While the rest of my flist rails against more important things, like misogynistic Superbowl adverts, I'm going to rail about this.

Dear Numb3rs,

David is not from the South Bronx. He did not grow up there. He grew up in South Central L.A., Compton, in fact, as per your your own fucking canon. It's not as if David has never mentioned his upbringing before; he has bludgeoned us about the head with it every time the story featured gangs or inner-city kids in peril. To retcon his well-established background with three episodes to go in the series serves no purpose whatsoever, other than to highlight your lack of give a shit. Let the series go out with some dignity, for God's sake, and stop behaving like high-school seniors on the last day of class. Pay attention. One of your hallmarks was solid continuity and attention to detail, and there's no reason to falter now.

I did it again. Only I could set out to write a romance and end up with a twenty-page interlude on how Richard Z. Kruspe got interested in rock and fled to the West through Hungary. In the middle of a conversation. ~headdesk~ Why can't I write a straight romance? Why does my febrile little brain stubbornly insist on niffling through everyone's psychological underpinnings before I get get to the ficky ficky and the declarations of devotion? Is it because I regard sex as a psychological act facilitated by a fleshy, physiological apparatus? Why are most, if not all, my stories verbal Russian nesting dolls?
Tags:
After a bit of poking about on the Internet, it seems that while Linux works well on most desktops, it's a bit fussier on laptops. Bummer. I'd wanted a Linux laptop to help stave off the legions of viruses that lurk in cyberspace, but if there are going to be massive hardware compatibility issues, then mayhap it would be best to simply quarantine the laptop from the Internet altogether and just transfer fic written thereon to the desktop via flash drive. Dell supposedly offers Linux-based laptops, but I've heard horror stories about their product quality and poor customer service and am not keen on giving anyone my financial information over a demonstrably vulnerable Windows system. So, the search for safer computing continues.

After much ballyhooing by the local media about a fearsome winter storm that could kill us all and necessitate the stealing of food and hoarding of gas cause power outages and treacherous road conditions, it...snowed for ten minutes. The power flickered intermittently, but that was it. There was no deluge or monster snow drifts that sealed us inside and threatened us with starvation until we started having Donner party daydreams. I wound up watching TV all night and reading, while Roomie chatted with his gaggle of RPing buddies. That so many newscasters insist on making mountains out of meteorological molehills is ridiculous and irresponsible. When a true emergency presents itself, people are going to ignore it because they've been desensitized by so much gross exaggeration.

I'm reading Ramsey Campbell's The Overnight, a story that borrows liberally in concept from Stephen King's short story, "The Mist." Outside the Fenny Meadows bookstore, there are terrors in the mist. It's a creepy, unsettling yarn, to be sure, but the British syntax is driving me crazy. Campbell is far more reserved in his use of commas than his writerly brethren; maybe he finds it irksome to interrupt his train of thought long enough to tap the appropriate key, or perhaps the British have different rules concerning the proper deployment of commas. In any case, he omits commas between adjectives and dependent and independent clauses, and my American brain often blunders through the string of words in a state of panicky befuddlement as it tries to decide just where it should pause to connect the proper couplings. It's rather frustrating, and so I read no more than a chapter a night, lest my brain overheat.

Do other British writers do this as well, or is Ramsey Campbell simply too fattened by his years of well-deserved accolades to bother with commas any longer?

Numbe3rs 513: Dead Girl--Minor SPOILERS )
Thank you to everyone who sent me a snowflake cookie! I saw them on my profile page after my flist had been gushing about them, and sure that my page would be empty, I was feeling a bit glum and woeful. So I was thrilled to check my profile page and find five cookies waiting for me. Now I don't feel like that dirty-necked waif in the corner whose only card on Valentine Exchange Day comes from the teacher because she's of the opinion that even the ugly, unpopular kids should get something. Glee!

I had no idea Numb3rs aired a new episode on Friday. Dammit. Maybe it's available on the CBS website. As bad as it was in S5--and it was often ass-clenchingly bad--it has redeemed itself in its final season by steering away from Don's ueber-emo quest for self-discovery and tedious and bizarrely out-of-character exploration of Judaism and sticking to the mathletics. The restoration of the Eppes family dynamic as a trio rather than a duo has also helped. Some find him boring and largely vestigial, but I find Papa Eppes to be the fulcrum on which the family rests. He's the font of fatherly wisdom, the archivist of family lore, most notably from his secret husband's life with Margaret Eppes, and the means by which the familial lines of acceptance are extended. Yes, Charlie accepted Amita into his fold, and Don has accepted her as part of his brother's landscape, but it wasn't until Alan gave her the necklace that Margaret had dreamed of bequeathing to a daughter that Amita gained legitimacy and truly became an Eppes. Without Alan, her involvement with the family wouldn't have felt so organic or been so warm and sweet and lovely.

