The Osterman Weekend and the 1980s

In 1983, Sam Peckinpah’s *The Osterman Weekend* hit theaters as a chilling espionage thriller based on Robert Ludlum’s novel. Though the film was met with mixed reviews at the time, it has since gained recognition as a fascinating snapshot of the cultural and political anxieties that would define the 1980s. Through its themes of surveillance, deception, and media manipulation, the movie eerily foreshadowed many elements of the decade’s geopolitical and cultural landscape.  

### The Rise of Surveillance and Paranoia  

One of the most striking aspects of *The Osterman Weekend* is its portrayal of surveillance as an omnipresent force. The film revolves around John Tanner, a television host who is coerced by the CIA into exposing a group of his friends as Soviet spies. The story unfolds in a web of mistrust, with surveillance equipment monitoring every interaction.  

This mirrors the growing paranoia of the 1980s, fueled by Cold War tensions and the arms race between the U.S. and the Soviet Union. By the mid-1980s, advancements in technology led to fears of governmental overreach, particularly with the proliferation of wiretapping and electronic surveillance. *The Osterman Weekend* captured the zeitgeist by depicting a society where privacy is an illusion, echoing concerns that would only grow with events like the Iran-Contra scandal and revelations of intelligence agency abuses.  

### Media Manipulation and the Power of Television  

Another prescient theme in the movie is the manipulation of media as a tool of control. John Tanner, as a television personality, represents the growing influence of media in shaping public perception. The CIA’s ability to twist narratives and use media to manipulate individuals mirrors the power television held during the 1980s.  

The decade saw the rise of 24-hour news networks, most notably CNN, which began to dominate how people consumed information. Politicians and corporations also recognized the media’s power, leading to the era of carefully crafted public images, from Reagan’s Hollywood-inspired presidency to the rise of consumerism driven by advertising. *The Osterman Weekend* highlighted how media could be weaponized, a theme that became increasingly relevant as the decade progressed.  

### The Culture of Mistrust and Deception  

At its core, *The Osterman Weekend* is a story about mistrust. Friends turn on each other, unable to distinguish truth from lies. This resonates with the cultural climate of the 1980s, when the public began to question authority more critically. The Watergate scandal of the 1970s had already planted seeds of doubt in government institutions, and this mistrust carried into the Reagan era.  

The movie also reflects the fragmented social dynamics of the 1980s. The characters’ inability to trust even their closest friends mirrors a society grappling with shifting values, including the rise of individualism and the decline of traditional community bonds.  

### The Cold War’s Shadow  

Finally, the backdrop of Cold War intrigue in *The Osterman Weekend* feels quintessentially 1980s. The film’s plot revolves around espionage and the specter of Soviet infiltration, a theme that dominated popular culture throughout the decade, from *The Day After* to *Red Dawn.* While *The Osterman Weekend* may have leaned into the paranoia of the time, it also offered a critique of the zero-sum mentality that defined U.S.-Soviet relations.  

### A Prophetic Vision  

Though not a box office sensation, *The Osterman Weekend* stands out as a film that captured the spirit of an era on the cusp of transformation. Its themes of surveillance, media manipulation, mistrust, and Cold War anxiety were not only relevant but predictive of the 1980s’ defining characteristics.  

In hindsight, Peckinpah’s final film serves as a cultural artifact, offering a lens through which we can better understand the decade’s complexities. For those revisiting the film today, it’s a reminder of how art can anticipate and reflect the fears and realities of its time.  

Spooky Tooth "Ceremony "

Spooky Tooth’s *“Ceremony”* is not just an album; it’s an immersive experience that dances on the razor’s edge of audacious experimentation and spiritual revelation. Released in 1969, it’s a kaleidoscopic journey into the furthest reaches of the musical psyche, a collaborative venture between the band and avant-garde composer Pierre Henry. The result is a ceremonial invocation, a swirling cauldron of sound where rock, the sacred, and the abstract collide with reckless, transcendental abandon.

To listen to *“Ceremony”* is to be swept into a storm of sonic ritual, a symphony of chaotic beauty where conventional structure disintegrates into an amorphous, otherworldly texture. It begins with the haunting weight of the organ, an instrument wielded like a high priest's relic by Gary Wright, conjuring a sound that feels as though it is prying open the veil between the known and the ineffable. This is no ordinary rock album; it is a liturgy, an offering to the mysteries of creation, destruction, and the human condition.

