Okay, y 'all. It's Brandy. Again. And it's January.
Which means it's cold. Everybody's tired. And
I am currently sitting in what used to be a functional
makeshift studio. Before Buck got a hold of it
like a raccoon with a credit card. First of all,
Brandy's still gone. No one knows where. We got
postcards from places that do not exist on any
map I own. and one voice memo. It was just wind,
crunching snow, and him whispering, I think they
know I'm here. So that's where we're at. I'm
trying to hold the fort down, which is hard to
do when Buck has improved the space. And by improved,
I mean, he replaced the chair with a milk crate
for posture, covered half the walls in tin foil
for signal protection, and labeled the microphone,
Do Not Trust. There's also a corkboard now with
yarn. I don't know. I'm not allowed to ask about
it. Well, Christmas was weird. Not bad. Just
weird. No Randy narrating over wrapping paper
sounds. No him falling asleep mid -sentence after
too much ham. But I will say this. Nothing caught
on fire. Not the tree. Not the oven. Not the
extension cord situation. So honestly, that's
a win. Anyway, it's January. New Year. Same nonsense.
We've got stories lined up. Voice is ready, and
I'm doing my best to keep this thing moving while
Buck's banned from touching anything with buttons.
So, settle in, shake off the holiday hangover,
and let's get into it. This is Cold Reed's Hot
Takes, anew. Randy'll be back. Probably. All
right, let's kick this thing off before Buck
wanders back in here with more theories and tinfoil.
Our first story tonight is called 7 -10 Split.
It's written by Brady Flanagan, sound designed
by Andy Wardlaw, and it's voiced by Chris Bow,
so is Martin, and Emily Mosley as Mom. This one's
about that real awkward stretch of life where
you're not a kid anymore. Not quite an adult.
And somehow, every conversation with your parents
feels like you're both speaking different languages.
But, you know, still meaning well. It's funny.
A little uncomfortable in that. Oh yeah, I remember
that way. And it sneaks some heart in there when
you're not looking. So get comfortable. Brace
yourself for secondhand embarrassment. And let's
roll into 7 -10 split. Crap. 6 .59. Think, Martin.
Think. Think. Think. Before he gets here, there's
got to be something you can do. Something to
stave things off. You can't just keep covering
for him. Mom is already getting suspicious. 20
seconds. Okay. I've just got to be firm with
him. Stick to my room. He can't make you do anything
you don't already want to do. Remember that.
You're stronger than Martin. No. No. Not yet.
Martin. At least let me lock the door first.
Oh, good evening, Martin. How lovely to pay you
a visit. No, no, no, no. You're just a voice
in my head. You aren't real. Are we on this again?
Really? Do you need to go get the recording that
you made last night? You can hear me. Lane is
day. It's a trick. My mind is making me think
that I'm hearing you on the recording. Martin.
Martin, you know that I would never stoop to
tricks. Come now, don't put your head in the
sand. Look up, open your eyes, look in the mirror.
No, no, no, no, no. You tried that last night.
It was a trick of the light. I already said no
tricks, Martin. Come now, look. No, both eyes.
There we are. I don't think it's real. Oh, really?
Your mouth is moving. Sound is coming out. I
am a part of you. Nay, I am you. I am Martin.
I don't think so. You're just a figment of my
imagination. I think that's what it's called.
Martin, honey, are you all right in there? Yeah,
Mom, I'm fine. Just fine. A little under the
weather is all. Oh, no, honey. I'm coming in.
I'll check your temperature. No, I'll be okay.
I promise. I don't want to make you sick, too.
You've got that important showing tomorrow. The
house on Sycamore, right? Okay. I'll be down
the hall if you need me. Okay. She should leave
me alone. Leave us alone, Martin. Whatever. Why
do you come here? And why is it every night at
7 o 'clock sharp? What can I say? I'm a creature
of habit. Take it as a compliment. But what are
you? I told you. I am you, Martin Kramer. I'm
not buying it. There is one way we can prove
it, you know. No. I know where you're going with
this. Bring Mom in for a little chat. No! Oh,
come on. No. No, no, no. You'll have to eventually,
you know. No, I won't. I'll meet with a psychiatrist.
Go behind Mom's back. Get meds. Get rid of you.
That's not how it works. You can't get rid of
you. And for the final time, I am you. It's not
happening. Oh, you think so? Hey, Mom, get in
here. No matter what I say, I need you. Break
down the door if you have to. You jerk! Martin?
