Maxim

Baby, very loosely, and that's with the volume turned all the way downE. 

.intoforest { position: relative; margin: 20px auto 0px; background: #191919; height: auto; padding: 40px; width: 400px; min-height: 300px; } .intoforest img { position: absolute; height: 250px; width: 480px; object-fit: cover; left: 0px; top: 0px; filter: grayscale(0%) contrast(75%); } .ifoutline { position: relative; min-height: 220px; width: 320px; border: 1px solid #d3e0e5; } .intoforest text { display: block; position: relative; color: #e7e7e7; padding: 30px; margin-top: 210px; text-align: justify; font-size: 12px; line-height: 180%; font-family: roboto; padding-bottom: 20px; } .intoforest lyrics { position: absolute; color: #d3e0e5; font-family: overpass; text-transform: uppercase; font-weight: 800; font-size: 9px; letter-spacing: 9px; width: 200px; line-height: 200%; padding: 20px; } I WANT YOU TO SURRENDER; ALL MY FEELINGS ROSE TODAY Standing in the doorway of a familiar stranger, mouth agape, Bobby tries to drink in the entire scene in front of him. Having to thread through so many different elements at once, making sense of it all, he almost had to wonder if this was some kind of deliberate set-up. The very thought, in spite of its absurdity, incited a wave of emotion that washed over him as he took the time to assess the scene in front of him. One of them: pure shock, as Bobby found himself face-to-face with the figure that he had begun to taper off as a blissful memory, after enough time had elapsed with no form of contact between the two of them whatsoever—mild irritation at the aforementioned, Bobby considering that, perhaps, she’d never intended to reconnect with him at all after that one fateful night at the club. It’s the minute, but pertinent, feeling of elation that put him at odds with himself—a feeling that, perhaps, with this reconnection, they could in fact pick up where their scintillating whirlwind encounter left them that evening. Against the nagging voice at the back of his mind, he was kind of ecstatic to be able to just see Emma again; to thread his fingers once more through her soft and lush-looking blonde hair, to purposefully caress the silk exterior of her abnormally smooth skin, to feel the rigid indent in her back to where her modest ass begins to curve and take its shape, to put his mouth to her body and indulge in the succulence of the fine, rare fruit which she bore both high and low. Unwittingly, he’d begun to lose himself in his thoughts of bliss and debauchery, all before it all became outweighed by a crippling feeling of frank shock and bewilderment. Bobby can recall the night in its entirety mostly. He and Emma had spent nearly the entire night engaged in shallow, then deep, conversation, before they came to a point where there wasn’t much room for talk at all. But not once had there ever been any acknowledgement of a child at any time, if memory serves correct. His chagrin having evolved through rekindled concupiscence, then through surprise, finally falls to captivation toward the young mother and her adorable offspring. Her big secret, so to speak, only proved to rope him in further despite his frustration. This, however, only meant that he had pages upon pages of questions to be answered, on top of the one which drilled at his brain: why did she lead him on, only to not really want him? Kneeling down before the little boy to level their heights, he attempts to make pleasantries, with a smirk and a wink to express how instantly he was taken by the child’s charms. “Yo, hey little buddy,” he’d greet. “You must be the man of the house, yeah? Ya mind if I come in and take a look at those broken pipes for you and mommy? I doubt I’m as cool as the Bobby you're already friends with, but I bet you’d be pretty impressed by what I can do with a couple of these tools in my box. I can even show you how some of them work; I’ll make you my special helper. Uh, if that’s alright with mommy of course.” Still knelt down on one bent knee, with his forearm rested on the other knee, he looks up to the stunning Emma for her simple approval. A one word yes, if nothing else. MONTY @Mariah.

Sir Jeigz said y'all fucked with the right one.

Ehh

Going with Io here. Her run on the joshi circuit was legendary and she's absolutely been one of my favorite female wrestlers for a number of years. Not to mention, she's had a better match catalog this decade than about 7 of the other 9 women combined. If I were to go for a second vote, it'd be Lana. Arguably the most consistent mic worker among the females (contending with Carmella) and one of the best in the WWE as a whole. She went toe-to-toe with the Rock at one point. That's some power, ma'am.  

