Triangle
by Soledad
A "Pathways in the Dark" story
Part 19 of "The Toreador Chronicles". Follows "Truth and Consequences".
For disclaimer and background information see the Introduction.
Rating: Adults only, please!
Author's note: Salvador Garcia, the Goldfarbs and the club A Taste of LA are borrowed from the "Vampire – The Masquerade" RPG. However, my take on them is anything but canon. They also feature in "The Anarch Chronicles", and Salvador in several other "Pathways" storylines. The other characters on the press conference are also from the online RPG, but I've changed their backgrounds a bit.
Summary: Michael has a hard time to accept that his best friend/new lover is now a vampire. The Kindred in LA do their best to show him his possible choices, but it's the return of an old acquaintance that finally forces him to make a decision.
Michael spent the next couple of days in a semi-permanent state of shock. Which, considering the circumstances, was understandable. One doesn't discover every day that one's best friend for decades/newly found lover/whatever is a blood-sucking fiend of the night.
So yeah, Michael did feel entitled to a little panicking. Hell, everyone would have panicked in his stead!
For a while, he seriously considered renting a room on his own somewhere. He felt ashamed about if, after all, Emmett, too, had been his friend forever, and they had always gone along as roommates splendidly But the memory of Emmett casually extending a talon was simply too much. He could not bear to stay alone with Emmett in the apartment… or with Brian, for that matter.
Fortunately, Emmett was as understanding as always.
"You'll need time to adjust, sweetie," he said gently. "I'll move back with the Blounts for a while… and leave my keys here."
"I don't want to drive you out, Em!" Michael protested. "This is as much your place as mine."
Emmett patted his arm reassuringly.
"I know, honey," he said. "But, you see, I have dozens of places where I can crash… and where I'd be happily taken in. You need time and peace to think about everything… and you need to feel safe. You don't feel safe with me or Brian around, do you?"
Michael shook his head miserably. "I'm so sorry, Em…"
"Don't be," Emmett interrupted. "It's understandable… and, frankly, it's justified. We are undead monsters who need to drink the blood of living beings, in order to survive – if our existence can be called life at all. Actually, it's called unlife," he corrected himself, with more than a little bitterness in his usually so cheerful voice. "We're already dead, after all."
"Can we perhaps not discuss that part just yet?" Michael gulped nervously. "I'm having a hard enough time to deal with the fact that you guys are vampires now – that vampires actually exist in the first place. I don't need to brood over the details right now"
"You'll have to face the facts about our existence sooner or later," Emmett warned. "But I see your point. I'll leave you alone for a while. When you need someone to talk to, you know how to contact me."
He threw Michael a kiss and waltzed out of the apartment. But Michael didn't call him in the following days. Michael didn't call Brian, either. He shut himself into his office in the Vignes Studios (although it would have seriously lessened his comfort, had he known how many undead employees the Studios actually had) or into his apartment, and he studiously avoided just about everyone, unless it was work-related. He didn't even answer the phone when at home.
After almost two weeks of this voluntarily hermit life, one afternoon the phone rang in his office. It was Alain.
"We need to talk," the artist said without preamble. "Since I know that you're a bit uncomfortable around us right now, I'd suggest a public place. Have you ever been to a club called A Taste of LA?"
"No," Michael said. "What kind of place is that?"
"A club where we meet our mortal acquaintances," Alain replied, "A… safe house, if you want. You have nothing to fear there… and I think you'll find the environment interesting,"
He told Michael the address and explained how to find the place. It sounded easy enough, even though Michael had never visited that part of the city.
"I know I'm probably the last person you want to see right now," he added, "but it's really necessary that we talk."
"Necessary for whom?" Michael asked.
"For you, for me – and for Brian," Alain replied simply.
That took the wind off Michael's sail.
"All right," he said. "I'll be there. What time?"
"What do you think about six p.m?" Alain asked. "We could have dinner and talk over it like civilized people."
"I thought you were on a liquid diet," Michael commented sarcastically.
"I am," Alain replied, completely unfazed. "But that won't be a problem. The personnel there can serve the right stuff for both kinds of clientele. They're used to it."
