[fic] The Wrath, The Wretched, The Fury
title: The Wrath, The Wretched, The Fury.
universe: unnamed vampire one.
characters: C.C. Howlett, Flynn Gallagher, Alex Delmar, Prudence Genovese, Murmur/"Murphy."
word count: 2,484
A/N: This is for week two of brigits_flame's September contest. The prompt this week was really a make-your-own prompt (i.e: pick a quote you like and write something for it), and I had some problems choosing a quote. Originally I went with a quote by Molière, which was "On ne meurt qu'une fois, et c'est pour si longtemps" (We only die once and it's for such a long time). But the story kind of got away from me and also fits another quote I was thinking of from the Psyclon Nine song "Widowmaker" ("Stand before me for it is now that your souls shall be judged") so I suppose if it counts, it goes for both of them? But if not, I think the Psyclon Nine quote is really where the story ended up.
The story is part of an unnamed novel I'm working on. I know this lacks some background, but obviously feel free to ask if anything gets confusing. Sorry it's so long!
When it came to the afterlife, C.C. was bursting with questions that they couldn't answer. She'd asked them about the existence of heaven ("Ha!" Alex laughed, "as if we'd get to go there."), and the existence of hell ("Something like it," Pru had said), and whether there was a god or not who judged their sins ("Beats me," said Flynn), and had not gotten any good information in particular.
"Ask your demon," Flynn suggested.
"He's not my demon," C.C. snapped.
"Okay," said Flynn. "Then ask the demon, next time you're summoned to do ... demony ... things."
"If I ask him, he'll know it didn't work," said C.C. "That I'm still -- partly myself." He'd botched the soul-stealing process. Or maybe she'd botched it. Either way, there was a demon posing as a beautiful man who summoned her to him every few days for a progress checkup.
"What do you tell him?" Flynn asked. "That you've been out slaying vampires willy-nilly? Because I'm pretty sure he'll be able to tell that you just hang out with us."
C.C. said, "I don't hang out with you."
"Oh really," said Flynn. He arched an eyebrow. "What do you call it, then?"
She crossed her arms over her narrow chest. "Reconnaisance," she said after an all-too long pause. It sounded a bit too much like a question.
"Ah, yes," said Flynn. "Of course. Learning how the enemy sleeps and eats and plays music and reads trashy romance novels--"
"They're not trashy." Prudence's voice floated in from the next room.
"And then blending in by criticizing my taste in music and asking us silly questions about the world and what it's like to be dead and, of course, redecorating our home--" Flynn waved his hand around the room, which had various Ikea products in various states of assembly. "I do have to wonder about the one bed, though," he said. "Because I'm not sleeping with Alex."
"And I'm not sleeping with him either," said Pru, poking her head in. She was clutching the book. C.C. tried to angle her neck so that she could see the title and judge for herself whether it was trashy, and found she couldn't without making a total fool of herself. "He keeps trying to cop a feel."
"He's just lonely, dear," said Flynn sagely. "This happens to men."
C.C.'s eyes widened. She asked, "Do you guys still, you know, have--" she gestured down with her hands.
"Well it's not like it got chopped off."
"I mean, can you--"
"That," said Flynn, picking up a badly preserved Rolling Stone magazine (she noted it was from the 1970s), "you can ask your demon about."
C.C. sneered.
--
Back when she'd been a normal girl -- that is, a month or so ago -- she had hated going to the doctor. She hated the waiting. She hated hearing sick people cough and sniffle. And she hated sitting with them. She especially disliked peeing in a cup, because thinking of holding her urine after the fact made her a little squeamish. She didn't like getting weighed or measured, she didn't like getting undressed and having a doctor prod her in places she didn't want to be prodded. The only thing she ever really didn't mind was the finger prick, because she knew when that was over, so was the whole examination.
Check-ups were different now. She would have sat six hours in a waiting room with vomiting, smallpox-afflicted patients in order to avoid meeting with the demon.
The demon lived in a condo in Back Bay, and she suspected he didn't have to pay for it though she wasn't keen on asking. They had regular check-ups once a week, and he could call her in by tugging on her soul like he held a horrible, constricting leash, and C.C. would simply have to go. If she was eating dinner with a friend and she felt the tugging, she could stay for only a few minutes before she had to excuse herself. "Sorry," she'd say. "I really don't feel well -- I need to go."
