𝐒𝐓𝐈𝐋𝐋 𝐋𝐈𝐅𝐄.

MONTANA KEYDER. thirty-one. author & standup comedian. CLICK HERE FOR INTRO.

[keyders]

ORION CASTILLO.

Ori, like most of the time, is quite happy just doing his own thing. Whether he had company or not he has no problem going to dinner or catching a show out of town. Tonight he found himself sitting at the bar laughing along with everyone at this guy on stage who wasn’t half bad. Soon he was done and the next act would begin, and Ori found he was rather enjoying himself. It was a nice break to his rather uneventful week.

“I hate to disappoint you but it’s just soda.” Ori turns to the man who has sat beside him, quickly realising it was the comedian from before. His eyes flicked down to see if he was joined by the dog he’d noticed on stage, then up to the mans face. “Driving,” he explained the lack of alcohol in his glass. One was his limit and he’d drunk that long ago.

“Well, it really depends” his eyes cant help but take in the money the comedian is handling “does your dog get a cut of that? I hate to tell you, but he’s clearly the star of the show, and I would be very upset to hear he wasn’t getting his worth of the pay.” A beat passes before he asks “she?” he peeks back down “what wass their name again?” Had they mentioned it in the show? It was lost to his laughter he supposes.

“Well, it’s actually kind of perfect.” He smiles - though he hasn’t mentioned it in his set, abstaining from alcohol is just one of those things that’s a consequence of the other things that life threw at him. He’ll laugh at it, every once in a while, but when he makes jokes in bars and college auditoriums for a living, it proves difficult most of the time. 

Two glasses of clear, fizzy liquid are placed before him and he nods at the bartender in thanks. “She,” he smiles, “gets her share of doggy treats and cuddles from Tan-Tan when we get home.” He would reach down to scratch her head, but she’s too far down. “This is Dakota. I swear to god, I didn’t name her.” He chuckles. He finally pockets his earnings for the night, reaches for the glass of soda and asks, before he could take a sip, “You from Pleasance?”

[keyders]

DUTCH BLACKWELL.

Dutch nodded his head, refilling the glass for him with the soda gun he had behind the counter. “Perks of bein’ over twenty-five,” he remarked, his poor attempt at a joke. It was true, though – drugs and mental breakdowns aside, he remembered it feeling like he hit a brick wall further into his twenties. GERD, back pain, sensitive ears. Now that he was forty it felt like it was only getting worse – which is where those aforementioned drugs probably came in.

“Right,” he wasn’t one to pry, though he’d become used to people spilling their sorrows to him over the years. It’d kind of become expected. Dutch arched his brow at the question. “What, like,  a spot around town? Sometime the high school has some performances. Or when it’s nice people like to play in the park. We used to have a stage set up in the corner, but…guess interest waned or somethin’, so we put tables over it.”

He leaves the newly-refilled glass untouched for now, in case he needs something to reach for later, and instead of letting his limbs hang awkwardly at his sides or folded on his lap - too close to his crotch, like a creep - he folds his arms over the edge of the counter, fingers curled over his elbows. His body furls, visibly trying to soothe itself. It’s been almost a decade since the incident, but there’s a stark difference between performing in a bar and drinking in a bar, and while he’s hardly doing a good job of the latter, it feels too reminiscent of that fateful night.

(Only difference is that perhaps his ego had taken enough beating for a lifetime to stay out of harm’s way in the name of pride.)

“Uh, I actually meant… well, here.” 

And he thinks it’s funny that the bartender has to tell him about those things, about the talent shows and plays at the high school or people busking in the park, because Tan - like him, presumably - grew up here, though it may have been a lifetime ago since he’d partaken in an adolescent production of Oklahoma. Funny in a sorry kind of way.

But he doesn’t mention it. Not yet, at least. Instead, he dutifully plays the part of clueless tourist and allows himself a glance at the corner that had been pointed out, now occupied by an array of tables. “What kind of performances did you have here? Before interest waned.” 

[keyders]

EMRYS HANCOCK.

WHEN: 26th of June WHERE: Lavender Ball WITH @phqstarters

Rhys’ eyes went wide as he scanned the crowds. 

“So MANY people,” he said to nobody in particular. 

“Don’t you think there are so many people?” 

