Hidden toilet cameras

A Killer Among the Spaceship Game Show. By Dennis. On October 10, 2020. In Imaginary. After being laid off during the pandemic, Alex responds to an online ad to be a contestant in a spaceship themed reality TV series with game show challenges. Unbeknownst to Alex, they learn one of those challenges is to stay alive. A Killer Among the Spaceship Game Show. Series. I should’ve known there would be a catch to being a contestant in this reality game show. Like millions of others, I lost my job in April due to the ongoing pandemic. Shortly after I made a post on Facebook about looking for a job, an ad appeared seeking contestants for a new reality TV series. A Killer Among the Spaceship Game Show. By Dennis. On October 10, 2020. In Imaginary. After being laid off during the pandemic, Alex responds to an online ad to be a contestant in a spaceship themed reality TV series with game show challenges. Unbeknownst to Alex, they learn one of those challenges is to stay alive. A Killer Among the Spaceship Game Show. By Dennis. On October 10, 2020. In Imaginary. After being laid off during the pandemic, Alex responds to an online ad to be a contestant in a spaceship themed reality TV series with game show challenges. Unbeknownst to Alex, they learn one of those challenges is to stay alive. The Space Game: The Space Game is a free strategy game. Take an asteroid field and turn it into a space station! Mine, build, wire and colonize. But work quickly, because there are invaders on the horizon. Hope you're not busy for about a week, dude. Free Strategy Games from AddictingGames When Tom's student, Brad Raybury, was incriminated to be the killer, Spangler was cleared because of his cooperation with the police to catch a killer. Upon admitting, Brad said that he pointed the gun at Tom as a prank. It was to his surprise that the gun fired, killing Tom and giving him a huge hole in his chest. Crewmates can win by completing all tasks or discovering and voting the impostor off the ship. The Impostor can use sabotage to cause chaos, making for easier kills and better alibis. Play online... The task of the killer is to assassinate all the other participants. To do so, he can simply tell them that they are dead, or show them his card proving he is the killer. All the killed participants note their death (their own name, time and location of the killing) on the sheet of paper. A Killer Among Us is a case featured in Criminal Case, appearing as the one-hundred twelfth case of the game. It is the fifty-sixth case of Pacific Bay and the final one to take place in the Paradise City district. Previously, Frank had volunteered to escort Danny Moto to the police station so... To join a game with a blank name, you have to copy a special character known as a Hangul Filler, which might look like just a blank space but is actually an acceptable name for Among Us' code. You ...

