a defunct T.V.

I stole a glance down at my iPhone 5. Of course, there was no service. What a shock.

Groaning, I confronted the highway. Felt my anxiety and awkward adrenaline rise.

The scan button didn’t help. Every station was a lost signal in this Georgia galaxy. The turbulence made me cringe. The high-pitched pattern scrambled my mind.

Up ahead, a speed limit sign caught my eye. 45 M.P.H. The drop-off so sudden.

I glanced toward the speedometer… And then my heart sank.

There was less than one gallon left. How the fuck did I not notice this... I’d just filled up in Columbus. No way this shot-out Honda huffed gasoline that quick.

Panicking, I looked out the windshield. No city signs offered me hope. I didn’t even see a house much less a gas station.

“Shit….” I muttered. Bracing myself for this endless montage of trees and crops, I gripped tighter to the wheel. Mashed the pedal down further. The speed little support for my ever-growing unease.

The parade of white noise still assaulted my ears and accelerated my fears. This transmission from Hell taunted me… only instead of being lost in space, I was trapped in south Georgia.

For the first time this winter, I felt sweat drip down my dark beard. My restless eyes stayed glued to the highway. To this mysterious terrain.

And then I saw it: a shabby building up ahead on the left. Its Woodall’s sign so prominent. The promise of gas pumps waving me in.

“Yes!” I shouted. With a victorious flourish, I turned off the radio. Relished this first real silence. A smile on my face...

Until I got closer. Then I saw the marquee underneath the Woodall’s sign: 4.12 read its unleaded gas price.

Holes and cobwebs covered the sign. Faded posters ran along the store’s busted windows. The parking lot long empty since 2008. This was a Great Recession graveyard. Those useless pumps nothing more than neglected tombstones.

“Fuck!” I yelled. Behind my Aviators, I checked the fuel gauge. The arrow drifted closer to E. I knew I needed salvation in the middle of nowhere. And fast.

Returning my gaze to the open road, I stayed on the lookout for another mirage. My body shivered beyond control. The dread dominant.

This rear projection of trees ran on and on… The intermittent flash of a barren field the only other sight I saw. Nevermind, cars. Nevermind an actual human being.

I stole a look out toward the woods. But even they looked empty.

“Goddammit, come on…” I faced the highway once more. My Honda feeling every pothole this old road had to offer. Despair latched in to me. In my gut, I felt the gauge’s weakening needle taunt me with every passing second.

A blue wooden sign appeared. A handmade beauty she was: Welcome To Parrott, Georgia The Town Of The Long Riders Painted Azalea flowers surrounded those letters in a colorful tapestry. The Southern shrine a sight to see for these sore eyes.

“Yes…” I said to myself. Now I really focused. Did my best to ignore the unwavering unease.

At first there was just more green inferno. More of this rural Hell. Until the cute wooden convenience store caught my eye. Tillinghast’s Country Store read the cursive sign.

The gas station was a sprawling log cabin. A row of many rocking chairs sat on its front porch. There were only two pumps… more than enough for such an isolated location.

Chuckling, I pulled in closer. Of course, there was nothing nearby. No houses or any real competition for Tillinghast’s. The store with a monopoly on desolation row.

I saw more advertisements tacked on to the main sign. Bright paint the closest these owners could afford to neon lights. Cold Beer Lotto Country Cookbooks proclaimed this tourist trap.

And then there was my favorite: Last Full Service Gas Station In Parrott, Georgia!

Now that was really something to be proud of, I joked to myself. My smirk stayed omnipresent as I made the left turn. Pulled right in to the pump closest to Tillinghast’s heavy front door.

I killed the ignition. Tore off my sticky sunglasses. Finally I could exhale. “Whew, we made it,” I confided to my Honda. The gauge needle hovered mid-way through the letter E. “We sure cut it close, sweetie.” Smiling, I gave the dashboard a reassuring pat. “You never let me down.”

Basking in the calm relief, I grabbed my useless phone. Stepped out into the February “heat.” The perfect weather stole my sweat. Not too hot, not too cold. The bright sun a spotlight for wherever the Hell I was stranded at….

Tillinghast’s was trapped in a time warp. Somewhere between 1950s small town Americana and post-Recession decay. Basically, a Woodall’s with a pulse. Albeit, a weak one.

Chipped paint coated those lifeless rocking chairs. The small speakers outside played scrambled static… white noise save for the occasional burst of Roy Orbison’s high notes or Patsy Cline’s confidence. I couldn’t hear much of anything except the powerful ceiling fan swirling out-of-control in the store...

I scanned the scene. Some trepidation halted my brief euphoria. I was the only car here… the only thing present from this millennium. But there were some signs of life... Not just in the spiderwebs but the garbage can chock-full of fresh trash. The wild skid marks running up and down the store’s battered pavement.

One look at the gas pump confirmed my suspicions: no card reader. That technology apparently hadn’t quite caught up with Parrott yet. After all, why curb their stranglehold on the full service industry?

“Great,” I said in my low Southern accent.

I faced the store’s red door. The peeling paint and rotten wood made me feel as if I was about to enter a crypt.

Sighing, I stepped toward it.

The door burst open. A dying ding erupted from its bell. And there stood Mr. Full Service himself: a tall man with stringy yellow hair. His bulging dark eyes wide awake for what must’ve been the longest fucking shift on Earth.

The gray coveralls fit over the man’s beer gut and broad shoulders. A cursive Tillinghast’s Country Store patch fitted over his heart. The uniform’s cap somehow over his dirty blonde cobwebs. And the patch’s name tag fit the middle-aged man’s unassuming grin: John.

