#snowpiercer

[junkfoodcinemas]

Snowpiercer (2013) dir. Bong Joon-ho

[sci-fi-gifs]

If you can't remember then it's better to forget. SNOWPIERCER (2013) dir. Bong Joon-ho

[sweeetestcurse]

Chris Evans as Curtis Everett in Snowpiercer

[itberice]

Wtf?!???!

[chaosinstigator]

my underrated king <3

[buckets-and-trees]

Golden/Too Bright [Sunburst Hotel & Casino]

Characters/Pairings: soft!dark Curtis Everett x curvy Millennial female!reader Word Count: 4.9k Summary: The casino manager at Ari's hotel resort has his eye on you from the moment you step into Sunburst with a large bachelorette party in tow, and he knows you're trouble. The good kind of trouble he shouldn't entertain.

Content/Warnings: one-night stand; grumpy Curtis; explicit smut (unprotected vaginal intercourse, clitplay, creampie), semi-public sex, corruption kink

Author Note: Standalone story that takes place at Ari's Casino. This was an idea I had originally concocted and thought I would get ready for the Hoes for the Holidays fest last December, but didn't, but a quick tweak from off-season December booking to off-season February booking, and here we are. Enjoy the ruin...

This is dedicated to my fellow type-A planners.

Curtis first sees you in the lobby of the hotel. You’re one of a gaggle of girls in matching attire—nine of you with pink track suits with white racing stripes and one in white with pink stripes. A bachelorette weekend.

Curtis snorts and rolls his eyes.

This is the wrong hotel to base a wild bachelorette party out of.

And you’ve clearly recognized your mistake as he observes you talking to one of the front desk agents checking in your party.

The lobby is a sea of sensible shoes and pastel windbreakers. Curtis can clocks eight mobility scooters parked in a neat row by the afternoon tea station, their owners trading stories about aching hips and grandchildren with alarming volume. The carpet is a repeating motif of fuchsia and turquoise shapes, gaudy enough to induce motion sickness, but your posse’s coordinated outfits actually fit right in with the loud colors.

The desk agent keeps assuring you that yes, the hospitality suite is set up for her use, yes, the adjoining rooms are stocked with extra towels and there’s a “cake station” in one of the suite per the reservation notes, but underscores that this is not a “party hotel,” and he has to enforce “quiet hours” after nine p.m.

You nod and sign the forms, clearly trying to pretend this is fine, undoubtedly trying to imagine how you’ll keep ten women entertained in a glorified bingo hall after the sun sets.

As the casino manager for the resort, Curtis was in the upper management meetings when its owner Ari Levinson discussed the deep discount weekends throughout January, February, and March to try and lure snowbirds back in to the senior-citizen-focused resort property. The weekend before Valentines had been discounted even more than most of the others.

He smirks from across the way when he sees you grimace as the agent hands you the keys and informs you that breakfast runs from five to eight am, the bar closes at nine pm, and so does room service.

Curtis can see the frenzied look behind your eyes even from this distance. You’re clearly a type-A planner, so this kind of fuck-up is beyond comprehension in your book. There’s an urban breed of young woman who attacks leisure with the zeal and logistics of a military campaign. He respects that, technically. He saw it frequently at the hotels he was at before this one. And he can already see it in the crisp way you take the key cards, the sharp nod as you gather your flock and herd them toward the elevators. You never glance down at your phone once, fielding the complaints, concerns, and chaos that’s threatening to erupt with unflagging optimism. You’ll Uber out—which had been the plan from the beginning for some of the elements of the itinerary, get food delivered after hours—which would probably be better than room service anyway, and a resort of senior citizens means none of you will have to deal with frat boys or finance bros trying to hit on any of them while you’re all here at the hotel home base at least.

Curtis will not admit that he might be a little bit impressed.

You’re going to end up being trouble for him at some point, he can just feel it.

By two pm the next day the casino floor is a festival of carnage, the slot machines screaming under the barrage of your bridesmaids. Your group is easy to track, a showy spectacle of sequins and synthetics trailing through the baccarat pit, martinis sloshing as conversation ricochets off every surface. The youngest of your group—twenty-two, maybe—already has a paper wristband for the “Mocktail Mania” crawl, and her phone out, live-streaming the chaos to a social media audience. Curtis counts five times you are stopped to take selfies with someone’s grandma. The grandmothers are loving it. They circle your orbit like you’re the new floor show, poking at your feathered headbands and laughing when some of you teach them the choreography to one of the latest viral TikToks.

As the afternoon progresses, you steer the group through the different offerings, trailed by the loyal, the hungover, and the barely-standing. Curtis has to admire the logistical ballet—how you are already distributing twenty-dollar bills with the distracted authority of a treasurer. But he has his eye on you. Appreciated novelty though you may be to the elderly now, Curtis will not hesitate to remove your party from the floor if the menagerie becomes a menace of any kind.

It’s a slow-motion collision of generations. The old folks can’t get enough of you. They beam when your group slips them pink satin sashes and inserts them into group photos, suddenly elevating a routine Tuesday into a major life event. There’s a sashay in the step of Mrs. Eileen, age ninety and proud, as she wheels between slot rows with a feather boa loosely looped around her neck, cackling at the iPad screen her great-niece uses to stream the dance party to “the internet.” Other regulars, in their lavender and beige, sprout out of their seats to offer tales of their own honeymoons, their own marriages, sometimes their own bachelorette shenanigans.

Curtis sees it all from the security desk, which gives him the best vantage on the mayhem. He’s supposed to be finishing paperwork—new vendor contracts, a proposal for replacing the bulbs in the chandelier above the poker room—but he ends up using most of his monitor’s real estate to watch your group’s progress via the security camera split-screen. There’s a method to your madness, he realizes. You’re not just leading the mob. You’re scouting. By three, you’ve had a chat with the cocktail waitresses, a run-in with the barback, and some sort of exchange with one of the off-duty pit bosses. Curtis catches the pit boss’s face on camera, a fleeting, sheepish look as he hands something off to you. At first, he thinks it’s a comped drink voucher—usual for a weekend like this, no crime in it. But you pocket it without showing anyone, flash a lopsided grin, and move on.

You’re working an angle. Maybe it’s the luck of the tables, maybe you’re just collecting stories for your war chest, but he’s suspicious. And it’s his job to be.

Midway through a routine sweep of the floor, he’s making his way toward the back of the penny slots when Curtis makes his decision and threads through the crowd to intercept you. The rest of your group is already deep in the throes of minor chaos—someone in pink is doubled over laughing, two are engaged in a mock arm-wrestling match on a cocktail table, one is arguing with a cocktail waitress about the correct way to say “appletini.” As he closes in, he sees that you’ve parked yourself on a padded bench between the keno machines, legs crossed, phone in hand. You’re texting, or maybe orchestrating something else, but you notice him before he can make the first move. For a second, your expression tightens—he braces for it, the guilt, the deer-in-the-headlights—but instead, your face breaks into a lopsided, almost grateful smile.

“Just the man they told me to talk to!” Like you’re greeting a friend, or long-lost co-conspirator. “You’re Curtis, right? I was told you’re the guy who can get things done around here.”

Curtis is momentarily wrong-footed. This is not how it’s supposed to go. He was coming to find you, he was ready to deal out a polite warning, a thinly veiled threat in customer-service-ese, not this.

But he nods, lips pressed into a neutral line. He waits for the ask, already rehearsing the tight, professional shut-down. But you beat him to it, voice sliding straight into business.

“It’s about the bar,” you say. “We’re not looking to cause problems, really—we’ll keep it down, we’ll clean up after ourselves, we’ll tip everyone at least twenty percent, cross my heart.” You put your hand over your heart for emphasis. “Is there any scenario where the bar could stay open after hours, for us for a special event?” You don’t even glance at the chaos in your wake. “Like, a couple hours. Just for my group. Is there a form for that or something?”

It takes him a second to recalibrate, but he does. “That’s not my department,” he says, definitive. “That’s Ari’s call. The owner.”

You nod, but you don’t miss a beat. "That’s what I heard, but someone said when Ari’s on vacation, you have final say. Figured it couldn’t hurt to ask."

He keeps his expression as flat as the casino carpet. "Ari’s out until Monday, and I can’t sign off on something like that. Sorry. Policy." He crosses his arms, which usually signals an end to this sort of conversation.

