AN: And it begins... right back at the beginning... and while yes, I could have started with Hot Blooded, that would have been too easy. We'll get to it eventually.

Tag To: Pilot; The Parts In The Sum Of The Whole

Disclaimer: I do not own Bones or Edwyn Collins' infectious tune, "A Girl Like You". Dialogue is used for context; no infringement is intended.

A Girl Like You (Edwyn Collins)

When thinking back years later, on a lonely night in the desert, it strikes Booth that Cam has played a crucial role in the course of his relationship with Temperance Brennan. The line he'd drawn – the stupid, goddamn line she'd indirectly thrown back at him years later in front of the Hoover – grew out of the searing guilt in his gut over her brush with death at his impatient behest. That relationship had unsettled their dynamic for months, with Booth yanked in two separate directions by two equally stubborn and intelligent women. And yet, he is grateful for Cam's arrival at the Jeffersonian in the end.

After all, Cam was, strangely, the reason they met.

Cocky, egotistical Seeley Booth had "happened" to run into his long-time friend Camille Saroyan in an elevator on a rare appearance in D.C. and had promptly flapped the butterfly wings that would bring on a hurricane. But back then, in 2004, Booth had no idea what was in store for him. He had a simple directive: nail Judge Hasty for Gemma Arrington's murder. But the best laid plans...

"I could get you Gemma's file, but you know the definition of insanity is to do the same thing over and over, expecting a different outcome."

Maybe it was the haze of the previous night's recreation. Maybe it was Camille being intentionally vague just to piss him off. Whatever the cause, the effect remained the same: he had no idea what the hell she was talking about.

"Okay, maybe I missed something?"

That damn little smirk said it all: intentionally vague the first time. "How's about you get another point of view?"

Oh hell no. "Partner up? No, you know that I don't do that."

"There's a forensic anthropologist at the Jeffersonian," Cam continued, somehow missing the memo on his strict refusal to work in tandem with another Agent, let alone Squint. "I've read that she solved how a Stone Age hunter was murdered."

This was not helping the whiskey headache throbbing in his temple. "How does that help?"

"If she can solve a 4000 year-old homicide, maybe she can help on Gemma Arrington. I could release the remains to her."

Damn her and her "I know more than you!" tone. Because the truth is, she is smarter than him when it comes to the scientific end of investigations. Her offer to release the remains, should he take her advice and hire the Caveman Coroner, was tempting. But his ego happened to be in full control this morning, having spent the night hours sharking some stooge out of his cash.

"You know, Cam, I'll catch up with you later. Forensics don't solve crimes, cops do."

"Same activity, same results," she reminded him.

He'd only just managed to turn away when she called his bluff.

"Speaking of which, you look like you've been up all night."

Note to self: Cam's never been fooled by you and never will be. He gritted his teeth in anticipation of another lecture on his gambling habits. Addiction? Habits? They often debated that sticking point. There were worse vices, as far as he was concerned. He could be shooting up, snorting powder or drinking himself to death.

"I'm fine," he told her, and half-believed it.

With a knowing smile, she replied, "Meaning you won?"

She wasn't wrong. Didn't make it any less infuriating. He brushed her off, not exactly comfortable with an unsavoury discussion of his activities outside of work while smack in the middle of the gossip hub of the Bureau. Her eyes said everything, though: she was worried. And as she stepped into that elevator, his guilt, coupled with a desperate need to give Gemma Arrington her long overdue justice, booted his ego to the back of his skull. He ran to catch the elevator, thrusting his hand between the doors and praying the motion sensors were actually working today.

"Hey, hey, hey, hey – what's that scientist's name?"

With a victorious smile, she replied, "Temperance Brennan."

It was a memorable name all on its own. But when, after a few phone calls and a little background investigation, he located the woman behind the moniker, he committed it to memory for other reasons.

"I've never known a girl like you before
Now just like in a song from days of yore
Here you come a-knockin', knockin' on my door
And I've never met a girl like you before..."

Total sexist asshole thought, as he entered the lecture hall: What's a beautiful woman like her doing lecturing in front of... is that a corpse covered in bugs?

It seemed absolutely illogical, like those Hollywood commercial crap films where some busty blonde who could barely pronounce the terminology in her lines was cast as the world's most brilliant scientist. Booth was not adverse to a gorgeous blonde, but the kitten heels and low-cut blouse seemed ridiculous. To her credit, Dr. Temperance Brennan, pride of the Jeffersonian Institute, was dressed more professionally than a film cliché. She was, however, devastatingly beautiful. That beauty was only enhanced by the ease with which she instructed her class. She made the removal of flesh from bones sexy, not through her looks, but her brain.