Too weak to close on its own, the front door gave me a sneak peek at what awaited inside. I saw the ceiling fan still whirling. A wide array of stocked shelves. But not a customer in sight.

“How can I help you?” John said in a raspy voice. The gas station attendant looked dutiful but distant. A black-and-white caricature brought to life with depressing realism. Judging by his voice, those years spent in the fifties must’ve really made him dependent on cigarettes.

“Uh, I guess just fill it up” I said with an awkward smile.

Still staring at me, John nodded. He staggered toward my car. His steps slow and clumsy. Exhausted from the grueling graveyard shift.

I stopped closer to the doorway. And then I heard it. A light movement… Not a footstep but a quick dragging noise. A heavy sliding sound...

Turning, I looked over at John. “Hey, man, do you want me to pay first-”

In a sudden outburst, John confronted me. “No!” he said. “Just stay right there! I’ll let you pay inside later.”

Startled, I stood still. The noise was now gone. Gone within the depths of Tillinghast’s Country Store. “Okay,” I stammered. Now my fading beer buzz was gone for good. As was the fleeting hope I felt earlier...

The anxiety coming back with a vengeance, I watched John stick the pump’s handle into the tank. The routine nothing more than a miserable ritual for him. I stayed silent. Awkward.

Finally, John faced me. “You doing cash or credit?”

Beneath his cold stare, I hesitated. “Debit.”

John waved inside the store. “I’ll scan it in there.” He stole a glance back at the pump. Those crawling numbers still with a ways to go...

John looked at me. “You not from around here, are you?”

I forced a smile. “Naw. I was heading down to Cairo.”

Not saying a word, John turned his attention back to the task at hand. His eyes glued to the pump’s slowass ticker.

Harsh static filled our silence. Nervous, I looked up at the speakers. Those distorted sounds still scared the shit out of me.

“You know,” John began, his tone hitting a weary pathos.

I faced John. Watched him keep a trembling grip on the pump’s handle.

“The best thing we can do is get the Hell out of here,” John continued. His soulful eyes pierced into my baby blues. “That’s all we can do.”

My fear only increased. “Pardon?” I said.

The pump’s cryptic chime made me jump. All the numbers now dead still.

“You heard me,” John said. He yanked the handle out. “If we don’t get the Hell out of here, I’m gonna have to give you to him!” he said in a voice veering toward madness.

Shivering for the first time in February, I motioned toward him. “Look, I don’t know what-”

With a frightened flourish, John jammed the handle into the gas pump. “I’m telling you for your own good, boy!” he yelled behind a terrified expression. “We need to get out of here! Both of us! Now!”

I took a step back. “Naw. You’re not coming with me!”

John marched toward me. His footsteps loud. His crazed desperation even louder. “If you won’t, I’ll have to feed you to her!” cried a Southern accent crippled with pain. “I have no choice!”

Like a cornered child, I stumbled back against the wall. Held my pathetic hands out. “No, get the fuck back!”

“Help me!” John wailed. He reached toward me. “Please! Let’s go! Now!”

“Back the fuck away!”

John’s strong grip latched on to my shoulders. He leaned in, inches away from my face. His stare pleading me. “We have to go now!”

Straining, I struggled to break away. But John’s stranglehold was too tight. “Get the fuck off me!”

“Please!” John yelled. Tears formed in his eyes. “Please help me!” his quivering voice begged. “Help me!”

Using all my might, I gave him a hard shove.

John staggered back. Way off-balance. His look of horror met mine. Our scared eyes matching until John hit the garbage can and collapsed to the pavement. There was a sudden crash... a gruesome puncture piercing through the tension!

“Oh fuck!” I yelled. I ran up to the attendant. But I was too late... much too late.

John remained on the ground. All the fast food wrappers and empty bottles surrounding him like funeral flowers... Except for one beer bottle. The one John himself had crushed. The longneck’s glass stayed lodged beneath his head. The sharpest shrapnel stuck straight through his scalp, forever pinning the cap to John’s blonde hair.

Blood flowed amongst the Bud Light backwash. John’s eyes at a cold standstill. His breaths completely gone.

But the static continued. A sadistic chorus to my ears. An uncanny orchestra of scratches and distortion that never let up…

I watched John’s crimson flow to my feet. Felt the fear fillet my flesh. Shivering in that perfect weather, I now saw blood spread out in all directions. From under John’s cap, past the coveralls. Through the trails of trash. All this gore fresh paint for Tillinghast’s much-needed renovation.

Turning, I looked toward the open front door. The clinical lighting inside lacked warmth. The isolation immense. This convenience store still awaited its next customer…

“Fuck that!” I muttered.

Immediately, I hopped inside the Honda. Eager to escape, I jammed the key in. Turned it. The engine sputtered…. Gasping for breath in the steady sunlight...

“Come on!” I cried. Another turn did nothing. And neither did the next. The car wouldn’t crank. Hell, I couldn’t even get the radio on. The full tank had done nothing but erode what little was left of my Honda’s soul. She was a horse too weak to continue. Literally on her last leg.

But what disturbed me most wasn’t the car’s abrupt flatlining. Nor its futile final breaths… But the fact my gas gauge hadn’t moved at all. The needle was still stuck on E… Forever.

Now in panic mode, I checked my iPhone. There was still no service. Not to mention I had a battery now hovering under twenty percent...

I punched the steering wheel. “Goddammit!” Tears of horror slid down my cheeks. I sat there, helpless. All alone.

Until I turned to face the store’s front door. The opening just beckoned me. Providing me faint hope... yet another mirage.

