.

Crimson Claws

8

"The Fuck! I said it wasn't me!"

"Who else could it have been?" asked Sibylle, immediately ducking behind Stan as Nora turned her sparking gaze on her. Then again at Stan, who, as a man with quite a lot of bulk, formed a kind of protective shield between her anger and the other dressmakers and wardrobe workers. But even the company and house manager took an involuntary step back as Nora took one forward with clenched fists and bared teeth.

"I would NEVER screw around with the costumes. Everyone here knows that."

"Last year you tampered with the main actress's costume when it had already been approved for the show," Marlene argued uncomfortably and others nodded and timidly threw in their two cents and Nora saw the shit-eating smile Sibylle was trying to hide behind Stan's shoulder.

"I haven't tampered with it! Someone - and most people here know who - had fucked up the goddamn seams of the petticoat and I fixed it before the actress broke her neck tripping over the sloppy hem during the first dance. Everyone here knows I'm always fixing shit and no one thanks me."

Stan shook his head, not even playing the remorse acceptably. "I'm sorry about all this. But the incident with the costumes was the last straw. I can no longer overlook everything, especially not four days before the premiere. I have no idea who you've picked a fight with again or who you thought you were making suffer, but you can be glad that I'm only dismissing you and not pressing charges, Nora."

Her jaw dropped and she waved her arms and shrieked angrily:

"What! You have no proof that I sliced the costumes! Look at this!"

She lifted one of the chiffon dresses from whose lovely blue overlay fabric the white inner layers were sticking out from long cuts that hadn't been there yesterday. "Open your bloody eyes! The fabric on six costumes is ruined! It's like Freedy Kruger ran his bladed glove through the wardrobe! Fantastic fabric with good stitching and I know this because I worked on 4 pieces myself. Who destroys their own work?"

"Someone who is a psychopathic, know-it-all, control-freak who meant to get back at whoever it was. You usually stay the longest, you've had the opportunity." Sibylle said with her arms crossed and an icy cold stare. Nora felt her wrist twitch in a barely concealed urge to whack her like there was no tomorrow.

"Nora, you're a good seamstress-" Stan began, trying not to make it look like he relished her leaving and was immediately interrupted by a harsh hand gesture from Nora, which made him glare in annoyance. Not that Nora gave a shit about the hurt feelings of some stupid wanker who was dumb enough to send his best horse in the stable to the knacker.

"I'm a fucking fantastic seamstress! The best you've had in many years and - as the sector changes - the last one who not only knows the difference between a zigzag stitch and a decorative elastic stitch, but also why it makes a difference at all. I will be leaving. But not because I'm being axed. But because I'm quitting. You'll cry after me when you realize what a gap I'll leave in the workshop and you'll suddenly have costumes that fall apart in the middle of the show."

"You could be the best seamstress on this damn planet and beyond, Nora. But no matter how good you are, your interpersonal skills are lousy. You're mouthy, snotty and arrogant-"

"-only when the others fuck up!"

"- you're disrespectful and independently alter the work of others without checking with your superiors!"

"-why, when I make the pieces better that way?"

"Your attitude towards other people when they do something you don't like or when you get angry with them is toxic."

"Toxic!"

"TOXIC! Everyone here is scared of you, can't you see that? And you're shouting again!"

"That's because you're shouting, you complete asshole!"

Nora was breathing heavily, she SO wanted to break something or punch someone in the face - preferably Sibylle or Stan but then she'd be the bad guy here ... even more than she already was. She wished she'd taken more of her medication this morning. She let her eyes wander over the people gathered behind Stan. Six women ... none of whom would stand up for her. Not Min-Lau, whom she had written down the English names and pronunciations of stitches and fabrics so that she could communicate better with the others in the team. Not Claudia, with whom she'd had a few drinks and who seemed less put off by her harsh attitude, because there were people like that too. Nora knew she could be a bitch. Loud, belligerent, swearing, not an easy person - not just because of her bipolar disorder. But her work spoke for itself and when the others behaved civilly towards her, she was also correct to them, helped them with their pieces or stayed longer to fix last-minute clothes so that everything was really perfect.