The club A Taste of LA was located at 1920 N. Main Street, in East Los Angeles, and operated as a combination of coffeehouse and travellers' aid station for newly arrived Kindred from all over the world. It also served as a recruiting station for Salvador Garcia; or, to be more accurate, for the Anarch groups that still looked up to him as their leader and the galion figure of their case. Angelus might be the legally elected Prince of LA, as far as the Camarilla was concerned, but Salvador Garcia was the uncrowned king of the Eastern City, and even the ministers of the other parts of the town thought twice before challenging him in any way.
He lived in a huge, Spanish-Californian style mansion, with some of his progeny, his wife, Countess Visconti, and his oldest friend and ally, Alonzo Solace. The club was run by his ghoul managers, Murray and Alexis Goldfarb – two Jews whom Salvador's Sire had saved from a pogrom in Prague, a long time ago. After Ferdinand's Final Death in the Anarch Revolt in Barcelona, Salvador had practically inherited his Sire's excellent network of ghouls – including the Goldfarbs – who had simply transferred their loyalty to the heir of the family.
The club itself occupied the entire ground floor of the building, and resembled a European coffeehouse, down to the taste of the coffee served here. It had a well-tended wooden floor, and the tables were widely spaced, to allow for private conversations. The lights were kept low, the background music was discrete, the waiters quick and skilled. It was a well-run and much-frequented establishment.
When Michael entered the club, it was already half full, although its best hours were during night. He spotted Alain at once. The artist was sitting at a table in the middle of the floor, nursing a glass of red wine – or something that looked like red wine. Michael refused to consider the other possibilities.
Nervous – and even a little hostile – he crossed the floor to Alain's table.
"You wanted to talk," he said. "So talk."
"I wanted to talk like civilized people," Alain replied. "Sit down; you're drawing attention, and the management doesn't like that. Behave and order something. The food here is said to be rather good."
Reluctantly, Michael lowered himself onto the empty seat on the opposite side of the table. He didn't want to spend more time with Alain than absolutely necessary, but he didn't want to be rude, either. Or to draw unnecessary attention. The management was most likely of the blood-sucking kind, and he thought it better not to provoke them.
A young man – more a boy than a man, actually – came to their table to take Michael's order, and Michael caught his breath for a moment, because the boy was incredibly beautiful – like a girl, or like an angel from some old legend. He couldn't have been older than seventeen, with smooth skin as pale as mother-of-pearl, lush waves of dark hair, huge dark eyes and long, thick eyelashes.
"Alain," he said with a husky voice and a shy smile. "Murray said you were here – it's been a long time."
"Nice to see you, too, Alexis," Alain nodded. "This is Michael, one of our new associates."
Alexis Goldfarb blushed. "My pleasure, Michael," he said. "What would be your pleasure?"
Michael suppressed his first instinct to say you and asked for the menu card. Alexis promptly produced it, pointing out the specialities of the house and giving short descriptions what the individual food items were like. Then off he went to bring Michael's dinner."
"He's pretty," Michael commented, looking after him with appreciation, "but isn't he too young for such a job? How old is he anyway? Sixteen? Seventeen?"
"He has been seventeen for the last two hundred years or so," Alain replied calmly.
Michael lost any possible interest in the boy at once. "Does it mean he's a vampire, too?"
"No," Alain said. "He's a ghoul."
"A what?"
"Ghouls are something between mortals and Kindred," Alain explained. "Basically, they continue their mortal lives almost unchanged. Thy just stop aging on the day they are made, and thy need to drink the Vitae – the blood – of their maker on a regular basis."
"When they are made?" Michael repeated blandly.
"It's a process similar to the Embrace," Alain replied. "At last where the exchange of mortal blood and Kindred Vitae is considered. Have Brian and Emmett explained you how a Childe is made?"
Michael nodded mutely. That was something he'd tried not to think about in the last couple of weeks… and failed.
"Well, when a ghoul is made, the candidate doesn't get sucked dry," Alain said. "But the Becoming is still unpleasant; the human body needs time to adapt to our Vitae."
"But what do you need these ghoul things for?" Michael asked.
"They are our mediators to the mortal world," Alain replied. "They can go to places where we can't, they can walk in the sun for an unlimited time. In exchange, they receive the same limited immortality as we – however, without our special powers."
"They still get the better part out of this whole undead business," Michael said. "Get to stay in the sun, can eat normal food…"
"True," Alain said, "but there is a serious catch. A ghoul can only take in the blood of his or her maker… or that of someone from the maker's bloodline. Without that Vitae, they would die. We, on the other hand, can feed from anyone – unless we choose a ghoul to be our One Vessel."
