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A spreadsheet to track bets on horse racing including a formula to calculate each way bets from fractional odds depending on the outcome of each race?
I’ve been looking online for a while now and keep running into walls. I’m after a spreadsheet that has the following columns: A: Racecourse (eg Haydock, Aintree, Southwell) B: Time of race (eg 14:10, 15:50, 21:00) C: Horse (name of the horse I’ve bet on) D: Odds (fractional odds, eg 9/2, 4/1, etc.) E: Bet type (win or EW) F: proportion of the odds (if bet type is EW, this is usually ¼, sometimes 1/5. If bet type is win, it’s 1.) G: Stake (in points, eg 0.5, 1, 3) H: Actual staked amount (if bet type is win, copy the stake; if bet type is EW, double stake. Again, in pts) I: Outcome of race (win, place, pulled up, fell, non-runner etc.) J: Winnings (outcome from a combination of rows D, E, F, H and I.) J is where I’m really struggling, because there are so many connotations and outcomes, beyond my spreadsheet knowledge. And, it turns out, beyond my knowledge of how each way betting works in terms of what you win if a horse comes 1st, 2nd or 3rd etc. Hopefully someone here has a vast knowledge of Excel AND a wealthy knowledge of betting. I’ve got this far: https://ufile.io/24uimr0w Anyone fancy doing some excel wizardry, please? Thank you very much.
I’m after a fairly simple spreadsheet to track bets on horse racing, including a formula to calculate each way bets from fractional odds, depending on the outcome of each race.
I’ve been looking online for a while now and keep running into walls. I’m after a spreadsheet that has the following columns: A: Racecourse (eg Haydock, Aintree, Southwell) B: Time of race (eg 14:10, 15:50, 21:00) C: Horse (name of the horse I’ve bet on) D: Odds (fractional odds, eg 9/2, 4/1, etc.) E: Bet type (win or EW) F: proportion of the odds (if bet type is EW, this is usually ¼, sometimes 1/5. If bet type is win, it’s 1.) G: Stake (in points, eg 0.5, 1, 3) H: Actual staked amount (if bet type is win, copy the stake; if bet type is EW, double stake. Again, in pts) I: Outcome of race (win, place, pulled up, fell, non-runner etc.) J: Winnings (outcome from a combination of rows D, E, F, H and I.) J is where I’m really struggling, because there are so many connotations and outcomes, beyond my spreadsheet knowledge. And, it turns out, beyond my knowledge of how each way betting works in terms of what you win if a horse comes 1st, 2nd or 3rd etc. Hopefully someone here has a vast knowledge of Excel AND a wealthy knowledge of betting. I’ve got this far: https://ufile.io/24uimr0w Anyone fancy doing some excel wizardry, please? Thank you very much.
Host or participate in Heists - Min. Level 1 / to participate; Min. Level 12 / or own a high-end apartment to host
I'm a millionaire already, just give me a grind:
CEO Import/Export Vehicle Work by Psychko - Currently most reliable and profitable money grind with high end only method - Min. Level 1 / if you already own a CEO office / if you do not own a CEO office
Do an I/E sourcing mission, then do VIP work (Headhunter or Sightseer are a breeze with a Buzzard) in the cool down, then do an I/E delivery mission. Rinse and repeat!
Earn 2000-3000RP per source delivery, 5000RP per sale delivery. Buy 1 crate and sell immediately for maximum RP since the same RP is given whether you source/sell 1 crate or multiple.
Earn 200-600RP bonuses when you stay near the CEO/VIP's location
Host or participate in Heists - Min. Level 1 / to participate; Min. Level 12 / or own a high-end apartment to host
I'm a millionaire already, just give me a grind:
CEO Import/Export Vehicle Work by Psychko - Currently most reliable and profitable money grind with high end only method - Min. Level 1 / if you already own a CEO office / if you do not own a CEO office
Do an I/E sourcing mission, then do VIP work (Headhunter or Sightseer are a breeze with a Buzzard) in the cool down, then do an I/E delivery mission. Rinse and repeat!
Earn 2000-3000RP per source delivery, 5000RP per sale delivery. Buy 1 crate and sell immediately for maximum RP since the same RP is given whether you source/sell 1 crate or multiple.
Earn 200-600RP bonuses when you stay near the CEO/VIP's location
Host or participate in Heists - Min. Level 1 / to participate; Min. Level 12 / or own a high-end apartment to host
I'm a millionaire already, just give me a grind:
CEO Import/Export Vehicle Work by Psychko - Currently most reliable and profitable money grind with high end only method - Min. Level 1 / if you already own a CEO office / if you do not own a CEO office
Do an I/E sourcing mission, then do VIP work (Headhunter or Sightseer are a breeze with a Buzzard) in the cool down, then do an I/E delivery mission. Rinse and repeat!
Earn 2000-3000RP per source delivery, 5000RP per sale delivery. Buy 1 crate and sell immediately for maximum RP since the same RP is given whether you source/sell 1 crate or multiple.
Earn 200-600RP bonuses when you stay near the CEO/VIP's location
Host or participate in Heists - Min. Level 1 / to participate; Min. Level 12 / or own a high-end apartment to host
I'm a millionaire already, just give me a grind:
CEO Import/Export Vehicle Work by Psychko - Currently most reliable and profitable money grind with high end only method - Min. Level 1 / if you already own a CEO office / if you do not own a CEO office
Do an I/E sourcing mission, then do VIP work (Headhunter or Sightseer are a breeze with a Buzzard) in the cool down, then do an I/E delivery mission. Rinse and repeat!
Earn 2000-3000RP per source delivery, 5000RP per sale delivery. Buy 1 crate and sell immediately for maximum RP since the same RP is given whether you source/sell 1 crate or multiple.
Earn 200-600RP bonuses when you stay near the CEO/VIP's location
Host or participate in Heists - Min. Level 1 / to participate; Min. Level 12 / or own a high-end apartment to host
I'm a millionaire already, just give me a grind:
CEO Import/Export Vehicle Work by Psychko - Currently most reliable and profitable money grind with high end only method - Min. Level 1 / if you already own a CEO office / if you do not own a CEO office
Do an I/E sourcing mission, then do VIP work (Headhunter or Sightseer are a breeze with a Buzzard) in the cool down, then do an I/E delivery mission. Rinse and repeat!
Earn 2000-3000RP per source delivery, 5000RP per sale delivery. Buy 1 crate and sell immediately for maximum RP since the same RP is given whether you source/sell 1 crate or multiple.
Earn 200-600RP bonuses when you stay near the CEO/VIP's location
Big Mallow is a cabal that's been spreading disinformation. 240F is a big, fat, arbitrary lie. (tl;dr: Marshmallow Mania hit me, and I spent 20+ hours making marshmallows. My findings suggest that the texture of marshmallows is dependent on the sum total proportions of the marshmallow ingredients, not the degree of sugar syrup heating. 240F is an arbitrary syrup temperature, and is used across the board for relatively similar ingredient proportions.) A short time ago, I was developing my "egg yolk-based marshmallow"/marshyellow recipe (still needs a bit of tweaking). I was doing some research, and noticed something kind of...odd about the information regarding a specific step. Here's the Wikipedia entry for making marshmallows that gave me pause, courtesy of Chocolates and confections: Formula, theory, and technique for the artisan confectioner: Anything jump out at you? No? That might be because you haven't read a variety of marshmallow recipes.
Bruno aside, they ALL place marshmallows at 238F-240F. I've seen a lot of marshmallow recipes in my time, and I've NEVER seen Wikipedia's method of 227F. (And I was so confused by Bruno's recipe...265F was way higher than any I'd seen. But we'll come back to this.) Wait, it gets even more confusing.
LorAnnOils: They place marshmallows in the firm-ball stage.