"Fear ... I don't think anyone here opens their gobs for me because they're afraid you'll fire them, Stan," she said with dripping contempt, which made her "boss's" face turn even redder.

He shook his head vigorously, not finished with his report card of her skills.

"-You're aggressive, vulgar, barely have a filter. You create a bad working environment and you can't control your violent impulses!" He exclaimed, having by now matched Nora's increasingly loud tone, with them both just one step below a shouting match.

Nora laughed and ran a hand over her head, momentarily pulling her longer front strands back before they fell back into her forehead without finding a hold in the pixie cut of the rest of her scalp.

"I think I've got a pretty good grip on my impulses right now, considering I'm about to slice you open and replace your organs with absorbent cotton, Stanley."

Stan stared at her with his upper lip curled up, indecisive about whether he wanted to take this seriously and be terrorized or laugh it off. His little court of backstage workers whispered and gasped in horror and Nora felt good about making them do it, because everything that was happening was SO unfair. She often fucked up and yes, usually her character was responsible but not here. She was the scapegoat. Even though she hadn't done anything. This time. Whoever had destroyed the creations was a monster - after 7 years here at the theater, everyone should know that Nora preferred to cut herself before she unnecessarily cut a good piece of work.

And that's when Sybille intervened again, her hand not just cautious but possessive on Stan's arm, her siren whisper too loud for anyone not to hear, and that's how it was meant to be.

"Stan, she just threatened you. You can't leave it like that."

Nora laughed again, not indignantly but because this was too funny. Too fucked up to hold back.

"Oh yes, Syphilis, go ahead and piss on him so that everyone knows he's yours. It can't get any more unsubtle than that. And just because Stan's cock regularly performs on stage in your cunt, everyone lets you get away with your sloppy stitches!"

"That's enough!" Stan shouted and pushed the indignantly screaming hag behind him while he puffed like a bull, barely able to hold back his rage. And people were saying she had anger issues! Nora would have liked to look around to check which of the nearby workbenches had a nice sharp pair of scissors on it, but she wouldn't avert her eyes first.

"I have no more words, Nora. You just don't fit in with the team. That's just as important as being good at your job. You act like a teenager from the ghetto and not like a professional employee."

"I've never hidden the fact that I have issues but-"

"You are a mess that nobody wants! Just because you're a bipolar lunatic, we all have to fear for our pieces and our physical health?" Sibylle asked with a sardonic sneer and before she could even think straight, Nora pounced on the other seamstress.

Stan and two stagehands, attracted by the shrieks of the two women and the cries of the others, managed with difficulty to drag Nora away from Sybille and even then all three had to struggle with the kicking, punching and biting 170-pound woman. Nora was dragged out of the sewing room - still barking curses - where her "victim" was surrounded by the other seamstresses, whimpering and being fussed over for minor bruises and fingernail scratches.

With a more than rough landing, Nora was pushed into the alley between the Broadway Theater and a restaurant, landing in a puddle that smelled suspiciously non-watery. The pain in her elbows and hands as they scraped across the asphalt was enough to make Nora lose the thread of her rant, and she turned her head, trembling with adrenaline, wishing her gaze could set Stan on fire when he spoke.

"Tomorrow your shit will be here waiting for you in a cardboard box. You're banned for life. And you're lucky we're leaving it at that. Your last check won't even begin to compensate for the costumes. No need to thank me."

"No shit!" Nora hissed. "You've wanted to do that ever since I snubbed you, huh? Stanley? Anyone who doesn't regularly takes a riding lesson on your dick- ," but by then the door had already slammed shut. No one heard her anymore. She had hit literally ground. And didn't even have her belongings. Nora Sykes had gotten the sack ... without retrieving her sack.

.

.

