griffin baxley

no one's going to listen 'til you mean every word you say. so if you can't find the feeling, you better learn to lie. got the scoop? send all tips and inquiries to [email protected]

[tobegriffb]

The Andreyev family were notorious in Gravewood for their long-standing feud. Boris and his brother hated each other for reasons even the two of them had likely forgotten. Years ago, Boris had left town and traveled the world to escape the abhorrent presence of his younger brother, who had stayed behind in Gravewood with his middle-management job at the Banshee that would soon become the editing gig he had today. 

When Boris moved back to house and raise a teenage Griffin, he didn’t even tell his brother. The Banshee, in return, refused to print any ad space for The Gallery of the Uncommon, despite Boris’s multiple attempts to rent some out. 

Griffin’s cushy new job working for Grandpa was, then, a point of contention between him and his uncle slash roommate. Working from home was a no go. Boris was not violent or incredibly argumentative when it came to things he disliked - but he was very, very annoying about them. It was impossible to focus on anything with him buzzing around, interrupting every other minute with some anecdote about mermaids in the Caspian Sea or a great dragon he met outside of Guangzhou. 

Griffin’s normal spot when he couldn’t focus at home was Java Junkie. They kept him caffeinated and the other patrons were rarely rowdy enough to become bothersome. However, on that particular afternoon, Griffin found himself walking past Java Junkie’s doors, further down Main St a ways until...

It was the perfect time to be at Marie’s. Just past the breakfast rush, but not quite into the lunch crowd. The booths provided so much space for Griffin to splay out his laptop and notebooks. Plus, he could grab something to eat more substantial than a scone. It was perfect. Why wouldn’t he do work here everyday?

That was the mantra he kept in his head as he avoided eye contact with Jamie across the room. Just a casual day, doing some casual work. No ulterior motives. What’s the special today? Oh, Marie’s famous club sandwich. Yes. That is the reason Griffin has sat himself on the booth cushion with the split vinyl. 

He busied himself with setting up a work station until Jamie approached, at which point he put on airs that this was all a funny coincidence. 

“Oh, hey. I completely forgot you worked here,” he said in greeting. “I’ve got this brain fog lately. It’s been hell week at The Banshee for the past five, so...” 

@indyerstraits​

[tobegriffb]

On Halloween, the Astoria had been lavishly decorated in glittering golds, deep black velvets, and all the colors that denoted luxury and godliness. As they entered early December, the lavish hotel still bore a color scheme of yellow and black. Caution tape. 

CRIME SCENE DO NOT CROSS

Tommy had died up in the penthouse, but the police had shut down the entire hotel, much to the Morgans’ chagrin. The official line was, ‘closed until further notice, pending the open investigation.’ Word on the street, however, was that the mayor was feeling the pressure to reopen his precious resort sooner rather than later. The Sheriff’s office was holding him at bay but even that power only went so far. 

Griffin was running out of time if he wanted to dig his nose where it really didn’t belong. 

Murder didn’t strictly interest him. Nor did he harbor any grief over the loss of Tommy Richter. But he’d been right there when it happened. He had photos of that night. Photos he’d taken just before the blackout. Photos he’d scoured over and over, of blurry images jumping into the water, partygoers milling about, unaware of what was about to happen mere moments later. 

He felt so close to something that he couldn’t name. The feeling only grew in intensity when fed by Isadora and Jamie, their battling suspicions. Jamie, more than anything, as his words from the night of the party still kept Griffin awake, tossing and turning and regretting what he’d made of himself.

Snooping where he wasn’t wanted had gotten him fired in New York, but maybe he hadn’t been good enough yet. That was the thought as he crossed the yellow tape, sneaking around to the hotel’s back entrance with a key he’d bribed off an angry employee.

He fumbled with the key, hands shaking with adrenaline. He was hyper focused on getting inside, slipping into the darkness quickly where no prying eyes could s--

“Ah!”

By the time Griffin realized someone had snuck up behind him, she was close enough to kill. Good, then, that it was only Marianne.

Marianne?

“What are you doing here?” 

@mariannebyrne​

[tobegriffb]

alec-flynn​:

WHERE: the gallows. WHO: @tobegriffb​ & alec.

It was his last week of work before his indefinite hiatus and his quality of service had been paying the price all night. Alec had never been much of a routine kind of guy, but being stationary, trapped in stasis, he found that having something to look forward to when all he could really do was watch the clock tick away his time like a countdown to doomsday was the only thing getting him through most days. 

That had been his excuse, anyway. It’d started with just the realization that his pills quieted things down a little. Maybe more would leave him in silence. So he’d taken more. And it had worked the way he’d thought it would. For a few days, at least. And then when he’d crushed them up into fine powder, he decided he liked that high best of all. It hadn’t just released him from the pain in his arm, but from all of it. 

He jumped awake at the sensation of falling, realized he was out back of The Gallows with a cigarette hanging out of his mouth, ass hanging off a turned over milk carton pressed up against the wall. Shit, he hadn’t been out that long, right? That welcoming nothing tried to beckon him back into the darkness once more, blinking his eyes long and slow until they nearly shut again, but he forced himself up, took one last, long drag off his cigarette and stabbed it out on the wall before tossing it into the dumpster.

As he passed by the bathroom on the way back to the bar, he considered slipping in for another quick line, but he was certain that would knock him on his ass for longer than he had time for, so with a little grief, he kept walking. He slipped behind the bar and tossed a rag over his shoulder, picking up glasses only to put them back down again in some half-assed attempt to look busy. Like he’d been here all night. Like he hadn’t just dozed off outside. 

And then, finally, he turned back to the bar to do a quick sweep of drinks and patrons only to find someone new had taken up a seat at the bar. Alec sniffed, swallowing down the drip in the back of his throat as his eyes settled on Griffin Baxley. “Griffin,” Alec greeted with a bright smile, smacking the rag down on the bar top in front of him. He was instantly on edge and he couldn’t explain why that was. Griffin just struck him as someone who saw too much and right now, Alec didn’t care to be seen. “What’s up, man? What’re you drinkin’?”

