Tully McLendon

TULLY MCLENDON || 21+ || LSRP

[tullyxmclendon]

@thexwayward for Trent

"Venturing in this city to dance? Bloody hell, must have been right smack in the middle of the Club Kid epidemic. It was so easy to get a bite in; the whole of downtown was some delicious Bacchanalia of debauchery and drugs." 

Ask and ye shall receive. Trent had painted a picture in Tully's mind when he spoke of that time bubble, leaves trapped in amber, perfect for one golden moment. As soon as Trent mentioned it, Tully had quietly connected his particular brand of magic to the city at large. His ability to recognize and magnify potential. The gift of a Jack, to make notions into actions and dreams into scenes. He found a flicker, someone planning a Michael Alig revival party, just a little pet project a club promoter was working on but scared to tell the boss about. Without knowing why or how that young promoter was suddenly emboldened with the wit, confidence and drive to make this party happen. And happen right now. Outlaw party style, true to the man he wanted to honor. Tully smiled to himself as he followed Trent up to his room, into his closet. 

It took a lot of persuasion and a lot of scotch, all the scotch, but Tully finally convinced Trent to just trust him and let him order costumes. This was New York City, of course they could have a Dracula costume and a highlander kilt outfit delivered within the hour. "Nae, nae, ye be me, I'll be you." Tully was breathlessly laughing as he seized the cape and ruffle shirt and vest and plastic fangs. "Just have a lil faith." He sussed as he painted Trent's face with glow in the dark paint like a Braveheart flashback. And then painted blacklight pink blood drops from his own plastic vampire fangs. 

When they arrived at the abandoned factory it was 1990 all over again. The music. The costumes. The special k. The party was everything the promoter could have wished. With no idea that Jack magic made it happen. Tully turned to Trent with the most ridiculous grin. Here he was nearly 7 feet tall, dressed like a vampire, glitter included, standing next to a 300 year old vampire dressed like a Renaissance Fair acid trip. This was probably by a large margin the least sexy either had ever looked in the company of the other. And that made it so delicious to Tully. The absurdity. He started to laugh, nearly doubling over with it. Until a youth dressed as a nurse came by with a tray of pills in little paper cups. "Oh, d'nae mind if we do." He pipped and picked up two cups, handing one to his best friend. "Dinna fash, Trent my boy, yehve never been tossed off till ye were tossed off in a kilt." He beamed and threw the pills back, dry but welcome swallow.

Aside from both their own natural beauties, the boys looked a little ridiculous. Like they had gotten the invite to this party but not really understood the theme. The outrageousness of the Club Kids, the aesthetic, the commentary on civility and excess, the pulse of a beating heart finding new ventricles to connect to when it won't listen to the brain or the marching drum of current society. They were surrounded by costumes to rival the Met Gala. Like Lady Gaga had donated her wardrobe to the crowd. And here they were in a Halloween Dracula costume and someone's grandfather's kilt. And they were the only people in attendance who had actually been alive and present when this had all happened the first time. And that was the commentary that Tully was making. And he was very very amused at his own joke. The satire of it. 

Also while he had been turning the wheels to make this happen and drinking scotch in his best friend's closet he was struck very desperately by how much he didn't actually want to go out and fuck a random person tonight. He had thought he had. But what he had really been missing was just the camaraderie of being with a friend with no tension and no looming threat. He loved Abby and he was fine having a wank after he said goodnight to her. He could do that forever. But only so long as this need was sated too. The need to just be a bit ridiculous sometimes. Surviving the centuries depended on this, having a laugh whenever possible. With the best of mates.

[thexwayward]

