TikTok posted by user prettymangled87:
A very impressive video of the 'Most Satisfying Sister's' new set of sisterlocks set to BlacPink's 'How Ya Like That?'
Caption: A week of giving her hair the royal treatment and several hours in the salon chair emsalongoals and my sister looks FABULOUS.
The video hit around 400+ with around eight comments and a meager three shares. Not many comments, other than a few compliments from a few Black Tiktokkers and the video soon died.
TikTok posted by user sebbie_xoxo_cats
A tall slender man in a black suit and opaque sunglasses casually lounges against one of several tall Victorian brick chimneys on an ornate Victorian roof, surrounded by cats.
Lots of cats.
There are no special effects.
There is no sound track.
Just the wind.
The cats lounge around him, their massed purring rising and falling, a chorus of contentment against the wind.
Light glances off of the sunglasses.
Blink.
A raven flies away, the cats scatter, a pattering of small feet.
The roof is now empty.
Very few people noticed this brief piece of art, much the less like or comment on it
The raven noticed something interesting.
Very, interesting.
A white rusted-out Ford Festiva.
How gauche.
A white rusted-out Ford Festiva with more bumper stickers than bumper.
Yes, indeed. How very gauche.
A little white rusted-out Ford Festiva parked where a white rusted-out little white Ford Festiva had no business parking.
Indeed, how very, very gauche.
The raven landed on a nearby powerline, cocking one of eight eyes down at the driver, a skinny pimply sort with mis-spelt tattoos and a bad haircut who was watching the students filing into Merston High across the street.
Rage and self-pity wafted through the air; rage and self-pity that refused to look at itself; instead, projecting itself outwards in order to avoid having to take responsibility— a familiar flavor, the raven worked for such a one… if birds drooled, the raven would have resembled Punch Bowl Falls.
But the raven had a job to do.
Still, the savory stench of thwarted, unrealistic expectations? Gourmet by nature, the raven gave in to greed with a squawk, all eight eyes blinking, an ocular ripple, beak gaping, pointed black tongue stabbing the air.
Roast wild pheasant carefully seasoned, with appropriate wines and side dishes, followed by pastries so delicate they dissolved on the tongue in an indescribable burst of flavor was well and good, but sometimes, sometimes, one wanted, no, NEEDED, pork rinds, off-brand cookies, and day-old convenience store cappucino
And Dakota Tucker, eighth grade dropout, military reject, and failed convenience store clerk, who along with his older brother, busily planning the best way to make the world who ignored them sit up and take notice, was that plus a day old greasy, shriveled at both ends curly hot dog on a stale bun as far as the raven was concerned.
The raven's master could wait; such lovely feasting was rare – and if the boy in the white rusted-out Ford Festiva carried out his plans involving what lay hidden beneath the dirty tarp on the equally dirty torn up back seat?
It would give the raven something interesting to tell its master.
Though the Biology lab was stifling this afternoon, Puck missed her old, favorite bomber jacket. Where the hell had it got off to?
"Hi… Puck?" said somebody behind where she sat.
Missing jacket temporarily forgotten Puck turned and scowled, seeing who Mr. Kujo the biology teacher had paired her up with… (Shit!) Johnny Joenan.
Johnny steered his wheel chair towards her, au pair, Mr. Zeppeli unobtrusively in tow.
Kujo, that dick!
First he told Puck she was failing Biology I due to missing homework and a distinct lack of note taking. Now she was stuck with the class retard and his paid sidekick for a slide presentation she could easily do on her own. She sighed, pausing her Pandora Station on her battered school-issue Chromebook.
Why couldn't she have been paired with Tina? Tina was cool. She let Puck copy her homework when Puck bothered. Puck glanced over and saw Tina's huge frame hunched beside her assigned partner, Cleo deNile – world's biggest bitch.
Oh well, Puck thought, at least I'm not stuck with Josie! Never mind that Josie was in third period AP Biology.
Why they felt the need to make Josie at all, Puck had no idea, but she did know one thing: Josie was a pain in the ass. She was at Cleo's party last weekend with Maggie and babbled on and on about what a cool time she'd had.
Splashing hot coffee on the stupid little Synth this morning and making her cry almost made up for being kicked out of Bitchy-Patra's lame party in front of EVERYONE worth knowing by #1 Alpha cunt herself.
Johnny opened the gleaming Apple MacBook Pro which nestled in his lap, saying, "Should I make slides an' send'm t'ya, r'have ya a'ready done 'em?" in a thick Southern drawl.
