Note: Hello, Troublesome-monkey-dono signing in.

So, this is my first Shameless fanfic. I have always been a fan of this show, but I never thought I would ever make a fanfic out of it. I apologize if the characters may seem far from their show personalities. I technically haven't touched anything Shameless since season five. However, I couldn't sleep because this idea kept popping up in my head and I just had to write it all down. Read, Review and Enjoy.

Disclaimer : I am a poor college student who barely owns a workable laptop. I do not own this show or any of it's affiliated characters.

Summary: Following Mickey Milkovich and all his numerous brushes with Death.

Chapter One: Year One

In all of his millennium of existence, he has never quite met anything like the walking conundrum that is Mikhailo "Mickey" Aleksandr Milkovich. He is a curious boy – man – who has brushed the frayed edges of death far too many times for it to be considered remotely 'normal' considering his youthful age. He considers seriously labeling the walking death magnet suicidal for a long moment before rejecting the label simply because the definition didn't even begin to describe Mickey. Mickey didn't actively look for reasons to end his life. He didn't actively choose to call upon the depth of the beyond for him to rush forward when he feels Mickey's string of life tighten taut as though it could snap at any moment. He certainly wasn't actively yearning to end his own life at all. Yet he calls for him many many many times.

Mickey's call is unique, as are all the calls of souls he reaps. A boy – excuse him, a man – as brash as he would often have such a brass sounding call, something explosive and expressive. Yet, Mickey's is a silent sigh, a word in fact, that is whispered and garbled so gently he sometimes doesn't hear it through the void of signals he picks through. He's developed a sense for it now, sharpening his senses, attuned to this particular boy's call. He always beckons, always calls. It is exhausting sometimes, how often he calls. He calls too much.

But he is Death, personified – at least figuratively. He's not quite sure what he is really. He is an ancient thing, he knows, but he has given up all sense of figuring out what he is. He lets the souls paint his face, paint his personality, paint him to a figure they can recognize. He doesn't particularly mind what they think of him. In the end, he has one job. He answers their calls.

He meets Mickey very early into his youth. Far too early, he surmises with a tsk. Far far far too early when Mickey is a growing thing still figuring out how to grow enough cells so he may escape at the acceptable rate and time. When he hears his call, he's almost bemused by it. It is neither loud nor soft, but a chime so fast he almost doubts himself for a moment. Did I really hear that? But his gut tells him to go, to answer this call. Let's go see our particular caller.

So he goes, jumping through the void only to land in a dreary, drab, dirty place. He almost purses his lip for a moment. This is not a nice place. The room is dark, windows covered in a dingy curtain that looked like it was salvaged from the garbage. The room smelled of alcohol, piss and a body odor so fierce he would have turned away had there not been a call at stake. He prefers visiting okay places – sterilized rooms, homely walls, and such. But he can't afford to be picky. At least not when the hears the whispered garble much louder now, hissing from the next room.

He is greeted with a not so pretty sight. He spots a lithe thing, curled in the floor silently weeping. She's very little, skin clinging into bones so tightly he can almost call her emaciated. She shuffles for a moment, skinny shaking arms pressing defiantly against the ground as she wills herself upward. Except, she lacks the strength and practically falls back down in a pitiful heap. She tries again, only for a moment before admitting defeat and letting out a low sob in response.

"Oh my dear," he croons as he stands close, "what happened to you?" He doesn't expect her to reply. They never reply. It's not like they could really see or hear him, right?

Still, she sniffles in reply and finally lifts her face away from her shaking pale arms for him to examine her face. She's beautiful. Tragically beautiful. And so very, very young. He spies sunken crystal blue eyes, shining with prickling tears. He spots strong, prominent cheek bones, a fine nose and beautifully plump lips. And he spies bruises and blood peppering her face, marring her beauty. So, it's this kind of call isn't it?

With a sigh, he strides forward to examine her, noting that she was almost naked, dressed in a destroyed tank top and shredded shorts that looks as if it were hanging on threads around her curled form. Her neck and shoulders is a piece of work – reddish and swollen, turning a impressive purple and blue. He's not as keen on mapping other injuries that she may sport. He's seen this case before. Far too much really. It's never pretty. It's never easy. And she made a call.