plotted starter for @tullyxmclendon​ 

The steering wheel quivered under her fingers, the first sign something was wrong. Brows furrowing, she chanted a soft chorus of ‘No’s to herself as plumes of white-hot steam seeped from beneath the El Camino’s engine. Abby pulled to the side of the deserted road, throwing her car in park before she stepped out and rushed to the front end of the vehicle. Lifting the hood, she waved her hand over the engine, clearing the smoke away to better see the damage, dark waves cascading over her shoulder as she inched closer to the issue. The darkened night around her did little in the way of helping visibility, and no cars were out so late. Slim hand delving into her jacket pocket, lifting the long, slim smartphone free. A quick check revealed nothing in the way of service and a battery on its way out; she was trapped in a dead zone with a dead car and a dead phone on a dead stretch of highway with no help in sight. It was the sort of thing she only saw in vintage scary movies, something horrifying that pooled fear in her stomach and let it churn like an ink filled whirlpool. A small whine danced in the back of her throat as she stood helpless, searching in either direction for some semblance of help. Hazel eyes traveled up a knotted tree ahead and darted up, studying the cragged bark and twisted, leafless branches. It seemed as barren as the rest of the world. Abby took a slow breath, her eyes searching up and down the long stretch of road before her, full lower lip catching between her teeth as she weighed her options. Squaring her shoulders, Abby closed the car up, retrieving her small rucksack from the passengers side to throw over her shoulder.  An hour’s walk left her in front of a beat up old gas station, lit up but with no population in sight, save for a man within who seemed as absentminded as she felt. Vigilance left on the road behind her, she stepped into the store, clearing her throat as she moved nearer the man. He was tall, towering what she guessed must have been a foot above her. He had a stern face, probably agitated by the late hour they found themselves trapped in. Still, she needed help.  “Excuse me? Sir?” she began, voice just loud enough for him to hear. “D-do you think you could please help me?” 

[tullyxmclendon]

“Where do they even come up with all these fizzy juice flavors then?  Ah dinnae ken who wants a bevvy of oranges in their cola.  That’s no hapnin.” So passed the wisdom of one Tulloch McLendon onto no ears but his own.  He’d definitely been on the road too long now, he knew that.  Talking to himself as he stared at the sodas in the ice box of this gas mart that time forgot.  He liked that though, these little forgotten places that never changed once they set into their grooves.  He’d been in an air bar last week in Berlin, a place that sold alcoholic air, imagine that, vaporizing it and pumping it into the air for patrons to breathe and get steamin off their heids with liquor.  And that was just the world marching on, as it miraculously did. And Tully loved that.  He always had.  But he really loved this. This gas station that had not changed since the mid 1970s.  A bubble of time.  A seed locked in amber that held another world inside of it.  

His tired vision blurred away from the sodas on display, letting him see himself in the glass reflection.  Tall, 6”3, broad of shoulder, trimmed waist, ginger curls glaring wildly in contrast to his black leather jacket and black jeans, good sturdy black boots.  Blue sea squall eyes, a nose broken too many times but still refused to fall off his face, peach lips that rested in a contented half smile, the kind of smile full of hidden kisses.  He scratched his curls and opened the cooler to pull out the least offensive sounding soda, a glass bottle of Cheer Wine.  Which meant this highway was somewhere in Kentucky, or Tennessee, but he assumed Kentucky based on the hours he had been riding north.  Cheer Wine, the official fizzy juice of this part of the south.  Like if Dr. Pepper and Cherry Coke had a bastard bairn that neither would pass the family name to.  He was about to walk it up to the counter where he wasn’t sure if the shopkeep was sleeping or dead with his head on the register when a voice caught him.

/“Excuse me? Sir?” she began, voice just loud enough for him to hear. “D-do you think you could please help me?”/

Oh no, did she?  Did she really?  Oh she did.  She asked for help.  He groaned inwardly.  It was his very nature, woven into his atoms, for him to help anyone who should ask him.  And that generally cost him a great deal of suffering.  That’s why he mostly avoided people.  Unless they were drunk, like in air bars, and all they could ever think to ask for were pizzas and more alcohol.  But as he turned to face her, Tully felt that old too long unused pull of a noble quest.  Of someone that he could actually do something good for.  By the time he turned to her his smile was on full megawatt blast because now he was truly excited.

“Ciamar a tha thu?” He greeted her, there’s no actual way to say hello in Gaelic, just to ask how are you.  And in his giddiness he sometimes forgot to speak English, or Scots, or anything more comprehensible than Gaelic.  “You’re lost.” he surmised before she could answer.  Somehow that spot light smile doubled.  And he had no idea how predatory that was because Tully often got too caught up in the what happens next feeling to think about how what happened felt or seemed.  “I’ve got you, lass.” he told her with complete decisiveness.  He took her hand and pulled her out of the shop to his bike.  And then remembering himself he gestured so two things happened at once that might have been hard to catch in the commotion, another bottle of CheerWine appeared in his hand and the payment in cash for both bottles appeared in the till of the sleeping clerk.  He put both bottles into the saddle bag of his bike.  