"Would it kill you to speak English?" Puck snapped, pulling out her earbuds. "God, crack-uhs!"
"Sorry." The boy said, overlooking Puck's slur, "I'll make t'slides then? What's y'all's email?"
Puck glared at the boy over the scratched screen of her Chromebook.
Johnny Joenan was old money.
Old, white, Southern money.
Johnny's family owned race horses and were supposed to be long-time business partners with the Gorgon family. Lunch room gossip said he'd had a bad accident that put him in a wheelchair and for some stupid reason, his parents yanked him out of some snooty private school back East and enrolled him in fleabag Merston.
Probably because they didn't some inbred hillbilly retard in a wheelchair taking up space in their Plantation house– more like a double-wide with a porch just wide enough to fall off of after a Friday night's drinking down at the Dew Drop Inn.)
Johnny eyed Puck warily. He'd asked to go to Merston to start over after the accident that snapped his spine, ruining a promising career as a jockey because it had a solid academic reputation and he could live with the Gorgons who were family friends. Being publicly funded, Merston had to accommodate his new, unasked for disability without his folks having to do a thing. Now paired up with the biggest cunt in the classroom, he was regretting his decision.
"Oh, all right," Puck snarled, "It's "
"8-7, 8-3?"
"No, re-TURD, 8-7, 9-3." She snapped.
"Sorry, just wan'be sure," Johnny said, gritting his teeth. Dad told him to always be polite to girls, but Puck was really pushing it.
As for Puck, Johnny looked like Finn the Human from Adventure Time, with his white beanie, yellow hair spilling out from under it and a sleeveless baby blue hoodie that showed off his wiry muscular arms.
Puck hated Adventure Time. Like Johnny, it was l.a.m.e. "Yeah, whatever. Let's get this over with." Rolling her eyes, Puck opened Gmail and selected Johnny's message.
Soon she was angrily typing on the opening slide.
Damn, could this day possibly get any worse?
Still rattled from this morning's dust up with Mama, Josie ran her fingers up the fingerboard of the school-issued violin, practicing a concert piece in the hallway during last period orchestra, notes on the page in front of her like ravens on telephone lines.
Part of Josie's head told her that she'd played since middle school, but there was a nasty voice in the back of that same head which sounded like Mama, saying this was bullshit.
Bullshit or not, if Josie wanted to perform with the rest of the school orchestra in the winter concert this year, she'd better get going. Josie resumed playing, hazel eyes following every dot on the bar lines, and then hit a sour note.
Shithouse mouse (something Uncle Mike liked to say when he got mad), not again!
"Crybaby!" Puck's silent shout echoed in her head. "Should'a aborted you when I had the chance!"
Flinching, Josie grabbed her pencil and leaned forward, scratching in an alternative fingering. Her wrist ached where Mama deliberately splashed hot coffee on it before school. Josie still wasn't sure what set Mama off this time when she cornered Josie in the little kitchen before everyone else was out of bed.
"Gimme a B."
"What?" Josie looked up from her math homework, making sure she'd solved (sort of) every equation.
"Gimme an A."
"What?" What was Mama up to this time? "Why?"
Puck, glared at her.
"Fine. A!" Hoping that Puck would go away now that she'd gotten her "A", Josie stood and slid her homework into her schoolbag. Math was already getting hard; she should take up Ms. Strode's offer of after school tutoring when she wasn't scheduled to work. Shouldering the bag over two hoodies because she'd somehow misplaced her new winter coat, Josie started for the back door only to jerk to a halt when Puck grabbed her by the shoulder, fingers digging into the meat, snarling, "Gimme a B."
"Fine. B." Josie pulled away. She'd left her Chromebook on the communal charging block in the living room. Josie had grades she needed to keep up. Mama's fuckery could wait. "Satisfied?"
Mama wasn't done: "Gimme a Y." she sneered, following Josie into the living room.
Josie snagged her Chromebook and was grabbed by her newly-made and still very tight sister dreads, jerking her to a halt.
"Mama, stop. That hurts." Josie exclaimed, and then, "OW!" She tried to pull away, Mama's grip shifted to her wrist. "Mama, I SAID, stop it. That hurts!" If Uncle Mike had been around instead of already at work because of an early staff safety presentation, he'd have broken this up before it even started.
Puck snarled, "What's that spell?"
"Huh?" Josie exclaimed; Mama's eyes were two blue slits in her stylized plastic cat's face.
"I said, "What's that spell?"" Puck said, squeezing Josie's wrist, grinding the bones together, "What's that spell, BITCH!"