I left the Honda behind. Stumbling to the store, my scared steps kicked up John’s blood. “Hello?” I cried.

Then I stepped inside. Saw the small room conquered by shelves and shelves of snacks. Fridges of cold beer and soda.

Trembling in the cold air, I looked all around me. The huge cash register was a coffin. The store’s famed cookbooks made up of yellow, rotten pages. Amidst my lingering unease, I realized the front door was my only way in and only way out. Except for a door in the very back… A door cracked open just ajar.

The ceiling fan’s constant assault further chilled me. The air conditioning the only modern luxury these mysterious store owners could apparently afford. As if Tillinghast’s had been preserved all these years not through profit but frost.

My teeth began to chatter. I folded my arms. The tee shirt giving me no chance against this man-made blizzard. Still I stared on toward the back. The door now open a bit more…

Then I heard that unsettling noise. The same slow, eerie drag… What must’ve been a long, heavy object sliding along the floor. There were no thumps or thuds. Just a slimey slither…

Cautious, I approached that back doorway. “Hello?” I struggled to say.

A quick slam startled me. A ferocious roar through the store.

I whirled around to see the front door now closed. Entombing me alive. Deep in my sickened gut, I knew there was no winter wind out there. Nor any person that could’ve closed it.

The nerves overwhelming me, I rushed up to the door. “What the Hell!” I cried. The brass knob gave me static electricity upon contact. But still, I turned that damn thing… Terrified if unsurprised to find it locked.

“Goddammit!” I yelled. I kept rattling the icy knob to no avail. “What the fuck!” Panicking, I looked out a window. My voice died on the spot. Hell, at this point, I felt my soul shiver.

The Honda was gone. And so was John. So was the blood. All signs of our most strange fight and tragic accident… All of it wiped clean from Tillinghast’s country canvas.

“No…” I muttered. I placed my hands against the icicycle windowpane. “No fucking way…”

Now I saw the rocking chairs swing to life. Their paint somehow restored. All of them rocked in unison. The most customers Tillinghast’s had had in years… Even if they remained unseen.

Outside, beautiful harmonies further frightened me. The Five Satins’ “In The Still Of The Night” drifted in from the speakers. Flawless and void of static… The group’s pretty performance commemorating what was shaping up to be this gas station’s grand re-opening.

I staggered back in fright. “No… no fucking way…” all I could mutter through the crippling cold.

An agonizing creak swept toward me. Over the hypnotic chorus of Tillinghast’s soundtrack.

Cradling my arms together, I forced my eyes toward the back. Just in time to see a red tentacle retreat further inside the room.

The long, slender tentacle slid along the floor. An anaconda arm with no eyes or snout. No features of a face or life itself. The tentacle was only blood red and covered in even redder ooze… And all the while dragging itself… making that same stilted noise I heard earlier...

The cold breath struggled to escape my lips. I stood there in terror. Watching that limb disappear into darkness. Back to wherever the Hell it came from...

Lying near the doorway, I saw the creature’s gift. Like a Christmas present laid out just for me... One I didn’t ask for.

Those pair of gray coveralls awaited my touch. My body. My enslavement.

In Georgia’s frozen tundra, I marched toward the uniform. Defeated, despondent. And still fucking scared. I stopped and stared down at the coveralls. Tillinghast’s Country Store read the patch. Then I saw the patch’s inevitable name tag: Lee it said in that flashy cursive.

“We need to get out of here!” John’s paranoid voice blared through my mind. “Both of us! Now!”

I confronted that back room. Not dare stepping any closer.

I could still hear John’s painful pleas. “If you won’t, I’ll have to feed you to her!” His voice driven by the desperation of a man on a nervous breakdown… or on the brink of death. “I have no choice! Help me! Please! Let’s go!”

At least the uniform would keep me warm for those eternal shifts. At this steady job I never wanted.

I gazed around my new office. My new home. Sure, the snacks and alcohol would alleviate some of the pain. But only some. And sooner or later, I’d have to go out there to fulfill my duties as the last full service gas station attendant here in Parrott, Georgia. Fulfill my duties for both Tillinghast’s and the monster in the back.

So the next time you’re driving home from Columbus or Atlanta, stop on by. Let me pump that gas for you. Make small talk with you in our friendly little town. Because boy, do we need customers.

 

90 Day Fiancé fan fiction? Isn’t that one of the signs of the end times?

[mmecorday]

A few years ago (well, more than a few), I met a guy online from Nottinghamshire, England. We met up in, of all places, a "Buffy the Vampire Slayer" chatroom. We had a lot of private chats and one day I was telling him that someone at work was being obnoxiously forward in his advancement towards me and the UK dude said, "The next time he does that, tell him you have a boyfriend in England." I said, "I have a boyfriend in England?" And he responded, "Someone who would very much like to be your boyfriend." I paid for this guy to come to the U.S. not once, but twice. The first time was all roses, romance and wine. The second time ... not so much. When I said goodbye to him the second time that was the last time. Now he's married. I found his profile on FB. Now I am in the best relationship of my life. We met at work, we have a home and six cats we love.

[watchingtvaddict]

Had very delicious carrots cut on the bias on my flight today 😬

[Pepper Mostly]

OK guys, here's my first go at a 90 Day Bingo Card. (If you're also a Pounder, you'll know I did several for My 600 Pound life, since there are SO MANY cliches on that one!)

[mmecorday]

Good job, Pepper!