My confusion kept growing with every article I read. Everyone's telling me something different. Recipes that call for soft-ball! No, proclaim the sugar syrup stages, firm-ball or hard-ball! And for some reason, Wikipedia's telling me the THREAD stage is what you want. This was perturbing; if baking is a science, my impression of candy making is that of analytical chemistry. It's precise, exact, and demands strict adherence to the recipe beyond what baking asks and cajoles. I was under the impression that the sugar syrup's concentration is critical to somehow correctly forming marshmallows. So what's going on here? Why's everyone using the same temperature in their recipes, despite background info to the contrary? Clearly, there's a conspiracy being perpetrated by Big Mallow. They're trying to keep us in the dark, to prevent us from tinkering with marshmallow recipes. So I...um...made a ton of marshmallows to figure this out. (pictured: about 2/3 of every batch I made, along with some marshyellow variants) Marshmallow Mania reigned supreme, and I spent an ungodly amount of time making them for both this experiment, and for my marshyellow recipe improvement. I'll also note that I had to eat an ungodly number of the stupid clouds of sugar and fluff, and would gladly never consume another so long as I draw breath. First, to determine if you can make marshmallows at all of the claimed stages. I checked my thermometer in a pot of boiling water to ensure accurate readings. Then I made batches of marshmallows at varying sugar syrup temperatures. Here's my recipe and methodology (base recipe is based on a scaled-down version of Migoya's 'mallows): 8g powdered gelatin 47g cold water 110g granulated, white sugar 120g corn syrup 50g water 3g salt ~2.5mL vanilla extract In the bowl of a stand mixer, bloom the gelatin in the cold water. Combine sugar, corn syrup, and water in a saucepan. Heat to (VARIABLE) temperature, and slowly add to bloomed gelatin, while whipping on medium-low speed. Turn mixer speed to max, and whip for exactly five minutes, adding the salt and vanilla halfway through. Using a greased spatula, scoop as much batter as possible into a greased pan, and use a greased offset spatula to smooth the top. Let sit for a minimum of 8 hours to cure, then cut into cubes and coat in an equal mixture (w/w) of cornstarch and powdered sugar. Between each batch, I scrupulously cleaned all utensils with hot water to avoid sugar crystal residue. Left-to-right: 225F. 230F, 240F, 245F, 250F, 262F After coating, the marshmallows were stored at room temperature in ziploc bags to maintain freshness/moisture contents. The most apparent conclusion is that, yes, you can ABSOLUTELY make marshmallows at varying sugar syrup stages. Well, in a sense. They're all "marshmallows", in the sense that they're masses of aerated, gelatinized sugar blobs. I'm sure plenty of people have their own personal textural notions of what a "marshmallow" should be. But here are the differences: Volume: Due to what I imagine is increased viscosity (due to decreased water concentrations of the syrup), the volume of batter decreases proportionally to elevated sugar temps. Here, you can see the two extremes, 225F vs 262F. Weight: The lower temps allowed for increased aeration, which resulted in larger yields of 'mallow, and there's a downward trend corresponding to total batch weights and increased syrup temps. (225F->262F respectively, 249g, 242g, 222g, 211g, 203g, 165g) Texture: The higher the syrup temp, the chewier and more "taffy-like" the marshmallow. Charybdis, my poor stand mixer, had a tough time whipping the 262F, that stuff was t h i c c. In contrast, the 225F melts in your mouth, with barely any chew. Far more pillowy, jiggly, etc. Caramelization: The lower the syrup temp, the higher the final moisture content. Held 10cm away from a torch, I noticed that it took slightly longer to caramelize the lower temp marshmallows. I wonder if there's also an aeration-based insulation factor at work (given the apparent increase in aeration in the lower-temp syrups). So now I knew you can make marshmallows at most sugar syrup stages (I haven't tried soft-crack and upwards, I fear for my stand mixer's health after the 262F). Then I had a thought: what if the sugar syrup was a function of achieving a specific texture? Enter the final experiment. Let's take the taffymallows of 262F and see if we can turn them into 230F squishmallows. At 262F, the sugar concentration is ~92%, and at 230F, it's ~80%. I calculated the amount of water lost at 262F, and added an amount of water to the gelatin that would correspond to the concentration at 230F. I figured it's easier to work "backwards", ie, make a higher temp identical to a lower temp. Going "forwards" might create an issue where reducing the water added to the gelatin leads to insufficient bloom. I don't thiiink you can "over-bloom" gelatin, so I doubt the reverse is true. Well. Here's the faux-230F with the real 230F:: [Compare the volume difference of the faux-230F to the 262F and the 225F. By visual inspection, they were about double in volume to the original 262F! And the texture was near-identical in nature to the 230F. The former were ever-so-slightly softer and "meltier", but they were also made a day or so after the latter, and I'm convinced that this accounts for the minor discrepancy. The final batch weights were identical too, suggesting similar aeration percentages. (Note: The fact that they're identical is a happy coincidence. There will be minor discrepancies due to unequal scooping of the batter into the pans, as well as additional mass from the sugacornstarch mixture. I cut all the batches into similar size cubes, so the surface areas would be similar, and they'd pick up similar quantities of the mixture.) Suddenly, Bruno's aberrant 265F temperature made sense. His recipe uses egg whites in addition to gelatin, and egg whites are ~90% water. He heats his syrup to a much higher stage to compensate for the additional moisture content. I imagine that if you followed his recipe to a T, but stuck with good ol' 240F, the marshmallows would barely have much structure, and would be closer to the 225F squishmallows than what you'd typically want out of a marshmallow. I did a repeat experiment with a different final hydration stage: 262F to 240F. The results were the same as before: I compared the product to my 262F and 240F marshmallows, and again, the faux-240F were no different than the real 240F (save, again, for a near-imperceptible difference for the same given reason as before). Now, I refuse to say "I conclude X to be true", because my experiment isn't rigorous in the least. I didn't repeat each step numerous times, testing every possible extreme, I didn't test every potential example, etc. I would, but I think I'd go nuts, as I'd have an issue juggling this with my full-time job and other hobbies. I also nearly ran out of my 1lb tub of gelatin. So I'm going to leave it as "the data suggests that..." But the general idea this all suggests - aside from me being crazy - is that you can alter marshmallow recipes to achieve a texture you prefer simply by changing either the syrup temperature, or the gelatin hydration. If you found a nice recipe for egg white marshmallows, but find them too soft for your liking, you can decrease the gelatin hydration within reason, and/or increase the sugar syrup temperature by some amount to make them chewier and more stable. If you don't mind the bit of math, you use this info to take more control of the marshmallow process. I'm still not sure why people so unanimously use 240F as their temperature. I can imagine a scenario where Head Chef tells their underlings "Heat it to 240F, because [something something reasonable-yet-incorrect explanation]", and everyone follows HC's lead and reasoning. They move up the ranks, and proliferate HC's recipes, and if challenged about the reasoning, refer to HC's expertise to bolster their claims. Look how many differing explanations people have about brownie skin/crust formation: It's easier to pull from your combined experience and instinct, and offer up a reasonable explanation, than to rigorously experiment your way to the answer. Or maybe there's actually a cult, I dunno. But anyhow, thus concludes the week of the marshmallow. Please subject to peer review if you're also marshmallow-obsessed. I'd love additional insights and data!
I run a private campground. One of the things I have to think about is fire management. Obviously, there’s a lot of wood around here. And obviously, if the campground goes up in flames, I lose my livelihood. I do some land management to protect against that by clearing out dry underbrush periodically and put in rules about fire pits and my staff make routine inspections to make sure they’re followed. Many of you have suggested using fire as a weapon against the inhuman things and each time I point out that this is a forest and while we don’t have a lot of dry wood, the odds of the entire thing going up are not zero. And then I went and threw a molotov cocktail into a room entirely made of wood. In my defense, it wasn’t technically in the campground. Only very technically. If you’re new here, you should really start at the beginning and if you’re totally lost, this might help. Beau’s assistance had cleared the thorns from my body. I spent a miserable few days coughing up plant matter. At least it’s winter so we don’t have much work to do and I could sit in my house and play video games as a distraction. I’m super obsessed with Octopath Traveler right now. There were still the thorns planted throughout the campground to deal with, however. I wasn’t terribly worried. We had the stone, the one that contained the thorn’s death, and all I had to do was summon Beau and figure out what the next step was. Of course, when I summoned him, he didn’t show. I had even made hot chocolate with a bit of Bailey’s. So I drank it all myself and then fueled by booze and a sugar high, I went tromping through the snow to find him. The thought of him being in danger or otherwise unable to respond was only a vague worry. He’s been elusive ever since I refused to go to the harvesters. It’s hard to tell if he’s angry at me or just being moody. It certainly isn’t because I’m good enough with a knife that I don’t need his help anymore. I intended to ask him what the problem was, once I found him. I decided to walk along the road through the deep woods, as that was both the safest place and where he tended to be found. It took a few days of hiking around the campsite, but I eventually found Beau. He was up ahead on the road, waiting for me. As I approached, he turned and began walking again, so that I could catch up and we walked along side-by-side. “I haven’t seen you much,” I said tentatively. “I’m avoiding you.” “That’s obvious.” I waited, but no explanation was forthcoming. “Did I… upset you?” He seemed genuinely confused as to why, so I explained how I saw the situation. How I’d ignored his suggestion and gone to the hall of the gummy bears instead. He gave a soft laugh at that and reminded me - once again - that he was not human. “Why would I take offense?” he asked. “You made a choice that was yours to make.” “Then why are you avoiding me?” We walked along in silence for a bit more and the only sound was the packed snow crunching beneath our feet. I was careful to keep some distance between us, keenly aware that my mere presence was contrary to his nature. Like magnets, I thought, pushing each other away. “You’re marked for death,” he finally sighed. “It hovers over your head like a halo. Here is my mark, wrought of blood.” He stepped close and gestured, his hand passing through the space a few inches from my hair. “There are more, now. All of these bargains and debts you’ve accumulated, twisting together into a cord that will someday settle tight around your neck and take away your life.” “And you’re bound to me,” I whispered. He took a single step backwards, dropping his hand by his side, his expression grim. “I feel the fomorian’s mark upon me as well. I do not care to accumulate more.” I asked him to describe them to me. He hesitated, and then very reluctantly, told me a few. One of shadow, trailing in the wind as if the slightest breeze would eradicate it. I suppose that’s what happens when the person who made that mark is trapped inside the thing in the dark. Good riddance to him. Another of iron, shattered now, and crumbling. The lady with extra eyes. One of thorns, marking the intent of the fomorian. And of course, a crown of teeth. A very old crown, passed down along the family line. The claim of the beast. There were more, he said, but he refused to elaborate. He seemed uneasy, as if merely describing them was more familiarity than he cared to have. I didn’t press. Honestly, I’m not sure I want to know exactly how many creatures have it out for me. I’d probably never sleep again out of paranoia. He