You tap your nails against your phone. Then your smile turns even sweeter. “But, if you were, hypothetically, going to green-light it for, say, a very harmless group of out-of-towners,” you lean infinitesimally closer, “is there any way we could make that happen?” And you put a gentle hand on his forearm, a brief brush, just for a moment.

Instantly, Curtis’s nostrils flare, and for all of three seconds, his veins surge with hunger, with the urge to press you up behind a row of these machines, and—

“No,” he insists.

None of that.

His sharp refusal has you shaking your head, seemingly coming back to yourself as well. “Sorry, I shouldn’t have done that,” you say, and the apology is so barefaced, it almost startles Curtis more than the hand.

You cross your arms, too, hugging yourself in that way people do when they’re recalibrating. “Sorry,” you repeat, “I didn’t mean to…” A vague gesture. “Honestly, that’s not even my style. I’m just—” You look away, jaw flexing. “This whole weekend was supposed to be perfect. I planned it for months. I thought I booked the right hotel, but it turns out the other ‘Sunburst Resort’ is forty miles south. The one with the rooftop bar and the infinity pool. Half the girls already want to murder me. The other half are just… really, really chill about it, which makes it even worse somehow? So, yeah. I just wanted to pull off one thing for them. Still make this weekend special.” You look at him then, straight on. “But I get it. You’re just doing your job.”

Curtis feels his jaw loosen, but he’s not going to lower his suspicions completely or make concessions. He should walk off, should leave you to the swarm of friends and the memorializing of catastrophe into just another party story. And yet…

“It’s not like your girls are having a bad time,” he says, jerking his head toward the havoc at the penny slots. The bride is wearing a plastic tiara and howling with laughter. Someone else is eating maraschino cherries straight from a glass. The bridesmaids might as well be background extras in a movie about senior living remixed for social media. “You may even be single-handedly responsible for the most fun anyone’s had here since the pandemic.”

You give him a look that’s both relieved and incredulous, like maybe you’re not used to being let off the hook. “I guess I’m just projecting,” you say, and your smile does a weird, sidelong thing. “I need it to be good more than they do, you know?” You glance down at your phone—probably to check for incoming fires—and then back up. “I appreciate you not making this into a whole thing.”

He shrugs. “I just know how much worse it can get,” he says. “And I’ll take your rowdy bachelorettes over the Texas Hold ‘Em AARP tour any day.”

“But it’s still zero on the after-hours?”

He shakes his head, and you nod in your polite resignation.

Textbook good girl.

Women in the first halves of their lives are an almost-never kind of occurrence at this place, but it’s not as if he’s never interacted with them before.

But it’s how good you are, how perfect you try to be that’s ignited some itch in him over you. He wants to hold all your attention in his hands for a minute and suffocate it in pleasure, see if he could get you to relinquish the reins of control and let whatever was corked tight inside uncork, explode, run rampant.

Because where he can see you’re spirited in your pursuit of control and perfection, he’s cool, calm, collected in his.

But you’re the last thing he needs.

He clears his throat. “The hospitality suite’s got a fridge,” he offers, voice at half-volume, trying to avoid the path between of being too helpful. He doesn’t want to give the impression that he’ll soften. “If you tip our concierge Lloyd, he’ll stock you with the good stuff. And some of the stuff he shouldn’t.”

You blink, and then give him a real smile. “Thank you.” Your voice is warm with those two words, and, fuck, if now he doesn’t want to get you saying thank you for other reasons.

Again, no. He won’t go there.

You start to say something else, but he’s already pivoting away, put an end to the scene before he can get any more entangled. He doesn’t need to continue looking into your soft eyes, doesn’t need to think about how wide they’d if he stuffed his—

He growls and then barks at one of his pit bosses to keep an eye on table seven, and stalks off toward the cage to count down the afternoon drop.

At 10:17 PM, Curtis is on his way out, mind already shifting to the leftovers and whiskey sour waiting for him in his shoebox apartment.

He freezes, pivots.

Music. Laughter. The unmistakable warble of Abba at full throttle, the chorus punched with off-key shrieking. All of it coming from the bar that was supposed to be closed over an hour ago.

Curtis marches through the swing doors and right into a riot.

The bachelorette party is there, of course, but they’re not alone. At least two dozen seniors are crammed into the bar's banquette, drinks in hand, some already mid-dance on the sticky faux-wood floor. Eileen’s signature feather boa is now a communal scarf, being passed from neck to neck. Someone’s great-uncle—he recognizes him from the slots—has his tie around his forehead like a Rambo bandana, and is doing shots with two of the bridesmaids. The bride is slow dancing with someone’s grandma. The DJ booth is unmanned, the playlist hijacked by a phone plugged directly into the sound system, which is blaring “Dancing Queen” at top volume.

And, somehow, Ari Levinson is behind the bar himself, slamming a bottle of tequila on the counter with a theatrical flourish.

Ari who’s not supposed to be back until Monday.

Curtis wades through the bedlam, dodging an emerging conga line, and slides behind the bar next to Ari.

“You’re supposed to be in New York,” Curtis says, voice low but edged.

Ari just flashes a golden grin. “I have a private jet, and Eileen called me personally,” he says, as if that explains everything. “Said if I didn’t make this bachelorette party’s dreams come true, she’d never forgive me.”

Eileen was their wickedest widow slash beloved queen of the resort, left with more money than god, and stayed at Sunburst in one of the penthouse suites that was essentially hers every other weekend at this point.

Curtis feels the corner of his mouth twitch. “So you’re bartending now?” Curtis asks, monitoring the controlled chaos.

Ari shrugs, “Back to my roots.”

Curtis locates you instantly, perched at the end of the bar, not in the fray but close enough to referee. You’re in a pale knit mini-dress and white sneakers, another outfit to match the rest of the bridal party. There’s a highball glass in your hand, the liquid inside nuclear red and fizzy. Cherry garnish. Shirley Temple. He snorts—of course.

You’re running the spectacle, but not running wild. Your head is tipped just so, like you’re listening for the precise moment the party will veer from beautiful disaster into regrettable territory. The instant it would go too far, you would be there to drag your girls back.

His stare must be a laser, because you catch him immediately, and your face bursts wide open with a smile. Not just a little polite, thanks-for-your-help smile—a full, flashing, not-even-a-little-bit-sober beam. You’re off the barstool and striding toward him before he can look away.

You reach him in an instant, and before he can ask what you need, you blurt, “I just wanted to say, thank you! I never dreamed of anything this big, but it’s bigger and better than I could have hoped for!”

Curtis knows how to field gratitude—he does this every day, nodding his way through the bland, forgettable compliments of winners and losers. But this, the way you lean in, smiling like you’ve just hit the jackpot, tips something loose in him.

“This wasn’t me. It’s Eileen you have to thank for all of this. She’s a force of nature,” he says.

You turn and look for her in the crowd, but Curtis can still hear you. “She’s a fucking legend,” you say, soft, reverent.

Curtis doesn’t let it sit. He leans in, close enough you have to tip your chin up to meet his eyes. “You looked like you were eager to thank me, though,” he says, and the words are so direct, so specific, that your eyes widen.

Curtis’s mouth shifts into a smirk, and then his hand is at your elbow, guiding you up and away from the bar with a grip a shade firmer than necessary. Not a gentle graze, but a serious claim. He doesn’t say a word—just nods to Ari, who raises his tequila bottle in salute, and then steers you through the riot of bodies and then around a corner to a masterfully hidden set of stairs. Privacy to ascend to the dark kingdom of the VIP lounges.

Curtis badges a golden door open and you step in, a little ahead of him, a little breathless, and something dark in him revs at your wide-eyed reaction as you look around, soaking up every angle. You turn in a slow circle, taking it in, the perfectionist in you surely already clocking the amenities, the escape routes, the places where a control freak could retreat if she suddenly needed to.

The room is a jewel box with velvet seating, a mirrored bar with bottles for a hundred moods, and outside the glass doors, a crescent-moon balcony that wraps around the entire level, cantilevered over the revel below. The sound comes up through the floor, dull and distant and thrilling.

Curtis closes the door behind them with a soft click, then flips a switch that kills the ugly ceiling lights and bathes everything in a pinky-purple glow.

He leans against the door, arms crossed, blocking the exit with a casual, unignorable presence. “Not quite the rooftop bar you wanted, but it has its advantages,” he says.