"...Iggy," she calls startling him out of his momentary stupor. Her voice is strained, over used and gritty. He watches her swallow dry for a moment, wincing as she struggled from her position before bellowing out a louder yell. "Iggy!" Iggy? What a curious thing to yell at the cusps of her finality.

Curiously, he leans forward just to watch the events unfold. For a woman to let out a call, she certainly doesn't seem like she needed him at the moment. The sharp gleam of her eyes hardened into stony sapphire as she struggles with her strength to sit up. There is determination in her face, with her jaw tight and eyes narrowed as she denied herself the right to let out more tears. He spots weakness in her body frame as she shuffles about, but there is a stark hard pressed determination in her that he hadn't seen in a long time. She certainly doesn't look like she's dying.

Yet the call is getting strong and steadier still.

"Iggy please come help me!" she finally yells out in frustration, voice whining and breaking all the while. Oh, Iggy is a name. Iggy is a person.

The boy reveals himself just in time to save him from another bout of curious pondering. He falls out from a wooden wardrobe perched near the corner of the room. He's a mangy thing, all skinny and covered in bruises, bandages and scabs. Not quite bad, considering his age, had it not been for their placement. He pushes his ratty straw colored hair out of his face and he spies a wonderful set of hazel eyes, all wide and miserable as he scuttles across the room in a rush. His lower lip trembled for a moment – just a little moment – before scrawny arms curled around the woman in the floor in a panic.

"Mama?!"

Great. Wonderful. Really. He sighs dramatically. He doesn't enjoy watching the pre-event antics when he answers the call. They're never something warm or the least bit touching. It's a lot of unnecessary yelling, and tears, and sorrow. He certainly doesn't enjoy throwing young children into the mix either. But he has a job, a call to answer. So, languidly he glides close with his hand stretched out. It takes a motion. A movement. A snip snip.

"Mama you're bleeding!" Iggy whines as he pulls his mother up right, "You're sitting in your blood!" And she is. She's decorated in bright red blossoming through her shorts and running down her legs steadily as she finally shifts herself into a upward position. She winces for a moment, one pale hand curling hard against herself as she sways. With wide eyes, he traces the soft contour of her stomach, assessing the situation.

Oh...oh. Oh.

"Is the...a-are ya gonna lose the baby?!" comes the child's furious hiss after a long second. He's blindly pressing his own grubby hands against he contour of his mother's stomach, feeling for something that probably isn't even there anymore.

But the child is there. And he calls loudly now, loud and pronounced against the whine of his family's own sharp cries. He calls and calls enough for him to frown heavily. He's lived a millennium and half and he never once liked reaping babies. They're innocent little things, full of potential and so much life that he's delighted when he's in the vicinity of one. But when he reaps them, oh no. He doesn't like reaping them. Their chain of life is so short, so pathetically small and underdeveloped that it was just cruel to even snip. It's still cruel to even consider it, so he shifts in his spot for a moment. A moment of hesitation.

"We're not losing him. We're not," comes his mother's steady voice, shaking her head all the while. "We're not. Iggy, I need you to call for help okay? Okay? Can you do that for Mama?"

"Mama the baby -"

"Iggy! Please call for - "

And he shakes his head. Enough, enough of this. Time to assess. Time to check. Time to move. There are other calls he hears, millions and more.

As it turns out, the call is snuffed before he can truly make his move. It's understandable. There are always false calls. And he's fine with it. He would rather stand in vigil than act rapidly. It happens sometimes. At least it happens more and more as the centuries pass. He likes to think that humanities' advancement in medicine and science had made a substantial crack down on his hectic schedules. It's delightful really, because he finds time to work on his other interests. He's been working on some macrame.

He doesn't think any more of that tiny baby should-be-but-has-not-been until he calls three months after. And he happens to call in a hectic day when he's at his wits end dealing with a major train wreckage a continent away in Europe. Just as before, his call is quick like a wisp of smoke. He barely hears it in the mindless drone of the soulful horde. Except, he does and he can't help but be less than pleased.

So he apparates again, this time in a not-so-shitty hospital setting (because he's seen even worse places to birth a child) and wonders what the hell he's doing there. It's not the drone of the surgical ward (that place is a beacon, he swears) that he is called to but the Obstetric ward. Oh wonderful. He gets to partake in the miracle of life that is spattered with amniotic fluid, lochia, and an odd stench so strong it seeps into his very being. At least he doesn't miss the irony of having a front seat to the start of life when he can easily take it away. Har, har, har. Oh yes, so funny.