soon turned off the road and into the woods. I followed a bit more slowly, struggling through the deep snow. The temperature has been in the teens lately, with the windchill bringing it down to single digits. I envied Beau and his total indifference to the cold. He led me to a patch of thorns. It was one I knew of already and had tried to uproot. The snow around it was mixed with loose soil from earlier attempts. Let me tell you - it is really tough to dig up bushes in the middle of the winter with the ground as frozen as it is. Beau extended his cup and held it up over the thorns. He tilted it, slowly, until a thin stream of liquid poured forth. It steamed in the cold air and melted the snow where it struck the ground at the base of the thorns. “Is that it?” I asked softly. “This will kill them?” “Yes. My cup carries the stone’s essence and the roots of the thorns will drink deeply of their own death.” “I’m surprised you’re helping me so directly.” “It’s not just for you,” he replied, his eyes narrowed as he watched the contents of his skull steam in the snow. “This is my home and as you recall, I am unable to leave it. I have no desire to be ruled by a tyrant.” A thought occurred to me. “Do the other inhabitants feel the same?” “Of course. Do you recall how the musician saved you from the horse?” Ah. I’d not thought too much of it at the time. I was helping them out with the children, after all, so it stood to reason that they’d want to repay the favor by saving my life. We stood in silence for a bit longer, watching the thorns shrivel into withered, dry branches where the liquid from Beau’s cup had touched them. I could only imagine the roots were now doing the same. Tentatively, I reached out and tapped one of the afflicted branches. It broke off as if it were made of spun sugar and smashed into dust when it landed in the snow. As if it’d been dead for centuries. “Could I get help from the other inhabitants of the campground?” I asked. “I know the fairy doesn’t want help, but we still have to deal with the formorian’s indirect effects on the land.” “Don’t,” Beau replied sharply. “You would only endanger them. They won’t take such a risk.” “You’re helping me,” I said pointedly. He grunted and turned his back to me, walking back towards the road. “I was already marked by my association with you,” he said. When I was trapped in the dream that the master of the vanishing house had wove for me, I told it that I could not love it, for everything I love dies. It feels like another lifetime ago. I withdrew my hand from the bush and stuffed it in my pocket as I hastily followed Beau. He went from bush to bush, repeating the process with each. After a few more I realized that my presence was entirely unnecessary and probably even annoying to him, so I awkwardly thanked him and excused myself. I went back to the house and played more video games. I only felt a little guilty about it. The next day I stumbled into the kitchen and brewed coffee. Then, mug in hand, I went to the kitchen table and pulled back the curtains to get some early morning sunlight. Beau was standing directly outside. I screamed in surprise and dropped my mug. It was my “Live, Laugh, Love” mug that I took from the camp lost and found so it wasn’t a huge loss. We wind up with quite a few mugs in lost and found and hardly any of them get claimed. After a year they become camp property. I can’t remember the last time I bought myself a mug. I invited Beau in while I cleaned up the mess. He hovered uncomfortably in the archway between the kitchen and the living room, not saying anything. Only when I was done mopping up coffee did I turn and ask him what he wanted. He presented his cup in mute explanation. Only a small drop of liquid remained inside. “Where’s the pebble?” I asked, going to get my sharpest kitchen knife. “I still have it, in case the fomorian plants more thorns.” Blood from that which was already there. Blood freely given. I held out my palm and let my blood drop into the cup. “Where do you plan on getting the blood forcibly taken?” I asked softly. I wasn’t sure I wanted to know. The only staff on site during the winter were my most trusted people, like Ed and Bryan. I didn’t want any of them to be targets. “I want to leave the campground.” I sucked in an involuntary breath. He wanted to take blood from someone outside my land. One of the townspeople, perhaps. They’d thrown an uproar over him poisoning a few people on Halloween. I hated to think how they’d react to him stabbing someone. “Do you have someone in mind?” I asked. “I do.”“Will you kill them?” “Will my answer change your decision?” No. It would not. I needed Beau. And Perchta’s warning… well, it was not so black and white as I’d assumed. There was some flexibility here. I wish I were surprised by how easily I slipped back into old habits. The same old rationalizations. Better someone else’s life than my own. Better a stranger’s life than someone I know. It feels inevitable that I would resort to this. It takes more than a threat to turn someone into a good person. I won’t apologize. I won’t make excuses. You know what kind of person I am. I did the calculations, weighed my options, and this is what I chose. I got my car keys and told Beau to come with me. We went to someone that lived on the outskirts of town. It took a while to get there, as Beau couldn’t tell me what roads to turn on. He could only give directions in a vague sense, such as east or west. At least he was patient. He barely moved, sitting in the passenger seat, not wearing a seatbelt, with his cup cradled against his chest. Finally, he told me we’d arrived and I pulled into the driveway of a small house surrounded by a stretch of overgrown field that was subsequently swallowed up by forest. A black pickup truck was parked in the gravel driveway. Beau got out. I stayed where I was for a moment, nervously holding onto the steering wheel, and then I reluctantly followed him. Better if I saw this through. I had to know what I’d done. He knocked on the door. A man in his late forties, perhaps, answered. His hair was thinning. He squinted at Beau suspiciously. And Beau… gestured with one hand. Just a simple half-twist of his wrist. The man coughed. Blood spurted out of his mouth. It streamed from his nose. And my insides twisted with horror as his eyes began to leak blood, as it spilled out through his tear ducts. It beaded up on his forehead, forced out through every one of his pores. It streamed out of him through every available channel, soaking his clothing, dripping from his ears, and he twitched and shook and choked as his skin grew white and his heart raced and then finally collapsed on itself. He landed face-first onto the pavement of his porch. The blood floated above him as a red mist and Beau made another subtle gesture, directing it to gracefully stream like a river through the air and into his cup. There was far more blood than the vessel could contain - an entire human body’s worth - but the cup never overflowed. It filled and filled, brilliant crimson like a ruby, until there was none left to take. The bloodless corpse lay on the ground with not a mark on it to indicate what had happened. I realized that my hands were trembling. I struggled to move, to find my voice. Beau turned around and faced me and there was a soft, satisfied smile on his face. “Have you always been able to do that?” I demanded, my voice coming out higher than I’d prefer, betraying my panic. “Yes.” The expression on the man’s face was burned into my mind. His desperate agony, tears of blood streaming down his cheeks, his body rigid as his own blood clawed its way free of his veins. I tried to banish it with something else. Anything else. “So the time I found a body like that and spent three weeks hanging garlic up everywhere thinking we had a vampire on the campground… that was you?” “Yes.” I took a breath, trying to calm my nerves. “Do you have any idea how much I spent on garlic?!” “Do I care?” I whirled away from him and stalked back to the car, digging my hands into my hair. Okay, the garlic didn’t matter. I just… that was what came to my mind first. Trying to bury what I’d just seen in something more mundane, I suppose. Trying to distract myself from the fact that Beau could kill people in a far more horrifying way than simply slitting their throat or fatally poisoning them. At least it was relatively fast. I took a deep breath and opened my car door. He’d threatened me with worse when I first met him. It was a tense drive back to the campground. When we were back on familiar roads I thought to ask Beau why he’d chosen this person, specifically. “He double-parks.” “And?” He glanced at me in mild surprise. “What else do you need?” “Are you kidding me? I just let you murder someone because they double-park?” “Murder?” His tone was sharp. “You let me refill my cup. I drained it to save your land. You ensured my survival.” Whatever it takes. The family tradition. My grandfather killed his share to protect our land. My parent’s hands certainly weren’t clean. And nor are mine. I wish I could say that was the end of it. That I let Beau out once we were back at my house and he wandered off and nothing else happened. But what we’d done was not going to go unnoticed. I stayed up late that night. I was awake because I was playing video games and making yet another attempt at killing that damn direwolf in Octopath Traveler, like seriously, why is that thing so hard to kill? I must be doing something wrong. So after watching my party get their faces ripped off for like the fifth time I finally turned the TV off and went to bed. It was midnight. The little girl was crying softly by the window. I’d barely climbed into bed when she stopped. I froze. That was never a good sign. “Oh no,” the little girl whispered. “No no no no.” I acted on instinct. I threw myself out of bed and took cover behind it. The little girl screamed in fright and then my window shattered. The house shook with the impact. For a moment everything was still, save for the tinkling of some glass remnants striking the ground and the wild sobbing of the little girl. Then… “Campground manager!” the fomorian bellowed. My blood ran cold. I felt frozen in place, cowering there next to the bed. The fomorian’s voice came at a distance. It wasn’t over the house’s property line, at least. “I will find the one that killed my thorns at your behest!” it continued. “I will drag him here and I will tear him apart, little by little, and eat him alive. You will be helpless to watch and know what fate awaits you.” Then I heard the cry of a horse and the sound of hoofbeats, receding into the distance. A warning. This was only a warning. The fomorian intended to kill Beau. Tentatively, I stood and turned on the bedside light. There was a body wedged through the broken window. It couldn’t fit through the frame, but it’d shattered the glass and now its head and part of its upper body was stuck. The hood of its garment mercifully covered its face, for I recognized it by its bulk. One of the musicians. The fomorian had killed one of the dancer’s musicians. And, my heart sinking, I knew that it had to be the one that had rescued me from the dapple-gray stallion’s hooves. I kill everything I love. Everything that gets close to me. I’m a campground manager. I am also my mother’s daughter and the product of generations that believed life was expendable and we were but prey to these inhuman things. Herd animals, and sometimes one of our own had to be sacrificed to save the rest. I’m certain that the new sheriff will find out about the body. She might not assume it was me, but I’ll be involved regardless. My family always is, when an odd death occurs. She’ll send the old sheriff because he’s better at dealing with me. And then what? Do I lie to him? I could. I think he’d believe me. I’ve gotten quite good at lying over the years doing this job. It’s odd, how the thought of lying to him bothers me more than murdering that man did. I suppose that’s a consequence of sentimentality. Sometimes I think I feel too little and sometimes I wish I didn’t feel so much. I’m starting to think… that maybe I’m a little more messed up inside than I thought. Do I love Beau? I… would be sad if he were gone. Even after seeing what he did to that man. The need to refill his cup was real, but the criteria with which he chose his victim was… petty. That, I think, is cruelty. Beau is cruel. I can not defend him. Yet humans are stupid, emotional things and we form attachments without even realizing it until one day we realize how painful their absence will be. We bond with animals, with plants, and with people that don’t even exist - a character in a video game or a book. I suppose I love Beau in the same way I love the barn cat with the kinked tail or the plant that my uncle gave me or Therion in Octopath Traveler. I don’t want him to die. [x] Read the full list of rules. Visit the campground's website.