"You're hurting m— what are you talkin' 'bout Mama?" Josie squealed, eyes widening as Puck one-handedly snatched Aunt Raina's, 'Chopper Pilots do it Midair' mug from the automatic coffee machine, and splashed it Josie's her arm.
Gasping, Josie dropped her Chromebook. Puck let go, laughing.
It hurt!
It hurt so bad!
CRASH!
Blinking back tears in the present, Josie bit her lip, tasting the bitterness of algae pretending to be blood mingled with Orange County Nyx Liquid Suede.
Aunt Raina's favorite mug lay in sudden pieces on the floor as Maggie ran in, still wearing her fluffy pink onesie, pajamas, exclaiming, "Puck, what's going on?"
"Li'l bitch tried to get me!" Puck said with smirk that only Josie could see from where she sat on the floor nursing an aching wrist, "Threw my coffee at her 'fore she could!"
"Josie."
Huh? Josie blinked, back in the real world of math and uncooperative musical notes. It was Mr. Price, the orchestra teacher. What did he want?
"Josie, your partner for the district music festival this coming March wants to go over the music you've been assigned before the two of you begin rehearsing tomorrow. He's waiting for you in the #2 blue panic room."
Oh!
"Thanks, Mr. Price!" Josie hastily gathered up her instrument and stand and scurried past the tall, silver-haired older man with his distinguished pencil-thin mustache, old-fashioned dress suit, and impeccable manners.
When Fugo was five, his parents took away his toys.
Richard Scarry, Curious George, and Winnie the Pooh, too, were sent into exile, to be replaced by a tutor and books without pictures.
Followed by a man for math.
And after him, one for history, and science, and civics—by the time Fugo was nine, he was sent without warning to an elite academy for gifted children.
Only the best for a future President!
At twelve, his parents decided that it was time for Fugo to study law and pass the Bar while overlooking his increasing self-harm and explosive outbursts.
For a suitably large donation, a prestigious law school was willing to overlook Fugo's age.
At twelve, lonely and naive, Fugo made friends with one of his professors.
Thirteen and violated, he brought a leather-bound copy of "U.S. Code" down on the dirty old man's head after enduring long, unwanted hugs, leading to unconsented porn viewings and a private dinner when after a glass of wine with a strange, bitter taste to it, the professor started undressing him.
"I liked you!"
"I believed you!"
"I wanted to be you!"
Fugo then found himself facing assault charges and worse.
Which never happened because money can buy anything it wants, including silence and a new student union.
From then on Fugo was treated even more like a piece of fine china, but this time not to be shown around like a shiny new vase, but more like an old soup bowl with a chipped rim and a hairline crack that the dog eats out of on the back porch.
Crouching in a drift of sheet music, Fugo took a long, slow cinnamon flavored drag from his Juul and held it. He wasn't in the blue panic room because he'd lost it again, he just needed a place to study his new music in peace.
"Knock knock." A girl with thin dreadlocks reaching just past her shoulders in loose pigtails stood at the threshold of the outer door, violin case in one hand and a music stand in the other.
Startled, Fugo released a big cloud of spicy vapor.
"Surprised they let'cha do that here." She said, hazel eyes watching the ring he'd inadvertently created drift towards the ceiling.
"They gave up."
"Oh."
Fugo glared up at Josie, clearly wanting her to go away.
"Need something?" He snapped. The base of his throat where his parents had his ruff permanently eradicated when he was fourteen suddenly felt itchy. "Are you Josie?"
"Yeah, I'm Josie." she said. "So, you're Fugo, the dude who's gonna duet with me on piano in the district contests this spring? You ready to take first place?"
"Yeah. First place— right. I'm Fugo." Fugo said, rising in a rustle of Mozart. He wasn't outstandingly tall or strong, about average size, while she was petite and dark. Josie felt herself beginning to blush: he had nice hair, all red-gold and messy in just the right way, and were his eyes…purple? He HAD to be a RAD, cool!
Unaware that he'd gained a bit of an admirer, Fugo took one last drag, switched the Juul into standby, and pocketed it as Josie arranged her own music on the music stand, battered school violin case leaning against the blue painted wall behind her.
"Ummmm, have you played any of this before?" Fugo gestured at the complex music and then coughed – lately the Juul left his throat feeling raw. Embarrassed, Fugo discreetly dug a bag of Olbas Pastilles out of his school bag and surreptitiously mouthed a herbal cough drop as Josie pulled out a notebook and pen and calmly began scribbling notes, eyes intent on the page.