You drift to the balcony railing, which overlooks the bar and a slice of the dance floor below, packed with the intergenerational party. He comes up behind, close enough that you must feel him, but he doesn’t touch you yet.

After a minute, you say, “So this is the VIP suite.” You sound breathless, lighter than you probably want to.

Curtis makes a noise of affirmation. “Should be for high rollers, but turns out ours come here to be in the crowd, not above it.”

You lean on the railing, looking down. “I’ve never been in a VIP anything.” You smile, but it’s tight.

“We should make it an experience you’ll never forget then, shouldn’t we?”

He leans in, sets his palms on either side of you, bracketing your ribs, caging you in as you grip the balcony. He can see you’re nervous, the first crack in your facade.

Curtis wants to see what happens if you let go—just a little. See if he can shake something loose in you that won't snap back into shape. He wants to see how far he can make you unravel, if you’ll trust his control, indulge in surrender, let him break you.

He sets his hand on your hip. A test. He feels you tense, feels the nerves shudder through your spine as you take a deliberate breath, all the way to the bottom. Your hands grip the balcony railing, but you tilt your head just enough that he can see the hint of defiance in your profile. Not fear—just the need for a reason to surrender.

He gives you one.

His lips graze your ear, and he pitches his words low, dangerous. “You know you want to let go,” Curtis says. “You don’t have to run the show every second.”

He waits for a protest. Instead, your voice comes out soft, “What if I don’t know how?”

Now, that is interesting.

And perfect.

Curtis doesn’t hesitate. He puts both hands on your hips, sharp and possessive, and pulls you back against him. There’s no space between your bodies, just the heat and the thud of his heart against your spine and the point of his cock, already hard, pressed up between the small of your back and your ass. The party below blurs out of focus. His lips drag a line from the curve of your ear to the side of your throat, the scruff on his jaw catching and scraping against your skin. He doesn’t bother with sweet nothings, just fills your world with the shudder of your own breath and the slow, insistent sweep of his palms up and under the hem of your dress.

“I’ll show you,” he growls, and you shiver in his hands but don’t resist.

Curtis lifts the skirt up over your hips, slow and sure, not for seduction but to test you, to see if you’ll stop him. You don’t. You’re trembling, but it’s the good kind—a shudder up your spine, a breath snatched and held tight. He likes that. He likes that a lot. He skims his hands further up and under, finds the smooth curve of your ass, finds the edge of your panties and tugs them down with a single, practiced motion, just far enough to bare you.

You twist to glance back, half shy, half incautious, and your voice comes out husky, nothing like the chirpy, put-together party leader from the lobby. “Is this…okay?”

He smirks. “Doesn’t matter if it’s okay, as long as you want it,” he growls, teeth grazing the juncture at your neck.

Then he’s undoing his own belt, one-handed, and you’re already melting into a perfect arch, braced and bent, just how he likes. Curtis is not a man for pleasantries. He likes efficiency, wants results, but something about you—this fine-tuned girl with the power stance and nervous little quiver—makes him want to prolong this, draw it out like the last hand at the table.

It’s a dangerous place to do this, up here and not so far from view, but that’s the point. The wide glass gives a perfect god’s-eye view of the casino, and below in the bar anyone who glances up might see a silhouette, but not a face. That risk turns the air inside electric. He wants to see how far he can push you, if you’ll crash out as a good girl or revel in coming to heel.

There’s no buildup. He doesn’t tease, doesn’t check in, just pushes forward and fills you in a single, breathtaking lunge. You choke out a surprised noise, probably loud to your own ears but lost in the spill of music and laughter that pulses up from below. He keeps going, not giving you time to adjust, not gentling his pace, just claiming you over the balcony with the force of a man who’s been starved.

The drag of his hands, the pound of his hips, the roughness of fabric and fingers and bone—he means every thrust to bruise, to mark you with the memory of this room until you can never walk into another casino again without feeling phantom pressure on your waist. It’s insane, this surge of possessiveness, but it only twists tighter as you arch and gasp and fight to keep yourself silent, because you’re good, you’ve always been good, and Curtis can sense the struggle as you try to keep the noises caged. He won’t let you. He wants you to let go, and he’s not above brute force to get you there.

He snakes a hand up under your dress, flattens his palm against your stomach, keeping you pinned so you’re forced to stay put and take every inch. His other hand creeps up, wraps around your throat and squeezes, thumb against your windpipe—not enough to hurt, just enough to underscore who’s in control.

He fucks you, relentless, and it’s not performative, not for show, just the pure, greedy satisfaction of it. If there’s any doubt in him about whether you want this, it dies when you start bucking back into him, meet him thrust for thrust, until the friction threatens to light the air on fire.

Curtis relishes every stifled gasp you make, the way you spasm and cling to the rail as your knees start to go. There’s a pretty, wild abandon now, your hands scrambling for purchase, and for the first time you look utterly unstaged, raw and perfect. His thumb strokes your pulse, steady, both pushing to more and grounding you at the same time.

Curtis is never gentle, but he’s always attentive. He’s got enough years behind him to tell when someone is about to crash. You’re creaking, threatening to snap in his hands, hips torqued back against him, begging, desperate for more. He takes a hand off your stomach and slips it lower, finds the knot of nerves that he knows can quell your need.

He works you, deliberate and precise, until your body rebels against you, locked tight around his cock as you choke out a single, helpless sound that’s all desperation. “Good girl,” he growls, and you keen.

He doesn’t stop. He keeps punishing you through it, and even when you shudder and sob, proud spine melting into a loose, slack curve, he won’t let you slide off the edge. Not until he’s wrung you out once, twice, three times—he wants you completely spent, the sight of you ruined, breath gone jagged. Only then does he come, a savage surge he buries in your heat, hands digging in with a grip that promises bruises by morning.

He laughs—low, dark, delighted—and stays pressed against your back until he’s wrung every last bit of shiver from your muscles, still touching and tormenting the your oversensitive intimate parts, fingers still tormenting with out, cock punishing your inner walls with slow ruts while he’s still half-hard. When he lets go of your throat, he pulls your face around and bites your earlobe, hard enough to leave a mark.

There’s no clean-up, not with him, not in a place like this. He slides out, fixes your dress, puts himself together with the brutal efficiency. You stand there, trembling, breathless, stuck in place.

His cocky self-satisfaction bubbles in his chest while you stay hunched over the balcony, hands vise-locked on the rail, knuckles bleached to bone. He relishes every second of it—the way you strain to straighten up but can’t quite, the way your body fights to process what just detonated inside. He enjoys watching you flinch when he slides your ruined panties delicately back into place, tugs them up with a snap of elastic. “Gotta keep my hot cum inside your tight cunt,” he mutters, the words more ruin he knows you can’t be used to.

Then he finally guides you to the couch. You look up at him, blinking, lips only slightly parted, doe-eyed in your ruined haze. He pats the side of your head before stepping away.

He pours you both a drink, because he’s not a complete animal, and hands yours over wordlessly. You sip it. He’s got vodka, but he only gave you a flavored sparkling water. You meet his gaze. He likes the way you steady yourself on a few sips.

“Now everyone in the bridal party should be able to say they had a weekend they’ll never forget,” Curtis says a few minutes later, once you seem more settled.

You huff a small laugh. At last, you manage to say, “I don’t even know if my legs work.”

He stands, knocking back the last of his vodka. “You can stay up here long as you want.”

He doesn’t offer to walk you to your room, doesn’t linger, just brushes his knuckles across your cheek and lets himself out the suite, the click of the latch leaving you in a glittering, elevated hush. He’ll send a note to your room, leaving his number and a line letting you know he’ll ruin you more if you want him to before you leave.

🥵🥴

so, again, that happened.

I must throw out a note to @stargazingfangirl18 who was there when I imagined up this man and encouraged his development! Gave great fuel to my fire once again!!

read what happens the next morning: MORNING DEPARTURE

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[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

Criminal Intent

Warning: noncon, stealing/crime, fear and intimidation.

My warnings are not exhaustive but be aware this is a dark fic and may include potentially triggering topics. Please use your common sense when consuming content. I am not responsible for your decisions.

Character: Curtis Everett

Summary: An act of desperation leads to a moment of retribution.

Note: this idea popped into my mind so I quickly jotted it up. No plans on a series but I could see a couple of continuations if y'all want. Let me know, pls!