Honey? What was that ruckus about? Please, open
this door. I'm coming, Mom. Just a second. Come
on, don't keep her waiting. I hate you. Martin
James Kramer, explain yourself. What in the blazes
is going on? I don't know what to say or how
to say it. Just tell the truth, Martin. You'll
feel better. Fine, fine, fine. So, it started
last week. I was out with my friends seeing the
new Fantasmic movie. Oh, it was magnificent.
Sam Rockwell was transcendent as usual. Anyway,
out of nowhere, I found myself yelling at the
screen. Get him! He went that way! But it wasn't
my voice. And I wasn't even thinking that. I
was just suddenly talking. My friends laughed
and just thought I used a funny voice. Funny
voice? That's offensive. But I was freaked out.
Like, like really, really freaked out, Mom. I
ran out of the movie and into the bathroom, and
I was still talking the whole way. Making jokes
about the lady tearing movie tickets, asking
myself to buy some nachos, making references
to ancient movies that I've never even heard
of. Spaceballs is not ancient. It's timeless.
Then I think I screwed up by actually talking
back to the voice. An old guy walked in to use
the bathroom and looked at me like I was crazy,
which I probably am. No more than most of your
garden -variety teenagers, I assure you. Left
the theater in a huff and walked home, trying
to ignore the voice. Do you have any idea how
awkward it is to feel like you're talking to
yourself? It's so rude. Since then, every night
at 7 o 'clock sharp, the voice comes back. Asking
me questions, telling me that it's real, telling
me that it's me. It won't leave me alone. And
then, at 10 o 'clock sharp, boom, it's gone.
I've got to stick to my curfew, you know. One
of us has to be responsible. I'm going crazy,
Mom. I think I might need to be put into, I don't
know, like an insane asylum place or something.
I don't know what to do, but I need help, Mom.
Is there anyone we could call? Maybe like a priest
for an exorcism? Mom? What? Why are you smiling?
Your 16 -year -old son has lost his mind and
should be taken away in a straitjacket. This
is serious stuff here. Oh, come on. Tell him,
Cynthia. Mom? Okay, okay. I'm sorry. I should
have told you years ago, but it usually doesn't
happen, at least until you're 18. He did go through
an early puberty, though. Not many 12 -year -olds
can grow a mustache. Yeah, you're right. Expect
the unexpected. Our family has a... how should
I put this? A curse. Curse? I'm a delight, I'll
have you know. Yes, yes. You are great. That?
better. Your great -grandfather, my Grandpa Roland,
was big into spelunking. That kid has no idea
what that is. Look at him. He's a dollard. Exploring
caves. He came across an ancient artifact and
bing, bang, boom. Curse. Blessing, Cynthia. One
-eighth of our adult life, we become hosts for
some friends from the other side. More than friends,
Cynthia. I'm inside you. Inappropriate. We help
them to learn about our world, empathize in what
it means to be human. In return, they... You
know, I'm not really sure what they do for us.
We provide endless entertainment, of course.
Don't worry. He'll calm down over time. He's
just excited to be out and about. Eventually,
you look forward to the time you spend together.
And yes, you wait until you find out about Hot
Pocket. Ooh, exciting! What? What do I tell people?
How can I live a normal life? I'm not going to
lie. It can be tough. Most people don't stick
around long. Frankly, I'm surprised that your
father lasted as long as he did. But in the end...
We'll have a friend for life. BFFs! Trust me,
it gets better. And hey, we can use our time
with our friends to spend time with each other
as well. Yes! Double dates! Oh, please don't
call it that. Thanks, Mom. I'm just glad I'm
not crazy. You might still be crazy. This entire
conversation could be in your head. Ooh, spooky!
Stop confusing the boy. Sorry. No. How about
all four of us go downstairs? I'll pop some popcorn
and we can watch a movie. Fantasmus 4! Fantasmopolis,
please! Fantasmopolis, please! Come on, hon.
That one hit a little close, didn't it? If anyone
needs a second to recover from their own teenage
memories, I support that. Take a sip of whatever
you're drinking. Deep breaths. We're moving on.
All right. Next up, we've got the... Nope. Not
today. The... Why is that word so aggressive?
