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Townsend posting board
By Nashoba Valley Voice |
PUBLISHED: December 12, 2008 at 12:00 a.m. | UPDATED: July 11, 2019 at 12:00 a.m.
Treats at 10: 10 a.m., Townsend Congregational Church; Update on the new senior center, program and volunteer brainstorming session hosted by the Council on Aging.
Sunday, Dec. 14
Caroling: 2 p.m., Townsend Congregational Church; Meet at the church and be prepared to bring joy to many. Hot chocolate and snacks afterward. All are welcome.
Christmas Show: Noon dinner, 1 p.m., show, Bull Run Restaurant, Route 2A, Shirley; Christmas party by the Montachusett Organ Society, with Salmon, Swedish meatballs or Turkey Pot Pie. Tickets $17. Call Connie at 978-597-5420 or Pauline at 978-597-5242.
Monday, Dec. 15
TRASH ONLY: No curbside recycling. Recycling Center open.
Breakfast Club: 9:30 a.m., Townsend Senior Center; Mary Ann Melanson will speak on "Winter Blues" after breakfast.
Democratic Town Committee: 7 p.m. meeting, Memorial Hall, room 2.
Housing Authority: 6:30 p.m. meeting, Memorial Hall, room 1.
Planning Board: 7 p.m., meeting, Memorial Hall, selectmen's chambers.
Board of Selectmen: 7 p.m. meeting, Memorial Hall, selectmen's chambers.
Recycling Committee: 7 p.m. meeting, Memorial Hall, room 1.
Hawthorne Council: 2 p.m. meeting, Hawthorne Brook principal's office; Meeting of the Hawthorne Brook School Council.
Wednesday, Dec. 17
Library Trustees: 7 p.m. meeting, Memorial Hall, room 1.
Conservation Commission: 7 p.m. meeting, Memorial Hall, selectmen's chambers.
Cemetery & Parks Comm.: 7 p.m. meeting, Kimball House, Highland Street.
Senior Christmas Party: Noon, Townsend Senior Center; Pot Luck Luncheon with entertainment by Dan Kirouac. Please bring a wrapped gift for a child to be distributed by TEO, marked "boy" or "girl" and age range. Please sign up soon as space is limited.
Thursday, Dec. 18
ARC meeting: 10 a.m., Lawrence Library, Pepperell; Support group meeting for parents of children with disabilities. All are welcome. Coffee and refreshments served.
Cribbage: 1 p.m., Townsend Senior Center.
Townsend Rec.
You do not need to be a Townsend resident to participate in these programs. Classes must be confirmed by e-mail to clem6six@verizon.net.
* ABC MUSIC AND ME: ABC Music and Me is a preschool oriented Kindermusik program for ages 2-4. It is offered in monthly units with weekly 30-minute lessons. At $50 per month, every child registered will receive a full-colored family guide, home CD and a new instrument every other month. If a parent registers their child for three months, they will receive a free Kindermusik T-shirt! You may come to observe a class at anytime. Classes will be held in Memorial Hall, 272 Main Street. Sessions will be held Dec. 16, 23 and 30, Jan. 6-9 and Jan. 13, 20 and 27, Feb. 3. The session is 9:30 to 10 a.m. You must preregister for each of these sessions by the 15th of each prior month to the start of the session. For additional information e-mail instructor Carolyn Farley at cfarley@net1plus.com. Make check payable to Townsend Recreation and bring to first session.
* ABC FOLLOW ME: ABC Follow Me is a children's play time and story time combined with music and movement program. Being offered is a series of parent/child programs devoted to encouraging families to engage in fun, physical activities together. Children will have the opportunity to play, run, jump, throw, catch and socialize in a playgroup environment. Each week a different theme will be introduced and the story and activities will go along with each theme. Beth Anne McManus will lead the weekly sessions. Sessions will be held in Memorial Hall on Thursdays: Jan. 8, 15, 22 and 29, Feb. 5, 12 and 26. The 9:15 to 10 a.m. session is for walkers, age 2, and the 10:15 to 11 a.m. session is for ages 2-4. Cost is $42 for the seven sessions. Daily rate is $7 per class per child. Make check out to Townsend Recreation and bring to first session.
For additional information e-mail bethanne_mcmanus@yahoo.com.
Proj. Grad. benefit
TOWNSEND — TAP basketball fans and the general public are invited by Project Graduation committee members to stop by Corrie's Arm Candy on Saturday, Dec. 20 from 9 a.m. to 1 p.m. during basketball games at North Middlesex Regional High School to look over a selection of designer-inspired handbags.
A portion of the proceeds will go directly toward supporting Project Graduation.
According to organizers, there is a wide range of styles available and pricing to suit even the tightest of budgets. The handbags make great holiday gifts.
Ashby events
Blood drive: Boy Scout Troop 27 will sponsor an American Red Cross Blood Drive on Sunday, Dec. 14, 2008.
It will take place at Ashby Elementary School, 911 Main Street, Ashby, 9 a.m. until 2 p.m. and will be open to the public. Each presenting donor will receive a lift ticket to Wachusett Mountain Ski Area.
Anyone who is 17 or older, in good health, weighs 110 pounds or more and who has not given blood in the last 56 days may try to donate.
The American Red Cross requires a positive ID before donating.
For more information or to make an appointment for any Red Cross blood drive, please call 1-800 GIVE LIFE (800-448-3543). Having an appointment is not mandatory, but will ensure the quickest possible process! Walk-in donors are also welcome.
Nashoba Valley Voice


The Smart Life Insurance Company Limited ("Smart Life") is authorised as a category I Financial Services Provider (FSP 45983). The license authorises Smart Life to provide financial services with respect to funeral/assistance assurance (subcategory 1.1. - Long-term Insurance: Category A), risk cover (subcategories 1.3 and 1.20. - Long-term Insurance: Categories B1 & B2) and single premium investments (subcategory 1.4. - Long-term Insurance Category C).
Smart Life is a registered long-term insurance company and does not have any contracts with other product providers and it does not earn any income from other product providers. Smart Life does not own shares in any other product provider.
In the event of the death of an insured person (EPE card holder) we will need a Smart Life completed signed claim form, a copy of the death certificate, BI-1663 (notice of death), and copy of identity for the insured person and the claimant, claimant certified bank statement/letter not older than three (3) months and a signed affidavit proofing the relationship.
To lodge a claim send the above mentioned required documents either via email to : claims@smartlife.co.za or fax to 086 212 8254. Should the claimant require further assistance he/she can contact one of our consultants on 011 343 2133 or SMS "claim" to 43748 and we will call you back.
We will not accept any claims lodged more than 3 months (90 days) after the date of death of the insured person.
The proceeds of the claim paid under this policy in respect of the insured life insured will only be paid to the next of kin of the insured life.
Should you wish to lodge a complaint against Smart Life or any of its representatives/employees, please do so in writing by either sending an email to : complaints@smartlife.co.za or sending a fax to 086 212 8254. Alternatively SMS "complaint" to 43748 and well will call you back. A copy of our complaints policy is available at your request.


Most dumpster rental businesses in Mountainville have clear-cut policies that will help you realize exactly how much it costs to rent equipment. Following this advice will help you avoid hidden fees when renting a dumpster in Mountainville.
Many businesses will charge you extra for keeping the dumpster longer than agreed. Make sure you plan ahead so you can keep the dumpster for an appropriate timeframe. You should also ask about additional fees so you'll understand how much extra days cost.
You may generally schedule the total amount of time you want to maintain the dumpster when you first call to set up your dumpster service. This typically includes the dropoff and pickup dates. Most firms do ask that you be present when the dumpster is delivered. This is required to make sure the dumpster is placed in the most effective area for your endeavor. You do not have to be present when the dumpster is picked up to haul it away.
Should you get into your project and recognize you want pickup sooner or later than you originally requested, that is no difficulty. Only call the company's office and clarify exactly what you want, and they will do everything they can to accommodate your request. There might be times they can't fulfill your adjusted program just because of previous obligations, nevertheless they will do the best they can to pick your dumpster up at the appropriate time.
If you rent a 30 yard dumpster, you'll be getting a container that will hold 30 cubic yards of waste or debris. Your 30 yard container will measure about 22 feet long by 8 feet wide by 6 feet high. These amounts could vary somewhat depending on the dumpster rental company in Mountainville you select. A 30 yard dumpster will hold between 9 and 15 pickup truck loads of waste, so it is an excellent choice for whole-house residential cleanouts as well as commercial cleanup jobs.
While roll off dumpsters are generally left on location, front load dumpsters will come pick up debris on a set program. That makes it possible for sterilization professionals to remove garbage and junk for multiple dwellings and businesses in the area at reasonable costs.
Nearly all roll of dumpsters have the exact same width (generally eight feet). That makes it feasible for businesses to make use of the same trucks to transport a wide selection of dumpsters. When you see a dumpster's measurements, therefore, you can presume they refer to depth and length. You may even see dumpster sizes listed by yards. This actually refers to square yards that measure the dumpster's volume.
In the event you're organizing a big commercial job, then you'll probably need a 40-yard dumpster or bigger. Big house renovations may demand a 30-yard dumpster, but most smaller dwelling repairs only want 20-yard or even 10-yard dumpsters. Speak to an expert should you want more guidance on selecting a dumpster size that fits your endeavor.
Planning ahead for your dumpster rental in Mountainville will make your project easier and safer to finish on time. When renting a dumpster in Mountainville, follow these suggestions to help you plan ahead.
The price to rent a dumpster in Mountainville depends on several factors such as the size you need and how long you need to keep it to complete your job. Usually, you can expect to spend more cash for larger dumpsters. Keeping the dumpster for a longer amount of time will also raise the price.
Getting quotes is among the best ways to compare dumpster costs to make sure you get a fair deal. Since some companies may charge extra fees, it's crucial that you make sure the price quote comprises all of the gear and services that you need.