 

[Auntie Anxiety]

Hey 90Day Fans, first time posting in Small Talk! I posted this on another website, but thought it might be helpful to anyone who is stocking up for the Coronacolypse:

Helpful hint: Buy a rotisserie chicken or two, bring it home and take it off the bone while it’s still warm. Put pieces into mixer bowl, turn mixer on low and in less than a minute, the chicken will be shredded. Divide into serving size portions, put into small freezer bags and place in freezer for future use. Can be used for soup, chicken tacos or burritos, chicken salad, pulled bbq chicken, etc. Use the carcasses for chicken stock. Nothing goes to waste.

[JennyMominFL]

I am wondering if they have halted production on these shows.

[Gobi]

20 minutes ago, JennyMominFL said:

I am wondering if they have halted production on these shows.

What a blow they've been dealt!

[DaphneCat]

3 hours ago, JennyMominFL said:

I am wondering if they have halted production on these shows.

I'm guessing they've pretty much halted production of everything.  These shows would be especially hard because no one is really coming from or going to many foreign countries right now.

[blubld43]

14 hours ago, DaphneCat said:

I'm guessing they've pretty much halted production of everything.  These shows would be especially hard because no one is really coming from or going to many foreign countries right now.

We need an online petition for TLC to rerun ALL 90 Day shows during lockdown!  I missed the first few seasons and would gladly watch!  They can skip The Family Chantal, but I'd watch all the rest.

[OnceSane]

3 hours ago, blubld43 said:

We need an online petition for TLC to rerun ALL 90 Day shows during lockdown!  I missed the first few seasons and would gladly watch!  They can skip The Family Chantal, but I'd watch all the rest.

Try Hulu, I think they had almost all the seasons last time I checked.

[Mrs. Hanson]

I just want to pop in here and give a shout out to all the teachers out there!  At my school we mobilized and changed how we are going to deliver instruction IN ONE DAY.  On Tuesday all the grade level teachers made work packets of previously taught materials (we can't teach something new quite yet) with the objective stated and which day to do the work.  We had to supply work for Wed, Thur, Fri and all next week.  The following week is Spring Break so we start Distance Learning April 6th.  We loaded up laptops to those who needed them, lunches for the rest of the week for kids on reduced/free lunches and rode the busses home to deliver everything.  Kids were SO HAPPY at the stops!!  Parents were so effusive and grateful - it motivates me even more.  Not one person complained at school - nothing but "What do you need?  How can I help?  Lots of love to our police officers, EMT's, doctors, nurses, etc as well.  We are all in for a long ride, for sure!!!

[Raja]

On 3/18/2020 at 5:26 AM, blubld43 said:

We need an online petition for TLC to rerun ALL 90 Day shows during lockdown!  I missed the first few seasons and would gladly watch!  They can skip The Family Chantal, but I'd watch all the rest.

The first couple of seasons had couples who thought they were in a Lisa Ling documentary not a reality show. You very well might be disappoint and TLC might not want that product in rotation spoiling the expectations for what the franchise became.

[Otter]

I had to stop watching one of the variations and then all of it.  But on the previews -- is that Avery?  Or whatever her name is.  The girl who went to South Korea?

What happened?  IIRC he fathered her baby. 

TIA.  I just can't deal with it,

 

[Christina]

Social Media Pick-Up Lines

 

On 3/22/2020 at 9:10 PM, Otter said:

I had to stop watching one of the variations and then all of it.  But on the previews -- is that Avery?  Or whatever her name is.  The girl who went to South Korea?

What happened?  IIRC he fathered her baby. 

TIA.  I just can't deal with it,

 

Deavan and her daughter, Drascilla, moved to South Korea. They, along with Jihoon and their son, Taeyung, moved into their own apartment within about a week of first arriving, but it wasn't shown on the episodes because Deavan had a conniption about people insulting her parenting and refused the let the kids be filmed after the birth scene. They were still filming when the episodes began airing.

They married in a civil ceremony in SK, and then his family had Korean ceremony that was very pretty to me. At that time, the kids weren't being filmed, but were both there and reportedly, Drascilla was dressed up in authetic gowns, too. You can find out about all the couples in their couples thread, which is found in the subforum named The Couples above this thread.

[Christina]

There is going to be a short series of the couples in quarantine.

Yamir is listed without his ex-wife, Cortney and Patrick from B4 are listed, and not listed are Nicole and Larissa. After she got her work permit and with her announcing she is back with Erickee (actually, in Portuguese she said they were together for a year and three months) I expected she would be back on the show. Maybe the production team's disgust with her really did make her a no go for Sharp. Hell, it's Sharp and TLC, she'll have an hour long special all to herself.

 

[ALittleShelfish]

I'm so grossed out by the idea of yet another 90Day spawn, esp with Darcy (has EVERY OTHER AVENUE OF INCOME just simply dried up for her? jfc does she have NO dignity left?), so I'm out on this one.  Can't do it.  There's some couples I'd like to catch up on, but I'll skip it if it's going to have Darcy, Jesse, and half of Family Chantel sprinkled in.  No thanks.

[MrsBug]

On 4/2/2020 at 7:10 PM, ALittleShelfish said:

I'm so grossed out by the idea of yet another 90Day spawn, esp with Darcy (has EVERY OTHER AVENUE OF INCOME just simply dried up for her? jfc does she have NO dignity left?), so I'm out on this one.  Can't do it.  There's some couples I'd like to catch up on, but I'll skip it if it's going to have Darcy, Jesse, and half of Family Chantel sprinkled in.  No thanks.

Agreed. We are in the midst of a world crisis and they want to push darcy and the family chantal on us??? What a blow we have been dealt!!! Havent we suffered enough??