He threw his leg over the saddle of his classic 1941 Indian Chief Scout motorcycle, model 841.  The same bike he had ridden for the allied forces in WWII but it didn’t look a day over… well, it looked old, clearly, but in a well loved and maintained sort of way.  He sat up on it like a knight about to run a joust.  He grinned over his shoulder at her, “Dinnae fash, lass.  I ken where we need to go.  Or I dinnae ken it yet, but I will.” He shrugged off his leather jacket and handed it to her to protect her against the wind that would come riding this bike.  “I’m Tully McLendon, and I’ll go wae ye where ye need to go.” 

In a moment, that was maybe a lifetime of deciding, but really only thirty seconds on the clock, the lass was on the back of his bike and he kicked off.  They whipped out of the parking lot like teenagers racing curfew.  Gravel flew out behind them and Tully hummed a sigh of relief.  For the start of a new adventure.  Something good.  He didn’t know what it was yet.  But he knew, he could feel it, she was good, or there was the capacity for goodness within her. And that was enough for an old Jack, too battered by people using his powers for nefarious purposes.  He opened up the throttle and they were catapulting down the lonely highway, in the opposite direction of her car.  Ahead there was a light, maybe a town, a city, no, it was a total light, sweeping everything like the terrible and glorious dawn.  So bright.  Blinding.  And Tully barrelled them into it.  

Squish.

Wind.

No air then.

Boom.

They shot out of the light a moment later and the road was gone.  

The night time was gone.

The hills and high grass of Kentucky was gone.

This field was brown though it was Spring, in warm sunshine.  This field would not grow anything in any time.  Not with the blood oath soaked into it hundreds of years ago.  Tully didn’t know the details but he knew what earth cursed by black magic looked and felt like.  He stopped the bike, in the middle of the field.  A tree line in the distance, past that the spires of a city.  Old city.  New England architecture.  He swung a leg over and rose from the bike.  “Yeh hail from Boston then?” he guessed.  “Nae, that’s nae Boston.  Salem, aye?  Din eat the bread, yeah?” he joked as he offered his hand to help her off the bike.  Sure, modern scientists blamed the witch crisis in Salem on ergot poisoning, a mold that made the townsfolk go a bit mad, and they blamed that madness on witches.  But Tully knew better.  

As she stepped onto the soil he said softly, “What is lost is now found.” he cast the spell.  And the world changed.  Suddenly they were bearing witness to a world filled with smoke and screams coming from Salem past the trees and a woman, dressed in puritan fashion was running through the field.

#abigailproctor #para #jack of all trades #cheerwine #salem trauma 

[tullyxmclendon]

Plot Chance meeting, new quest, hook up, plot device. Open Starter.

Outer Hebrides, Scottish Coast, Innse Gall - McLendon's Curiosity Shop - Present Day

Innse Gall, also known as the isle of strangers, was a misty little island in the Hebrides chain off the west coast of Scotland. Beautiful, private, relatively untouched by the march of time. In the town there had always been four businesses owned by the same four families. The tavern and inn, the apothecary now known as the doctor's office, the general store and post, and McLendon's Curiosity Shop. This shop was full of broken clocks and forks with five tines and stranger things washed in on the tide. And the towns folk always knew that if there was anything specific they needed that they couldn't get from the general store, they could find it at Mclendon's. Tully the shop keep could always come through with whatever was truly needed. And his shop kept strange hours. It never seemed to he open until someone with a true and desperate need was walking by. And in they would go, surprised. But welcomed by the cheerful call of the shopkeeper, with his charmed voice, tinkling blue eyes and mop of curly ginger hair. 

Sometimes outsiders would find themselves on the island, and in that case they always found themselves walking into Tully's shop. A new adventure just waiting to begin with a tall handsome Scot smiling at you as you walk in: "Nice day for it, have a look around, tell me if I can help you with anything."

[tullyxmclendon]

Plot:  Adventure begins or random hook up or both. What do you need for your quest?