2020.10.20 19:08 roguehero Cameras toilet hidden

I should’ve known there would be a catch to being a contestant in this reality game show. Like millions of others, I lost my job in April due to the ongoing pandemic. Shortly after I made a post on Facebook about looking for a job, an ad appeared seeking contestants for a new reality TV series. The ad was looking for people out of work to pay five thousand dollars a week with possible bonuses. I was a little creeped out by the algorithms’ accuracy, but it wasn’t the first time my personal life was the target of an ad. With no job prospects and out of morbid curiosity, I clicked on the ad. After all, they did offer more money than what I used to make in a month.
The webpage was rather vague about the show. It said it was based on a hit video game and was going to be a mix of reality TV with game show challenges. I assumed they didn’t want to leak too many details. There were a ton of legal conditions, which I skimmed over, and in retrospect, I wish I hadn’t. Auditions were happening that day not far from my apartment, so I grabbed my bike, hoodie, and a face mask, and then made my way to a run-down warehouse building downtown.
There were a series of printed signs with the word “auditions” and arrows leading the way. I thought there would be a long line of people, but it was just me. I began to think I came at the wrong time until I entered this massive empty warehouse space when these two people directed me to stand under a light beam. I wasn’t sure if they were the producers or casting directors, as I never did get their titles, but they were an odd pair. One of them was this tall man in a white suit with pink accents, and the other was this woman in a red dress with a tablet I’ve never seen before. Hollywood types, am I right?
From their metal folding seats, they asked some basic questions about myself, including some health questions. Then they asked me some weird questions.
“How do you feel about spaceships?” the woman inquired.
“I think they’re pretty neat,” I stumbled to answer.
“What would you do if a big scary alien jumped out in front of you,” the man immediately demanded to know.
“Uh, I would probably scream and run away.”
“How many times has someone tried to kill you?” the woman quizzed.
“None, I think…”
The audition ended with them informing me that they would call me tomorrow morning if selected. I left, not feeling too confident. I was shocked when I received a call at 9 am the next day. They said they thought I “would bring a much-needed personality to the show.” They then asked if I could start on Friday with the quarantine process, and I said enthusiastically replied yes.
When I returned to the warehouse, a construction company filled the audition space with unfinished wooden walls. It was like being behind a movie set. The women from the interview introduced herself as Raven and one of the show’s producers. She wore the same sparking red dress as before with a matching face mask. She led me to a sizeable boxed structure with a door covered in a black number seven. Inside was a fully furnished studio apartment with a modern white sci-fi spacecraft theme. On the opposite end was a locked sliding octagon metal door. She informed me they were still building the stage and pointed to the headphones hanging next to the wall-mounted flatscreen TV if I needed them.
I signed a ton of legal documents while she explained I would have to stay here for two weeks as I’ll be living with the six other contestants. However, I would have internet access to keep me occupied. I was getting paid $10,000 to do nothing for two weeks. Awesome, right?
With the paperwork done, Raven walked me over to my uniform, a white spacesuit costume. It didn’t look bulky or uncomfortable like a real spacesuit. Raven showed me the craft supplies to decorate it however I wanted. There were drawers of gray sweatpants and t-shirts for me to wear for the show. Above the drawers and TV was a twin bed. The bathroom was tiny, with a standing shower, toilet, and sink. If I wanted privacy, the bathrooms were the only place without any cameras. There was no kitchen other than a water dispenser and a dumbwaiter for food. Raven told me to change out of my clothes and put them in the dumbwaiter after she left. After the tour, I was left alone.
The clothes they provided were comfortable and fit perfectly, which I was worried that wouldn’t be the case. I learned to sow because I had difficulty finding outfits that worked for me.
About seven days through, time started to drag. I dyed my suit yellow and wrote my name, Alex, on the name patch with a marker. I worked out and did yoga to keep myself in shape. I started to watch shows I was less excited to check out. Thankfully, I was allowed to FaceTime and text my friends and family. The producers didn’t mind as they said it would “build hype.” It was better than talking to the camera above the TV, which I might have had several rants for that camera. In my defense, conversation topics would pop up on the screen when I wasn’t watching anything. The whole quarantine process made me sympathize with the astronauts training to go to Mars.
On the morning of day 14, I put on my spacesuit as instructed by the TV. Right at 8 am, the internet went off, and the sliding door opened. I jumped up from the couch and walked outside into the bright white hallway with an octagon shape. The six other contestants stepped out from their rooms. I have to admit, the producers selected a diverse group of people with three girls and three girls, although everyone was probably in their 20s or 30s. We greeted each other, and then Raven spoke over a speaker.
“Good morning, crew!” Raven greeted with an authorize tone of leadership. “As a member of this spaceship, there will be random tasks for you to compete to keep this ship flying. Successfully complete the task to win bonus cash. At the end of every day, there will be an elimination round. Survive to continue. Good luck and enjoy breakfast in the dining hall.”
With a charming ding, the transmission ended.
“Let’s go eat!” shouted the tallest contestant. He was the only one who didn’t decorate his spacesuit other than writing his name, Jake, in the name badge section.
A woman with the name tag of Sari in a sky blue spacesuit and matching Shayla scarf raised her hand. “Where is the dining hall?”
No one said anything. I think we all half expected Raven to tell us, but when she didn’t, we all awkwardly scattered. I took the left hallway, walking alongside with Maro. Out of all of the spacesuit designs, his was by far the most detailed with drawings of flowers and dragons. During our walk, I learned he was a tattoo artist, and his parents moved to America from Spain before he was born. He and his husband owned a tattoo parlor together when the pandemic hit, putting them both out of work.
Before I could say anything about myself, we wandered into the dining hall at about the same time as the others. The octagonal room had four entrances that were also octagon-shaped, like the hallways. In the center of the room stood a large, octagonal white metal table. It was becoming apparent that the set design team was obsessed with octagons, so from here on out, if I talk about anything, assume it was octagon shaped too.
Scattered along the walls were seven numbed dumbwaiters. I walked over to number seven, slid up the door, and inside was my breakfast sandwich wrap. I brought the tray over to the table and sat next to Maro. A curly blonde-haired woman with a fruit smoothie sat next to me. She decorated her spacesuit with numerous multicolored hearts.
“I love your hair,” she complimented. “You got this whole artsy half buzzcut superhero thing going on.”
“Thank you,” I replied, sliding my hand through my hair.
“Oh, I’m Kate, by the way,” she introduced. “She/her.”
“I’m Maro,” he said with a wave. “He/him.”
“I’m Alex. They. So, Kate, what did you do before the pandemic?”
“Well, I am a singer slash songwriter, and I was planning this big tour, and well, here I am. Granted, I would’ve been couch surfing with some strangers because I was going to do it self-funded, so maybe it’s for the best this all happened.”
“Trying to see the positive side of things,” I said.
“As best I can,” Kate exclaimed before taking a drink.
We chatted over breakfast, with mostly small talk and how we lost our jobs. I couldn’t help but feel how weird and refreshing it was to be around people physically during the whole conversation. I missed it.
About the time we finished eating, Raven spoke over the intercom. “Reminder: You have work to do. Explore the spaceship for tasks to complete and bonus rewards.”
Jake bolted up from the table and ran out through the north door, hollering along the way. The rest of us casually got up and returned our trays to our dumbwaiters, with the guy that sat next to Jake, taking care of his tray too. We went our separate ways.
I knew the warehouse space was huge, but I didn’t expect them to utilize as much space as they did. It didn’t take long for me to get away from everyone. I stumbled upon a door marked with three blue cylinder tubes. The door slid open as I approached. Inside was a ball-pit the size of my bedroom filled with clear balls. In front of the pit was a pedestal with one blue cylinder tube with a sticker that said “fuel-cell” and holes for two others.
“I assume my task is to find the other two fuel-cells hidden in the ball-pit?” I spoke into the room.
No response. I shrugged and carefully dipped myself into the pit. The balls went up past my waist. As I swam around, I became awash with joy. Although there wasn’t a live studio audience cheering me on, I felt like I was on some old Nickelodeon game show. I wasn’t sure how long I was in there before I banged my foot on the first tube in the bottom center. I pulled myself out of the pit and placed it in the slot. The fuel-cell lit up, and a robotic voice announced, “One more left.”
This time, I returned to the pit doing a cannonball dive. I went to the furthest corner, where I found the third one. I raced out and put it the slot. The room lights turned green.
“You’ve received a bonus of $342,” the robotic voice congratulated in a monotone. “Please exit the room.”
As instructed, I left the room. I inspected both ends of the hallway. There was something different. I could’ve sworn the air vents were toward the ceiling and not toward the floor. The spaceship’s design was modular enough that perhaps the TV crew could move things around in an attempt to confuse us, or maybe was I just mistaken?
It was a moot point, so I went left, and at the intersection, I nearly ran into Flint, the guy who cleaned up after Jake. He was the opposite of Jake in appearance. Jake was tall while Flint was short, Jake was muscular while Flint was heavyset, and Jake was white, and Flint was black. Flint also took the time to dye his spacesuit orange. He apologized, and I said it was all good.
“Did you find any challenges?” I asked him.
“Yeah, I was walking down a hallway when this panel slid down, and there was this clear tube sticking out. I was starring at it for a moment when this green ooze started to flow up, and a green light started to flash in a corner with another tube, and then a bunch of tube pieces fell on me. I figured I had to connect them to get the ooze to go to the other end.”
“What did you win?”
Flint gestured to the green gloop on his arm. “I don’t think I won.”
I covered my mouth as not to laugh. “Well, I found a ball-pit room where I had to find two fuel cells.”
“That sounds fun,” Flint said with amazement.
“Yeah, it was,” I admitted. “Anyway, good luck on the next one.”
“You too.”
We traveled opposite directions. I kept my eye out for the same ooze puzzle, but instead, I found a door with a thin black line symbol. The room was about the same size as the previous challenge room. On the opposite end of the room was a large red button, but there was a balance beam over a foam-padded pit to get across. I think I managed three steps before I fell. The moment I hit the ground, the lights in the room went red.
“Failure,” the robotic voice announced without any emotion. “Please exit the room.”
I climbed up the metal ladder and left the room. I didn’t get the same hallway shifting vibe that I did last time. Either the crew didn’t have time to move things around on me, or I imagined things. I explored the hallways without encountering any more challenges when I ended up in the dining hall for lunch. I found the three girls, Kate, Sari, and Alyssa, enjoying lunch together.
“Yo, Alex, come sit with us,” Kate shouted.
I grabbed my lunch, a turkey sub, and joined them. Kate introduced everyone. I learned that the pandemic caused Alyssa to get furloughed from her nonessential medical job. Sari couldn’t complete her art historian dissertation with everything closed.
I asked them about the ship’s challenges, and all agreed we felt like we were on a Nickelodeon game show. Although we had to explain what that meant to Sari – complete with examples of Double Dare, GUTS, and Legends of the Hidden Temple – she ended up agree with us.
The guys entered the dining hall, laughing and flinging green gloop at each other, which they were all drenched with on their spacesuits.
“What happened to you guys?” Alyssa asked, concerned.
“We found this room where we had to work together and throw balls at these cardboard aliens,” Maro explained.
“Those ‘aliens,’’ Flint commented with air quotes, “also had cannons that fired this green goo at us.”
“But we each won $500,” Jake enthusiastically added.
The guys grabbed their lunch and joined the group. I discovered Jake was a personal trainer who lost most of his clients when they lost their jobs. Jake certainly had the energy of a trainer, and I bet he was great at it. Flint was a bouncer, and with all the clubs and bars shut down, there was nothing for him. Although he admitted the downtime was giving him a chance to reevaluate his life because he only started the job because people thought he would be good at it.
Before we could finish eating, the lights flashed yellow.
“Danger,” the robotic voice announced in a high pitch tone. “The ship is under attack. Press the ten yellow buttons throughout to repair our shields.”
We all jumped out of seats and raced throughout the hallways as the voice repeated itself, and a perpetual alarm followed. After a few turns, I found a lit yellow button the size of my hand mounted on the wall. I press it, and the panel flipped, disappearing the button. I ran down the hallway and made a right turn. I couldn’t hear anything over the alarm, and no one was around. I found a second button. I pressed it, and this time the alarm and flashing lights stopped.
“I guess I found the last one,” I boasted. “Good job, Alex.”
I half jogged my way back, trying to remember which way I came. After a few wrong turns, I found everyone gathered in a circle in the dining hall.
“Hey, what’s going on?” I asked.
Maro stepped to the side to reveal Kat on the floor with a knife in her back. “Someone killed Kate.”
“This isn’t really Kate,” Jake stated. “This is clearly a dummy.”
“This isn’t a dummy,” Alyssa corrected.
“How do you know what a dead body looks like?” Jake snapped.
“I’m a fucking nurse,” Alyssa snapped back. “I know a dead body when I fucking see one.”
A flashing red light filled the area.
Raven came on the intercom. “Everyone return to your rooms. Return to your rooms.”
We all looked at each, and Raven repeated herself a third time. We walked back to our rooms. The light was normal. Once I was inside, the door closed behind me. Raven was on my TV screen.
“There is a killer among you who killed Kate,” she coldly revealed. “We offered one of you triple the weekly reward to kill one of your fellow crewmates. I will give you 12 minutes to reflect on your day. Share your thoughts into the camera above your TV and type your vote on who should be eliminated. Choose wisely.”
The screen switching to a red countdown clock, leaving me with my thoughts. Who should I vote to eliminate?
PART 2 I starred into the lens. Am I honestly expected to share my thoughts on who among us could be a killer? I let out a frustrated sigh and let myself rant, hoping that talking out it out would help me think.
“Honestly, I have no idea who would’ve killed Kate. She was so warm and friendly from the little time I got to know her. From the motive of money, we’re all hurting, but who could be hurting the worst? Jake has been really into winning, so maybe he’s in more finical trouble than what he’s lead us to believe. But, I can’t also disregard his accusations that perhaps Kate isn’t dead. That’s a weird thing to say if you were trying to cover your tracks.
If I look at this puzzle from the perspective of who I would expect the least, I would have to vote for Maro. It’s never the obvious answer in any murder mystery, and Maro has been so kind to everyone. Of course, if he were a back-stabbing murder, he would use kindness to be deceitful.”
I put my hands over the keyboard. They froze, unsure of the consequences.
“Plus, if it isn’t Maro, eliminating him from the game would spare him from getting killed,” I reassured myself. I typed his name. “Done. Let’s see what happens next.”
When the clock reached zero, the screen went blank, but nothing else happened. I paced my room, waiting. I tried to entertain myself, but they turned off the internet. I think it was about five minutes later when my door automatically opened.
I cautiously stepped out, just as everyone did. The highway lights were a vivid blue and had a movement pattern that pointed down one way. I didn’t see Maro.
“Are we supposed to follow the lights?” Sari asked.
“I think so,” Alyssa replied and started to follow the lights.
We all followed in silence. My throat was tight from the awkward tension vibes everyone was giving off. I don’t think they expected this part of the show either.
The hallway opened up into a brand new room with three white couches, a wall-mounted tv with how much money everyone’s earned, and a glass door with Maro on the other side. It looked like the tiny room Maro was in was supposed to represent an airlock.
Maro started pounding on the glass the moment he saw us. He spoke, but I couldn’t hear him. His face was red with anger. The airlock room filled up with smoke. We all watched in silence as the smoke cleared out. Maro was gone.
The intercom dinged.
“Carry along with your day,” a friendly robotic voice inspired.
The message repeated itself and concluded with a ding.
“So, did Maro do it?” Flint asked the room.
“I found him in the room first,” Sari revealed. “I saw him wiping his hands clean.”
“It’s always the person you least suspect it in these murder mystery things,” I chimed. “I voted for him.”
“I voted for him for the same reason, too,” Alyssa added with a tone of happiness that someone else had the same idea.
“Well, I voted for Jake,” Flint confessed.
Jake laughed. “I voted for you!”
“I guess we get to play some more games now,” Alyssa said, clapping her hands together.
We all agreed and split up. I was positive the tv crew moved the hallways around while we voted as no route was familiar. I found a challenge room door with two squares side by side, just as Sari did.
“I think you found this one first,” Sari shied away.
“Wait!” I interrupted. “Maybe it’s a room where we have to work together.”
Sari nodded with a smile. “If you want, let’s give it a chance.”
The door slid opened, and we stepped inside. The center of the square room had a ten by ten grid of light-up squares on the floor. Some were blue, and some were red.
“Any idea what we’re supposed to do?” Sari said.
I stepped on a red square, and it turned blue. I stepped on a blue one, and it stayed blue. “I think we’re supposed to turn all the squares blue.”
Sari nodded. “Let’s do it then.”
We started walking on the red squares, turning them blue. After some time, we noticed some of the tiles reverted to red. We started running to keep pace with the squares, working together to get all of the same color. Sari stepped on the last one, causing all of the squares to flash purple.
“Congratulations,” the monotone robotic voice reported. “You each won $347.”
We high-fived each other as the room went dark.
“Did we cause a power outage?” I joked.
“This game did use a lot of lights,” she pointed out.
“That’s true. Hold my hand. I think I can get us to the door.”
I led us back to the door. We only managed to step on each other twice, so I count that as a success in my book. The door opened automatically, to a lit hallway.
“Must’ve had an outage in just that room,” I commented.
“I think so,” Sari agreed. “Hey, weren’t the air vents toward the bottom?”
I looked around the hallway for any differences. “Yeah, I don’t remember. I had the same feeling the air vents were in a different place after one of the challenges I did earlier, but I shrugged it off.”
After a moment of silence of Sari staring at a vent, I told her I would look for more challenge rooms. I went down a hallway while Sari kept staring. After two turns, I found the same tube puzzle Flint first found. Since I knew what to expect, I worked fast to connect the tubes to allow the green ooze to flow to the other end. When linked together, a screen covered the puzzle with $100 written on it.
I did a victory dance, but my celebration was interrupted by a scream. I bolted to the source to find Alyssa – still alive – against a hallway wall holding a hand over her chest.
“Are you okay?” I asked as I jogged up to her.
“Yeah, I thought I saw something in the vents,” she explained.
I looked at the vent in front of her. “Nothing now.”
“Yeah, I think I’m just hungry,” she consented. “You think dinner is ready?”
“We can go look,” I reassured her.
We made our way to the dining hall together. Along the way, we talked about the challenges we faced. I also told her about how I believed the rooms were moving.
“Okay, so it isn’t just me,” Alyssa said, relieved. “I thought I was going crazy the first time I thought the path was different.”
“Me too,” I said without any enthusiasm. My mind got hung up on another topic I wanted to asked Alyssa now. “So, about Kate. Do you think she was really dead? Like it wasn’t a fake body?”
Alyssa was quiet for what felt like an eternity. “It looked so real, but at the same time, they’ve put a lot of effort into this show, so maybe it was all fake.”
“They didn’t give us time to inspect things,” I mentioned.
“True. Kate could’ve been in on the whole thing too.”
We turned the corner and ended up in the dining hall.
“I wasn’t expecting to get here until a few more turns,” I remarked.
Alyssa playfully punched me on the shoulder. “Don’t mess with me.”
We opened our respective dumbwaiters to find dinner ready. We sat and talked about our favorite movies. Flint was the first to join us, followed by Sari and Jake. Thankfully, a friendly message from Raven instead of a surprise challenge concluded our dinner time.
“Please return to your rooms when finished,” Raven kindly directed. “Get some rest as you’ll have a busy day tomorrow.”
One by one, we went back to our rooms. When I went to my room, all alternative routes were closed. Once inside, the door automatically locked behind me. I turned on the TV. The producers returned Internet access, so I watched some movies until I got tired and retired to my bed.
I woke up at my usual time, and the door was already open. Although I was still in my sweatpants and t-shirt, I popped my head out. The hallway lights were dim, and the producers opened all the doors. I jumped in the shower, put on some fresh clothes, my spacesuit, and went to the dining hall.
“Good morning,” I greeted as I stepped inside.
Alyssa, Flint, and Jake looked up and glared at me.
“You look awfully fresh,” Jake accused.
“What?” I muttered, taken back by the harsh comment. “Why would you say–”
My eyes noticed Sari’s body with her head cut off. I covered my mouth. I could feel the room getting smaller as everyone stared at me. I wanted to vomit.
Alyssa crossed her arms. “You were the last one to arrive last time.”
A flashing red light filled the dining hall.
“Everyone return to your rooms,” Raven ordered over the intercoms. “Return to your rooms.”
Without hesitation or having Raven repeat herself a third time, we all walked back to our rooms. When I got back to mine, Raven was already on the TV. The doors closed.
“Maro was not the killer,” she informed. “Now Sari is dead. Vote to eliminate the right person this time if you want to make it off this ship alive.”
A 12-minute countdown clock replaced the feed of Raven.
“What the fuck,” I blurted out to the camera. “Does everyone think I did it now? Fuck. Who could it be?”
I sat there, contemplating my choices. I reevaluated who could be the most desperate for the money, but nothing new came to light. Then I started to think who could physically be able to cut off someone’s head.
“It has to be Jake. He’s the strongest. He could do it.” I typed in his name. “I hope he didn’t convince everyone else it was me.”
The timer disappeared. This time, my door opened immediately with three faceless people in bright orange hazmat suits.
“You have been eliminated,” one of them ordered through a voice box, confirming my fear. “Come with us.”
I got up, and they led me to the airlock room where they left me. About a minute later, the rest of the crew came into the room to witness me go. I tried to scream that I was innocent, but I knew no one couldn’t hear me. The room filled up with smoke, and I felt two pairs of hands guide me out of the room.
The smoke cleared away, bringing me behind the film stage. The two guiding hazmat personnel left me in front of a cheap folding table with a box of my belongings and a check of my earnings. Before I could ask any questions, they left through a metal door. I followed the series of arrows out of the building. I tried to get back inside, but they locked the doors.
I waited around for a few minutes, expecting Raven or one of the other producers to debrief me or do some final on-camera interview, but no one came. I walked back to my apartment. If it weren’t for the pandemic, I would’ve called a friend or a Lyft. I had been inside so long I kind of forgot what the sun and wind felt like, so I embraced the walk. Surprisingly, I didn’t get any attention for my outfit or at least none that I realized.
When I got home, I called my friends and family and told them about the show. They all had a good laugh. Everyone was of the opinion that the deaths were fake. I didn’t disagree them as I was leaning toward the same opinion when I was on the ship. I asked everyone to keep an eye out for the show because I was curious about the outcome.
About a week later, I landed a new job. I tried to search online for the other contestants, but I couldn’t find any details about anyone. I contacted practically every tattoo shop in the area, thinking someone would know Maro, but no luck. Did he lie about his profession? Was he an actor? Or maybe he lived out of state? I guess I didn’t have enough information about anyone to be able to track them down.
Months later, nothing new surfaced. I still haven’t heard from the show’s producers or any of my crewmates. Now, I’m sharing my story online with you. Does anyone know anything about this show?
submitted by roguehero to u/roguehero [link] [comments]