"Your what?" Michael felt the mother of all headaches coming his way.
"The person we would feed from exclusively," Alain explained. "That is the sign of the ultimate trust from the side of a Kindred; for after a long enough time, he becomes completely dependant on the blood of his One Vessel. So much so that if his One Vessel dies, the Kindred will die, too, because he'd be incapable of feeding from anyone else. There's no stronger, deeper bond than that of a Kindred and his One Vessel, not even that of the Sire and his Childe."
"And you're telling me all this… why exactly?" Michael asked suspiciously.
"I want you to know all your choices within Kindred society – and I want you to weigh them against each other carefully," Alain replied. "I'm sure you won't give Brian up, now that you have him where you've always wanted him, so I'm trying to arrange myself with the various possibilities. Because I won't give him up, either."
"I won't exactly say that I had him where I've always wanted him," Michael said dryly. "But I've realized that I'd never have him exactly there. He'll never be exclusively mine. That's not in his nature. I've just… come to terms with the fact and decided that sharing him is still better than not having him at all. Even if it still hurts like hell to see him with others. Of course," he added wryly, "I never dreamed whom I'll have to share him with. I might have changed my mind, had I known the truth."
"I can imagine that this must be a shock for you," Alain said. "The people of this century are so closed-minded that the mere existence of the supernatural is near unimaginable for you. My generation had it easier in that area. Monsters and demons belonged to our daily life like saints and miracles. This modern culture of yours is primitive, superficious, and it lacks any deeper meaning. I feel sorry for you, I really do. But if you join my household, you'll have centuries to learn."
"Join your household as what?" Michael asked. "A vampire like you? A ghoul servant? Or as your personal food source? No, thanks; I don't think I'd be interested in any of those choices."
"Let me be brutally honest with you," Alain leaned back in his chair and steepled his fingertips together. "I'm sure you'd make a beautiful Childe; not to mention a great asset for the Vignes Studios, either as Kindred or as a ghoul. However…"
"…you'd never think of making me part of your household, were it not for Brian," Michael finished for him. Seeing Alain's raised eyebrow, he chuckled mirthlessly. "Hey, it's okay. You want him – who doesn't? And unlike most other people, you understand that I'm part of the package. Just as he's part of the package, whoever wants something from me."
"Did your husband understand that?" Alain asked bluntly, and Michael nodded.
"Yep. That's why we lasted as long as we did… not that it would have been easy."
"I see," Alain said. "Well, don't you think it's time that you finally made your move and claimed what's been yours all these years?"
"You mean Brian?" Michael laughed, with a certain amount of bitterness. "No one owns Brian."
"I do," Alain corrected icily, "and he knows it. He's my childe, my creation. Mine to fuck – and mine to kill, if he breaks Kindred law. We've talked about this before: I have his submission, but you have his heart, and he won't be happy without you. I want him happy, so I'm willing to give him you for eternity – if you are willing to pay the price."
"It's the price that worries me," Michael said. "There are too many unknown factors. I have no idea what it might include – and I'm not up for nasty surprises. I've had my fair share of those in the recent years."
Alain nodded. "That's understandable. Which is the reason why I brought you here. Murray and Alexis can tell you in loving detail what being a ghoul means. And Brian and Emmett can tell you more about the life of a Kindred fledgling. What it includes. What the restrictions are." He rose because he spotted Alexis, bringing Michael's food. "Dinner's on me. Enjoy… and think about your choices, long and hard."
Back in Pittsburgh, in the once-infamed gay sauna that had served as the headquarters of Kinnetic for the last two years, Cynthia Moore leaned back in her leather armchair and popped her back in relief. Thirteen hours behind the desk were a bit much, even for a workaholic like her. But since Brian had moved to LA, she'd practically run the agency on her own, and being a perfectionist meant longer working hours for her than for any of the other employees – with the possible exception of Ted Schmidt.
But while Ted was just naturally pedantic (not to mention anal retentive) and perpetually afraid of being fired for any mistake he might have made. Cynthia wanted to prove herself. To show that – despite being a woman, which was still a serious disadvantage in the ad business, at least in Pittsburgh – she was at least as good as anyone she'd worked with at Vanguard. She was honest enough to admit that she was not as good as Brian, but honestly, who was? But she didn't want to be considered anything but second best after her boss.