“This is very cool, all these people to come and support… or to dance.”

“Maybe they’re all here to dance.” 

Tan had been sitting at one of the big garden tables on the side he’s sharing with a few other party guests for the better part of an hour now. There’s a girl resting her feet up on a chair while her friend holds a bag of ice against her ankles. A few seats next to her are a few other people with their heads bent towards their phones. Like a bunch of mutated sunflowers nurtured by blue light.

At least I’m paying attention, Tan thinks quietly and reserves any further judgment.

It appears he’s not the only one paying attention, though.

“Uh-huh,” Tan says furtively. He knows who he is. He doesn’t care for whatever diplomatic - and, frankly, slightly condescending - conversation typical of their brood. Still, he adds, “it is a dance.”

[keyders]

closed starter for @johndoesmith​ keyder residence, late afternoon.

“Ma, i’m home!” Tan calls out as he enters the front door, peeling his shoes off as he works on removing the leash off of Dakota’s collar. The Collie pads across the living room, making a beeline for the kitchen, where Tan notices her mother having some company.

Male company.

“Uh... Ma? You didn’t tell me you were having someone over...?”

[keyders]

AJITA TANNU.

Ajita chuckled, still a little embarrassed for being in front of someone they admired. Mostly just… not sure what to say, they agreed with everyone he stood for, but they also felt awkward for being too forward. He probably didn’t want to talk politics in the middle of the street. 

“Oh. well, they kind of love the spectacle that is the United States,” Ajita said. “So they also like it when there are people who are very forward about how they see it. It’s kind of funny,” they said. “There were a lot of assumptions based on me being American, and I managed to fit every single box. So uhm, yeah, that has nothing to do with the question, does it? The Belgians love shit-talking, they do it all the time.”

‎

“Belgium,” Tan says with a slow nod. “That’s pretty cool.” Really, he’s only ever been to Seattle and Pleasance and as a result, had only ridden a plane twice in his life. He’s thought about taking a road trip to Canada once, for his 27th birthday. He never did. He can’t remember why. But there’s always a hundred reasons not to do something and Tan can easily convince himself with just one.

"So, what do the Belgiums assume about Americans that you managed to prove? I’m curious now what they say,” he tells them, crossing his legs and propping al elbow on the back of the bench to have his chin perched pensively on his knuckles.

[keyders]

DESMOND MURPHY.

open starter. location: all-timer diner time: early morning. 

Desmond had never been a morning person. It was the chronic insomnia; his brain refused to shut off at night, keeping him up at all hours and making sunrise something of an enemy. He always tumbled out of bed in a begrudging way, mentally cursing the world for revolving. 

However, there was something about mornings in Pleasance that almost made existing okay. Even at the advent of Summer, the air outside was cool. Fog drifted sleepily down the street, mirroring the lazy way Des walked. Most townspeople were not yet up and about. The only strangers greeting him on the sidewalk were a stray cat and a few buzzing cicadas.

It was almost, for a second, like the world had paused. 

Then he entered the diner with a jingle of the door’s bell and suddenly the universe pressed play again. The two waitresses on duty rushed around as they catered to the breakfast crowd - consisting mostly of Pleasance’s elderly population. Des glanced around for an empty booth, but the best he could find was one in the corner that was only occupied by a single patron. Luckily, Des had little in the way of personal boundaries. He waltzed over, sliding right into the booth seat opposite them. 

“Good morning, Sunshine,” he said by way of greeting, taking a sip of the coffee he walked in with. He was a staunch believer that the Daily Grind had a better cup of joe than anywhere else in town. Particularly the All-Timer Diner, as Des was working on a theory that they brewed their coffee with toilet water and dirt. “Hope you don’t mind some company.”

‎

Tan gazes out the window as he absent-mindedly taps his pen on the notepad in front of him. He finds that he writes his best material early in the morning - a habit he’s picked up in Seattle, mostly because he tended to leave his house much earlier than the time he’s supposed to be at work to beat the traffic, and killing time in coffee shops near the building before he had to punch in was the only time he could really work on his material.

It’s been several months since he’s performed and several months since he was meant to go back. Somehow, there’s a comfort in trying to recreate rituals from his other life.

He is snapped out of his stupor when he first feels Dakota shifting next to his foot and then hears Desmond’s voice from across the booth.