Generally, renting a dumpster in Mountainville is an affordable means to remove debris from a construction, remodeling, or clean out job. As long as you get price quotes so you can compare your options, you should realize that you can get a superb deal on a dumpster rental in Mountainville.
The amount of money that you spend renting a dumpster in Mountainville will depend on several variables.
The quantity of time that you have to keep the dumpster rental in Mountainville will also change the price. The more time you keep the dumpster, the more you can expect to pay.
Services are another concern that could influence your total price. Many firms include services like dumpster drop off and pick up in their prices. Some companies, however, fee for all these services. This makes it important that you ask about any hidden fees.
Eventually, they may need to pay higher prices for disposing of specific materials. In the event you would like to add tires or appliances to the dumpster, for example, you can expect to pay a bit more.


but he that believeth not is condemned already.
whom God has sent to be the Saviour of lost sinners, and to deliver them from wrath to come; and there is no other name but his, whereby men can be saved; so that such that do not believe in him, must be damned.
Gill, John. "Commentary on John 3:18". "The New John Gill Exposition of the Entire Bible". <http://classic.studylight.org/com/geb/view.cgi?book=joh&chapter=003&verse=018>. 1999.


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Junkrat – Overwatch 2 Character
Junkrat is one of many Overwatch 2 characters and is one of the most unique characters that Overwatch has to offer. His personality and gameplay are both the main things that make him one of the many fan-favorite characters in the original game and this is why it was never a doubt that he would be a part of Overwatch 2. Here's what we know about the highly popular damage hero Junkrat in Overwatch 2.
All Changes to Junkrat's Gameplay
It has been confirmed that major changes are being made to every single hero, and this includes changes to Junkrat's Overwatch 2 abilities. The only twist is that said changes to the abilities of Junkrat in Overwatch 2 are only going to be made in PvE missions. These changes are known as Talents and every character will have unique talents like they have unique abilities. Unfortunately, no specifics about the talents of Overwatch 2 hero Junkrat's talents have been shared so far, so we'll have to wait a while before we can finally learn what these new talents of his are.
Junkrat's Role in the Overwatch 2 Story
Despite being such a popular hero, it must be said that Overwatch 2 character Junkrat isn't exactly the most relevant to the story. He is neither affiliated with Overwatch nor Talon. From his lore, anyone can put together that Overwatch 2 hero Junkrat isn't exactly as much of a hero as he is a deranged criminal. But it has been confirmed that every single hero will have their own story missions, so it's interesting to see what Junkrat's story missions will be about. It could just be missions of him and his friend Roadhog committing terrible crimes, or it could be that he had to choose between Talon and Overwatch ahead of the impending war between the two sides. All these answers about Overwatch 2's Junkrat will finally be answered once the game releases, or possibly even sooner through trailers and teasers.
Tank Characters »
Damage Characters »
Soldier: 76
Support Characters »
Overwatch 2 News
The New Characters Being Added in Overwatch 2
The Most Popular Overwatch 2 Characters
Overwatch 2 Support Characters
Merc1 Rob3rt says:
Pretty cool, i love the idea of a sequel it seems...
Arifa00 says:
why make things complicated by doing sequel ? why not just...
Andrew Kskarafia says:
Hey, can you tell me more about where i can get...
Female Characters Junker Queen Storm Rising Support Characters List Tracer One Winston Probably Zero Hour
Overwatch 2 Characters © 2021
CP77 Mods

redpajama_set_name: RedPajamaCommonCrawl


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Elliot Tebele Net Worth
How much is Elliot Tebele Worth?
in Richest Business › Executives
Elliot Tebele Net Worth:
Elliot Tebele net worth: Elliot Tebele is an American internet executive who has a net worth of $10 million. Elliot Tebele is the "curator" behind the instagram account FuckJerry which has more than 14 million followers on Instagram as of this writing. Elliot and his cohorts have built a social media empire largely by stealing content from other creators and re-purposing it as their own on numerous social accounts. A common example would be seeing a meme that someone else created for Twitter or Instagram, screenshotting and posting it to the Fuck Jerry with the original creator's username cut off. As of 2016, FuckJerry could reportedly earn as much as $30,000 for a single sponsored post. By 2019 they reportedly could make as much as $250,000 for a single sponsored post. Fuck Jerry claims to attempt to credit original creators as often as possible but there are countless examples where credit was purposely cut off in order to benefit itself. In one particularly offensive example, the company allegedly stole a meme from a comedian named Vic Berger IV. When Berger complained to Jerry's Chief Content Officer James Ryan Ohliger, the CCO responded with "Shut up". Another alleged strategy employed by Jerry Media is to credit one of its own accounts as the original source until they hear from someone claiming credit, but by the time credit is changed the meme's popularity has dropped off and the creator ends up with crumbs.
Fyre Festival: Fuck Jerry's media branch, Jerry Media, was responsible for coordinating the promotion of the notoriously failed music event, Fyre Festival. The company conceived then coordinated the massive online promotional campaign that fueled Fyre Festival's fire. In the wake of the festival's failure, people began complaining about Jerry's responsibility in promoting an event which any reasonable person should have known was a fraud. For their part Jerry Media claimed to only be a marketing company that was getting paid to do a job. To make matters worse, Jerry Media then had the gall to use their inside footage of the failed event to produce a documentary for Netflix about Fyre Festival. Many people were upset that Jerry Media didn't accept responsibility for their role in perpetrating the fraud. A rival Hulu-produced documentary focused heavily on Jerry Media's role in the disaster.
FuckFuckJerry: In February 2019, a social media trend called "FuckFuckJerry" started to grow online that called for users to unfollow Jerry's various accounts. The trend also pressured advertisers like Comedy Central to stop working with Jerry Media to promote its programs. Many high profile comedians joined the movement to encourage people to unfollow all Jerry Media accounts after years of seeing their work stolen then used to build the FuckJerry brand.
Models And Influencers Who Promoted Disastrous Fyre Festival Being Subpoenaed Over Payments They Received
Fyre Festival Founder Billy McFarland Arrested And Charged With Wire Fraud
Fyre Festival Founder Billy McFarland Forged Documents To Scam $27.4 Million From Investors
Leaked Reports Show How Fyre Festival Organizers Blew Cash On Models, Forgot To Arrange For Toilets
Infamous Fyre Festival Founder Ordered To Forfeit $26 Million And Is Facing 10 Years In Prison
Everything You Need To Know About Ja Rule's Disastrous Fyre Festival
Fyre Festival Founder Involved In Ticket Scam While Awaiting Sentencing
Five Tech Founders Who Were Hailed As The Next Unicorns But Fell From Grace, Plus A (Dis)Honorable Mention
Billionaire Roundup: Welcome To The New World


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The Hard Place
by beautifulduckweed
Ashtarag's new assignment was curled face-down in a tense ball on the stone floor: a human man, naked and chained at wrist and ankles, with a faint rime of frost lying unbroken across his pale skin. They alternated between keeping the cells brutally cold and swelteringly hot, switching the temperature at unpredictable intervals, all calibrated for maximum unpleasantness per each individual human's dislikes. It was one of their key value propositions and major differentiators, a crucial part of the neverending cascade of banal suffering that made Kur, Inc. stand out in a field crowded with run-of-the-mill hells. Here at Kur, they offered bespoke environments, artisan demons dedicated to the art of torment—none of those newfangled machines, every torture meticulously hand-applied—and the finest blend of modern and traditional techniques in sexual degradation, violation, and pain.
That was their specialty. Every hell was, inherently, a personal hell, but the efficiencies inherent in consolidating and specializing had become clear very early on, which resulted in a few large outfits that operated with remarkable efficiency and standardization but that lacked all soul despite being packed to the rafters with them. Within even the most popular and homogenous fields of practice, however, there was room for boutique operations, which was where small shops like Kur came in.
Ashtarag looked over the man, its four eyes independently tracking every scrap of information that could be gleaned from his body. His breathing was shallow but steady; goosepimples rose and subsided in waves across a taut and finely-muscled back. His dark brown hair was shaggy and unkempt: just long enough to get in the way of his eyes, not quite long enough to tuck away behind his ears. A good length for pulling. His aura was strange: muddy with suffering, yes, and underlaid by resignation, but there was also….
Yes. There was definitely also pleasure. A satisfaction in surrender. And, unmistakably, a frisson of anticipation. Ashtarag rubbed the side of its head and recalled the assignment's dossier. A dozen demons had tried to break him, but none had succeeded. The notes in his case file had been riddled with comments that swung between incredulity, confusion, and outright despair.
"Subject wept and protested repeatedly as insertion progressed, but their aura conveyed otherwise. Multiple orgasms achieved over course of treatment, even with every attempt to suppress pleasure."
"Despite repeated violations of every orifice and whippings per protocol, aura readings indicated subject enjoyed it."
"Every attempted punishment only makes him come harder, and when denied release, he likes it even more. This is a professional embarrassment. I quit."
And here Ashtarag was, lucky number thirteen. Its reputation was spotless: thousands of souls broken, crushed, and then re-formed, ready to be released to Heaven or rebirth. It was, in the grand scheme of things, new to the business—it knew demons who had millions of souls under their belt—but it was determined to maintain its streak.
It took its time and walked around the man to draw out the tension. Demonic forms were by nature malleable, shaped as much by their human assignment's expectations, fears, and desires as by the basic template they were assigned upon creation. As it paced, the claws on its feet grew longer and clicked on the stone floor. Its scent grew stronger, muskier. More animal, less sulfurous. An extra set of arms emerged from its torso, which would no doubt become useful at some point—handy, even, it thought, and chuckled internally at its little pun. It looked down at its groin, and—right, there it was. A massive membrum virile dangled where none had been before, along with a heavy set of testicles. Ashtarag found the entire arrangement a bit cumbersome, personally, but the man obviously had strong feelings about this particular configuration.