I tried to summarize the best I could, I did miss a couple things but they weren't super important. My bad if I misinterpreted anything Random Points
Midchapter is releasing next week + lunar event + archive
Quality of life and game health changes usually come in midchapter releases
There's not a lot of time between PTB coming out and gathering information and addressing feedback before it meets the deadlines. The PTB gives them the 3-4 weeks advance on fixes they wouldn't have been able to get otherwise.
They've been looking at new approaches to the struggle mechanic that is engaging but also is an actual improvement in terms of the mechanical process (spamming space). There's active work being done on it but nothing concrete announced
Can't promise that every killer is going to get new chase music but they do like giving killers music that fit them
Custom perk sets are a common request and is planned, UI quality of life change list is long and this is on it. Not anytime soon but it's on the list. A notification when you complete an archive during a game is also on the list.
New game modes are not planned.
Elodie's scream is getting fixed. It is a bug.
No daily ritual changes in the near future.
New killer animations eventually, not all killers but stuff like hillbilly's animation problems will get fixed.
The plan for an early game rework has since changed but is still being worked on, they'll talk about it later
No concrete plan to reduce the game's grind but they're looking at it and trying to figure out a way to do it
Blight's POV fix is not in midchapter but in the chapter following it.
Legion's speed was never bugged just his POV during frenzy which has been fixed, the fix for his frenzy swing which is still bugged is coming in the hotfix after the midchapter
Balance:
The next 3 killers getting adjusted are freddy, demo and huntress. Not able to say what changes, info coming later. Not complete overhauls but looking at them and adjusting numbers/addons, that kinda stuff.
They say the pig is one of the better performing killers overall... and they like pig. That's all they said.
Object of Obsession has a work in progress rework. "Whenever your aura is revealed to the killer, the killer's aura becomes revealed to you. If you are the obsession, your aura is revealed to the killer for 3 seconds once every 40/35/30 seconds. Increases the odds of being the obsession." Not final, welcoming feedback. They figured this proposed rework was a way to keep the "object of obsession" element without it being super annoying.
Decisive Strike: Repairing a gen, healing, cleansing a totem, sabotaging a hook or unhooking others will now disable DS while it is active. They feel locker DS is fine. Coming in the new chapter, NOT this uncoming midchapter.
Switch/Cross Progression
Team is aware of FPS drops on switch, they're working on it and similar things on all platforms are being worked on. They've been collecting data to understand what's going on, there's always optimizations coming though it is a gradual process.
Switch cross-progression is set for early Q2 (April-June), nothing announced for other platforms yet
Maps:
They're focusing on reworking existing content rather than creating new maps, don't expect any new swamp maps or other requested maps in the near future. They are going through all the maps. Arbitrary order. Not trying to drastically impact how the maps play.
Haddonfield is getting the same graphical update as everything else, no dates or anything just "eventually".
UI:
Ultrawide aspect ratio support is not an immediate plan, not saying it doesn't matter but not on the current road. Maybe.
Hook counter UI for killers was done intentionally. They considered giving full info but they were concerned it would encourage tunneling too much. They want to leave it as part of the challenge/decision making process for the killer.
HUD customization has been discussed internally since a lot of players are asking for it but it's not simple, so it's not planned in the near future but don't rule it out.
UI hasn't changed much since PTB to release. After everyone has played with it they'll look at feedback and change accordingly.
Matchmaking/Skill Based MM:
The biggest limiting factor to matchmaking is the right amount of players in queue. The ratio of survivors to killers fluctuates. At night time the number of killer players drop off and they have a surplus amount of survivors. Looking for ways to merge matchmaking pools together rather than separating them.
Hesitant to explain every detail of how the new skill based matching / mmr will be calculated but basically the goal is to have it adapt to the way you play. It was initially based only off kills/escapes but they have continually added more parameters to have a better understanding to rate the skill of each player.
Keys/Moris:
They know keys can be as equally as frustrating as moris. Key hatch escapes are rare (2-3% of games?). They see them as separate topics, they DO have a plan for keys and both systems are getting changes but it's still early in the process so they can't give more precise info. Key changes are bigger than mori changes.
Host or participate in Heists - Min. Level 1 / to participate; Min. Level 12 / or own a high-end apartment to host
I'm a millionaire already, just give me a grind:
CEO Import/Export Vehicle Work by Psychko - Currently most reliable and profitable money grind with high end only method - Min. Level 1 / if you already own a CEO office / if you do not own a CEO office
Do an I/E sourcing mission, then do VIP work (Headhunter or Sightseer are a breeze with a Buzzard) in the cool down, then do an I/E delivery mission. Rinse and repeat!
Earn 2000-3000RP per source delivery, 5000RP per sale delivery. Buy 1 crate and sell immediately for maximum RP since the same RP is given whether you source/sell 1 crate or multiple.
Earn 200-600RP bonuses when you stay near the CEO/VIP's location
“So... this is it then? The end of planet Earth?” The old man sighs and said, “Looks like it doesn’t it?” They made an odd couple. One elderly male, his face wrinkled and worn, his hair white and untidy, his clothes stained and creased. Besides him, the young woman, aged in her mid twenties, her head shaved like a Buddhist monk, yet the dark circles about her eyes and frail body hidden In thick, oversized clothing, revealed her head was manifestation of some illness that was destroying her. They sat upon the hill besides the old Greenwich Observatory. All was in darkness. They had spotted each other earlier, when the sun had shone and people had come to Greenwich Park to enjoy the last day. Gaze at the grandeur of the old Royal Naval College. Walk their dog. Relish other’s company. Enjoy a perfect June afternoon, for one final time. But the sun had started to set and in twos and three everyone had left. Except the girl and the old man. Awkwardly she had invited him to join her on her blanket, and awkwardly he had accepted and now both rested upon the deep green grass and gazed up at the night sky. “So, what do we do now?” Her voice trembles a little even as she tries to keep her tone light. It’s dark. Still warm but no lights were lit around the observatory or in the park at all. The only illumination came from London itself. The city blazed defiant still. The old man ponders for a little and says, “I suppose we wait.” “What for?” He shrugs and says, “Boom.” “You think there will be a boom?” He smiles to himself, “Honestly? I hope so.” “Why?” “Means it’s over quick. I’d hate for it to be slow,” he says. He glances over at her. She was pretty. Still very pretty he felt. You could see whatever was ravaging her body had taken its toll but her eyes seemed to twinkle in the distant lights of the Docklands. “I know what you mean,” she says, her eyes glazing over sadly, before she adds, “It’s been slow for me.” “How long you been sick?” “Nine years. I’ve fought. I’ve done that whole brave soldier routine,” she says and turns to look at him, a tight smile on her lips; “But this body of mine just really isn’t as tough as I needed it to be” He sighs and looks away awkwardly, “I’m so sorry. That’s just awful.” “No, that’s just genetics. Can’t do a damn thing about it.” She continues to smile and he smiles back. Another awkward moment settles on them. But they want to talk. The intimacy of strangers. She glances down at her knees for a moment, her voice very quiet. “What about you?” “Renal failure. Well, that’s the excuse. The renal failure is simply a symptom. The cause is just being old.” She nods and they say nothing. In the distance they hear a few cars drive by very quickly. But it’s just them in the park. Moments pass and he takes a breath. “I’m actually glad it’s all happening now,” he grins, “I’ve not bothered with my treatment today. If the Earth isn’t destroyed this evening I’ll be in a terrible state in the morning.” She finds herself laughing, almost in spite of herself. It’s a gentle laugh. The old man gazed at her for a moment. “If you don’t mind me asking Miss... How long until...” His nervousness allowed her know exactly what he was asking about. She takes a breath. “Maybe a week. A month at most. Organ failure has kicked in. Nacrosis. My body is actually dying,” she shrugs. She gazed up at the stars and shrugs, “At least that was the plan. Recent events have forced me to cancel that.” “Damned inconvenient if you ask me,” he smirks and she smirks back at him. A siren, a police car maybe, echoes off the buildings to their left, somewhere in Greenwich itself. They glance over but see nothing. The orange glow of street lights beyond the nearby trees. She inhaled deeply. “I always liked it here. My favourite park.” “Me too. It has deer you know?” “I did. Never seen one. You?” “A few times. It’s rare though.” The siren fades and the odd couple sit on the hill on a warm summers evening. She bites her lip for a second and glances over at him. “Were you bothered? When they asked?” “About staying? No. I wasn’t. Although to be honest I didn’t have much choice.” He raises his bushy white eyebrows and tries to force a smile; “But I didn’t mind too much. It all made sense I suppose. You?” She nods, “I was a little upset. I mean, they asked nicely, but as you said, they worded it in a way that...” “Made you realise that ‘no’ was unacceptable?” She bites back a smile, “Something like that. And yeah, if I’m honest? It pissed me off for a bit. But... Like you said... it makes sense.” They stare at each other for a second before they are distracted as, suddenly, the sky is filled with explosions. The couple look. The hill they sit on has a commanding view of Docklands, her gigantic skyscrapers, huge towers of light. To their left the gigantic Shard can be seen, towering over the south side of the river. And beyond that, high above the skies of central London, they can seen the flashes of fireworks. So many fireworks. She smiled broadly. “That’s pretty.” “Agreed. Very.” As they watch fireworks explode along the Thames. Someone went to a lot of time and effort to do this. Huge firework barges along the river now erupted into light as all over the London sky the last firework display in Earth’s history plays out. For a few minutes they sit and watch in silence. Him, not quite cross legged, her, with her face resting on her knees. “I should have thought of that. Fireworks on Earth’s last day,” she says wistfully. “Smart a well,” he says, nodding. “Smart?” “Shows we are still down here. In case they are looking?” “Oh yes. I see. Your right that’s very smart.” The fireworks leave a gentle fog of smoke in the air. Along the river they fade out but the ones in the centre of the city continue, endless explosions. A gesture of defiance. Around them however, the park is silent and dark and