As usual, I would appreciate any and all feedback. I’m happy to once more go on this adventure with all of you! Thank you in advance for your comments and for reblogging ❤️

You got over should or shouldn't a long time ago. This isn't about morals, it's not even about greed. This is survival. You just need something, anything you can hock for a couple bucks.

Your stomach is a siren, crying out for anything. You listen to that, not your conscience. When it boils down to it, ethics are as much a commodity as a gold watch or designer purse.

Confidence is key. Not real confidence, just the appearance of. People only notice what you let them notice.

It's dark. Late. You move between the shadows of house, trailing behind the bumpers of pickups, stopping to stand on tiptoe and peek in the beds. Empty bottles won't even get you a return anymore. Fucking pricks in their suits, writing down new rules for everyone but themselves.

Just a small thing. Nothing that's too much. If they can afford them, they can afford to replace them, surely.

You stop and rub your eyes. The streetlights soften the edges. You see something further down a lot.

The long drive is full up. Three pick ups, an outdated corvette, and a couple bikes near the unlit garage with four doors. You weave between, pausing to test the handles and peek through the windows.

Huh. One's unlocked. You find greasy receipts for a burger place this end of town and coupons for more. Jesus. Fat fuck.

You keep on towards the bikes. Usually, you don't get much off of them. You might manage to twist off a mirror or couple pieces of metal to sell at the scrapper.

You check the first. Nothing. The second turns up a couple pills tucked inside the handlebar. If they're any good, you can get a decent profit. You don't touch the shit. Makes you an easy target, even if it would ease the ache in your gut.

The third bike is nice. The silver cobra painted on the matte grey tank catches a glimmer of moonlight. You feel around slowly.

There's a leather pouch right behind the seat. Someone must've been distracted. You unbuckle it, the metal clinking louder than you like, and sift around blindly.

You take out the only object inside. A folding knife. You'll be lucky to take ten from the pawnshop. They have a whole fucking bucket of knives.

A click makes you clumsy. The knife falls between your feet and you stand sttaight. Stiff. The gravel mulches behind you.

"Hands up." The grizzly voice sneers.

Fucker. You raise your hands. The man comes close and kicks the knife under the bike and you hear it skitter to the other side.

"You law?" You ask.

"Shut up." He growls.

You sigh and stay as you are. His body heat clouds around you as he pokes you with the barrel. You huff.

"Keep your hands up and turn around." He commands.

"I'm just hungry--" you say.

"Yeah? Bet those pills are real filling." He jabs the gun deeper between your shoulder blades. "Turn the fuck around."

You close your eyes and deflate. You face the man and look. He's just a black silhouette but you can tell he isn't with the force. You stare at him, bracing for something, anything.

"You know what I do with thieves?"

"I can guess," your fingers droop weakly.

"Don't you know where the fuck you are?" He steps closer and angles the barrel under your chin. The silver glow of the moon limns his long nose and lights his grey blue irises.

"Somewhere I shouldn't be."

"You're goddamn fucking right." He pushes until your jaw aches.

He glares at you as the shadows coil like a basilisk. He drags the gun along your cheek and presses against your temple. He hooks his finger in the top of your hoodie and tugs it away from your neck. He scoffs.

"Listen to every fucking word I say and I might let you limp out of here."

You sniff and shake your head. "What the hell am I gonna do?"

He clicks his tongue. "Turn around. Walk up to that wall. Put your palms flat." He gestures with the barrel.

You obey and march stiffly up to the front of the garage. He follows you. You stare at the obscure siding and resign yourself to whatever comes next.

"Pay for what you took and we're even."

"You think I'm out hear stealing cause I got money--“

His knuckles snap against the back of your skull.

"Point is you took what's mine. You owe me." He shifts behind you. "I didn't say nothing about money."

He kicks your heels.

"Pull your jeans down."

Your body locks up and your fingers curl to fists. You swallow dryly. You reach down.

“Ah, move slow. I’m still being nice.” He warns. “You still got all your fingers.”

You ease your motion. You don’t bother with your fly. You slip your thumbs under the denim and elastic and shove your jeans down. You stop just at the midpoint of your thighs.

A gristly hum climbs up his throat. You flinch as his hot hand spreads across one side of your ass. From that alone, you’re assured that it’s not just the darkness playing tricks. He is indeed a very formidable man.

“Stay like that. Don’t make a noise.” He drawls.

You don’t move. You dip your head forward and lock your legs. You’re terrified but you know better than to show it. Even if you’re not bawling and begging, you’re sure he knows.

He grabs your wrists and guides your arms up. He forces your hands against the side of the garage. He lets go and you stay as he put you.

You close your eyes as something clinks. His belt buckle. A thick breath chafe and his zipper cuts through the still night. You bite down until your jaw throbs.

He grabs your hips and guides your feet back, just a little. With a heavy boot, he moves your legs further apart. He squeezes and tilts your lower back. He traces his fingertips across the top of your ass.

“Be nice, still, and quiet for me.” He rasps.

He steps close, pumping himself slowly. His knuckles brush the curve of your backside. He smells the crown of your head and his hot breath puffs into your hair. His large hand frames your hip as he trails his tip beneath your as and along your thigh.

He rubs up along your cunt as he bends his knees. You clench and clamp your eyes tight. He pushes against you. His slow deliberate intrusion burns. The resistance of your body makes it worse and when he slips inside, you grunt. Just his tip has you trembling.

He brings his other hand to your hip. He grips you tight as he tilts his pelvis up, splitting you with each inch. A long groan grinds from you as you push your hands hard against the wall. You lean your head on the side as you gnash your teeth.

When you think he’s done, he jerks his hips and plunges even deeper. You cry out and he hushes you, digging his nails into your skin. You quiver and nod. You swallow down the pain.

“Good girl,” he whispers.

He stays buried in you as he drags his touch up your sides. One hand slips under your hoodie and the crumpled shirt beneath. He cups your tit as his other arm hooks around your neck. His squeeze just under your jaw and he pushes his head next to yours, his cheek against your temple.

He slides out of you until just his tip. He urges back in and you chuff out another tight breath through your nose. He rolls into you, over and over. Each thrust is long and measured. Torturous.

He turns so his nose presses your temple. His breath dampens your skin. He rams into you harder. Your feet arch so you're on your toes. He bends you until you’re crushed between him and the garage wall.

He snarls as his hand snakes down your stomach and a thick finger delves between your lips. You gasp and gulp, bracing the crook of his arm as your nerves spark. You moan and shake your head. He curls his arm until your knuckles are against your neck and you can’t breathe.

“I said be quiet.” He sneers as he snaps his hips meanly. “You wanna take from me?” He ruts up into you harshly. You keep an elbow against the wall as you clutch at his arm with both hands. “You’re gonna take all of me.” 

He hammers against your ass mercilessly, flesh slapping between your stifled whimpers. Your head hangs over his thick arm as his leather coat opens around you, tickling your sides as his tempo picks up with each tilt. He growls and nips your ear.

“Then we’ll see if you can walk away from this.”

[innuendostudios]

A very long video essay about the themes of the John Wick series, about rules, about whether bespoke suits make murder respectable, about whether a society that authorizes itself to kill your dog without consequence can be called "civilized," and about whether a black shirt can be worn with a tie.

I guess now's as good a time as any to say: this video is unsponsored and I am no longer on Nebula. Currently, the only way to support me is on Patreon! Also that this video is copyright claimed out the wazoo so I dunno if I'm gonna get much ad revenue. Things to consider!

Transcript below the cut.

i. snowpiercer

Snowpiercer is a movie about revolution. The survivors of the climate apocalypse live on this train. Nothing outside - we are informed - can withstand the cold. All of human culture has been compressed into this single, linear civilization, like one those of thought experiments from the 90’s - you know, if the world were a village of 1000, only 70 would own cars, but some of them would have two? The have-mores live up front near the engine and the have-nots back towards the caboose.

Curtis Everett is the reluctant leader of the coachclass’ uprising, as he and his compatriots fight their way forward trying to take the engine. For eighteen years, they have lived in squalor, subjected to violence and starvation, and, with each successive car they take, they see how their betters have lived, how much wealth and plenty has been hoarded by the few.

At the end of his journey, Curtis confronts Wilford, the train’s designer, who lives a life of luxury in the front car where he maintains the engine. Wilford reveals that Curtis’ revolution has, in fact, been planned by Wilford in collaboration with Curtis’ mentor, Gilliam. Every few years, the head and the tail work together to foment an uprising as a means of population control. The train can only sustain so many people, and a failed coup is a fine pretext for killing off a bunch of poors.

