COLE MONTGOMERY
lawyer, anticapitalist, common wh*re, functioning alcoholic
biography. musing tag. connections. rpg.

祝日 / Permanent Vacation
Monterey Bay Aquarium
dirt enthusiast
Stranger Things
todays bird
trying on a metaphor

Kaledo Art
"I'm Dorothy Gale from Kansas"

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will byers stan first human second

JVL
Alisa U Zemlji Chuda
One Nice Bug Per Day

shark vs the universe
Mike Driver
NASA
cherry valley forever
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hello vonnie
AnasAbdin
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@courtroomphilosopher
COLE MONTGOMERY
lawyer, anticapitalist, common wh*re, functioning alcoholic
biography. musing tag. connections. rpg.
Cillian Murphy by Kosmas Pavlos Rolling Stone UK (June 2023)
who: cole montgomery & @maxmayfieldlaw where: main street!
By his most conservative estimate, Cole must've knocked on 150 apartment doors and called one Akeem Ture Bell no less than forty times. With no answer, and a message saying his voice mail box hadn't been set up. Because of course it hadn't been. With no other leads, Cole has taken up a new strategy. He figured if he just... lurked in busy enough areas, he was bound to run into Max sometime.
Today, his stage was Main Street, which his hotel clerk had informed him was 'a great spot for people-watching'. So, Cole bought a sandwich from the general store-- Melvin's, or something-- and made himself at home on a bench across from City Hall. Thankfully, he had the foresight to bring his tattered copy of The Brothers Karamazov, and he alternated scoping out the street every ten minutes or so.
In the end, it only took three hours. Four, if you rounded up. As the sun slipped behind the courthouse, Cole grew restless. He tucked the book under his arm, determined to do a lap or two to wake up his legs and bide his time. And, as his luck would have it, he caught a glimpse of a familiar face a block away. "Maxine!" he yelled-- he couldn't help it, it was funny the way she always hit him for using her government name. Cole launched himself down the street, yelling again: "Mayfield! Wait up!"
As he approached her, Cole couldn't help but smirk at her look of obvious disdain. It felt like home. "Glad to see you, too, fuck," he commented, catching his breath. "Don't yell," he cut her off before she could. "I'm not here to get in the way, or whatever, just-- you couldn't answer your phone?" He rolled his shoulders, straightening up and ignoring the way his stupid button-down shirt clung to the sweat on his back. "Bell bailed, man, and he said he was gonna come find you-- Max, don't ever leave me with your caseload again," he said, pausing to run a hand through his hair and give her a once-over. He attempted to hide the concern in his eyes, but still couldn't keep from asking.
"What gives? You okay?"
who: eddie & @courtroomphilosopher
what: is it the 80s again?
where: the hideaway (where else tbh)
if being back in hawkins had taught eddie one thing, it was that almost dying in a supernatural dimension was apparently not something one could just work through in therapy. even over the course of twenty fucking years. not that eddie had kept up with his sessions much these last months. scratch that, these last years, too busy with being miserable living his dream life. it had also taught him that this town still blew.
and that he needed to get out of there, stat. he’d initially driven to the hideout, that piece of junk corroded coffin had played in a couple times in their prime, but had quickly come to find it boarded up, an eviction notice taped to the door with police crime scene tape. not that it surprised him much, it had been pretty crappy, even in the golden age of seedy crappy bars.
so where was there left to get a drink but the hideaway? the only place to get something to drink, really, if you didn’t want to sit on the hood of your car with a six pack of beer like some freshly graduated jock loser. yes, he was thinking of tommy hagan specifically, but that was another thing. eddie needed to be among people, people that weren’t his suffocatingly loving almost-step-aunt and uncle. people that were just as much of a mess as he was. what better place than the only bar left in hawkins. nobody respectable would choose to have their shameful drink there, much less on a week night.
three senses hit him first when he walks through the door. one - smell, obviously, always smell at the hideaway, that one hasn’t changed since the first time he flashed his fake i.d. to the bartender. the second - sight , as his eyes zero in on an unfamiliar face sitting on a bar stool in the corner. his eyes travel down the stranger’s form and unavoidably eddie’s gaze stops on the piece of fabric dangling from the other guy’s back pocket. no fucking way. it ties into sense three, which, well, it’s more of a … a sentiment his body expresses suddenly, with an urgency that nearly overwhelms him. telling him that holy hell, eddie needs to get laid. like, yesterday.
no wonder he’s been so tense since arriving in hawkins, there’s been no shenanigans to ease up the tension from all the crazy happening around him. mostly due to a lack of options. and here was his golden ticket to salvation. ugh, too cheesy. anyway.