Menthol flooding his mouth, Fugo shrugged, almost, just almost, smiling. It looked like he was going to spend the rest of the afternoon in a Special Education panic room with a girl who was kinda pretty.
"Yo! Chanclas!"
"Wha..?" Resting bitch face slamming into place, Narancia pulled a duct-taped headphone from his ear. Did Chet just call him a girly pair of flip flops?
"Yeah, camión, you!"
"Whatcha want, Chet?" Dancing to a drumbeat only he could hear, Narancia marched in place practicing on a drum set that wasn't here, waiting for the big jock to come to him halfway across the school band's practice field. Did Chet just call him a… BUS?
"You owe me, vacacione!"
Narancia snickered, Chet just called him a VACATION! For someone who'd taken Spanish I TWICE, Chet sure didn't know what he was talking about!
"Stop dancin' around, BEANER. You owe me!"
Busses, vacations, and cheap shoes were one thing, "beaner" was another. Narancia, a werewolf with Italian roots as well as Mexican, felt himself go hot all over, insults he'd learned on the streets as a runaway bubbling to the surface. Barely under control, Narancia responded with "Work harder on your racisim, pendejo. Güey, you sooooooooo staaaaaaaaale!"
"Beaner!" Chet, a one trick pony and proud of it, lobbed back.
Narancia clenched his fists around his drumsticks mid-cadence, but forced them to relax: Ms. Nix would be disappointed if he got suspended for fighting AGAIN and couldn't be part of the drumline or spirit pyramid in the homecoming parade and halftime show. He tried defusing the situation with a little locker-room humor: "You're just jealous 'cause I get to look up Trish Una's skirt without getting slapped every halftime!"
Oh shit - bad idea! Bad, baaaaaaaaaad idea! Chet and Trish were tight until Trish got tired of doing his Calculus homework. Talk about fireworks!
"RAD… BEANER!" Chet bellowed, hurling his football helmet to one side.
"Whatever, güey." Narancia tossed his precious drumsticks towards where the marching band gathered to rehearse, headphones firmly clapped in place. He'd been assigned the most complex parts of "Spider". He didn't want to miss his chance to shine just because Chet was being an asshole… again.
Chet grabbed Narancia roughly by the shoulders, spinning him around, "So, beaner, you think you can cheat me?"
"What?" Narancia asked, not fully processing. " Cheat? Me? What the hell you talkin' about, güey?"
"You know what I'm talking about, dirty RAD beaner!" Chet shook the much smaller Junior.
"Fuck!" Narancia exclaimed, memory jarred loose by Chet's rough handling "Your auto shop assignment!" Chet slugged Narancia. Narancia gave out a derisive honk of laughter, "Try again. My stepmom hits harder than you!"
"Shut up, pedo-bait!" Chet aimed a meaty fist at Narancia's head.
Narancia ducked, dark face darkening further, "What-chu call me, pendejo?" he snarled – how'd Chet find out how he'd survived on the streets?
If Chet noticed the sudden drop in the usually goofy Narancia's voice, he didn't show it, "You stiffed me!" he barked, spit landing on Narancia's face. "If I flunk auto shop, my Harvard football scholarship is fucking toast!"
"Stiff. Stiff? No, tacaño, you stiffed ME!" Narancia hollered back, "You were supposed to gimme fifty bucks a project. You gimme ten, pinche idiota – no money? No project!"
Not understanding Narancia's insult but understanding Narancia's tone, Chet's face turned purple, "What, short-bus can't read? Can't count?"
"Ya think I can't count because I can't read, gacho?" Drumline forgotten, Narancia jeered. Grammar and tax forms were mysteries, but he knew all about money, having spent sixth to ninth grade counting greasy bills before getting busted in L.A. for selling pot and hustling his ass to rich men with families who liked their meat dark and tender, "Gimme ten? I give you F!"
"Listen here, beaner-RAD-pedo-bait!" Chet said, shaking Narancia, "Ya wanna go? Ya wanna go? Let's go, RETARD!"
"Sure! Locker room or behind the cafeteria dumpster?" Narancia jeered, "Long as you're paying, I'm your bitch!"
"BEANER, dirty RAD!" Bellowing, Chet swung.
Crack!
Narancia froze. Was that a gunshot?
Crack-crack-crack!
The band-director, who was jogging towards the fight, fell.
Narancia, caught more than once in gang drive-by shootings, executed a death drop RuPaul would've cried for, yanking the still raging Chet down with him as a human shield.