It's just too bad that the shift in focus has come too late to save the show. I'll miss the banter at Casa Eppes and the chemistry of Colby and David, but it's obvious the show has run its course.

I wonder if I could still write a few Numb3rs one-shots. I'd planned a few after "The Janus List," but was distracted by other shinies.

I think I'll give Southland a gander when it debuts on TNT in January. The Forgotten is a nice show, but I don't see it surviving beyond a season, and none of the characters are can't-miss personalities. The stumpy, asshole cop on Southland, on the other hand, is delightfully intriguing. He's like Seamus Finnegan bagging on Harry Potter for being an attention-whoring coward in HBP and DH. "What're you doin' here, Richie Rich?" Mmmm, bitterness. Tastes like awesome.
-Dammit, I missed Harper's Island last night because of a storm. Of course I did. I was looking forward to the next installment. It's not great television, or even particularly good television, but it's got atmosphere, and I'm invested in seeing how several plot threads resolve themselves. Do Henry and his friends discover Fat Man's nefarious didoes with the purloined money? Did Mr. Wellington survive the chandelier collapse, and will he confront his philandering wife? Will Abby ever dislodge the splintery, Daddy-hating stick from her ass long enough to tell us why she hates him?

Sometimes, I wish I had high-speed Internet with which to watch the shows I miss, but it's just not in the budget.

-I was fortunate enough to watch most of my shows' season finales. On the main, I found them lackluster and underwhelming when compared to previous years, but with the exception of the Bones season finale, which collapsed with three heave-inducing words, they were serviceable.

Bones Finale--SPOILERS )

D

NCIS Finale--SPOILERS )

C

The Mentalist Finale--SPOILERS )

A

So, a recap of season finales:

NCIS: C
The Mentalist: A
Criminal Minds: A+
CSI:NY: A
Bones: D
Supernatural: N/A
Numb3rs: B+
-Dammit, I missed Harper's Island last night because of a storm. Of course I did. I was looking forward to the next installment. It's not great television, or even particularly good television, but it's got atmosphere, and I'm invested in seeing how several plot threads resolve themselves. Do Henry and his friends discover Fat Man's nefarious didoes with the purloined money? Did Mr. Wellington survive the chandelier collapse, and will he confront his philandering wife? Will Abby ever dislodge the splintery, Daddy-hating stick from her ass long enough to tell us why she hates him?

Sometimes, I wish I had high-speed Internet with which to watch the shows I miss, but it's just not in the budget.

-I was fortunate enough to watch most of my shows' season finales. On the main, I found them lackluster and underwhelming when compared to previous years, but with the exception of the Bones season finale, which collapsed with three heave-inducing words, they were serviceable.

Bones Finale--SPOILERS )

D

NCIS Finale--SPOILERS )

C

The Mentalist Finale--SPOILERS )

A

So, a recap of season finales:

NCIS: C
The Mentalist: A
Criminal Minds: A+
CSI:NY: A
Bones: D
Supernatural: N/A
Numb3rs: B+
Supernatural: Lucifer Rising--SPOILERS )

Boo, SPN writers. Get your hands out of your pants and stop slurping Sam the Wounded Woobie.


Numb3rs Finale--SPOILERS )
Supernatural: Lucifer Rising--SPOILERS )

Boo, SPN writers. Get your hands out of your pants and stop slurping Sam the Wounded Woobie.


Numb3rs Finale--SPOILERS )
Dear Numb3rs,

While it's sadly true that I'm not an anatomist, I do know that if a person's neck is below their chest, they aren't human. I say this because Don Eppes was clearly stabbed in the throat last week, yet his healing wounds were mysteriously located on his abdomen and left oblique. How is this possible? I'm hoping that this egregious oversight was the result the misguided charitable impulse to employ blind makeup artists and not the sad consequence of humanity's ever dwindling intelligence.