eddie truly felt like the hottest piece of action in the joint, as if there was a fan pointed on him and everything was happening in slow motion as he casually got himself a drink and made his way across the bar, ignoring everyone around him but him.
he knew it was stupid to even ask - but … well, he was also in indiana. in the middle of nowhere, indiana, to be exact, and everything around him seemed to be stuck in the 80s. so it was worth a shot. eddie cleared his throat, flashed the other a grin when he got his attention. “uh… so, you can, like, totally tell me to get lost if not but … shit i’m - i’m just gonna ask, are you flagging? by any chance?”
There was something particularly sad about getting drunk in a hotel room. Cole was no stranger to sad-- or pathetic or self-loathing, or whatever word people wanted to pathologize him with-- but drinking alone back home wasn't sad like this. Max could drop by any given day (and often did), and on days she didn't, at least Cole had big windows and a view of the city. But here, at the not-quite-shitty motel-claiming-it's-a-hotel, Cole's view of the parking lot made him feel worse than cheap whiskey could cover. Plus, the parking lot needed to be repaved, desperately.
So Cole found himself trudging-- on foot, mind you-- to the neighborhood bar he'd found last night. God, how depressing would it be to be a regular here? But, he justified it with the thought that maybe Max would show up eventually. Max, who had successfully dodged him for the last day and a half-- not that he was particularly surprised. She always liked being hard to find, interacting only with who she wanted to when she wanted to.
Tonight, Cole sprung for an old fashioned. He didn't have the heart to send it back, even though it was... well, not great. It was only incentive for him to drink it faster, though, and by the time the stranger approached him, Cole had swapped the cocktail for a whiskey neat. He was nursing his initial sip, relishing the way it burned going down, when a long-haired alternative looking guy approached him with a grin. God, for a minute, it felt like he was back home.
Cole couldn't help the twitch of his lips, an amused smile settling on his face as he listened to the guy stumble over his words. He was lost for a moment, crinkling his brow and following the other's gaze to his back pocket... where he'd tucked his pocket square after he'd used it to lose the shitty old fashioned's aftertaste. Flagging. Cole couldn't help his chuckle, intentionally taking a long sip of his drink as if he was thinking it over. Trying to make him sweat.
"You do know it's 2006, right?" he asked, finally, locking eyes with the other. "Do people do that anymore?" Cole paused another beat and took a drink, trailing a finger idly around the mouth of his glass. "Is this place really so stuck in time?"
who: steve harrington & cole montgomery where: steve harrington’s apartment
it seemed like everyone had found out where he lived. this didn’t happen as often, at least it didn’t before everyone returned for joyce’s funeral. ever since then, people seemed to appear out of nowhere to ask him for something or just to visit him. which was appreciated, but not when he was trying to put ford to sleep. he had been rocking him to sleep all night long. two hours had passed and the kid was still screaming at the top of his lungs - he wasn’t sure what more he wanted - he had fed him, he had changed him, he had done everything in his power so he would stop crying. but it wasn’t working. and then, just like a miracle, ford stopped the crying and steve had to make sure that everything was okay. steve let out a sigh of relief as he put the kid in his crib and softly went back to the living room, making sure to leave the door open. not two minutes had passed when someone was banging on the door and ford was back to screaming. steve threw his hands in the air and walked towards the door, opened it and went back to ford’s room to help him. as he picked him up and walked back to the living room to see who it was, he was shocked to see… someone that he didn’t know. “who the fuck are you?!” he asked, already annoyed that he had woken up ford and that someone he didn’t even know had banged on his door. he felt like ripping his head out.
After dedicating far too much time to his rental car debacle-- and, okay, a few distractions-- Cole got around to his reason for being here. Finding one Max Mayfield. Jesus, he had no idea it'd be this hard to track somebody down in Hawkins, Indiana-- after he'd chased clients and witnesses into every shitty suburb of LA-- but, he'd finally asked the right person, who'd pointed him to a nice-enough apartment complex and mumbled something about the third floor. He wasn't above going door to door, and had dressed down for the occasion-- t-shirt and corduroys in lieu of his usual suit and tie. God forbid anyone assume he was a Jehovah's Witness or whatever cults they have in the Midwest.
A fifth door slammed in his face, the dull pang in Cole's stomach chastised him for not bringing a beer along, at least. It was damn near nine o'clock, Indiana time, which was happy hour back home-- if you could call drinking alone reading through briefs happy hour. Still, Cole trudged on to the next door, knocking louder when he got no response. Suddenly, the door swung open and a man who was most definitely not Max Mayfield snapped at him. Cole eyed him, lips twitched downward in a frown, like this was nothing more than an inconvenience. "Jesus Christ, dude, pop a Xanax or something," he said, waving his hand as if to dismiss the aggression. "I'm looking for Max Mayfield, I was told she's been here?" he said, then decided to reveal a tad more as incentive to share. "I'm a friend. Co-worker. From home."