warm. She shivers briefly and rests her cheek on her knee, gazing at him. The old man notices and smiles, “What?” “Does the idea of dying bother you?” “No. I’m old.” “Really?” He sighs and leans back onto his hands, his eyes focusing on the few stars above them. “Maybe a little. To be honest? Death bothers everyone I suppose. Troubles our thoughts. You do end up thinking about it a lot more as you get older. Get a bit more use to the idea.” He blinks and glanced over at her. “What about you?” “It’s weird. It scared me when I was younger. Especially after my first relapse. Before then I thought I’d overcome this. You know- mind over matter? But when I was told it was back? I became afraid. Really afraid.” The distant fireworks cascade in oranges and greens and reds, and her voice is very quiet. “And then a few years later? I felt I found peace you know? Got all reconciled to it. Nothing to be afraid off I convinced myself. But that was a few years ago. Now? Here and now? I don’t know how I feel. It’s weird.” He nods, but is unsure how to respond. Inhaling deeply and savouring the scent of the grass he gazes down the hill at the white shapes of distant grand buildings. “I suppose,” he says after a few seconds, “the good news is, that when I’m dead? I won’t worry about being dead. Won’t worry about anything really.” She frowns and her nose wrinkles. “That’s really hard for me to grasp. Like not worrying about stuff after I go. Like I can’t get my head around it.” “Well then, let me ask you something. What did you think, before you were born, about events in the 1920’s?” She blinks and raises her head. “I... I didn’t think anything. I wasn’t around in the 1920’s.” “Well, that’s how it’s going to be tomorrow. We won’t be around to think about events the day after Earth is destroyed and it will bother us the same way not being around in the 1600’s bothered us. Not even a little bit. Make sense?” Her face, he can tell, seems quite serious for a moment, and she sighs. “I suppose. Do... do you believe in... you know? An after life” “I want to. I’d hate to think the universe went to all this trouble to make me and then NOT have something afterwards.” She smiles, gently, at that. “I do. I really do. Not like heaven or stuff, but I just believe that consciousness is really complicated and we don’t understand it and that it exists. In another form. Somewhere. After we go.” He nods in response to her and gazes up at the stars again. “That sounds nice,” he says, “I like that. Everyone and everything who has ever lived has their consciousness carry on. So beyond our bodies we can all meet up and have a chat.” She smiles back at him, “I wonder what it would be like?” “Probably very crowded...” She laughs. It’s a lovely sound. Like something that had sat within her suddenly erupting. She laughs honestly and he finds himself smiling alongside her. Her laughter, however, lasts only a few seconds and then catches. Her eyes gaze upwards into the sky and go wide. The old man follows her gaze and sees it also. There, high above London, sits the Moon, her cold white face gazing down at them all from her usual place in the sky; but across the south west facet of its familiar visage they both can see a shadow. Its faintly triangular shaped. Something vast and leviathan flying between Earth and its moon. Something menacing. Something alien. As they watch, spellbound, he hears the fireworks begin to trail off, leaving a cloud of smoke that hangs in the neon lit air over London. “Is that them?” “Afraid so,” he replies. In the silence they can hear, far far away, a noise from where the fireworks came from. They can’t be too sure but it sounds like the distant roar of people screaming. “It looks intimidating,” she says and he nods. “I think it’s meant to.” As they watch the shadow crawls over the face of the Moon; the shadow of some vast thing that floats between the Earth and her companion. And as they watch the tip of this dark triangle begins to emit a bright, white, light. “What’s that?” “I think they are powering up their main weapon.” “Oh. Now?” “Looks like.” “Oh,” she says as if taken-aback. And no sooner has she said it then the triangle acts. From the dark shadow a solid beam of white light races through the night sky. It flies directly over them, beyond the horizon, aiming towards somewhere far far away. They, along with everyone else on Earth at the moment, just gaze at it opened mouthed. “Wow,” she says. “Yeah,” comes his reply. The distant sound of shouting ends. The city is remarkably quiet. She blinks. “Now what happens?” The old man takes a breath and steals his eyes away from the beam of white light that dissects the sky above him. “Well that beam they are shooting? According to what I read, that’s going to fly towards the sun and when it hits it? Boom.” She nods and looks at him. “How long until it hits then?” Even though he didn’t need to he glances down at his old watch. “Well it’s moving at the speed of light, so 8 minutes.” She frowns at that and asks, “So, 8 minutes until boom?” “No. Think about it. Going to take 8 minutes to get there. Take a while for the sun to react and go boom. And then when it does? 8 minutes for the boom to reach us. So I’d say twenty minutes. Give or take.” “The last twenty minutes of Earth?” “Yes. Looks like,” he says sadly. Before she can respond they both hear someone scream. A woman. She’s nearby. In the streets next to the park. Its a scream of pure terror. A scream of imminent morality. It lasts a few seconds. And then becomes still. The girl stares over at where it came from, hidden, behind the trees. “I wish they didn’t scream. It doesn’t help.” “People become afraid. They can’t help it.” Suddenly their eyes are drawn to something new. Not the terrifying light that crosses the sky, nor the ominous shadow of the alien craft that fires it. Back across central London, where the fog of thousands of fireworks slowly dissipates in a windless summer night, someone has activated a laser projector. Against the smoke appears words illuminated in intense red lettering: 90 feet high script begins taking shape above London, aiming upwards, sending a message out to the stars... FUCK OFF AND DIE YOU UTTER WANKERS The odd couple on Greenwich hill respond like all who saw those words responded and burst out laughing. Genuine laughter, from that heart. “Oh that’s brilliant,” the girl says, “Well done.” He grins back at her, “Humans. Can’t help ourselves can we?” They enjoy the message but then, suddenly, the beam of white light that laid across the sky, ceases. The night sky is returned to darkness. “Its stopped!” At her words, the old man glances down at his watch. “Two minutes. So the first part of the beam will hit the sun in about six minutes time. Assume the beam takes two minutes to churn stuff up. It’s coming I suppose.” Over the skies of London a new message appears in bright red lettering. WE WILL NEVER SURRENDER! The old man glances at it and under his breath says “Here here...” quietly. “It’s leaving,” she says pointing at the shadow upon the face of the Moon. He nods. “Yes. Probably looking to get far, far away. When the sun blows she’s going to make a hell of a mess.” The girl turns to him. “That means... it worked? The plan?” The old man blinks, like someone remembering something and he smiles. “Yes. Yes you’re right. They fell for it. It worked.” “Good,” she says, her voice resolute, “That makes me happy.” “Me too. Good to know it was worth it eh? All of this.” She nods and looks at him, her eyes showing resolve. “Yes,” says the girl, “It makes me happy. You know I was thinking the other day; I’ve spent so much time needing the help of others. Doctors, nurses, carers. The human race has spent a fortune on me to keep me alive this long.” She gazes at her frail hand for a moment. “I feel good I get to do something back for the human race.” “That’s a lovely way to see it,” he nods, “And I have to agree. I mean, I’ve had a good life. But I suppose I’ve benefitted. From electricity. And medicine. And society. I liked society. I mean it wasn’t perfect. But it allowed me live for a long time. It was nice.” “Yes. Society was nice. I hope we make a better one.” “Me too,” In the firework smog above London, new words appear... GO ON THEN! FUCK THE FUCK OFF! He smiles at the very, VERY British statements of resentment. “That’s them gone,” he says, watching the last of the shadow leave the surface of the Moon, “Flying away. Idiots.” She nods, “They are going to be so mad when they discover what we did to them.” “Well, here’s hoping they never find out eh?” She stares at the darkness of space besides the Moon for a moment before asking, “Who started it?” “Who started what?” “The war?” “Oh, it was Them. They are miles ahead of us technologically wise. I mean they can destroy suns with a single beam. We can’t even come close. We’d never have picked a fight with them.” “True. What did they want?” He sighs and shrugs. “The usual. The human race to surrender to them. Become slaves. Or food. I think both.” “And that is what caused their ultimatum?” “Think so. And you know our reaction.” She looks over at the laser created letters above the ancient city of London and smiles sadly. “Yeah,” she says and is still for a moment. “How long now?” He glances down at his watch. “About 13 minutes or so.” “Soon then?” “Yes. But it does seem to be slowing. Time that is.” “I suppose.” She sounds sad and he wishes to distract her. A sudden thought comes to him. “Very ironic us worrying about time here of all places don’t you think?” “What do you mean?” “The Observatory,” he indicates the large brick building about 50 feet from them on the top of the hill. “See, that was where we calculated all the time zones from. The GMT line. Greenwich Mean Time. It actually runs right through the middle of the building. This is the centre of time on Earth. Literally go that way...” He points down river towards the sea, “And you have to put your clocks forward, and if you go that way...” He gestures down towards the town itself, hidden behind the trees, “And you have to put your clocks back. This is the centre of time.” She nods slowly, “I never knew that.” “This has been the place where the whole world has kept time. That was why I came here to be honest. That building. What it represented. Time.” He is silent for a moment. She stares at this old man, his disheveled clothes, but sees a spark of intelligence in his face. She wonders about his life. His life before. For his part the old man sighs and continues, “I don’t know. I suppose we all retained some mad dream that somehow we’d all escape this. Somehow find a way out. Mine? It involved being here. Maybe here where we fixed time we could do something like freeze time, hold the last perfect day so it could last forever.” He catches himself and winces. “Sorry, must sound silly.” “That’s lovely,” she says and then takes a breath. And then turns to him again. “How long? Tsk! Sorry. I shouldn’t keep asking...” “It’s fine. It’s not like we can ignore the circumstances,” replies. He glances down at his watch. “About ten minutes,” he says quietly. The girl is staring at the night sky. “Where are they do you think?” “The enemy? Probably running as fast as he can away from here.” “No. Us. The rest of us?” “Oh. Well, given it’s been a week or so, I’d say they are nearly there by now. They said Eden was three and a half thousand light years away. So I think that means it will take them nine days on the arks. Give or take.” He shrugs at her and continues, “Obviously I wasn’t paying too much attention to the evacuation procedures.” This makes her smiles again. “Me neither,” she says quietly, “Didn’t see the point.” She takes a deep breath and straightened out her back. She turns to him. “I’m pleased