. „…"Come on Tachi, say something. Say Brooklyn. Or - or Daddy. I'll take Dad too, or just a Da." Brooklyn slumped back onto the soft carpet with a crack in his spine, staring up at the ceiling of the Gargoyles' living area. Despite his tendency towards sarcasm and a melancholy streak, there were few things that frustrated him in the long term. This was one of them. He turned to the youngest member of the clan, who, as almost constantly, paid little attention to the people and events around her. Eye contact was rare, a normal hatchling reaction like jumping around or giggling or even whining even rarer, and her ability to speak... Damn Brooklyn and everyone in the clan would piss themselves if she made any sound resembling words. Other than that, she seemed healthy, even bright at times.

But he couldn't stand another pediatrician (for human children, of course) who looked uncomfortable and then blathered on about autism because he didn't have another label. He stroked the head of the hatchling, who was engrossed in the Etch A Sketch board. Tomorrow night it would be another toy she wouldn't be able to keep her hands off. Or her crayons. Or a yarn of wool! Without much reaction to external stimuli. Without... emotion, understanding, appreciation for anything or anyone around her. The future of the clan - apart from the three eggs in the rookery. NO! No ... Only one egg now. Hell. It wasn't unusual for the first egg of young gargoyle beasts like Bronx and Fu to be an flop. Beasts could make up to five eggs in their lifetime.

But his and Katana's third and last was ... likewise. Without any temperature, without a heartbeat, without life. And Tachi was ... maybe it had something to do with the Timedancer Odyssey. That his body ... his and Katana's... maybe they were simply incapable of producing healthy eggs. Maybe Nashville had just been lucky, Tachi had at least survived and that was it now. The hatchling curled up on one side, using his ribs as a backrest. Silent but warm. Alive. Brooklyn stroked her white hair, less thatchy than Nashville's. "Hey, Broadway made cupcakes. Want me to get you one?" he whispered secretively. His hatchling's ears twitched even though the rest of her showed no reaction. Brooklyn grinned so wide it almost hurt and along with the warm surge of gratitude for what he had, he pulled the child close and cuddled her. As long as he didn't restrict her freedom of movement with her current toy, she didn't even squirm.

"And if I get a yes now, I'll even fetch you two. It doesn't have to be English. I'll take Klingon too", Brooklyn said, no longer quite so serious and no longer quite so depressed.

"That's something I don't have in my repertoire," said a voice from the doorway that sounded young and yet mature, dancing along the voice change but not in a light-footed way.

.

His Rhydderch looked up, eyes wide for a moment, caught in a supposedly weak moment. The little red hatchling crouching on his stomach, totally absorbed in a magnetic drawing board on which she was scribbling almost manically without paying any attention to her discouraged father whispering above her.

"Hey Nash, you okay?" Brooklyn asked as he sat up, because it was his job, and Nashville smiled mildly as he came into the room and assured him - also because it was his job; "Of course, everything's great."

He scratched his still damp hair with his claws. In the heat and after so many people had ogled and pawed at him, he needed a shower. He still didn't feel clean... but he knew his family no longer smelled perfume and countless other human grooming products on him and the stench of his feelings would be masked by supposed cleanliness. He didn't want to be a nuisance.

Brooklyn stood up with a soft groan, cracking a vertebra or two and smoothing out his dark uniform.

"If you're back already, that means the second patrol is about to start. How was work?"

"Same old, same old. Good," Nash said, truth and lies mixed together as usual.

Nashville wasn't a kid anymore. And he and Brooklyn hadn't had a conflict in years. Everything was calm, friendly, suave between Nashville and every clan member, especially in relation to his Rhydderch. More suave than it should be in a real family, where everyone felt comfortable. There were no major arguments, no growling, no interventions about anything. How could there be, when they both had different tasks in the clan with different, only compulsorily overlapping schedules, and despite or because of this - where Tachi didn't really communicate at all - communication between Nashville and Brooklyn was always awkward. Without the other knowing how to change that.

"Are you tired? Do you want to glide Patrol?" Brooklyn inquired, taking in with his trademark frown, but more concerned and assessing than disapproving and glowering Nashville's exhausted expression, his eyes probably hurting again from camera flashes and artificial lighting, his skin on his face and hands more flushed because he'd scraped powder and cream and everything else that gargoyles shouldn't be exposed to off his skin.