He keens his head for a moment and hears the whistle of the call come from the other room. Stalking about, he passes through a huddle of interns as they watch their head doctor finger a poor, fidgeting woman's feminine area as the measure her dilation. Ah yes, medical stuff. Crinkling his nose, he looks away for the mere embarrassment that shot through him was enough to give him whiplash.

He finds the problem in the next bed over. Bed is hardly the name he would call the damaged thing, but in it lays the damaged woman he's met from before. The mother. She's sprinkled in sweat, swallowed by a large hospital gown as she massages her stomach. Her face is screwed with pain as she fidgets about, passing through a rough contraction as nobly and classy as any woman could. Except he knows she's far too young and a child herself, so..well. He wasn't sure her little hips and lithe frame could handle spewing out another spawn. Idly, he wonders why she is alone. Shouldn't she be surrounded by family and what not when she goes through labor? Apparently not.

She's not dying this time, he knows because she grips the handles of the bed rail so hard he was sure it would crack under grip. She's still strong, this one. But the call, the buzzing call is getting louder and louder. He stares at the balloon she chooses to hide under her frame and wonders why the hell the child is so adamant to keep calling. It's not alarming enough for him to actually snip, no, but enough for him to raise some concerns. He's almost tempted to tap against the woman's stomach just to ask how badly the child wanted to stay in there. He's called twice to cancel his own life now.

Except he actually doesn't understand what could be the reason for his call. He likes to understand why he was called. Lives are precious precious things and there is always a reason to be called forth. So, against his better judgment, he stays and waits it out. Maybe it's a false positive again.

The medical jargon that is thrown his way whacks him in the back of the head until he's left confused and staring forlornly in a corner. Something about Low Fetal Heart Beat? Something about Inducing Labor? Something about being Premature? He knows enough to understand that this isn't a normal birth. He half wonders if they were going to pull the child out from the stomach like he's seen before. It's a new thing in this century, one that horrified him until he's seen enough of it for him to be the least bit intrigued by how it all worked. Except they don't do that, because well, how much is the cost of Cesarean Sections? Too fucking much.

So the poor woman child, her name is Aleksandra or Sandy he learns, has an induced labor. A forced labor. A very very painful labor. He resolves to stay with her then because it's hardly fair to leave her. She is alone, bearing through it all. Perhaps she doesn't see his presence, but it helps his conscience to know he didn't leave a birthing woman alone to go through some personal hell. He half jumps from his spot in the corner when he watches the head deliverer - middle aged sour looking doughy woman - decked in scrubs stalking in, assess the damage and shake her head before calling for a needle. It's quick work, her hand disappearing in said feminine parts unknown before withdrawing quickly. It's followed by a large gush of amniotic fluid and Aleksandra practically shouts out in pain. With her amniotic sac forcibly broken, she feels the full brunt of everything spike within her and it leaves her heaving and breathless on the delivery table.

As the hour passes, it gets even worse. He's not one to give props or an ounce of respect so easily but he can easily hand out his respects for this woman. Pushing and Bearing Down should be an Olympic sport because it looks thoroughly tiring and painful. He's almost curled within himself a couple of times when the screaming starts. It's howling and moaning combined all in one. It's guttural and almost inhuman at times. It is pain, true actual pain. He hasn't heard screams like those since the Witch Burnings back in the hey days. He can't even hear the buzzing call get louder and louder in his ear as a result.

When the child is close to crowning, he practically faints because he didn't think it could get any worse. But it does, oh it does, when he spies the deliverer – some sort of human she-devil he was sure – grabs a pair of scissors from the sterile tray and cuts through one corner of Sandy's vaginal area. Clinically, he knows it's an episiotomy site to prevent the labia from tearing when the head of the child passes. That knowledge doesn't make it any less pleasingly uncomfortable to look at. Because, well...hell no.

When the child's head passes through, he thinks the worst has passed. Except he's almost always wrong nowadays and the doctor yells out, "Cord loop!" She quickly moves and he shoots up from his position to edge further and look. Through the squeamish goo of body fluids oozing from orifices, quick fingers cradling the child's crowning head as they maneuvered it, he notices things are really not okay. The umbilical cord is firmly wrapped around the child's neck like a noose and he realizes belatedly that the child is practically a sickening shade of blue. Oh, no, no, no.

