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Author Topic: He Who Travels the Fastest Travels Alone Part I, I.5, and II  (Read 515 times)

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Offline Novack

He Who Travels the Fastest Travels Alone Part I, I.5, and II
« on: September 22, 2019, 12:23:25 AM »

“Do you hear anything I’m saying?”

He didn’t.

“No, of course you don’t.”

Of course he didn’t.

Honestly, the woman knew better, though, she continued to carry on--in typical fashion.

Novack groaned through grit teeth,  nodded, and watched her lips as carefully as he could with all intention of reading her lips with the utmost skill.

(Which he did not have.)

“Roman,” the woman spake. She put her hand upon her temple for balance as she glared up at her ward. Airpods plugged his ears. A quick glance at the foot that tapped the floor. Yes, Roman, was in fact lost in his muse.

Oh well, I roam from town to town
I go through life without a care
And I'm as happy as a clown
I with my two fists of iron but I'm going nowhere

Roman rolled the coin across his knuckles. Ignoring the woman was never intentional. Often he would be so lost in the music that he’d forget she had even caught his attention. Pretending was useless--she knew it as well as he did--and neither dared budge on their front.

So, the woman, continued to talk--and Roman continued to listen to Jr. Walker and feign interest in everything he could not actually hear her say.

“Honestly--at this point, I don’t know why I even send Barrett after you,” the woman complained. As if summoning the man from thin air, her companion, Barrett Waldrop, joined them. Much to the woman’s annoyance, Roman removed the buds upon noticing the other man’s arrival.

“For God’s sake, Roman,” she bitched. “Barrett--you have my tea?”

He did have her tea, and he was quick to place it atop her desk.

“My hero,” she said as thanks. He could hear the exhasberation in her voice.

“Aren’t you both quite tired of that game?” Barrett asked. He certainly was tired of it.

“I was listening,” Novack replied as he fidgeted with the coin more. It slipped over the flesh of his hand in such a fluid motion it was almost effortless on his part.

“You weren’t,” Barrett chuckled. “--but I appreciate your commitment to the lie, young master.”

Novack rolled his eyes and trotted across the room to collapse on the cleopatra chaise. “Don’t call me that--I don’t appreciate your commitment to the roll of my dutiful servant.”

The older gentleman did not reply as he instead looked to his employer and shared a silent laugh at Roman’s expense.

“You could have donated to the charity,” said Novack as he cut his eyes toward her. “Nadia.”

“I believe you’ve been more than generous with your donation,” Nadia Volkov spat back at her ward.

“For a good cause,” Roman boasted.

“For a pretty face,” the woman corrected him, her voice flat and perturbed. “Whatever nonsense you’re calling this good deed, Roman, don’t let it distract you from the real reason you’re schmoozing.

“Image is everything.” He recited her mantra with such eloquence and distaste. He scowled as Volkov stood from her desk. She placed the tea she had been neglecting atop the mahogany and rounded the corner. Her bleached blond hair offset this weeks botox injection nicely. Kovack made a mental note to compliment her appearance at a later time.

“You have trained for this for a very long time, Romonchka,” Nadia states. Her hands rest atop his shoulders, and he could tell she was genuinely concerned about his approach to starting in Kings Road. This is a different level of prize fighting--you’re taking home more than little trophies for the cabinet in the den.”

Novack rolled his eyes. While the woman did have a sort of contractual obligation to act as a guardian in his life--his grandfather’s mistress had barely been older than his babysitter when she moved into the Novack beach house in the Hamptons.

Roman had his inheritance--Nadia Volkov had her Russian beauty queen fame and men that would move mountains to take her home.

“Need not worry about me,” Roman boasted with the broadest of grins and puffed chest. “I am made of wit and steel.” That he did believe wholeheartedly. “You’ll see me in action in no time, toots.”

The sarcasm dripped from her pouty lips.  “I can hardly contain myself. Have Barrett put you up in Vegas for the next week. I have business to attend, and I won’t have you lingering about Atlantic City on your own. It’s summer after all.”

“The local cuisine bores me,” Roman said smugly.

Nadia rolled her eyes and returned to her desk. She lifted a brown paper package wrapped with twine and gave it to Novack.

“Happy Birthday, Romonchka,” said Nadia, her warmth radiating with the softness in her voice.