2020.10.18 01:17 DancingEmber Hidden toilet cameras

I’ll just jump in, I suppose.

————— THE BUNKROOM —————
“Ey! Yo, Hard-On!” Tommy yelled.
My name’s Hardy but he insists on calling me Hard-On. He has a nickname too, one he gave himself: Captain Crunch. Thinks he’s a damn comedian.
“I got sumthin!”
His shout echoed down the submarine corridor. It got into all the nooks, turning his voice metallic and wide. Like it could’ve swallowed me up.
I was in the bunkroom scrubbing the grime off the rack. At least the sheets were crisp, blue. Plaid pillows rested on top of them, dented and sleepy. Only the portside cubbies and the bed trimming across from them looked like filth. In sixty-three days of dive missions, I don’t think I’ve ever once seen the textured tan plastic hidden beneath the gunk. That crap just didn’t want to come off. Going to war against it was hardly what I’d call a good time, but the job gave me a break from other things.
“Hardy!” Tommy said, closer now. “Ya jerkin off or what?”
I flipped on the little speaker set next to me, blasted Metallica’s Frayed Ends of Sanity, wiped the sweat from my brow, and scrubbed a little harder at the soot and stains. Shane wasn’t going to be off her shift for another forty minutes so I had the luxury of cranking the volume too loud.
I heard shouting but kept my ears trained on the apocalyptic guitar riffs. Tommy slid the cabin door open and poked his head around the corner, rapping his knuckles on the steel door trimming. I looked at him, expressionless. He threw his arm out, then back, making vigorous circles around his ears trying to tell me to turn off the music. I scrunched up my face, shrugged. Went back to work.
Heavy rock pounded the air tinnily, “Hear them calling / Hear them calling me.”
Tommy has muscles like a tank, but you wouldn’t know it looking at him. His belly spills out over his jeans and jiggles as he walks. Pockets of fat cling to the backs of his triceps. He always starts the shift in a freshly-pressed uniform. By the end of the day, he’s sure to abandon his pristine work jacket for the stained grey tank top he wears underneath. And he never forgets that stupid 49ers cap of his, turned backwards because he thinks it makes him look real cool.
He moved behind me and slapped off the radio. The standing area of the bunkroom was barely big enough for one person.
“What do you want, Tommy?” I stood and backed up towards the entryway, arms crossed, leaving him at the other corner.
“That’s Captain Crunch to you,” he said with that big goofy grin of his.
I said nothing, raised an eyebrow.
“I told ya. I got sumthin.”
“More Asian fantasies?” I suggested seedily.
He chortled, slow and rasping. “That’s why I love ya, Hard-On; not to be gay or anything. Not that there’s sumthin wrong with that. I mean, cool if you are, but I ain’t.”
“Ey, right, as I was sayin. You need to see this.”
There are few things in this life I like more than discovering unusual creatures. I hesitate to use the word joy. If I know any joy in my life, though, it’s down here beneath the waves.
But you need to understand that Tommy has a habit of wasting my time. Last week he told me the same thing, that I needed to come see something. Then he took me to the kitchenette and showed me a 'crab' he’d made out of two sporks and some used tinfoil. He made it seem like the goddamn rapture.
What I’m trying to say is, my expectations were low.

————— THE BRIDGE —————
I latched the door shut after we funneled in. Pinging sonar and the thrum of water lull the senses in the control room. The cabin houses an almost unimaginable variety of displays, knobs, dials, and switches attached to plastic panels. Two rectangular swivel chairs are bolted to the floor at the front. Separating the panels at the center is a domed doorway that leads to the lockout.
Shane shifted over her shoulder to look at us from the pilot console, the leftmost chair, and put down the romance novel she’d been reading. It was the kind that had a picture of an over-muscled, bare-chested man on its cover.
Shane is all curves, heavy, but in a good way, like a cheerleader or something. (I’m a guy. I can’t help noticing these things. Sorry if that’s offensive or whatever.) If she’s not busy working out, I can almost guarantee she’s off reading. Or maybe eating chocolate. She has a stash somewhere but we can’t find it. She wears an amber locket, I think it was a gift from her father. Her strawberry blonde hair curls in at the nape of her neck, accenting the necklace. Freckles dot her nose. And she has the cutest dimples when she smiles.
“Well, well. Looks like the boys are back in town,“ she said, all smiles.
“Yup. I got a Hard-On for ya,” Tommy replied.
I shifted a little and broke eye contact with her. Shane seemed to pay no attention. I’m not sure if that made me feel better or worse.
“How long have you been waiting for the perfect moment to say that? Hours? Days? Don’t tell me it was months.” she said.
“It’s really been eatin me up inside, y’know,” he went and leaned back against the chair next to her, propped up on both elbows, “a real downer that I couldn’t share it yet. Dunno what I’m gonna do now that that’s outta the way. Maybe off myself or sumthin.” He stared at the ceiling panels.
“You do that, Captain Crunch. You do that.”
His body dipped, then sprung upwards. “Can’t. Gotta show him the thing.”
“If this is one of his pranks, just tell me. I’ve got cleaning duty,” I said.
Shane and Tommy shared a glance that I didn’t much like.
“It could be nothing,” she said.
“It could be sumthin.”
“It’s probably not, though. Probably.”
“What did you find?” I said.
Tommy’s eyes went narrow. “I got a big-ass reading from sonar. Like, I’m talkin some massive badonkadonk, a real Big Booty Judy.”
I went over to him and he moved out of the way. I put my hands on the back of the navigator chair to support myself as I bent over the readouts. He was right. That was some serious junk in the trunk. Easily the size of a whale. Except it wasn’t moving.
I gave Shane a sideways glance. “You guys check the view port yet?”
“Nope. We wanted to wait for you.”
Those dimples.
“I dunno. I’da just as soon left ya to scrub my bunk all day,” Tommy said.
Shane fiddled with her locket as she turned back to her novel. She told us to go below and take a look, said she wanted to keep an eye on things up there.
Tommy opened the door for me with a little curtsy. He’s pretty flamboyant for someone so concerned about not seeming gay.