it worked.” “Me too,” he nods back and looks up at the darkness of the cosmos, “Fuck you assholes, we fooled you. We’ve won.” “When will they know?” “Who?” “Us,” she says, “The rest of us. When will they know Earth was destroyed?” His eyes never leave the stars and his frail voice is distant and quiet. “I suppose one night humanity will look up into the night sky above Eden and they will see a bright flash far distant as our sun blows up. In three and a half thousand years.” “And the enemy doesn’t know about Eden?” Her voice is almost pleading, hoping for this validation. He nods. “No. It’s why nothing was broadcast. Why we turned off all radio and TV communications. We couldn’t even allow an accidental slip. We printed everything. They don’t know about Eden.” She shivers quietly, and blinks. Wondering what the cause was. She can see nothing but the park in darkness and the old man staring up into space. “We outsmarted them,” she says and he blinks and turns to her. “Yes. We did. Final proof that there is nothing we humans can’t do if we out our minds to it. An all powerful alien species threatens to destroy our world? And we? Manage to sneak off nearly every human being right under their noses and settle on another world. Quite brilliant.” He seems happy and for reasons she didn’t quite understand, his happiness gave her joy. She leaned forward and asks, “Did you see the descriptions of Eden? I didn’t really feel like paying much attention to it?” “Oh yes,” he says getting excited, “Exoplanet almost identical to Earth. Slightly larger. Gravity a tad more but also a tad warmer. And two moons which means it’s tides are much more stable. Sounds ideal. And we know we can live there. Had people on it for thirty years before the crisis.” She sighs gently, “Eden. The Bible says we came from the Garden of Eden.” “We came from Eden and we go back to Eden. Nice symmetry.” He sighs and glances down at his watch. He sees her questioning look and says flatly, “Not long now. About seven minutes.” She nods and looks sad. Hit with a moments insecurity he asks, “Do you... do you need to be anywhere?” “I’ve got nowhere else to go. Everyone I know has...” “Me too,” he says. He looks around and remembering turns to her, “You know what I did yesterday? Spent a day walking around a primary school. It was filled with the remains of what had just been. Books and pens and art on the walls. In one classroom the children had drawn a big picture of Earth and above it the words ‘Goodbye Earth- thank you. We won’t forget you’. It was very sweet.” She smiles. “I’m pleased they took the children. All the children.” “Me also. And hey, they took 9 billion and change out of 10 billion humans. That’s bloody remarkable when you think about. All creeds, all colours, rich and poor. Didn’t care about religion or caste. They took everyone.” “Except us,” she says quietly. “Except the very old,” he replies. “And the very sick.” Her voice is small and vulnerable and he glances over, a look of concern upon his face. She sees it and holds her head up. “It’s alright. It made sense. A lot of sense. I mean they HAD to leave some right?” “Indeed. If we ALL went, when the enemy showed up they would have known, especially as we had stopped using tv and radio for the last month. They had to look down and see humans still on the planet. Be convinced we were still here. That way they would do what they threatened to do and move on. Not aware most of us had escaped.” “And it’s worked,” the girl beams. “It has worked. Well done humanity,” he smiles back. “Fuck you aliens!” She looks up at the night sky, her face defiant and strong. Her defiance infects him, and he nods. “Indeed. Fuck them.” The trees come alive, as hundreds of birds suddenly start flying. No birdsong. But hundred and hundreds of avian creatures all come to life. Briefly they are distracted by their sudden movement. “That’s odd,” she says but then just gasps as all the lights in the city go out. A few emergency lights in tower blocks automatically come to life, but it was as if someone had turned off all the power to everywhere with the flick of a single switch. Utter darkness envelops them both. They sit for a few seconds, their eyes adjusting to the complete darkness (where the Moon is the only illumination), but all they can hear are the flap of thousands of birds wings in the trees and air around them. “Do you think?” Her voice is raised slightly to be heard over the noise of the animals. “I don’t know,” he replies. “Oh. The sky?” He hears her and looks up. The sky has changed. Where there was at most twenty or thirty stars that could be seen above, now there were millions of them. It was if the entire sky had come alive with a myriad of stars of every size and hue. “Yes. Light pollution. We can see the sky without the orange glow.” “It’s so pretty,” she says dreamily, gazing up at the sky as if it was new to her. “Yes. Perfect. Normally you have to go deep in the countryside to get that.” The girl gazes upwards and narrows her eyes. “Where is Eden? Which one of these stars is Eden?” The old man has no idea, but senses that the actual answer didn’t matter right now. “That one,” he says pointing at a nice looking twinkling star. “Really?” “Yes. Its that one.” She smiles broadly and whispers up at the star, “We did it humanity. We fooled them.” And as quickly as it starts the beating of wings suddenly ends. A sudden, terrifying silence falls upon the world. “I’m getting scared,” she whispers. “Oh don’t my dear. Don’t be scared. Its just something that was going to happen fairly soon to us all just happening a little bit sooner eh?” She turns to him, “Can you hold my hand?” “I’d be honoured,” he says and takes hers in his. It feels thin and fragile; his feel calloused and wrinkled. It doesn’t matter. As much as they dare, without words, they squeeze each other’s hand. “I’m pleased to have met you,” she says, quietly. “So am I. I’m glad I’m not alone.” “Me too. I’m sorry. I never asked your name,” says the girl. The old man smiles. “William. My friends call me Billy.” “I’m Abigail.” “I’m really pleased to have met you Abigail.” “I’m really pleased to have met you too Billy.” The darkness suddenly diminishes. Nearby a herd of deer race out of some trees and spring across the grass before them. Twenty, thirty, more. Majestic even in their panic. Racing from somewhere to anywhere. The darkness lightens. As if, far away, the luminosity the sun has just been turned way up. They can see the red deer race down towards the river and watch them sadly... “I feel sorry for it,” she says. “What?” “The Earth. And the Sun. They didn’t ask for this,” comes her voice. “No, I suppose they didn’t.” “Poor old Earth.” Billy pats the grass besides him... “Yes indeed. She was a good planet. Thank you Earth. For everything.” Abigail smiles at that and Billy is suddenly aware he can see her clearly. It’s getting quite light... A ROAR. The air is rent by a roar unlike any heard upon this world. Superheated air catches fire high above them, igniting the atmosphere far above, as the opening salvo of the death of the sun hits the other side of the planet. The odd couple are illuminated as if it were day light, but it is a harsh white daylight, unforgiving and uncaring. It’s over for the other side at least thinks Billy. But the roar increases, and he notices it is getting much hotter. “Billy. I’m scared.” “Don’t be Abigail. I’m here.” Instinctively the old man brings her close, into a hug and she allows it. She can smell the stale scent of old dried sweat on unwashed clothing and tobacco and grime but for some reason she cannot explain it fills her with comfort. Relief. To be held by another human. He holds her close and desperately seeks to talk about something, anything... “Did... did you have any family?” His voice is loud now. The roar above is deafening. “My parents. My brother. We said goodbye last week. They didn’t want to go. I insisted. You?” “I have a daughter. I assume she has gone. Haven’t spoken to her in years. She’s safe. Like the rest of them. They are all safe Abigail.” “All safe,” she says and smiles and tears form, hard tears. The light gets brighter and the temperature higher. Sweat forms on her neck. The roar continues and he has to shout. “Jolly well taking it’s time eh?” Abigail finds this the funniest joke she has ever heard in all her life and laughs through her tears. “Yes. I wish to complain in the strongest terms about the slow service at the end of the world...” And Billy finds it the funniest joke he has ever heard in all his life. He glances up and sees a white burning sky, flames only a few hundred feet above them. Coming lower. He feels absolute terror and curls himself up around the young woman, protecting her, burying his face into her neck while she curls up inside his arms. The ground beneath them starts to shake. “Billy?” “Its alright Abigail. I’m here. Be over soon.” The hill begins to shake far more violently, vibrating back and forth and forces beyond any in the planets history smash into it. They cling to each other tighter in a final embrace. Here. At the end of all things. Her thoughts race with lightning speed, a history of broken memories of a life spent in hospitals and sick beds and of snatched glimpses of health. She begins to cry properly. Shuddering tears, all defences broken, all pretences gone. She sobs and curls into a little ball, and says ‘Daddy..’ And around her the old man begins to hum a tune he knew from his own childhood, cradling her and rocking her, he wants desperately to tell her it will all be alright, wants desperately to tell this young girl that he can make it better... And with this Billy’s mind finds itself at some kind of mental singularity; a point of no return. And he’s sees all his life, his two wives, his daughter laughing as a child, his mistakes, his regrets... all his life flashes before his minds eye. And yet to his surprise he sees something else. He sees before him an image of giant craft, its vast engines cooling, from huge gates in its side, disgorging people, so many people...sees their faces filled with hope and fears... he sees them smile at the sounds of children laughing He sees them build and stumble; sees them punishing criminals, making laws, sees they making countries. He seems them making mistakes, so many mistakes, and he sees their wars and their horrors; and they do inflict wars and horrors upon each other. But in that mental singularity he sees more. Children growing, living, loving, having children of their own. He sees ten thousand thousand generations yet to be born, building in a new place. On a new planet. Safe and wonderful and beautiful and perfect and they gaze up in the night sky of an alien word at a star that flares briefly... And like a singularity this last thought is all; forever trapped between the now and the was; forever would Billy feel that sense of pride and of joy and of love... And this young woman’s words and his own combine and in that endless moment of time he thinks We did it humanity; we fooled them; remember us... And that was all he knew. The nova was spectacular, the suns core tearing itself apart and it deaths throes obliterating Mercury and Venus and Earth and Mars; it’s vast forces slammed into Jupiter and Saturn. The Giant Planets died also. The sun flared briefly in its death and then exploded. And all trace of the planet Earth and of all the life upon it was gone forever. And across the endless cosmos a single thought of a single mind repeated as it held to the last sliver of its time, filled with hope and love and a defiance eternal. Remember us... It is a far, far better thing that I do, than I have ever done; it is a far, far better rest that I go to than I have ever known -Charles Dickens.