Wilford then offers Curtis his role as keeper of the engine and the train’s de facto ruler, though he makes it clear: the Snowpiercer’s very nature - its construction and available resources - necessitates the very things Curtis is rebelling against. While he might, presumably, distribute things a bit different, there is no future version of the train that is free from mass starvation, child labor, and periodic kill-offs of the excess population. It will not function without these things.

Confronted with this, Curtis chooses to blow the train off its rails and let the survivors take their chances in the frozen wastes.

Snowpiercer is Bong Joon-Ho’s most savage takedown of capitalism.

ii. high-rise

If you took the train from Snowpiercer and rotated it 90 degrees along the z-axis, you would get High-Rise, a movie about societal collapse. Robert Laing has just moved into the titular high-rise apartment complex, a forty-floor tower-of-the-future with all the amenities of a functional society: he shops in the tower’s supermarket, works out in its gym, plays squash with the building’s architect, Royal, who lives in the penthouse. The floors of the complex are, once again, stratified by wealth and social standing, with the working classes near the bottom and the rich up top. Being a doctor with some upwardly aspirations, Laing gets an apartment around the upper-middle, and starts an affair with a woman above - but not too far above - him.

Being so self-contained, the longer people live in the high-rise, the less they venture into the outside world, even as the high-rise begins to fail, with disruptions to its power, water, mechanics, supply chain, and eventually its very architecture. It even appears abandoned by police. To the denizens who live there, who have long-ceased going to their jobs, this is the fall of civilization. As there is, to them, no longer anything outside the high-rise, the inside falls into chaos. People indulge in violence, theft, and hedonism. 

Despite this, the social order is somewhat maintained: people continue having water-cooler conversations and dressing for jobs they don’t go to; they speak as though power will come back on any day now and things will revert to normal, as if this localized reign-of-terror is a rager that’s gotten out of hand; the vertical class-stratification is more-or-less respected.

The one major exception is Laing’s friend Richard Wilder, a working class man who repeatedly transgresses the social order, doing violence, theft, and hedonism to people above him. Fearing this behavior will catch on, the penthouse tasks Laing - a neurosurgeon - with lobotomizing Wilder, which Laing ultimately refuses to do, declaring Wilder the only sane man in the building. Wilder ultimately confronts Royal, which results in both their deaths, and Laing watches the total collapse of the society, choosing to sit back and embrace barbarism.

Now, if you took the train from Snowpiercer and rotated it so it was heading straight towards you, massive, deadly, and utterly unstoppable, you would have John. Fucking. Wick.

john 1

We first meet John as a sad-eyed man who just buried his wife and took ownership of an unbearably adorable dog, living a life of hazy grief in what I’m told is New Jersey. One night, a Russian gangster, Iosef, and his friends break into John’s house to steal his car, and, while they’re at it, beat him senseless and… pet the dog too hard. Unbeknownst to them, John is a retired assassin and former associate of Iosef’s father, Viggo. John’s reputation in the criminal underworld is that of the most dangerous and unrelenting killer the Earth has ever seen, called in fearful whispers the Baba Yaga by the Russian mob, a death-dealing horror Iosef just awoke from five years’ slumber.

The rest of the movie is John’s hunt for revenge against Iosef, in which he kills everybody. [“EVERYONE” “EVERYTHING” “EVERYBODIES”]

presumption 1

Iosef, knowing nothing of John’s history, is flippant about being suddenly in possession of his car, and shocked at the reprisals that follow. Given that no one seems much to care until they realize it was, specifically, John Wick’s car he stole, John Wick’s dog he killed, I think we can deduce that, normally, Iosef could beat and rob a stranger without consequence. That is a privilege the son of a mob boss enjoys, and likely has enjoyed in the past. Not that it’s necessarily approved behavior, but accepted without consequence. Had Iosef robbed an actual nobody, that nobody could’ve never gotten close to him.

john 2

The underworld of the John Wick franchise less resembles the mafia than the Knights Templar. Its customs border on ritual, it has codes and talismans and its own secret currency. John is not only unique in that he has the skills to seek revenge: he has the access. He knows the rules, knows to book a room at The Continental with a special coin, ask for the manager by name, and never conduct business on hotel grounds. He has connections who owe him favors and has banked years of respect and good will. Iosef is not unreachable to a man like John.

He is able to declare the killing of his dog an injustice. “I don’t have to take this.”

The question put to him, again and again, on his revisitation to the underworld, is, “John: does this mean you’re back? Are you back, John? Are you working again? Have you returned to us? Are you one of us again? John, are you back?”

civility

Viggo’s second course of action to protect his son is to try and kill John Wick, which goes… poorly. But his first course is to appeal to John’s better nature, to ask that he behave in a “civilized” fashion. Civility, here, means not killing Iosef, but… what is the alternative? In later films, “contrition” takes the form of accepting seven cuts or amputating a finger, but Viggo offers nothing of the kind, doesn’t suggest a “more constructive” justice. Viggo’s “civilized option” is the one where John does nothing, where he behaves like the nobody Iosef thought he was robbing. In a civilized society, Iosef’s behavior was poor, but a killing spree is downright unacceptable.

“Civility” means to let the injustice stand.

presumption 2

It’s not that, in this world, violence is an unacceptable means of redress. In later films, we see mobsters and assassins open contracts on each other quite casually, meet officials like The Adjudicator and The Harbinger whose primary function is to resolve disputes with knives and pistols. So I think we can assume that John’s killing spree is “uncivil” not because it is violent, but because it is unsanctioned. John is retired. He doesn’t even go here anymore! Everyone asking, “John, are you back?” Viggo is here to say, no. John is a civilian, he needs to act like one. And sometimes this is what happens to civilians. It may not seem fair, but them’s the rules.

elevated action 1

The overall plot of John Wick sounds, in summary, unremarkable. It is a straightforward revenge plot: criminals do wrong by a retired killing machine, punchy punchy bang bang. Viggo puts Iosef in increasingly secure locations and throws larger and larger goon squadrons at John; John kills the goons, then John kills Iosef, then John kills Viggo, then John gets a new dog, the end. It’s got two twists on formula: instead of thugs killing his wife, his wife dies of natural causes and then thugs kill a dog who represents his wife; and the Masonic nature of the assassin world. These are cool, but not deep, structural changes; the general shape is the same as a Scott Adkins or Michael Jai White movie that went straight-to-DVD in the 2010’s. In bullet-points, this is Ninja: Shadow of a Tear. Even the emphasis on stuntwork: that’s generally what these no-budget movies had going for them: no money for special effects or crane shots, just guys who can actually fight.

What makes John Wick special is that it doesn’t look or feel like Ninja: Shadow of a Tear. Partly that’s because they landed Keanu Reeves, which means they got ten times the budget of Ninja: Shadow of a Tear, but ten times the budget of Ninja: Shadow of a Tear doesn’t usually look like John Wick, either - it looks like Jiu Jitsu. And Jiu Jitsu does not have three sequels, a spin-off, a TV series, and two video games. Jiu Jitsu is not in Fortnite.

John Wick is gorgeous to look at. It looks classy. It is cast with thespians. It is scored with Swan Lake. John Wick is to its genre what The VVitch is to horror. John Wick is elevated action. John Wick… is pretentious.

Oddly, this is the aspect of John Wick that has failed to catch on amongst its imitators. A lot of films have tried to be “the next John Wick,” and they borrow its practical effects and stuntwork, they borrow its slightly higher-concept assassinry, they usually find a MacGuffin that isn’t a dead wife, but none of them shoot for the tone. These films lean hard on the grindhouse scuzziness of the old direct-to-DVD fare or embrace a 90’s junk food aesthetic of video games and pop rocks. The tone is, if anything, camp. And far be it for me to say John Wick is not camp, or that it has no sense sense of humor, but they are not comedies. None of these pretenders are half this fuckin’ sad.

suits 1

When John “comes out of retirement,” he puts on the uniform of his trade: an exquisitely-tailored three-piece suit. Slim-notch lapels, single-breasted suit jacket - I think double-vented - with a low-fasten, four-button waistcoat, shirt, and tie. Tapered slacks. Lovely silhouette. Black, black, black, black, and black.