෴

It wasn’t in Griffin’s nature to leave things alone. Especially if he’d more or less been told to do so. Was there a connection between Alec’s accident and other incidents that had occurred in Gravewood recently? Probably not, but there was enough room for a reasonable amount of suspicion. All Griffin wanted to do was quell those. Quiet the haters and the easily offended. He was doing Alec a favor, really. 

Considering the absolute state of Alec at The Gallows that evening, he could use the help. Alec swayed in place before noticing he was there, hands moving slowly like the air around him was made of molasses. Griffin had come up with an entire plan for questioning him, easing into it to delay the realization that he was on the record. But looking at him, Griffin wasn’t sure the pretenses were even necessary.

Tired, maybe? Surely Alec was working extra hours to pay for a new mobile home.

“A beer’s fine. Something light.” Griffin wasn’t there to drink, but he also couldn’t sit at the bar without ordering something, lest Alec use that excuse to send him on his way. 

“How’s business been?” A nice, casual opener. A concerned citizen inquiring about the livelihood of the shops on Main St. Alec wouldn’t suspect a thing. “You must get a ton of people escaping their families around the holidays. Dads tossing back a few ounces of whiskey before they go home to fry the turkey.”

[tobegriffb]

mckennaapplepie​:

Mckenna and the Banshee rarely saw eye-to-eye but he also understood that like the weather, he couldn’t stop the Banshee from publishing his life any more than he could stop the rain from falling. It was the Banshee that had exposed his big plans for Charlotte at senior prom before he could make them. And the Banshee that told everyone about the renovations. The Banshee was first to report on his recovery and ascent into stardom. Mckenna couldn’t think of a single milestone he had in his life that hadn’t been thrown up on the papers next to the latest Windsor criticism.

So for once, he used his brain. His measly two and half braincells to figure out how he’d make it work for him this time. 

It felt dirty sliding into The Banshee’s office, manila envelope tucked into his jacket like contraband and ball cap over his bright red hair. Mckenna surveyed the room for mothers and cameras before approaching the desk.

“Look, I just need like, a day– like, two days to myself,” he said, trying not to sound desperate and rushed when he was both of those things. Mckenna shot a quick look over his shoulder at the window as he slid the envelop over the table. “Here are a couple pictures of me doing stuff and like, I don’t care what you write about me as long as it’s PG and uh, doesn’t involve anyone else.”

Mckenna stared at Griffin with big, pleading eyes. “Please, just two days. Like, a weekend,” he said. Then quieter, “And if you could just leave this out if you run into my mom, I’d be super grateful.”

@tobegriffb​

With the still-recent murder at Isadora’s masquerade, business was booming. Or at least that’s what his grandfather was insisting, which was why Griffin was working longer hours, conjuring articles out of thin air. He was sure the Sheriff would lock him behind bars if he asked for another statement. There was only so much one could report on a fresh, ongoing investigation when not even the police station had much to go off of. 

Forget any actual writing. 90% of this job was placating Grandpa Editor. 

Griffin was clicking mindlessly on his desktop when his golden ticket walked in. Well, golden ticket toward a week of peace. Two weeks, maybe, depending upon how far he could stretch a fluff piece.

Mckenna Benson, come home to save Gravewood like some heroic Disney prince. 

There were prying eyes around the office attempting to peek at the interaction, so Griffin quickly grabbed the manila envelope before some other vulture could swoop in on his meal. He opened it just slightly to look at the offerings.

“If the baseball cap is meant to be a disguise, it could use some work,” he mentioned, shuffling through ‘candids’ of Mckenna that looked a little too posed. “You should add some glasses next time. Might give you that Clark Kent effect.”

He looked back at Mckenna, who was reading as both uneasy and desperate. The Banshee articles about him weren’t even bad. Most of the time, they were praising his exploits, painting him like a small town god. Griffin didn’t really get the anxiety over it. 

“No offense, but I don’t seek out conversations with your mother if I don’t have to,” Griffin said. “To put it lightly, she’s a lot. Anyway, I appreciate the material, but do you have an idea for the actual story that goes with these shots? Or am I meant to post a collage of your greatest moments around town?”

[tobegriffb]

mariannebyrne​:

In Marianne’s quest to leave everything that had to do with Gravewood behind all those years ago, she tended to forget how all-encompassing she’d been. Mack had made the cut by sheer force of will, but everyone else?

Obviously the Griffin situation was a little more nuanced, but the day she’d left Gravewood, she’d left him behind too. More or less. She knew he’d gone off to New York, but he had gone into her “someone that I used to know” box just like everyone else.

Mari had never been a big fan of social media, keeping her Facebook largely inactive and her Twitter and Instagram reserved for work. She caught up on everyone’s lives once or twice a year, eyes glazing over as she clocked pictures of babies, marriages, pregnancies, clear drinking problems. She was relying on that occasional check-in, memories, and the fact that so few people really changed after high school to keep her going upon her reintroduction to small town West Virginia life. It had therefore been a long time since she’d actually seen Griffin’s face.

And… completing her quick observation of him, she had to admit that he was essentially the same. The small differences she could pick up on only served as a reminder of just how much they no longer knew each other, though. Once upon a time his joke about matching wouldn’t have been so awkward.

“Yeah, next time,” she agreed, just as determined as he seemed to be to not linger on that remark for too long. “Though you probably could’ve gotten away with it. Half of the guys here just decided a bedsheet toga was enough… and I’m pretty sure I overheard Jamie Dyer ranting about Sisyphus. But Thoth is good too. Fitting, given…” she gestured between both the camera and the male. She may have been out of the loop, but she was aware that he wrote for the town paper. “And unique, since so many of us went for the cliché. Also, I wouldn’t wish Odysseus on you. On anyone.”

Ever observant, Mari followed Griffin’s line of sight towards the chaos surrounding them, pretending to mull over the offer of a quote in the Banshee as she watched a man toss his spray-painted pitchfork to the side before backflipping into the pool.