Mike Harrison’s vocals emerge as a preacher’s cry in the wilderness, a voice both pleading and commanding, as if channeling messages from realms unseen. It’s not just singing; it’s invocation, delivered with a tremor that can shake the very foundations of your inner world. The lyrics, cryptic and fragmented, seem less like words and more like echoes of some universal truth, messages from a ceremony not fully understood but deeply felt. 

But it’s Pierre Henry’s presence that propels *“Ceremony”* into the avant-garde stratosphere. His electronic manipulations and musique concrète techniques act as both shamanic guide and saboteur, bending the album’s trajectory toward chaos. He splinters the rock foundation with bursts of distorted sound, like shards of a broken stained-glass window, reflecting a fractured and holy light. Tape loops, unsettling noises, and abrupt distortions challenge the listener’s perception, daring them to embrace discomfort as a gateway to revelation.

Tracks like "Confession" and "Jubilation" do not simply progress; they unravel. They’re less songs than they are rites, passages through sonic labyrinths that leave you disoriented, exhilarated, and transformed. Rhythms emerge only to dissolve; melodies bloom and decay; moments of beauty are disrupted by eruptions of noise, like the interruption of divine rapture by the primal scream of humanity. This is not a collection of songs but a living, breathing entity—a ceremony in every sense of the word.

*“Ceremony”* is as polarizing as it is visionary. Critics and listeners alike have struggled to define it: Is it pretension or brilliance? Is it an unholy desecration of rock or its ultimate transcendence? Spooky Tooth themselves later expressed regret about the project, but the truth of its power lies not in their intent but in its enduring ability to provoke and mystify.

For those willing to surrender, *“Ceremony”* is a gateway to the sublime. It forces you to confront the limits of your understanding, to grapple with sound as a primal force capable of breaking apart and rebuilding the self. It is a daring, hallucinogenic testament to the power of collaboration, where the boundaries of genre and tradition dissolve into an ecstatic cacophony. It is not for the faint of heart, but for those who dare to step into the unknown, it offers a glimpse of something profound, an ineffable reminder of the ceremony of existence itself.

"Prison Break: A Campy Masterpiece of High-Stakes Drama"

*Prison Break* isn’t just a TV show—it’s a wild, over-the-top rollercoaster ride that embraces its camp appeal with unapologetic enthusiasm. The show’s genius lies in its ability to weave implausible twists, melodramatic confrontations, and high-stakes action into a story so gripping you can’t look away. 

From Michael Scofield’s intricate body tattoo "blueprints" to the endlessly creative (and often hilariously absurd) escape plans, every episode keeps you on the edge of your seat, not just for the drama but for the sheer audacity of the plot. The villains are delightfully evil, the heroes impossibly noble, and the stakes constantly skyrocketing in a way that feels like a high-octane soap opera. 

But what truly makes *Prison Break* shine is its charm. It knows it’s outrageous, and instead of hiding from it, the show leans in, delivering moments that are both thrilling and delightfully over-the-top. It’s the perfect blend of suspense and camp—a guilty pleasure that feels anything but guilty. Whether you're laughing at T-Bag’s one-liners or gasping at yet another impossible twist, *Prison Break* delivers pure entertainment with style. It’s a celebration of drama at its most exaggerated, and honestly, we wouldn’t have it any other way.

"The Rite Beneath Ethertown"

Ethertown was known for its charming cobblestone streets and twinkling gas lamps, a picturesque village untouched by the rush of modernity. But beneath its quaint exterior, hidden beneath the streets, lay a dark, labyrinthine sewer system older than the town itself. Few dared to speak of it, save for whispered warnings to keep away.

New Year’s Eve was the only night the townsfolk locked their doors early. The celebrations above ground were subdued: a quiet toast, a shared meal, and then an eerie silence as midnight approached. For those who lived in Ethertown, the turn of the year was less about hope and more about survival.

Marion was new to the town, having inherited an old house from her estranged uncle. She’d heard the warnings but dismissed them as small-town superstition. That was, until she discovered the journal hidden in her attic.

The journal belonged to her uncle and detailed a ritual held every New Year’s Eve beneath the town. The entries became erratic and paranoid toward the end, mentioning “The Watchers” and a cryptic phrase: “Blood for the turning, flesh for the tide.” One passage struck her:

"They come from below, drawn by the noise of revelry. We keep them appeased with the Rite. Do not fail them."

Curiosity, mixed with a sense of disbelief, led Marion to the rusted grate behind her house on December 31st. She pried it open with a crowbar, the echoes of her efforts swallowed by the oppressive silence of the sewers. With a flashlight in hand, she descended into the unknown.