"Any questions?" she asked suddenly.

Unfortunately for him, Cocky Cop On The Prowl Booth took over his mouth and made him into a smart ass.

"Yeah, I have a question. Seems to me, if you uh, remove the flesh, aren't you, uh, destroying the evidence?"

She almost seemed amused by the inquiry. "On the contrary, I am revealing evidence."

He felt a little starstruck in her presence, which made him all the more determined to win her over. As she dismissed her class, Booth made his way up the centre aisle of the lecture hall, debating the next move. Outright request for assistance? Order her to comply with a government mandate? Somehow, he knew she enjoyed a challenge.

"Just one more thing," he began his fresh verbal joust. "I mean, isn't all the good evidence in the flesh? You know, like the poison and the stab wounds and the bullets?"

He had her attention – and, to a degree, her pity. "All of the important indicators are written in the bone, if you look carefully."

The implication was clear: if I pulled my head from my ass, I would be able to follow along with teacher.

"So that's your thing?"

"Yes," she answered, continuing to gather her things. "I'm the best in the world."

He almost laughed, taking this as a way to lighten things. But then, Booth caught her expression and realized she wasn't exaggerating. She truly believed she was the best forensic anthropologist in the world. Wow.

"Oh. Okay, you're serious." He was fumbling now, because Temperance Brennan was unlike anyone he'd ever come across – and in his line of work, he'd met at least five of every kind, so to speak.

"Are you a student here?" she asked, suddenly alerted to the fact that he knew not a goddamn thing about anthropology.

"Special Agent Seeley Booth from the FBI."

And then, it clicked, somewhere inside Booth's skull: she's going to help you. He couldn't explain why; he simply knew that he'd been meant to collide with Cam in the elevator, just as she was meant to read that article about some Ice Man's ancient murder.

"I'm Dr. Temperance Brennan of the Jeffersonian Institute," she said, shaking his hand.

Electricity crackled in that contact and Booth dug in his heels to resist the urge to stumble.

"Do you believe in fate?" he asked, mesmerized.

"Absolutely not. Ludicrous," she scoffed.

Booth was in deep trouble.

He managed to buy himself some time to rein in the fifteen year-old idiot version of himself that desperately wanted to make out with the lovely doctor. With a quick call to Cam, the remains of Gemma Arrington were on their way to the Jeffersonian. In between picking his jaw up off the ground and eating the crow Cam served, he managed to determine a means of testing the skills of Dr. Brennan. Sure, she was great with ancient bodies no one could argue the facts about. But could she really see as much as she claimed in the bones?

He lied: he told her the FBI had no clue who the victim was, time of death, nothing. She needed a name. Dr. Brennan took this in stride. He expected reasonable efforts – race, gender, maybe an appropriate age range. What he didn't expect was Temperance walking briskly up to his desk and reciting an entire biography.

"Your victim was 16 years old, biracial. She died between three and four years ago and her body was left in a landfill for approximately one year. She was born in Southern Alabama, but moved north when she was eight years old. She was injured in a pre-1998 automobile – no airbags – when she was 13."

"What? Wow!

"I'm not done."

Booth shut up. How the hell did she know what kind of car she was injured in, or where she lived? How could a skeleton show that?

"Judging by her ribcage and diaphragm attachments, she was either a swimmer, singer or an asthmatic, or any combination thereof," she continued.

She then proceeded to both amaze and horrify him by pulling out a sketchpad and a human skull from her bag. She flipped to a pencil drawing and held them side by side as she continued to speak.

"This preliminary sketch gives you a general idea of what she looks like. I'm sorry, but we've been unable to find out her name."

This last statement was loaded with emotion. Frustration, maybe. But the sketch... It was bang-on. He wanted to believe that Cam had screwed with him by giving her a photo, but the anthropologist was so utterly sincere, he knew better.

She really was the best in the world. She also had no clue when it came to the appropriate handling of evidence.

"Just for future reference, those human remains are forensic evidence. You should be wearing gloves."

Duly rebuked, she drew a breath to steady herself. "I will adjust my behaviour accordingly."

