Welcome! @thetuesdaycowboy - Tumblr Blog

just so you know if this blog ever deactivates it was the killer

what's up with folk music being full of faggots, does singing about vietnamese war and drugs turn u into dick/clit sucking machine? so fucking tired of harmonica bisexuals rn

this is the best ask ever. music critics in the mid 1960s:

forever-painting-roses-deactiva

did april even………………………happen

godtechturninheads

April felt like it lasted forever……but now that it’s not April I have completely no memory of any April ever and I can’t seem to recall the last 30 days of my life.

lehit-deactivated20231019

what shall i be for today silly orr....... scared? *holding them close to my body in turns like outfits*

sstarbee

If Tumblr dies here’s a list of the places you can find me!

The woods at 3:48 am

theircrookedheart

The atlas six are whatever the opposite of found family is

classic-lit-memes4u

not mine but hilarious

dduane

OH YES

stockpilingantihistamines

herssian

i recently had a thought. which, as you can imagine, was stressful

mylonelyangel7

oh so when vampires have heightened sensory awareness it’s cool, but when I have it it’s ‘autism’

writing-prompt-s

You are a villain famous for “killing” heroes. In reality, heroes come to you to fake their deaths.

caffeinewitchcraft

Sometimes they try to pay you.

You are posted out by the Hollywood sign tonight, sitting under the frame where the W used to be. It got burnt to a crisp during last week’s big superhero fight. A hero died right where you’re sitting. The whole area’s been closed down until Hero Force can coordinate a recovery effort. Usually it’d be done by now but no one’s willing to touch it until the ash has been completely blown away.

It’s a rule that the world must stand still when a hero dies.

“How much?”

The voice comes from behind you. The lights that illuminate the Hollywood sign are down to hide as much of the scorch marks as possible. You wouldn’t be able to see anything even if you did turn around, so you don’t.

You put some chapstick on, the glide of the balm against your wind chapped lips grounding.

“I said,” the Hero says, voice tightening, “How. Much.”

There’s the sound of gravel crunching now. They’re wearing heavy boots and the scent of fresh blood grows stronger the closer they get. Their breathing is smooth and even which means it’s not their blood.

You put the cap back on your chapstick and tuck it into your leather jacket’s inner pocket. “I don’t take money.”

“Then what do you take?” The Hero rounds the Y and comes into your line of sight. The dark hides most of their features, but you can make out a glittering gold mask and the dull shine of drying blood on their chest plate. Their breathing may be even, but their stance isn’t. They sway in place, back and forth, back and forth. Their arms wrap around their stomach. “I’ve got land. A house. You can have it.”

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