But she was human. She couldn't simply disappear and reappear in Back Bay, and sometimes she'd sit on the T for forty minutes, her heart aching, and her whole body thrumming with an agonizing need to get to where her soul was, to him.
And sometimes, like tonight, he'd keep her waiting.
And waiting.
And waiting.
She was alone tonight. Sometimes there were others with her. Her brother, whose eyes really were empty but no one would know because the demon was good at this and had gotten good at this, she assumed, over many, many decades. Or there was a girl she'd gone to middle school with, and even though C.C. didn't know her well, she was certain she hadn't always been so, well, conscience-less.
The first day she'd seen Stona in about four or five years, Stona plunged a stake into a vampire's heart and her face didn't move as she did it.
The vampire had screamed and dissolved into empty air; later, when she'd asked Flynn if he knew him, Flynn had turned his eyes away. "We're the only ones in this stupid city," he said. "Of course I did."
Sometimes, C.C. felt like throwing up but she didn't have a conscience anymore, and the lack of it kept her from wanting to die.
The doorman was clearing his throat. She glanced up, startled. "Sorry," she said. "What?"
"You can go up now," he said. He had a strange look in his eyes, too, and she wondered, maybe, if--
But the tugging had begun again. She said, "Okay," and pressed the button for the lift.
--
He met her at the door. He was stunningly beautiful, in a way that shouldn't have been possible. And she was certain everyone would see him that way. The more she spent time with him -- as much as one could call him that -- the more she realised how smart he'd been to choose (did he choose? Or was this really what he looked like?) the facade he showed.
His hair was black and artfully styled, skin pale as Flynn's, who couldn't go out in the sun. He had tattoos, and she wasn't sure if they were real, but they never changed and she never asked. His fingers were slim like a pianists and he wore clothes a rockstar would wear. She'd wondered, at first, why he decided to go with this style, and then realised he wasn't stealing souls from business men in the Financial District; he was targeting a much younger demographic, plucking college students out from parties, and high school students who thought they were cooler than they really were.
His face looked like he'd chosen all the best parts the most beautiful people in the world and put them together. And maybe he had. Maybe this was a side effect of soul stealing; he could dress himself up in any features he wanted, and maybe -- well, maybe after centuries he'd slowly changed his features around, picking the most beautiful off his conquests like ripe fruit off a tree.
The demon said, "Well, don't just stand there; come in and have some tea."
--
"How are things?" he asked. The tea was brewing. C.C. sat with her hands in her lap, her back rigid. She'd come here seven times so far, and she was certain the room changed often. Maybe he was easily bored.
"Thing-like," said C.C.
He arched an eyebrow. It was better shaped than hers. She felt a stab of irrational jealousy.
"I don't know," she said. "Pretty normal, I guess."
"As it should be." He was still standing, pulling out mugs. "Colour preference?"
He held out a green and a white one. She chose green.
"Earl Grey or Constant Comment?"
"Either," she said.
Sometimes she thought these were strange tests. Like each answer was coded and she didn't know it and so couldn't even be careful about how she answered.
Her eyes kept being drawn to what looked like a chessboard over on a small table. She squinted. The pieces looked rather odd, she thought, and there might have been too many or too few, but she couldn't tell. She itched to look closer, but stayed sitting instead.
"You play chess?" she asked, and the demon smiled. He had perfect teeth.
"Of a sort," he said.
"Oh," said C.C.
There was a clock ticking. It didn't tick like a normal clock, and she looked for it, craning her neck up to see something with over thirty squiggles instead of twelve numbers and numerous hands. It sounded like her heartbeat used to when she ran too fast. Which she didn't do anymore. C.C. didn't run unless something terrible was chasing her, and lately that had become more and more usual. She resented a lot of things about that, but mostly the running.
"You know," she said before she could stop herself, "I don't know what to call you."
The demon said, "I told you my name when we met."
She cast her thoughts back to the party. She'd been a little tipsy. She was postive she'd heard something like Murphy. So she asked.
"Close enough," said Murphy. The water in the hotpot boiled. He poured tea.
"Do you want sugar?" he asked.
"Two spoonfuls, please."
This felt very strange. He pressed the mug into her hand. It was hot but didn't hurt.
"You're very inquisitive," said Murphy.