I guess I’m what you’d call an addict. Junkie, even. Alcohol? No, I don’t touch the stuff. I drink it, hahaha. Don’t need hands to do that, hence the punchline. Drugs? I mean, I dabble. Recreationally. Whatever you got, if it’s free, I’ll shoot it up, lick it, smoke it, stick under my eyelid, snort it right into my aorta. And I’m not particularly picky either. Captain Cody, Skag, Mud, Fidgeridoo, Herbal Speedball, Organ Oil, Demmies, Miss Emma, Kickers, Mrs. O, Yog-Sothamines, XTC, Sneeze, R-Balls; if you have them, I’ll take them. Still not addicted to the stuff though. No, my one and only addiction is exceedingly simple, yet intolerably hard to satisfy; FUCKED UP SHIT. I’m not talking about your everyday dark web snuff mind you. I need the real deal. Something about my brain's incapability to shoot me up with dopamine, oxytocin, serotonin and endorphins (the D.O.S.E), according to several online doctors. So it’s a medical thing. Still haven’t scored a prescription for it though. In any case, my medical condition forces me to deep dive into the fuckiest corners of society. You have your dark underground clubs, murder parties, subteranean sickofests, torture theatres, decapitation diners, and the odd organ orgies, but what I really enjoy, what makes my D.O.S.E overflow, is the ones you never hear about. The ones you have to find. No invitations, no RSVPs. One day they just pop up like a popcorn baby, and before you know it, they’re gone. I’ve been to a few of these over the years, and they never disappoint. I already told you about the Baby Killer Incident, yeah? Then you know what I’m talking about. Fucked up shit! I happened upon this particular one by Chance. Chance being this stripper I know that’s into some ritualistic cannibalism or other (I don’t ask), and long story short she knew the sicko who was hosting the event. I was hesitant at first, this particular sicko placing fairly high on my shitlist of sickos, but hey, beggars can’t be choosers and all. Not to mention that my D.O.S.E-withdrawals were flaring up, making me in essence nothing more than a shivering sack of suicidal human tissue on the best of days. So there I was in an abandoned mall, shivering sack of suicidal human tissue, idly accepting assorted drugs from random passer-by deviants taking a pity on me, when this guy comes up to me, all dressed up in a pink hazmat suit with a freaky unicorn horn (which, when I look back on it, was probably a massive drill-shaped dildo) stuck to his helmet, and he goes Hey Tilly (that’s my name, Tilly), Hey Tilly, he says. I hear you like fucked up shit. Man, word gets around, I think to myself, but at the same time these loud fucking alarm bells starts going off in my head, accompanied by Soviet Union-amounts of red flags. How the fuck do you know my name? I ask. Your ears, he answers. The guy told me to look for a man with fucked up ears. Well, you found’em, I say, making sure to twirl around all ballerina-like, highlighting my ugly-ass ear-stumps. And what fucking guy gave you my name? That guy, he mumbles idly, not actually pointing to anyone. Say, what happened to them? To who? Your, uh, ears. Oh, that, I say. Sliced them off as a punchline in an elaborate Van Gogh-joke. Well, two seperate jokes, actually. Both Van Gogh-related though. The guy nods, maybe smiles, but I can’t really tell because of the dildo-helmet, and beckons for me to follow him. Now, I don’t normally follow strange men into bathrooms, but sometimes that’s exactly what you should do. I guess learning when to do it, and when not to do it is an integral skill in this setting, but you’ll figure it out one way or another, so don’t worry too much about it. Anyway, into the bathroom we go. Like the rest of the place it’s spotless, meaning there isn’t a single fucking spot that isn’t covered in grime or dirt or bodily fluids of some description, and I wrinkle my nose in disgust as the guy waves me into an empty stall at the far end of it. I hesitate momentarily, my mind doing some olympic-levels of mental gymnastics to calculate the risk/reward-ratio of my current situation. I land on an even 50/50 - good enough - and I saunter into the stall, only to realise it’s not a bathroom stall at all. Unexpected, I say, my D.O.S.E-levels elevating ever so slightly. The guy starts descending the winding staircase leading god-knows-where, looking back at me when he notices I’m still just standing there sheepishly. You coming or what? he asks. Fuck no, I think to myself. Yeah, I say. Now, I’m no architect, but I’ll hazard a guess and propose that winding staircases are a rare find in your standard mall bathroom, abandoned or not. This wasn’t always a mall, was it? I ask. Good eye, the guy answers. Used to be a church. I guess capitalism always wins, huh? I just nod, soon enough realising these fucking stairs are neverending, like one of those spirals you see in old movies, you know, when someone is getting hypnotised? Then I think back on this woman I met when I was young. Younger? Time man, it’s always going somewhere, and I never really bothered catching up to it. Anyway, I think back on this woman I bumped into on the street, and how she out of the blue asks me if I’d seen her job, and I was like what the fuck do you mean? I’ve lost my job, she says. It’s always in the last place you look, I note. That’s really helpful, she says unironically. Say, could you help me with something else? What? Do you know, she starts. Do you know how to rewind a winding staircase? I don’t know man, that shit always stuck with me. Some kind of riddle? An elaborate joke? A covert Operation Mindfuck? Escaped lunatic lingo? In any case, that’s how I felt when we descended those stairs. Like I was rewinding a winding staircase. Here we are then, the guy suddenly exclaims, bringing me out of my temporal trip down memory lane. I am wildly underwhelmed at this point, but after letting my eyes get used to the dimly lit basement chamber, I can feel my brain starting to upchuck some good fucking shit into my system. Champagne? the guy asks, beckoning to a rather unbecoming rat-faced girl in the corner to come hither with a tray of alcoholic beverages. Don’t mind if I’m already two steps ahead of you, I think, having snatched a bottle I found sitting by the stairs. I pop it open, and enjoy the weird expressions on their faces as I chug the whole fucking thing in a manner of seconds. Tastes like an aging puke-shit hybrid, but my think-organ seems to enjoy it, and I’m not one to start a fight with my own fucking brain. I watch the two of them trade looks of confusion, realisation, and then something I (falsely) identify as fear, then turn my attention to the tied up naked man at the far end of the room. I think I forgot to mention him, but he was there too. In fact, he was the sole reason my D.O.S.E was elevating - the prospect of some kind of fucked up torture show enough to get my juices flowing. Now what? the girl asks. Do we tell him? Fuck it, the guy says, and then proceeds to bash half of my skull in with a crowbar. You know the part in every fucking action movie where the main character knocks some poor unnamed henchman unconscious? Do you realise how fucking dangerous that is? Concussions are silent killers man. Could’ve inflicted some serious brain damage too. Those fuckers can fuck you up for life. Anyway, I guess I must’ve been out for a few, because when I woke up, I found myself dangling from the ceiling, my body suspended mid-air by some rather sturdy-looking chains. You fucked up royally this time Tilly, the dildo-helmet proposed. If my jaw hadn’t felt like someone had ripped it out, then jammed it back in the wrong way around, I probably would have responded with a witty remark. As circumstances were though, I felt forced to reply with a half-hearted Guh? Let’s show you exactly how much you fucked up, the guy says. My mind slips in and out of what I assume is consciousness, but it’s like my thoughts are torn in half; one side continuously trying to make sense of what I’m seeing, and the other rapidly filling with nausea-inducing dread. Both are fucking screaming though, my stump-ears somehow hearing the inside of my mind lamenting as it drowns slowly in an all-consuming madness. The naked man screams too, but he’s more physical about it. How can a supposedly regular set of lungs contain that much air, I find myself thinking. His skin is a deep shade of red, some of it undoubtedly caused by lack of oxygen, some of it by the ever-growing stream of blood ceaselessly dripping down from his soon-to-be empty eye-socket. Pull it Ems! the guy yells. The rat-faced girl, Ems, has this horrid fucking grin on her face. You know how an old lemon looks, like a really shrivelled up piece of lemon? All wrinkles and browning leathery texture? That was her face. All fucking rotting wrinkled lemon texture smiles. Pull it! Ems got the naked man’s eye firmly gripped between her thumb and index, long dirty fingernails digging into the spongy vitreous, having now pulled it about an inch or so outside of the poor fucker’s socket. And I can just tell by her posture that she’s readying herself for that final, horrible yank. I want to close my eyes so badly at this point, you know, just