Sylvia Plath, "Dirge for a Joker"

  • Apr. 6th, 2010 at 8:28 PM
the_wanlorn: The Doubtful Guest (Default)
Oh Castle, I can't believe that, while Beckett is being all detective-y, you are playing Indiana Jones. :D: I DESPERATELY WANT FIC ABOUT BECKETT AND ESPOSITO AND RYAN TROLLING CASTLE. DESPERATELY.

HEY INTERNET, GUESS WHAT MINOR TASK I LEARNED TO DO TODAY THAT I AM RIDICULOUSLY PROUD OF? If you guessed "make outlined text in GIMP" you are correct! So I have been making things like this and this. So I guess I know what I am going to be doing for the next forever. :D :D :D

I wish I had more interesting things to tell you, internet, but my life is not very interesting lately.

GUESS WHO IS WRITING BURN NOTICE FIC AS WE SPEAK? Well. It's not me. But theoretically it could be. In a few minutes. Maybe. WOOOOO.

Dirge for a Joker, by Sylvia Plath )

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MICHAEL: One evening, a patient was brought into my clinic in the middle of the night. He was tortured so badly I couldn’t believe he was still breathing. A man was with him. It was the man on your radio. I’ll never forget the voice. He put a gun to my head and explained to me that my patient had robbed him and that he wanted me to save him so the pain would last longer. I did what I could. He said to come here for my money — my blood money. There’s a place between life and death. Amazing how long a man can linger there.
PRESCOTT: That’s enough, all right? Okay. Bring everything upstairs. We’re getting out of here. Tony? Tony, can you hear me?
THUG: What the hell is going on?
MICHAEL: I know this guy. He’ll have people outside the bank, in your truck,and on your boat. You have no idea who you’re dealing with.
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