He lets out a small whimper in the back of his throat in response as doctor's adept fingers try to unravel the noose from the baby's neck. That calling whisper is shrieking in his ear now. He only hears it now. Tap it. Snip it. Snip Snip. Oh, but he doesn't want to. He really, really doesn't want to. Babies are suppose to be full of life. Full of wonder. Covered in disgusting goo and making their imminent displeasure to be forcibly ejected be known. They're not suppose to be... this. Well, except, he knows that some babies aren't always so lucky. He's had his fair share of reaping babies too. Not everyone is so lucky.

Still, he hesitates.

At least enough for the emergency staff to fly about, doing quick work to detach the blue baby boy – oh he's a boy – from the umbilical cord and whisking him away into the Neonatal Unit for Immediate Resuscitation. He follows keenly, a shadow forlornly trailing behind to watch. He's small, so very small and so very limp. As he watches the neonatal nurse grab an infant sized laryngoscope (at least he thinks that's what it was), he bows his head in silent prayer. He gives one to every soul he reaps, to ease them and guide them to him.

It's alright. He will take care of him now, the poor little bugger.

Raising his head, he swallows a deep breath and steps forward hands aloft. This time, he is stopped by a whine, like a dying kitten. A sullen shriek becomes a breathy whisper; one word.

Again, against his better judgment, he stays even longer to watch the child. He's in a glass tomb in the NICU, covered in tubes and foreign objects that just look unnatural on such a small thing. He can't help but press himself closer to watch the child, counting the little chest raise up and down rapidly like he can barely watch his breath. He's so very little, so much so he could probably just cradle him with one of his one large hands. He's very wrinkly, dry, reddish and doesn't move that often. He's often tempted to poke at him to garner a response.

He has a label on his little left foot - Mikhailo Aleksandr Milkovich, 26 weeks old, 1.2 lbs. He gains Death's pity very quickly.

At least he is loved, he reasons. His mother is devoted, often pressed against his glass tomb like a life line. He has an older brother, Iggy the little bruised school boy, who tries his damn hardest to skip school and watch his new baby brother. At least he's loved.

Still, he hears the buzzing whine of his call in his ear. It isn't shrieking, not demanding but still calling. He opts to ignore it for now and turns away. There are other pressing calls to see.

He hears his call eight months later. He's really not amused. He's heard it's whispery sigh enough for him to roll his eyes because truly, he considers the boy to be blessed with miracles at this point. He's escaped deaths clutches two times and he is not even had a birthday. Blessed this Milkovich child, he is. Still he appears because he's called and a little bit curious on what the bugger looks like now that he's grown a bit.

He appears once more to that dingy little smelly house and he distastefully hisses when he almost lands in a puddle of something. This isn't a place for children he is sure, certainly not a suitable place for a child on the cusps of starting to walk. But he has no place to judge the state of a current affairs. He only has one job. So he follows the call to the hallway where he finds a particularly disturbing sight.

Mikhailo is choking. Legitimately choking. He's sitting in a dirty sky blue blanket covering the wooden floors, hacking his little lungs out. It's instinct the way he stutters forward, arms open as if he was meant to scoop the child out and fish the damn thing choking his throat out by himself. Except he can't, as his form flies right through and he's left a crumbled pathetic heap on the floor as a result. Right, right. Shit.

Turning in a panic, he watches as the child hacks once more, red faced and covered in pathetic tears as he lets out little choking sounds. For a moment he hears the call gain momentum in his hear. Tap. Tap. Snip Snip. He is almost glad to hear the sound of wheezing for a moment after because at least he knows, it's a partial blockage. One that looks like he can't get out without help. Help. Where the fuck was the help?

He's almost tempted to turn around in panicked circles like a cartoon character because he expects someone, anyone to be watching this child. That someone is there to make sure babies like him don't get do something ridiculous to off themselves. "Where the fuck is your mother?!" he shouts in frustration.

And like saving grace, Iggy appears, climbing the stairs two at a time holding a bottle in one hand. He throws the bottle to the ground and jumps at the child once he sees the commotion. "Mickey?!" he shouts before grabs hold of the choking infant and practically karate chops him in the back between the shoulder blades. "What the fuck man! What the fuck did you put in your mouth?!" he shouts.