The air was damp and foul, the walls slick with mildew. Marion followed the path described in the journal: three turns to the left, two to the right, then straight until the tunnel widened into a cavernous chamber. What she found there chilled her to the bone.

The room was lit by flickering candles arranged in a circle. In the center stood an altar of black stone, etched with symbols that seemed to shift under her gaze. Around the altar, robed figures moved in a slow, deliberate dance, chanting in a language that felt ancient and wrong. Their faces were hidden, but their movements were unnervingly synchronized, as though guided by an unseen force.

Marion stepped back, her foot splashing in a shallow puddle. The sound was deafening in the cavern, and the robed figures froze. As one, they turned toward her. The chanting stopped, replaced by a silence so thick it felt alive.

“You shouldn’t be here,” one of them rasped, their voice echoing unnaturally.

Marion’s heart raced as she tried to explain, to apologize, but the figures closed in. Before she could react, they seized her and dragged her toward the altar. She struggled, but their grip was inhumanly strong.

“We have no choice,” another said. “You broke the silence.”

They placed her on the altar, the cold stone biting through her clothes. The chant resumed, louder now, and the symbols beneath her began to glow. The air grew heavy, and a low rumble echoed through the chamber.

The journal hadn’t prepared her for this. The ground trembled, and from the shadows beyond the circle, something massive began to emerge. It was impossible to describe—a writhing, many-eyed form that seemed both corporeal and ethereal. The Watchers had awakened.

The robed figures prostrated themselves, chanting louder as the creature approached the altar. Marion screamed, but her voice was drowned out by the cacophony of inhuman sounds.

Just as the creature loomed over her, the bells of Ethertown struck midnight. The Watchers froze, then recoiled as if burned. The robed figures cried out in dismay, their ritual disrupted.

Marion’s flashlight, forgotten on the ground, flickered and died. In the darkness, she felt the grip of her captors loosen. She scrambled off the altar and ran, guided only by instinct. Behind her, the chamber erupted into chaos—the roar of the Watchers, the screams of the robed figures, and the distant sound of the town’s bells.

She emerged from the sewers just as the first light of dawn broke over Ethertown. Her clothes were torn, her body bruised, but she was alive. The grate behind her clanged shut as if pushed by an unseen hand.

Marion never spoke of that night, nor did she stay in Ethertown long enough to experience another New Year’s Eve. But as she packed her belongings, she found a final note in her uncle’s journal, written in a shaky hand:

"The Rite is not for us—it is for them. Break the cycle, and they will come for us all."

She left the journal behind, hoping that whoever found it next would heed its warnings better than she had. But deep beneath the streets of Ethertown, the Watchers waited, their hunger growing with each passing year.

"Psycho Killer, Qu'est-ce Que C'est: ‘Who Killed Teddy Bear’ and ‘Rat Fink’ as Forgotten Cinema Holy Grails"

Imagine the early 1960s—a cultural moment just before the free love explosions, while still simmering in the post-Eisenhower repression stew. In this vacuum exists two unholy grails of cinema: *Who Killed Teddy Bear?* and *Rat Fink*. These aren’t just movies—they’re gas leaks in the basement of the American psyche. And much like *Psycho* threw the innocent, white-picket-fence audience of 1960 into the blood-spattered shower, these films exist as warped reflections of a culture cracking under the weight of its own morality plays.

**"Who Killed Teddy Bear (1965): A Sleazy, Lurid Masterpiece of Urban Decay"**  

There’s something deeply unnerving about *Who Killed Teddy Bear*. Directed by Joseph Cates, this 1965 fever dream isn’t just a noir—it’s a sticky, claustrophobic descent into the psychosexual underbelly of mid-60s New York. It’s not a film; it’s a bruise. A slow, pulsing ache of a movie that clings to your skin long after the credits roll.  

The setup is deceptively simple: Sal Mineo plays Lawrence, a nightclub worker with a dark past and an even darker obsession with his co-worker Norah (Juliet Prowse). What starts as a tale of stalking quickly unravels into a lurid tapestry of voyeurism, trauma, and violence. But *Teddy Bear* isn’t interested in easy answers or moral clarity. It’s a film about looking—and being looked at—and the inherent violence of both.  

Sal Mineo is electric here, delivering a performance so raw it feels like a cry for help. His Lawrence is a predator, yes, but also a victim, consumed by his own compulsions and haunted by a past he can’t escape. Mineo plays him as both tragic and terrifying, a human embodiment of the film’s larger themes of guilt, repression, and desire. Juliet Prowse, meanwhile, radiates strength and vulnerability in equal measure, her Norah a rare example of a female character in noir who refuses to be just a victim or a femme fatale.  