Okay. The Azure Assassin. I got it. I'm not going
to say it again, so you enjoy that one. This
one's written by Matthew Curran, sound designed
by Matt Rockstar, and it stars Gareth Murden
as Agent Strange, which sounds right for this
show, and Brady Flanagan as the Aziz. The man
who's supposed to shoot? I don't know. You say
that word three times fast and let me know how
it feels. The story is slick. It's tense. It's
got secrets, danger, and, well, way more confidence
than I have right now trying to pronounce things
on a microphone. So buckle up, keep your head
down, and let's roll into the ajuars. You know
what it is. Yeah, yeah, well, I hear you, but...
I sent the best to take care of them. You shouldn't
have any trouble. I'll update you once he tells
me everything, John. Strange out. Hmm. Mission
accomplished, I take it. Yes. Any trouble? No.
Good, good. How many? Nineteen. Casualties? Yes.
As in deaths? Yes. Right. Can you elaborate?
Complicated. You really need to start speaking
a little more in detail, my friend. What can
you tell me about your mission? Chaotic. That's
a given. You're not much for telling stories,
even after everything I taught you. No. You ain't
gonna find a sweetheart if you keep up that particular
quirk of yours, boy. Good. Ah, so you do enjoy
the single life. Somewhat. I mean, well, never
mind. The job's done, the fallout will be great,
and we can proceed as planned. The leaders of
that clan dead, we can go ahead and send our
mercenaries into the city. When? By the full
moon. Big things are happening. The parade incident
was only a minor setback. Our people in the north
are rallying our allies amongst the other natives,
human and non -human. Heads are gonna roll. Then?
All out war in the shadows. But this city has
remained neutral in the conflict, and we need
to make sure they align with us. We have plenty
of conspirators at work. Hmm. Right. Something
wrong? No. We have known each other for years.
Despite not reading your face because you always
have that damned mask on, I can tell you're troubled
by your tone alone. What's wrong? I thought this
was what you wanted, right? You wanted revenge
against your clan's purge and your exile, if
I remember. Not to mention your powers have exceeded
our expectations with the training you received.
We are in a good place to make a change. Why
hesitate? They betrayed you and your mother.
Enough! Fine. You have another assignment. Something
I think you will like. The son and daughter of
the main family of the leading clan are going
to be transferred out of the country due to the
rising political volatility of the region. They
will find refuge in a different elven conclave,
intercept their escort, kill them. Children?
What does it matter? They're all in it together.
By extension, they are culpable in your suffering.
Are you getting cold feet? This is your chance
to make them pay. Hey, where are you going? Away.
Don't you dare. Where else can you practice the
full extent of your powers? Who else can help
you exact your revenge? Our master won't approve
of this. As your peer mentor, I won't let you
leave. You are making a mistake. You'll be disintegrated
if you leave. Last warning. A shame. Bring it
away. You will never understand. Of all the damn
times to be different, everyone will hunt you
down. As your assassin, who can you turn to?
That one had vibes. Real don't trust anybody
energy. All right. Hang on. Why am I buzzing?
Is this me? Is this the mic? Of course. Buck
wrapped the mic cord in tinfoil. I should have
known. I didn't know. I ignored it. That's on
me. I asked him not to touch anything. Anything.
And what does he do? Signal protection. Buddy,
the only signal I'm worried about is the one
to my sanity. Okay. Sorry. One second. All right.
There you go. Yep. That's better. All right.
Next story. This one's called learning to walk
again. It's written by Brady Flanagan. Sound
design by... Well, also Brady Flanagan. Guess
he couldn't get anyone else to do it. It stars
Melissa Carrington as Katie. Selena Matriga as
Gail. And listen. This one's quiet. Not slow.
Just gentle. It's about a mother and daughter
holding each other up when neither one really
knows how to stand yet. About forgetting who
you were for a bit and then finding a new way
forward together. I don't know. Maybe it's the
time of year. Maybe it's the foil fumes. But
this one's got me. So, take a breath. Let this
one sit with you. This is learning to walk again.
Come on, Mom. Just three more. You can do it.
Keep your right knee bent. 90 degrees. I'm trying,
but it hurts. Keep going, Mom. It's okay. We
can take a little break. I'm so embarrassed.
You shouldn't see me like this, Katie. You should
be back home with your lovely wife and... The
kids. Melanie has things under control at home,
Mom. You need me here. I'm so weak these days,
and my brain is foggy. I can't think straight.
Ever since the stroke, I might as well be in
a home. We tried that, Mom. The rehab center
was great for you in some ways. Sure, but you're
miserable. You need family. You need to live
your life without your old shell of a mother.