When the man's fear began to taste sharp upon its tongue, it finally decided to act. It nudged him with a foot, rough enough to almost be a kick. The man flinched and uncurled. The frost crazed and cracked on his skin, then flaked off as he moved. Ashtarag gave him another nudge to hurry him along.
"On your feet," it said.
The man stumbled, staggered halfway up to his feet, and immediately fell. The pain was delicious to Ashtarag: the humiliation, the bruising fall, but most of all, the near-debilitating flare of agony as the man's circulation returned—though properly speaking, it was all memories and expectations translated via a complicated metaphysical process back into a perfect simulacrum of physical pain, given that he didn't have a body anymore, much less a circulatory system.
"Useless," said Ashtarag. "Pathetic. Incapable even of standing."
"Please," gasped the man, "A moment—my feet—"
Ashtarag reached out a hand—now tipped in heavy black talons, it noted—and grabbed a handful of hair, nails raking against scalp. The man gave a cry, and then another one, even louder, when Ashtarag dragged him upright. The chains clanked and rattled as the man's feet slipped and flinched against the slick stone floor. His hands fluttered, then subsided, as if he wanted to shove Ashtarag's hands away before realizing the futility of the gesture.
Ashtarag kept lifting the man until his face was level with its own. His feet dangled and kicked fruitlessly, the barren cell echoing with the sound of clashing chains. Ashtarag had grown larger since the man had caught sight of it, which was a relief; its cock no longer felt quite as ridiculously disproportionate. The man's aura shimmered with a haze of agony, and Ashtarag flicked out a tongue to taste it. It was almost perfect: effervescent with fear and sharp with shame, ruined only by a hint of pleasure . The man flinched at the sight of the tongue, but the disgust was tinged with a desperate, humiliated desire.
A sharp shake refocused his attention beautifully. "You are a worm," said Ashtarag, "and you serve at my pleasure. When I tell you to stand, you will stand, and if you fail to obey orders, then you will face the consequences. Do you understand?"
"Yes," said the man, his face rigid.
Ashtarag brought the man closer. His lean, long face was dominated by large, deep-set eyes of luminous grey, the only remarkable feature in an otherwise unremarkable visage. Ashtarag did not stop until they were almost nose-to-nose. Sweat was starting to glisten on the man's skin despite the chill. "Yes, what?" it asked.
"My lord," the man whispered. "Yes, my lord."
"Do not forget again." Ashtarag opened its hand, and the man fell in a heap; the sound of meat and iron crashing onto the stone floor was glorious. "Now back on your feet."
The man lurched upright. His chest heaved; fine shivers ran up and down the length of his body. Ashtarag smiled. "Face against the wall, arms above your head and legs open."
The man froze. His eyes were dark, only the thinnest rim of gray surrounding the black pupils. A trickle of blood from one of the deep scratches on his head worked its way down the side of his face.
"Did you not hear me?" said Ashtarag. It took a step towards him. "You dare disobey?"
The man drew in a sobbing breath and shrank back. "No, my lord," he said. "I hear and I obey."
He shuffled to the wall and assumed the position, recoiling a little at the frozen surface. Ashtarag released the manacles; the skin underneath was pink and chafed, on the verge of blistering. It contemplated them with pleasure. Some bruises to match would be just the thing.
To that end, it stepped in and grabbed the man's wrists, tightening its grip until it could feel the bones grinding against each other. The man's aura glowed with discomfort. It pressed its hips forward, rubbing its cock, hard and beginning to leak hot, clear fluid, against the man's back. The man shuddered and mumbled a word against the rock.
"What was that?" asked Ashtarag, though it knew perfectly well what he had said.
"Nothing, my lord," said the man.
"Are you lying to me?" asked Ashtarag. "You think there is any part of you safe from me, any corner of your meager soul you can hide?"
"No, my lord." Another shudder racked him.
Ashtarag leaned closer and allowed its tongue to flick the man's ear with every word. "Every attempt to gainsay me will receive punishment. Do I make myself clear?"
"Yes." The man's voice cracked on the single syllable. "My lord."
Ashtarag did not deign to respond, instead snaking out its tongue over the man's body to take a proper taste of the aura close to his skin. The man stayed still save the panting of his breaths as the tongue slid down his neck then traveled lower, unspooling endlessly from Ashtarag's mouth—until its thin prehensile tip idly flicked a nipple. The man began shivering then, a moan caught right between his teeth, which was when Ashtarag realized that he had been expecting—braced, in fact—for pain, not pleasure.
It could work with that. Unwilling pleasure often inflicted worse suffering than straightforward pain.
It kept firm hold of the man's wrists while another hand encircled his throat with a touch that could just as easily turn into a stranglehold as a caress. A fourth hand raked its talons lightly down the man's back with a pressure nicely calculated to skate the edge of discomfort.
The man's aura flared with a pulse of distress, pain and pleasure mingled, and Ashtarag drank it in. It was becoming used to the undercurrent of pleasure—found it not unpleasant. It had every confidence it could break this man yet, but until it did, there was no point in letting the sweetness ruin the experience. It would not do, after all, to remain too narrow-minded. A traditionalist would have recoiled and insisted on pure, uncut suffering, but Ashtarag thought that the pleasure, jarring though it was, added a certain…piquancy.
The man's anticipation and dread surged as Ashtarag's tongue worked lower; by the time it began to wrap around the base of his cock, his breath was wet and ragged, coming out in uneven hitches. Still he remained silent.
Ashtarag tightened the hand around his throat and brought its fourth hand around to his mouth , pushing two fingers against lips wet with tears. The man reflexively clamped his lips, which was futile, of course; Ashtarag pried them open and shoved its fingers into the man's mouth until he choked, then began thrusting them in and out. Meanwhile, its tongue had fully wrapped around the man's cock, which was hard enough to break concrete. The man sucked away at the fingers, tears dripping down his face silently as Ashtarag's tongue tightened and loosened on his cock in a milking motion.
Satisfied at the state of its fingers' lubrication, Ashtarag pulled them out unceremoniously and brought them to the man's entrance. It did nothing but circle the rim with the pads of its fingers, but its effect on the man was immediate: he shrank away and said, in a small, miserable voice, "No."
Ashtarag did not bother responding—its tongue was busy, and the man had been warned. But more than that, the man's massive spurt of fear pushed out every instinct Ashtarag had other than to give that fear shape, to make it true. With little ceremony, it pushed in one finger, popping the tip past a ring of resistance and into tight, slick warmth.
The man gave a loud cry and tried to buck away. Ashtarag coiled its tongue brutally tight and crowded the man against the wall. Its hand tightened around his neck until he struggled for breath. Ashtarag allowed itself to blow out an especially heavy breath, the steam unfurling in the cold air like a white sheet in the wind; its pleasure in that piece of showmanship was short-lived, however, when it shoved a second finger into the man.
A wave of suffocating hopelessness, despair, horror, and pain, slammed into Ashtarag, accompanied by a deep thrumming pleasure, which in turn inspired humiliation and more despair and horror, this time at himself for taking pleasure in any of it—for wanting this violation so much that he could not even plausibly deny it. The unstoppable force of the man's pleasure meeting the immovable object of his shame.
Ashtarag had never felt anything like it. It had always prided itself on carefully attuning its actions and reactions to the needs of its assignment, but the crackling wave, hot and roiling with mortification, overwhelmed it, dragged it under, cored out its own will and compelled it to act on pure instinct—not its own, but that of the demon that lived in the man's head. The relentless, unfeeling violator who would force the man to submit to every degradation, every debased act.
A growl spilled from its throat, growing until it became a roar. Ashtarag, as it knew itself, had ceased to exist, overwritten by the man's desire. In its place was something else. Something unthinking, bestial. A hot knot of tension pulsed deep in its belly. Its sole animating principle was to break the man. To grind him into paste. To take its pleasure, and then discard him as the street leavings that he was.
It pressed its fingers deeper into the man and found, easily enough, the sweet bundle of nerves inside, the place that made him desperate, that drove him mad and forced him to relinquish all control. It pressed against it, hard, tipping the sensation from pleasure into pain; the man choked off a scream. A clear bead of fluid, salty and viscous, drooled out of the man's slit; Ashtarag's tongue pulsed and reveled in the taste; it sent the tip slithering to the crown of his cock to lap up more as its fingers stroked him from the inside with rough, insistent pressure. The man's whimpering devolved into a litany of pleas—to please stop, to let him go, that he was sorry, that he would do better, if only my lord would stop.
Lies, lies, lies.
The end of Ashtarag's tongue dipped lightly into his slit. The man's pleas changed in tenor, became more desperate; a true note of panic crept in. The fear only spurred Ashtarag. The tip narrowed, stiffened, and began to work its way inside.
The man's knees gave way; if it were not for the brutal grip Ashtarag had of his wrists, he would have crumpled to the floor. Ashtarag pushed deeper with tongue-tip and fingers even as it tightened and loosened itself around the man's cock, creating an undulating rhythm that danced in counterpoint with the thrusting of its fingers. The rippling pressure cushioned by the walls of the man's cock felt a little strange—and stimulating. The man himself had dissolved into incoherence, his head dangling limply, breath sobbing in and out of his open mouth. Tears pattered on the stone floor.
Ashtarag did not know what drove it to twirl the tip of its tongue. Perhaps it wanted to gain a deeper taste; perhaps it wanted to push against the hot, slick confines, test its bounds, feel the flesh push back against it. It did not matter, because the effect on the man was electrifying. He snapped his head back and shouted, his entire body stiffening, then thrashing. Ashtarag leaned its considerable weight against the man, pinning him against the wall, then flickered its tongue again, and again, faster and faster, until it was thrumming hummingbird-fast inside him.