Now this is, technically, sartorially, a faux pas. As a rule, one’s tie should always be darker than one’s shirt, and therefore a black shirt should be worn without a tie. But of course you can’t be wearing no three-piece suit without a tie. (I mean, maybe if you’re a Tong, in San Francisco, in the 1870’s but…) The rule can be broken - allegedly. Some mid-2000’s aesthetics inverted the “lighter shirt, darker tie” proviso, and we’ve seemingly agreed they got away with it. And black shirt/black tie is not unprecedented, so I’m prepared to say John Wick gets away with it. Are you gonna tell him otherwise? (Especially when he adds that collar pin in Chapter 2 for a hint of contrast. Smashing.)

This is all to say: John Wick is a rule breaker.

presumption 3

I would posit that the question of whether or not John is “back” will, after a certain point, cease to be his decision. He is moving in the assassin world, using their resources and amenities. He can call this a “visit” if he wants, but assassin is as assassin does. This is, pointedly, the premise of the second film.

If we stretch this assumption a little further, we may read John’s being declared “back” as the underworld’s solution to a problem. In the course of the film, John stays at The Continental, burns a safe full of mob money to flush out the head of a major crime family, whom he will, by the end, stab in the neck until dead. And the punishment for a civilian so brazenly transgressing the rules is probably trying to kill John Wick, but… good luck with that.

If, however, the assassin world were to declare that, yes, John is back in the fold, then all of this can be framed as retroactively “legal.” Iosef’s robbery is now the transgression, and, with the death of Viggo, there’s no one left to challenge that idea.

Deciding John is an assassin again can be read as a judgment call, bending the rules such that they were never actually broken, and an excuse to not go to war with the Baba Yaga. It buys them the length of one additional movie.

rules 1

If John Wick: Chapter 1 is a revenge film, Chapter 2 is a one-last-job movie. After the events of the first film, former associate Santino comes to visit John with a request. Santino holds a marker, given him by John before he retired. Because John is “back,” he is once again beholden to the rules of the marker, which entitles its holder to a favor. Santino asks John to kill his sister, Gianna.

This is the first place we hear the phrase “High Table.” Santino wants Gianna dead so he may take her place on the High Table, the shadowy group running the secret world of assassins, the writers of the rules, the ones who imbue coins and markers with meaning and regulate their circulation, the ones who declare things like “no killing on Continental grounds” and enforce the consequences of defiance. The arbiters of civilized death.

And their rules place John in an unwinnable situation. If John does not honor the marker, Santino can have John killed with the High Table’s blessing. If John fulfills the request, and kills a member of the D’Antonio crime family who sits on the High Table, Santino can have John killed with the High Table’s blessing.

John’s death is now the only “civilized” option.

commerce of relationships 1

Santino makes his request by appealing to John’s honor, pointing at the marker and the blood oath it signifies as a thing that must, must be upheld. But what Santino is asking of John is something deeply dishonorable. The symbology of the marker allows him to abstract what is happening, to say “I want you to kill my sister and your own personal friend so that I may defy my father’s wishes and take over her political position for my own enrichment” without having to use any of those words; to frame such an act of treachery as morally necessary, the way economists can say “adjust interest rates to stabilize the market” rather than “intentionally provoke a recession to raise the unemployment rate because it’s bad for the economy if not enough people live in poverty.”

From the right perspective, an evil thing may be framed as good. One of the rulemakers’ jobs is to invent that perspective.

elevated action 2

Here’s a list of things we see in the John Wick franchise:

Exclusive hotels, jazz bars, and night clubs with VIP sections. Tailors and bespoke suits. Sommeliers. Jewelers. Upscale New York apartments. Vintage cars. Silk robes. Antiques. Dressage. Ballet. Dante. Vegetius. Tchaikovsky. The New Modern NYC. Roman catacombs. Casablanca. The Arc de Triomphe. The Sacre Coeur. And the fucking Louvre.

This world of assassins is cultured. Where many action movies take you on a tour through a seedy criminal underbelly, John Wick is a tour of the creme de la creme. The criminals smelt gold coins instead of packing heroin, run ballet schools instead of brothels. And all of this, and the customs and the secret codes, serve to make this profession dignified. This is what separates them from common thugs.

[“Rules. Without them, we live with the animals.”]

It’s an interesting argument, that there are respectable ways to murder. Maybe it’s that I’ve been a vegetarian for 29 years and I look askance at people who eat meat but won’t wear fur. Like there is a moral superiority in killing an animal for food rather than fashion. I’m like, “Let’s poll the animal on that! Would you rather be killed for your meat, or for your pelt?” “I WANT TO LIVE!!”

I mean, if it’s you? If you’re getting shot in the head, does it make you feel better to know, well, at least they went through the proper channels? At least someone got paid? At least they speak Latin and listen to Bartok? Does that make you feel your death is fair? Just? Who are these rules for? Whom do these customs benefit? Whose dignity do they preserve? Is it yours? Can a suit make murder honorable?

The rules don’t separate us from the animals. They tell us whom we can be animals to.

leadership

[Snowpiercer scene where Wilford says the masses need leadership or they’ll resort to violence]

This man just finished explaining that all the film’s violence was planned by the leaders.

suits 2

After agreeing to kill Gianna, John meets with a tailor who introduces us to the concept of Tactical Menswear: the bulletproof suits that will become a series mainstay. John orders two suits: a black-on-white two-piece, and a black-on-black three-piece; “one for day, and one for night.”

He wears the night suit as he infiltrates Gianna’s compound through the catacombs, when he meets her in her chambers and is greeted as “death’s very emissary," as he shoots his way out of her coronation party, as he confronts Santino’s goons “tying up loose ends,” on the streets of Rome as he fights Gianna’s bodyguard Cassian, all the way to the steps of the Roman Continental, Mission Accomplished. And at this point, you’re asking: “What did he need the day suit for?” This is One Last Job and then he’s out, right? He wasn’t wearing suits on the daily last time he was out, certainly not bulletproof ones. But that’s what he wears on his return to New York; John knows he isn’t free.

This establishes a costuming language that will hold for the remaining films: John is wearing the black-on-white when he finds Santino has put a bounty on his head and every assassin in New York is out to collect. He is still wearing the black-on-white at the start of Chapter 3, in which he is running for his life after being excommunicated from the assassin order. After two acts of, just, really fucking good fight scenes, John meets with The Elder, who says the excommunicado can be lifted if John agrees to rejoin the assassin order and kill the head of the New York Continental, his friend Winston, and the High Table symbolizes his return to the fold with a black-on-black three-piece. He wears the black-on-black on his mission to kill Winston for the High Table, and after he chooses to defend Winston from the High Table. Chapter 4 opens with the Bowery King offering John a black-on-black as he declares all-out war on the High Table. This is what he wears when executing the new Elder, while defending the Osaka Continental, while meeting with Winston, when returning to the Ruska Roma, while hunting Killa Harkan in a wet German nightclub (probably best if you don’t ask), and during his parlay with the Marquis. But, before making his way to the duel where he will, one hopes, secure his freedom, John is once again offered a suit by the Bowery King, this time a black-on-white.

John wears the black-on-black when operating in the role of death’s emissary, and the black-on-white when trying to escape it. One for the Baba Yaga, and one for John Wick, loving husband. One for hunting, and one for being hunted. One you would wear to a wake, and one you would wear to a wedding.

Even going back to Chapter 1: black-on-black is what he puts on before his first shooting spree, though, it grinds me to say, not his second at the Red Circle Club! It’s his first shot at Iosef and he’s wearing the black-on-white! It doesn’t fit the pattern because they hadn’t established the pattern yet, but it’s like the only exception!

But, you know? John Wick is a rule breaker.

consequences

The plot of Chapter 2, if everyone does what they’re supposed to, everyone follows the rules, the plot of Chapter 2 is foretold from the opening scene; really, is foretold from the inciting incident of the previous movie. John has to become an assassin again, has to honor the marker, has to kill Gianna, and Cassian has to take revenge, and Santino has to open a contract.