————— THE PORTHOLE —————
I stared at Tommy’s 49ers cap as we tumbled in stops and starts through the corridor. At about half the size of normal submarines, our girl is easily swayed by ocean currents.
We passed through the specimen storage room lined with water tanks from floor to ceiling and the sad excuse for a mess hall. The big white SF on the back of Tommy’s hat stared back at me the whole way. I’m more of a Seahawks man, myself.
We strode back through the bunks. Federico, our sponsor, crashed on the bottom rack now, fast asleep. The guy must have money out the whazoo to be privately funding this research expedition. You wouldn’t guess it looking at those grease-stained hands. We were gentle closing the doors on our way out.
Past the bathroom, the whirring utterances of the engine room greeted us. Tommy and I turned around, went prone, and crawled into the open space beneath the deck we had just traveled.
Imagine two fat guys stuffed in a sardines can and you’ll know what it was like. We’re not even that big compared to some other guys. But you get the point. We scuffed our bellies against the metal paneling and just about rubbed all the hair off our arms bumping elbows.
At the far end of the tunnel, Shane’s voice crackled over the radio unit, “How are my two favorite slow pokes? See anything yet?“
The button to give a reply was at the porthole. We couldn’t reach it yet. “Mocking us,” I said between puffs and pants.
“Whaddya. Expect,” he wheezed. “That’s. Shane Austen.”
Shane Austen we call her, a play on that feminist romance novelist devised by none other than Captain Crunch. I gotta hand him that one. The name drives Shane nuts.
I reached the radio unit. My elbows felt dull. Tommy let his forehead collapse onto the backs of his palms. A thundering groan escaped him.
I clicked on the terminal, said, “You’re. Not funny.”
“You love it.”
“Whatever. Shane Austen.”
“I liked you two more before you got clever. I’m pulling us closer to the signal. What’s it look like on your end?”
On my right, Tommy tugged the lever to open the steel porthole cover. At 1700 feet deep there was nothing but inky black outside.
“Yoooooo! Kick those lights on!” he yelled, banging his fist against the tunnel ceiling.
“Woops. Sorry.”
Light flooded our enclosure. Beyond the porthole, we could see the manipulator arms on either side. Bits of organic debris floated from the upper reaches of the ocean. Almost dancing. It coated the unending seafloor. My breath caught.
“It’s beautiful down here.” I said
“I spy Jack shit down here,” Tommy said.
“I’ll bring us in a little more.”
Shane accelerated. The vessel crept along the sand. Marine snow meandered past us. A blood red sea cucumber floated along the starboard trim of the viewport. Undulating, flashing its insides beneath silky strands. I smiled. The ocean is magical. Then the critter was gone. I couldn’t make out anything else.
“I’m not seeing-”
“Ey, check your eyes.” Tommy interrupted. He pointed, fumbling his hand out from under an elbow.
I squinted. The abyss peered back at me. The ocean lapped against our little craft. We rocked back and forth. From out of the dark, a faint, massive outline emerged. A shadow against the black. Unmoving.
I shuddered.
The radio came to life again. “We should be a few hundred feet out. I don’t want to have an unfortunate bump so I’d like to keep us here.”
“We have eyes on it,” I said.
“What exactly do you see?“
“A big ol butthole, like I told y’all,” Tommy said.
“Real nice, man.”
“Okay, whaddya see, then?”
It did look like the ocean’s butthole now that I thought of it. I wasn’t going to give him the satisfaction. “Maybe a rock formation. Or some kind of wreck.”
“I don’t know. The readings here seem to indicate organic matter.“
“S’a booty. Callin it now.”
I snorted, tried to hide it. Too late.
Tommy leaned away from me. Mouth agape, he said, “I made em laugh! He thinks Captain Crunch is funny!”
“Aww. Our Tin Man has a heart.”
I pushed down the smile. “We have work to do.”
You have work to do. There's an unidentified mass along the bottom of the seafloor. Sonar can’t get a read on it. The porthole isn’t cutting it, and I can’t get us any closer. You know what that means.”
I knew exactly what that meant.

————— THE LOCKOUT —————
The readings were still steady by the next shift change. Shane managed to sneak a nap in and was ready to run the operation. Federico was up now. He wasn’t going to miss this.
Federico, Fed for short, earned his money selling land. Or at least that’s what he told us. He’s lean built. That much is obvious even under the custom-tailored blazer. You wouldn’t catch him dead wearing the indigo work suits he’d commissioned for the expedition. Funny, considering he’s not afraid to tackle ship maintenance like the rest of us. The tips of his mustache curl upward, underlining a nose so crooked I have to wonder how many times he’s taken a swing to the face.
“That’s a genuine Exosuit 2000, top-of-the-line, a beautiful work of art, I cry just thinking about it.” Fed said in a lilting Italian accent.
“Sounds like something out of a popcorn flick,” I said. (It’s not. Google it.)
He didn’t look at me, but glared anyways. “She’s the love of my life and she’s worth your paycheck seven times over. Don’t scratch my baby.”
His baby looks like a 600lb space suit on steroids. Its aluminum hull is shaped like a giant humanoid figure with a bubbled window for a head. Looping red lines distinguish the movable joints from the white plating. Situated on its back is a silver thruster pack with propellers on either side. In place of hands, it sports claw pincers.
The crane lowered the suit, encased in scaffolding, towards the moon pool below. The boots skimmed the water. The scaffolding clamps reached out to grasp either side of the pool, locking his baby into place. Fed pumped the valve that controlled a hinge on the scaffolding, which then separated the torso section from the legs. Time for me to get in.
I made sure my headset was on right. Stood there for a moment. I like what I do and I prefer to do it on the sub, far away from the diving suit. It’s the difference between flying on a plane and skydiving.
Using the short ladder, I lowered myself into the legs compartment. The suit clung to me. Fed sealed it shut.
As Fed was detaching the scaffolding, Shane came in over the headset, “How are you doing in there? I know I wouldn’t be a fan. This girl wants to stay far away from hundreds of pounds of metal for a weekend outfit.”
“Feels like a coffin. A big ugly coffin,” I said.
“Ooo, you better watch your tone. You’re talking about our employer's prized possession there. He might kick you off the boat. Or worse.”
“Roger that. He’s eyeing me now.”
Fed was staring at me, blank faced, playing with the ends of his mustache. I could see the fire in his eyes, though.
“Captain Crunch wants to know if he can have your speaker if you don’t make it back.”
“Tell Tommy I’ll be fine.”
“He says to pretend I don’t know who Tommy is.” Then, sounding far away, “Oh, you didn’t want me to say that?”
Fed came around the other end of the pool. He took the suit by the shoulders. “Ready, my friend?“
“Think so.”
“Grand. I wish I could be the one wearing the suit instead, spying wonders far and near, ah lovely.”
“We could switch places.”
“And take away your chance to see unknown treasures? No, I would never. You do this for the love of discovery, remember.”
Love was a strong word. Still. I was glad he didn’t accept the offer. I do this for the ocean, I thought.
Fed cranked the lever. The crane lowered me into the pool. Water overtook the diving suit’s helmet. Then I was standing on the ocean floor.

————— THE OCEAN —————
Under unfathomable depths. I was breathing heavy. Been awhile. Without the suit, oxygen would go to my brain. Kill me instantly. If not that, then nitrogen narcosis. Or pure pressure.
“Relax,” Shane said. “I’m here with you.”
My breathing slowed a little.
“I know you love the ocean.”
What’s with this word ‘Love’?
“Now you get to be closer to it than most people do in their whole lives. You’re like one of those creatures of the deep, floating around your habitat as if there were nothing more natural in the whole world.”
I closed my eyes. The calm below the sea knows no equal. Sweet stillness.
When I opened my eyes, I saw my friend from earlier, the sea cucumber. They coasted along, seeming almost to wave at me. I felt expanded somehow. Like my existence wasn’t limited to this body. I was the whole ocean.
I started backing away from the sub.
“There you go, big boy.”
“You’re pretty good at this. You teach yoga, or something?“ I said.
“I’m a woman.”
“You’re a couple hundred feet out from the target. We’ll have radio contact for most of that, but you’ll be on your own for the last stint. We’ll still be watching the suit-mounted cameras, those can pick up a signal. Just remember that if you’re feeling spooked.”
“Shane Austen. I don’t get spooked.”
“I’m sure not.”
The feeling of being the ocean faded as I rotated the suit around. The submarine was completely out of view, replaced by that monstrous shadow.
Just the ocean’s butthole, I reminded myself.
It’s hard to keep that perspective hundreds of feet underwater. Where the sun reaches nothing. Where you’re all alone. And the shifting currents of the unknown threaten to swallow you whole.
“I’m heading towards it.”
“We can see what you see. How about giving the cameras a wave?”
That’s the last thing I wanted to do. I did it anyways.
“I think Fed’s jealous. He’s over here crossing his dainty little legs and muttering things to himself in Italian.”
“I gave him his chance.”
“So he said.“ Then she whispered, “Between you and me, I think he was too scared. He likes to talk big, and his heart is driven by adventure. But men like him have their limits. I guess that makes you pretty brave, yeah?”
“Maybe. Or maybe I’m the only one here who’s certified.”
"Can't you ever give yourself some credit, Hardy?"
I didn’t say anything.
A sharp rocky formation came out of the murk. Its jagged peaks arced towards the black hole sky. The jutting edges looked like a cry of agony.
“There’s some rock here.“
“That’s not …” Static cut through the transmission. “… hundred feet … Captain Crunch says … the toilet when you don’t flush.”
“Say again.”
Something slithered behind the hellish stone.
“… target … You’re less … away … looks like …”
“Damn thing,” I muttered. “Say again.” I knew it was pointless.
More static. The radio went dead. I was alone.
I couldn’t even see the submarine from here.
I waved at the camera. Kept moving. The rock went out of view. I twisted to check behind it. My eyes couldn’t pierce the blackness. The suit lamps weren’t strong enough. The stone disappeared into darkness.
Righting myself, I saw the looming outline getting larger as I approached. Texture started forming along its sloping shape. It was rock-like at first. My breath fogged the helmet after a sharp exhalation. I paused to let it clear. Then I saw the shape was more like rugged crustacean. I accelerated. My heart pounded from somewhere within the Exosuit’s cavernous mass. Concentric raised circles ran the length of the shape. They were similar to coral but the circles were bigger. Much bigger. The mass looked more like a wall now. I stopped. The circles were indented at the center. Their surface seemed gummy. My breath stuttered and choked. Rivulets of flesh squeezed between the circles. That’s when I knew.
The circles were giant suckers. Row after row of them stacked at least thirty feet high. It was a tentacle.
I stared.
What do you do in that situation? What do you do?
I eased the suit off the ground using the thruster pack. The helmet peaked the uppermost edge of the tentacle. Holy. Shit. It seemed to go on forever. Patches of silt and grassy growth covered it. It was probably a carcass. Certainly looks like it’s been down here for a while. But I didn’t see any scavengers picking at the remains. Part of me wanted to explore towards the center of the mass. Part of me didn’t want to die.
Can you guess which part won out?

————— THE LOCKOUT —————
Fed released me from the suit. I tumbled out. My body smacked against the bulkhead. Vomit erupted from me into the moon pool, turning what was clear into green gobs. He just laid a hand on my back. Said nothing.
The dome entryway swung open. I heard Shane, “Hardy, my god. My god my god my god.”
I sat back on the metal outcropping that hung over the floor. The four of us looked at each other. Nothing was said. What can you say in that situation?
Fed broke eye contact to look over the suit. Tommy skulked away silently. I hung my head.
“I don’t know what-“ Shane began but didn’t finish. “Are You okay? Are we all okay?”
Fed stiffened then went back to work.
“Just need a minute.” I said.
“Yeah.” She backed out of the entry. “Right. Yeah. Okay.”
I heard footsteps exiting the control room. Maybe a sob. Couldn’t tell. The sound was muffled.
Fed’s Bacco Bucci dress shoes turned to face me. “My friend.”
I looked up at him. In his palm, about the size of a quarter, were eight translucent, brown-flecked tendrils that tapered in to a single bulbous head.
“You brought something back.”