The Tin Dog Tavern had stood on 4th Ave in the shadows of downtown for close to a hundred years. Though it hadn't always been the Tin Dog, this ransack shambling honkytonk. Through the 1970s it had been known as Purple Heys, the only publicly gay club in Nashville. Before that it had been a family diner with a piano player on Sundays and a wood fire always going in the stove in the corner. And very loose segregation policies for somewhere in a Southern state. Through out the decades though the roof had always leaked, the cockroaches had always been the size of stray cats, the windows rattled when the train rolled by, and the cops generally stayed away. Whatever the place was called as a diner, or a club, or a honkytonk, it was generally self governing.

Drunken fist fights were a thing that would happen. Drug deals gone bad in the parking lot. Domestic disputes at the pool tables. But the home crowd always squashed things before there was a need to call the police. No one who frequented here wanted police attention. Not that Tully Mclendon was mindful of the police. After this many centuries wandering the globe he did probably have a wrap sheet a few miles long but nothing ever stuck to him. He did have the luck of Jack the lad. Which worked in a way that as long as you never abused your luck and privilege, there would always be more to come. So Tully didnae boast, didnae brag, he simply let his luck and his magic continue to surprise him, all these years into the game. And maybe that was the secret to not becoming decrepit and angry at the world hundreds of years into your life. Not becoming mad or power hungry or dark after watching the world change for so long. Maybe the trick was to not test it, to just enjoy it. Or at least that is what Tully was betting on. The hand he always played.

Many men in his position had explored their powers to the limits and gotten themselves killed by the Council for it. Not Tully, he was pleased having no real concept of his own powers until they were called on and then he could be surprised along with the quest seeker. "Hey Appalachia, you're up!" His friend Andrew at the pool table shouted to him. Tully pushed off of the bar with a whisky in hand. Tulloch Mclendon was actually Scottish, a Hebrides lad, but his accent to the Nashvillians had sounded like their neighbors in the deep forgotten hollers of the Appalachian mountains. Tully never bothered to correct them.He picked up his cue and took aim.

"When I win, yer lettin' me have a go at the jukebox." Tully told Andrew and took his shot. Andrew was notorious for commandeering the music maker and playing nothing but disco. Not that he even liked disco. Andrew was a crust punk graffiti artist. He played the disco to keep the rednecks uneasy. Tully didnae mind that. He just preferred to listen to bluegrass when he was here in Nashville. Which was only every few months. He had to keep moving if he didnae want to be commissioned to work for someone.Jacks were like Djinns. They could be enslaved to do the magical bidding of whomever held their contract. But luckier than genies they were not bound to lamps or anything. Someone could find a djinn's lamp and own him for three wishes. That was a pitiful way to live.

For a Jack someone just had to see him and know what he was and then tell him they needed his help for their quest. And today no one believed in Jacks. No one knew what Tully really was. Mostly.What most people saw was a tall, broad, handsome red head with a mop of curls. With piercing blue eyes and a carnival smile. Usually dressed in dark jeans, a pale button up shirt and a vest, black biker boots. Shirt sleeves rolled up exposing his veined and strong forearms. He was generally in conversation with friends, or assumed friends with the way everyone seemed to always be laughing around him. He was charming. He was kind. But he was ultimately forgettable. Which was what he needed to be.What the rare few magic users who still knew what Jacks were saw was a gateway to anything and everything they could ever want. If you asked it of him, a Jack could level an empire, bring back the dead, turn the world backwards. Their powers were unchecked. But there was a catch. If the Jack didn't approve of your mission he could build a fail safe into your wish, a loophole. So the empire would rise again and crush you, so your dead girlfriend would not know you, so the backwards world would erase your beginning.

In this way only the truly pure of heart or truly desperate should ever approach a Jack for help. And if he helps you, he's yours till the end of your quest. Which that ending is actually decided by the Jack. This is why they had been hunted to near extinction by the Council. Viewed as renegades and vigilantes, dishing out their own standards of morality and justice. No one should have that sort of power.But Tully did. He felt eyes on his back. Something weighty in that gaze. Not human. He scratched his shot at the table. Andrew laughed at the misfortune and went to pull up another disco track on the jukebox. Tully turned around, scanning the bar for the source. He made his way over.

"I'll get you a Popeye's chicken sandwich and jus' send ye on yer way, if it's all the same." He bargained, joking, knowing that was good magic because those were good sandwiches but that was probably not what you were seeking. And maybe you didn't know he was a Jack, maybe you were just looking at him because he was handsome and could fill a plethora of needs. But he was sizing you up to see if he needed to run before you could make your wish.

[tullyxmclendon]

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