Yeah, this about sums it all up. I don't have much else to add.  

Do I know you?

Who is dis? I'm interpreting as Kailtyn and Funkadactyl Naomi, in which case

Eve is my pick. Another one that I don't feel will have a strong lifeline in this competition, but definitely the most qualified option here. Led the division during that fuzzy post-'08 divas/pre-AJ period and, as overrated as I feel it is, her heel run was without a doubt her paramount moment and shaped her entire career.

I feel like we're definitely going to have differing points of view on the entire first half, namely why exactly it was that they did discard Brie during the height of her popularity (her being her own crippler), but it is what it is. I can't say that I agree with most women not having the kind of gumption to have a program with Stephanie, especially in today's environment where I feel most of the current women definitely have the tools to do so (and better!). She couldn't stand with Stephanie on mic and, despite their match being perhaps the most impressive notch in both of their respective galleries, it says a lot that the non-wrestler ended up being the most interesting to watch. To Brie's credit, she was massively over during their feud, no doubt. But perhaps that hearkens back to one of those crutches I mentioned before, and I don't want to be the one to call his name! 

Objectively, none of these women have had a more important decade than Brie has had. What's stopping me from going full throttle with her, however, is that for all the opportunity she's been afforded, she seemed to have always fallen short of taking full advantage, and has needed a prominent crutch in any major program she's had. Brie v. Stephanie should've been one of, if not the most, important women's feud of the past decade --- yet, Stephanie practically had to carry the entire thing on her back. I'm gonna go with Maryse. I don't see her pulling through long-term, but she managed to establish herself in two decades, and ended up becoming an indispensable element to Miz's character, especially at a crucial point where he was on a downward slope.

Scream (1996) - 21 The Lost Boys (1987) - 13 Interview With a Vampire (1994) - 15 Get Out (2017) - 15 The Shining (1980) - 14 I Know What You Did Last Summer (1997) - 15 Alien (1979) - 15 Hocus Pocus (1993) - 18 Fear (1996) - 17 The Craft (1996) - 17 Halloween (1978) - 15 Misery (1990) - 16 Friday the 13th Part III (1982) - 15 Drag Me to Hell (2009) - 17 Silence of the Lambs (1991) - 18 Jennifer's Body (2009) - 14 Carrie (1976) - 16 Dawn of the Dead (2004) - 15 Addams Family Values (1993) - 12 Child's Play (1988) - 15 Psycho (1960) - 15 Final Destination (2000) - 20