And Nash really had to give him and the others cookie points for trying again and again. Most of the time he wasn't in the mood for what his clan called patrol, because of course Differgence Boy wasn't allowed to do normal Gargoyle Guardian work with serious crime and danger. Differgence Boy didn't do danger. The media outcry over ten years ago had simply been too intense. No, Nashville got the easiest, least dangerous token crime-fighting route available. It was humiliating for him and a punishment for whoever he was flying "patrol" with. And there was never really ANYTHING to do because no crimes were committed when the people they encountered flocked together within seconds to shower him with 90% pleasantries, 10% disdain, request autographs or selfies. Patrolling for Divergence Boy felt like working overtime at his publicity job. Only without Pam and with a very embarrassed or overprotective grumbling family member. He made everyone feel more comfortable when he wasn't even trying to be a real gargoyle.

"I'd love to spend time with Tachi," Nash said. And it wasn't even a lie. His mute little sister- she didn't want anything, she didn't ask anything. She probably didn't even understand how alienated he felt and that- no matter how much everyone in his clan loved him and would support him if he just asked- they couldn't do anything to make him feel good in the long term.

Brooklyn gave him a strong one-armed dad hug. Something Nash really liked because it was easy. And he gave him a rub across the brow, which Nash actually loved, even if it could never erase the tugging ache in his chest. Then his Rhydderch was gone. Nashville gave up his straight human stance. He could have done that in the elevator up to the castle or even in the car - the driver wouldn't have said anything. But he had simply forgotten. It felt good to crouch down on the carpet with the hatchling, gently plucking with his bluntly filed claws at her tail, which she withdrew daintily and a little agitatedly from his fingers, causing Nash to chuckle.

"You know, Red. You could really give your dad something. Anything. I understand if you don't talk. Man, most nights I don't want to talk. You're smarter than that. Maybe … Don't even start so they don't expect anything at some point. But ... maybe some direct eye contact? Brooklyn would pee himself with joy. Especially since his and Om's third egg was ... well - a dud.

Tachi lifted her head for the first time, her eyes barely reaching his beak. But Nash smiled broadly as his mute little sister lifted the Etch A Sketch. A toy - by the way - that was so awkward to operate that it required not only dexterity but also brains, and which had tested Alexander's, Lexington's (and secretly, when no one was looking, Xanatos') tolerance for frustration and had conquered them. She had scribbled a bunch of disjointed lines. Only with a lot of goodwill or adult guessing inspired by hope did it look like a crossed-out unexploded bomb.

"Sly hatchling," Nash whispered and gave her a kiss on the temple. Which the child let happen without reaction or sound.

.

.

Nora struggled to her feet after a few seconds, silently sorting out her limbs, whispering curses, checking her clothes for tears and damage and whether they could be mended. Then she made her way home. In the New York subway, people generally paid little attention to each other. And someone like Nora, who was almost steaming with anger, was as good as radioactive and gained an extra yard of space. Ignoring anything that could be physically or emotionally unpleasant was one of the many survival mechanisms that one acquired in the big city. Just like ignoring the rats, the dirt, the occasional aggressive panhandling junkies as if they were elusive ghosts (which they were, at best). And Nora, under the mostly present top layer of rancor, feared that she herself would soon belong to the hordes of homeless. Of course, with her skills, she easily found new work... Sitting among illegal immigrants for less than minimum wage. The seamstress jobs that paid well enough for her to keep her apartment were the ones that took orders from boutiques on Fifth Avenue or Madison Avenue on the East Side. The ones she wouldn't keep permanently because of her behavior.

She had little savings... but basically Nora sensed that she was fucked after being fired on Broadway. She could go back to her elderly foster mother. But the small apartment she rented above her own in the Flatlands was currently occupied and that would mean months of putting up with her gran and the ominous stares of the resident cats, both real and faux. Not to mention the humiliation of coming back at over thirty. Begging for crumbs from relatives was worse than scrounging from strangers or falling off the grid altogether – at least no one you knew would notice.