But the real star of *Who Killed Teddy Bear* is the city itself. Cates captures mid-60s Manhattan in all its grimy, neon-lit glory, turning the city into a character as seedy and complicated as the people who inhabit it. The cinematography is stark and unflinching, lingering on the shadows, the sweat, the grime. This is New York as a labyrinth of back alleys, dive bars, and broken dreams—a place where the American Dream has gone to die.  

What makes *Who Killed Teddy Bear* so unforgettable is its refusal to look away. This is a film that stares unblinkingly into the abyss, forcing its audience to confront the ugliness lurking beneath the surface. It’s unrelentingly bleak, but there’s a strange beauty in its darkness—a kind of grim poetry that makes it impossible to look away.  

In today’s world, *Who Killed Teddy Bear* feels like a time capsule—a snapshot of a moment when cinema was beginning to grapple with the complexities of modern life and the messy, uncomfortable truths of human nature. It’s a film that challenges you, unsettles you, leaves you questioning not just the characters on screen, but yourself.  

*Who Killed Teddy Bear* doesn’t play by the rules. It doesn’t want you to feel good. It wants you to feel something—anything—and in that, it succeeds. This isn’t just a movie; it’s a cinematic confession, a howl of despair, a masterpiece of urban decay. You don’t watch it. You survive it.

"Rat Fink (1965): The Glorious, Chaotic Id of James Landis"

There’s something unhinged, something beautifully feral, about a film like Rat Fink. Directed by James Landis, this 1965 gem plays less like a conventional movie and more like a head-on collision between pulp fiction, midnight B-movie fever, and a skid-row manifesto against normalcy. It's not just a film; it’s a cracked mirror shoved in your face, daring you to laugh, wince, or walk away.

Rat Fink tells the story of a down-and-out nightclub singer (Schuyler Hayden) who becomes embroiled in a small-time crime spree that spirals into something far bigger—and far weirder—than anyone could have expected. The film’s moral compass isn’t just skewed; it’s missing altogether, and that’s part of the fun. This is cinema as anarchic free jazz, a crime drama that doesn’t bother with redemption arcs or tidy endings. Instead, Landis serves up a nihilistic carnival of violence, greed, and absurdity, punctuated by moments so bizarre they feel like fever dreams.

The characters are straight out of a pulp novel left in the sun too long: Hayden’s anti-hero is a walking contradiction, equal parts charming and sleazy, while his femme fatale companion (Judy Hughes) is all sharp edges and desperate survival instinct. The villains? Pure comic-book grotesques, as though Landis grabbed them from the panels of an underground zine and let them loose in 1960s Los Angeles.

What makes Rat Fink stand out isn’t its plot—it’s the tone, the texture, the grime that seeps out of every frame. Landis captures a seedy, low-budget aesthetic that feels almost punk-rock in its refusal to conform. The cinematography is raw and unfussy, the acting veers between campy and chilling, and the soundtrack feels like it was cobbled together in a back alley. This is filmmaking as rebellion, a middle finger to Hollywood’s polish and propriety.

But beneath the chaos, there’s something oddly prophetic about Rat Fink. It prefigures the rise of anti-heroes in American cinema, paving the way for the likes of Bonnie and Clyde and Easy Rider. At the same time, it holds up a warped funhouse mirror to 1960s culture, exposing the rot beneath the surface glitz. Landis may not have set out to make a masterpiece, but in his raw, unvarnished approach, he captured something essential about a society teetering on the brink of change.

Watching Rat Fink today feels like stumbling upon a forgotten relic of another era—a film that shouldn’t exist but somehow does, standing defiantly against the tide of mediocrity. This isn’t cinema for the faint of heart; it’s cinema for the restless, the weird, and the perpetually dissatisfied. James Landis didn’t just make a movie; he made a declaration of war on convention. And for that, we owe him a nod, a drink, and maybe a round of applause.

**Together: A Diagnosis of America**  

Taken together, these two films paint an accidental portrait of an America about to break. *Who Killed Teddy Bear?* shows the feverish, deviant underbelly of repression, while *Rat Fink* gleefully points a finger at the artifice of our escapist fantasies. Lester Bangs once said that good music rips out your guts and throws them back at you; the same is true here. These are not comfort films. They are agitation, irritation, and revelation.  