“How many of those have you had already?” Tan says, pointedly eyeing the coffee cup brandished with the Daily Grind’s logo on the cardboard collar. 

[keyders]

DUTCH BLACKWELL.

Surprisingly enough, Dutch hadn’t even touched a can of beer until he turned eighteen, which was shocking for two reasons. One; he practically grew up in the bar, falling asleep in booths and being a bar back to his father when he was a teenage. While other kids would have been thrilled to have thousands of dollars of liquor at his disposal, it wasn’t ever something that crossed Dutch’s mind. Two; well, there was the drug problems, but in all fairness that didn’t start until he was almost out of college. Not until Tove disappeared and the man crossed his path that fateful night.

“Ah,” he narrowed his brows, giving the man before him an appraising look. “There’s a convenience store ‘cross the street if you need to get yourself a Tums, but…didn’t know club soda had that much of an effect on the gut.” Dutch smirked. 

“Yeah, sure. You know there’s a diner a few streets down, right?” he asked, trying his best not to sound like he was judging or singling the man out. He knew how that felt. “Just askin’ because, uh, this don’t really seem like your scene.” The man shrugged. “‘Less I’m reading you wrong. In that case I can just go fuck myself.”

‎

“Sensitive stomach.” He motions to his abdomen as if to demonstrate, then lets out an awkward huff. There are always better places to be on a night like this, he’s sure, but it’s in the most unflattering positions that he finds himself brimming with inspiration for future material. One day, a sober guy walking into a bar full of drunks on a Monday is going to be as funny as it is, currently, uncomfortable.

The bartender must see that, too - his discomfort in the situation, not the humor. Not yet, anyway. Tan just nods and says, “No, no you’re right, it’s not. Well, not anymore, anyway.” His gaze moves across the room. “You do shows around here? You know, like... musical performances and stuff.”

[keyders]

REZA IRFAN.

“Tell me something I don’t know, pretty boy,” Reza didn’t look up from the hood of the car he was fixing, both hands smudged in motor oil, “usually there are two types of people that say that to me; either they want to sleep with me or they want me to do something for them.” He finally looked up, his brow arched, “so which one are you?”

‎

When the person turns, proving them to be someone very clearly not the person Tan had initially thought they were, he turns an alarming shade of red and tightens his grip on Dakota’s leash. He moves back a step, his calves hitting the bumper of the car behind him. “Sorry, I thought you were...” It doesn’t really matter now. It was an embarrassing thing to say to someone whether or not he knew them. “Um, never mind. Not important, heh.” He rubs the back of his neck and coils Dakota’s leash around his hand to tug her closer. “You new here? Haven’t really seen you around Otto’s before. Not that... Not that I keep track of who they hire or whatever. That would be weird.” Just making conversation and saving face.

[keyders]

closed starter for @orionxcastillo​​ dive bar just outside of pleasance, evening.

This is how it starts. First telling people that he’s only here for a few weeks, which inevitably turn into a few months, and then he picks up a couple of gigs that’ll make his manager’s head turn. 

In all fairness, the crowd seems to be more receptive of his set than he thought going in, which is surprising to say the least, considering how much of his material consists of poking fun at white republicans, i.e. probably half of his audience but they’re probably too drunk to know when a jab is directed at them. Or they just find the image of a comedian in a run-down dive bar with a service dog at his feet too hilarious to care.

And he gets free drinks for the night. Except he’s not allowed to drink anymore and isn’t that just a little sad. He’s sure someone else could make use of the perk, so he saddles up right next to another bar-goer and says, “Two of what he’s having, Jack.” And his name probably isn’t Jack, but the bartender nods and starts pulling up glasses.

“Enjoyin’ the night?” he starts, quickly thumbing through the small wad of cash in his hand. 

[keyders]

KJ WAKE.

“I am not always an ass,” KJ replied petulantly, knitting up his brow and considering, in that moment, retracting his half-apology and continuing to be difficult. “I was willing to admit it that one time, so maybe take what you can get, ok?” Crossing his arms, he sunk back into the booth, looming almost like a stubborn child. And scooping up his cup, he began to swish the liquid around in a circle before taking a long sip, as if to distract himself. 