The man writhed—or tried to—and screamed, the sound muffled against the wall. Ashtarag crooked the fingers it had inside him, pressing against that most tender places with unrelenting pressure, and coiled its tongue more tightly around his cock.
The burst of pleasure showed itself in the man's aura before Ashtarag felt it in the hardening of its cock, in the clenching around the fingers buried inside him, in the pulse and jerk of the passage surrounding its tongue. Come flooded out of the man's depths but slowed to a trickle as it hit the blockade, then slowly squeezed its way out, fat white drops oozing and falling onto the floor alongside the man's tears. Grief and life, pain and pleasure, all of it bitter beyond bearing, but still the man wanted more, even as he screamed and screamed, and Ashtarag, drunk on suffering and rapture, was more than ready to give it to him.
It pulled its tongue and fingers out. The man keened, his voice a ruined rasp. Ashtarag's tongue was coated in spend, droplets splattering against the wall as it uncoiled from the man's cock and retreated to its mouth. It turned the man around, hitched his legs onto its arms, and unceremoniously impaled him on its cock.
It was slow, dry going. The dampness that had leaked out of its cock was not quite enough to lubricate the way, and Ashtarag was massive: wider around than the man's wrist and longer than his forearm. The man looked down at the demon cock slowly being sheathed in him, then looked up at the ceiling, a ragged moan falling out of his mouth. His own cock, glistening with semen and demon saliva and still hard, gave a twitch. A dribble of fluid spurted out weakly. The stretch and the friction hurt, but the man craved it anyway, and hated himself for it in equal measure. The ragged edges of those feelings, along with the helpless clench and flutter of his internal muscles, was enough to tip Ashtarag over the edge. It roared, and in a series of scalding-hot pulses, pumped stream after stream of come into the man.
The man tried to squirm away from the searing heat, but his position afforded him almost no leverage; all he could manage was a weak wriggle. The come, however, had the salutary effect of coating him with slickness, and that small movement was enough to slide him deeper onto Ashtarag's cock. He gave a small, winded gasp. Ashtarag laughed and pulled him down with inexorable force until its cock was planted to the hilt, the contours bulging through the slender curve of the man's abdomen. It rumbled with pleasure and stroked a hand down the faintly discernible shape, pressing against the man's belly to better delineate it.
"Look at you," Ashtarag said. "You can hardly take all of me. Better than nothing, but just barely. One hard thrust, and you'll burst like a rotten wineskin."
The man said nothing, his eyes closed, tears streaming out steadily. Ashtarag slapped him, then seized his chin when his eyes snapped open.
"I told you to look," it said.
The man took a shuddering breath. "Yes, my lord," he said, and looked down. Ashtarag began to thrust in and out for the sheer pleasure of seeing itself move under the man's skin. The wet, sucking sounds as Ashtarag's cock moved in and out were obscene—almost as obscene as the sight of its cock head pushing against the tautness of the man's belly, as if it were a live creature trying to burrow its way out.
"God," the man whispered. "God help me." He closed his eyes again and thumped his head back on the wall.
Ashtarag laughed. "No God here. Only me."
And then it hitched the man's legs more securely in its arms, and began pounding into him with bone-cracking force.
It did not know how often the man came; it lost count after the fourth time. Each flare of agonized pleasure intoxicated Ashtarag more; every whimpered plea to stop drove it into a frenzy. When the man finally descended into a stupor, however, his body falling limp, Ashtarag decided he had had enough. With a grunt, it came again, releasing another torrent into the man, rocking its way through the spasms until it had milked out every drop.
The heat of Ashtarag's come managed to shock the man out of his half-swoon; the sensation of the come flooding into him, then dripping out, was enough to inspire a dry spasm from his spent cock that was as much pain as it was pleasure. His face twisted into a grimace, his mouth falling open, but he did not even have the strength to cry out. It was all he could do to breathe through the pulses that gripped him. His thighs and bottom were a slippery disaster. A small, scummy puddle had formed on the floor: two orgasms' worth of demon ejaculate quite thoroughly fucked out of the man.
Ashtarag slumped forward and stayed there for several moments as the man shiveried and sobbed against its chest. It was filled with the strangest sensations: a throbbing warmth, a lassitude. Satiation? Was that what it was feeling? Satisfaction?
Alarmed at the alien feelings that had invaded its every crevice, Ashtarag pulled out and dropped the man unceremoniously onto the floor. He crumpled bonelessly, his limbs not making even the smallest attempt at supporting his weight. He did not so much as whimper at the impact, merely curled into a small, forlorn ball.
Another sensation, utterly novel, crowded into Ashtarag's chest as it stood over the man and brooded over the small, orderly knobs of vertebrae marching along the length of his spine. It would, in the normal course of things, be contemplating something to do with those vertebrae—some horrible method of pulling each one through the skin, perhaps, or ways to pulverize them into a pulp and then reconstitute them, causing untold agony each way.
Instead, it felt what could only be described as an ache. A melting ache.
It shook its head and gathered the tatters of its composure about itself. It didn't know what had happened here, but it needed to get out, now. It still had enough presence of mind to spit on the man as a final flourish before it stalked out of the room, the door of the cell slamming shut with a hollow clang behind it.
It was the little details that mattered.
In the time following that first session, Ashtarag found itself in what it could only characterize as a crisis of identity.
It was only natural for the expectations and fears of its assigned souls to warp its form and guide the direction of the sessions, but it had never encountered a subject so desperate for their own destruction. It had, with time and practice, formulated techniques to resist the will of its assignments so they did not run roughshod over it, but generally it had to work against treating them too gently, to resist taking them down the easy paths that avoided the painful lessons they needed to learn.
Ashtarag had never had cause to build defenses against pleasure. Against desire. Against the sheer force of the man's will, of his hunger for pain that was rivaled only by his revulsion. The man had warped not only Ashtarag's form, but its very core: driving it to want something as if it were its own fondest desire, wrenching it into doing his unspoken bidding despite every appearance to the contrary.
Ashtarag did not possess a soul—or rather, it was made of nothing but soul-stuff, and in the nature of all things metaphysical, the extremes at either end merged, so that everything and nothing were functionally indistinguishable—and it did not, properly speaking, have anything that could be violated, but it felt fundamentally altered by its experience.
It understood a little better now the reams of frustrated comments in the man's dossier.
The second session did not proceed any better than the first. It fucked the man's face until his voice was too ruined to scream; pissed on him; filled him so full of come that his belly distended grotesquely, and then pushed down on him so he squirted it all out again; held his face to the mess and made him lick the floor clean. Ashtarag left feeling even more raw and strange than before. Certain images would not leave it, ambushing it when it least expected them. The man's swollen belly. The snail-slime shine of its seed as it oozed down his thigh. The sight of the man's lips stretched tight around its cock, dusky pink against lurid red. The click and crackle as it dislocated his jaw with its girth.
The look on the man's face while he came, and came, and came.
It re-trod the ground traversed by the demons before it in subsequent sessions. It turned its semen into an aphrodisiac, filled the man to the brim—ass and mouth—and took away his ability to orgasm. It tried the same trick, and then forced him to come until the orgasms became indistinguishable from pain. It whipped him, chained him, pierced him; racked him and broke him; fucked him hard and fast; fucked him with excruciating slowness. Every time, Ashtarag found itself subsumed to the man's will. All its efforts to resist only made its inevitable failure more humiliating.
Worst, it enjoyed it. Began to crave it. To anticipate the next session; to dreamily plan how it would crack the man open with pleasure so it could better lap it all up.
In desperation, it returned to the man's file, hoping to glean some insights it must have missed the first time around. Hoping to discover why. Why this particular hell. Why sexual torture in general, and these forms in particular.
The files typically lacked the whys; they consisted, by and large, of a dry recitation of facts: the subject's name—Aaron, in this case, which Ashtarag had missed the first time around, since it had not been relevant to its treatment plan; notable events of the subject's life; the means of their death; and their treatment plan, which the demons had some leeway to interpret but which served as a blueprint. Attempts to deviate too widely, to apply too much discretion, were not only viewed as a shocking breach of professional conduct, but were frequently impossible. The system simply did not allow it, and demons who were repeat offenders were often dematerialized.
Something was wrong here, but what? Aaron's death had been abrupt, but nothing especially outré: a dark, icy night; a slick staircase; a misplaced foot. He had lived an exemplary life, with no clues as to why he—
And that was when it hit Ashtarag.
There was no reason for Aaron to have been assigned to hell at all. He had lived an exemplary life. The only surviving child of stern, deeply religious parents who believed too much affection spoiled a child; a teacher beloved by his students; a man who gave his time, money, and energy to various worthy causes—not even the typical meaningless acts of charity, or acts of conquest under the guise of charity, but causes that expanded compassion and brought about actual good in the world. He had made sacrifices, done brave, difficult things: broke with his church, broke with his parents, and did his best, always, to hold the powerful accountable as best he could, even when he was the one in a position of power. Especially then. He was a man who, to all appearances, believed strongly in duty, honor, and doing the right thing in the teeth of difficulty.
He had remained celibate, by and large, except for a small handful of furtive trysts with men. Anonymous encounters, none of them satisfying, none of them remarkable in the least. Nothing that could have justified the acts he drove Ashtarag to inflict upon him time and time again.
The point of the treatment plan was to lay bare the person—to bring to light crimes that had been hidden; to punish them for sins committed; to give them a taste of what they had served to others in their life. Everything Ashtarag uncovered about Aaron showed a man who was lonely, and a bit rigid, but who was, at heart, profoundly kind. And profoundly kind people did not, generally speaking, end up in hell.
The way it saw it, Ashtarag had no choice but to resort to drastic tactics. Something no demon had ever attempted, as far as it knew. Something viewed as so manifestly nonsensical, even terrible, that if Ashtarag had tried to bring it up with any of its colleagues, it would have been drummed out of its job and consigned to the void.