It was time to admit the deception. Booth invited her to a conference room, where he popped in a videotape he'd watched countless times: Gemma Arrington, performing. Her voice haunted his dreams these days, demanding he bring her peace.

He could have shown a photo and continued, but Booth wanted Temperance to see the vitality and passion of this young woman, struck down far too early in life. She watched intently, her reaction difficult to read. When she put it together – that he had intentionally held back the victim's name – she seemed to take it in stride, although for a moment, she seemed hurt by his lack of faith in her abilities. For some reason, he felt terrible for what had seemed reasonable at the time.

But Booth didn't have time to sulk. He had a mission, one that he hoped Temperance would join him on.

"I wanna catch the bastard who killed her."

"Well how do you know he was a bastard? How do you even know it was a man?"

He couldn't figure her out. He'd picked up rather quickly that common slang went straight over her head and tried to keep things straight-up. But just when he'd think he had figured her brain out, she'd throw another curve ball. She was so literal. It was equal parts frustrating and charming.

Booth pulled a photo from the case file, figuring this was a better approach. "I guess you know who that is, right?"

"No."

Flabbergasted, he explained,"Judge Myles Hasty. That's a Federal Judge."

Without missing a beat, she settled into her chair and shrugged the disbelief off. "Well, I don't follow current events past the Industrial Revolution."

And to her, that made perfect sense.

"He killed Gemma."

"But why haven't you arrested him?"

"Well, I don't have proof," he admitted reluctantly.

Her eyes twinkled in that way he'd come to recognize as her "argument" look. "Then how do you know it's him?"

"I just know. And I would like to ask you to help me catch him."

"I won't do that!"

Booth was stunned. I thought she wanted to help with this investigation. Didn't she want justice for Gemma? Had he misjudged her?

"Why?"

"Well, I will help you find out the truth, and if the truth is he killed her, I will help you catch him. But first the truth, and then the catching."

Okay, it wasn't necessarily a bad offer on the table. It just sounded like one that took a lot of time and he really didn't have that. His superiors were on his ass daily.

So he tried charming her. "Look, all I need is the kind of crap that persuades a jury."

"Seems to me that someone like you could benefit hugely from an association with someone like me."

"Oh. Alright." He began laughing at her overly business tone but quickly stopped, because she was not kidding and possibly about to clock him.

"Oh, you're being serious. You're serious. I was just kidding! You know, just having some fun," he covered.

Please buy it. Please don't walk out of here.

"It is fun," she decided, a small smile creeping across her lips.

And in the next minute, Booth found himself shifting uncomfortably under the desk and fighting the urge to kiss those delicate lips of her. I am so very fucked.

"You give me just a taste, so I want more
Now my hands are bleeding and my knees are raw
'Cause now you've got me
Crawlin' crawlin' on the floor
And I've never known a girl like you before..."

The flirting began in earnest, which in hindsight was fucking stupid, given that the FBI had a rather strict policy on sleeping with colleagues. But it was impossible to resist. There was an innocence about her, like that of an excited child. It was a refreshing change of pace from the jaded women Booth met in bars. Even her butchered colloquialisms became endearing.

"Can I come in and watch you broil the suspect?" she asked excitedly when Gemma's boyfriend was brought back in.

"Yeah, well you know, I could broil him, but I think you mean grill," he replied, grinning.

(For the next year, he silently referred to every interrogation as "broiling the suspect".)

She had a way of complimenting him while also daring him to evolve. During a tour of the performance venue where Gemma had last been seen, they got into a weird debate where his affectionately calling her "Bones" led to a counter name of "Shoes". But then, her anthropologist self slipped into the conversation.

"Well, anthropologically speaking, para-militaristic organizations tend to constrain individuality."

"That's for sure!"

"But in any group, no matter how restrictive, the free thinkers, the mavericks, the rebels with leadership qualities find a way to declare their distinctiveness," she added, glancing sideways at the agent.

She saw him as a maverick, a leader. It had been a long time since anyone had thought of him as powerful in any way, self included. Oh sure, he talked excellent smack when it came to a wager, but any guy in those dives could tell you it was all bullshit. They were all self-deprecating and lonely men.

Minutes later, she mentioned the prospect of dating some nerd and Booth felt the urge to find the guy and hit him. He wasn't worthy of her; he could tell by how casually she mentioned him.

"I'd ask you out if I could," his big mouth told her.

"Why can't you?"

"Well, FBI rules again. No fraternizing with other agents, or consultants."