“My birthday’s over a week away.” He was confused.

“Just open it,” she replied, and, so, he did. Beneath the simple packaging was a hand stitched leather journal with crip, thick ivory pages, and a leather hide tie for latching. It was unbelievably soft and smelled as heavily of leather as the boot stores his grandfather would have him visit. Roman moved the book closer to his nose for a better sniff, and the memory carried him back decades. Leather and cherry--like pipe tobacco. Just like Pop.

“I don’t know what to say,” Roman mumbled. The memory was a bit more than for what he was prepared. Baby blue eyes lined with the glassy shine of tears. She wrapped her arms around his shoulders and hugged herself against him.

“For your memoires,” she replied. “I have an event in Milan I cannot miss. Treat yourself to a wonderful ten days on my behalf--hm? When I get back we will celebrate.”

Novack caressed the texture of the leather with a gentle glide of his fingertips across it as if tracing the detail to memory. “I’ll be at the Bellagio,” Roman muttered. He glanced away from the book now that he had composed himself. “Send a postcard, won’t you?”

The woman did not reply. She only cut her eyes at him, fought at hiding that pretty grin of hers, and spun off on her heels. Novack fiddled with the Airpods and returned them to his ears. Book in hand and music restarted--he retired to his room. Roman set the book with the gentlest ease atop his nightstand and fetched the instrument case where he had it propped against his bedroom wall. The metal latches rattled as he popped them open. Inside the case was the glistening Yamaha Custom saxophone his grandfather had given him in fourth grade when he told him he wanted to blow just like Charlie Parker in All the Things You Are.

And Aleksy Novack had been the boys beatnik father. Piotr oft thought the nature to be genetic. Like father--like son. Songs are just music with poetry, his father would say. Then Aleksy would set Roman down and they would tickle the ivories and harmonize over Climb Every Mountain because that was Audrey’s favorite song from the musical.

But it all ended so quickly. Roman shook his head and fetched the orange, plastic medicine bottle also atop the night stand. A dry swallow, but he tossed back a dose and returned back to admiring his brass.

Life was no longer going to be just hole in the wall jazz sessions and fancy card shuffling. No, Novack had to set the playboy aside and commit to the cause. After all, this was the only thing he didn’t have. Having the obtainable--pure clarity of purpose--and what a feeling.


The lid clinked as he fastened the latches back to the case then propped it back against the wall. He checked a notification on his watch then fetched the Italian leather suitcase the woman had given him for Christmas last year. She loved her furs and hides.

Years of having had Nadia Volkov as an au pair had ingrained a subconscious need to be presentable and prepared for absolutely any emergency of fashion. All of her years of starving herself for modeling had left her with a sense of self importance in regards to keeping up appearances.

He had formal wear for dinner--casual for breakfast--swimwear--sleepwear--undergarments--three suits for clubwear--three pairs of shoes--athletic wear for the casino gymnasium--and normal, daily attire.

His luggage was basically a mobile wardrobe. It was absolutely the type of manicured habit and effeminate trait on which people enjoyed harping. Of course, when you needed for nothing--petty bullying by lesser people was hardly akin to that of a gnat buzzing about his face. Thus Roman the human doll lived his life the Romanest of ways.

 His coin. A simple, ordinary, weathered 1982 quarter. Other than being from the year Novack was born--the coin held no significance whatsoever--but yet he’d held onto this exact quarter for as far back as he could remember.

Some people immediately would cry foul. How could someone be so anal that they would keep track of an unimportant coin for an eternity? The reasoning was simple--because Roman was that anal over detail. (And because he’s almost certain Barrett had replaced the coin on numerous occasions as it was very unlikely Roman had kept track of it for this long.)

There was strong desire within him to say to hell with the luggage and pick out an entirely new selection once he arrived in Nevada. Nonetheless, He glanced over his belongings and mentally checked off every important item from toiletry to phone charger. And after he had checked his list more times than Jolly Saint Nick--Roman collapsed atop his king sized bed and breathed in the stale aroma of nothing and perfume that wafted from the silk bedspread.

Only the best. The best of the best.

“Alexa, play lofi jazz,” he ordered and the device chatted back to him with her bold female pleasantness to dutifully provide him with relaxation.

He could feel himself drifting off as the blanket absorbed him with its smooth texture. Like dry water. The finest tread from the most giving worm. He believed that silk was what the angels felt like if you could in fact touch them.