For a moment, C.C. wondered if she should have kept her mouth shut. He read the question on her face or maybe he could read something more than that. She'd never thought about telepathy. She wondered how much he knew.
She suddenly focused on a tangle in her hair, combing through it with her fingers as though that was much more interesting than his statement. Or was it a question?
"Come now," said Murphy. "Ask."
Her mouth opened because he wanted it to. The tugging made her do it. "I have a lot to ask," she said.
"And I have a lot of answers," said Murphy blithely.
"I don't--" she paused. "What do you do with them?"
"Them," repeated Murphy. "Your specificity astounds me."
"The souls," she said.
"Oh," said Murphy. "So many things. Of course, I own many souls now. Sometimes I trade them, but mostly they're mine."
C.C. had this sudden, horrible image of Murphy meeting up with all his beautiful demon friends, displaying her soul like some kind of trading card. I'll give you Cecelia Howlett, he'd say.
She doesn't have enough hit points, the other demon might say. Throw in her brother and a hundred bucks and I'll give you Marilyn Manson.
"Oh," she said after a very, very long pause. "Why us?"
"Why not?" said Murphy, but it seemed to her he wasn't being entirely truthful. Like he had some sort of rubric that he crossed off in order to make sure which souls went for which purpose and whose were worthy of taking. "You wish to know why I took yours."
"And my brother's."
"Max, is it?" he asked. He drummed his fingers on the tabletop. "Well, he's so suited to so many applications. Vampire hunting, business deals, recruitment, politics--" she didn't know half of what he was saying. "You're a bit more resistant."
"I -- I am?" She tried to sound surprised. Her voice shook instead.
"Yes," said Murphy. He sipped his tea and his face betrayed nothing. She couldn't look at it for too long or her breath would catch in her throat and what was left of her soul would start doing a stupid fluttery thing. The stupid fluttery thing that she used to think was her heart, but now knew it wasn't. Organs didn't flutter, anyway. "Anyway, I didn't take yours because you're evil."
"I didn't ask that."
"You wanted to," he said.
She couldn't disagree.
"You're afraid that I'm doing the devil's work," said Murphy. "That I chose you because you belong in some very nasty afterlife."
"Well," she said after a moment's hesitation. "All right, yes."
"I didn't," said Murphy. "I'm no Santa Claus. I don't choose people based on where they might belong after some kind of divine judgment. I choose people who choose me." That was more nebulous than C.C. wanted, but he didn't seem keen on explaining.
"So -- there is no judgment."
"Oh, no," said Murphy, dark eyes wide with less-than-innocent surprise. "There's always judgment, dear girl, and there are so many different kinds, so many different tests to take. I am in the business of collecting souls and having my way with them, and judgment is part and parcel with that."
Her head was starting to hurt. "And when will I know--?"
"The result?" Murphy gave her a rather pitying, condescending smile. He put his hand over hers and it was very warm. "My dear Cecelia, I don't see why it should matter. It's mine, now, isn't it?"
--
She did not take the T home. Instead, she walked in the opposite direction -- away from Cambridge, walking from Back Bay and following the Green Line past Boston University, past the Super 88, past the Brighton Music Hall and turned left up a side street. She walked until the very end of it and walked up to a house and pressed the doorbell and didn't lift her finger. It was only eleven o'clock at night.
Flynn opened the door. His bright blond hair looked disheveled. She wonder if he'd taken a shower. Did vampires take showers? "Didn't you just leave?" he asked.
"Like two hours ago," said C.C. "Let me in."
"Don't you have to go home?"
"I'll tell my mom I'm at Seth's," said C.C. "Let me in."
"I was hungry," Flynn whined. "I was going to go hunting--" but he saw the expression on her face that wasn't so much an expression as a lack thereof, and he sighed. "Fine. I'll have Alex bring me something back. He's out now. And if you don't want to watch us eat, you can leave us be."
She said, "Eat if you want."
He peered at her, frowning. "Are you okay?" he asked finally, and let her in, pushing the door open more fully. "Usually you try to be offended."
"I don't want to pretend anymore," said C.C.
He looked very suddenly wary. "If you're going to ask me to turn you, I'm going to have to make you leave--"
"Shut up, Flynn," she said. "I want my fucking soul back. I want it back now."