————— END OF POST —————
We’re keeping the baby onboard for study. I’ll post updates next time we surface.
submitted by DancingEmber to ThrillSleep [link] [comments]

2020.10.18 00:02 DepthZero Hidden toilet cameras

Part One: My First Shift In The Maze
Part Two: How I Got Into This Mess
Part Three: Guess This Image & Trivia Night
Part Five: Lies, lies and more lies.
"5. Our Three Commitments
Commitment to the customer: Engagement with our customers is crucial, and we will break backs to meet their needs. Each customer has a different burning fetish and is willing to pay for it. It is in our best interest to tailor our content based on the feedback we receive.
Commitment to Quality: Quantity has never been possible in the geographical locations The Family operates in, and we do not wish to stoop so low. We dominate the market due to our one of a kind high-quality productions. Simply put, we create the flame and though embers follow they have no hope of shining as bright.
Commitment to Innovation: To innovate is to push the boundaries of what our audience believes possible. Snuff films are a dime a dozen, long-standing engagement is built by melding reality and fantasy into one. There is nothing comparable to what we do, and our innovative spirits keep us searching for new and improved ways of entertainment. "
"Do you know how long you have been here, Robert?" Mr.Rainbow said, leaning back on the stool he had brought with him into my room.
"Nine months..maybe ten?
"Wow, time really does fly when you're having fun" Rainbow chuckled. "It's our one year anniversary Robert, how could you forget?"
I had no way of knowing if he was telling the truth, but the thought of a year made some sense in my mind. Most of my time was spent in my cell, by this point I'd only participated in eight maze runes and three trivia nights. Though they often spoke of The Sculptor and another host Meat, I was yet to come across them.
Not willing to take the bait Rainbow was laying out, I shrugged and continued staring at the floor.
"I know you don't like talking to me" Rainbow sighed "But I do have a gift for you."
"A gift?" I asked, looking up to meet his eyes for the first time.
"That got your attention!" Rainbow exclaimed "It's true, but first I need to show you something. It's standard procedure, so don't get all weird about it like you usually do."
'Weird' was a funny way to describe the effects and mental strain the last twelve months had on my psyche.
"Bring him in Carrot Top" Rainbow called banging on the door.
Instinctively, I faced the corner of the room as the door opened, and Carrot Top entered the room. Carrot Top dragged something into the room and turned to see him holding a man in a morph suit, his arms and legs bound.
"This one here broke rule three, and it's important to show you what happens when you break the rules" Mr Rainbow clicked his fingers, and Carrot Top pulled the black mask off revealing a dishevelled man. His lips had been sewn shut with thin wire, and he mumbled inaudibly at me.
I tried to move away, but there wasn't enough space to go anywhere now that four people were packed inside.
"That's enough CT" Mr Rainbow ordered and as Carrot Top put the mask back over the man's head and dragged him out of the room. Catching my first glimpse of the outside of my cell, I could see the walls were metal, not wood like my cell. After seeing the things I had over the past twelve months, it didn't phase me as much as it should have.
"I'm sorry you had to see that Robert. But now you get your gift! I had to pull a lot of strings with the higher-ups to get you this. Bring in the girl CT."
Not bothering to turn away, I watched as Carrot Top dragged a woman inside by her hair and threw her onto the ground.
"New Celly!" Rainbow said making jazz hands "I figured you're probably starting to get a little lonely."
"Don't touch me!" The woman yelled at Carrot Top.
"I'll leave you two so you can catch up. You can thank me later" Rainbow said, picking his stool up and exiting the room with Carrot Top.
Fixing my eyes to the door, I watched them leave confirming the walls were in fact made from metal.
"What is this place?" The woman whimpered, the fear in her voice, bringing back memories of my first night in the cell.
"They didn't give you an induction manual?" I asked.
"Induction manual? What the hell are you talking about?"
Realising how stupid it seemed to someone not yet indoctrinated into The Family, I gave her the induction manual they had left me with.
"This is only the back half of it, I lost the other pages... Sorry" I lied, the other half I'd used sparingly as toilet paper.
Tears trail down her cheeks as she read in silence, I struggled to think of comforting words to say. I hadn't spoken to anyone besides Rainbow in so long let alone tried to make them feel better. A tight-lipped smile came across my face as she looked up, and her eyebrows furrowed.
"Why the fuck are you smiling?"
"Oh- I was trying to make you feel better" The aggression caused me to look down. Staring at the floor was a submissive trait I had picked up early, and it had arguably served me well. "I'm sorry, I haven't spoken to anyone in so long".
"Why don't you start with your name?" she said her voice now softer.
"My name is Robert, yours?"
"Yasmine." The woman replied, and more tears followed "What are they going to do to me, Robert?"
"I don't know." I replied, fixing my eyes back to the floor "But it's not going to be good."
"6. Performance and Evaluations: You must follow all procedures, whether stated verbally or written. Mentors have the authority to evaluate performance and negotiate rewards or punishment with high tiers depending on the outcome. The Family will not hesitate in terminating its employees for failure to meet the standards set in this manual."
My lungs were begging for air, but I didn't care to stop. Finally, out of my cell, the sun was warm and inviting. Gritting my teeth, I willed myself to continue at the same speed and relished in the soft feeling of grass under my feet. Each step felt like freedom, and I rounded the bend at full speed before falling to my feet in front of the truck waiting for me. Freedom time was over.
"Wow, Rob! Eight minutes is your best time yet." Mr Rainbow said patting me on the back. "I'm so glad they gave me permission to let you out for exercise. They must really be starting to trust you!"
Both of us knew it wasn't a matter of trust. I had become weak and frail from prolonged stretches of idle activity and was unable to perform my duties. Their intention was to keep me in working condition, but I didn't care. Getting out of my cell was one of the most incredible things Mr.Rainbow had done for me only second to Yasmine.
I was curious as to why they would let me run without someone watching over me. After long nights of thinking on this, I believe it was to test if they had broken me down to the point I wouldn't dare fight back. On my first run, I had tried to spot signs of civilisation, but the field was empty besides a small patch of trees.
Rainbow guided me back to the truck and followed the regular procedure, checking my pockets, shoes and patting me down before blindfolding me. It took weeks of overplaying my gratitude before Rainbow relaxed the intensity of his searches. Relief came like a crashing wave, I could feel the stick digging into me, it was painful, but the exact size I was looking for.
"My best time yet huh," I said, hearing the truck's engine start. "Thank you, Mr Rainbow."
The fear of getting caught really gets your legs moving.
When I got back to my cell, Yasmin wasn't there, and I felt a mixture of relief and guilt. Relief, because I had decided not to involve her in my plans and needed to hide it from the camera. My guilt came from knowing she was experiencing something horrible.
Though our conversations no longer revolved around what we had endured and focused on things like Family, food and our favourite tv shows. Our attempts to maintain a sense of hope and normality were not always effective. Sometimes two or three days would go by where I didn't see her, and I knew she had it worse than I did.
Most nights, I still heard her crying from across the room and could do little to console her. Pushing the guilt into the back of my mind, I angled myself in the corner of the room and used the bucket to retrieve the stick. It was short and thick, but over time I would sharpen the edges and wait for an opportunity to use it.
I'm no longer concerned with how large or connected "The Family" claim they are and I don't care if I live or die. I have watched countless die and done nothing to help them. The only redeemable thing I can do now saves Yasmine.
I will wait for an opportunity to strike, if I fail, she has no hand in it, and I'm free. If I succeed, we are both free, and she can finally see her children again.
Todays the Day "7. Termination: Termination will be carried out if you fail to meet our standards. The Family dictates the proceeding, and you will not be afforded rights. If terminated, your survival will come to an end. Below is a small list of examples detailing what we consider failure to keep you on the right track.

The thought of rebellion became a liberating obsession. Over the next few months, every opportunity I hesitated to take felt like I missed the golden chance. Patience was a difficult virtue to practice, and as the days progressed, Yasmine's visits became more periodic. Each visit her state deteriorated further, and we spoke in whispers hoping the camera wouldn't pick up the audio.
"The things they make me do, Rob," Yasmine said with puffy red eyes.
"Part of me has become numb to it, but I think of who I was" Yasmine paused "What I had... I feel worse because I don't feel anything in the moment. I want out so badly, but how could we cope after what we've seen and done? I don't think I could have another conversation at work, let alone raise my children."
"Numb in the moment, but when you're alone with your thoughts, the guilt comes rushing in. It has to be that way for our survival."
Yasmine said nothing and looked away.
"There's always hope, right?"
"Define hope. Are we hoping for someone to save us? Or are we hoping they eventually send us on our way with a fruit basket for our service?" Yasmine sighed "Hope helps keep the powerless moving to the orders of the powerful, but it doesn't save them."
"When they locked me away, they stole my freedom, that's a given. I didn't have a job, my family disowned me, and drugs were my only escape from the world. Yasmine, you had a life worth living on the outside. Don't let go of the hope to get it back."
"You don't need all of those things to exist and deserve love, Robert. You deserve to get your life back just as much as I do."
This time, I was the one who didn't reply. Where was she getting this from? No one had said anything like that to me before.
"Maybe there's hope for the hopeless after all?" Yasmine continued "Have you thought of escaping? What would you do?"
Feeling the stake hidden in the lace holes of my pants, I almost told her everything. Though her words were kind, I still believed her life to be more valuable than my own.
"I have thought about it, but I don't think it's possible."
"I suppose you're right. So you're holding on to the hope someone will save you?"
"I guess so." I lied.
In the middle of the night, Yasmine was taken out of her cell. Her screams echoed as they dragged her down the corridor. What I believe to be three days passed before another guard came with a blindfold for me. I found myself back in the control room for Mr Rainbows maze.
Mr.Rainbow sat watching the camera focused on his contestant.
"Hey Robert" Mr Rainbow said without looking up from the screen "Just a few technical issues to sort out before filming"
I looked over to Carrot Top who was on his knees fiddling with some cables and wondered how long Carrot Top had been imprisoned before earning the small freedoms he had. Being here for over twelve months hadn't earned a persona nor any free movement beside exercise.
The thought passed as quickly as it came, it didn't matter anymore, after today we might both be free. Confirming that neither was looking and with Yasmine's screams fresh in my mind, I slid the stake out of the hole in my pant lacing and walked toward Rainbow. Aiming for his neck, I thrust the stake downward.
A few inches off the mark, it ground against his collar bone as it entered and blood poured out before the scream. Pulling it out, I intended to finish Mr Rainbow off when Carrot Top tackled me from the side.
"What are you doing?" I screamed at him as he struggled to take the take from his hand "I'm trying to free us".
Carrot Top didn't offer a response and positioned himself over me as he tried to grab hold of the hand holding the sharpened wood. Using all the force, I pushed the arm he was using to hold my wrist, and Carrot Top momentarily lost his balance freeing my hand. With the brief window of chance, I pierced his side, and he let out a cry.
It only took two more strikes for him to topple off me, holding the wounds and crying in agony as blood leaked out of the holes in his morph suit. Getting to my feet, Mr Rainbow stood across the room, one hand on his wound and the other pointing a gun at me. One leg of his suit pants was raised slightly revealing a gun holster.
"You fucking idiot" Mr Rainbow screamed in agony "I'm going to make you film the death of your whole fucking family you weasel parasite."
After a year of seeing what they did to people in their game shows the gun no longer scared me, death felt inevitable, a gun would just be a quicker release. I charged at him, and the gun went off, I felt a burning object tear through my shoulder but didn't stop.
Falling into Rainbow the both of us collided against the wall and dropped to the ground. The loss of blood from his wound made his attempt at fighting back pitiful, and I used my uninjured arm to shove my fingers into his wound. His grip on the gun loosened and I pulled it away from him.
"Fuck you" he spat as I pointed the gun at his head.
"Where is Yasmin?" I screamed back.
"This is about her?" Mr Rainbow "You really are an idio-"
Blood and brain matter sprayed across the walls. I couldn't stop myself from pulling the trigger, my hate for him was too intense. Expecting guards, I turned to the door and found Carrot Top dragging himself to the corner of the room. I understood why he made the decision he did and decided against ending him the same way as Rainbow.
"It will be okay, I'll come back to you when it's over. Just stay there."
Opening the door, I found a short metal corridor similar to the one I'd seen from my cell. Two large metal doors were left ajar, and sunlight entered through them. Pushing them open, I couldn't believe my eyes.
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2020.10.16 22:56 bananapeppers__ Hidden toilet cameras