Still, swallowing hard and setting it back down, KJ looked up to meet Tan’s eye. “All those books are the same, dude. The small hometown is always ‘the place you get out of.’ The temporary pitfall we’re all supposed to wanna move beyond. It’s a, I dunno, a tool, a metaphor between where you come from and where you go. Old and crummy; new and sparkly. But some of us don’t go. Some of us like it here. Stinks to feel like you’re from the ‘before place.’” 

KJ huffed a little. Maybe some part of him was jealous of Tan then, although he would never allow himself to admit it out loud. Even this rambling critique of the book, valid or not, was rooted more in his drive to protect Pleasance, not in actual affection for the place. And he did love the place, in his own way. He loved the lake, he loved his family’s history with it, he loved the memories of his father and his grandfather. He loved feeling connected to some eternal life-line, a hereditary root winding back to the town’s founding.

But days still came, days where he wondered, wondered what lay beyond the outskirts and how he would fare there. He dreamed of bigger boats, of proper ocean yachts, of cruise liners, and battleships. He dreamed of concert halls, of the old music, outdated and overdone, he heard now only through records. Sometimes, he even dreamed of Louisiana, a place he had never gone but a place where the other life-line that created KJ Wake had sprung, one he had only learned piecemeal from her mother, bound to Pleasance only by the men in her life.

“I’m real sorry you had to come back here for the reason you did. I’m not heartless, okay? I’m real sorry. But it just sorta feels like…I dunno. For some people, Pleasance isn’t a place you come back to. It’s just where your life is. And that’s just as good as some big city somewhere.” 

He’d never once thought about what he would say in response if someone were to come up to him and tell him some deliberate inaccuracies ( creative liberties, he prefers to call them ) about the small Ohioan town because he never thought that anyone back home would bother picking up a copy of his book. Or, as KJ insists, read a blurb from the internet. Partly because he didn’t think many people back home would care. But mostly because he desperately hoped that no one would care.

What were the odds that KJ would be the first to point the accusatory finger?

“Listen, I didn’t mean it like that, okay? And if you’ve read the whole book, you’d know,” Tan says, and raises his brows towards the end of his deflection as if to gently coax KJ into admitting that he had, in fact, read the whole thing.

But in all seriousness - “Oh, but what does it matter? The before place, the after place, we’re both still here, aren’t we? Dunno what that’s supposed to tell you.”

[keyders]

JAX RIVER.

Jax shook her head. “Maybe I’m the one with perspective and you could use some,” she snapped. “People aren’t all good or bad, they’re both. Alby might be fitting in your idea of an ideal antagonist, but he’s been nothing but kind to me. If you could see him like I do, maybe you would be a little more realistic about the situation.” She folded the last of her shirts, put the basket on the ground, and sat down at the table. “George could do a lot more good if people actually believed that he can be a good person. Instead of constantly making him out for the bad guy. Talk to him, you might find there’s more to him than you want there to be.” 

Jax hated that she had settled into pleading mode. She didn’t mind protecting George Alby, but people were always questioning him around her, and she had vowed not to try and get too caught up in it. But here she was pleading for someone to take a chance on George, to not just see him as the big bad. 

Spoken like a true Alby Apologist, Tan thinks. From the compliments carefully constructed to give the illusion of modesty to the diplomatic tone that they are carried with, Jax sounds just like one of those political secretaries. Or a customer service representative reading from a script. Are all of George Alby’s friends required to pay the man compliments? There is a frustrating amount of people that Tan could swore had told him the exact same things.

“Do you know what earns somebody the title of ‘good person’? Doing good things,” he says, and watches as Jax finally puts her goddamn underpants away. “I’ve nothing to say to the guy. If anything, he should be talking to me. Didn’t even bother showing up at pa’s funeral or have his lousy assistant send over some lousy flowers or even a fuckin’... automated text. I mean, you’d think he owed us that at the very least, don’t you think?” It dawns on him that maybe Jax isn’t aware of his family’s history with the business mogul. Though, even if she were, what would change? 