My poor hubby has to be subjected to this show when i watch it ( i suffer equally thru his memphis outlaws street racing show). He cant keep any of the names and people straight but he definitely can identify Darcy. Lol, you should have seen his face when he saw that Darcy was a twin with an equally plasticized sister.

I also cannot abide the Family Chantal.  They are just gross and trashy. Pedros family is downright scary with his evil sister and mom.

My overall favorite of any season is Jihoon. He is hilarious and good hearted. 

[LadyoftheLake23]

Hi fellow 90-Dayers! I've been lurking and reading your hiliarious snark for ages (you are definitely my people!) and since I'm single and under stay-at-home orders here in Ohio this was a perfect time to finally sign up for an account! I got sucked into this crapfest of a show (and all its iterations) because my oldest niece and her husband did the K-1 Visa (He's English, and she was working on her Ph.D at the time so he came here. Their story parallels Lorin and Alexei's - actually met in person and got to know each other, then formed a relationship long-distance, visited back and forth, met each other's families, etc. before deciding this is a forever deal.). Silly me, I thought the show would be about the struggles international couples go through to get one of them over here to get married and have a life together. Yes, I was naive! My first season was also Chantel and Pedro's and I was hooked! To fast forward, my 89 year-old Mom is now in Memory Care with dementia (since November) and this show and your snark are much needed breaks from the real world stress I'm living. Thank you for that! On another topic, I would like to apply for membership in the "I'm older than Grangela/Laura/Lisa and look younger" club because I'm 55 and definitely look younger (thank you British ancestors!). I would also like to say that like many of you on here in my age range I would NOT respond to some hot/ripped young guy "sliding into my DMs" to say how much he loves me. Healthy self-esteem does not equal delusional! (Side eyeing Yolanda here...) To finish, I just want to say I will not be joining you for the live chat because when I've tried that in the past I've found I can't multi-task. I miss too much of the show and too much snark. But I look forward to joining you in the episode chats afterwards!

[Mrs. Landingham]

On 2/5/2020 at 5:08 PM, mamadrama said:

From Robert & Anny's thread...

I've had a few different television shows approach me over the years because of the books I write.  Several years ago a popular one badgered and badgered my family until we finally relented to do it. I can't publicly say which one it is, but it's a paranormal-themed one. The payment was very small, but they did provide a bunch of perks, and we thought it would be free marketing for me. I watched every episode of every season beforehand, so between that and my 2nd full-time job of watching reality TV (ha) I thought we'd be fine. Like everyone else, I'd spent years making fun of these assholes who blame "editing." 

There were two reasons why we hesitated in the first place: my family/friends and my kid. The thing about this show is that it's not just you who is involved, but your family. I had to get my mom, husband, and a few friends involved as well. The other thing was that we KNEW we'd have to talk about the death of our son and that his "storyline" would be a big part of the show. I was actually okay with this because there's a lot of misinformation out there and I thought this might be a way of opening an honest discussion of SIDS. 

Filming was actually pretty fun. The production company was cool and everyone was very nice. There was no "script". We filmed for quite a while and our meals and stuff were covered. They usually rented AirB&Bs for the people, but my house is very big and there's lots of room for them to set up their equipment. It's also very private. 

Filming wrapped up, we all hugged, and they left. I didn't know when it would air, because the new season hadn't started yet, but everyone in my town was pretty excited. And then I got the email...

People on the show don't get advanced screenings-most see the show the same time the viewers do. I knew that, it being reality TV, I wouldn't have a say in what was shown. I also knew that sometimes things are embellished or exaggerated. And, because of the subject matter, I knew there was a chance that we would all come out looking like complete morons. I was prepared for all of this. 

However, I was NOT prepared when one of the production assistants sneaked me an advanced copy (because they felt guilty, the said) and I watched them use the death of my son for over-the-top entertainment. SIDS was not mentioned. His premature birth and the seizures leading up to this death were ignored. Instead, a demon sneaked into his room in the middle of the night and killed him. Not only that, they took snippets of approximately 5 conversations between me, my mom, and my husband, and strung them altogether to make it sound like WE were the ones telling the story. I watched it, appalled, and was like, "I don't even remember saying the word 'demon'." Then we remembered during one of our lunches I had jokingly said, "I'm glad our toddler is out of the terrible twos. He was a complete demon." That's when I learned that if you're filming reality TV, you NEVER put your back to the camera. They use that opportunity for "frankenbites." This whole thing played out like a bad 80's horror movie, complete with stock music. It was awful.

There's a little bit more to it,it wasn't just that one scene but I really can't say more about it, but in the end our attorney came through and we were able to get our entire part cut out. Turns out I had a big case for defamation of character. I didn't want money, I just didn't want people sitting back and laughing about the worst thing that ever happened to us. And they would have. I know this because if I'd been watching the show, I would've laughed, too. We all would have.  We'd have loved making fun of those superstitious morons (because that's what we looked like) on this forum. 

Turns out I'm not the only person who got their part removed from the show. I did some research afterwards and found several blogs and videos about other families who said it was the worst decision they'd ever made. Wish I'd seen those first. 

That is absolutely disgusting of them. I am very sorry - for your son’s passing and for those jackasses twisting it for fantasy entertainment drivel. 

[Frozendiva]

The 'viral' Speaking Moistly.

 

[magemaud]

I was just following a cooking website on FB when I saw this post, directed to a woman who had commented on the recipe: 

"So sorry for the infringe on your privacy, it's said that A picture is worth a thousand words, but when I sew yours it was more than words could explain. The charming profile is irresistible, though a little personal message but your look tells a lot about a nice person... So I had to drop a message to the charming person with this great profile just want to know you better and be a friend or more. Hope to hear from you soon 💞

If you don't mind can you send me a friend request let's be friends for better conversations. best wishes"

So, I've got to give him credit for the inspired idea of looking for a woman on a cooking site, but how creepy is that! It just showed me how easy it would be to fool someone like Angela, Laura, Yolanda or Lisa into believing a man is interested in her. 