All that was left now was him and his eternal muse--pooling the words into a neat pile of thought. He could write short stanzas forever. But a book--Nadia had more faith in him that he had realized.

Every distraction was welcome. He sat back up and looked to the glass case where such trophies as she had teased him about existed. Belt in this--second place in that. Good--but never exceptional. Something he never had.

A man of many vices. Wasn’t that how he always painted himself to be? He thought of the ones he’d met so far. All very pretty--all very different. None of them as intriguing as--. He chuckled and rested his head in his hands. He hadn’t done much at all today, yet he felt positively drained, and he wondered if this was the infamous fatigue you often heard of that plagued celebrities and landed them in rehabilitation facilities.

Was he going to burn up or fade away?

Three licks per mister owl--and that was that. Pop said always bet red--Roman never knew why but he abided daydreaming that his grandfather’s fondness for the color as his go to for betting was a the color of the hair of the woman he had loved and lost a lifetime ago.

Roman, you fucking romantic. A real Don Juan DeMarco he was.

A nagging sensation to write would have been a blessing, however, he was cursed with absolute obsession currently of an entirely new work of art. It was upsetting.

How could such earthly perfection exist? Was this the great inspiration the greats before him had found on their own--such otherworldly beauty. It was absolutely ethereal.

The charity. The present backhanded him into the matter at hand. The charity was due to happen on June 15th. His birthday was June 15th.

How insanely coincidental given he had donated his time for charity. After all, who wouldn’t want to gamble away on the dime of an old money heir playboy with piercing blue eyes.

The blue eyed devil.

Who, in fact, was more correctly to be called the blue eyed show pony.

An entertainer who had been taught an assortment of skills as he matured. If anything, Nadia had molded him into the debonair man he had become.

Roman smirked and found that loose deck of cards he kept on hand for fidgeting. Between shuffling and flipping his coin, he had ample ways to keep himself busy.

(As he shuffled, he would think on the running joke that was him being some sort of magician and how appropriate it was that he had learned a few card tricks coming up.

Poppa Piotr loved illusionists. Houdini his most favorite. Escape artistry. Sheer brilliance in selling point with a devastatingly high cost. Pop would nag about the importance of the selling point endlessly.

What he would not give to have that lecture once again.

The playing cards bent with the manipulation of his his fingers and shot them from his right hand to his left with a ssssttthhhh noise.

Kings Road had a reputation for being full of the brightest and most sought after talent on the market. There were respected, accomplished names that had walked 4cw and there were unforgettable characters as well.

Burning at both ends would be the living end.

He could see the headlines now Playboy and Philanthropist Takes Wrestling World By Surprise, because who would believe dashing-in-Dolce had a mean left hook.

All that meticulous training and meditation--he wondered if Volkov had her thoughts on shipping him off to a Tibetan monastery to learn any ancient arts of combat. (She had forced him into other such precocious extracurricular activities after all.) What a time to be alive.

« Last Edit: September 22, 2019, 12:47:05 AM by Novack »

Offline Novack

Re: He Who Travels the Fastest Travels Alone Part I, I.5 and II
« Reply #1 on: September 22, 2019, 12:24:42 AM »

“Romochka.” Her voice was like velvet and sweet, honey bourbon. Her lips were the color of her favorite cabernet sauvignon--and the dress she wore revealed far more than he liked. “Come.”

Roman felt frozen in place--his legs unable to follow her command much to her disapproval.

“Romochka--come,” she commanded once again. This time he felt himself gravitate towards her despite his mental objection to do so. His body moved by muscle memory to her beckon, and soon, he was uncomfortably close to her. The aroma of jasmine and wafted from her neck and bosom. Nadia’s hands cupped him by the cheeks, and she stroked his beard with the edges of her thumbs. “Good boy.”

His heart beat louder than the drums that played for the dragon dancers--his body feverish with the desire to take her by the neck and--.

“Young master?” Barrett Waldrop’s voice was the beacon he needed in the dark night to lure him back to reality. Novack’s eyes cut to the other man, and he frowned at him. “You were gone for a moment.”

Too long to be exact.