[keyders]

DUTCH BLACKWELL.

where: dutch’s when: six pm on a monday who: open

“Motherfucker…” Dutch mumbles to himself as he views the text message from the bartender scheduled to be on shift tonight. Sick kid – he’s annoyed, yeah, but he also isn’t callous enough to try and make the guy come in anyway. As much as his head is screaming at him to just close up early and head home, he could just see the look on his father’s face in his head, laying into him about how he was the boss and he had to be there for his employees and blah blah blah. At forty years old, you’d think he wouldn’t take his old man’s lectures to heart so much, but he did. Besides, he had other employees that need the money and a room full of customers anxiously waiting some food and a drink to end their hard, bullshit day. Who was Dutch to ruin that for them?

So, after finishing up the thin white line he’d laid out for himself, the male puts a couple of eye drops in his eyes to get rid of any lingering glassiness or redness. Then, he makes his way out from his back office and heads behind the bar counter.

“You need another one?” he asks the closest patron, who’s glass appears to be empty except for a couple of melted ice cubes. “It’s on me. Mondays are the fuckin’ worst.”

‎

There are things that Montana wishes he could’ve done with his father. Like, take his first sip of an alcoholic beverage with the man. Dutch’s would’ve been as good a place as any to share that his experience. Now his father is gone and he’s not allowed to drink. He can’t help but feel like he’d tempted fate by leaving some ten years ago.

Yet he finds himself among the company of Monday night borderline alcoholics and pre-divorcees with no place to go. At the foot of the stool lies Dakota and on the bar is a tall glass of club soda so he doesn’t stick out like a sore thumb. There are better places to be, he’s sure, and he’s slowly starting to reacquaint himself with the town, business by business. It helps the old-timers remember that Hasad Keyder had another son, the one who traded the toils of small-town labor for a life in the bigger city. The would-be-lawyer now a disgraced would-have-been.

The club soda drinker.

“Uh, no thanks. I’m getting acid reflux enough as it is,” he says, waving his hand over the glass. “Could I have some water, though, please?”

[keyders]

MARA GORANSSON.

“Hi Dakota.” Mara cooed, scratching the head of the dog. The water from the rain was still dripping down her, now making the dog slightly damper that she was originally. “Sorry, seems the wetness is more transferable that I originally intended to.” Standing up, she tried to clean her hands into her jeans, though that did very little to the condition of the ever pouring rain. “Maybe this is a sign that you shouldn’t believe me. I’ve read enough books and analysed enough files to know a thing or two about hiding a body.” A grin emerged across her features, though she very much knew that the aforementioned conversation topic was not perhaps the best small talk topic. But it had always been one of the things that simply got Mara going. 

She came up to stand beside the stranger and nodded her head. “ Yeah. I’m the dean at the community college. Thought it would be a nice time to have a little walk back home. Though I didn’t speculate enough how heavy the rain would get. And yourself? Doing the duty of Dakota’s friend or simply enjoying the rain yourself? I know it can be a good moment to clear your head. Unless you’re afraid of the wetness.” 

‎

“I’ll try my best to remember that, then,” he says at the glib threat. Suddenly, the air shifts when she mentions her job - he remembers being a student at the community college a little over a decade ago and couldn’t even begin to imagine having a conversation like this with his dean. Then again, he remembers her to be a greying woman with a parrot-like voice and glasses that reminded him of a wise old owl. Funnily enough, her name was Dr. Byrd. 

The woman standing next to him now doesn’t look like a Dr. Byrd nor someone who would succeed the old broad. 

“No way, I used to go to the community college,” he tells her with an easy cadence he might share with a long-lost acquaintance. “Ah, I’m just waiting for my nephew to get out. He goes to the high school, I’m supposed to bring him straight home as per his dad’s orders. That’s what you get for sneaking out to party with your friends on a school night, I guess.”

[keyders]

AJITA TANNU.

Ajita let out a slightly awkward laugh. “Yeah, no for real,” they said in return, trying to not suddenly become extremely awkward. Their cheeks felt warm though, admitting all of this, walking into a famous person. Or… well, according to Montana not that famous. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to make it sound sketchy.” They held one hand against their mouth and turned to Charli for support, but the dog just had only eyes for Dakota. “The philosophy students and the foreign ones,” they shared. “Mostly the people I hung out with. We had these comedy nights where we would watch comedians on youtube. You usually ended up on the list… mostly because of your voice in the community,” they said. Then quickly turned back to him. “I don’t mean that in a wrong way, you’re incredibly funny.” Amazing safe. 