Classy.

“Y’know, I don’t know that my publisher would love that notification popping into their inbox - oh look, a quote from our dear author with a horribly depressing life who we’ve extended some grace towards lately. Maybe it’s about her healing? Oh, no. It’s about a party.”

She was trying to make light of her circumstances, but it was obviously another awkward beat to their conversation. She couldn’t expect to talk to Griffin like she used to. It wasn’t realistic… but she also didn’t want to shut up quite yet.

“Thank you for the offer, though. Off the record, it’s all a little much and it doesn’t feel very Gravewood.”

෴

Griffin quickly snapped a photo as someone backflipped into the pool. It wasn’t a newsworthy action in and of itself, but it could work as a nice shot to encompass the vibe of the party itself. He still wasn’t sure whether he was going to throw Isadora a boon or not; he needed photos that made her night look like the soiree she intended it to be and he needed photos that made it look like a total disaster.

The more he talked to old friends (and old whatevers), the less inclined he felt toward a positive review. It wasn’t that he disliked Marianne - despite what his anonymous opinions on her debut novel might imply. What he hated was this feeling the party was giving him. A sick, warped nostalgia for things that had been and even things that never were.

Most of Griffin’s peers had always kept their distance from him, but this empty canyon between him and Marianne was new. She was familiar, yet she felt so far, even as she stood right there next to him. 

“There’s always a way to spin it. Parties can be healing. The whole town coming together to...” Griffin trailed off as a nearby man finished shotgunning a beer only to belch so loudly, the entire party seemed to go silent for a millisecond afterward to appreciate the spectacle. 

“Well, maybe there’s no saving this one.” 

He wanted to say something more. He wanted to say something that would help. He wanted to let her know that he was there, for whatever she needed. Ironically, he couldn’t find the words. Offering condolences felt so cheap. Of course he was sorry for her loss. But how did he relay that in a way that mattered beyond the simple social niceties? How did he tell her he really meant it? How did he cross the canyon? 

“Marianne--”

The power went out. 

When it came back on, there was a dead body in the pool and absolutely no time to focus on reconnection. There were bigger skeletons in deeper closets to focus on. 

Soon, though. Soon Griffin would figure out the words.

[tobegriffb]

indyerstraits​:

Jamie spat at Griffin’s rebuttal, barking a humorless laugh. “A guy snapping photos of people without their consent is far from a noble one, Baxley. You’re too much of a fucking pussy to go after the Mayor. You said it yourself. That’s all you’ve ever been. A big fucking pussy.”

The alcohol was hitting him all at once, unleashing a dam of whatever verbal vomit had been brewing in his head. Gone was the dignity of someone who’d stayed behind to care for family and instead, a scorned teenager who hadn’t gotten his way.

There was a righteousness to his indignation. The world had done him dirty. Had dealt him a hand too heavy for even for his prodigious hands to hold and topped it off with two-faced snakes thriving off of it. Jamie pitched the stem of his glass at Griffin, spurned by the brewing volcano inside of him. The glass missed him and shattered on the wall behind him, drawing the eyes of nearby party-goers.

“Why don’t you try writing about your own shit for once? A kid living with his weird uncle in bumfuck nowhere is bound to be loaded with plenty of juicy details,” he said. “Or what about how horrible you are at keeping anything? Can’t keep a home, can’t keep a job, can’t keep your integrity, can’t keep a girl.”

Jamie laughed again, his drunken smirk wicked. “Yeah, how ‘bout that Marianne? Heard she’s a New York bestseller. What do you have under your belt? A small town paper?”

෴

Griffin had grown up with Jamie’s insults and indignant rants. They had always been harmless. Sometimes even fun. Those late afternoon arguments were the basis of what Griffin would have fondly remembered as a friendship. 

This was not that. With each fumbled word out of Griffin’s mouth, he watched Jamie’s expression darken, until an old grudge was displaying its ugliness by way of unbridled rage. As soon as a glass was thrown at him, Griffin knew it was time to make an exit.

He hesitated all the same. Like he still had time to fix whatever had made this go so wrong. Or maybe like he couldn’t stand not getting the last word. Jamie may have been drunk and ineloquent, but his barbs had only sharpened with time.

“I did what I had to do to get out of this shitty excuse for a backwoods intersection,” he argued. “Sometimes sacrifices get made. I’m sorry you were the schmuck on the pyre, but the righteous martyrdom routine has a shelf life of a few years before it gets stale and pathetic.” 

Griffin bristled at the mention of Marianne. It was definitely time to leave. 

“Maybe all I’ve got to show for myself is a small town paper. At least it’s something people read while you serve them cheap coffee from a cracked pot.”

It was unnecessary to say. It certainly didn’t feel good to insult Jamie for staying behind to feed his family. But Griffin was wounded and he needed to lash out, in whatever petty way he could.

He glanced to the broken glass on the floor, then back up at his old friend. It was time to leave before his camera was what lay smashed on the floor. Along with what remained of his dignity and probably his employment contract. “Go sleep it off, Dyer. I’ve got work to do.” 

[tobegriffb]

charlotte-delyle​:

Who: Open Where: Bathroom

Charlotte Delyle had made her rounds through the party, but as of now considering how tiring everything had been that evening she made her way through the crowds, pushing past the ever sweatier bodies of dancing gods and goddesses, her own paint beginning to tear around the edges. 

Have to fix this up was the thought on her mind as she found herself moving toward the haven, the sweet spot that was the nearest bathroom. What luck she had in finding the bathroom to be completely unoccupied. Pushing the door open she stepped inside, closing it behind her. 

Pity she hadn’t fixed up the latch, as just when she was finished fixing herself up in the mirror, she heard the door handle opening. “Don’t you know a shut door me-” 

“Oh.” she said, surprised by whom had chosen to enter the bathroom. “Bit rude to burst in when someone is in the bathroom, isn’t it?” she added, almost surprised at the intrusion. 