"That's too bad."

Booth fought the urge to pump a fist in the air. "Glad you think so," he demurred.

And just when he thought he couldn't be more hung up on the woman if he tried, she clocked Judge Hasty. Two shots, straight to the nose. Booth wanted to ask her out right there, rules be damned. This smug bastard had gotten away with murder for years. Sure, they were getting closer to nailing his ass to the wall, but for now? It was sweet justice to watch him stumble.

"Is this very bad?" she asked nervously.

"You've made me acknowledge the devil in me
I hope to God I'm talkin' metaphorically
I hope that I'm talkin' allegorically
Know that I'm talkin' about the way I feel

And I've never known a girl like you before
Never, never, never, never
Never known a girl like you before..."

Firing people was shitty business. Usually, you were doing someone else's dirty work, taking the brunt of someone's anger/disappointment/panic. Even if someone deserved to get a boot up their ass, it was still unpleasant.

Being asked to fire the Jeffersonian – and by extension, Bones – was hell. So Booth went with the tried and true solution to most of his problems: he took her out to get drunk. He expected her disappointment. He did not expect her ridiculous tolerance for tequila, nor did he expect the words she uttered in a low, sultry tone.

"If we don't work together any more, we could have sex."

Instant hard-on. "I'll call a cab!" Hell, he'd hijack a cab!

Maybe there was a silver lining to this firing. Maybe this, too, was fate. After all, if she was no longer a colleague, there was an opportunity for them to be... he didn't know. What he did know was that this couldn't be a one night stand. It could, and that would be better than nothing, but Booth was hooked on this woman. She pissed him off, challenged him at every turn, and made him grin like an idiot at the thought of her each morning (and every evening in the shower these days, fist closed tightly around the perpetual hard-on she gave him).

And then, reality knocked and reminded him that he was a loser who barely saw his kid because of a not-so-small issue with gambling half his paychecks away, and he hesitated. I can't mislead her. I can't have her, only for her to leave when she sees the real me.

"Hold on, hold on, listen. Hold that cab!" Swallowing hard, he steeled his resolve. "Listen, I got something to confess."

"What? Is it the fact that you're a direct descendant of John Wilkes Booth? I already know that."

Again, it's one of those "did she just say that?" moments. Booth never told anyone about that rather unfortunate leaf on the family tree. It made it awkward when he told people Lincoln was his favourite president.

"Wait, wait a second. How do you know that?"

"From your bone structure."

"Just... just keep that under your hat, okay? For now, okay?"

"Right."

She'd thrown him off track and that cabbie looked mighty impatient and my God, I want to kiss her. But he had to tell her.

"What I wanted to confess was... See, I have a gambling problem. But I'm dealing with it."

It's half a lie: I will deal with it now. For her.

"Why did you feel you had to tell me that?"

"I don't know. I just feel like um, this is going somewhere."

"Why do you feel this is going somewhere?" She asked, but she already knew, and her body shifted closer to his.

"Oh, I just... I feel like I'm going to kiss you."

And he did. He kissed Temperance Brennan, world-renowned forensic anthropologist, judge-punching bad-ass, and enthralling woman. It was even better than he'd imagined (and he'd clocked a lot of time with that image in the shower lately). Her lips were soft beyond belief, but her kiss was as intense as her dedication to her work. When she pulled away, Booth felt scalding hot in spite of the rain pouring over them. This is going somewhere.

"Wow!"

Apparently, he was alone in that opinion, because Temperance Brennan headed for the cab and announced that they were not spending the night together. It took a minute for the blood to return to his brain from his groin and demand a reason.

"Tequila," she replied simply, and prepared to leave.

"Hey!

He ran for the cab, legs wobbly from the booze, to make one last attempt to sway her, to convince her of this intense need he felt for her. But then, his mouth got cocky and ruined it all.

"Hold - hold that cab. Hold that cab! Hey, so you afraid that when I look at you in the morning I'll have regrets?"

"That would never happen," she stated, and it is a fact he can't deny.

Booth watched her pull away and realized that he just was not worthy of her. It was the plain truth: she saw through me somehow, knew I was a guy with a lousy temper and a bitter view of the world. A guy who, on any other night, would walk back into the bar and hit the pool tables until closing time.

But what if I could change? What if I could be enough for her?

I know she feels the pull between us. The chemistry is there. It's the logic that's in the way somehow. In her amazing brain, she'd calculated the risk of being with him and decided he's more trouble than he's worth.