I just need to vent about this somewhere where people might actually understand my side of things, being that most of us here are creators.
I have a weird history with OF. I was manipulated into starting one back in May of this year when I was plunged into quarantine. Manipulated by who, you may ask? My ex boyfriend from literally 10 years ago. I’ll spare you the details, but let’s just say things got weird. However, I started making some good money and I was enjoying making content. All was well. Except I didn’t tell my boyfriend at the time. I was keeping it hidden from him because the only conversation we had about me starting an OF went negatively and I decided to do it anyway. Yes, I know I’m not winning any Amazing Girlfriend awards. But he found out, we hashed it out and laid all our cards on the table, which led to me making a pact to stay honest with him from now on. I took a break from OF from around June until about a week ago now.
I told my boyfriend I wanted to start the OF again because money was getting tight for the both of us and it was just something like “why not?”. He supported my decision and has been promoting my page through his own social media. I thought it was going really well. Until we decided to try to film some B/G content for my page. He was recording while we did things and it just made me feel weird and uncomfortable. I giggled almost the entire time, purely from nerves. He didn’t seem to notice and just went to town. I really did not enjoy myself. I don’t have any issues recording myself masturbating or stripping or anything. But nothing felt right when we were trying to do it together.
He also says he’d like to help take my photos for me. I said no thanks. I have a tripod and I’m perfectly capable of taking my photos/videos myself. It’s actually better by myself because unfortunately, he’s not the photographer he thinks he is. He gets all of my bad angles and has a shaky hand. He gets offended when I say I don’t want his help with that aspect. I told him it’s just weird to me. I’m not photogenic, so I often sit and take dozens of photos in the same positions. My friends who’ve tried to take just regular photos with me always say I freeze up in front of the camera and immediately look awkward. My best photos are candids. I told him having someone behind the camera makes me anxious and I’d rather do it alone. His response is “that’s stupid. I see you naked all the time”. And while that’s true, it’s just DIFFERENT. And he just can’t seem to understand that.
So, what happened tonight which prompted me to write this insanely long vent: I locked the bedroom door while I was taking photos for promos. He has a bad habit of just busting open the door whenever it’s closed. The word “knock” isn’t even in his vocabulary. So tonight when he came to open the door and saw it was locked, he started talking to me through the door. “What are you doing?” I was too embarrassed to even answer. All I said was “What do you think?” And he plays dumb and says “I have no idea”. I left it thinking he’d just leave but he stayed and insisted I let him in. So I put everything away, got dressed, and opened the door. He just stands in the doorway staring at me and asks me again what I was doing. I told him that when I was recording or taking photos I wanted privacy. I couldn’t have made it clearer the first million times he asked to take my photos. He starts to get agitated saying there’s no reason for the door to be locked because he “sees it all the time”.
To try to put it into words he could understand, I said “so why do you close the door when you take a shit? If I see you naked all the time, why does it matter if I see you on the toilet? Oh, it’s because you aren’t giving me consent to see you in that moment and you’re entitled to your privacy. It’s the same type of situation for me here”. He still insists I’m being ridiculous. Sorry, honey, that I don’t want you walking in while I’m laying across the bed with my legs behind my ears in front of a camera and a ring light. I feel as though I should be allowed to have a door shut and locked. I feel slightly alarmed that he can’t understand why I would need/want privacy sometimes.
He shut the door and said “carry on” with a sarcastic attitude. Obviously I’m done for the night because how could I get back in the mood for content after all that?
For context, in case anyone even cares, we have been together for 7 years and lived together for 4.
Thanks for letting me vent here.
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2020.10.13 16:22 HaulA13Octl1 Hidden toilet cameras

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2020.10.03 13:05 MilkbottleF Angélica Gorodischer - Three Stories [Translated by Lorraine Elena Roses and Marian Womack]

The Resurrection of the Flesh [Tr by Roses] These first two tales published in Secret Weavers: Stories of the Fantastic by Women Writers of Argentina and Chile, edited by Marjorie Agosin (White Pine Press, 1992):