“No, young master,” Roman grumbled as he rose from the taupe, leather chair and made his way quickly to the penthouse’s bar. He poured a generously large tumbler of Kwei Chow baijiu that Nadia had requested for the room. He could feel Barrett’s eyes burrowing disapprovingly into the back of his head like two brown, aged termites. “No--old master--no master at all. Just me.”

“An impossible habit to break,” Waldrop replied with a chuckle. “You were still in primary school when I first came to work for your grandfather.”

The alcohol was more potent than he expected and caused him to wince upon taste. “Gyuh—That will put hair on your chest.” He lifted a few cubes of ice with metal tongs from the insulated ice bucket and dropped them into his glass. “You’ve been with my family for—twenty-seven years now?”

“Twenty-six,” Barrett corrected. “I’ve watched you mature into quite the gentleman.”

Roman laughed, “You must have stories upon stories to tell.”

“I have a fair share,” Barrett replied with the type of warm, grandfatherly smile Roman had loved about Pop Piotr. “You were a bit of a scamp.”

“Only a bit?” Nadia. Wasn’t she lovely in her champagne colored sequined Tadashi Shoji dress with the blouson waist. It cut tastefully low and lewdly high. Barrett greeted his employer while Roman slid his hand into the pocket of his slacks to retrieve his coin.

“I wanted to give the lad a fair grounding,” Barrett replied. Nadia kissed the older gentleman’s cheek and handed him an envelope that Roman assumed could be full of quite suspicious things as part  of the woman’s nefarious schemes. Likely--it was money for something that she didn’t bother giving attention and now had to throw money at it to make it disappear. Forgotten gift--missed meeting with one of her sugar boardies.

His pet name for the men she sat alongside when they decided to let her take up Roman’s position in the holdings. Banking--realty--insurance. Money was in money. Munitions and bonds during the war. Invest back into it--wham--bam--(but mostly a lot of bootlegging) thank you, ma’am.

Those brown eyes of hers were quite haunting when they needed to be. He felt that thick awkwardness radiate from her very presence, and he shuddered.

“Congratulations, Romochka,” Nadia said. His lips drew into a smile, and he nodded. “I’m quite impressed with your performance. I knew you’d play to the crowd--and you did not disappoint in that. Charisma makes a memorable performance. The showman.”

He twirled his wrists in a showy manner and bowed. If he was anything--he was definitely a Novack man. Fools. All of them. It was painful to look at him sometimes, however. He reminded her far too much of his father--Aleksy.

“You’re going to love the next weekend I have planned for us,” the woman continued, pressing the painful reflection from her mind. He’d occasionally caught the glint in her eyes in the past where she had accidentally reflected on something that hit a nerve reminding him that the rock solid diva was also quite fragile as well. A porcelain doll.

“I’m busy,” Roman replied coldly.

“Whatever it is can wait,” Nadia retorted while slipping past him to fetch her own drink. Roman turned to track her movement as he’d hoped to see the dagger coming before she had had the chance to plunge it into his back. “We have dinner in two hours with Li Jun Xie--and I do believe he is bringing his daughter.

Ah, there it was--the true reason she’d had him tag along--to babysit the daughter of one of her would be business associates.

“Poor girl,” Roman muttered much to Nadia’s displeasure.

“You will be a perfect delight tonight,” Nadia commanded. “We’re guests in their home and their country after all. Once I have secured Zhoung account--you’re free to galavant off wherever with whomever you please.

He agonized.

“I ask very little of you, Romochka,” Nadia Volkov said to him.

This was a lie. In fact, Roman felt she asked quite a lot of him, especially as of late.

“Fine,” he sighed. Nadia rattled off something about his clothes in his room that he only half acknowledged before she strolled off to drink and pamper herself until the dinner date leaving Novack to his lonesome. He stared out the floor length windows of their suite to study the city below and thought of how long it would take a man’s heart to stop from the sheer terror of falling from this height to the pavement below. Only a greasy, broken smear would be left of a man—or woman.

« Last Edit: September 22, 2019, 12:46:51 AM by Novack »

Offline Novack

Re: He Who Travels the Fastest Travels Alone Part I and II
« Reply #2 on: September 22, 2019, 12:28:04 AM »

“Are you happy now?”

Nadia’s expression was off putting; even more so, her tone.

“Very,” Novack replied. Bright blue, devil eyes refused to submit to her scowl. She could smack the smugness from his face easily.

“And?” Nadia asked.