෴    

Griffin had been called a creep often enough in his life. Barging in on a woman in the bathroom wasn’t something he wanted to add to the town’s list of grievances against him. Even he wasn’t that intrusive. As soon as he caught sight of the flowers in Persephone’s hair, Griffin made to shut the door again, lest he incur the wrath of Hades. 

Then, Charlotte’s tone changed and Griffin hesitated. It sounded like she was striking up conversation. He’d found the bathroom for a reprieve from the congested party anyway, so if she was offering him the opportunity, he’d gladly take it. Regardless of how interested he was in this particular social interaction.

“Don’t tell my mother,” he joked, still half in the door, half out of it. “You should know they put locks on these things nowadays, though. For next time.” He jiggled the handle for emphasis, as if that wasn’t something Charlotte already knew.

“If you’re sprucing up for the costume contest, you should also know that Isadora rigs it every year so that she wins,” Griffin mentioned. “I wouldn’t hold out hope for another tiara if I were you.” 

[tobegriffb]

hopekang​:

Hope found a stupid joy in avoiding too much contact with Jamie through the night. Making it seem like she was off having fun somewhere, when in reality, she was just bouncing from group to group, taking the occasional drink, and pretending she cared enough to socialize with a crowd of people who wouldn’t remember a thing about their conversations the next day. 

Frankly, it was exhausting, and why anyone partied for fun was beyond her. But, she had just narrowly escaped a game of never have I ever (a game that the sheltered Gravewood girl wasn’t all too welcome to play anyway seeing as she could get everyone out with simple things), and she needed to breathe without the looming threat of getting pulled into yet another drinking game or conversation with someone slurring their words, and falling all over her as if they were friends. 

She finds herself in a more quiet corner of the party, once again. Investigating the decor of… well, she actually couldn’t tell if it was regular decor that was painfully gaudy or if it was specifically for the party. Little black and gold vases lined up on the book shelves, some with art drawn into the front, some without. Hope’s willing them to be decoration, because how pretentious if not. 

The next thing to catch her eye is the fact that one of these said vases is smoking. And, maybe this act alone confirms she’ll be the first to die in a horror movie, but she reaches into the vase, narrowly avoiding the heat of whatever is smoldering to pull out a half extinguished joint.

Her nose wrinkles as she sent wafts towards her, and she drops it into the nearest abandoned liquid filled cup, but before hearing the familiar click of a shutter.

Head turning, she spots someone leaned against the wall, face shrouded in a golden mask, but his voice is far too familiar for that, alone, to be enough. 

“You didn’t see the smoking pot? I just didn’t want to burn down the penthouse, that’s all. I don’t smoke that stuff, personally.” She’s trying to keep a level of desperation out of her tone, but she’d be kicked clean out of the house if she ended up in any publication, even the Banshee, with a joint in her hand. “Parties aren’t my thing, I wasn’t even going to come until I got talked into it.”

It should have been simpler to catch people in the sort of debauchery they could publish in the paper. The one thing holding Griffin back was the thing he hadn’t accounted for - sure, he could be disguised in costume, but that meant everyone else was, too. Readers would salivate over news about the pastor’s alleged drinking problem, but if it was just Dionysus guzzling wine, it was worthless. 

So Griffin had two jobs: catch ‘em in the act and then reveal their identity. It might have been fun, if he weren’t trying to nab them for the lamest misdemeanors in history. He sighed as he snapped a pic of a stranger putting a joint out in a pot; she’d actually been taking it out, but that didn’t sell papers and Griffin was not above spinning the tru--

Hope?

Griffin froze. Luckily he’d already been casually leaning against the wall, which made it much less obvious.

“The smoking pot...” he repeated. “That makes for a fun play on words, doesn’t it?” He tried to surreptitiously adjust his mask, making sure it covered the majority of his face. A comfort, even if it wasn’t necessary. Griffin meant nothing to Hope; not when she didn’t know who he really was.

“No need to go on the defense. Maybe I’m thinking up an article about your good deeds. Everything’s been so dark and depressing lately; Gravewood could use a town hero,” he said. “How about... A New Hope: Kang Protects Party from Pot? It’s got a ring to it.” 

෴  

[tobegriffb]

leoyoons​:

* ∗ ⁎ ⟶

An hour amongst the tall folk was all Leonora needed to come to the realization that Gravewood’s celebration of the polytheistic pantheons was fucking boring. For all the hedonism woven into the fabric of mythology, the upper echelon of their small town did not know how to relieve themselves of society’s scrutiny. It’s all sorts of Homeric irony, considering the consequences of her own disregard, but the rich and affluent were above those ramifications, weren’t they?

She’d thought so, and yet, there wasn’t a single person she’d asked ( that had entertained her presence ) with a lighter, let alone a match. And in moments like these, weed was the answer to Leo’s boredom, but it was one that required fire. 

For all the time she’d taken to prepare for the festivities, Leo had forgotten the most important thing. The more pragmatic part of her brain had suggested she distract herself with something less delinquent, though she’d tried and failed for the latter half of an hour— one could only feign interest for so long as someone’s grandfather went on a tirade about the proper tackle for ice fishing. Once the man got into the more logistical details, Leonora slowly walked away from the semi-circle and drifted towards some of the rooms on the other end of the venue.

It took three attempts to find a door that wasn’t locked and when the third knob turned in her hand she had to keep from celebrating then and there. While it felt like the entrance could lead her to some hidden sanctuary, time would prove that these things always led her to some form of perdition. She’d never had the best sense of foresight anyhow. 

Closing the door behind her, she’d busied herself with looking through whichever parts of the room could hold the things she was looking for. 

Tragically, a scan of half the room had been unsuccessful. There was nothing to be found on the bookshelves, or any of the smaller tables scattered around the room. A box of cigars was sitting on a bar cart, but, aside from all those other cigar accessories there was no lighter in sight. Even though she should have counter her losses and jointed the partygoers again, Leonora was a fool’s fool, making her way to the larger desk in the center of the room and rifling through its cabinets. 