[renatae]

On 4/22/2020 at 2:39 PM, magemaud said:

So, I've got to give him credit for the inspired idea of looking for a woman on a cooking site, but how creepy is that! It just showed me how easy it would be to fool someone like Angela, Laura, Yolanda or Lisa into believing a man is interested in her. 

Oh, just gross! I play Words With Friends and recently have had an awful time with people initiating games with me (I'm game for that, it helps me earn points) but then after one or two moves, they put the moves on. "Hello, dear, how are you today?" My profile pic has my hubby in it with me. I can only feel they go after me because I'm, ah, "mature." So I changed my game name to add my husband's name, and that didn't help, either. So, I don't respond and just play the game and then they quit. It creeps me out.

Edited April 24, 2020 by renatae

[magemaud]

I guess they want to play “Words With More Than Friends” but it looks like they’re trolling for a more intellectual partner than Lisa, Angela or Laura  

BTW, the guy's comments were removed from the recipe. One of the targets must have reported him 

Edited April 24, 2020 by magemaud

[Gobi]

10 minutes ago, magemaud said:

I guess they want to play “Words With More Than Friends” but it looks like they’re trolling for a more intellectual partner than Lisa, Angela or Laura  

BTW, the guy's comments were removed from the recipe. One of the targets must have reported him 

Words With Friends With Benefits.

[mmecorday]

I went back to work on Friday (thank God!). I quickly realized that in an office environment it is totally inappropriate to blurt out "I believe he Williams!" apropos of nothing.

[Gobi]

sMothered is coming back? WTF!? These are truly the end times.

[AZChristian]

17 hours ago, Gobi said:

sMothered is coming back? WTF!? These are truly the end times.

Yeah.  It's not bad enough that we're all locked into our homes.  TLC puts THIS on to "entertain" us?

[MrsBug]

On 3/7/2020 at 12:20 AM, mmecorday said:

A few years ago (well, more than a few), I met a guy online from Nottinghamshire, England. We met up in, of all places, a "Buffy the Vampire Slayer" chatroom. We had a lot of private chats and one day I was telling him that someone at work was being obnoxiously forward in his advancement towards me and the UK dude said, "The next time he does that, tell him you have a boyfriend in England." I said, "I have a boyfriend in England?" And he responded, "Someone who would very much like to be your boyfriend." I paid for this guy to come to the U.S. not once, but twice. The first time was all roses, romance and wine. The second time ... not so much. When I said goodbye to him the second time that was the last time. Now he's married. I found his profile on FB. Now I am in the best relationship of my life. We met at work, we have a home and six cats we love.

   I have an online group for sewing clothing for 18' dolls. Those expensive dolls that cost hundreds of dollars for them  and their assessories.  We are just a bunch of moms and grams who like sewing and the group members creations are stunning indeed. We allow strangers to join the group. Its a very low drama group

  Well all of a sudden we noticed a huge surge of men wanting to join the group- foreign men, some who did not even speak English. WTF? Why would they want to join us, we could not figure it out. Well then it dawned on me. One of the group tags is "American Girl" which is the name of the expensive dolls. These guys were searching for American girls to woo and thought that was what our group was about  Our group members found this very amusing to have been mistaken for  a bunch of hot and  lovelorn temptresses.

 

[Gobi]

57 minutes ago, MrsBug said:

    Our group members found this very amusing to have been mistaken for  a bunch of hot and  lovelorn temptresses.

 

Oh, like you’re not, you brazen hussies!

[MrsBug]

24 minutes ago, Gobi said:

Oh, like you’re not, you brazen hussies!

  LOL, so you think we should have "brazen hussies"as one of our tags? I kinda like it. I guess the fact that we were posting pics of dolls and cats in dolls clothing must have give us away.

  Interestingly, one of the girls i became good friends with thru the group is an Australian girl. She was in a serious long term relationship with an American guy. They would see each other a few times a year. Neither could move though, as they had young teen children with an ex spouse and would not disrupt the kids lives like that, The children come first. So they do this for years and finally marry but still have to live in different countries till the kids are old enough to go off to college. They have been married for years and still going strong. 

Totally normal people who are normal and happy  and very compatible. They have been happily married for years. Its nice to know there are normal people out there who live happily ever after ( and would never agree to be on TV).

[Frozendiva]

@MrsBug, are the dolls 18 feet tall or 18 inches tall?

[MrsBug]

On 4/27/2020 at 4:48 PM, Frozendiva said:

@MrsBug, are the dolls 18 feet tall or 18 inches tall?

LMAO, that REALLY does make a difference, now doesn't it? They are most assuredly 18 inch dolls that we are sewing for. Made of hard plastic and cloth stuffed bodies,

I started noticing I had an awful lot of new friend australia who were always posting when I was. I was puzzled why that was. Then my silly self finally figured out that was because I was online all night which was daytime for them,lol.

The girl who married the American guy  and I became friends and I even sent her a surprise package  lot of american sewing goodies that she had talked about wanting.. She responded by sending me a care package of austrailia goodies. I got Milo and candy and TWO packs of Tim-Tams ( chocolate covered cookies with caramel or other things) . It was a really amazing international gift exchange. 

And now I am craving Tim-Yams! 

To an aussies here,,, Your Tim-Tams are amazing and i am always happy to see them,... But man, you spiders that are the size of volkswagen beetle scare the bejebus out of me!!