Forget your Criterion canon for a moment. Watch *Who Killed Teddy Bear* on Prime and *Rat Fink* on Tubi. Then ask yourself: what does the darkness want from me?

Chosen Edge

It was late September, and Chicago was doing its usual thing—gray sky, a sort of indifferent cold that wasn’t biting yet, but you knew it would get there soon. Jake stood in the doorway of a pawn shop on North Clark, his guitar case leaning against the brick wall beside him. He wasn’t inside, not yet. He kept telling himself he was just taking a breather, waiting for the right moment. The truth was, he didn’t want to go in.

The guitar wasn’t anything special, just some beat-up Epiphone with a sticker on the back that said “Property of Nobody.” Jake had bought it off a guy in Pilsen for $60 when he was 15. He learned the usual stuff—“Blackbird,” “Wonderwall,” some Nirvana—but he never really got good. He wasn’t trying to be the next Bob Dylan or anything. The guitar was just something to hold when the house got too loud.

Now he was 18, standing there with $13.45 in his pocket, and a one-way ticket to Los Angeles sitting behind the pawn shop counter. The guy inside—some old-timer with a mustache like a push broom—had told him he could get $50 for the guitar if he was lucky. “Lucky” felt like a stretch. 

Jake thought about how his mom would look when she found out he was gone. Maybe she’d cry, maybe she wouldn’t. She was like that. His little sister, Mia, would cry for sure, though. She’d cry because she didn’t understand. He hadn’t told her he was leaving, only that he had something big planned. “You’ll see,” he’d said, trying to sound cool. He didn’t feel cool. He felt like an idiot.

A couple of kids skateboarded by, and Jake tightened his grip on the neck of the guitar case. The city always felt big, but it felt bigger when you didn’t belong to it anymore. 

The pawn shop bell jingled when he finally walked in, and the guy behind the counter looked up like he’d been expecting him. “You here to make a deal, or just window shopping?” the guy asked. His voice was raspy, the kind of voice that came from yelling too much or smoking too much, or maybe both.

Jake slid the guitar case onto the counter and popped it open. The guy gave it a quick once-over and made a face like he’d just smelled something bad. “This it?” he asked.

Jake nodded. 

“Fifty’s the best I can do,” the guy said, already turning toward the register like the whole thing was settled.

“Yeah,” Jake said. “That’s fine.”

He watched as the guy counted out five tens and slid them across the counter. The bills looked small. Too small to get him from here to anywhere, let alone Los Angeles.

“You running away or something?” the guy asked, like he couldn’t help himself.

Jake stuffed the cash into his pocket and shrugged. “Just trying to get somewhere else.”

The guy nodded like he understood, but Jake didn’t think he really did. 

Back out on the street, Jake felt the weight of the money in his pocket. It didn’t feel like freedom; it felt like compromise. He walked two blocks to the Greyhound station and stood in line, trying to look like he wasn’t scared out of his mind. When it was his turn, he handed over the cash and got a ticket in return. 

The bus wouldn’t leave for another hour, so Jake sat on a bench near the boarding gate and stared at the ticket in his hand. He thought about what he was leaving behind—a city full of people who wouldn’t notice he was gone, a house that felt more like a waiting room than a home. 

And then he thought about where he was going. Los Angeles. He didn’t have a plan. Just an address scrawled on a napkin—his cousin’s place in Echo Park—and a vague sense that maybe things would be better out there. Maybe he’d figure something out.

The bus finally rolled into the station, and Jake stood up, gripping the ticket like it was the only thing keeping him grounded. He took one last look at the city through the station’s grimy glass doors, then climbed aboard. 

As the bus pulled out, he leaned his head against the window and watched Chicago fade into the distance. He didn’t feel relief, exactly, but he didn’t feel stuck anymore either. And for the first time in a long time, that felt like enough.

Jake arrived in Los Angeles just after sunset. The city smelled like hot asphalt and hope gone sour. The Greyhound station was a mess of shouting voices, stale coffee, and buzzing fluorescent lights. He slung his backpack over his shoulder and stepped out into the night. 

The address his cousin had given him wasn’t far, but Jake didn’t have money for a cab, so he walked. The streets were alive in a way Chicago never was—neon signs humming, cars blaring music, people moving fast and not looking at anyone. By the time he got to Echo Park, the sky was ink-black, and the palm trees cast long, thin shadows across the cracked sidewalks.  

His cousin’s place was a run-down duplex with a broken porch light. Jake knocked, and after what felt like forever, the door opened. A skinny guy with messy hair and a tattoo of a crescent moon under his eye stood there, looking surprised. 