“She’s perfect,” he replied, complete with dramatic eye roll and slump deeper into the cleopatra chaise. “A business woman. The definition of class and sultry. A platinum babe.”

The woman fixed a neat whiskey for them both and sat at the polished, ebony baby grand. “Networking for business or pleasure?”

He chuckled. “Why limit myself with one of the other? The world is my oyster.”

The woman was always so judgmental. Type casting him in the role he played too well.

“You’re allergic to molluscs,” Nadia smarted, the cool smirk on her face taunting him from across the room.

“I want to see Xie again,” he stated. Nadia paused mid drink and cut her eyes sharply to him.

“Oh?” she replied. He had her attention.

“It could come in handy,” Roman replied as he dug his hand into the pocket of his navy slacks in search of his phone. Pulling the device from his pocket, he quickly jumped to his playlist and began his scroll.

The ice melted slowly, watering the godawful and pretentious taste she had in alcohol down perfectly for him to gulp down quickly.

“Plan on having many sword fights in the ring?”she questioned him.

He rolled his eyes.

“I think I’ll learn capoeira when we go to Brazil as well.” He was dismissing her completely now. Whose words best spoke to his soul?

“Do you plan on having this much free time?” Nadia asked.

He did.

“I do.”

“When you’re not sneaking off with trash?”

That was cold. True but cold. Even Maxx had used the word earlier. Responding would only give her the satisfaction of striking an exposed nerve.

“You have an appointment tomorrow to be checked,” the woman said coldly as she crossed her legs at the ankles. The way a lady should in a dress she had always said.

“For?” Roman asked, though he cared not really the answer.

“A wellness check,” Nadia replied. She smirked. Oh, did she smirk. He sat up immediately and made eye contact with her.


“Lying with dogs gives you fleas, Romochka. Doctor Sadat will give you a physical as well as run you for any nasty diseases you could have picked up from this girl as well as any nasty substances you could be putting in your body.”

Internally, he fumed. She was having him tested, like an animal—like a criminal.

“Bit much even for you,” Roman mumbled. He sank back into the purple plush seat and sulked.

“Tell me about the other—.”

He didn’t feel like conversing anymore, and pressed play on a random song that began blaring over her words.

The woman grumped the way she always grumped and stood. She poured another drink, and he finally had his out of anger. Exposed nerves.

“Xie will be hard to reach for a while!” Nadia shouted over his music. “Out of country on holiday but I will put in a word.”

He politely lowered the volume so she didn’t have to shout and rolled on to his side to watch her strut about in her peacock like manner.

Showboating and gloating for her small victory. God, he loathed her. Visions of his hands and her neck—.

“You’re wrinkling that new suit,” she bitched.

Could you blame him?

“You let me get hit in the face but you’re worried about my suit?” He laughed.

“I don’t let you do anything,” she replied.

That was truer than true.

“If you’re getting hit in the face, Romochka, that is your fault for not dodging,” she said with her usual condescending manner.

He wanted to choke down another several ounces of raw whiskey to numb her out completely, but he remained limp atop the chaise propped on one elbow watching her skirt about the room.

Like a snake she slithered from the crystal tumblers and decanter to the perfectly polished bench of the piano. Her ass swished dramatically as she walked in a manner he assumed she had carefully adopted from some classic silver screen bombshell long forgotten by time.

He imagined for a moment how pleasant her head would look stuffed with sawdust and lifeless glass eyes against a cherry wood plaque. Perfectly capturing her resting smugness for eternity on the wall of some esteemed English gentleman with a deep passion for trophy hunting.

He thought of her lifeless and as flat as pizza dough—just a rug of suntanned skin stitched to a Neiman-Marcus gown stretched out before a blazing fire.

Imagination was getting the best of him by the moment the idea of her being locked forever in a filthy asylum began creeping into his mind. She’d rattled off more excuses as to why she behaved so protectively towards her younger ward.

“You are a man now,” Nadia Volkov said, but the cackle that erupted from Novack cut her short. She fumed as he wiped at faux tears.

“My God do you hear yourself sometimes?” Roman choked out through fits of laughter. “As if I’ve come into puberty only a day ago.” She was the very definition of the delusional wealthy woman that oppressed the men in her life to the point of matricide. (If she had been his mother, that was, of course.)