John chases Santino across half of Manhattan, from the New Museum to the Continental, where Santino holes up, protected by the rule that no business can be done on hotel grounds. And when John, in defiance of those rules, shoots him in his smug fuckin face, it is the only act of true agency in the entire film.

wilder

Wilder’s greatest debasement is when he rapes Charlotte, the woman living one floor above Laing. (I want to stress: while I am analyzing this movie and discussing its themes, I hate this plot beat. Male Writers Show Depravity Without Resorting To Sexual Assault Challenge 2026.) The penthouse’s problem with Wilder is not that he is a rapist; it’s [“now he’s raping people he’s not supposed to…”]. It would not be a problem, for them, if someone from the penthouse raped Charlotte; it would not be a problem if Wilder raped someone of his own station. The film’s position is that civilization does not reduce violence, it merely directs it downward. That’s what it’s for. Everyone in the high-rise is breaking the “official” rules, but respecting the unspoken ones: robbing and beating only their peers and inferiors.

Wilder is a foil for Laing because Laing has spent his upwardly-mobile life moving against this flow in the gradual, incremental way you’re “supposed to” (driven home rather bluntly by his repeat use of a rowing machine), and it’s something he finds he’s not altogether good at and does not enjoy [find that line about “going against the current”]. He respects Wilder for bucking authority in ways he never could.

Wilder is a threat because his violence moves up. Curtis is a threat because his violence moves forward; John becomes a threat when his violence moves outward. Laing is asked to lobotomize Wilder to restore violence to its traditional, downward flow. Laing’s refusal is a rejection of civility and an embrace of omnidirectional brutalism: violence should belong to everyone and move in every direction!

the high table 1

If John Wick: Chapter 2 is a one-last-job movie, Chapter 3 is a man-on-the-run film. It opens on the immediate aftermath of John’s excommunicado, and all of acts one and two are John fighting his way through every assassin on the planet en route to the one man who can grant him clemency. He is pursued, primarily, by The Adjudicator, sent by The Table to mop up the the previous film’s events, and to punish John and everyone who aided him. And, at the end of his quest, John meets The Elder, The One Who Sits Above The Table, the only person who can overrule the excommunicado.

In the next film, we will meet The Marquis, a man invested with The Table’s power to hunt and kill John, and The Harbinger, a man sent by The Table to settle disputes. In this series, Winston gets a lot of phone calls announcing, “Sir, a Proper Noun has arrived.” What stands out is, none of these people sit on The Table itself. One sits above, the rest serve below. They are its representatives. We meet Gianna on the day she is to take her place at The Table, but John kills her. He kills Santino on his coronation as well. Unlike Wilford in the engine car or Royal in his penthouse, The Table itself never shows its face

commerce of relationships 2

The assassin world is full of tokens and talismans that, in theory, represent relationships: debts of gratitude, oaths of allegiance, favors owed and promises kept. In practice, these are used to replace the relationships; they are regulated by the High Table, who can declare which asks are mandatory and which relationships are void.

In Chapter 3, John carries two with him: a ticket, and a marker, one entitling him to passage from the Ruska Roma and, the other, a favor from his friend Sofia. Each of these is met with the same response [“you think your ticket is valid?” “that marker doesn’t mean shit.”], and each time John insists that the relationships themselves, the deeds the tokens represent, matter more than the tokens. [“I am a child of the Ruska Roma and I am owed.” “When you needed help, I was there.”] If John did something for you, then you owe him, whether a governing body agrees or not. The Table can invalidate the marker, but they cannot erase the deed: Sofia’s daughter is alive because of John. And The Table can invalidate his ticket, but John is still a child of the Ruska Roma; you cannot litigate family.

By the same shorthand that declares the marker means “honor” and therefore any favor is honorable, The Table claims signifier and signified are one and the same, and whoever controls the symbol controls its meaning. That, if someone does you wrong, but the rules disagree… no they didn’t! John’s existence, as a man who defied the rules because they bade him to either suffer injustice or die, refutes this.

sofia

I used to not like the Halle Berry fight. I mean, it’s a great fight, but also the first in the series that seemed unnecessary. Sofia’s only function in the story is to put John in a room with someone who knows where The Elder is; really, everything after the unrelenting first half hour, after which John escapes New York, is just moving chess pieces for his eventual, unrelenting return, and it’s like the filmmakers realized that’s forty-odd minutes without a shootout, and just… put one in. It felt endemic to the increasing self-indulgence that would - I’m sorry - beleaguer Chapter 4. On first watch, Sofia was a bit character with too much screen time, all this buildup of setting and backstory and ensemble, like a backdoor pilot for a spinoff, like it’s that one episode of, ahhhh, [Stranger Things?] Gilmore Girls.

And I still think all of that, but I see now the scene serves a purpose: someone needed to agree with John. So far everyone who’s helped him has helped out of loyalty or necessity. It hasn’t mattered what he needs or what his reasons are, only that it’s John who’s asking. His actual reasons are kind of a running joke among his allies [“all this for a puppy.”]

Sofia is John’s most reluctant ally, but she is put in the same position as him: someone protected by the High Table shoots her dog. And she reacts the same: she says, “No. You can’t just shoot my dog and ask me to live with it. This will not stand.” She is the first, in her actions if not out loud, to agree that John is right. If this is sanctioned by the rules, then the rules are shit! You can’t just do that. They’re good dogs, Bronn!

wounds 1

John experiences a lot of pain, but surprisingly few injuries. This is partly just genre convention: action protagonists shake their damage off so the mayhem can continue. Throughout the series, John is shot, stabbed, thrown from buildings, and hit by cars, and he’s always back in action by the next morning.

He has suffered only a soup spoon’s worth of permanent wounds: In Chapter 3, he is scarred and loses a finger, and, by the end of Chapter 4, he will be scarred again and (massive air quotes) “mortally wounded.” All are harms he takes on willingly: the scars are Ruska Roma brands he asks for, the finger is an offering to the Elder to symbolize his return to the fold, and the gunshot that [scoff] “kills” him is one he allows in order to drop the Marquis’ defenses. These are all, to varying degrees, self-inflicted.

The only person who can meaningfully harm John is John.

zero

In each film, John is given a foil, a fellow assassin tasked with killing John Wick, the Baba Yaga, the most unkillable man on earth. There’s Chapter 1’s Marcus, who secretly protects John, Chapter 2’s Cassian, out for revenge, Chapter 4 gives us Caine, who must kill John to protect his child. In Chapter 3, The Adjudicator hires Zero, a John Wick fanboy.

See, The Adjudicator does not simply kill John’s allies; their role is to bring John’s allies to heel. The respect John commands is what is most dangerous to The Table: it compels people to break rules on his behalf. So The Adjudicator arrives to offer them a pathway back into The Table’s good graces: accept your punishment, renounce your allegiance, and you can respect John all you want; just don’t help him again,

Zero is the most explicit recuperation of respect: tasking someone who admires John Wick with taking him out. Zero wants to be the version of John that is useful to The Table, what John promises the Elder he will become but then renounces. Zero wants to prove he is every bit as good as John while being of the system. The Pray for the Wicked to John’s Fever You Can’t Sweat Out. The irreconcilable difference is: Zero wants to be John Wick, and John Wick does not.

suits 3

Laing’s suit is a symbol of his complacency. He keeps it on even as he stops going to his job, even as the world crumbles around him. Laing’s usefulness to the higher-ups is: he is not going to disrupt the system himself. He is going to continue his rituals and pantomimes to the very end. He is not a threat. But he’s also not an asset. He is no longer trying to better his situation, to climb the floors of the high-rise. Where his suit was once a uniform he wore to his upwardly-mobile career and shed in… other contexts, a thing that marked his place, too posh for the lower floors and not posh enough for the penthouse, now he keeps it on at all times. He is no longer trying to change. He accepts himself. He is a cog in a machine that will fail, and, when it does, he will be free.

the high table 2

If John Wick: Chapter 3 is a man-on-the-run film, Chapter 4 is man-against-the-world. John, betrayed by his friend as an offering to The Table, declares war on The Table.

But the reason The High Table is never seen is because The High Table doesn’t, itself, exist. John meets The One Who Sits Above the Table in Chapter 3, and in Chapter 4 meets a new One Above the Table; someone else now fills that position. John’s first act of war is to shoot this man in the head, but what he cannot shoot is the role.

Any action film wrestling with ideas runs into the problem that ideas are infamously difficult to punch in the face, which is traditionally how these things climax. Rather than personify an idea in a Big Bad John can kill, the series acknowledges the problem head-on: every Big Bad John kills just creates the consequences for the next film. The High Table persists because it isn’t corporeal. It is real because people believe in it, and will exist as long as it is respected.