No, the road back to her gran would be harder than the one to the streets. Nora doubted that she could bend her ego and backbone that far without breaking in other ways. That wasn't her style. Sykes were always screwing up. But they struggled with the circumstances they found themselves in as long and as well as they could. It was the pride of street urchins and lowlifes. But it was at least some kind of pride. The only kind you could often afford. Further and further down the social ladder, step by step. It was hard to believe that she had made the first suits for Dante F. Adamo – back when nobody who still had all their fingers knew him -Hehheh. Not that anybody still remembered that today. Fuck. Her life was as far away from the superstar gargoyles or even the normal guardian citizens as it could possibly be. They lived in their estates in Italy or high up in their fairytale castles.

She, on the other hand, would soon be sharing a park bench and a syringe with a meth junkie. Or she would scare the meth junkie away – she could manage that – that was her X-Men superpower. She had once had a therapist who had tried to convince her that her behavior was not really her fault. That it was the disorder. But damn it – she herself found it hard to shirk responsibility so easily, even though that was exactly her thing. Nora wanted to be good and easy and pleasant company. Someone people liked to have around – permanently. But WANTING something had never helped her. That just wasn't enough.

She was used to antagonizing just about everyone – it was what everyone who knew her and, out of habit, Nora herself would name as her most prominent character trait. So prominent that there was hardly anything else left. No one believed her when she said that she usually regretted how she acted or spoke to people when she was agitated. Well, tonight was different. Tonight she really had reason to be an asshole and to wish Sybille and Stanley and the whole bunch of shitty colleagues and work she left behind all the worst. Nora decided to visit Stanley's apartment in a few weeks with a spray can of black paint and to slash the tires on Sybille's moped. Something that, aside from her waning medication, made her giggle, while even the thugs and homeless people gave her a wide berth in the subway, sensing her brooding, vengeful and mischievous attitude. Even though her palms and hip hurt from the very tangible eviction and her blouse had a tear on the side and a rather smelly stain, Nora was able to climb the steps to her stop and walk the block to her transfer station without thinking about her impending homelessness, thanks to these not-so-healthy trains of thought.

And here - at two o'clock in the morning - less than three blocks from her apartment, Nora's attention shifted.

She couldn't quite put her finger on what repelled, nudged and alerted her. Perhaps that - a rarity in New York, even deep in the night - it was briefly dead quiet. No wailing sirens, no voices of ignorant revellers, not even a hum of distant or nearby traffic, no artificial TV noise and really, not a breeze.

Except for one.

At her back.

Abruptly there and gone again.

Plus this soft whoosh and an almost equally soft thump.

Not sounds or sensations she had ever been exposed to before. Suddenly Nora Sykes was acutely aware of her surroundings. The hair on the back of her neck, not covered by clothing or the outgrowth of her hairstyle, stood up. This chill traveled down her back and arms almost to her sneakers, despite the muggy heat. She shivered and didn't know why. She kept walking without letting on that her heart was beating faster. But this feeling wouldn't go away. Because she couldn't put any distance between herself and the cause. Someone was following her. And the feeling? Fear. That was fear. It was natural. And yet it annoyed Nora like hell. And as so often in her 35 years, deeper, more questioning, more rational thoughts were pushed back, this anger bubbled up into something tangible, destructive, self-destructive at some point of course, but in this acute case, combative.

She refrained from any comment, however whispered, that this was exactly what she needed to top it all off tonight, did not fall into rambling but into an ominous calm as she continued her way down the quiet street, seemingly unaware. But in truth, she felt the stranger so close behind her by now that she could almost feel his (she just assumed it was a man because - well, that was the world they lived in) breathing on the back of her neck. She didn't panic because she had a destination. Grateful for New Yorkers who were too stupid or too lazy to actually put their bulky waste out on collection day. It was against every ounce of instinct she had. And against any trace of common sense. But when had Sykes ever been known for intelligent actions?