“Jake?” the guy said. 

“Yeah. You Aaron?” 

Aaron nodded and stepped aside to let him in. The place smelled like incense and something metallic. Jake tried not to wrinkle his nose. 

“You hungry?” Aaron asked, already heading to the kitchen. 

Jake shook his head. “Just tired.”

Aaron laughed, a dry, hollow sound. “You’ll get used to that.”

Jake wasn’t sure what that meant, but he didn’t ask. He dropped his backpack on the couch and sat down, trying not to think about how sticky the cushions felt.  

“So, what brings you to LA?” Aaron asked, handing him a can of warm soda.  

Jake hesitated. “I guess… I just needed a change.”

Aaron smirked. “Yeah, this place’ll change you alright.”  

-That night, Jake couldn’t sleep. The city was too loud, the couch too uncomfortable, and Aaron’s cryptic remarks kept circling in his head. Around 2 a.m., he heard the front door creak open. He sat up, just in time to see Aaron slipping out into the night. 

Jake hesitated for a moment, then grabbed his sneakers and followed. 

Aaron moved fast, weaving through alleys and side streets like he knew them better than the back of his hand. Jake struggled to keep up, his heart pounding harder with every step. Finally, Aaron stopped in an abandoned parking lot. 

Jake ducked behind a dumpster, peeking out to see what Aaron was doing. That’s when he saw them—two figures stepping out of the shadows. They didn’t look human. Their eyes glowed faintly, and their movements were too smooth, too deliberate. 

Jake’s breath caught in his throat as one of them lunged at Aaron. But Aaron was ready. He pulled a knife—no, a stake—out of his jacket and drove it into the figure’s chest. The thing let out a horrible screech and dissolved into ash. 

The second figure hissed and charged, but Aaron was faster. He spun around, slicing through the air with a curved blade that gleamed in the dim light. A moment later, the second figure crumbled into dust.  

Jake stumbled back, his foot hitting an empty soda can. The clatter echoed through the parking lot, and Aaron turned, his eyes narrowing.  

“What the hell are you doing here?” Aaron snapped, stalking toward him.

“I—I heard you leave,” Jake stammered. “What… what were those things?”

Aaron sighed, running a hand through his hair. “Vampires.”

Jake blinked. “Vampires? Like… Dracula?”

Aaron rolled his eyes. “No, like the kind that hang out in LA and feed on clueless idiots like you.”

Jake stared at him, trying to process what he’d just seen. “So, you’re… what? Some kind of vampire hunter?”

“Something like that,” Aaron said. “And now that you know, you’re in it too.”

“In what?”

Aaron smirked, a dangerous glint in his eyes. “The war.”

The next few weeks were a blur. Jake learned more about vampires than he ever wanted to know. How they hid in plain sight, preying on the city’s lost and desperate. How they could be killed—if you were quick and didn’t mind getting a little bloody. 

Aaron wasn’t much of a teacher, but he showed Jake the basics: how to drive a stake through a ribcage, how to spot a vamp in a crowd, and, most importantly, how to run when you were outnumbered. 

Jake wasn’t sure why he stayed. Maybe it was because he didn’t have anywhere else to go. Or maybe, for the first time in his life, he felt like he was part of something bigger than himself. 

One night, after a particularly close call in a nightclub downtown, Aaron lit a cigarette and looked over at Jake. 

“You’re not bad at this,” he said. 

Jake laughed, though it came out more like a wheeze. “Yeah? Tell that to my bruises.”

Aaron smirked. “Seriously. Most people don’t last a week. You’ve got guts.”

Jake didn’t know what to say to that, so he just nodded. 

He still wasn’t sure if he’d made the right choice coming to LA. But as he looked out at the city, sprawling and alive and dangerous, he felt something he hadn’t felt in a long time: purpose. 

Jake’s new life as a reluctant vampire hunter was weird enough, but the night he found the sword was when everything officially went off the rails.

It started with a routine patrol in a part of Echo Park that Aaron called "No Man’s Land." The streets were quieter than usual, the kind of quiet that made Jake's skin crawl. Aaron had ditched him earlier to chase a lead, leaving Jake to scope out the abandoned shops along Sunset Boulevard.

One of the buildings caught his eye: a boarded-up auto body shop with faded letters that spelled out “Marv’s Garage.” Jake didn’t know why he stopped. Maybe it was the way the air seemed heavier near the door, or maybe he was just looking for an excuse to kill time until Aaron came back. Either way, he pried open the rusted side door and stepped inside.