Gleaming plastic catches her attention mere seconds before a voice breaks through the silence of the room— whoever it is nearly gives her a heart attack, and it’s a miracle she doesn’t scream into the aether. Health complications aside, the town pariah having her hand in some desk drawer at the Astoria was sure to kill what was left of her reputation. So, Leonora wraps her fingers around the piece of red plastic and raises it in the air, “just looking for a light, I’m sure the gods would understand.”

Her divulging would have to end there— weed was still illegal in West Virginia. 

෴

Digging her grubby hands into cabinets and drawers in search of whatever... was the least exciting thing anyone had ever caught Leonora Yoon doing. Only a few people would find it newsworthy - Astoria management, maybe, but mostly Isadora Morgan. And Griffin did not work for Isadora Morgan.

Except, he sort of did. The Banshee had found a comfortable spot in the Morgans’ pockets for years before Griffin had returned to town. According to his grandfather, that wasn’t going to change just because Griffin had some ‘new-agey’ ideas about ‘the integrity of real news.’ Griffin had to play the game for now, until he discovered the real scoop. 

If antagonizing Leonora happened to be apart of that, he couldn’t complain.

“On the contrary...” Griffin mused as he casually inspected the incriminating photo he’d taken, “you’ve stolen fire. That didn’t work out so well for Prometheus, I don’t see why you’d be spared the same judgment.” 

He glanced up, eyes scanning the scene with mild suspicion, if not much genuine interest. “What were you actually looking for? You can’t tell me nobody here had a lighter you could borrow. I’ve seen Alec Flynn tonight. He comes with his own cloud of smoke.” 

He took a step further into the room, as if being closer to the scene would grant him the right perspective. “Trying to find blackmail material? Planning to make Izzy Morgan the next butt of your jokes?”

[tobegriffb]

ellexreynolds​:

“I happen to disagree.” Elle said, her face expressionless at being caught in such a position. She knew Griffin, not well, but enough to know that he was more or less harmless. To her, he was simply a wannabe reporter, always barking up the wrong tree for a story that wasn’t there. 

When he’d walked in on her, she’d been popping a little something to help make the night more bearable. A simply pill, one that could’ve been seen as a regular painkiller (even though it wasn’t). It wasn’t anything too hardcore, lord knew the last thing she needed was a scandal.

“Eris is the goddess of strife and discord, which is exactly what would’ve been brought down upon this party if my headache got any worse. Which, with this shitty DJ, wouldn’t be hard.” The music being played wasn’t favourable in the least, so her story wasn’t too much of a stretch. No matter the situation, Elle Reynolds was always prepared to talk herself out of anything.

“I see there’s no rest for the wannabe-wicked, huh?”

෴

Happening upon Elle Reynolds was like striking gold. She was one of a few key figures in town that the Banshee loved to report on. Elle and her fiancé were particularly lucrative, because relationship drama sold better than meandering diatribes about the town treasury. The people didn’t want the horrible truth affecting their own lives; they wanted to be distracted by other people’s misery. Elle was such a good distraction.

“Well, I sprung for top quality resolution, so we’ll see about Eris’s discordant migraines once the photos are developed.” 

It wasn’t a threat necessarily. It was only a passive assertion that Griffin knew the difference between taking some ibuprofen and hiding away to pop pills at a party. He’d been through his own list of prescriptions for long enough to recognize what he was looking at. He probably couldn’t prove it to other people, but avid readers of the Banshee didn’t care about concrete proof as long as a juicy story had been spun.

He did agree with her about the DJ though.

“‘Wicked’ is a strong position to take,” Griffin said. “I’m objective. I don’t create the chaos; I document it. Everyone else is snapping photos of the party for the ‘gram... what would you say is any different about what I do?”

He probably should have left the room, but Griffin didn’t have much in the way of self preservation tactics, so he kept engaging Elle in conversation, whether or not she was happy with him. “Aren’t you supposed to be enjoying yourself? The fancy masquerade, the glitz, the glamor... it’s your whole thing.” 

[tobegriffb]

indyerstraits​:

“A traitor and a sell-out,” Jamie spat, eyes following Griffin as he put more space between them. The alcohol burned in his chest, fueling the pistons firing at top speed and pushing words from his mouth before he could think them through. It was familiar, but different. He felt a real anger roiling in his belly at Griffin’s loftiness and how cavalier he sounded when talking about the citizens of Gravewood like they were characters in a storybook to analyze. 

As much as Griffin didn’t remember him this way, he didn’t remember Griffin like that either.

“Journalism should bring change. All people do nowadays is glorify their meagre accomplishments instead of shining light onto the real problems. Morgan’s trying to gentrify this town and all the Windsors want is to turn this place into a tourist trap again but you’re here trying to justify your piss kink.”

Jamie moved from one side of Griffin to the other, trailing around him like he couldn’t figure out which way to fall in the wind. He slammed the wine glass down on a short pillar, snapping the glass from its stem. 

“You know, I’m not the only one who’s changed. I guess the city really does turn people into assholes because I used to think you had a morsel of journalistic integrity.”

෴

"Relax. Your tinkles are not headline news.”

Griffin watched the way Jamie moved. He had been too caught up in an abrupt, jarring sense of nostalgia to notice it initially, but he saw now. Jamie swayed, teetering between drunk and absolutely wasted. He had never been short of a lush, but there was something depressing about witnessing a Jamie Dyer that had fallen further down the path they’d both wanted to escape.

It would make for a good addition to an article. Something about the cycle of destitution in Gravewood. To use an old cliché, Isadora’s parties were like lipstick on the pig. The attendees could dress in costume and guzzle wine all they wanted. At the end of the day, they were still this. Trapped in an inescapable cycle of becoming their worst fears.

“Don’t start writing your thinkpiece until I’ve actually published an article, would you? Maybe I’m working on a whole expose about Mayor Windsor’s irresponsible spending and how the Morgans facilitate his bad habits. Maybe I came back to Gravewood to help.” God, this was not true. But as Griffin said it, he wished it was, and the words sounded so honest in their affectation that he almost believed himself.