She stopped next to a pile of bulky junk - half torn apart by desperate treasure hunters - and got down on her knees to supposedly tie her shoes. She was almost looking forward to it. No, correction. She was absolutely looking forward to it. She didn't care if it was just a panhandling junkie looking for a dollar for his next high or a scumbag who thought he'd found in her an easy target for a mugging.

Nora Sykes had been a lot of things in her life. But NEVER an easy target. Anyone could ask Taron Wilkens from fourth grade, who was probably still missing his left earlobe today. Or Nichelle Mansini, who certainly didn't think she'd lose 8 teeth because she'd called Nora a cameltoe in her new pants (which, by the way, hadn't been true!). And tonight was the wrong night to fuck her. She wasn't in the mood. No matter for what. Except to smash someone's face in really hard.

Clearly, part of her knew that she was overcompensating, taking out her anger about her ex-colleagues on someone who was perhaps more despondent than she was. But really - did that worry her? Wasn't the other person responsible if he dared to cross her path when she was in such a mood? Maybe some broken bones from a woman would even be a healing, life-changing experience for the asshole behind her. And if the pigs asked any questions ... it was self-defense. Perfect. Her heart wasn't racing with fear now. But with a surge of heated adrenaline and a healthy dose of nervous giddiness when she saw the shadow looming behind her. Tall, taller than she had expected. And muscular and hulking. But she wasn't a hundred pound damsel in distress. She had a fighting weight and knew how to use it. As well as her bitchiness and easy to trigger fury.

One second she felt hot breath blowing into her free neck, then warm, heavily furred arms wrapped around her waist, pulling her up. The second she was lifted up and someone started with "Hey Chubs, guess who-" she had yanked the wooden slat out of the pile of bulky junk and rammed it backwards into the side of her attacker. With a shrill inhuman-sounding scream, he let go of her and went down. The guy had to have weapons in his hands - something tore into her side and yes, it hurt, but she was far too psyched to let it stop her. Adrenaline made her jump up.

Now she was towering over her ... Nora's jaw dropped open as she saw the thing crouching in the light of the streetlamp and holding its side, panting. It was - anything but human. And not a gargoyle, because the hairy gargoyles were from Europe and she didn't think the freak in the dark T-shirt and ill-fitting ripped jeans was vacationing in New York to assault women. Nora deduced "mutant" as the only fallback solution but really, did it matter? Tonight? With a furious banshee shriek, she raised the wooden slat again and let it thunder against the shaggy creature's shoulder, causing the wood to splinter as if it had exploded.

The freak fell to the side with a snarl, kicking her leg with a bare foot (or rather cat's paw). Nora heard it crack - louder than she was sure it was. Her roar filled the block but it was more anger than pain as she saw red, struggled to stay on her feet, now pulling something else out of the pile. It was long but heavy. Made of metal. Jackpot! Her former attacker was still on the ground, dark wings raised above him but trembling with surprise or pain or FEAR and the last would be too perfect because he really deserved it for daring to mess with HER, THIS NIGHT.

He lifted one hand where the other was still pressed against his side. He had claws - with Nora's blood on them. As Nora limped towards him, he scuttled backwards with more agility than she would have thought possible, but in keeping with his genetic profile. Cat and ... Bat. He was one of those first mutants - obviously. You couldn't say that mutants were a common sight outside their circle of weird labyrinth homeless-whatever, but they weren't exotic enough for everyone to make a fuss about them anymore. Not New Yorkers anyway. And mutant or not, the guy was going to lose one of his seven lives tonight. There was no oddity discount for them anymore. Now it was he who was backing away, visibly distraught, and Nora couldn't hold back the mean grin, nor did she want to as she limped after him. She knew something was very wrong with her leg. And with other parts of her body too. But fuck-it the consequences would be, as always, a problem for Future Nora. When she got to him, she saw how bloodied his fur was, heard how hard he was breathing.

"Fuck-me-uck, you're still a batshit piece of-, arghI canbarelybreathe. Fucking lucky shot, you could really- st-stop, calm the fu-uck down, you can't-."