Unmistakable need for remedial anatomy lessons aside, I enjoyed the episode. The importance of chemistry cannot be overstated; good chemistry is seldom noted, but bad or disrupted chemistry is painfully obvious. This show is at its best when all cast members are accounted for, particularly the conscience and personal consciousness of Team Math, Larry Fleinhardt. Without him, Charlie simply spins his wheels or drifts along in a fog of wistful, hand-wringing emo with Amita trailing faithfully behind him with her trusty store of platitudes. Charlie, bless him, is a convex lens, so turned into himself that he's blind to the world around him. He needs Larry--and to a lesser extent Alan and Don--to turn his gaze outward. And as any jaded fandomer with an ill-concealed asshole streak will tell you, nothing is more boring than watching a narcissist or a wallflower navel gaze. Interior action only satisfies invalids and intellectuals. I like interior action, make much of my fannish living with it, but then, I'm one of those luckless invalids whose existence rests almost exclusively on a world of the mind. Most folks want the burn and vicarious boner of physical action.

And even we sad invalids want exterior action. Yesterday, I got my jollies watching Wolverine obliterate large swaths of land with a dangerous rage-on and a set of adamantium dinner forks.

And Numb3rs is growing ever shorter on exterior action. Sure, Team Fed runs around with their guns drawn, but that action is usually secondary to Charlie's Emo of the Week, and without Larry to shepherd Charlie out of his own head, it's getting mired in Charlie's long-simmering inadequacy issues and his inferiority complex. And the other characters are only too happy to feed both of those goblins by blaming Charlie when they fail to fulfill their duties as FBI agents, or indeed, reasoning human beings who weren't nourished on a steady diet of Kellogg's Paint Flakes. Charlie has become the sole fulcrum on which the Numb3rs universe rests rather than a symbiotic tandem with Don, and he simply isn't strong or compelling enough to bear the load.

Without Larry to offset his pointy-headed tedium, he's lobster without the sweet clarified butter.

In sum, Numb3rs needs the chemistry between Charlie and Larry to hold its charm, and with Peter Macnicol's increasing absence from episodes, its quirky charm is waning.

It was monthly stipend time at Case Guera, and after I set aside the bill money, I bought the following goodies:

-Hill Street Blues S1: An OG cop drama set in Detroit. I loved this show back in the day, and I want to see if it holds up.

-Looney Tunes Golden Collection, Vol. VI: It's Looney Tunes.

-Winnie the Pooh: Friendship Edition: It's Winnie before the soul-sucking CGI monsters got him and turned him and the other denizens of the 100-acre Wood into blobulous, polygonal abominations treated to a glossy KY finish by some hotshot, nostril-mining CG animator. The Looney Tunes animators should hunt the next generation down and castrate them with their lining pens for churning out such passionless "art".

-Resident Evil: Extinction soundtrack: Shut it. The movie blew, but it did have Oded Fehr in it, and there's an Emigrate track on this puppy.

-It's the Darkest Evening of the Year by Dean Koontz: I'm going to regret it because it's Dean Koontz, but I was intrigued by the cover art and the blurb on the back cover.

-chocolate-covered raisins

-cherry bites, which are probably Twizzler bites slipped from the packaging and marked up five hundred percent.
-Roomie cajoled me into joining Facebook, so I have. I joined primarily to have an Internet space wherein he and I could interact online with silly quizzes and lists, and to seek out old friends from once upon a time. I doubt it'll contain much more than such scintillating quizzes as "The Top 5 People I Want to Punch in the Face" and "Top 5 Favorite Candies", but if anyone from the flist wants to friend me there, leave a message in my Inbox, and I'll give you my name.

-Thanks to Youtube, I've heard a few songs from Emigrate, Richard Kruspe's side project. Wow. I was not expecting him to sound like Billy Corgan on the high end and the bastard offspring of Billy Idol and Elvis Presley in the middle. It's oddly mesmerizing, and the music is filled with catchy hooks and crunchy rock riffs. The video for "New York" was hilarious, however. It was shot in art-school noir, with Richard brooding manfully at the camera through a haze of halogen lights and cigarette smoke. And he's wearing a leather jacket, naturally. Oh, and banging a nubile, hot chick who bears a suspicious resemblance to his ex-wife. Roomie thought she might be his ex-wife, since Kruspe moved to New York to be with her even after the marriage began to unravel, but I have my doubts. She did, after all, once paint a picture of him with a gunshot wound to the head, and has accused him of infidelity and psychological abuse. Hence, I'm betting their divorce wasn't amicable.