And Death is left there staring. Wrong. The whole thing is wrong. But, apparently by the grace of a divine being, it works as Mickey makes a hurling sound and spits out a small lego to the floor. Afterwards, he's an inconsolable mess, his throat and upper palate shredded by the pointy toy. But he's screaming, nice and loud like his lungs were actually working well this time. For a moment, he's glad.

Iggy is shouting along with him, shushing the boy rather harshly looking as if he wanted nothing more than to shake him. Still, he hold the boy tight against his skinny form, cradling him close and swaying as best he can. Mickey quiets for a moment with a small whine, pudgy little hands grabbing hold of Iggy's greasy straw hair as he cries. He's cute, actually. He's gained weight, though he still looks impossibly small. He's pale, red faced, with soft tufts of thick black hair covering his tiny little head. He think his eyes are magnificent – all wide, blue and impossibly full of wonder and mischievousness. What a beautiful child.

A beautiful child alone without his mother. He takes a moment to look around, noting carefully that no one seemed to be in the house except the two children. Hm. It doesn't sit well with him but he retreats, already being called to another urgent chime.

The next time he visit, he isn't actually called. He's curious is all, because it's been a whole entire year since his traumatizing birth and he hasn't heard a peep from the bugger aside from the Lego choking incident a few months prior. Personally, he calls that a personal win. The child is growing up and developing without the constant aura of death looming over him. Hurrah for the personal win.

So he visits on his birthday, partially because he's sentimental and partially because he wants to take a look at the beautiful child's blue blue eyes again. He's a bit ashamed but he supposes he's been playing some favorites. He thinks back on his involvement in this child's life back at from this point and readily admits he's been compromised. And he had nothing to defend himself with except for the stark truth that he found himself carelessly caring for the little mongrel because he was pitiful and beautiful all at the same time. How he manages that, he's not sure. But he likes to watch him, because he really does manage it well.

When he arrives to see him, he's not met with a happy birthday party as he hoped. He's met with darkness, shouting and a sweaty beast of a human rioting in the living room. Terry Milkovich – the supposed father and head of the family – is parading about the kitchen in a drunken stampede. He's yelling insanity at the television which was currently airing the Ellen Show. He liked that woman. She was insanely witty and quick on her feet.

He finds himself not liking Terry Milkovich very well. He presents himself to be a beastly, homophobic prick sporting an overly inflated ego, a high amount of ignorance and just about the humanity of a rock. How he exists in the modern world is beyond even the trained sage of his eyes. He's met and reaped plenty of souls like him before. They're bitter, a dark void of energy he often has to smack around in order to guide through the abyss. He calls them distractors. They disrupt the flow of souls to guide. They're impulsively, chronically unhappy and often fight him. They distract him from his work. They're pests.

And certainly, he is sure this cranky case needed to be caged when it was time to reap him. He certainly hoped it would be sooner rather than later. Unfortunately, he becomes the unwilling witness of his terror first hand. He flounces about the house, trying to locate the miracle baby child with beautiful eyes when Mickey himself comes toddling along in the kitchen while his mother fixes food. He's almost amazed at the progress he's shown.

"Well look at you, you little thing you," he coos despite himself. He leans against the kitchen door in awe, just watching the child roam about on unsteady little pudgy legs. And then for one brief precious moment, Mickey directs his beautiful blue eyes right at him, staring at him for a second before letting out a wet laugh. He then throws his arms up in glee, little legs kicking an unsteady rhythm of steps to come closer to him as he smiles.

"Uwah!" he yips from the floor and he cannot help but melt at the sight. Look at that, that adorable sign of life. This is the reason why he truly adored babies. Babies, while not particularly gifted with speech or motor control, had an uncanny ability to see him at times. He had wished – dreamed – that he could interact with the little bugger and now here he was. Smiling gently, he kneels to his level and lets out a sigh. They can see him, he can't touch them. Oh what fun they'll have together.

He wonders for a moment what form Mickey might see him as. It is depended truly on each soul what their perception of him would be. Often it's grotesque – something deathly, obsessively gore filled that it causes heart palpitations. However, for children it's a whole new different ball game. Children have over active imaginations. He might as well be some rainbow goat singing the alphabet to a child like Mickey.