At the next session, it would talk to Aaron.
Aaron was in his usual position when Ashtarag entered the cell: curled face-down in the center of the floor. It had decided to override the default temperature control so the room was, as Ashtarag understood it, pleasantly warm for once, at least by human standards. His skin wasn't covered in frost or sweat, so Ashtarag assumed it had come reasonably close.
With one gesture, Ashtarag conjured two chairs into existence. With another gesture, it banished the chains and manacles that shackled Aaron. Aaron did not so much as twitch through all of it.
Ashtarag did not bother telling Aaron to stand up: it was an impossible request, one designed for him to fail so Ashtarag would have a convenient fiction for inflicting punishment. Instead, it picked Aaron up and dumped him into a chair. A look of comical shock wreathed his face as he wobbled and almost fell over. The urge rose to growl at Aaron over his uselessness, but Ashtarag recognized this as Aaron's desire and expectation warping it yet again. It swallowed the desire.
Instead, it took a seat across from Aaron as the man watched it with wide and wary grey eyes. His long, sharp features were stiff with tension; his fingers pressed against the raw, angry bands left by the manacles, as if he could not quite believe they were gone. Or perhaps he needed the reassurance of the pain.
The shadowy shape of an insight flickered in Ashtarag's mind.
"I have been reviewing your file," said Ashtarag with no preamble.
"My…my file?" Aaron's brow furrowed.
"The facts of your life, as they are made available to us. Your achievements, your failures. Everything you have ever done right; everything wrong."
Aaron flinched down into the chair. A wave of distress—true distress unleavened by pleasure—rolled over Ashtarag. Interesting. It should have tried this ages ago. It ignored the pang in its belly that, had it been possible for a demon to feel worry, would have been worry.
"I confess, I am confused," continued Ashtarag.
The furrow on Aaron's brow deepened. His mouth, thin-lipped yet mobile, fell half open. Ashtarag was overcome, for a few moments, with the full sense-memory of those lips wrapped around its cock, saliva running in rivulets down to his chin, his gagging muffled as it pulled his head down and forced him to take all of—
Ashtarag blinked forcefully. It could not even blame Aaron; this was all its own doing.
"What is there to be confused about?" said Aaron. "I am in hell, am I not? For my—for my sins. For the filth I have conjured in my heart. For the depravities I have committed."
Ashtarag could not help it: it snorted. "Two half-hearted blowjobs and three attempts at buggery, only one of which ultimately succeeded? Please, those do not even rate here. I didn't even catch them until my third read-through. I was expecting detailed accounts of the rapes you had committed, or the children you had sold into sexual slavery, and instead was assaulted by descriptions of your tireless campaigning for universal suffrage and all the free tutoring you provided your struggling students—none of whom you molested. Do you know how rare that is for a boarding school master? It is truly a feat. Half of this hell is filled with boarding school teachers who've done unspeakable things to their students."
Aaron blinked. "Good God, I would never— Not my boys! But." His nails dug into his wrist. "But I have sinned, in, in other ways. In my heart."
Ashtarag roared with laughter. It could not quite comprehend what it had before it; it was like trying to discuss depravities with a nun. Worse, actually: most of the nuns Ashtarag knew were all too well-versed in depravity.
When it had recovered, it leaned back and wiped its eyes. "Sorry, didn't mean to lose it quite so hard. We don't go much for thought crimes here—if we did, we might as well assign a berth for every human as soon as they're born, and Heaven would be empty."
"But my self-abuse—"
Ashtarag leaned forward and held up a finger. Aaron shut up immediately; a wave of anxious desire lapped at Ashtarag, enticing it to take the familiar path. It resolutely ignored it.
"That doesn't even merit a mention in your file. I have no idea how often you flogged your meat raw imagining yourself being split in half by whatever strapping young man caught your eye, but whatever you get up to with your prick in the privacy of your room is not a sin, much less something worthy of punishment."
Again that pulse of distress, and more—defiance. Disbelief. Ashtarag was beginning to get somewhere. "I'll tell you how I see it: you were a man riddled with petty flaws, and the ones you think count the most are ones that matter the least. You were a fine man, a good man, and led a good life. You were beloved by those who knew you, and those who chose not to had their reasons, but their reasons were wrong—I am very much talking about your mother and father, here, and your pastor. You are the best man I have ever encountered, and it's not even close. You don't deserve this rough treatment."
Aaron's discomfort slammed into Ashtarag with the force of a battering ram. It deliberately gentled its voice. "And if you want the treatment anyway, whether or not you deserve it—whatever that even means to you, or this cosmic system of reward and punishment we have seen fit to create—you can have it. But it has nothing to do with your virtue, or lack thereof. It is enough that you want it."
"No," said Aaron. He licked his lips. "No, what I want is—is foul. Unspeakable." He closed his eyes. "No decent man could want what I want. No decent man could give me what I want."
"Good thing you haven't been assigned a decent man, then," said Ashtarag. "Good thing you've been given a demon. Decency has nothing to do with how you want to get fucked, or the things you dream up and do nobody any harm. I don't know why you're trying to argue the definition of decency with a creature who was specifically created to punish and teach hard lessons to those who have failed to be."
"Ah," said Aaron, the note of triumph in his voice made sharp by his desperation, "but see, the very fact that I have been sent to hell, that I have been given to a demon, is dispositive, is it not?"
Ashtarag snorted and stood up, and took the two steps that put it at Aaron's side. "Not necessarily," it said, setting a fingertip to Aaron's bottom lip. "See, what I think is, the Big Boss above"—Ashtarag gestured vaguely towards the ceiling—"is fully aware of what you deserve, and what you deserve is to have every depraved fantasy you have ever entertained enacted for you, over and over again. And the beauty is, here in hell, you don't even have the constraints of a physical body to worry over. I could cut you and fuck your wound, send my tongue so deep up your ass that it comes back out your mouth, nail you to the floor and fuck you so hard that we fall into the level below—and at the end of the day, all of that exquisite agony will linger for as long as you care to hold on to it, but not a moment longer."
"But I am foul," whispered Aaron, his breath ghosting against Ashtarag's fingertip. "Fallen, and broken."
"Fallen or not, broken or not, none of that matters," said Ashtarag. "What matters is that you want it. And that I can give it to you. And that is enough."
Again, that recoil, that flinch. An avalanche of pain, and shame, and fear. This was what it took to cause true agony to this man: the truth, put plainly and gently.
Ashtarag could work with that.
"I am going to fuck a new hole into you today, Aaron," it said. "But you need to understand that it is because you will it so, and there is nothing wrong with that." It grinned, deliberately exposing all its manifold rows of teeth. "Now bend yourself over the chair."
They settled into a strange rhythm. Ashtarag violated Aaron, inflicting perversity after perversity upon his body, which he loved and hated with equal intensity. After, Ashtarag would hold him and praise him and remind him of his inherent goodness, which Aaron hated and squirmed away from, even as part of him craved it. The former satisfied Aaron, while the genuine distress of the latter nourished Ashtarag.
It gave up resisting the warping effect of Aaron's desires. Might as well try and stop an ocean wave by holding up a finger to it. Ashtarag was merely an instrument, and it discovered there was satisfaction to be found in being a well-honed weapon put to good use.
Time had no meaning in hell, but insofar as it could be reckoned by the number of times Ashtarag saw Aaron, a long, long time passed. And then one day, as Ashtarag stepped through the door into Aaron's cell, it found itself transformed into a human. Tall, muscular, with large hands and blunt-tipped fingers, and—Ashtarag looked down to confirm yes, with an absolute monster of a cock. It didn't know why it had expected any different. Aaron had one consistent desire, almost comical in its invariability, when everything else about Ashtarag's form changed on his whim.
"Stand up, Aaron," it said in a beautiful baritone.
Aaron's head snapped up incredulously. He almost fell over as he scrambled to his feet.
"What punishment is this?" he whispered. The wave of suffering that crashed over Ashtarag was not pleasing, for once—this was an entirely new species of distress, nauseating and awful.
Ashtarag reached out a hand. Aaron stumbled backwards. The naked fear—genuine fear, not the usual heady mix of anticipation and dread—cut into Ashtarag. It hurt. Ashtarag had not known it could hurt so much
"Who do you see, Aaron?" asked Ashtarag. "Who stands before you?"
Aaron swallowed, his Adam's apple bobbing with the motion. "Lucas."
Ah. Aaron's bosom friend; a fellow schoolmaster.
"Come here, Aaron," said Ashtarag in a voice not its own—but then what was? It was a construct, malleable as clay, and this time it had been molded into this form; another time, it would be something else entirely. "Come to me. Beloved."
Aaron began weeping silently in the way that he had—hot, wet, fat drops sliding out of his eyes and running down his face. Ashtarag could almost taste; it could, it thought, pick them out of an infinite array, so well did it know them. Its heart, human-shaped, human-molded, throbbed painfully at the naked longing on that lean face, which was nothing so trivial as handsome, but instead something far, far better.
Aaron remained unmoving, so it was Ashtarag who moved, Ashtarag who stepped close, Ashtarag who gathered Aaron into its arms, Ashtarag who moved its face down—its strange, flat, human face—and placed its human lips, soft and dry, against Aaron's lips. Ashtarag who began the kiss, who sent its tongue to explore Aaron's mouth; Astharag who gasped, then moaned Aaron's name. Who devoured Aaron as if it were a starving man and Aaron a banquet in the wilderness.
Aaron wept, and kissed back clumsily, and drowned Ashtarag in a confused welter of feelings: love and shame and longing. So much longing. Aaron, who had not seen a human face in untold eons, finally seeing the one person he most wanted—but it wasn't truly him, of course. It was a lie. They both knew it was a lie.