fucking succumb to the madness my brain is desperately conjuring up to save me, but at the same time I can’t. I physically cannot get my eyelids to work. I don’t know why, but that fucking fact freaks me out more than anything else going on. And then it happens. With a swift, overly dramatic motion, she rips the fucking eye all the way out, and the man’s tormented shrieks reaches sonic levels that transcends human hearing. My ears are ringing, my mind is swirling, and my eyes are itching. Watch this Tilly, the guy says coldly. Watch this fucking shit real closely. And I do. Barely conscious at this point, hanging onto sanity only by fucking ignoring reality as a concept, I watch as Ems drops the severed eye to the dirty grime-covered floor, the disgusting fucking thing still somehow connected to the man via the optical nerves - impossibly long squirming crimson tendrils. What the fuck? I mumble. I told you, the guy chuckles. I fucking told you. It’s hard to say how many there were. Countless maybe. Countless and then some, probably. Thin crimson worms, entangled in each other, organically interwoven to form a disgusting chain from the naked man’s empty eye socket to the severed eye on the floor. I could see them slithering in perfect repulsive unison, and suddenly the eye starts...moving. This is the best part, the guy says. The squirming chain slowly starts retracting, the blue of the eye turning a savory shade of grime-grey as it is dragged across the floor, up the naked man's legs, stomach, neck, face, until finally, after what seems like an eternity, it pops right back into the socket with a repulsive gloooph. My stomach wants me to vomit now, but it’s barren and dry and empty and sour, so instead my brain takes control, a tempting blank void all the way in the back of my mind presented as a possible solution. But they won’t let me go. Ems erupts in a maniacal laughter, like the sound of a chainsaw on rough concrete, and the guy soon follows. I feel the muscles in my back contracting all seizure-like; more than likely my body’s last desperate attempt at shutting me down. The naked man has stopped screaming now, the tortured wails replaced by a deep gargle, slime and blood mixed together in the back of his throat. Maybe his nightmare will end, I think, but then I realise it won’t. It hasn’t. It’s still going. The eye is still moving. Being dragged now inside his skull, I see the spongy texture of it bending and morphing hideously as it squeezes past bone structures that are by far too fucking narrow, and then it disappears completely, accompanied by a soundscape of gloophs and schlucks. The man topples over, still tied to the chair, and convulses in agony for minutes, until it all suddenly stops. I have never experienced such silence. That’s how I imagine space, you know. A great old big fucking vast empty nothingness of all the senses. And now, the guy says, standing over the corpse of the naked man. Now it is your turn. Ems hideous face morphs into that smile again. Big old lemon wrinkled smile. I remember her crooked yellow fingernails so vividly, horrid jagged things inching closer and closer to my eye, until I could feel them scraping on my exposed pupil. I guess my mind found a way out right then. Fucking took it long enough though, but I figure I must have passed out, maybe from the pain, maybe from the fear, maybe from the exhaustion. Most likely neither of those, though. When I woke up, I was alone, face down in my own sour-dry vomit on the ground. No naked corpse man, no dildo-helmet guy, no lemon-smiled Ems. I spent a good fifteen minutes checking my eyes, trembling fingers tracing them, you know, just to see if they were still there. And they were. They were fucking solid. They were fucking perfect. I guess I spent a few weeks or so recuperating from that shit, but I’ve never felt quite the same. Turns out there’s a reason for that. It’s weird you know, how I didn’t realise it sooner. I might be a fucked up piece of shit, but I’m no dummy. Gotta hand it to them though, it was a clever way to do it. Offering you a drink. I guess that’s how they got it in the naked man too. I suppose that’s why they told me I fucked up. Took too much, as the saying goes. Chugged the whole infestation. I cut myself shaving this morning. Just a tiny nick, you know. But where you’d expect blood, there was none. Instead I was greeted with the unseemly sight of a thin crimson worm, dangling restlessly by my nose. Now if that’s not some FUCKED UP SHIT, I don’t know what is. TCC
Enter the win odds and the place odds (either directly (e.g. 3.50) or as a fraction of the win odds (e.g. 1/3). Enter any applicable deductions (leave as 0 if you are unsure) along with the total stake that will be applied for each bet. The calculator will then output various potential results from your wagers. Each-Way, Win and Place Calculator For much more information about how each way bets work, see our guide to each way betting. FAQ – Frequently Asked Questions about the Each Way Calculator How does an Each Way Calculator work? After entering your stake, bet type and odds of each selection, our helpful tool will calculate how much you could win on a successful bet. The Each Way calculator is a tool which will quickly work out each aspect of your bet. What do you need to do? Enter the details of your bet, including odds, stake and your bookmaker’s E/W terms. The Each Way calculator will then display how much profit you could make. A good way to use the Each Way calculator is to enter the information of potential bets. This means that the each way ‘place’ odds for the race are calculated at 1/4. It also shows that places 1 and 2 in the race qualify for the ‘place’ parts in this race. In big horse racing events like Cheltenham Festival , you will typically find that there are 3-to-5 places paid. Each Way Calculator This calculator allows you to calculate your profit when backing an outcome Each Way and laying the Win and Place markets at the Exchange. About Our Company. We are a ... Betting odds comparison website - Helping to make matched betting and arbitrage easy How To Calculate Each Way Payouts. Suppose you’ve placed an Each Way bet of £10 (£5 on Win, £5 on Place) at a price of 20/1 (21.0 decimal odds). The Each Way terms of the race are: 6 places at 1/5 of the odds. Here’s the three possible Each Way scenarios calculated under both fractional and decimal odds formats. Each Way Bet Calculation. When placing an each way bet it’s not always clear what your return is going to be. With an each way bet we are actually placing 2 seperate bets. 1 bet on the win and 1 bet on the place. Let’s use a horse race as an example. If our horse wins we win both the win part and the place part. So a 4/1 winner with £10 each-way placed on it and each-way terms of 1/4 odds will receive a return of £70. If that selection finishes second the return will be £20. Don’t take our word for it, enter the odds, stakes and finishing position into our free bet calculator yourself! The world's most trusted Texas hold'em poker odds calculator. Improve your poker or find out just how bad that bad beat was. The place portion of the bet will be represented using a fraction of the winning odds. So for instance, if the each way fraction is 1/5 and the winning odds are 10/1 and you place a £5 each way bet, then your win portion has potential returns of £55 (£50 + £5) and the place portion potential returns of £15 (£10 + £5).
EACH-WAY BETTING & EXTRA PLACES: How I Make My Biggest ...
Hey, what’s up! My name is Matt Aitchison, or as most call me, “Matty A”. I guess this is the part where I’m supposed to tell you a little about myself and h... In this video I teach you the exact each-way betting tips that I use to pull in my biggest profits each month. FREE BEGINNER COURSE: https://www.beatingbetti... It's easy to calculate 50:1 fuel to oil ratio in your head. You don't need a calculator, it's that easy. It will perform at its best if the 2 stroke oil rati... How to calculate the Correlation using the Data Analysis Toolpak in Microsoft Excel is Covered in this Video (Part 2 of 2).Check out our brand-new Excel Sta... Betting Each WayBetting each way is a useful tool in horse racing. It’s a great way of finding value.A each way bet is two bets - one to win and one place..... Each Way Arbing Calculator - Duration: 3:35. Matched Betting 340 views. 3:35. ... Safe game of the day / Sure 2 Odds by How to win bet daily - Duration: 4:34. How to win bet daily Recommended for ... OddsMonkey - http://oddsmonkey.org.ukA video showing a guaranteed profit that I made on an Each Way bet on a horse, found using the Eachway matcher tool in O... The Roulette Dozens Calculator app works on the law of averages and gives you great odds that the dozen you are going to bet on will come up. To run the system all you need is a bankroll of $200. MARGINS, ODDS & VALUE ... Each Way Arbing Part 2: How to Place & Lay an Each Way Value Bet Beyond Matched Betting - Duration: 8:52. Printing Money 3,234 views. 8:52. Sports Betting: Billy ... Here we are joined by Gareth Walker of BettorStrategy to talk through how to use Each Way betting appropriately. Tune in to hear what Gareth has to say on th...