I never should have told her about my gambling problem. Yep, that did it.

It struck him then that for all of the so-called winning, he's losing. Losing time with Parker. Losing sleep and perhaps his sanity. And now, now he was losing Bones.

With one last wistful look at the neon lights, Booth forced himself to turn away and hail a cab for home.

The kid wasn't wrong: I am immensely stupid.

I never should have listened to Caroline. I should have held my ground and kept Bones on staff. I never should have hit on her, told her of my gambling or put myself out there. Caroline could kiss his ass – not that he had the balls to tell her so.

She wanted him to hire Bones back. As if it were that simple. She didn't have a goddamn clue.

The spell was broken between them now. He'd hurt her, and it showed in every heated exchange between them.

"I find that I'm annoyed with you."

"Why, because I fired and hired you back? It's the Federal Government."

"No. Because you got me drunk to fire me and then have sex with me."

She was right, sort of. But no, hungover, blue-balled Seeley Booth couldn't admit it.

"Oh no, I got myself drunk so I could fire you. And you decided not to have sex with me which I accepted, gracefully. So you regretting that decision?"

"No. I'm not. It was a very good decision. I stand by it."

They had an audience now, including one pissed off Federal Judge and his pricey douchebag lawyer. There had to be a way to bring a smile back to her face.

"What's going on, Bones?" he asked lightly.

"Do not call me Bones!"

Yeah, she hated him now. Fucking Caroline. Next time, this maverick tells her to shove it.

Not even nailing that drug-snorting judge was enough to smooth things over between the two of them. The bickering continued, tiny little punches and jabs in wordy packages, until it reached its peak a few days later. He'd invited Gemma's mother in to answer her questions about the trial and how things would proceed. Bones insisted on being there, and he wanted her around whenever he could find the excuse, even if she drove him insane. Halfway through the discussion, her talent for brutal honesty reared its ugly head.

"The evidence is conclusive, but not nearly as strong as it ought to be. With a good lawyer –"

Booth had heard enough. She wasn't wrong, but there were some things you just didn't tell the mother of a murder victim. His nerves frayed, he made the biggest mistake he could possibly manage: he grabbed her by the arm and dragged her out of the room to – I don't know. Did I think I could scold her like a child?

"Let go of me!" she yelled.

"Alright, I will, if you would just –"

The left side of his face lit up like the Fourth of July as her hand connected sharply with his cheek.

"Ow! What the hell?"

"You are a bully! You grabbed my arm just like the judge. You use your badge and your gun to intimidate people!"

He saw red. Angry, screwed up Seeley Booth had entered the building.

"Really? The way you use your brain to make people around you feel stupid?"

"Well, you are a stupid man!" she snapped. "I hate you!"

"Oh, you hate me? What are you, ten years old? I'm not your dad!"

Something in that short sentence struck deep. Her body tensed and her eyes clouded over. Hurricane Temperance, coming inland. And in that moment, he knew he'd gone too far.

"I will never work with you again!"

"Who asked you?"

He held his cheek as he watched her flee, heart racing. I would have asked.

He did ask, many times. The kid who'd (accurately) called him stupid took great joy in deflecting many phone calls to the Jeffersonian. Emails went unanswered, in spite of apologies. He even mentioned his meetings, as evidence that he was trying to be a better man. Silence.

He did have her words to console him several months later. Apparently, being the best forensic anthropologist in the world wasn't enough for her, so she wrote a novel: Bred In The Bone. He was not an avid reader, but Booth devoured the book in the first weekend, unable to resist following the adventures of Bones – er, Kathy, and a cocky bastard of an FBI Agent named Andy Lister. She nailed the reality of crime investigation without making it dull, and even the bone babble was interesting.

Temperance Brennan: anthropologist, bestselling author and stubborn as hell. He missed her.

"This old town's changed so much
Don't feel that I belong
Too many protest singers, not enough protest songs
And now you've come along, yes, you've come along
And I never met a girl like you before..."

2005

On the day the call came in about a body in Arlington National Cemetery that didn't belong, Booth had a lucky break: her assistant was off sick. Unfortunately, he couldn't reach Bones either, because she was identifying victims of genocide abroad – or was, according to her boss, Dr. Goodman. A kind yet firm man, he did note that her flight arrived that afternoon.