But oh, the lie was sweet; sweet beyond bearing. Aaron did not stop crying as Ashtarag pushed him onto his back, and kissed him until they both felt like dying, though one was dead already and one never alive to begin with. He did not stop crying as Ashtarag rose to its knees and pushed its cock into Aaron's mouth, the length slipping in easily, its hardness nestling into his throat as if made for it. He did not stop crying as Ashtarag fucked his face harder and harder, as it lost itself in the perfect clasp of Aaron's throat, as it came with a shout. He did not stop crying as Ashtarag pushed up his knees and fucked him raw and pulled his hair and bit his throat and clawed him hard enough to bleed and called him beloved, beloved, beloved. He did not stop crying as he came again, and again, and again, though he didn't want to—the reluctance real for once, not born of that strange, torturous dance he insisted on dancing in order to justify taking his pleasure.
At the end of it, covered in sweat and spend, both of them aching and empty, Ashtarag gathered Aaron into its arms, and kissed his forehead as he wept and said, over and over, "No, not like this, not like this," each repudiation a bullet that struck Ashtarag squarely where its heart was not.
Ashtarag stood outside the cell door, the memories of the previous session sitting heavy in its belly. It was difficult to step through, but it was no coward. It would do what it had to do. It walked into the room and slammed the door closed; kept its steps slow and confident as it approached the huddled form in the center of the room. It remained in its template form, resisting Aaron's subconscious tweaks and manipulations. The concept of a true shape was ultimately meaningless here, but this was as close as it had to one, and it felt important, this time, for Aaron to see it as it was.
"Stand up, Aaron," said Ashtarag to that familiar curled back. It had bitten and licked every inch of that body, knew it inside and out. To see it unfurl felt like a gift.
Aaron's eyes widened when he saw Ashtarag's form, his relief palpable that it had not come to him as Lucas. "My lord," he said, casting his eyes down.
"I have come to tell you—" Ashtarag stopped, astonished to find that its voice could crack. It cleared its throat and tried again. "I have come to tell you that today will be our last together."
Blank astonishment, and then, astonishingly, shame and grief. Aaron held himself very still, as if a stray movement would shatter him. The silence stretched long enough that Ashtarag was prepared to walk away without saying anything more—anything to remove itself from the excruciating silence that bathed them in their twin misery.
"What does this mean?" Aaron finally said. "Will I be sent elsewhere?"
"No," said Ashtarag. "You will be assigned a new demon. I will, ah. Explain matters. I have left detailed notes. I have no doubt you will be left in very capable hands."
"I see." Misery radiated from him, which confused Ashtarag. It had expected Aaron to feel relieved. Even elated. After another pause, he said: "What finally disgusted you enough to make you give up?"
The question made so little sense that it took Ashtarag several moments to understand. "I wasn't disgusted," said Ashtarag. "You have never disgusted me."
"Then what was it?"
Now it was Ashtarag's turn to be silent as it scrabbled for words. It finally decided that there was no graceful way to phrase it, so: the direct approach it was.
"I have become…inappropriately attached to you," said Ashtarag. "Not only is it bad form, but it has the potential to compromise my professional judgment and hamper your progress towards learning the lessons you need to learn in order to graduate to Heaven."
Aaron was shocked, confused, incredulous, but hard on the heels of those feelings was another, even stronger. Familiar, but elusive—pleasure, perhaps, but with sharper teeth—but it was rapidly supplanted by a sour and acrid fear.
"Inappropriately attached? Is that even possible?" asked Aaron. "How is that possible? You're lying to me, aren't you?"
"I'm not lying to you." Ashtarag sighed and rubbed its face. "It did not quite become clear to me until I showed up last time."
"As—as Lucas."
"Yes." Ashtarag felt a crooked, snarling smile distorting its face. "I did not think a demon capable of jealousy, but there I was, consumed with envy for this man—a man you wanted so much that you built me into his image. Which was when I realized I wanted you to want me in that way—except, of course, there is no me there; I am built to adapt to you. Your fears, your wants."
Aaron was shaking his head before Ashtarag was halfway through its speech. It was difficult to suppress the instinct to stop him, to hold him down and dole out a punishment for his insolence. But he was not Ashtarag's—not for much longer.
"No, you have that entirely wrong," said Aaron. "I had nothing to do with you appearing as Lucas. I swear by all that's holy—" He stopped, an arrested look overcoming his face. "Not that—"
"Right, not that that would count for much in this place," said Ashtarag drily.
Aaron gave a small, pained laugh. "But I speak the truth. I wanted Lucas once, but it was an—an illusion. A delusion. A longing for closeness that could never have come to fruition because he was not inclined to men, much less my particular, ah, proclivities. Truth to tell, I have not thought of him. Not since—" Aaron broke off and looked to the side. "Not since you," he said in a subdued voice.
Ashtarag felt as if he had been placed into a box and then very thoroughly jiggled. Everything felt upside down; nothing was where he thought it would be. "But I felt— All that longing. That was real."
"It was." Aaron fidgeted with his fingers. "It was a shock; I thought at first it was a new way of punishing me—by withholding you. By dangling before me what I used to want, so very much. More than air. And then you called me…." Aaron swallowed.
"Beloved," said Ashtarag.
"Because you wanted to hear it."
"I did. But…."
"But not from—"
"Not from Lucas, no."
"Ah. So I became Lucas because I wanted it," said Ashtarag. "Because I wanted, just once, to feel as a human does."
"I suppose, yes," said Aaron. "But how could you? You are not a human, and never could be. You are something much, much better—infinitely better suited to me than Lucas ever could have been."
The final piece clicked into place, and Ashtarag understood the bright, fierce undercurrent of feeling in Aaron that had pulled at it for a very, very long time now. The pleasure that was more than pleasure. The joy that dared to bare its teeth and sink its fangs into both of them.
Aaron looked at Ashtarag, and then away, shyness overwhelming him. "I must ask—I must be brave, because what point could there be otherwise to all of the lessons you have tried to drill into me—but…could you perhaps risk bad form, and stay with me? Because what if—" Aaron stopped, and licked his lips. "What if," he continued, "this is it? This is all there is, for me? Because believe me, if they tried to take me away, I would drag you with me, kicking and screaming the entire way."
Ashtarag looked at Aaron beneath hooded eyelids, then stepped up to him and cupped his cheek in its hand. It leaned down and bit his earlobe, hard enough to draw blood.
"On your knees," it said, savoring the iron and salt taste of blood in his mouth. "Worm."
When the wave of feeling from Aaron washed over Ashtarag—strong enough to well-nigh drown him—it discovered it had a name for it after all.
The Defect
The Light In Your Eyes
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10 thoughts on "The Hard Place"
shakkansandshotguns says:
Ok how have you done this?? It's sweet???? I love them???? I love this therapist demon and his religiously oppressed boyfriend
beautifulduckweed says:
Well I love your comments so TAKE THAT haHA.
I wanted to write a power imbalance story about a sad man and the demon lover of his dreams and this is what fell out. Some real manic pixie dream demon shit.
This may sound a little strange, but something I really appreciated about this story was the implication that there was a purpose to the torments of Hell, an actual end goal for a soul as opposed to an eternity of suffering for what amounts to a blip of activity on a cosmic scale. Send 'em to the Pearly Gates or send 'em back, so long as they're ready for the next step! I think it really works with the corporate-flavored torment you set up. Also refreshing to see stuff that plays with Abrahamic hierarchies that doesn't immediately assume that organized churches are 100% correct (but also aren't necessarily 100% wrong, given that sin and redemption and the concept of God are still present). Thoughtfulness matters.
Thank you for noticing and appreciating that particular element of worldbuilding! I was trying to build a somewhat more just framework for an afterlife, and eternal torment as the conseqence of a few decades of being a shit-ass didn't quite seem proportionate, especially since I grew up Taoist/Buddhist and the whole being-stuck-in-hell-forever thing never quite made sense anyway, despite the best efforts of the Catholic nuns who ran my primary school. I honestly don't think this version of hell is particularly GOOD, either; my vision of the divine here is definitely not of something infallible. I just think it's more fun to play around with systems that are flawed but that have been built to purpose and are doing their best to fulfill their purpose. Part of me that thinks about, like, Ashtarag organizing its fellow demons and starting up a demon union n stuff, and what the implications would look like if all the demons in all the different hells went on strike, etc.
What a fascinating take on the afterlife! I love that Aaron basically got stamped "too kinky for heaven, have fun in hell." And then proved too kinky to torture for twelve consecutive demons. Please imagine me slow clapping over here, because DAMN Aaron, that's got to be some kind of record. I'm glad both he and Ashtarag get a happy ending together. It's remarkably sweet, given the inclinations of everyone involved!
Also, idle curiosity here, did you get the idea of Ashtarag changing form in response to Aaron's desires from something? I saw very similar wording on a lore entry in a video game I was playing the same day I finished this and did a double take. :)
Hahaha, yes Aaron is too kinky to torture but also the poor demons have zero experience with someone who likes torture (the kinksters who don't sincerely believe they belong in hell make it to heaven and have a great time up there, is how I envision it). All that pleasure freaks their shit out, the poor babies. I envision the demons in this particular world as being very color-in-the-lines types of guys. They're just trying to do their jobs, dangit!!!! And the job is to TORTURE, not have some guy COME ALL OVER THEM AND SECRETLY ENJOY IT, goddddd. It's like going to work and finding out that your customer is masturbating to the Excel spreadsheets you've been sending them.
Also, the demons changing form thing comes from…gosh, so much media; is it not a pretty common trope? I think the clearest progenitor for this story is The Good Place, where the demons don't do a whole lot of shape-shifting but they do have their human form + their true demonic form. What video game are you talking about? I don't play many at all (the three video games I've played in the last 12 years are Diablo III, Hades, and like…that one black-and-white puzzle platformer in which a poor little boy keeps dying in horrible gruesome ways when you fail to be sufficiently nimble or solve the puzzle quickly enough). I'm kinda curious to see how I accidentally brain-melded with a video game writer :D .