Novack cursed his father’s name beneath his breath for ever bringing the woman into his life. He cursed his grandfather for adding her as his guardian in the final days of Pop Piotr’s life, and he cursed his mother for being more in love with the soporific effects of her pill cocktails than his father—the very act that had cost her her life and driven her husband into the arms of the au pair.

“—it would do you well to seek out Ishmael to discuss continued training now that you are accommodating more opportunities for business. I certainly don’t want to see all of Kroll’s hard work dissipate because you were ill prepared.”

Novack had only caught the tail end of her sentence and forced a thin smile that oddly resembled the false enthusiasm of a yellow smiley sticker. Such an iconic little image that many happily plastered on their media posts—and teachers plopped atop graded papers. That little yellow bastard and his grin which always left Roman feeling as if he was being taunted. (As if by non verbally expressing condescension through its beady black eyes and curved line smile.)

“Ill prepared,” he repeated. “Kroll.” He and the Israeli had not spoken in some time. It would be good to see an old friend, Roman thought.

“I’m certain he has the time now that he’s gone civilian.”

Civilian? Had it been that long? He thought for sure Kroll would have left the Israeli defense force for a position in Mossad, but he seemed to sit corrected.

“Civilian?”  The world just didn’t make sense even saying it aloud.

“It would do you good to keep up with the people in your network, Roman,” Nadia said coldly. “Ish has been out of duty for some time. He’s taken a young bride as well—newly pregnant I hear.”

He grunted a response—the sort of gurgle of disbelief one makes when at a loss of words. He wondered for one brief moment if life did really pass you by when you’re unintentionally wasting it away.

“If its a problem,” he rattled out but the words died in the air almost instantly as he thought of how oblivious he had been to the changes around him. “Call Natalia.”

“No,” Nadia curtly said. ”I won’t have you harassing Ms. Tal for your silly hobbies.”

He shrugged and stood, feeling the very light effects of the drink warm him. He could stand several more. Novack crossed the room to where her decanter set atop the bar and fixed himself a knock of it.

He reflected on the last moment he and Ish Kroll had spent in one another’s company. They’d finished an intense week of combat training with a large jug of sangria Ishmael had acquired from a Spanish beauty. They poured glasses of punch down their gullets and discussed neoclassical literature from Paradise Lost to Gulliver's Travels.

And when the sun began to rise in the next day sky, the two drunken fools stumbled to their respective rooms and passed out for nearly a day.

It all seemed a lifetime ago now.

“Whom would you have me harass then?” Roman asked as he pressed his fingers to his forehead and massaged between his eyes. He could feel the onset of a migraine--or was the alcohol foreshadowing a hangover?

“The man--the one you’ve spoken about--did he agree to work with you?” Nadia’s interest was alarming, but he answered with a simple yes. He glanced at the time on his watch and sighed.

 “I should go,” Roman mumbled. “I have work to do.”

Nadia scoffed and cut her eyes towards him. The smug look on her face spoke volumes. She had  beaten him down. He said nothing else to her and departed for his room to change suits. The only objective he had was to drown his frustration in poker and whiskey.

He played cards badly that night.


Something to be said about sure thing deals. Feel like I’ve said this before. Maybe several times, but it’s likely fallen on deaf ears. About like everything else I have said since popping up in this sport.

People pay very little attention to those who speak softly whether they carry a big stick or not.

A man who would rather lose himself in the pages of literature than dispute whose flaccid cock swings the lowest is a man disregarded.

Mark Twain said, “it’s not the size of the dog in the fight but the size of the fight in the dog.” 

By this statement alone I could stand, but that saying about living on bread and water—well, you know the drill.

Losing’s no skin off my back. I can take the fall with dignity, dust myself off, and climb right back up on that ladder.

Ladders are meant to be climbed, not kicked. Even Jacob’s never ending ladder to heaven leaves promise of ascension to a divine greatness.

And what is greatness but an ideal we place on the works of others?

This entire business is utterly fascinating.

Brodie is the type that holds a peculiar allure—I know this will be no easy fight. I can only hope to survive and walk away with a better understanding of what she wants when she sees me.

Never been one to refuse a woman what she desires, even if it means dragging me to hell. Oh, how sweet the climb will be from the pits of brimstone and fire to glory. Almost—poetic.
« Last Edit: September 22, 2019, 12:46:40 AM by Novack »