“You wouldn’t know, ‘cause you’re obsessed with being bent out of shape about an old college application that meant nothing. I assumed I had given you enough time to realize you overreacted but it seems there’s more where that came from.”

[tobegriffb]

mariannebyrne​:

“You know, there are very few people who would legitimately be able to make that claim,” Mari pointed out, for the moment ignoring what most might consider to be the more tantalizing dangling carrot of a conversation.

Just because it was low hanging fruit (or, well, a low hanging vegetable… to continue the metaphor), didn’t mean that she had to skip right to it. Not when she still had to make it clear to Griffin that she knew she was speaking to him.

“Or know to look for them,” she added, almost as an afterthought.

It hadn’t been his voice that had given him away, surprisingly, though not much had changed on that front since they’d last spoken. Nor was the winner what was visible of his appearance behind the mask.

It had been that statement specifically. One that indicated that at one point she had allowed herself to, at least somewhat, be known.

In Gravewood, that list of people, excluding family, barely filled one hand. The amount of dark haired males who were actually observant who made the cut once upon a time? One. 

“It’s a good costume, but I’m sure you realize it’s not totally transformative, Griffin. And as for mine, why would I be picking between being one of the two when she’s both? What will surely come as no surprise is being drawn to the wisdom aspect.”

There were any number of bird-inspired gods and monsters, but as she briefly let her eyes traverse some of the details of Griffin’s costume, Mari had to admit that she was coming up blank on who, specifically, he was.

How was she supposed to fire back a witty retort proving some level of knowledge about gods and monsters if she didn’t have a little more to go off of? The costume before her was very clearly not an Icarus tribute. Or Greek at all.

Who was he meant to be?

“And what drew you to yours? Beyond what I can only assume is an overwhelming desire to find glitter on your person for the rest of your natural life.”

෴

Oh. Right. Of course she knew it was him behind the mask. There weren’t many people in Gravewood that ever wanted to know Griffin well enough to recognize him in the dark, but if there was at least one, it was Mari.

He slid the mask up into the unruly mop of curls on his head.

“You know, I almost considered dressing as Odysseus, but my uncle insisted that a mythical man didn’t fit the theme. We could’ve been a matching set,” he said. He immediately felt embarrassed about it, taking a sip from the cup he’d left neglected all evening. But he wasn’t the type to linger in his own awkward social ineptitude. When in doubt, Griffin doubled down. “Next time I’ll call you so we can coordinate,” he joked.

He tracked the path of Mari’s gaze. He was sure she was only looking at his costume, but he felt unsteady all the same. What if she looked hard enough and saw right through him, to his anonymous criticisms of her work - and beyond? To the ways he’d changed over the years, inarguably for the worse.

“Blame Uncle Boris. He ranted for a while about authenticity and the only way I could stop it was by letting him pick a mask for me. He has this whole case of them. The one I’m wearing is Egyptian, so... Thoth felt like a natural conclusion.” He lifted the side of his cloak to show her the scroll hooked onto the camera bag he always carried with him. “Scribe of the gods.”

He looked away from Marianne for the first time, at the scenes of the party around them. There were more than a few shirtless Poseidons up here, who had clearly come for one thing only. At least they were thematic. “I’m not technically here in a professional capacity, but if you have any comments about the masquerade, this scribe could always use some quotable material.”

[tobegriffb]

indyerstraits​:

“Yeah, it’s ‘go fuck yourself’, you piece of shit.”

Jamie glared at the camera, unsure if he was more annoyed at the flash or the guy holding it. He hated pictures. He hated pictures more when people he hated had them and he most definitely hated Griffin Baxley. 

It was hard to imagine the fond debates and quiet afternoons in the sunset lit closet that Gravewood High called an office. Where the barbs behind his words weren’t as real as the bags under his eyes. It’d be years of festering dissent, blooming from betrayal into resentment of being left behind. 

He scoffed and turned to leave before any more venom came out of his mouth before liquor had other ideas. The thin boundary that allowed him to keep his jobs grew thinner and thinner with each drink until it dissolved completely. 

“You’re getting off on this, aren’t you? Looking down on me and Gravewood,” he started, spinning on his heel and marching back to Griffin. “Let me ask you something, if you really thought you could play for the big leagues, why aren’t you bothering Morgan and trying to capture her party fouls? Or fucking Windsor and whatever bullshit he’s up to?”

Jamie caught himself on the wall beside Griffin’s head, lumbering too-close in his liquor-fueled bravado.

“Instead, you’re here taking pictures of me pissing like some fuckin’ weirdo. You think you’re The Washington Journal but you’re TMZ. It’s fucking pathetic.”

෴  

This reunion was not going the way Griffin had hoped it would.

He’d imagined it several times. Even back in New York, he had thought of texting Jamie, inviting him to drive out and see the city they’d both romanticized as kids. Considering Griffin had gotten there after selling out Jamie’s life story, it only felt fair to have his friend share in the sweet smell of victory (and piss; turned out the city largely smelled like piss). 

It might have been naïve to expect Jamie to have gotten over it by now. Or... Jamie was being a little dramatic. Griffin liked this conclusion better and thus rolled his eyes at the display of aggression.

“News about those two is constantly circulating. It’s old hat. Besides, my grandfather’s in their pockets. I’m not technically allowed to say anything salacious about them. I’m still working out the loopholes on that one,” Griffin said, his tone casual despite how he inched away from Jamie’s hovering form.

“Why is journalism only worthy to you when it’s about kings and politicians and billionaires? The common person is just as interesting. Have you ever heard, ‘well-behaved women seldom make history’? It’s not a slogan for the Leonora Yoons of the world. It’s about the tragedy of common folk lost to time because history refuses to record their lives. I’m changing the game. I’m bringing this drab town a little life and character.”

Was it bullshit? Maybe. Maybe not. It was hard even for Griffin to tell, but such was his skill. He’d inherited that from his uncle.

“Did liquor always make you this sensitive? I don’t remember you being the crying girl trope, but maybe that’s changed too.”

[tobegriffb]

mariannebyrne​:

Maybe Mari should have fully read the invitation.