Anyways, just adding such off topic stuff to show that there are some great stories of international friendship with no scam involved. Other group members also did the same. Its a really friendly supportive group.

But ain't nobody in my sweet group gonna give up an egg for angela to tote!

 

 

 

 

[mamadrama]

I had to leave the live thread a couple of weeks ago because I was birthing puppies. I meant to share these earlier...there are seven puppies. They're all named after characters on SIREN.

[mamadrama]

Re: Laura not seeming to have the money to buy a plane ticket or not having a credit card (or having one that's maxed out). 

I've been surprised at the number of people who seem to be surprised at the idea of not having a credit card. Because my SM is set up for readers and fellow writers, my pages are a cross section of men and women of all ages from all over the world. I posted about not having a CC and here are some of the responses I received in return. These all came within the past 45 minutes. (Note: the commenters hold a variety of jobs, are of different ethnicities, and fall into different income brackets. Ha ha, and at least one of the commenters is someone from this 90 Day board.) 

It wouldn't surprise me if Laura wasn't completely maxed out. Between airfare to Ecuador and cost of living, that TLC money wouldn't have gone far. And didn't they even refuse to pay her because she broke her NDA? I honestly don't know how she's gotten by for as long as she has. 

[magemaud]

If-no make that WHEN-I fill my 90 Day Bingo Card, what will my prize be? 

[OnceSane]

6 hours ago, magemaud said:

If-no make that WHEN-I fill my 90 Day Bingo Card, what will my prize be? 

[Frozendiva]

57 minutes ago, OnceSane said:

I was expecting a huge casserole of bith phtew.

[Frozendiva]

I looked at the programming listings for the show:

Sunday Tell All Part 1 - Two hours, Pillow Talk an hour later (3 hours)

Monday Tell All Part 2 - One hour, the season premiere of The Other Way (2 hours) and Pillow Talk right after.

 

[ALittleShelfish]

1 minute ago, Frozendiva said:

I looked at the programming listings for the show:

Sunday Tell All Part 1 - Two hours, Pillow Talk an hour later (3 hours)

Monday Tell All Part 2 - One hour, the season premiere of The Other Way (2 hours) and Pillow Talk right after.

 

Whew. That's a LOT of 90DF in 48 hours.  😳

[Frozendiva]

I have no idea if there will be a Pillow Talk for Part 2 of the Tell-All.

[Leilani]

21 hours ago, Frozendiva said:

I have no idea if there will be a Pillow Talk for Part 2 of the Tell-All.

Xfinity scheduling has PILLOW TALK for PART and Par 2.

[Frozendiva]

Maybe it'll be next Sunday? I only looked at this Sunday and Monday.

[watchingtvaddict]

On 5/24/2020 at 9:29 AM, mamadrama said:

Re: Laura not seeming to have the money to buy a plane ticket or not having a credit card (or having one that's maxed out). 

I've been surprised at the number of people who seem to be surprised at the idea of not having a credit card. Because my SM is set up for readers and fellow writers, my pages are a cross section of men and women of all ages from all over the world. I posted about not having a CC and here are some of the responses I received in return. These all came within the past 45 minutes. (Note: the commenters hold a variety of jobs, are of different ethnicities, and fall into different income brackets. Ha ha, and at least one of the commenters is someone from this 90 Day board.) 

It wouldn't surprise me if Laura wasn't completely maxed out. Between airfare to Ecuador and cost of living, that TLC money wouldn't have gone far. And didn't they even refuse to pay her because she broke her NDA? I honestly don't know how she's gotten by for as long as she has. 

In Korea, the default is to pay off your credit card every month... and it’s linked to a bank account so payment is automatic. I use my credit card like a debit card and I like the protection a credit card gives me because if someone steals my details (I have to pay for a lot of things online and prepaid cards aren’t a thing here) I’m protected. The credit card company cares about their money a lot more than banks do about yours if and when your card details get stolen 🙃

[magemaud]

I found this 2006 article about the IMBRA laws back when they went into effect: https://www.nytimes.com/2006/10/17/us/17brides.html

[Kayz Opinion]

Have to subscribe to NYTimes online to read this ?

 

[itsadryheat]

6 hours ago, Kayz Opinion said:

Have to subscribe to NYTimes online to read this ?

 

not for me. duckduckgo browser

[Auntie Anxiety]

3 minutes ago, itsadryheat said:

not for me. duckduckgo browser

I love DuckDuckGo. Not bothered by ads generated by Goog.

[Christina]

10 hours ago, magemaud said:

I found this 2006 article about the IMBRA laws back when they went into effect: https://www.nytimes.com/2006/10/17/us/17brides.html

Cut and paste for the people who cannot read it - under spoiler for length, even though it's not very long:

Spoiler

PALM COAST, Fla. — Adam Weaver thought everything was set to bring his Colombian fiancée, Yesenia Meza, to the United States.

But Mr. Weaver did not count on being hindered by a Congressional effort intended to protect women from potential abuse by American men who seek brides from other countries on the Internet. In June, the federal immigration service froze 10,000 visa applications for foreign fiancées because they did not conform with a law that went into effect in March.

Mr. Weaver and Ms. Meza, who were expecting to be together here by now, were caught in the net.

“Smuggling a ton of cocaine into this country,” Mr. Weaver fumed, “is probably easier than bringing your fiancée.”

The law, known as the International Marriage Broker Regulation Act, or Imbra, is intended to give foreign women and the American government more information about the men who seek so-called mail-order brides.