The place smelled like oil and decay, and the floor was littered with tools and broken glass. Jake swung his flashlight around, half-expecting to find a nest of vampires, but the shop was empty. Almost.

In the center of the garage was a car lift, and on it sat something that definitely didn’t belong: a sword.

Jake froze. The thing was stuck in a slab of concrete like something out of a bad fantasy movie. The blade was glowing faintly, a soft blue light that pulsed like it had its own heartbeat.

“What the hell?” Jake muttered, stepping closer.

The sword looked ancient, but also weirdly modern. Its hilt was wrapped in leather, and the blade itself was etched with symbols Jake couldn’t read. He reached out, then stopped, suddenly remembering every story about cursed objects he’d ever heard.

But then the light grew brighter, and Jake felt… something. A pull. Like the sword was calling to him.

“Alright, fine,” he said, mostly to himself. “Let’s see what your deal is.”

He grabbed the hilt and gave it a tug. Nothing happened. He tried again, putting more strength into it, and this time, the sword slid free with a sound like a whisper cutting through the air.

As soon as the blade was out, the whole garage lit up, the blue glow flooding every corner of the room. Jake stumbled back, holding the sword awkwardly in both hands.

The light faded, but the symbols on the blade kept glowing. And then, like it was the most natural thing in the world, a voice spoke.

“Bearer,” it said, low and resonant, like it came from somewhere deep inside Jake’s head.

Jake dropped the sword. “What the—”

“Do not be afraid,” the voice said.

“Too late for that!” Jake snapped, staring at the sword like it might explode. “Who—what—are you?”

“I am the weapon,” the voice said simply. “And you are the bearer.”

Jake blinked. “The what?”

“The bearer,” the voice repeated, as if that cleared up anything. “You have chosen me, and I have chosen you. Together, we will destroy the darkness.”

Jake shook his head. “Look, I don’t know what kind of Excalibur thing you’ve got going on, but I’m just a guy. I’m not… chosen.”

The sword pulsed in his hands. “You are more than you believe.”

Jake groaned. “Great. I pull a glowing sword out of a rock, and now I’ve got a motivational coach in my head.”

Before the sword could respond, Jake heard a crash behind him. He spun around, raising the blade instinctively, and saw three vampires stalking toward him, their eyes gleaming red in the dark.

“Well, this is just perfect,” Jake muttered.

The lead vampire lunged, but Jake moved without thinking. The sword’s glow flared, and the blade cut through the vampire like it was made of paper. The creature dissolved into ash, and the other two hissed, suddenly wary.

Jake gripped the sword tighter, his heart pounding. The second vampire came at him, claws out, but the sword moved almost on its own, slicing through the air in a blur of blue light. Another pile of ash.

The third vampire backed away, growling, then turned and bolted.

Jake stood there, breathing hard, the sword still glowing in his hands.

“See?” the voice said, a hint of smugness in its tone. “More than you believe.”

Jake stared at the blade, then at the empty garage around him. “What the hell did I just get myself into?”

The sword didn’t answer, but Jake had a feeling he wasn’t going to like it.

As the days went by, Jake began to understand the sword wasn’t just a weapon—it was alive, in some strange, unnerving way. It whispered to him in his sleep, filling his head with dreams of fire and shadows, of endless battles against the creatures of the night. At first, Jake thought he could handle it. After all, he was already killing vampires; the sword just made him better at it. Faster. Deadlier.

But the more he used it, the more it seemed to use him.

It started small: the voice got louder, more insistent. It didn’t just guide his hand in battle anymore—it urged him to fight, even when there was no immediate threat. Once, when Aaron tried to stop him from charging into a nest alone, the sword’s voice roared in his mind, calling Aaron weak, unworthy. Jake lashed out, nearly striking his cousin before he managed to pull back.

“Jake, you’re losing it,” Aaron said that night, his voice shaking. “That thing’s messing with your head.”

Jake shrugged it off. “I’m fine. I’m just… doing what needs to be done.”

Aaron didn’t believe him, and Jake didn’t blame him. He didn’t fully believe it himself.

---

The turning point came one night in an abandoned mansion in the Hollywood Hills. Aaron and Jake had tracked a vampire coven there, a dozen of them at least. It should’ve been suicide to take them on, but the sword pulsed in Jake’s hand, filling him with a confidence that wasn’t entirely his own.

“We should wait for backup,” Aaron said, gripping his stake nervously.

Jake shook his head. “No time. They’ll scatter if we wait.”