And Flynn's lips curled upwards in a smile that might have better been classified as a snarl. "Brilliant," he said. "It's about bloody time."
universe: unnamed vampire one.
characters: C.C. Howlett, Flynn Gallagher, Alex Delmar, Prudence Genovese, Murmur/"Murphy."
word count: 2,484
A/N: This is for week two of brigits_flame's September contest. The prompt this week was really a make-your-own prompt (i.e: pick a quote you like and write something for it), and I had some problems choosing a quote. Originally I went with a quote by Molière, which was "On ne meurt qu'une fois, et c'est pour si longtemps" (We only die once and it's for such a long time). But the story kind of got away from me and also fits another quote I was thinking of from the Psyclon Nine song "Widowmaker" ("Stand before me for it is now that your souls shall be judged") so I suppose if it counts, it goes for both of them? But if not, I think the Psyclon Nine quote is really where the story ended up.
The story is part of an unnamed novel I'm working on. I know this lacks some background, but obviously feel free to ask if anything gets confusing. Sorry it's so long!
When it came to the afterlife, C.C. was bursting with questions that they couldn't answer. She'd asked them about the existence of heaven ("Ha!" Alex laughed, "as if we'd get to go there."), and the existence of hell ("Something like it," Pru had said), and whether there was a god or not who judged their sins ("Beats me," said Flynn), and had not gotten any good information in particular.
"Ask your demon," Flynn suggested.
"He's not my demon," C.C. snapped.
"Okay," said Flynn. "Then ask the demon, next time you're summoned to do ... demony ... things."
"If I ask him, he'll know it didn't work," said C.C. "That I'm still -- partly myself." He'd botched the soul-stealing process. Or maybe she'd botched it. Either way, there was a demon posing as a beautiful man who summoned her to him every few days for a progress checkup.
"What do you tell him?" Flynn asked. "That you've been out slaying vampires willy-nilly? Because I'm pretty sure he'll be able to tell that you just hang out with us."
C.C. said, "I don't hang out with you."
"Oh really," said Flynn. He arched an eyebrow. "What do you call it, then?"
She crossed her arms over her narrow chest. "Reconnaisance," she said after an all-too long pause. It sounded a bit too much like a question.
"Ah, yes," said Flynn. "Of course. Learning how the enemy sleeps and eats and plays music and reads trashy romance novels--"
"They're not trashy." Prudence's voice floated in from the next room.
"And then blending in by criticizing my taste in music and asking us silly questions about the world and what it's like to be dead and, of course, redecorating our home--" Flynn waved his hand around the room, which had various Ikea products in various states of assembly. "I do have to wonder about the one bed, though," he said. "Because I'm not sleeping with Alex."
"And I'm not sleeping with him either," said Pru, poking her head in. She was clutching the book. C.C. tried to angle her neck so that she could see the title and judge for herself whether it was trashy, and found she couldn't without making a total fool of herself. "He keeps trying to cop a feel."
"He's just lonely, dear," said Flynn sagely. "This happens to men."
C.C.'s eyes widened. She asked, "Do you guys still, you know, have--" she gestured down with her hands.
"Well it's not like it got chopped off."
"I mean, can you--"
"That," said Flynn, picking up a badly preserved Rolling Stone magazine (she noted it was from the 1970s), "you can ask your demon about."
C.C. sneered.
--
Back when she'd been a normal girl -- that is, a month or so ago -- she had hated going to the doctor. She hated the waiting. She hated hearing sick people cough and sniffle. And she hated sitting with them. She especially disliked peeing in a cup, because thinking of holding her urine after the fact made her a little squeamish. She didn't like getting weighed or measured, she didn't like getting undressed and having a doctor prod her in places she didn't want to be prodded. The only thing she ever really didn't mind was the finger prick, because she knew when that was over, so was the whole examination.
Check-ups were different now. She would have sat six hours in a waiting room with vomiting, smallpox-afflicted patients in order to avoid meeting with the demon.
The demon lived in a condo in Back Bay, and she suspected he didn't have to pay for it though she wasn't keen on asking. They had regular check-ups once a week, and he could call her in by tugging on her soul like he held a horrible, constricting leash, and C.C. would simply have to go. If she was eating dinner with a friend and she felt the tugging, she could stay for only a few minutes before she had to excuse herself. "Sorry," she'd say. "I really don't feel well -- I need to go."