Cheesy video aside, I'm interested to hear the rest of it and plan to pick up a copy as soon as I find it. Assuming, of course, that it's not out of print. I saw it everywhere when I wasn't looking for it, but now that I'm looking, I'll never see it again. Odds are I'll have to order it from FYE/Sam Goody or scour used CD shops.

SPOILERS for Numb3r's Fifth Man )

A round of fail for everyone. And good riddance.
Memo to incredulous TalkCSI fans:

Flack is literate. Why is it a surprise that he has books in his home, even--as one awe-stricken poster pointed out in the reverent tones of a teenage girl who has just caught her first glimpse of a sacred peepee--hardback novels? He's mentioned listening to books on tape when he drives, so why wouldn't he like to, I don't know, read? A high school education doesn't preclude you from continuing your education on your own, and Flack's not some slouch-shouldered Bowery boy who thinks learning is for pussies and limp-dicks. In fact, he's one of the few cops who appreciates and respects the work of the Nerd Herd and the education behind it.

Reading. Not just for tower-dwelling eggheads who can't get laid.

If it weren't for the pretty screencaps that often accompany his posts, I'd put Zhu on my Ignore list. His nonsensical scribblings make my eyes cross. But since Lusty Fangirl is an international tongue, I can hear the "I'd like to fuck Flack sideways," in every grammar-raping and syntax-sodomizing line. I don't blame him for the sentiment because I share it, but I wish he'd get a better Babelfish.

Numb3rs Goes to Heap Watch )
-Numb3rs was boring this week, utterly, utterly boring. It should've been gripping, the case of an "innocent" man on death row, but it wasn't. It quickly devolved into a philosophical wang-waving contest between Don and Robin. Robin didn't want the man to be innocent because she didn't want to face the possibility that she was wrong, that in her zeal to uphold justice and avenge a colleague, she'd convicted the wrong man. What bugged me most about her position, however, was its reliance on ridiculing Don's newfound faith. Don, for once, hadn't broached the subject of Judaism, and she immediately began spitting barbs about asking his rabbi about the idea of "an eye for an eye." It was flat-out nasty, and made her look like a disingenuous twat. Either support Don's decision to explore religion or don't, but don't use it as a convenient truncheon with which to bludgeon him whenever you have a professional disagreement.

Not that Don bandied his end of the argument much better. He came across as patronizing, as though he thought Robin was a timid little woman too delicate to understand the stakes at hand. It would've been better had Don acknowledged the difficulty of her job rather than belittling it and her. Granted, there is a quantum difference between understanding the psychological mechanisms behind seeking the death penalty and experiencing the act of taking a human life. But that difference doesn't give Don Eppes more of a right to decide what's justice and what isn't.

Can we please get rid of Bettancourt? Her constant needling of David for his close friendship with Colby wasn't funny. It was snide and petty and obnoxious and needs to stop. If David made constant sexual innuendos about Bettancourt and Warner, he'd be slapped with a sexual harassment complaint and banished to a sensitivity seminar, but if Bettancourt does it in the name of being sassy and busting balls with the guys, it's not only acceptable but something to be admired.

Fuck you. Bettancourt is an ass.

I'm not at all surprised that Larry Fleinhardt morphs into Rageman when his competitive juices are stoked. We've seen hints of it before when Megan was attacked in S2. That was the only bright spot in the episode, and even it was dulled by the pointless appearance of Pau Gasol and another NBA yahoo at the end of the game. Way to waste money that could be used to help Cold Case stay on the air and to re-enforce the idea that winning by any means necessary is all that matters.

Numb3rs is officially on Heap Watch.

Eleventh Hour--SPOILERS )

--The illiteracy on TalkCSI makes my head throb. Is it that hard to use the SHIFT key? Arrange your thoughts into sentences instead of stringing them together on endless chains of ellipses? I swear, reading the boards is like watching a hippie craft fair through a haze of patchouli and marijuana smoke.

-I wish Ghawazee would shut the fuck up about Smacked. No matter the topic, she somehow manages to wrangle it around to the sad and criminal neglect of the One Twu Wub that is Mac and Stella. Hence, her illiterate ravings are splattered over the forums like viscous, steaming pellets of bird shit. If it weren't for the fact that the mods are morally obligated to play Net Nanny and thwap me for refusing to play nice with the kid in the corner who stinks, drools on himself, and periodically reaches into his rubber pants and flings poo at everyone, I'd summon my own inner Rageman and loose the hounds. Maybe when CSI:NY is canceled...
-Dear CBS, if your budgets for TV dramas are so tight that you're pleading poverty and "asking" your talent to take pay freezes, then mayhap it would behoove you to stop paying exorbitant sums to flash-in-the-pan celebrities of dubious acting ability. Sean "P. Diddy" Coombs as a lawyer on CSI:Miami is a case in point. Or you could scrap your plans for an NCIS spinoff featuring LL Cool J. Because, you know, the world was just hanging out for that.