Ted was, admittedly, a great help. Not just in the book-keeping, at which he was sheer unbeatable. He also helped her to prepare the presentations and sat with her in the business meetings, providing the solid male presence certain clients still wanted. This demand irked her to no end, but she was a realist. She knew she won't be able to change that attitude any time soon, and it would have been stupid to lose good business opportunities because of her hurt pride. At least Ted didn't try to push himself into the foreground.
For tonight, she was nearly done. The only meeting left was a business dinner with Horatio Ballard, one of the town's most important businesspeople, whom Ted had managed to befriend on some concert or opera performance… she wasn't sure. It didn't really matter, either. What mattered was Mr. Ballard's resulting interest in Kinnetic and his willingness to give the agency a chance. Cynthia had been working on the contract with a certain Ms Lorraine Matthews, who seemed to have a position similar to hers on Ballard's side. Tonight was only an excuse to make the final touches before the contract would be signed.
Mr. Ballard had informed her that he'd be bringing Ms Matthews and his lawyer. Not having a date at the moment (by her workload, private life was just out of question), Cynthia opted to take Ted. One did not go to a working dinner alone. Especially not when one was a woman. In the world of business, that would have hinted at a certain lack in success, and she couldn't afford to make such a false impression. Even if her private life was a disaster.
One could say one thing in Ted's defence, at the very least: he was reliable. He arrived on time – actually, ten minutes too early – he was clad with conservative elegance and was not easily confused by the arsenal of eating utensils the restaurant had placed on their table. He also turned out to be a pleasant conversationalist who was capable of talking about opera with Horatio Ballard, about fashion with Mrs. Matthews and about finances with Ballard's lawyer.
Said lawyer was no one less than Nick Fallin himself, the junior partner and heir apparent to the renowned law firm Fallin & Fallin that only accepted the very influential and the very rich as their clients. Cynthia had heard of them before, of course - who had not? – but never worked with them. Not even Vanguard had been important enough for them, and Kinnetic wouldn't be worth their notice, as a rule. Brian must have made some excellent contacts in LA for someone like Horatio Ballard to choose him as a potential partner. This was a golden opportunity for Kinnetic to conquer the upper league of Pittsburgh's business circles. Cynthia was determined not to lose that opportunity.
To her surprise, Nick Fallin turned out a very charming young man – as soon as the contact was signed and he unbent enough to lose that permanently troubled expression he seemed to wear as a business suit during work, that is. After dinner, he led Cynthia to the dance floor and kept flirting with her in a light-hearted way that was flattering and amusing at the same time. Now that the contract was signed and her bonus secure, Cynthia enjoyed the evening very much.
There was one thing, though, in which she didn't want any misunderstandings.
"Just so that we are clear," she said to Nick Fallin, "I do not seal a deal the way my boss used to."
The lawyer grinned. "You mean with a quickie in the washroom?" he clarified. "Oh, yes, we've heard about Mr. Kinney's peculiar business methods. Well, he'll have to learn that some of them are just not acceptable in our league. I'm glad to hear that you've got a little more… class in that area."
"I have to," Cynthia said. "I'm a woman, you know; it's hard enough to prove myself in a branch so completely dominated by males. I was lucky enough that I met Brian… I mean, Mr. Kinney, early on. He saw my abilities, not my…. Other assets, since he's not interested in women. I must admit it was a true relief."
"I can imagine," Nick Fallin replied. "Still I'm surprised that a bright and attractive woman like yourself would have to choose someone like Mr. Schmidt to accompany her on a business dinner."
Cynthia shrugged. "Most men expect their partners to accept that they have to work insane hours. Very few of them are willing to accept if the woman is the one who works long. My ex-husband didn't belong to those selected few."
"Well, don't give up," Nick said. "Not all men are misogynistic idiots, you know. Not even those who like women."
"I hope so," Cynthia replied. "I don't intend to spend the rest of my life in celibacy."
"That would be a criminal waste indeed," Nick agreed, and laughing, they rejoined the others at the table. The evening was a success, with both sides of the partnership hoping for further cooperation.