“This is an unequal partnership where you have somebody dependent on somebody else in a profound way,” said Senator Sam Brownback, Republican of Kansas, who was a leading sponsor of the law. “It puts women at a significant disadvantage, in a potentially violent situation.”

Reports of violence in international marriages, some of them Internet matches, have increased in recent years. In 1998, fewer than 2,500 foreign women applied to become permanent residents under the Violence Against Women Act, which allows abused wives to apply for residence without the support of their husbands. In the fiscal year that ended in September, 9,500 applied.

The new law has angered many men, who argue that there is no definitive evidence that violence is more likely to take place in an international marriage arranged over the Internet than in a domestic one. Unwilling or unable to find a spouse in the United States, some worry that the law could make it more difficult to find a wife abroad.

“We should have the right to correspond with, date and marry the person of our choosing,” said David Root, who has been involved with many women from the former Soviet Union in the past decade but has not married any of them. “The government shouldn’t interfere in this.”

Helped by the Internet, international matchmaking has mushroomed. In 1999, a report by the immigration service found some 200 international dating agencies in the United States. A study in 2004 found 500.

The immigration service said 37,500 women entered the country last year on fiancée visas or temporary visas for spouses of American citizens. That was a 50 percent increase from 2002, when the temporary spouse visa came into existence, and a fourfold increase over the 9,500 women who entered on fiancée visas in 1998. Estimates based on the 1999 government report suggested that one-third to one-half of these visas were for women who had met their American partners through matchmaking brokers.

Under Imbra, dating agencies that specialize in matching American men with women overseas must first obtain information about a man’s criminal record and marital history, relay it to the woman and then get her consent before disclosing her contact information. Men must also provide this information to the government when applying for a fiancée visa. Generally, applicants have a lifetime visa limit of two foreign fiancées.

Web sites offer men in affluent countries contacts with women from just about everywhere in the developing world; Brazil, Colombia, the Philippines, Russia, Ukraine and Vietnam are among the most popular countries.

The businesses vary in their approaches. Russianladies.com, owned by European Connections, based in Georgia, charges men for membership and requires a fee for sending and receiving e-mail messages. Two others, A Foreign Affair and Filipina Ladies, organize trips to places like Bangkok, where a dozen men may meet several hundred women.

“It all started with women’s lib,” said Sam Smith, a former salesman of insurance and mutual funds, who founded I Love Latins in Houston six years ago. “Guys are sick and tired of the North American me, me, me attitude.’ ”

Mr. Smith and others in the industry said most clients were middle-aged and middle-class, and able to spend several thousand dollars courting a woman overseas. Seventy percent of Mr. Smith’s clients are divorced, he said.

Image

Adam Weaver met his Colombian fiancée, Yesenia Meza, over the Internet last year, but his application for a visa to bring her to the United States has been held up. Credit...Oscar Sosa for The New York Times

Mr. Weaver, a 40-year-old construction manager, had almost given up on dating after a two-year marriage and a strained six-year relationship with a mother of three, which ended when she left him “for a younger man who liked to dance.”

At his age, Mr. Weaver figured, the only American women who would be interested in him would be divorced, with a former husband and children in the background. “Been there, done that, not going back again,” he said.

Moreover, he said, American women are self-centered, competitive and too critical. “I would prefer a more old-fashioned girl,” he said.

Last year, he found Ms. Meza, a Colombian 17 years his junior, on the I Love Latins Web site. “Her profile,” he wrote in an e-mail message, “was one of the only ones that said, ‘I want to know a man who knows about God.’ ”

Mr. Weaver bought Ms. Meza a computer, a digital camera and a high-speed connection so they could talk every day by Internet phone. He sends her money on occasion, paying for her English and driving lessons. In September, he visited Ms. Meza in Colombia for the third time.

“My relationship with Yesenia,” he said, “is real and more valid than anything I ever had in my life.”

Ms. Meza also says she is eager to start her life with Mr. Weaver. “In Colombia most men are womanizers and want to dominate women,” she said in a telephone interview. “I want a loving man who will treat me like a queen.”

So far, however, they have not cleared immigration. A spokesman for the immigration service said that most of the backlogged visa applications frozen in June had been processed.

“Innocent people are being punished by a law aimed at the misdeeds of a few,” Mr. Weaver said. The only time he was ever involved in a violent episode, he said, was a barroom brawl some 20 years ago.

Supporters of the law insist they are not trying to stop marriages between American men and foreign women but say the women should be informed about what they are getting into.

Seeking a woman on some matchmaking sites is not unlike shopping at Amazon.com. The sites often allow men to search for women by age, weight, height, religion and command of English, among other characteristics. And they frequently market the women as untouched by modern American culture.

Russianladies.com states, “Russian ladies are traditional, unpretentious, down-to-earth, and their views of relationships have not been ruined by unreasonable expectations.” BarranquillasBest.com offers tips on how to prevent foreign brides from becoming “Americanized.”

Randall Miller, a lawyer in Washington who has represented abused women, said such depictions were an invitation to violence.

“The guy doesn’t have to be a predator,” Mr. Miller said. “He wants to be the king of the house and buys into the promotional claim that he can get a more traditional woman in Russia — she will cook dinner and have sex and otherwise shut up. And he is taken aback when the woman is outspoken and has opinions and wants to get a job.”

Two matchmaking companies have sought to block the law in court.

Mr. Weaver, for all his exasperation over the wait, acknowledges that providing the extra information required by the law may be warranted. So does Ms. Meza. But they do not see why they should have to suffer in the meantime.

“If men are investigated it will be good for all women,” Ms. Meza said. “But when you are in love and want to go there, you get desperate.”