If she had, she could have prepared herself for the true drunken revelry that was sure to surround her that evening. Or she could have made an excuse, given herself an airtight alibi that would have meant she needn’t show up in the first place.

Instead, her eyes had skimmed over the fact that swimwear was encouraged. And she’d been caught entirely off guard when she went to get some air and realized that somehow the party was even worse outside.

The River Styx was a cute idea. In theory. But if there was anything that Mari had realized about the small town in which she currently resided since she’d first been forced to live there years ago, it was that Gravewood did not even live up to basic expectations. 

You think you’re getting cinematic, patriotic Small Town America and instead you get a run down former serial killer hunting ground where the one pediatrician in town stops to offer assistance on the side of the road and ends up killed by a drunk driver.

You get a town full of drunk drivers. Drunk walkers. Drunk existence. And seemingly endless opportunities for more of the same.

Was it any surprise that Mari didn’t drink anymore?

She’d been nursing a red gold solo cup full of water earlier when Jamie Dyer spilled whatever red concoction had been brewed onto her white ensemble, his clumsy attempt at fixing his error likely only making things worse. They’d stumbled through a conversation. Mari had eventually dipped out (partially) to try and save her dress from any further harm.

But a couple of minutes in the presence of drunk jacuzzi enthusiasts and she’d already been threatened with the last thing she wanted in that moment - being pulled into the water or otherwise drenched.

She’d just managed to avoid someone thinking that they were so funny for trying to change the opacity of her white dress (a near miss) when she collided with an unexpected presence behind her, a half-hearted apology falling from her lips before she’d even turned around to see who it was she’d run into.

Curiosity had her making that turn, however, eyes falling first to the mask before trying to decipher who it was hiding.

“Nice costume,” she tossed out, quickly almost certain of who it was. Time did not erase all memories… and social media did exist. Though it had been quite some time since Mari and Griffin had last spoken, given her more recent relocation she knew that they were likely overdue for a chat.

“That’s a genuine compliment, by the way. I know my words don’t always match my face.”

@tobegriffb​

෴  

Even though he was older and in costumed incognito mode, there was an ancient part of Griffin that still worried. A socially anxious demon perched upon his shoulder, whispering in his ear that around every corner, humiliation was waiting to strike. It was the reason he’d avoided the pool all night. There was an expensive camera hiding under his cloak and he couldn’t afford for it to be water logged if some roaming douchebag found it funny to shove him in the jacuzzi.

The only reason he was there now was because he’d seen her.

Griffin heard everything, so naturally he’d heard that Marianne Byrne was back in town after her father’s accident. He’d seen her briefly at the funeral, but it wasn’t exactly the venue for catching up with someone you used to know. Otherwise, she was nowhere to be found.

Not that he’d been looking very hard. The cliché was that distance made the heart grow fonder, but the idiom turned on itself when it came to Griffin. He had hated Marianne in the distance. He’d seen in her his own failure and wallowed in the heavy, stinking muck of that jealousy. So much so that he’d pettily written negative reviews of her debut novel. Nasty opinions he didn’t even believe.

Now she was back and the sight of her familiar red hair sent flames through him. Burning the jealousy and ugliness in its wake until all he felt was pathetic, and guilty, and stupid.

He didn’t know what he planned to say when he followed her out there. An apology for something she didn’t know he’d done? He was feeling stupider by the second, almost ready to turn around, when one of those aforementioned roaming douchebags sent her stumbling into him.

“Oh,” Griffin said in a tone of forced apathy. He studied her through the eyes of the mask, attempting to sus out if she knew who she was speaking to. He decided to live in the safety of ambiguity for as long as he could.

“Thanks. Yours is... very you. Subtle, understated. I doubt most people are catching on to the clues.” He motioned toward the owl charm she was wearing. “It begs the question, what drew you to this costume in particular? Are you Athena the virgin or the goddess of war?”

[tobegriffb]

indyerstraits​:

“Or his obstinance is seen as the pervasive tenacity of mortals to defy gods regardless of consequence. You could imagine that within an eternity, Sisyphus found happiness in doing the inane, for he lives forever like he wanted,” Jamie refuted stubbornly, though his conviction lacked towards the end where the similarities began to split.

Was he happy? No. But he found a semblance of it at the bottom of a bottle, in an ashtray in the back of a van. The small pebbles that ground his feet while he was rolling that boulder up a hill became a pleasant reminder that death would never be so kind to touch him no matter how much he dared it to.

Jamie took the opportunity to grab Griffin’s DSLR while his hands were occupied sparing the mask and holding his drink. He fiddled with the buttons before Griffin stole it back, figuring that at the very least he’d screwed up his settings. 

“The Washington Journal knows how to cite and credit their sources, something you’ve forgotten to take note of next to respect and consent,” he spat before turning his back on him to search for a drink to refill the bladder he’d just unloaded. He picked up a half-empty wine glass that bubbled and fizzled, smelling sickly sweet yet acrid all at once. Jamie knocked it back in mouthfuls, making a face when the bubbles stung his nose.

“That is a thing that happens when time passes,” he said, sniffing and rubbing the fizz from his nostrils as he turned back around to serve Griffin a sarcastic look. “Besides, I’m just a ‘tragically impoverished youth struggling to get by in any means necessary’,” he said, then paused. “Why don’t you go back to Maine where someone might want you?”

“Sure, Albert Camus. One must imagine Sisyphus happy. Whatever helps you cope.”

Usually Griffin had a keen sense for when somebody was about to snatch his camera; he’d developed muscle memory after years of bullying. Still, he only had so many hands. Jamie had managed to erase his own photo before Griffin grabbed his property back.

Annoying, but probably for the better. The debate about ethics in journalism aside, possessing candids of someone pissing when they didn’t want you to have them sounded like a misdemeanor waiting to happen. Maybe Griffin was a creep, but he did have boundaries. The line was drawn as soon as bodily fluids started coming into play.

Despite that, he immediately snapped another picture of Jamie knocking back the glass of moscato.