But she was human. She couldn't simply disappear and reappear in Back Bay, and sometimes she'd sit on the T for forty minutes, her heart aching, and her whole body thrumming with an agonizing need to get to where her soul was, to him.
And sometimes, like tonight, he'd keep her waiting.
And waiting.
And waiting.
She was alone tonight. Sometimes there were others with her. Her brother, whose eyes really were empty but no one would know because the demon was good at this and had gotten good at this, she assumed, over many, many decades. Or there was a girl she'd gone to middle school with, and even though C.C. didn't know her well, she was certain she hadn't always been so, well, conscience-less.
The first day she'd seen Stona in about four or five years, Stona plunged a stake into a vampire's heart and her face didn't move as she did it.
The vampire had screamed and dissolved into empty air; later, when she'd asked Flynn if he knew him, Flynn had turned his eyes away. "We're the only ones in this stupid city," he said. "Of course I did."
Sometimes, C.C. felt like throwing up but she didn't have a conscience anymore, and the lack of it kept her from wanting to die.
The doorman was clearing his throat. She glanced up, startled. "Sorry," she said. "What?"
"You can go up now," he said. He had a strange look in his eyes, too, and she wondered, maybe, if--
But the tugging had begun again. She said, "Okay," and pressed the button for the lift.
--
He met her at the door. He was stunningly beautiful, in a way that shouldn't have been possible. And she was certain everyone would see him that way. The more she spent time with him -- as much as one could call him that -- the more she realised how smart he'd been to choose (did he choose? Or was this really what he looked like?) the facade he showed.
His hair was black and artfully styled, skin pale as Flynn's, who couldn't go out in the sun. He had tattoos, and she wasn't sure if they were real, but they never changed and she never asked. His fingers were slim like a pianists and he wore clothes a rockstar would wear. She'd wondered, at first, why he decided to go with this style, and then realised he wasn't stealing souls from business men in the Financial District; he was targeting a much younger demographic, plucking college students out from parties, and high school students who thought they were cooler than they really were.
His face looked like he'd chosen all the best parts the most beautiful people in the world and put them together. And maybe he had. Maybe this was a side effect of soul stealing; he could dress himself up in any features he wanted, and maybe -- well, maybe after centuries he'd slowly changed his features around, picking the most beautiful off his conquests like ripe fruit off a tree.
The demon said, "Well, don't just stand there; come in and have some tea."
--
"How are things?" he asked. The tea was brewing. C.C. sat with her hands in her lap, her back rigid. She'd come here seven times so far, and she was certain the room changed often. Maybe he was easily bored.
"Thing-like," said C.C.
He arched an eyebrow. It was better shaped than hers. She felt a stab of irrational jealousy.
"I don't know," she said. "Pretty normal, I guess."
"As it should be." He was still standing, pulling out mugs. "Colour preference?"
He held out a green and a white one. She chose green.
"Earl Grey or Constant Comment?"
"Either," she said.
Sometimes she thought these were strange tests. Like each answer was coded and she didn't know it and so couldn't even be careful about how she answered.
Her eyes kept being drawn to what looked like a chessboard over on a small table. She squinted. The pieces looked rather odd, she thought, and there might have been too many or too few, but she couldn't tell. She itched to look closer, but stayed sitting instead.
"You play chess?" she asked, and the demon smiled. He had perfect teeth.
"Of a sort," he said.
"Oh," said C.C.
There was a clock ticking. It didn't tick like a normal clock, and she looked for it, craning her neck up to see something with over thirty squiggles instead of twelve numbers and numerous hands. It sounded like her heartbeat used to when she ran too fast. Which she didn't do anymore. C.C. didn't run unless something terrible was chasing her, and lately that had become more and more usual. She resented a lot of things about that, but mostly the running.
"You know," she said before she could stop herself, "I don't know what to call you."
The demon said, "I told you my name when we met."
She cast her thoughts back to the party. She'd been a little tipsy. She was postive she'd heard something like Murphy. So she asked.
"Close enough," said Murphy. The water in the hotpot boiled. He poured tea.
"Do you want sugar?" he asked.
"Two spoonfuls, please."
This felt very strange. He pressed the mug into her hand. It was hot but didn't hurt.
"You're very inquisitive," said Murphy.