John’s true threat to The Table, and the reason its new avatar, The Marquis, absolutely must kill him, is that, by film four, John has also become an idea. But, so long as that idea does not spread, it can die with John.

rules 2

Namgoog Minsoo is imprisoned for being a kronole addict. Kronole is seemingly the one remaining illicit substance, industrial waste you can sniff for a quick high. But, as Curtis and crew move forward, they find that clubgoers near the front of the train just… have kronole out in the open. Kronole has to be traded in secret in the tail section, but, here, they flaunt the degree to which rules do not constrain them. Similarly, the penthouse is a nonstop orgy of impropriety. For all the talk of order, it’s clear who is and isn’t expected to be orderly.

I see this on Chidi’s face in John Wick: Chapter Four when he comes to the Osaka Continental. Koji says, by all means, search the premises, but please surrender your weapons. This is the Continental, there are rules. And just… just look at this guy. Look at him! Look at that face! He knows those rules don’t apply to him! He’s working for the High Table! He’ll just deconsecrate the hotel so he can kill people. Yes, he’s correct - the man he’s looking for is on the premises - but that verdict comes before any evidence is gathered. Due process? In my action movie? The “rules separate us from the animals” unless they’re in your way, and you have the power to do what you want. Then, the authorities will back you up. Suddenly the thing that defines our humanity is just a cumbersome detail.

When John meets with Winston - newly, ah, soured on The Table despite his generous offering - he tells John to rejoin a crime family so he can exploit an old High Table tradition and legally confront The Marquis, to “use The Table’s rules against them” instead of pulling a Santino on another smug, white European. And this face [Chidi] is why I do not believe this plot point. You cannot use the rules against the rulemakers! They will simply not be enforced! The rules exist to serve The Table’s interests! They ain’t no friggin monument to justice! This is not a place of honor! Three straight movies about how the rules will only ever keep you down if they don’t kill you, and we’re gonna end on a loophole?

I don’t buy it.

rules 3

There is a wildcard running through Chapter 4, and that is Tracker, an outsider to the assassin order who’s taken it on himself to kill John Wick but only after the bounty gets high enough. The longer John is a thorn in The High Table’s paw, the more his head is worth; Tracker will keep him alive until he hits a certain number. The Marquis recognizes the value of a man who can successfully track John Wick, and offers him a more official, Table-approved position in a bugfuck scene where he stabs Tracker in the hand and is like “you could pull the knife out of your hand, but a real man would pull his hand through the knife!” which he’s acting like is another High Table tradition but I’d bet good money he’s making up. Yes, prove that you are civilized, prove you are worthy of our grace, by injuring yourself for no reason!

But Tracker accepts the Marquis’ bargain - simply follow John Wick, report his whereabouts, and get paid - and then learns the rules about the rules very bluntly when he finds that bargain changed on the fly [“kill John Wick, then you’ll get your money”]. The Marquis has been invested with the full power of The Table; he will change the rules as he pleases.

And Tracker clocks the real truth immediately: the economy relationships is not measured in tokens, or laws, or agreements, it is measured in leverage. The High Table presides over an order of assassins but is comprised of criminal bureaucrats, “cultured” men, women, and more, who do not pull the triggers themselves. Just as Wilford cannot personally cull the tail section, just as Royal cannot himself perform a lobotomy, their power comes from directing men like Curtis, like Laing, like John. The rules are used to constrain the people with genuine power. This is why The High Table cannot simply let John go, as has been an option since at least Morocco. They cannot risk an assassin breaking the rules and getting away with it. Acknowledging that honor, loyalty, and community matter irrespective of their talismans. They cannot expose that The High Table has no power without the quiescence of its killers.

The longer The Marquis fails to kill John Wick, the greater the chance that John or The Table will kill the Marquis. The Marquis needs Tracker. That’s leverage. And Tracker turns it against him.

suits 4

It is significant that Tracker never gets a suit.

dogs

The moviegoing audience is, at this point, cinematically desensitized to action movie wives getting merc’d; it's not that we don't mind, but it's hardly shocking. John Wick understands: we are not desensitized to people killing dogs. You can't mess with dogs. You especially can't mess with that dog.

Harm done to a dog is the series' shorthand for unforgivable inhumanity. It's what gets us onboard with John's killing spree, Sofia's dog getting shot is what gets her on John's side, John defending Tracker's dog is what convinces Tracker to abandon the bounty and let John live. And, remember, that everyone who hurts a dog in these movies is one of the "civilized" people. ["Do I look civilized to you?!"]

High-Rise also depicts inhumanity in Wilder killing a dog early in the film for... no real reason at all, just because he can, because it bucks the system that says he shouldn't, and because it's one of the only things lower than him in the social hierarchy. But High-Rise more or less accepts Winston and Wilford's framing that social rules and human ethics are the same; that to reject one is to reject both. Where, in John Wick, it is the uncivil who show the most humanity; like, it is not incorrect to describe the John Wick franchise as people violently rebelling against a civil society for not respecting dogs. Where Wilder is framed as the most human for being the most beastly. And the movie ends - and, because it ends where it begins, opens - with Laing killing and eating a dog. He has become like Wilder. The collapse of society is the collapse of human morals. He is with the animals.

There isn't a perfect corollary for this in Snowpiercer. The closest is this: ["You know what I hate about myself? I know what people taste like."] Which isn't really the same, I mean, they were starving in the early days, so it's understandable- ["I know that babies taste best."] Fffffffffffffffff holy shi-

wounds 2

The High Table is an idea, a social order, and, because John cannot kill the social order, Chapter 4 ends with John sacrificing himself, dying on his own terms and for his own reasons. Because, to paraphrase Žižek, it is easier to imagine the death of John Wick than the end of the High Table.

But should we also consider that no it fucking isn’t? No one believes John is actually dead at the end of Chapter 4. They’ve set John up as the most unkillable person in history, we all know Chapter 5 is coming. It’s already been announced! Hell, John couldn’t fake his death without making it look like his choice. The only person who could kill John Wick is John Wick, and he failed! God made a rock He couldn’t lift!

This is the corner into which they’ve painted themselves: it is not realistic for John to win, and it is not plausible for John to lose.

recuperation

Snowpiercer is a movie about revolution. High-Rise is a movie about collapse.

I would say Laing’s position is accelerationist. (Which is funny - the one set on a speeding train is not about acceleration.) Laing stands back and watches as the powerful lose control, allowing the chaos to happen, and, where possible, fanning its flames. He sees the corruption of civility as inevitable, and waits for the neighboring high-rises to fall so he can welcome them into this new future.

Curtis’ position remains revolutionary. He is offered immense power within the system but is told that his fair society cannot exist - he can live in the head or in the tail, but there will always be a head and tail, a powerful few and a deprived many. And he refuses both. He is tempted by power, but chooses his humanity, chooses his community, and destroys the entire corrupted system. He does not wait for the train to crash; like a Build Engine protagonist, he crashes it.

As it stands now, I would say John Wick’s position is… reformist. He declares war on the High Table in Chapter 3, but, at the end of Chapter 4, he sacrifices himself to the system: giving up his life, neutralizing himself as a threat, and allowing the system to carry on in exchange for protection of people he loves. It is… the same ending as Matrix: Revolutions. (Which is also funny, that Matrix: Revolutions does not end in revolution, but reform. Snowpiercer is the one about revolution. The train even literally makes one revolution around the Earth every year. Lefties were all hot on Parasite, but, y’all: Snowpiercer!)

Now… that’s not actually the end. Nothing ends. John has shown The High Table is vulnerable. He’s inspired a number of people. And he’s very obviously not actually dead. So who knows? The High Table is undefeated because, more than John himself, they and the society they represent are the hook. They are what make this universe interesting, what differentiate this from a hundred other revenge stories, what allow for John-free spinoffs. His rebellion can neither win nor lose, John will fight and fail and recover and rally for as long as it makes money. Permanent revolution has been folded into capitalism - never thought I’d see the day!

But it doesn’t have to be that way. John could kill the High Table, because that’s not the end, either. Nothing ever ends. The power vacuum that would follow, the scrabbling of former figureheads for control, the reveals of where loyalties truly are, allies of convenience turning on each other - I think that’s an excellent setting for an action series, with plenty of opportunities for the Baba Yaga to go to work. I just don’t know if the engine that produces John Wick would make that movie.