Okay, now I'm imagining almost the reverse scenario, with a demon who IS genuinely horny for totally normal human stuff like Excel spreadsheets. That is SUCH a hilarious idea. :D
So I play too many video games — the puzzle platformer you're thinking of is almost certainly Limbo! The one I'm playing now is Shin Megami Tensei 5, and it's like… God is dead, collect a bunch of demons/gods/mythical creatures and people (like really weird Pokemon), become the new god and remake the world. So tons of demons! I found the lore entry for Ose (a cheetah in metal underpants, because the designs in this game are bonkers): "One of the 72 demons of the Goetia. Appearing as half-man and half-beast, it is said that he can change his form according to the desires of the one who summons him, though not for very long."
I didn't figure you'd gotten it from the game, but I wasn't ruling out that you'd gotten it from the original mythology the game stole him from! The timing was just so close I had to ask. :)
the moment I read "one of their key value propositions and major differentiators" I knew this would be fun, hehehe.
"lacked all soul despite being packed to the rafters with them" I love this line!
"This is a professional embarrassment. I quit." and this made me laugh out loud
there are so many lines from this I enjoyed that I gave up trying to list them all, but in summary! this was unexpectedly sweet and I got truly attached to both Ashtarag and Aaron by the end :') loved the lightness of the language despite the subject matter, and the worldbuilding with all its implications (which other have commented on in more detail than I can) were a delight.
Why did I want to cry at this. I have no explanation, it's just really sweet that Aaron doesn't have to be tortured forever
I know I've already scremed at you elsewhere about this but just had to drop a comment about how much the corporate structure made me LAUGH! Hot and thoughtful and snarky, I love it.


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text:
Rob Stratton released
This makes me sad. I wanted to see Stratton stick with the Reds as the 25th man.
Redleg Nation offers our best wishes to the big guy. Here's hoping he sticks somewhere.
UPDATE: Meanwhile, it appears that everyone's favorite reliever has been released by the Indians:
(Danny) Graves, who was making $575,000 this year, had become the poster boy for the 'pen's struggles. He owned a 2-1 record and 5.79 ERA in 13 appearances this year and never really settled in, whether used in long relief, mopup duty or tight situations….
The 32-year-old Graves showed up to Jacobs Field on Friday with three inches of his hair cut off. He was hoping the new 'do could inspire some improvement in his performance, but he was told of the decision shortly thereafter.
Graves was not available for comment after the game.
This is the second time the veteran has been designated in the past year. On May 23, 2005, the Reds cut him loose after he spent nine years as their closer, amassing 182 saves.
I expect Graves to sign with Washington any day.
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Jason Linden
Glenn 05/13/2006
I think the career is just about over for Graves. He'll kick around for a couple of years, being released and resigned and released again. His best years are well behind him. The arm's the problem not the hair.
Bill Hansing 05/13/2006
Graves was an effective closer for the Reds from 1999-2002. Toward the end of 2002, the Reds moved him to the rotation where he excelled for 4 starts. Unfortunately for Reds fans, Graves was signed to a 3-yr, starter-salary deal based on success in a VERY small sample size, and Graves arm was never the same again. He did terrible as a starter in 2003, was adequate back in the closer's role in 2004, and saw the wheels completely fall off last year. It was pretty much a no brainer to cut Graves last year in the final year of his contract. His salary was a sunk cost, his performance was atrocious, and he flipped off a fan.
I'm not sure how anyone can guarantee that current ownership would have handled it any differently.
Comment by GregD — 5/13/2006 @ 2:23 pm
And while I don't usually agree with you about anything — I would concur with that.
I was never a big Graves fan — even when he was racking up big save totals, I didn't see anything particularly impressive with the guy. If anything, it substantiated that the closer role can be filled by guys who are not all fantastic pitchers — I think Weathers has demonstrated that too.
I do believe that Graves and many fans got "immaculate perception" about how his career unfolded and ended in Cincy.
You did portray this accurately, GregD. I recall Graves leading the league in blown saves (for at least part of the time) when he was ringing up big saves numbers — so his save percentage was never that impressive.
Then he did really poorly for a stretch and did go into the rotation — but at the time he did that — he was back to leading the league in blown saves (at that point in the season).
Graves and his "backers" would like one to believe that his foray into becoming a starter was him martyring himself for the good of the team — but the absolute fact was that he was doing quite poorly by that time as a reliever/closer.
He did OK as a starter so Bowden decided to give Graves starter-like money — which was just one of many bad bad moves on his part (again, this is a fact — not a personal vendetta against Bowden). Graves did nothing to prepare himself in the off-season to become a starter and came into that spring overweight and more tattooed than the year before. He really did poorly as a starter until it was just not possible to have him continue in that role.
He was placed in long relief for a while and did mop-up duties out of the pen — a $6.5 million dollar mop-up man on a cash-strapped budget like the Reds.
He did have some save situations at the end of that year and did OK — causing him to announce that he was "back" — and that he had been screwed around with by (what had become now) the previous manager.
It is reeally an amazing story if you follow it — something akin to what happens in large beauracratic corporations with very poor middle management type employees who seem to keep skating by and kept around while senior management goes through ongoing changes.
Well, when Graves was supposedly "back" — and placed in the closers role again — he was as bad as he ever was — and all hell broke loose. There was the blown-9 run 9th inning game against St. Louis. There were others that were similarly painful.
As painful as Danny Graves demise was to watch — he serves as living proof that we finally are now moving in a good direction as a club.
Castellini and/or Krivsky wouldn't give Danny Graves the time of day — and I am happy to see us get to that kind of place as an organization.
In 4 starts in 2002, Graves had a 1.90 ERA with a 1.000 WHIP and .229 BAA.
Thanks Greg — so that whole foray into becoming a starter — that according to Graves screwed him up so badly — was really a salvation for him at the end of 2002.
If he finishes the year out as closer — he more than likely l;eads the league in blown saves and has totally horrible numbers.
Instead Bowden parlays that little stretch into $6.5 million a year for 3 years for Graves.
Brian Buchanan is probably the guy who ultimately forced Stratton off the roster. Krivsky has shown a propensity to purge the old regime's players in favor of his own. Buchanon game over as a non-roster invitee from (guess where?) Minnesota!!!
To his credit, Buchanon had a great spring (I know, I know, I know — it means nothing) and nearly won a spot on the ML roster. He played alot and hit well. I personally saw him have the game-winning hit in a couple of games and play good defense. I kept thinking — why is this guy still on the roster? Then he'd do something good — nearly every day in ST.
I think Buchanon (and Krivsky's other late acquisition of Alex Sanchez) made Rob Stratton's spot become more precarious.
The Bog Board Depth Chart needs to be updated to refdlect this move.
Speaking of relievers, what has happened to Mercker? He hasn't gotten an out for a week, and Narron chose to pitch Hammond and Belisle over him in a crucial situation. Is he hurt? For the amount he is getting paid he should be being used more than the 7.2 IP he has been.
Mark T 05/13/2006
If I worked a job and needed to be fired, I would hope that management would deal with me in private and talk to the people around me and ease me out. Notice I said deserved to be fired. Graves deserved his fate – it's a tough game, and he had lost it. But it should have been handled differently, quietly, behind the scenes to the degree possible, with the public brought in at the last moment. Reds management created ill will between team and management in the way they handled the Graves affair. He was treated shabbily.
I keep hearing reference to Graves ruining his arm for the Reds. I think that talk probably started with Graves or his agent.
I'm not commenting on whether its true or not, but I'm thinking that pushing an arm, on an undersized pitcher to 8 or 9 big league seasons is about maxing it out.
I know I'm kind of wondering out loud here, but just because Graves never was the same after his stint as a starter doesn't necessarily mean that the two things are related. It could have been the wear and tear you'd expect on a pitcher after several big league seasons. Good luck Danny on all you future endevours.
If I worked a job and needed to be fired, I would hope that management would deal with me in private and talk to the people around me and ease me out. Notice I said deserved to be fired. Graves deserved his fate – it's a tough game, and he had lost it. But it should have been handled differently, quietly, behind the scenes to the degree possible, with the public brought in at the last moment. Reds management created ill will between team and management in the way they handled the Graves affair. He was treated shabbily.
Comment by Mark T — 5/13/2006 @ 4:38 pm
But you are painiting the Graves situation with a very broad brish — in favor of Graves at every turn.
your portrayal leaves out facts — such as, Graves did his "job" right out in the public for all to see; the job he did is routinely covered each day in any number of media outlets; his performance review is published in every newspaper in America — and he flipped the bird at the Reds fans.
Graves made it public with his actions. Not Reds management.
Good luck Danny on all you future endevours.
Comment by Glenn — 5/13/2006 @ 4:40 pm
I can see Danny Graves either opening a number of tattoo parlors across America — or being interviewed by Dr. Phil sometime.
Either way, he's acting like some former child TV star who thinks he is still owed something.
He was paid very well for what he did.
Just for the record, I don't know that I ever saw anything in any print media about Graves release that reflected poorly on how the Reds management handled his DFA.
Yeah making a phone call to release a player is a good way to treat a veteran.
Comment by Pinski — 5/13/2006 @ 10:34 pm
Nevermind that this veteran had just pulled a bush-league stunt, flipping off his own hometeam's fans. That's not a pro — that's a rank amatuer.
Right, and being racistly derided by the fans, isn't enough to cause even the sanest/best person to "pull a bush-league stunt"?
Right, and being racistly derided by the fans, isn't enough to cause even the sanest/best person to "pull a bush-league stunt"?