I don't need to be a bother. Mom, stop it. I
want to be here. I should just give up. That
physical therapist I think is out to kill me
with these exercises. I might as well let her
finish the job. Mom, where is this talk coming
from? From the old, tired husk that can't hold
her leg up for five. Seconds. Look, you are Gail
Arbuckle. A woman who gave every spare moment
back to her community. A woman who was a scourge
for the patriarchy. A woman who has always stood
for what was right. I can barely even physically
stand anymore. Mom, do you remember when I tried
out for volleyball in eighth grade? Vaguely.
I can barely even remember what I had for lunch.
I was so excited. I always wanted to play sports,
but nobody wanted the fat girl on their team.
Sweetie, you weren't fat. I stayed up night after
night trying to perfect my form, watching old
VHS tapes of the Olympics, copying their moves,
jumping around the apartment. I remember the
noise complaints from the downstairs neighbors.
I had to bake them a carrot cake to apologize.
When the tryouts came, I was so nervous that
I wanted to back out. Sure that I was going to
fail. Wondering why it was that I thought I could
do it. Do you remember what you said to me? Probably
something about... How I knew you would get in
and to believe in yourself, you know, mom stuff.
Actually, um, no, not at all. I remember I was
sitting at the breakfast table eating a bowl
of Wheaties because I wanted to be a champion.
And you came in all flustered because of some
issue that you knew you would have at work that
day. I smiled at you and reminded you that I
had my tryouts that afternoon. And you grunted
and said, eh, you might get it, might not. Life
sucks sometimes. Wow. I was a shit mom, huh?
I couldn't believe it. My mom was supposed to
be my rock. And here she was, thinking I would
fail when I had worked so hard. I ran to my room
in tears. You didn't even notice and left to
go to work. I skipped school and just sat in
my bed all day thinking about how crappy life
was. Dad died a year before that. We moved three
times in the next year. You were working a crappy
job at the Kroger. Our phone kept ringing into
the night from debt collectors calling. My grades
were slipping. I had no friends, no hobbies,
and my mom couldn't even give me the support
I needed for volleyball. I was so angry at you.
And you had every right to be, honey. Yeah, but
then I realized how selfish I was being. You
just lost your husband and insurance denied the
life insurance claim. You were struggling to
make ends meet. You were working a job that you
hated so that I could have a chance to go to
a good school, and I was squandering it. For
the first time, I saw you as a person. With flaws
and struggles instead of just... Whatever an
idyllic mom was supposed to be. I got over myself,
went to the school, and gave my best at the tryouts.
Did you get in? No. That's not what's important.
I came home after the tryouts and made a dinner
for you. I think it was just some crappy hamburger
helper, but... When you got home from work, you
praised it up and down, saying it was the best
meal you ever had. We cuddled up on the couch
and watched reruns of Seinfeld. What a shitty
poor person's evening. No, it was one of the
best nights of my life, Mom. Times were tough.
But together, I knew we could keep going, and
we did. Eventually... We moved out of that crappy
little apartment and into our condo. My grades
got better, not honor roll or anything, but good
enough that I was able to get into a decent college.
Then you got some better jobs, and eventually
you had your lucky break, opened your bakery.
Yeah, I ended up failing in the end, but the
joy in your eyes at that grand opening when you
sold your first batch of muffins was worth it.
Mom, I'm not gonna lie to you. Yeah, life does
suck sometimes. Then things get better, and then
they get worse. Then they get better again, then
worse. You have to remember when things are down.
No matter how down they are, something better
will eventually come. You'll have those moments
of light again. But only if you take the next
step. You have to keep going. Even if my physical
therapist is trying to kill me. Even if she hired
cartel members to torture Kondo in the middle
of the night. Which I doubt. Physical therapists
don't make mob boss levels of dough. Come on.
Three more leg lifts, and then I'll make you
some hamburger helper. Old time's sake. I'm not
gonna jump right into the next thing just yet.
That one? That one deserves a minute. Stories
like that always get me thinking about how much
we pretend we've got it together. Like there's
some age where you're supposed to magically know
who you are and never question it again. Spoiler
alert. Doesn't happen. You just get better at
hiding the questions behind grocery lists and
routines. I think that's why that store is dicks.
It's not about fixing everything. It's about
showing up. About letting someone see you when
you're still wobbling. I don't know. I like that
idea. Feels honest. Anyway, small reminder while
we're here. Checking on your people. The ones
who raised you. The ones who walk beside you.