“Don’t be ridiculous. There’s nothing in Maine except lobsters and trans-dimensional clown aliens,” Griffin muttered, stepping out of Jamie’s reach as he looked at the new picture. “You do have a good memory, don’t you? I’m touched you’re such a fan of my work. Youth is a stretch now though. You’ve aged into tragic young adult territory. Care to provide a statement on the irony of attending this lavish party in the middle of a largely impoverished town?”

[tobegriffb]

indyerstraits​:

Parties were what they were and Jamie quickly tired of the crowd when he had only come for the liquor and food. Chasing Alec around the party had become a feeble feat after two glasses of Dionysus’s Blood, the jungle juice acting like motor oil in a Little Tikes Cozy Coup. He could hear the off-tune belting of Monster Mash in a corner somewhere beyond a crowd he didn’t care to wade through and the liquor had finally made its way to his bladder. 

Jamie found his way to the bathroom only to find the door shut and locked, the audible moans and banging of cabinets announcing the lascivious activities occurring just behind the slab. It was not unlike being at home at that point, the chaos, the noise, the single bathroom for a suite full of people. Rattling the knob, the banged on the door in a feeble attempt to interrupt, even if he knew better. 

“Fucking savages,” he muttered, swiping his nose with the back of his hand before he turned to find an alternative. Spotting a golden vase by a marble pillar, Jamie stumbled a beeline towards it and unzipped. 

The immediate relief of emptying his bladder was compounded by the notion of ruining Morgan’s penthouse with piss, his liquor-addled mind bouncing from one gratifying fantasy to another until his train of thought came to an abrupt stop with a shutter and a flash.

Jamie whipped his head to the side to see the culprit, eyes narrowing at the gaudy mask and half-baked costume. 

“I’d beg to differ. A king who cheated death twice would very much be inclined to desecrate the temple of Gods,” he rebutted, matching the arrogance that came off the other. His expression soured at the glaring obscure reference, gleaming gold like a pretentious beacon for other pretentious assholes. He hated that liquor couldn’t scrub mythological lore from his brain for a night if only to bring him a semblance of comfort in normalcy.

“You, however,” he said as he finished up and zipped his pants with emphasis on his annoyance. “I don’t think Thoth would approve of this sort of invasion of privacy, you pretentious ass.”

Without wiping his hands, he approached with sober acuity and yanked the other’s mask down over his camera screen. 

“Looks like you haven’t learned much about exploiting others. You know, most people come home humbled.”

෴

“So Sisyphus suffers the wrath of Zeus and doesn’t learn anything about the folly of man. That’s narratively unsatisfying. At least if Isadora knows you’ve pissed in her decorative vases, I’ll get to witness her forcing you to roll her giant ego up this mountain for all eternity.”

Griffin caught his mask before it fell to the floor. His uncle had claimed it was an actual Egyptian relic, nabbed from a pharaoh's tomb by a pair of graverobbers that later suffered ‘the mummy’s curse’. It was either the partial truth or the plot of Brendan Fraser’s best movie, but Griffin didn’t care to take his chances where curses were concerned so he stuffed it carefully beneath his cloak, away from Jamie’s grubby hands.

“Humility is cheap. And boring. All news is exploitation at the end of the day, but you wouldn’t go around questioning the integrity of The Washington Journal. Unless you’ve spent the years of my absentia getting really into QAnon, which considering our town’s demographic, would only be slightly surprising.” 

Hello Jamie. Long time no see. Remember when we used to be friends? Let’s do that again.

Griffin couldn’t force those words out of his mouth. A writer though he may be, they stuck in his throat and transmogrified into something uglier. Something cruel in its apathy, toward a person he had no right to be so careless toward.

“Jamie Dyer, at a party. Jamie Dyer with the water sports... I would’ve mistaken you for your more athletic twin, but there’s no way in Hell or Hades that he could pronounce desecrate. You’ve changed.” 

[tobegriffb]

halloween event ⮕ open starter

Griffin had a toxic relationship to partying. On the one hand, he hated it. The penthouse suite of the Astoria was decked to the nines, but the extravagant bordered on the tacky. Fake Grecian columns crawled with ivy as a pay-per-hour DJ blared a David Guetta club remix. Anachronisms and lazy costumes abounded. Men Griffin had never liked even in the light of day fancied themselves the Zeuses of the evening, displaying their beer guts in full glory while double fisting Bud Lights and grinding on women who had aged past the sexy nymph costume long ago.

On the other hand, he had always yearned for an invitation. Not specifically to Isadora’s soirees - they weren’t exactly exclusive affairs; to receive an invitation one need only have a Gravewood address. But to those secret parties hosted by the ones who considered themselves the town elite. The cool kids, to put it in grotesque words. Sometimes a party need not be involved at all. The invitation was metaphorical. An acceptance. A nod of approval. A look in someone’s eye that confirmed: yes, you are one of us.

Even now, he couldn’t escape that feeling, and he resented both himself and everyone around him for it. It was particularly painful to stew in that bitterness while covered in shiny gold glitter.

Of course you have to attend, his grandfather had told him. An endless fountain of booze makes for an endless fountain of Banshee material.

The disguise was helping, at least. Griffin’s own genius idea. Not just to participate in the masquerade, but the anonymity it afforded him was perfect for happening upon moments he otherwise wouldn’t. Whenever Griffin was around, people usually left the room. Or stopped talking. Or grimaced. So that night, let him not be Griffin. Let him be nobody.

Nobody was casually tracing the wall of the penthouse, drink in hand, watching others drunkenly carry on. When the music became too much, he quietly slipped into a back room to escape the noise and crowd. That’s when he saw it. The moment. Something newsworthy. 

With his free hand, Griffin slipped his trusty DSLR out from underneath his costume, quickly snapping a photograph before anyone could notice or protest.

“You seem to be enjoying the party,” he commented, leaning against the wall to look down at his camera screen. “Indulgence does fit the theme, though I don’t know if your particular mythos would approve of... all this.” 

෴