It might also behoove you to trim the bloated cast of Numb3rs. When your ensemble is so vast that you're forced to rotate one or more of them out every week because you can't pay them, your casting director has clearly gone mad. Lose Bettancourt. She's an annoying version of Sinclair with tits, and she kills every scene she's in. You could also scale back the number of Robin's appearances. I know she's bonking Don, but there is no need to see her in every episode. The show did very well without the presence of a U.S. attorney in the shadows of every case. You could also limit Rob Morrow to one vat of bootblack per episode. Face it, the man is getting older, and no amount of dye is going to mask the crows' feet and the dull, waxy skin.

-Lawrence Fisburne was excellent on CSI when I finally broke down and watched an episode, but he simply wasn't enough to counterbalance the noxious, grating rankness of Riley, who screams spoiled brat badgrrrl wannabe every time I clap eyes on her. I guess it's back to World's Dumbest Criminals for me.

-I'm currently reading Caleb Carr's The Alienist, and it is fantastic, CSI for the Victorian age. The language of the narrator is adorably quaint, and I'm occasionally amused by the characters' goggle-eyed wonder at techniques that modern forensics either takes as a matter of course, like fingerprinting, or has dismissed as outmoded and fallacious, a la measuring the bones of individuals to establish identity, but the psychological insights into the human condition are mind-blowing, and the pacing is first-rate. The book is four hundred and seventy pages, a daunting number in today's world of neatly packaged two hundred and fifty-page, ADD-inspired lightweights, but I could happily read four hundred more and not feel overburdened by the plot or tired of the characters.

Actually, given the steep, psychological underpinnings, Alienist should be considered a Victorian episode of Criminal Minds, with Reid as the narrator and Rossi as the grizzled, old Laszlo Kreizler. Some of the best money I've ever spent on a book, and you can bet your ass I bought the sequel, too.

-More books on my To-Read pile:

A Lion Among Men by Gregory Maguire
Shutter Island by Dennis Lehane
Angel of Darkness by Caleb Carr
House of Chains by Steven Erikson
Gardens of the Moon by Steven Erikson
The Overnight by Ramsey Campbell
The Story of Edgar Sawtelle by Daniel Wrobleski
Miracle at St. Anna by James McBride
-Numb3rs 514: Sneakerheads--SPOILERS )

C for a hideously dull episode

-I'm bummed that Jeff was eliminated from Top Chef two weeks ago even though I'm unsurprised. He was a mediocre chef at best. Still, he looked like Chase from House, and Mama sorely needed the eyecandy.

-I bought seasons 1 and 2 of Night Court and season 2 of Without a Trace last Tuesday and got them all for sixty bucks because they were on Best Buy's "Please Take These Off Our Hands" rack for twenty bucks a pop. Yay! I have fond memories of Bull Shannon and Dan Fielding and Mack. The best episodes were from S3 onwards, when the cast was set, but still. Old TV shows I used to watch as a child fill me with warm nostalgia.

As for WaT, well, it was good once upon a time.

-I need to get cracking on Part III of "Detail Man" before Friday because I have a date with Jason Vorhees on the 13th and will be useless for that weekend, lost in a haze of fangirlish glee. If they really did retcon his first name to be spelled with an "E", however, I'm going to choke a bitch. Everybody knows it's J-A-S-O-N, dammit. Next thing you know, they'll be spelling Freddie Krueger "Fredd-E", as though he were a murdered rapper, returned from the grave of Suge Knight's meat locker and hellbent on revenge with his turntable and demonic bling, yo.
I was having a really good morning. I was drinking grape juice and reveling in the fact that it's going to be in the blessed seventies for a few days and reading thoughtful SPN meta and reviews of my favorite television shows. I was zen. And then, in the middle of a television review on a flister's journal, I saw this:

I mean, I would have a much easier time understanding it if she was, say, retarded and they got sick of her special needs. Or she had some physical ailment that made her unpleasant to look at - drooling, a lazy eye/slurred speech, horribly disfigured face. (look, I realize these things sound terrible, shallow and petty, because they are, but if you're going to abandon a 5-year-old, these are more valid reasons than "her medical bills cost too much."