He is effectively cut from his bemused ponderings by a brash, loud drunk Terry who stampedes into the kitchen for another beer. Brush through him like a wisp of smoke, he feels Terry's dark energy enough for him to leave a bad taste in his mouth. In return, Terry shivers as though a cold draft had set in. That doesn't derail his stampede at the slightest and he bulldozes against Mickey until the child stumbles and falls back at the contact. Terry awards him with a mean look, as though he found gum stuck under his shoe. Grumbling, he merely side steps the baby and grabs the door of the refrigerator and rummages in.

Tsking to himself, awarding said man with a large stink eye of his own, he can't help but glance back at the flailing baby on the floor. Mickey seems undeterred by the incident as a whole, picking himself up into a crawling position and hauling himself to stand. All without help. The little devil. What a progressive child. For a moment, he holds his arms aloft as though he is meant to help the child steady his balance before realizing the futility of the action. Like he could actually catch him given his true form.

All the while, Mickey toddles on milling about as though he's trying his damn hardest to perfect the art of walking. He waddles to his mother, pulling on the leg of her pants for attention and babbles. It's cute and kodak worthy enough for him to coo at him from his corner again. Sandy rewards him with a wet kiss before turning back to the stove to turn off the whistling kettle. She turns slowly and gives Terry a small, careful smile as he settles into the kitchen table.

"Do you want some coffee?"

Terry, perpetually angry at the world, merely grunts into his beer. Shrugging, Sandy places a chipped white mug on the table in front of him and pours boiling water before retrieving some instant coffee from the cupboard. She does it all with such efficient, quick grace that he's almost impressed. He certainly never looked so graceful using his French Press. The few minutes of serenity that follows is almost nice. Terry tucks into his coffee and a newspaper, effectively turning off his rambling yap enough for him to truly concentrate on Mickey.

Mickey, adventurous and perfectionist little Mickey, is still at it as he takes one precarious step after another. He loses balance a couple of times and lands on his diapered little butt, but it hardly stops him from trying again. He's easily amused by things, he finds. Mickey simply looks around, examining this and that so easily he doesn't even need toys to play with. It's nice, he supposes, to have a non-fussy baby.

The relative peace is broken by Mickey himself. It's an accident really. He toddles far too close to Terry, enough that he finds himself standing from his safe corner to urge him away. As he does, the child stumbles to the side as his struggles to keep his footing. One pudgy hand reaches for something, anything, to right himself. Unfortunately, it's Terry's pant leg. The prick jumps at the contact as though he was burned, one hand jumping to push himself away and the other – one with a handful of hot hot coffee – sloshing forward.

"No!" he hisses where he stood, watching in utter dismay as the steaming liquid pours itself down Mickey's back. The child in question yelps and cries, red shirt steaming behind him as he falls to the floor. He is awarded by a swift kick, Terry hauling himself completely upward and kicking the child away hard enough for his little body to roll away like a sack of potatoes.

Terry lets out another garbled angry shout before throwing the coffee mug to the floor in frustration, yelling obscenities at his wake. Sandy launches herself on her wailing offspring, pulling the child further away and furiously trying to remove his scalding clothes through bleared, tear filled eyes.

"What the fuck is wrong with you?!" Sandy yells between all the commotion.

And he, he stands in the corner watching the scene unfold feeling rightfully furious, protective and hysterical. All the while, he begins to hear that low whispering call emanate from the little body crumpled in the floor. He's really beginning to hate that sound.

That day, Death learns that he can hold deep deep grudges. That he holds it in himself to promise that he shall reap Terry's soul with vengeance that no amount of divine intervention could ever sanctify him a pardon. It is that day Sandy learns how inhumane her spouse is. And it is that day, Mickey receives his first scar. It is a scalding, dark brown wrinkly scar covering the expense of his back to remind him how painful third degree burns can be. Happy Birthday Indeed.

Note: Okay, I'ma stop there because I wrote this all in one go and I eyes hurt. I hope you enjoyed as I continue to fill each year with mishaps. Please don't misunderstand, this is definitely a Gallavich Fanfiction. Just later in the game because I needed to fill in gaps. Also, no, I'm not here to kill Mickey either. He's too much of a favorite of mine to kill so willy nilly.

Uhm please excuse my writing errors, grammar or tendency to skip words in sentences. I suck at proofreading.

Anyway, thank you for reading. Please review. I'd love to hear you're feedback. Troublesome-monkey-dono signing out.