.intoforest { position: relative; margin: 20px auto 0px; background: #191919; height: auto; padding: 40px; width: 400px; min-height: 300px; } .intoforest img { position: absolute; height: 250px; width: 480px; object-fit: cover; left: 0px; top: 0px; filter: grayscale(0%) contrast(75%); } .ifoutline { position: relative; min-height: 220px; width: 320px; border: 1px solid #d3e0e5; } .intoforest text { display: block; position: relative; color: #e7e7e7; padding: 30px; margin-top: 210px; text-align: justify; font-size: 12px; line-height: 180%; font-family: roboto; padding-bottom: 20px; } .intoforest lyrics { position: absolute; color: #d3e0e5; font-family: overpass; text-transform: uppercase; font-weight: 800; font-size: 10px; letter-spacing: 10px; width: 200px; line-height: 200%; padding: 20px; } I'm the trouble starter Coming off of the heels of an increasingly stressful week, made markedly better by a reunion with whom he was quickly blossoming feelings for, Bobby decided that he needed a forum to decompress and de-stress. Retreating to his faithful steed, an olive green pickup sitting on 18”—his stallion—he sets off towards a part of town that most justifiably avoided, especially if you weren’t a familiar face. Despite having not been born or raised there, or anywhere even in the vicinity of the state, he knew Marshall’s Point like the back of his hand. The roads beneath his rubber wheels were practically cracked and ground into dust, while graffiti served as birth markings to distinguish the worn buildings. Fences were patched with scraps of steel, and larger chunks of steel in the form of broken down cars garnished the centerpieces of it all, them being the gang members, drug dealers and prostitutes scattered onto every corner. It wasn’t luxurious by any stretch of the imagination, and proved to contradict his efforts to escape his past life, but it was here Bobby would find his nirvana—‘Sweatbox’ Boxing Gym. Occupying old warehouse space and standing three stories tall, a handful of natives would use the property to stay in shape and unleash pent up anger, both being avenues the former marine enjoyed practicing through his most favorite hobby. And with his usual partner in crime, Andrew, temporarily out of commission, he arranged a meet up with a familiar who he often teased could benefit from some toughening up. Pulling up along the sidewalk just out front, Bobby marches toward the metal side door with his gym bag in tow, the window guarded by a cage of steel and the mahogany paint peeling from the body in strips. Swinging it open and swaggering in with his signature cockiness/bravado, he tosses his bag in his designated locker, then peels off his t-shirt to allow the sunlight pouring through the windows to contour the muscles of his already impeccable physique; every peak, every valley, just above his startlingly low hanging jeans and Calvins. He was a show off, to say the least. He took to the sink closest to the showers to wash a handful of water over his face, both as a means of waking himself up and rinsing away some of the grime and grease from his skin, afterward taking the time to properly observe himself completely in the modest-sized mirror. Despite his occasional tendency of playful haughtiness and swanking, Bobby actually didn’t consider himself overly conceited or anything of the sort. Confident, absolutely, but not at all shallow or superficial. That didn’t mean that he couldn’t take the time out to admire his fruits of hard labor every now and then. He runs his hands down the surface of the deep tinted bronze skin, letting his fingers graze over every shift, every cut and crevice, with appropriate admiration for his objectively well-built frame. Every once in a while, he’d stumble over the harsh texture of a deep rigid scar or the sensitive tissue of a, since-repaired, once-near critical wound, and it’s as if he can recall every dismal memory that accompanies the individual mark. Bobby shifts his frame slightly to the side before returning face-front, giving his body a complete once-over. Battle-tested, he’d definitely call himself. He was a warrior in every sense of the word, for better or worse. But most times he has to improvise without a sword or shield. Bobby doesn’t regret many things in his life—rather, he treats every situation as a catalyst for growth. That said, he’s also abreast of the fact that every action forges reaction; that every cause has a consequence. The grate of the steel door dragging agonizingly on the cold tiled floor is enough to break him from his reverie, before he changes into his boxing shorts and packs his few belongings into the cramped locker space, then heads back out the centerfold. Aching to emit the steam confined in his hard head, Bobby climbs a heavy punching bag like an animal, wraps his legs around its circumference, then begins his sit ups to warm himself, whilst hanging off. His bare core muscles tighten, each of his many abs taking full iron form as his top half comes parallel with the heavy bag, and falls back to a ‘resting’ position. His endurance and his strength was on full display, almost as though it were a masterful performance to less skilled onlookers. But he thought nothing of it, his focus squarely on his fitness—his one area of strict discipline. With the background track boosting his adrenaline, his action is continuous and fast, drawing heavy sweat from his pores with ease. It's suddenly he’s interrupted by a tap on his dampened shoulder. Transitioning into a handstand, then rotating back to his feet, he catches his breath, stands tall and greets his special guest. “Yo, Auggie! My man!” he roars with a wide grin, offering a patent handshake, then pulling his casual friend in for a noogie. “It’s been too fucking long; how you been, buddy? Ha, hey don’t look so scared to be here, you’re gonna embarrass me,” he adds on to tease. MONTY @ris

They're superhero movies; a genre built upon novelty. Name one film in the history of that genre that's ever provoked strong thought or been anything other than superficial fun. Dark Knight is an anomaly, and even with that, I'm throwing a bone. Just because they've managed to monopolize the industry and found a winning formula for themselves, doesn't mean that they aren't still self-aware, or trying to make it more than what it is. Marvel Studios just forwarded their list to the Academy for the consideration of Endgame, and it's essentially all technical categories, despite it ending the decade as the highest-earning film ever.