Two days after Michael's meeting with Alain in A Taste of LA, he was called to the Vignes Studios to meet the movie's chief sponsor, a wealthy businessman by the name of Rodney Reynolds, and a few representatives of the press. The meeting took place in one of the larger conference rooms, as several independent movie-makers, directors and producers had signalled their interest in the project. A gay superhero movie was an absolute novelty in the dream industry of Hollywood that based much of its products on remakes and repetition, so it was no wonder that people were curious.
In the end, it was quite the crowd that Michael had to face – a fact that would have made him nervous like hell, had he not been preoccupied with other aspects of his life. Aspects that made him even more nervous, to tell the truth.
First, he was introduced to Reynolds, a middle-aged man in an Armani suit, and his accountant, a manic-looking, balding guy named Rex Wellesley, who could have been an exaggerated caricature of actor Robert Picardo. There was another businessman called Greystone: clean-cut and quite good-looking, if not for the lifeless appearance of his ice-blue eyes and the fact that he was wearing gloves, despite the Californian heat.
"He's a bit… eccentric," Vera Vignes explained in a low voice, "but he wields very real economic and political power throughout LA due to his extensive business holdings. We don't like him very much, but it's not easy to get done anything without his unspoken approval, as he owns an entire chain of movie theatres."
Michael nodded in understanding and greeted the man politely. He couldn't know that Greystone was, in fact, a Gangrel antitribu and a member of the Sabbat, who only wore his gloves to hide the hint of webbing between his fingers. Not all Sabbat were animalistic, bloodthirsty monsters (at least not all the time), and some of them were influential – and powerful – enough so that both the Camarilla and the Anarch Ministers were forced to tolerate their continued presence.
The really important representatives of the press were mainly women, and every single one of them most intriguing on her own way. The most influential one was Patricia Mercury, the thirty-eight-year-old heiress of the global Mercure Hotel chain and to a vast newspaper fortune. She was the same type as Sharon Stone: tall, long-legged, blue-eyed, ash blonde and ice cold – just looked even better and was, apparently, shrewd and ruthless. Her clothes were individually designed by the Girard Fashion House and seemed almost embarrassingly simple, which is always the strongest proof for being very, very expensive.
Delphine Delacroix, a delicate redhead who spoke with a French accent that would have made Inspector Clouseau cringle, represented one of Ms Mercury's magazines, the Hollywood Reporter, where she had been a music and lifestyle columnist for quite some time. She also wrote theatre and movie reviews and counted as quite merciless, despite her lovely appearance. People would never suspect her to be a vampire, and one from Clan Tzimisce at that, but in fact, she dated back to pre-revolutionary France. She came with a respected Ventrue businessman involved with studio insurance, whom nobody would have picked for a vampire, either. Nonetheless, Phillipe Pescillon was one, and had known Delphine from her mortal days.
The other star reporter was a woman of her late thirties, by the looks of her: Ita Glitz, the gossip and lifestyle columnist for Variety Magazine (also owned by Ms. Mercury who found it a good idea to create her own concurrence and thus keep the magazine sells on a high level) and thus Delphine's greatest rival. Michael remembered to have met her in the Studios before, where she was always treated with wary respect – more so than any other journalist. She was said to have an uncanny knack for ferreting out the most shameful secrets of the stars and starlets of Hollywood, which was the reason for her infamous reputation. Michael couldn't know, of course, that some of those details required vampiric disciplines to uncover – Ita was supposed to be a Toreador – but he did find her creepy.
There were quite a few other reporters, mostly from the gay press, but those Michael knew already and had no reason to fear. They had been eating from his hand for months. The main goal of the day was to convince the straight press – and investors – that a gay action hero was both interesting and profitable. Money was the only thing they were concerned about, and it was Michael's job to convince them that their money would be invested safely.
At first, the interview was going well enough. Reynolds, Greystone and Pescillon were mostly interested in the financial side of things, as expected. They asked purely profit-related questions about the fan base of Rage, about the interactive website Diego Martinez had created for comics and movie, about the merchandizing and the possibility of filming a sequel or making a TV-series, in case the first movie turned out a blockbuster. Vera Vignes, Brett Keller and Michael answered the respective questions easily enough.
But then Ita Glitz began to ask questions about the "creative differences" between Michael and Justin, "the original artist" of Rage. She seemed to have a dogged interest in those differences, in their relationship to each other… and their respective relationships to a certain Brian Kinney. Michael started to feel very uncomfortable. He didn't want the creation of the Rage movie to be portrayed as a lovers' spat, but had the bad feeling that this was exactly what would happen if they allowed the reporter to continue her attacks.