Aaron hesitated, then sighed. “Fine. Just don’t do anything stupid.”

Jake didn’t answer. He was already moving.

The fight was chaos. Vampires swarmed from every corner of the mansion, but Jake cut through them like they were nothing. The sword’s glow lit up the room, its whispers turning into a deafening roar in Jake’s mind. He didn’t even feel like himself anymore—just a weapon, an extension of the blade.

By the time it was over, the mansion was silent. Jake stood in the center of the room, covered in ash and blood, his chest heaving.

Aaron stumbled in, his face pale. “Jake… what did you do?”

Jake frowned. “What do you mean? I took them out.”

Aaron pointed to the corner of the room. Jake turned and saw a body—a human body. A girl, maybe sixteen, her lifeless eyes staring up at the ceiling.

“She was human,” Aaron said, his voice breaking. “She was just hiding.”

Jake’s stomach turned, but the sword’s voice cut through his guilt like a blade. “She was a liability. The weak must fall so the strong may rise.”

“No,” Jake whispered, dropping the sword. “I didn’t—”

“She was in the way,” the sword said, its glow flickering. “You knew this.”

Aaron stepped forward, his hands trembling. “Jake, you’ve got to get rid of that thing. It’s not helping you—it’s controlling you.”

Jake looked at Aaron, then at the sword, and for the first time, he saw it for what it really was: not a weapon, but a parasite.

He reached for the blade, intending to destroy it, but the moment his fingers touched the hilt, the glow surged. The room spun, and suddenly, Jake wasn’t in the mansion anymore.

---

He was back in the auto body shop, standing in front of the concrete slab. The sword was embedded in it once again, its glow faint but steady. Jake reached out, but before he could touch it, a voice echoed through the room.

“Another bearer,” it said, low and hungry. “Another fool.”

Jake tried to step back, but his feet wouldn’t move. He looked down and saw roots growing out of the concrete, snaking up his legs, pulling him closer to the sword.

“No!” he shouted, struggling against the pull.

But it was no use. The roots wrapped around him, dragging him to his knees. The last thing he saw before the darkness swallowed him was the sword’s glow, brighter than ever, and the faint outline of another figure stepping into the shop, their eyes wide with wonder.

“Do not be afraid,” the sword whispered to the newcomer. “You have been chosen.”

And the cycle began again.

Toto fucking OWNS

If you were a kid in the late ’70s or early ’80s, chances are your parents had Toto’s first four albums on *heavy* rotation. If they didn’t, they were either allergic to great musicianship or committed to living in some alternate universe where yacht rock didn’t reign supreme. Between 1978 and 1982, Toto carved a niche so finely polished it practically sparkled in the California sun. And let’s face it: few bands could make you question whether you were in a smokey dive bar or the middle of a fantasy novel quite like them. 

Their self-titled debut, *Toto* (1978), kicks things off with "Hold the Line," a track so brazenly good that it dares you not to sing along. It’s rock, it’s pop, it’s got keys straight out of heaven’s waiting room. This was the sound of session musicians finally stretching their legs after being chained to other artists’ projects. And oh, how they stretched—like kids given the good crayons for the first time.

Fast forward to *Hydra* (1979), the band’s sophomore effort and a low-key fever dream. It’s like Toto said, "What if we wrote an album that feels like *Dungeons & Dragons* but in a disco?" And yet, somehow, it *works.* "99" sounds like it was written for a sentient robot falling in love in the year 2077, and it still makes you swoon. 

Then there's *Turn Back* (1981), the black sheep of the early Toto catalog. Critics didn’t love it, but who cares? This was Toto doubling down on their prog rock leanings, daring you to stop them. It's the album you rediscover as an adult and think, “Wait, this is *actually* good.” It's Toto saying, "We don’t need you to like us; we’ve got our session gigs."

Finally, we land on *Toto IV* (1982), the crown jewel of their golden era. This is the album that gave us *the* song. You know, the one about rains and Africa? Oh, and "Rosanna," a track so smooth it practically slides out of the speakers. Toto IV isn’t just an album; it’s a flex. It's a bunch of guys saying, "We're so good, we’re going to win six Grammys and still make you wonder if we’re underrated."

Listening to Toto from ’78 to ’82 is like walking through an art gallery of the finest soft rock and pop-prog ever created. Gen Z might call it dad music, but deep down, we know they wish their dads had this kind of taste. For Gen X and early millennials, it’s more than nostalgia—it’s a reminder of a time when music could be weird, ambitious, and unironically *epic*.