She was thirty-two, her name was Aurelia, and she had been married eleven years. One Saturday afternoon, she looked through the kitchen window at the garden and saw the four horsemen of the Apocalypse. Men of the world, those four horsemen of the Apocalypse. And good-looking. The first from the left was riding a sorrel horse with a dark mane. He was wearing white breeches, black boots, a crimson jacket, and a yellow fez with black pompoms. The second one had a sleeveless tunic overlaid with gold and violet and was barefoot. He was riding on the back of a plump dolphin. The third one had a respectable, black beard, trimmed at right angles. He had donned a gray Prince of Wales suit, white shirt, blue tie and carried a black leather portfolio. He was seated on a folding chair belted to the back of white-haired dromedary. The fourth one made Aurelia smile and realize that they were smiling at her. He was riding a black and gold Harley-Davidson 1200 and was wearing a white helmet and dark goggles and had long, straight, blond hair flying in the wind behind him. The four were riding in the garden without moving from the spot. They rode and smiled at her and she watched them through the kitchen window.
In that manner, she finished washing the two teacups, took off her apron, arranged her hair and went to the living room.
"I saw the four horsemen of the Apocalypse in the garden," she told her husband.
"I'll bet," he said without raising his eyes from his paper.
"What are you reading?" Aurelia asked.
"I said they were given a crown and a sword and a balance and power."
"Oh, right," said her husband.
And after that a week went by as all weeks do--very slowly at first and very quickly toward the end--and on Sunday morning, while she made the coffee, she again saw the four horsemen of the Apocalypse in the garden, but when she went back to the bedroom she didn't say anything to her husband.
The third time she saw them, one Wednesday, alone, in the afternoon, she stood looking at them for a half hour and finally, since she had always wanted to fly in a yellow and red dirigible; and since she had dreamed about being an opera singer, an emperor's lover, a co-pilot to Icarus; since she would have liked to scale black cliffs, laugh at cannibals, traverse the jungles on elephants with purple trappings, seize with her hands the diamonds that lay hidden in mines, preside in the nude over a parade of nocturnal monsters, live under water, domesticate spiders, torture the powerful of the earth, rob trains in the tunnels of the Alps, set palaces on fire, lie in the dark with beggars, climb on the bridges of all the ships in the world; finally--since it was sadly sterile to be a rational and healthy adult--finally, that Wednesday afternoon alone, she put on the long dress she had worn at the last New Year's party given by the company where her husband was assistant sales manager and went out to the garden. The four horsemen of the Apocalypse called her, the blond one on the Harley-Davidson gave her his hand and helped her up onto the seat behind him, and there they went, all five, raging into the storm and singing.
Two days later her husband gave in to family pressure and reported the disappearance of his wife.
"Moral: madness is a flower aflame," said the narrator. Or in other words, it's impossible to inflame the dead, cold, viscous, useless, and sinful ashes of common sense.
The Perfect Married Woman
If you meet her on the street, cross quickly to the other side and quicken your pace. She’s a dangerous lady. She’s about forty or forty-five, has one married daughter and a son working in San Nicolas; her husband’s a sheet-metal worker. She rises very early, sweeps the sidewalk, sees her husband off, cleans, does the wash, shops, cooks. After lunch she watches television, sews or knits, irons twice a week, and at night goes to bed late. On Saturdays she does a general cleaning and washes windows and waxes the floors. On Sunday mornings she washes the clothes her son brings home—his name is Nestor Eduardo—she kneads dough for noodles or ravioli, and in the afternoon either her sister-inlaw comes to visit or she goes to her daughter’s house. It’s been a long time since she’s been to the movies, but she reads TV Guide and the police report in the newspaper. Her eyes are dark and her hands are rough and her hair is starting to go gray. She catches cold frequently and keeps a photo album in a dresser drawer along with a black crepe dress with lace collar and cuffs.
Her mother never hit her. But when she was six, she got a spanking for coloring on a door, and she had to wash it off with a wet rag. While she was doing it, she thought about doors, all doors, and decided that they were very dumb because they always led to the same places. And the one she was cleaning was definitely the dumbest of all, the one that led to her parents’ bedroom. She opened the door and then it didn’t go to her parents’ bedroom but to the Gobi desert. She wasn’t surprised that she knew it was the Gobi desert even though they hadn’t even taught her in school where Mongolia was and neither she nor her mother nor her grandmother had ever heard of Nan Shan or Khangai Nuru.
She stepped through the door, bent over to scratch the yellowish grit and saw that there was no one, nothing, and the hot wind tousled her hair, so she went back through the open door, closed it and kept on cleaning. And when she finished, her mother grumbled a little more and told her to wash the rag and take the broom to sweep up that sand and clean her shoes. That day she modified her hasty judgment about doors, though not completely, at least not until she understood what was going on.
What had been going on all her life and up until today was that from time to time doors behaved satisfactorily, though in general they were still acting dumb and leading to dining rooms, kitchens, laundry rooms, bedrooms and offices even in the best of circumstances. But two months after the desert, for example, the door that every day led to the bath opened onto the workshop of a bearded man dressed in a long uniform, pointed shoes, and a cap that tilted on one side of his head. The old man’s back was turned as he took something out of a highboy with many small drawers behind a very strange, large wooden machine with a giant steering wheel and screw, in the midst of cold air and an acrid smell. When he turned around and saw her he began to shout at her in a language she didn’t understand.
She stuck out her tongue, dashed out the door, closed it, opened it again, went into the bathroom and washed her hands for lunch.
Again, after lunch, many years later, she opened the door of her room and walked into a battlefield. She dipped her hands in the blood of the wounded and dead and pulled from the neck of a cadaver a crucifix that she wore for a long time under high-necked blouses or dresses without plunging necklines. She now keeps it in a tin box underneath the nightgowns with a brooch, a pair of earrings and a broken wristwatch that used to belong to her mother-in-law. In the same way, involuntarily and by chance, she visited three monasteries, seven libraries, and the highest mountains in the world, and who knows how many theaters, cathedrals, jungles, refrigeration plants, dens of vice, universities, brothels, forests, stores, submarines, hotels, trenches, islands, factories, palaces, hovels, towers and hell.
She’s lost count and doesn’t care; any door could lead anywhere and that has the same value as the thickness of the ravioli dough, her mother’s death, and the life crises that she sees on TV and reads about in TV Guide.
Not long ago she took her daughter to the doctor, and seeing the closed door of a bathroom in the clinic, she smiled. She wasn’t sure because she can never be sure, but she got up and went to the bathroom. However, it was a bathroom; at least there was a nude man in a bathtub full of water. It was all very large, with a high ceiling, marble floor and decorations hanging from the closed windows. The man seemed to be asleep in his white bathtub, short but deep, and she saw a razor on a wrought iron table with feet decorated with iron flowers and leaves and ending in lion’s paws, a razor, a mirror, a curling iron, towels, a box of talcum powder and an earthen bowl with water. She approached on tiptoe, retrieved the razor, tiptoed over to the sleeping man in the tub and beheaded him. She threw the razor on the floor and rinsed her hands in the lukewarm bathtub water. She turned around when she reached the clinic corridor and spied a girl going into the bathroom through the other door. Her daughter looked at her.
“That was quick.”
“The toilet was broken,” she answered.
A few days afterward, she beheaded another man in a blue tent at night. That man and a woman were sleeping mostly uncovered by the blankets of a low, king-size bed, and the wind beat around the tent and slanted the flames of the oil lamps. Beyond it there would be another camp, soldiers, animals, sweat, manure, orders and weapons. But inside there was a sword by the leather and metal uniforms, and with it she cut off the head of the bearded man. The woman stirred and opened her eyes as she went out the door on her way back to the patio that she had been mopping.
On Monday and Thursday afternoons, when she irons shirt collars, she thinks of the slit necks and the blood, and she waits. If it’s summer she goes out to sweep a little after putting away the clothing and until her husband arrives. If it’s windy she sits in the kitchen and knits. But she doesn’t always find sleeping men or staring cadavers. One rainy morning, when she was twenty, she was at a prison, and she made fun of the chained prisoners; one night when the kids were kids and were all living at home, she saw in a square a disheveled woman looking at a gun but not daring to take it out of her open purse. She walked up to her, put the gun in the woman’s hand and stayed there until a car parked at the corner, until the woman saw a man in gray get out and look for his keys in his pocket, until the woman aimed and fired. And another night while she was doing her sixth grade geography homework, she went to look for crayons in her room and stood next to a man who was crying on a balcony. The balcony was so high, so far above the street, that she had an urge to push him to hear the thud down below, but she remembered the orographic map of South America and was about to leave. Anyhow, since the man hadn’t seen her, she did push him and saw him disappear and ran to color in the map so she didn’t hear the thud, only the scream. And in an empty theater, she made a fire underneath the velvet curtain; in a riot she opened the cover to a basement hatchway; in a house, sitting on top of a desk, she shredded a two-thousand-page manuscript; in a clearing of a forest she buried the weapons of the sleeping men; in a river she opened the floodgates of a dike.
Her daughter’s name is Laura Inés, her son has a fiancée in San Nicolás and he’s promised to bring her over on Sunday so she and her husband can meet her. She has to remind herself to ask her sister-in-law for the recipe for orange cake, and Friday on TV is the first episode of a new soap opera. Again, she runs the iron over the front of the shirt and remembers the other side of the doors that are always carefully closed in her house, that other side where the things that happen are much less abominable than the ones we experience on this side, as you can easily understand.
The Unmistakable Smell of Wood Violets [Tr by Womack] Translated for the first time in Ann and Jeff Vandermeer's Big Book of Science Fiction (Vintage, 2016):
The news spread fast. It would be correct to say that the news moved like a flaming trail of gunpowder, if it weren't for the fact that at this point in our civilization gunpowder was archaeology, ashes in time, the stuff of legend, nothingness. However, it was because of the magic of our new civilization that the news was known all over the world, practically instantaneously.
"Oooh!" the tsarina said.
You have to take into account that Her Gracious and Most Illustrious Virgin Majesty Ekaterina V, Empress of Holy Russia, had been carefully educated in the proper decorum befitting the throne, which meant that she would never have even raised an eyebrow or curved the corner of her lip, far less would she have made an interjection of that rude and vulgar kind. But not only did she say "Oooh!," she also got up and walked through the room until she reached the glass doors of the great balcony. She stopped there. Down below, covered by snow, Saint Leninburg was indifferent and unchanged, the city's eyes squinting under the weight of winter. At the palace, ministers and advisers were excited, on edge.
"And where is this place?" the tsarina asked.
And that is what happened in Russia, which is such a distant and atypical country. In the central states of the continent, there was real commotion. In Bolivia, in Paraguay, in Madagascar, in all the great powers, and in the countries that aspired to be great powers, such as High Peru, Iceland, or Morocco, hasty conversations took place at the highest possible level with knitted brows and hired experts. The strongest currencies became unstable: the guarani rose, the Bolivian peso went down half a point, the crown was discreetly removed from the exchange rates for two long hours, long queues formed in front of the exchanges in front of all the great capitals of the world. President Morillo spoke from the Oruro Palace and used the opportunity to make a concealed warning (some would call it a threat) to the two Peruvian republics and the Minas Gerais secessionist area. Morillo had handed over the presidency of Minas to his nephew, Pepe Morillo, who had proved to be a wet blanket whom everybody could manipulate, and now Morillo bitterly regretted his decision. Morocco and Iceland did little more than give their diplomats a gentle nudge in the ribs, anything to shake them into action, as they imagined them all to be sipping grenadine and mango juice in the deep south while servants in shiny black uniforms stood over them with fans.
The picturesque note came from the Independent States of North America. It could not have been otherwise. Nobody knew that all the states were now once again under the control of a single president, but that's how it was: some guy called Jack Jackson-Franklin, who had been a bit-part actor in videos, and who, aged eighty-seven, had discovered his extremely patriotic vocation of statesman. Aided by his singular and inexplicable charisma, and by his suspect family tree, according to which he was the descendent of two presidents who had ruled over the states during their glory days, he had managed to unify, at least for now, the seventy-nine northern states. Anyway, Mr. Jackson-Franklin said to the world that the Independent States would not permit such a thing to take place. No more, just that they would not permit such a thing to take place. The world laughed uproariously at this.
Over there, in the Saint Leninburg palace, ministers cleared their throats, advisers swallowed saliva, trying to find out if, by bobbing their Adam's apples up and down enough, they might be able to loosen their stiff official shirts.
"Ahem. Ahem. It's in the south. A long way to the south. In the west, Your Majesty."
"It is. Humph. Ahem. It is, Your Majesty, a tiny country in a tiny territory."
"It says that it is in Argentina," the tsarina said, still staring through the window but without paying any attention to the night as it fell over the snow-covered roofs and the frozen shores of the Baltic.
"Ah, yes, that's right, that's right, Your Majesty, a pocket republic."
Sergei Vasilievich Kustkarov, some kind of councilor and, what is more, an educated and sensible man, broke into the conversation.
"Several, Your Majesty, it is several."
And at last the tsarina turned around. Who cared a fig for the Baltic night, the snow-covered rooftops, the roofs themselves, and the city of which they were a part? Heavy silk crackled, starched petticoats, lace.
"Several of what, Councilor Kustkarov, several of what? Don't come to me with your ambiguities."
"I must say, Your Majesty, I had not the slightest intention--"
"Several of what?"
The tsarina looked directly at him, her lips held tightly together, her hands moving unceasingly, and Kustkarov panicked, as well he might.
"Rep-rep-republics, Your Majesty," he blurted out. "Several of them. Apparently, a long time ago, a very long time, it used to be a single territory, and now it is several, several republics, but their inhabitants, the people who live in all of them, all of the republics, are called, they call themselves, the people, that is, Argentinians."
The tsarina turned her gaze away. Kustkarov felt so relieved that he was encouraged to carry on speaking:
"There are seven of them, Your Majesty: Rosario, Entre dos Rios, Ladocta, Ona, Riachuelo, Yujujuy, and Labodegga."
The tsarina sat down.
"We must do something," she said.
Silence. Outside it was not snowing, but inside it appeared to be. The tsarina looked at the transport minister.
"This enters into your portfolio," she said.