Unfortunately, he had no idea how to sop her. Aggressive women always made him nervous, and Ita, who looked and acted as Kyra Sedgwick in the worst scenes of the crime series "The Closer", realized that and turned it against him with great skill.
Finally, Vera Vignes had had enough and saw the right moment to interfere.
"Let me set something very clear," she declared. "Removing Mr. Taylor from the project was my decision. He's a talented artist, I'll give him that, but he's immature, undisciplined and completely incapable of teamwork. I've kicked his ass out of the Studios months before Mr. Novotny would come to LA: It was I who didn't want to work with that selfish little brat. I wanted Rage to be an action movie, not cheap porn."
"What's wrong with porn?" a middle-aged man with a vague resemblance to Mick Jagger on a particularly bad day asked from the background.
Vera Vignes gave him an icy look. "Obviously nothing where your little crash studio is concerned, Jean-Vincent," she replied with obvious distaste. "Some of us, however, do have a vexed interest in things that happen above the belt line."
The audience laughed, and other reporters raised their hands to ask other questions. To Michael's relief, those questions concerned the movie, its plot, its casting and the planned sequel rather than his private life. Still, he didn't like the direction in which Ita was digging.
"Neither do I," Vera Vignes replied when he shared his concerns with her. "She's a real bitch and has no conscience at all when she tries to outdo Delphine in her column. Small wonder that Denni dunked her into a swimming pool once."
"She did?" Michael eyed the delicate French woman with new respect. "I think I might like her."
"No, you won't," Very replied dryly. "She's every bit as bad as Ita, just less skilled, perhaps. In any case, we need to find out who Ita's source of information is. The… triangle between you, Mr. Kinney and that Justin has never been discussed in the Studios. The only ones who knew about it are my brother and Edward Blount, myself and Brett Keller."
"Couldn't it be one of them, to attract more publicity?" Michael had already learned that even bad press was considered desirable in Hollywood, as it kept public curiosity for a person or a project alive.
But Vera shook her head. "We do respect each other's privacy. Besides, they all like you very much, and Ita seemed to want to make you look bad. Someone either wants to have the movie torpedoed before it hits the theatres – or they hate you, personally, very much."
"Can we do anything against it?" Michael asked. "I don't really mind if people talk about me – well, not too much – but the movie… it's important for me."
"Don't worry," Vera said, her jaw set. "I'll set Isaac Abrams on Ita. He wants the movie to be a great success, as it could mean the spectacular comeback for Ash – he'll see that Ita stops, if she ever wants to write for any magazine in Hollywood again."
"And what about her source?" Michael asked.
"Of that," Vera said grimly, "I'll take care myself. That is, I'll have Sam Spade do it for me."
"The studio security chief?" Michael asked with a frown. "The guy with the odd resemblance to Elvis who's always munching on something?"
"That's a nervous habit," Vera replied. "Sam used to be an LAPD homicide detective – and a good one, too." Before a crazed Assamite Embraced him on a whim, into a Clan that never accepted males. Small wonder that Sam ended up as an antitribu and chose to work with the Camarilla. "He still has his contacts. He'll find Ita's source – and then we'll deal with it."
A few days later Vera Vignes' trust in the security chief's abilities proved well-founded. The Elvis look-alike walked into her office and produced his results proudly.
"It seems that Ita has the details from Jean-Vincent," he said. "At least they spend an awful lot of time together."
"That seems unlikely," Michael shook his head. "I've never met this Jean-Vincent character before. I'm not sure about Brian, but even if he fucked him once, which I doubt, as Brian has high standards, he'd never tell a trick anything about himself… or me."
"Oh, but Jean-Vincent isn't the primary source of information in this case," Spade said, sucking his lolly. "He's found a new assistant, and they seem to be very chummy with each other. I'm sure the kid is the one keeping Kinney's dirty laundry in the cupboard."
"What kid?" Michael asked. He had the bad feeling that he already knew, though.
"Some blond twink with a mouth like a hoover, or so Jean-Vincent likes to boast," Spade replied with a shrug. "He calls the brat Sunshine, which is a real stupid nickname, if you ask me."
TBC