She interrupted his stertorous sputtering and her voice shook too but was far better than anything Kitty-Cat could produce, probably because she'd driven the wooden lath into one of his lungs.

"Okay freak! You're the frosting on my fucking shitolade cake tonight and you messed with the wrong one! So say goodnight, Garfield!" She raised the iron bar and the mutant freak threw up both hands, his glowing golden eyes wide with panic, one bloodshot.

"Stop, Chubs! STOP! Itsme,its-"

She could no longer slow down. With full force, the bar hit the thing in the head before she could even allow the impossibility. But NOBODY had dared call her that in a long time. Not since-. His blood splattered with a wet sound from his fang-filled mouth against the nearest house wall in a gruesome pattern. And Nora was distracted by it for half a second. But it was enough. When the thing went down, it grabbed the pole again. And sent 1000 volts through it. And through Nora, too. Oh, yeah, there had been something. First mutants - electricity. Well, shit. She no longer felt her own impact on the asphalt - the second one tonight.

.

I'm back! Wuhahah.

Back from New York.

Fantastic, sumptuous, singing, ringing, sparkling, glittering, gruesomely tugging, devouring you in the best and most terrifying ways, disturbing, uplifting you or pushing you into the gutter New Fucking York City.

I would have written some things differently if I had known what I know now. Although of course after 3 weeks I am no New York expert - FAR from it - but the view of a foreigner ... someone who studies another habitat with its inhabitants (God, that sounds awful but that's how I felt at times- like Jane Goodall) is perhaps more neutral than someone with deeper insight but more emotionally charged.

It was probably the best (most expensive) vacation of my life and unforgettable, I recommend it to everyone but the city - as wonderful and diverse and welcoming as it is (if you have enough money or a goal or connections) - has so much filth and squalor and neglect underneath the glory and myth. It doesn't even hide it - how could it, it's there. Organically. It's schizophrenic (and not at all good for my depression so good thing I don't have to live there permanently).

The people who haven't "made it" are a normal part of the cityscape - everywhere. Lying around the benches of Central Park, illegal immigrants driving rickshaws, running partly illegal street stalls on many corners, women walking back and forth on subway stations with their babies in wraps on their backs to generate pity, selling small sweets or drinks, homeless people sleeping in the subway stations (it's really warm there!) or in the subways themselves with blankets spread over them probably to avoid being exposed to prying eyes (maybe some were corpses - WHO KNOWS!). Who wants to know?!).

Many of the obvious shelterless were in torn soiled clothes, skinny, sick, talking unintelligibly rambling or were uninhibited in facial expressions and gestures, were clearly on drugs or mentally ill or both, surely this often goes hand in hand and Jesus why doesn't a rich country take care of these people? (and i don't mean to give them money- i mean HELP!)- And YES, I know the arguments, no money, no staff, no resources, too much, too difficult, too cumbersome, a bottomless pit, part of the fucking system- and the police show a lot of presence at every corner and I don't want crashed people to be treated like criminals and "taken out of sight" if they do not harm anyone (but themselves). Certainly not EVERYONE ignores these circumstances and there are many small state or private aid organizations and the people I saw are the ones who don't let themselves be helped for various reasons but the biggest part of the city walks past these people. Every day, night and hour! Where is your God here, greatest nation in the world? I don't get it, I'm just a stupid whimsical little German country pumpkin who will always have health insurance until the system in their country collapses. I am rambling- i must shut up.

I'm not tough and hardened enough to ignore the bottom of the barrel conditions all the time but I totally understand (to get back to the show) how gargoyles could operate unnoticed in New York for so long. The whole city continuously walks around with tunnel vision in order to function. The deluded tourists with their busy schedules anyway. I stood as a gargoyle in the subway on the way to Comic Con and nobody gave a shit (I didn't want anyone to make a fuss around me either, but in Germany everyone would have gawked and whispered as if you were from Mars, and not just for a moment but all the time). In New York everything odd is: meh - just another Tuesday.

Thanks for reading Q.T.