.intoforest { position: relative; margin: 20px auto 0px; background: #191919; height: auto; padding: 40px; width: 400px; min-height: 300px; } .intoforest img { position: absolute; height: 250px; width: 480px; object-fit: cover; left: 0px; top: 0px; filter: grayscale(0%) contrast(75%); } .ifoutline { position: relative; min-height: 220px; width: 320px; border: 1px solid #d3e0e5; } .intoforest text { display: block; position: relative; color: #e7e7e7; padding: 30px; margin-top: 210px; text-align: justify; font-size: 12px; line-height: 180%; font-family: roboto; padding-bottom: 20px; } .intoforest lyrics { position: absolute; color: #d3e0e5; font-family: overpass; text-transform: uppercase; font-weight: 800; font-size: 9px; letter-spacing: 9px; width: 200px; line-height: 200%; padding: 20px; } I WANT YOU TO SURRENDER; ALL MY FEELINGS ROSE TODAY Bobby parks his truck and raises his pelvis toward his steering wheel, granting him access to his back pocket for his notepad. Looking up from the address jotted down on an otherwise clean page, he then briefly surveys his surroundings. There wasn’t much to behold of the scenery of his location, Bobby very familiar with the tall brick, glass and cement buildings which made up the downtown Olympia skyline; moreso with what monsters hide behind every corner. But by day, the sun seemed to reflect off the rows of windows, giving the city’s core a more optimistic feel. Like there were actual hopes and dreams to be had in an otherwise cold, corrupt place. He knew better, however, especially after how a night of bliss and passion with an unforgettable woman, quickly unraveled into a reminder of the demons he tried to battle⁠—to escape. And he wasn’t even able to bring himself to risk asking to see her again, regrettably so. A result which drew the relentless shaming from a recovering Andrew, who argued that he passed the ball and took a bullet in the process, only for Bobby to fumble. Exhaling to air out the smoky memories left behind from that fiery night, he next exits the vehicle and unloads his tools from the back to throw himself into his day’s work. He trots up slightly and has to take a minute or two to find his access key upon arriving at the apartment entrance, then marches toward the elevator and pushes down on the given floor. The journey up provides a moment to reminisce once more on the night he found an “angel”. The curves and flow of her body. The taste of her supple lips. The slickness of her tongue. The way she’d tremble as he’d suck markings on her skin. The point of her breasts imprinting on his tongue. The lasting, rich sweetness of her center. Jesus fucking Christ, Bobby, can you stop? It’ll never happen again. It’s over; she’s out of your life. It’s time to focus on work. He sighs once more and narrows down to the door he’s looking for, finally arriving and giving it a knock. With his head still peering down at the paper, ensuring he’s got the correct set of numbers, the lock turns open. “Um, good afternoon, Ms…. De Angelo? Uh, plumber here answering that service call you-” he cuts himself off as he find himself eye-to-eye with the face that’s plagued his mind for the last eight nights. He hasn’t seen or heard even a peep from the unmistakably ravishing girl he’d found himself engaged with at the club that night. A part of him was willing to shoulder that blame, as he himself had become almost overwhelmingly swamped with more jobs and other insidiously vital shit he’d had going on since that time. The other, very obscure part of him just happened to be a teeny bit disappointed that she likely hadn’t made to seek him out in any way, especially given the implicit, but surely palpable desire they’d shared between them that night. He’d begun to deduce, after some time, that perhaps that had been her way of letting him off easily⁠—to possibly establish that both of their priorities were dissimilar; that, realistically, he was nothing more beyond a regular mark that had ended up swept up in Emma’s routine finesse and lined her pockets with a few extra chunks of cash. Still yet, he can’t help but break into a pink smile⁠—lips parted—at the vision of her. Nothing about her had changed; not that it would or even could. She remained an incomparable sight that he couldn't even fucking bear. “-made. I’m sorry, Ms. De Angelo? It just hadn’t dawned on me that you were a repeat customer,” he sniggers and scratches the back of his head, quick to quip. His blue eyes fixate before him and his jawline flexes, projecting his patent allure, then he continues. “But I’m happy to be of service again. Uh, wanna invite me in and show me where you need help?” MONTY @Mariah.