For a moment, C.C. wondered if she should have kept her mouth shut. He read the question on her face or maybe he could read something more than that. She'd never thought about telepathy. She wondered how much he knew.
She suddenly focused on a tangle in her hair, combing through it with her fingers as though that was much more interesting than his statement. Or was it a question?
"Come now," said Murphy. "Ask."
Her mouth opened because he wanted it to. The tugging made her do it. "I have a lot to ask," she said.
"And I have a lot of answers," said Murphy blithely.
"I don't--" she paused. "What do you do with them?"
"Them," repeated Murphy. "Your specificity astounds me."
"The souls," she said.
"Oh," said Murphy. "So many things. Of course, I own many souls now. Sometimes I trade them, but mostly they're mine."
C.C. had this sudden, horrible image of Murphy meeting up with all his beautiful demon friends, displaying her soul like some kind of trading card. I'll give you Cecelia Howlett, he'd say.
She doesn't have enough hit points, the other demon might say. Throw in her brother and a hundred bucks and I'll give you Marilyn Manson.
"Oh," she said after a very, very long pause. "Why us?"
"Why not?" said Murphy, but it seemed to her he wasn't being entirely truthful. Like he had some sort of rubric that he crossed off in order to make sure which souls went for which purpose and whose were worthy of taking. "You wish to know why I took yours."
"And my brother's."
"Max, is it?" he asked. He drummed his fingers on the tabletop. "Well, he's so suited to so many applications. Vampire hunting, business deals, recruitment, politics--" she didn't know half of what he was saying. "You're a bit more resistant."
"I -- I am?" She tried to sound surprised. Her voice shook instead.
"Yes," said Murphy. He sipped his tea and his face betrayed nothing. She couldn't look at it for too long or her breath would catch in her throat and what was left of her soul would start doing a stupid fluttery thing. The stupid fluttery thing that she used to think was her heart, but now knew it wasn't. Organs didn't flutter, anyway. "Anyway, I didn't take yours because you're evil."
"I didn't ask that."
"You wanted to," he said.
She couldn't disagree.
"You're afraid that I'm doing the devil's work," said Murphy. "That I chose you because you belong in some very nasty afterlife."
"Well," she said after a moment's hesitation. "All right, yes."
"I didn't," said Murphy. "I'm no Santa Claus. I don't choose people based on where they might belong after some kind of divine judgment. I choose people who choose me." That was more nebulous than C.C. wanted, but he didn't seem keen on explaining.
"So -- there is no judgment."
"Oh, no," said Murphy, dark eyes wide with less-than-innocent surprise. "There's always judgment, dear girl, and there are so many different kinds, so many different tests to take. I am in the business of collecting souls and having my way with them, and judgment is part and parcel with that."
Her head was starting to hurt. "And when will I know--?"
"The result?" Murphy gave her a rather pitying, condescending smile. He put his hand over hers and it was very warm. "My dear Cecelia, I don't see why it should matter. It's mine, now, isn't it?"
--
She did not take the T home. Instead, she walked in the opposite direction -- away from Cambridge, walking from Back Bay and following the Green Line past Boston University, past the Super 88, past the Brighton Music Hall and turned left up a side street. She walked until the very end of it and walked up to a house and pressed the doorbell and didn't lift her finger. It was only eleven o'clock at night.
Flynn opened the door. His bright blond hair looked disheveled. She wonder if he'd taken a shower. Did vampires take showers? "Didn't you just leave?" he asked.
"Like two hours ago," said C.C. "Let me in."
"Don't you have to go home?"
"I'll tell my mom I'm at Seth's," said C.C. "Let me in."
"I was hungry," Flynn whined. "I was going to go hunting--" but he saw the expression on her face that wasn't so much an expression as a lack thereof, and he sighed. "Fine. I'll have Alex bring me something back. He's out now. And if you don't want to watch us eat, you can leave us be."
She said, "Eat if you want."
He peered at her, frowning. "Are you okay?" he asked finally, and let her in, pushing the door open more fully. "Usually you try to be offended."
"I don't want to pretend anymore," said C.C.
He looked very suddenly wary. "If you're going to ask me to turn you, I'm going to have to make you leave--"
"Shut up, Flynn," she said. "I want my fucking soul back. I want it back now."
And Flynn's lips curled upwards in a smile that might have better been classified as a snarl. "Brilliant," he said. "It's about bloody time."