Somehow he found himself in the Hawk more than usually. Was it a coincidence or some unconscious growing tensions in the pit of his stomach he couldn't quite explain but needed numbing regardless. Or did he just enjoy the taste of a cold beer in august.
His gaze scanned his surroundings boringly, when suddenly something caught his attention. Or rather someone. In any other case he would need a moment or two to dig into his memory to find the source of the familiarness. This was the one great exception, however. Someone he could not misplace or forget; not even with the changes age had brought. John could not control the horrified expression that grew upon his features. He blinked in discomfort, somewhat hoping that his sight would change with every blink. It did not, though and he was immediately pulled back to his teenage years. The encouraging whispers, an instructive hand, the sweet relief surrendering brought. He had put it all away. Locked it in safe like it did not exist. And on lonely nights when these memories would come to the surface, he would walk in shame for days until he forgot about it again.
John had never been good with names but this one lingered like it was only yesterday it had been on his tongue. Why on earth was Cole, of all places, in Hawkins? Panic crept up on him, his breathing high in his chest. His knee started to tap in an absent sort of way. He could even feel heat creeping up his spine. It should be easy to get up, casually, and just leave. But somehow he was frozen to his seat, just staring at a long gone past that, now he was being confronted by it, started to unlock so many closed doors.
@courtroomphilosopher
After a long day of going back and forth with that damn mechanic, Cole needed a drink. Several. He hadn't even gotten a chance to chase Max down, which was the whole reason he'd come to this hellhole anyways. It was more than a little annoying with the very real court dates he had coming up-- but nothing whiskey couldn't fix. Or postpone.
Cole finished off the remnants of his second glass and nodded to the bartender for another when he felt eyes on him. He glanced around the room, looking for the culprit before his gaze landed on a man who seemed around his age. He wasn't surprised, really, to be looked at like this in such a small town. He felt like he was sixteen again, being stared down by disapproving fathers. Or twenty-one, being told somebody like him could never be a successful lawyer. Or thirty-three, convincing the county clerk to keep his cases off of certain judge's docket.
And today? Cole was sick of it. Maybe it was the whiskey or the heat getting to him, but he found himself on his feet, rushing towards the stranger with a frown etched into his features. "You have a problem, man?" Cole asked, coolly, straightening his posture to appear as intimidating as his 5'8" frame would allow. "Listen, I know it's a small town, but I'm a paying customer," he huffed, lifting his drink up to the guy's eyeline. "Just as much right to be here as you." More, really, if they were speaking about the cost of his drink-- but Cole let the point go.
who: cole montgomery & @shophands where: thee auto shop
Cole's arrival in Hawkins had been... fitting, to say the least. He'd flown into O'Hare, not at all trusting that folks from Indiana knew how to operate aircraft, and rented the first available sedan-- A Honda something. He hadn't planned ahead at all, and Cole hadn't really driven since he was.... probably twenty-two, so the long drive to Buttfuck, Indiana was an adjustment period.
Even though it had been years since he'd driven, the blowout was not Cole's fault. He's not sure that it was anyone else's, either, when he climbed out of the newly scraped rental and inspected the now-shredded tire. Thankfully, a handsome stranger had arrived just in time to give Cole a lift to his hotel-- a welcome reprieve from the heat and a nice distraction for the night.
But now... now Cole had to get the rental car fixed so he could find Max and get the hell outta Dodge. So much for a quick weekend trip. Hawkins didn't seem to have many options as far as mechanics went, so Cole followed the hotel clerk's directions to the nearest shop and hoofed it like it was 1950. By the time he walked up to the obnoxiously loud shop, Cole's hair was sticking to the back of his neck and he was loosening his tie to help with the heat flushing his face. Fuck, how was Indiana hotter than LA?
He locked eyes with the first mechanic he saw, allowed his gaze to linger as he undid another button to loosen his collar, and cleared his throat impatiently. "Are you busy? I assume you have a tow truck. My car--" he hesitated to include that it was a rental. Cole may not drive, but he knew how these places worked. Anything to add on an extra hundred dollars to somebody desperate. "It blew a tire off I-65." Cole waited, watching the man for a beat before interjecting again: "So, tow truck? I can show you where it is."
Cillian Murphy in The Delinquent Season (2018)
CILLIAN MURPHY Inception (2010) dir. Christopher Nolan