It was all he needed. A quick flag on her file for Homeland Security to detain for information later, Booth was scouring passenger manifests and scribbling down her flight number and arrival time. H'd forgotten one thing, however: Bones packed a mean punch. By the time he arrived at the interrogation room, he'd been regaled with the tale of Bones judo throwing some burly guy twice her size and then ordering Homeland Security to holster their weapons.

She was still hot.

"You were illegally transporting human remains ma'am, and you assaulted a Homeland Security agent!"

Yep, that has to be the guy she tossed. He slipped into the room quietly, observing the ongoing exchange.

"Look, I'm sorry if I embarrassed you in front of your friends, but next time you should identify yourself before attacking me. What are you doing here?"

As her head swung in his direction, he realized that nothing got past her, including his entrance. He pulled his badge from his pocket and flashed it, keeping his expression neutral.

"FBI. Special Agent Seeley Booth, Major Crime Investigation D.C. Bones identifies bodies for us."

"Don't call me Bones!" she snapped, adding, "And I do more than identify."

"She also writes books."

He slid a copy of Bred In The Bone across the table, the author image on the back cover staring at the guy who seemed unfazed by this revelation. He'd read her book; he could tell.

"Fine. She's all yours."

"Great! Grab your skull and let's vamoose!"

"What, that's it? She's all yours? Why did you stop me?"

Nothing got past her. She was on to him.

"What's the matter? You're free to go. Let's just grab your bags, click click, clink clink."

"You set me up!" she shouted angrily, turning to the Homeland Security officials. "You got a hold for information request from the FBI, didn't you?"

Buddy knew better than to jump into this fray. His silence spoke volumes and Booth winced.

"I love this book," he said at last, sliding it back across the table.

With a furious glare at Booth, she all but threw her hands up in disgust.

"Come on!" she snapped.

She cursed Booth out in at least three languages – none of them English – as they made their way to the car, her bag slapping against her thigh with every enraged step. Maybe he had resorted to dirty tactics, but he'd given her over a year of more courteous gestures to respond to. Really, it was her fault.

Yeah, keep telling yourself that.

They'd driven halfway back into the city before she spoke at last.

"That's the best you can do? Getting Homeland Security to snatch me so you can stage a fake rescue?"

Her eyes were charged with that fire that served a shot of adrenaline to his foolish heart.

"Well, at least I picked you up at the airport," he replied, trying to be friendly.

Nope, she wasn't having it.

"Alright, come on, I went through the appropriate channels but your assistant there, he stonewalled!"

"Yeah, well after the last case, I told Zack to never ever put you through. He's a good assistant." Glancing out the window, she added, "You can let me out anywhere along here."

Think fast. Bones likes... bones. Death. Booth started sputtering details about the case, only for her to mock him and roll her eyes. He thought about kissing her, just to stop her tirade, but suspected she'd take out his testicles for it.

"If you drive one more block, I am screaming, 'Kidnap' out the window"

It wasn't an idle threat. She had that grin about her, the one that says "I am smiling because I am imagining killing you in the next two minutes". It was the grin he gave people that refused to stop calling him Seeley.

"You know what? I am trying to mend bridges here." And you're not having it, because you are so goddamn stubborn!

"Pull over."

He gave in, realizing that to gain, he'd have to give. Of course, she burst from the car and stormed off like she was in some speed walking competition. And he was off and chasing her, just like he swore he wouldn't, because he couldn't help it. She pissed him off like no one else, but he needed her. Not her skills, her. And when she demanded full participation in the case, he stupidly promised it to her, because he was a gambler (albeit in recovery) and she was worth the ante.

"What do you want, to spit in my hand? We're Scully and Mulder."

"I don't know what that means."

God, I've missed hearing those words! Like a strange, sick music to my ears.

"It's an olive branch. Just... get back in the car."

She hesitated briefly, then complied and he swore a weight lifted from his chest. I can breathe again.

"Yeah, it's all right
Yeah, it's all right"

Here's where we get interactive: like any mix, this tape doesn't have to be a straight narrative. Not at all. The nature of vignettes and one-shots means I can deliver the final list (and yes, I have it all mapped out) in almost any order. Every now and then, I will offer you as a choice and your answers will decide how the story unfolds.

Here's your first decision: Hurt or Jealousy? Your wish is your DJ's command. Next track spins on Sunday, as per my shiny new updates schedule on my profile and will continue weekly until The Bard In The Bodycount wraps up.