‎

They’re being so coy about their praises that Montana starts to feel bad about being so wary in the first place. Compliments just happen to be something he’s not too good at receiving, something which his publicist frequently tells him to work on. 

“Right.” Now he’s embarrassed; he nervously lets out a small chuckle and a quiet, relieved sigh. A hand shoots up to caress the back of his neck as a self-soothing gesture. “Well… thank you, I appreciate it.” He smiles now, properly, apologetically. “I’m curious now how all that translates to your European friends. Hopefully not too bad?”

[quotethatshow]

[keyders]

ft. @captainxkj

[keyders]

👀 😜

👀 …someone my muse likes, but doesn’t trust.

Tan enjoys spending time with @captainxkj and appreciates the guy's brash and blunt demeanor, thinks it's something he needs in his life at the moment, but he probably wouldn't trust him to save him from a capsized boat.

😜 …someone who makes my muse laugh.

There was a time when he would've answered @kincadedonnelly. Now he'll probably just say it's one of his nieces or nephews.

[keyders]

KINCADE DONNELLY.

Though there’s nothing quite so obvious to inspire their growing panic, Kincade still feels a sense of dread not dissimilar to the night their parents disappeared. Something is wrong, even if Kincade can’t say what. Though they know they’re not allowed to care anymore, it doesn’t stop the sudden return of a longing and familiarity they hadn’t felt in years, twisted up with the growing worry in their gut. This wasn’t the time to parse unintelligible emotions, but it hurt to be reminded what Kincade still felt even after so many years.

Consideration of such trivial matters is made even less important as Tan tilts into them, body suddenly going slack like a dead weight. Kincade wastes no time snaking their arms around the familiar body flagging against their chest, absorbing the weight of the other with only some effort. Perhaps moving all that furniture had paid off after so many years, though holding Tan up isn’t exactly easy, either. He’s certainly not so light as his dog.

It’s with some mixture of concern and annoyance that Kincade realizes Tan is trying to push away when he’s clearly not ready. Still, Kincade doesn’t make any effort to restrain him, only continuing to remain in intimate proximity just in case they need to catch him again. It’s a small blessing that Kincade is wearing a jacket when Tan grips their forearms, or else the touch might feel too personal, too familiar. It occurs to Kincade that they don’t remember the last they embraced Tan like this, if ever. They remember being held, but that’s- that’s not a thought for this moment.

Quiet and careful as ever, Kincade only nods and gently leads Montana to recline on the bench, supporting his weight as they guide him. Unwilling to consider it too much, Kincade bravely and thoughtlessly lets their hand slide around the back of Tan’s neck, their other arm holding his waist to stabilize him and they guide him to lay on the bench. When satisfied that Tan won’t fall over or off, Kincade is quick to tug off their jacket and ball it up as a makeshift pillow, lifting Tan’s head again to slide it under. Their fingers glide so smoothly through his soft hair, feeling the warmth of his scalp, though it becomes just another observation Kincade promptly ignores. Their panic is still high and tight in their chest, but they haven’t uttered another word until now.

“Tan? What’s happening?”

He feels like a child lying in Kincade’s cradle; too easily, almost an embarrassing amount, he submits himself to the fingers carding through his hair and the remnants of warmth and the traces of cologne on the jacket - if he had a reason to come home all those years ago, this moment would have been it. 

Above him, the sky is intimidatingly gray. It could rain at any given second; it looks like it already has. But nothing’s stopping the clouds from wringing themselves into a downpour, soaking Kincade and Dakota and him.

He wishes it would, so he’s not the only one who feels vulnerable.

There’s nothing remotely funny, but he laughs, anyway. A bizarre, misplaced sound that elicits a small whine from Dakota who lays her head on his arm, as she was trained to do. She blinks at him with dark, soulful eyes strangely filled with concern. When he looks up, Kincade is wearing an identical expression.

He laughs again.

“I had a boo-boo in Seattle.” Each word is uttered crisply with an exaggerated bounce as though he were a host on a children’s program. He amuses himself and so he repeats the statement, quieter this time. “I had a boo-boo in Seattle.”

It’s not so funny anymore.

He closes his eyes and takes in a sharp inhale through his nose. 

“You remember when Kyle Gringham threw that baseball into that window in the shed on Death Ranch?”