Comment by Pinski — 5/14/2006 @ 1:10 pm
If Danny Graves can't stand being ridiculed by fans — in a manner that while most offensive, doesn't at all compare to what other professionals had to endure — then no, he isn't handling it like a pro.
Hank Aaron, Frank Robinson, Willie Mays, Jackie Robinson and countless others faced nearly very night what Graves had to endure for one night.
Graves couldn't keep fron flipping the fans off — non of the others did that kind of thing.
The way Graves has NOT handled adversity weel has proven that he isn't a real pro.
Just as in the I "lost my arm in the service to my team" arguement, the only person I've ever heard bring race into the night Graves flipped off the fans, was Graves. There were fans and players there at the time, unless my memory is failing me (and that can be a problem), I've not heard one player step forward and say someone called Graves a racist term.
Whenever race gets thrown into the equation my antennae goes up. It usually boils down to someone knowing they were wrong and having no excuse for their behavior. As they are all out of ammo, the last desparate bullet point is race, whether it happened or not.
I wasn't there that night so I don't know for sure, but I'm very suspicious that Graves threw the race card to help midigate his behavior.
I seem the recall it written somewhere that someone made an inappropriate reference to Graves' Vietnamese heritage.
If it happened, it still is no reason for Graves to flip the famns the bird. He has to suck it up and be a pro in that situation — as countless other players over all of sports history have had to become.
But besides that, his behavior is a red herring. Even when someone is an a*hole, but who has done good things for your company for 9 years, he doesn't deserve to be fired over the phone. Thats both crass and unprofessional.
But besides that, his behavior is a red herring. Even when someone is an a*hole, but who has done good things for your company for 9 years, he doesn't deserve to be fired over the phone. Thats both crass and unprofessional.
Flipping off fans — is crass and unprofessional.
Listen carefully, Graves did not have his career unravel suddenly after doing nothing but good for the nine years previously. He sucked for a long long time. He was given more than ample opportunity to work his problems out — to the point (three times) that he led the league in blown saves when things changed for him. Not once, not twice but three times + he was tried in the rotation to abysmal results.
Whether the Reds brass sent him a telegram, told him face-to-face or called him or wrote it in smoke-signals — he had gotten so incredibly bad that he should have been able to read the "writing on the wall."
You are throwing the baby out with the bat-water here. Graves needed to go — in the worst way. You are elevating the way the Reds told him he was released above the fact that it was so clearly going to happen — because of his poor performance.
Were they wrong — clearly not at all. Now he's been released twice.
He'll be talking to Bowden soon if he hasn't already. They deserve each other.
Good for him. Maybe he's crack into the Yankees depleted outfield.
Candidly, Pinski — I own and run a company — I've fired many top producers who were also as$#@!!es — and it never has taken me 9 years to do it.
Great, but how did you do it? If you did by phone call, I would call that unprofessional.
How one does it isn't as important as doing it — once it becomes obvious that it is the right thing to do.
I've done it both ways — albeit most times in person.
It is never easy. I've always said, if you cannot fire someone who needs to be fired, you shouldn't be running a company. But if you ever get to where you like firing someone, you also shouldn't be running a company.
2020ball on Cincinnati Reds sign top shortstop Ricardo Cabrera


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"Cortical Stimulation" for Depression
NeuroskepticBy NeuroskepticJanuary 3, 2010 1:40 AM
The last decade saw a number of new experimental treatments for depression based around the idea of using electricity to alter brain function - deep brain stimulation (DBS), vagus nerve stimulation (VNS), and transcranial magnetic stimulation (TMS).
The mechanics of these technologies differ, but they're all being promoted as options for "treatment-resistant depression" - depression which hasn't responded to more conventional approaches. They're also alike in that their usefulness is uncertain - either because there have been no randomized-controlled trials (DBS), or because the results of randomized trials are mixed at best (TMS,VNS).
Now there's a new kid on the neurostimulatory block: epidural prefrontal cortical stimulation (EpCS). This involves implanting electrodes beneath the skull, but above the meninges, the "skin" surrounding the brain. So it's unlike deep brain stimulation (DBS), in which the electrodes are placed inside the brain itself.
Late last year, Nahas et al reported on EpCS in a paper, Bilateral Epidural Prefrontal Cortical Stimulation for Treatment-Resistant Depression. They took 5 severely depressed patients, with either major depression or bipolar disorder, who'd all tried many treatments and experienced no benefit:
The mean age was 44.2 years. Four were women, and three were diagnosed with recurrent major depressive disorder; two others had bipolar affective disorder I, depressed type. All were unemployed, and three were receiving disability. The average length of depressive illness was 25.6 years. The average length of the current depressive episode was 3 years, 7 months ... participants had received an average of 9.8 unsuccessful clinical treatments during the current major depressive episode ... They enrolled in the study taking on average 6 psychotropic drugs.
Electrodes were implanted bilaterally over the "anterior and midlateral frontal cortex". This is as sensible a place to stimulate as any, although we really don't know what these parts of the brain do, or how they relate to depression. Nor do we know what "60 Hz, 2–4 V, 30 min on/ 2.5 hours off from 8 AM to 10 PM." stimulation does to these areas.
2 weeks after surgery the electricity was turned on, and the stimulation was then optimized over 2-3 weeks. Did it work? Out of the 5 patients, one didn't get any better, two felt somewhat better, and two were greatly improved at the end of the study 7 months post-op. And there were no major side effects or cognitive changes; one patient got a bacterial infection, but it was treatable. Hurrah!
But hang on. There was no control group, so the improvement could have been due to the placebo effect or, more likely, the passage of time. The guy with the single best response, Subject 2, was as depressed as ever during the first 4 months, but then improved dramatically by month 7. It may not be a coincidence that this subject was bipolar. Bipolar people who are depressed eventually stop being depressed - that's kind of the point.
Indeed, all of the others who improved did so between 2 weeks and 4 months after the stimulation was started, not straight away. So it's not like flicking a switch and turning off the depression... but on the other hand it's exactly that if you listen to what the patients say during the operation itself.
They reported feeling happier and less anxious as soon as the current was turned on (they weren't told when this was, so this is unlikely to have been a placebo effect). Some said things like
"I feel attentive," "feel better and I can talk now," "I can think clearer." A patient noted during anterior frontal pole stimulation feeling as if a "weight [was] lifting off my shoulder," "I feel calm"; another stated, "and although I am worried, I feeldissociated from it. I can think back at my worry."
Subject 2, the guy who got much better a long time after the operation, was the only patient who didn't enjoy any nice effects during the operation itself, which only adds to my suspicions that he would have got better anyway.
What does all this mean? It's hard to say. The results are very similar to those seen with DBS for depression - patients report suddenly feeling happier as soon as the current is turned on during the operation (the only placebo-controlled aspect of the trials), but afterwards the improvement seems gradual, taking weeks or months.
There's two main ways of interpreting this. The optimistic view is that stimulating the right bits of the brain instantly treats depression, and the apparent "time lag" in improvement after the operation is a product of the fact that when someone's been depressed for so long, as these patients have, it takes time for them to readjust to normal life even once they start feeling much better.
The pessimistic view is that stimulating the brain doesn't treat depression, it just causes a "high" which doesn't last very long, and the subsequent slow, gradual improvement would have happened anyway.
This is why we need randomized controlled trials. Nahas et al note that there has been one randomized controlled trial of EpCS for depression, comparing active EpCS to placebo EpCS with the electrodes switched off. It hasn't been published yet, but a preliminary analysis found no difference between the two conditions - it didn't work. And that trial was more than twice as big as this one (12 patients vs. 5). But, they point out, in that trial only the left side of the brain was stimulated, whereas they stimulated both sides.
Overall, just like DBS, EpCS could be either a great leap forward or a waste of time, money and neurosurgery. Hopefully, by the end of this decade, we'll know. Watch this space.
Links: Dr Shockcovered this paper when it came out.
Nahas, Z., Anderson, B., Borckardt, J., Arana, A., George, M., Reeves, S., & Takacs, I. (2010). Bilateral Epidural Prefrontal Cortical Stimulation for Treatment-Resistant Depression Biological Psychiatry, 67 (2), 101-109 DOI: 10.1016/j.biopsych.2009.08.021


Do you know when to lie down?
As I watched them at the Games, I thought of how their work was like a writer's.
Writers need speed when attempting a NaNoWriMo challenge or simply trying to make an editorial deadline.
Swearing off the distractions of the internet and other social temptations is only possible by the sheer force of concentration.
Without focus, novels ramble and become weighted down by too many characters and random actions. Finding Focus in Your Fiction by the Literary Corner Café discusses the pitfalls of unfocused writing.
Patience, and a lot of it, is needed in the editing phase. Watch the Border Collies as they herd—they don't run the entire time. Sometimes they seem to almost tiptoe around the mob. Other times they simply lie down and strong eye the stock.
Of all these virtues, for me patience is the most difficult one. I want to chase those sheep until they're rounded up and through the gate but that's not how life works. Watch this champion dog Nell as she lies down and nudges the sheep to her will. Sometimes I need to just back off and strong eye my manuscript. Look for the stray story lines and extraneous characters that are cluttering up the scenes.
What is the hardest part of the writing discipline for you? Are you impatient? Do you focus on word count while giving character and plot development less time than they deserve? Do you need to get in front of your work, lie down, and give it the strong eye?


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DALLAS — Dallas is an attractive city, and its skyline one of the best in the world. But, apparently, it's not attractive when it comes to recruiting police officers.
"It's getting to the point that it's critical," said Mike Mata, vice president of the Dallas Police Association, as the department struggles to hire.
The last two academy classes have been canceled because there weren't enough applicants. News 8 has learned it may have to be canceled a third time.
New Dallas Police Department officers make about $45,000 a year. They can make $10,000 to $15,000 more if they go to surrounding cities.