Kustkarov sat down, magnificently. How lucky he was to be a councilor, a councilor with no specific duties. The transport minister, on the other hand, turned pale.
"I think, Your Majesty...," he dared to say.
"Don't think! Do something!"
"Yes, Your Majesty," the minister said, and, bowing, started to make his way to the door.
"Where do you think you're going?" the tsarina said, without moving her mouth or twitching an eyelid.
"I'm just, I'm going, I'm just going to see what can be done, Your Majesty."
There's nothing that can be done, Sergei Vasilievich thought in delight, nothing. He realized that he was not upset, but instead he felt happy. And on top of everything else a woman, he thought. Kustkarov was married to Irina Waldoska-Urtiansk, a real beauty, perhaps the most beautiful woman in all of Holy Russia. Perhaps he was being cuckolded; it would have been all too easy for him to find that out, but he did not want to. His thoughts turned in a circle: and on top of everything else a woman. He looked at the tsarina and was struck, not for the first time, by her beauty. She was not so beautiful as Irina, but she was magnificent.
In Rosario it was not snowing, not because it was summer, although it was, but because it never snowed in Rosario. And there weren't any palm trees: the Moroccans would have been extremely disappointed had they known, but their diplomats said nothing about the Rosario flora in their reports, partly because the flora of Rosario was now practically nonexistent, and partly because diplomats are supposed to be above that kind of thing.
Everyone who was not a diplomat, that is to say, everyone, the population of the entire republic that in the last ten years had multiplied vertiginously and had now reached almost two hundred thousand souls, was euphoric, happy, triumphant. They surrounded her house, watched over her as she slept, left expensive imported fruits outside her door, followed her down the street. Some potentate allowed her the use of a Ford 99, which was one of the five cars in the whole country, and a madman who lived in the Espinillos cemetery hauled water all the way up from the Pará lagoon and grew a flower for her which he then gave her.
"How nice," she said, then went on, dreamily, "Will there be flowers where I'm going?"
They assured her that there would be.
She trained every day. As they did not know exactly what it was she had to do to train herself, she got up at dawn, ran around the Independence crater, skipped, did some gymnastic exercises, ate little, learned how to hold her breath, and spent hours and hours sitting or curled into strange positions. She also danced the waltz. She was almost positive that the waltz was not likely to come in handy, but she enjoyed it very much.
Meanwhile, farther away, the trail of gunpowder had become a barrel of dynamite, although dynamite was also a legendary substance and didn't exist. The infoscreens in every country, whether poor or rich, central or peripheral, developed or not, blazed forth with extremely large headlines suggesting dates, inventing biographical details, trying to hide, without much success, their envy and confusion. No one was fooled:
"We have been wretchedly beaten," the citizens of Bolivia said.
"Who would have thought it," pondered the man on the Reykjavík omnibus.
The former transport minister of Holy Russia was off breaking stones in Siberia. Councilor Sergei Vasilievich Kustkarov was sleeping with the tsarina, but that was only a piece of low, yet spicy, gossip that has nothing to do with this story.
"We will not allow this to happen!" Mr. Jackson-Franklin blustered, tugging nervously at his hairpiece. "It is our own glorious history that has set aside for us this brilliant destiny! It is we, we and not this despicable banana republic, who are marked for this glory!"
Mr. Jackson-Franklin also did not know that there were no palm trees or bananas in Rosario, but this was due not to a lack of reports from his diplomats but rather a lack of diplomats. Diplomats are a luxury that a poor country cannot afford, and so poor countries often go to great pains to take offense and recall all the knights commanders and lawyers and doctors and even eventually the generals working overseas, in order to save money on rent and electricity and gas and salaries, not to mention the cost of the banquets and all the money in brown paper envelopes.
But the headlines kept on appearing on the infoscreens: "Argentinian Astronaut Claims She Will Reach Edge of Universe," "Sources Claim Ship Is Spaceworthy in Spite of or Because of Centuries-Long Interment," "Science or Catastrophe?," "Astronaut Not a Woman but a Transsexual" (this in the Imperialskaya Gazeta, the most puritan of the infoscreens, even more so than the Papal Piccolo Osservatore Lombardo), "Ship Launches," "First Intergalactic Journey in Centuries," "We Will Not Allow This to Happen!" (Portland Times).
She was dancing the waltz. She woke up with her heart thumping, tried out various practical hairstyles, ran, skipped, drank only filtered water, ate only olives, avoided spies and journalists, went to see the ship every day, just to touch it. The mechanics all adored her.
"It'll work, they'll see, it'll work," the chief engineer said defiantly.
Nobody contradicted him. No one dared say that it wouldn't.
It would make it, of course it would make it. Not without going through many incredible adventures on its lengthy journey. Lengthy? No one knew who Langevin was anymore, so no one was shocked to discover that his theory contradicted itself, ended up biting its own tail, and that however long the journey took, the observers would only perceive it as having lasted minutes. Someone called Cervantes, a very famous personage back in the early years of human civilization--it was still debated whether he had been a physicist, a poet, or a musician--had suggested a similar theory in one of his lost works.
One autumn dawn the ship took off from the Independence crater, the most deserted part of the whole desert republic of Rosario, at five forty-five in the morning. The exact time is recorded because the inhabitants of the country had all pitched in together to buy a clock, which they thought the occasion deserved (there was one other clock, in the Enclosed Convent of the Servants of Santa Rita de Casino, but because the convent was home to an enclosed order nothing ever went in or out of it, no news, no requests, no answers, no nothing). Unfortunately, they had not had enough money. But then someone had had the brilliant idea which had brought in the money they needed, and Rosario had hired out its army for parades in friendly countries: there weren't that many of them and the ones there were weren't very rich, but they managed to get the cash together. Anyone who was inspired by patriotism and by the proximity of glory had to see those dashing officers, those disciplined soldiers dressed in gold and crimson, protected by shining breastplates, capped off with plumed helmets, their catapults and pouches of stones at their waists, goose-stepping through the capital of Entre Dos Rios or the Padrone Giol vineyards in Labodegga, at the foot of the majestic Andes.
The ship blasted off. It got lost against the sky. Before the inhabitants of Rosario, their hearts in their throats and their eyes clouded by emotion, had time to catch their breath, a little dot appeared up there, getting bigger and bigger, and it was the ship coming back down. It landed at 06:11 on the same morning of that same autumn day. The clock that recorded this is preserved in the Rosario Historical Museum. It no longer works, but anyone can go and see it in its display cabinet in Room A of the Museum. In Room B, in another display case, is the so-called Carballensis Indentic Axe, the fatal tool that cut down all the vegetation of Rosario and turned the whole country into a featureless plain. Good and evil, side by side, shoulder to shoulder.
Twenty-six minutes on Earth, many years on board the ship. Obviously, she did not have a watch or a calendar with her: the republic of Rosario would not have been able to afford either of them. But it was many years, she knew that much.
Leaving the galaxy was a piece of cake. You can do it in a couple of jumps, everyone knows that, following the instructions that Albert Einsteinstein, the multifaceted violin virtuoso, director of sci-fi movies, and student of space-time, gave us a few hundred years back. But the ship did not set sail to the very center of the universe, as its predecessors had done in the great era of colonization and discovery; no, the ship went right to the edge of the universe.
Everyone also knows that there is nothing in the universe, not even the universe itself, which does not grow weaker as you reach its edge. From pancakes to arteries, via love, rubbers, photographs, revenge, bridal gowns, and power. Everything tends to imperceptible changes at the beginning, rapid change afterward; everything at the edge is softer and more blurred, as the threads start to fray from the center to the outskirts.
In the time it took her to take a couple of breaths, a breath and a half, over the course of many years, she passed through habitable and uninhabitable places, worlds which had once been classified as existent, worlds which did not appear and had never appeared and probably would never appear in any cartographical survey. Planets of exiles, singing sands, minutes and seconds in tatters, whirlpools of nothingness, space junk, and that's without even mentioning those beings and things, all of which stood completely outside any possibility of description, so much so that we tend not to perceive them when we look at them; all of this, and shock, and fear more than anything else, and loneliness. The hair grew gray at her temples, her flesh lost its firmness, wrinkles appeared around her eyes and her mouth, her knees and ankles started to act up, she slept less than before and had to half close her eyes and lean backward in order to make out the numbers on the consoles. And she was so tired that it was almost unbearable. She did not waltz any longer: she put an old tape into an old machine and listened and moved her gray head in time with the orchestra.
She reached the edge of the universe. Here was where everything came to an end, so completely that even her tiredness disappeared and she felt once again as full of enthusiasm as she had when she was younger. There were hints, of course: salt storms, apparitions, little brushstrokes of white against the black of space, large gaps made of sound, echoes of long-dead voices that had died giving sinister orders, ash, drums; but when she reached the edge itself, these indications gave way to space signage: "End," "You Are Reaching the Universe Limits," "The Cosmos General Insurance Company, YOUR Company, Says: GO NO FURTHER," "End of Protected Cosmonaut Space," etc., as well as the scarlet polygon that the OMUU had adopted to use as a sign for that's it, abandon all hope, the end.
All right, so she was here. The next thing to do was go back. But the idea of going back never occurred to her. Women are capricious creatures, just like little boys: as soon as they get what they want, then they want something else. She carried on.
There was a violent judder as she crossed the limit. Then there was silence, peace, calm. All very alarming, to tell the truth. The needles did not move, the lights did not flash, the ventilation system did not hiss, her alveoli did not vibrate, her chair did not swivel, the screens were blank. She got up, went to the portholes, looked out, saw nothing. It was logical enough:
"Of course," she said to herself, "when the universe comes to an end, then there's nothing."
She looked out through the portholes a little more, just in case. She still could see nothing, but she had an idea.
"But I'm here," she said. "Me and the ship."
She put on a space suit and walked out into the nothing.
When the ship landed in the Independence crater in the republic of Rosario, twenty-six minutes after it had taken off, when the hatch opened and she appeared on the ramp, the spirit of Paul Langevin flew over the crater, laughing fit to burst. The only people who heard him were the madman who had grown the flower for her in the Espinillos cemetery and a woman who was to die that day. No one else had ears or fingers or tongue or feet, far less did they have eyes to see him.
It was the same woman who had left, the very same, and this calmed the crowds down at the same time as it disappointed them, all the inhabitants of the country, the diplomats, the spies, and the journalists. It was only when she came down the gangplank and they came closer to her that they saw the network of fine wrinkles around her eyes. All other signs of her old age had vanished, and had she wished, she could have waltzed tirelessly, for days and nights on end, from dusk till dawn till dusk.
The journalists all leaned forward; the diplomats made signals, which they thought were subtle and unseen, to the bearers of their sedan chairs to be ready to take them back to their residences as soon as they had heard what she had to say; the spies took photographs with the little cameras hidden away in their shirt buttons or their wisdom teeth; all the old people put their hands together; the men raised their fists to their heart; the little boys pranced; the young girls smiled.
And then she told them what she had seen:
"I took off my suit and my helmet," she said, "and walked along the invisible avenues that smelled of violets."
She did not know that the whole world was waiting to hear what she said; that Ekaterina V had made Sergei Vasilievich get up at five o'clock in the morning so that he could accompany her to the grand salon and wait there for the news; that one of the seventy-nine Northern States had declared its independence because the president had not stopped anything from happening or obtained any glory, and this had lit the spark of rebellion in the other seventy-eight states, and this had made Mr. Jackson-Franklin leave the White House without his wig, in pajamas, freezing and furious; that Bolivia, Paraguay, and Iceland had allowed the two Peruvian republics to join their new alliance and defense treaty set up against a possible attack from space; that the high command of the Paraguayan aeronautical engineers had promised to build a ship that could travel beyond the limits of the universe, always assuming that they could be granted legal immunity and a higher budget, a declaration that made the guarani fall back the two points that it had recently risen and then another one as well; that Don Schicchino Giol, the new padrone of the Republic of Labodegga at the foot of the majestic Andes had been woken from his most recent drinking bout to be told that he had now to sign a declaration of war against the Republic of Rosario, now that they knew the strength of the enemy's forces.
"Eh? What? Hunh?" Don Schicchino said.
"I saw the nothingness of everything," she said, "and it was all infused with the unmistakable smell of wood violets. The nothingness of the world is like the inside of a stomach throbbing above your head. The nothingness of people is like the back of a painting, black, with glasses and wires that release dreams of order and imperfect destinies. The nothingness of creatures with leathery wings is a crack in the air and the rustle of tiny feet. The nothingness of history is the massacre of the innocents. The nothingness of words, which is a throat and a hand that break whatever they touch on perforated paper; the nothingness of music, which is music. The nothingness of precincts, of crystal glasses, of seams, of hair, of liquids, of lights, of keys, of food."
When she had finished her list, the potentate who owned the Ford 99 said that he would give it to her, and that in the afternoon he would send one of his servants with a liter of naphtha so that she could take the car out for a spin.
"Thank you," she said. "You are very generous."
The madman went away, looking up to the skies; who knows what he was searching for. The woman who was going to die that day asked herself what she should eat on Sunday, when her sons and their wives came to lunch. The president of the Republic of Rosario gave a speech.
And everything in the world carried on the same, apart from the fact that Ekaterina V named Kustkarov her interior minister, which terrified the poor man but which was welcomed with open arms by Irina as an opportunity for her to refresh her wardrobe and her stock of lovers. And Jack Jackson-Franklin sold his memoirs to one of Paraguay's more sophisticated magazines for a stellar amount of money, which allowed him to retire to live in Imerina. And six spaceships from six major world powers set off to the edges of the universe and were never seen again.
She married a good man who had a house with a balcony, a white bicycle, and a radio which, on clear days, could pick up the radio plays that LLL1 Radio Magnum transmitted from Entre Dos Rios, and she waltzed in white satin shoes. The day that her first son was born a very pale green shoot grew out of the ground on the banks of the great lagoon.
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