The ones you lean on without even realizing it.
Sometimes just saying, hey, I'm here. Does more
than any big speech ever could. Alright, just
give me a second to shake that off and we'll
keep moving. Alright, last one of the night.
This story's called To the Victors Go the Spoils.
It's written by Daniel Houraz with sound design
by Brady Flanagan. And it stars Anthony Ornato
as the Jackal and J .R. Snyder as Kohler. This
one's set way out in the future. After the fighting's
gone on too long and everybody's carrying more
than just scars. It's about what happens when
warriors hit that moment where they gotta decide
if they keep doing what they've always done or
risk everything on something new. It's heavy.
It's tense. And it asks some big questions without
yelling the answers at you. So settle in one
last time. This is To The Victors Go The Spoils.
Hold up. This one is still alive. Damn vermin
don't know when to quit. I almost respect them
for it. Was that necessary, Jekyll? I'm sorry.
What was that? Was. That. Necessary. Kohler,
did you hit your head during the battle? That's
our enemy. You know the things we've been shooting
at for the last three years? It wasn't a combatant.
It was clinging on to life. And that means we
have to show mercy? If we didn't kill it now,
it could ambush the next patrol. Or worse, rally
its friends in the next fight. You don't know
that. If it was you, wouldn't you want the enemy
to pass you by? What has gotten into you? Ever
since the battle at Blackheath Ridge, you've
gone toothless. What happened to the hero of
New Detroit? I... well... When I came to this
rock, fresh out of basic, you were like a blender
to these things. I was scared shitless every
combat deployment, but then offhand you said
something to me. You said, the strong live, the
weak die. Those are the rules. So explain to
me, with that Xeno, why things are different
now. Because it wasn't weak. What? Are you going
to tell me that all of our forces who died today
were weak? Are you going to look me in the eyes
and say that they deserved this slaughter? That's
war. Not everyone gets to go home. Survival isn't
a privilege or a right. You earn it on the battlefield.
Because if I'm faster than them, or smarter than
them, then I deserve to kill them. The same goes
for those things. And I suppose that goes for
me too. Whoa, take it easy. What are you doing?
Have you learned nothing after all this time?
We're not the good guys. They aren't the bad
guys. We're both fighting over a rock that no
one cares about. Kohler, this is war. If you
can't get it through that psycho head of yours,
then I don't know whose side you're on. From
where I stand, I'm not on anyone's side but mine.
So what? You gonna shoot me and walk into the
sunset like some cowboy from the movies? I've
had enough of all this. Most of all, I've had
enough of you. We're going to put your theory
to the test, Jackal. Pick up your weapon. We'll
see which one of us earns our survival. The strong
live, the weak die. Those are the rules. Fine.
You think you're better than me, Kohler? Smarter
than me? I'll show you you're not. That's the
most honest thing you've said all day. That's
our episode. We started out awkward and honest
with seven -tenths bleed. Took a sharp left turn
into danger and questionable pronunciation with
the ajour. That one. Slowed things down and got
real with learning to walk again. And wrapped
it all up by staring straight at the future to
the victor goes the spoils. Which is a lot for
one night. Emotionally speaking. If you're not
feeling something right now, you might want to
check your pulse. Or your headphones. I gotta
say, holding this thing together while Randy's
been gone has been an experience. Mostly good.
Occasionally loud. Sometimes involving tinfoil
where tinfoil should never be. But we made it.
Nobody cried on mic. Nothing caught on fire.
That's a win in my book. Before I go, quick disclaimer,
any strange buzzing you may have heard was not
a haunting, a transmission from the future, or
a sign of impending doom. That was Buck. It's
always Buck. And hey, Randy, if you're listening
to this from wherever you want it off to, I hope
you're okay. I hope you're warm. And I hope you're
not trying to... Well, just come back soon. The
chair misses you. This has been Cold Reads Hot
Takes. Thanks for listening. Oh, and before I
actually sign off, one more thing. I just want
to give a real big thank you to everyone listening.
And to every single person who writes, voices...
Edits, designs, and somehow keeps this whole
thing moving. This show exists because people
care enough to show up and make something together.
Nobody here is getting paid. This is all done
out of love for the stories, the community, and
the joy of hearing something cool come together.
All we ask is that you keep listening. And if
you like what you hear, maybe tell a friend about
it. That's more than enough. All right, that's
really it. Thanks for being here with us.