And my good mood deflated like a freeze-dried pecker in a faulty plastic bag. I know these mindsets exist, that they are, in fact, the prevailing social sentiment when it comes to the value or lack thereof of people with disabilities, but it still stings to see them expressed so baldly and cavalierly by another human being. It's a case of caveat lector, I guess, and I can't fault the poster for being honest in their virtual bathroom, but I wish I hadn't seen it. It's thoughts like these that make me wonder why I fight so hard to keep my head above water. If my value as a human being rests solely on my physical body, then I have no value at all and should spare myself further heartache by quaffing a bottle of pills and lying down decently dead. Why not? My physical condition isn't going to improve. It will, in fact, deteriorate. Best to be polite and do away with my inconvenient self so that I don't offend the shallow sensibilities of the lucky ones.

No, Internet Popo, there's no need to call the real popo to save me from the audacity of the ultimate in independent thinking. I've no plans now or in the future to imbibe a Sominex cocktail and punch my ticket to Club Tartarus. I'm too attached to the few mean pleasures I've created for myself and too afraid that the police who respond to my death would be smoking hot studs whom I could no longer ogle. I just wish I wasn't given hourly reminders of how unwanted I am in this supposedly inclusive, enlightened, and pluralistic society.

Damn. And I was all set to froth about the nonsensical banality of this week's Numb3rs and the rage-inducing, faux street cred badassery of Bettancourt. So, you're from Compton? So is Sinclair, you vestigial piece of PC pandering, but I don't hear him bringing it up every three minutes. Shut the fuck up and prove you got to the FBI on merits not firmly attached to your chest and tucked between your legs.

Maybe I'll save it for the Sunday hodgepodge.
Random Thoughts I Meant to Record But Never Did:

Wednesday: I know road rage is wrong; I know shotguns are not the answer to the oblivious rudeness of strangers; I know that Norm was deranged and dangerous and a family annihilator, to boot. I know these things.

And yet, when he shot the woman on the Bluetooth who'd cut him off in traffic and then berated and ridiculed him when he attempted to confront her, I experienced a brief, shameful frisson of satisfaction. It was wrong, and I'm totally going to Hell for delighting in such a disproportionate comeuppance, but I'm not going to disown the feeling, either.

I know what it's like to feel invisible, impotent, and worthless. I'm confronted with the invisibility of disability every day. You do get that angry, that desperate to be heard and seen, to be taken seriously as a human being and not considered a breathing obstacle to other people's lives. The difference between Norm and me is that I know blowing away random motorists on the freeway won't change a goddamn thing, and even if it would, my aim sucks, and I'd probably blow my ladybits off instead.

Friday: Oh, Charlie, why? Why are you sporting a terrifyingly unflattering Julius Caesar haircut? Were you hoping to distract us from the fact that Rob Morrow is now shampooing with bootblack in a feeble attempt to maintain the illusion of mid-thirties youth? If so, I can't say it didn't work, because I was so mesmerized by the wretchedness of your new coiffure that I couldn't focus on anything else, including the dry, uninteresting case.

Larry needs to take the math car to the nearest salon not run by palsied stroke victims and demand that they fix your hair.
laguera25: Dug from UP! (Default)
( Oct. 2nd, 2008 06:09 pm)
Title: Et Tu 11b

Author: [livejournal.com profile] laguera25

Rating: FRM

Fandom(s): CSI:NY/Numb3rs/HP

Pairing: Don Flack/OFC

SPOILERS: CSI:NY S1-S403; Numbers through S3; HP through Book 6

Disclaimer(s): All recognizable characters, places, and events in the CSI:NYverse are property of Anthony Zuiker, Jerry Bruckheimer, CBS, and Alliance-Atlantis.

All recognizable characters, places, and events in the HPverse are the property of J.K. Rowling, Scholastic and Bloomsbury Books, and Warner Brothers, Inc.

Numb3rs and its respective properties belong to Cheryl Heuton, Nicolas Falacci, CBS, and Scott Free Productions.

No infringement is intended, and no profit is being made.

Part I Part II Part III Part IV Part V Part VI Part VII Part VIII Part IX Part Xa Part Xb Part XIa



Et Tu, Part XIb )
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