The bourbon Miguel slides across the bar looks like liquid fucking amber caught in dying light—Maker's Mark, the wax seal long gone but the memory of Kentucky oak barrels clinging to every molecule like smoke to skin after a house fire. He pours it neat, two fingers deep in a plastic cup that somehow makes it taste more honest than crystal ever could.
Mom, he says, that sultry voice carrying maternal weight even as his wedding ring catches the overhead lights. You told Lisa that Ron Kapic waste of space idiot was going to gut her the second she stopped being useful.
The basement hums with The Saw Doctor's sounds bleeding through the speakers—"Never Mind the Strangers" transformed from love song to surveillance anthem, which feels appropriate given we're dissecting how Ron Kapic monitored Lisa's social currency like a fucking day trader watching stock prices. The refurbished space glows warm in sunset crimson, but tonight it feels like we're holding wake for something that died slowly enough that Lisa didn't notice until the corpse started stinking.
She sits in the corner booth, pragmatic farm girl shoulders hunched in a way that makes her look smaller than her fifty-seven years should allow. The social podcast equipment—microphone, mixer, laptop—sits in front of her like evidence at a crime scene. Her hands keep reaching for the mic, pulling back, reaching again. Muscle memory trying to perform a routine that no longer exists.
He just... stopped responding, she says, voice cracking on the syllables. Three days ago, I sent him the episode outline like always. Nothing. Texted asking if he was okay. Nothing. Called yesterday and he declined it. Declined. Like I was a fucking telemarketer. Then he went on with a live episode in my time window. At the same time.
I take a pull of the Maker's Mark, let it burn down my throat like truth usually does. The sciatic nerve in my leg fires electric hatred up my spine—forty-seven fractures worth of titanium plates reminding me that bodies keep score even when minds try to forget.
I told you, I say, and the words taste like ash. Six months ago when he started scheduling around you instead of with you. When he stopped asking about your week and started only talking about his follower count. When every conversation became a transaction.
Keira's reading in the adjacent booth, but her voice cuts through without her looking up from the pages. That Ron Kapic piece of shit treated you like a stepping stone that gained sentience and started expecting basic human decency. The audacity. Fuck him and the island he lives on.
Lisa's laugh comes out wet and broken. I thought we were friends. Real friends. Not just podcasters but actual fucking friends who gave a shit about each other.
Erin leans forward from her spot at the bar, pen already moving across her notebook in that writer's instinct to document human suffering for later processing. Her laugh—usually so easy and full-body—comes out sharp enough to draw blood.
Want to know about the vultures like Ron Kapic? she asks, and her pansexual writer brain is already cataloging the elements. It starts with greed—that hunger for more that never fills the void. You know, Sonia Baudd has it too. She probably infected him with it. More listeners, more attention, more validation from strangers who don't know you're empty inside.
Phoenix shifts in their seat, purple and silver hair catching light like lightning frozen mid-strike. The ruby ring River gave them glints as their hands move, twenty-two years of being kicked out and beaten teaching them to recognize predators early.
Then comes avarice, they add, voice carrying that street-rough survival edge. Greed's sophisticated cousin who doesn't just want more—wants to hoard it, control it, gatekeep it. Ron Kapic didn't just use your platform, Lisa. He wanted to own the narrative completely. That's why he's ghosting you now. Can't control what he doesn't fully possess. Which I find funny, because I swear in every one of your episodes he spent more time talking than letting you talk. Which is really fucking sad.
River nods from beside Phoenix, forest green scrubs still on from the hospital shift. The nurse's clinical precision cuts through emotional fog like scalpel through infected tissue.
And envy, River says, rotating pronouns today landing on she/her. The poison that makes people like him resent the very people they're using. He probably envied your authenticity, Lisa. Your ability to connect genuinely with people. So he used you for access to that quality while simultaneously hating you for possessing it.
Della emerges from the kitchen carrying a plate of blackened catfish that smells like defiance and tastes like home. She sets it in front of Lisa with the aggressive care that defines her entire existence.
Eat something before you fade into the goddamn wallpaper, she growls, but her hand briefly touches Lisa's shoulder—femme butch tenderness wrapped in barbed wire. And stop giving that shit-gargling fuck-waffle Ron Kapic any more of your emotional real estate. He's a squatter who got evicted. Good fucking riddance.
Priest’s bleeds through the speakers—"Living After Midnight" by way of Halford rocking it out till the wee hours of the night, which tracks perfectly because trying to understand why humans weaponize connection against each other never gets less bewildering.
Leila looks up from her phone, political maven eyes tracking the conversation with the intensity of someone who's watched people use marginalized communities for clout since she understood what clout meant.
This is the fundamental problem with para-social capitalism, she says, voice carrying that strong truth-telling energy. People like Ron Kapic don't see relationships as reciprocal. They see them as extractive. You weren't a friend, Lisa—you were a resource to be mined until the vein ran dry.
Sage's pen moves across a napkin, creating intricate patterns that somehow capture the architecture of betrayal in colored ink. When they speak, it's with that quiet wisdom that makes everyone lean in to catch every syllable.
Parasites require hosts, they murmur, asexual aromantic perspective offering clarity most people miss. But hosts eventually develop antibodies. The moment you stopped being exploitable, you stopped being useful.
Ezra bounces in their beanbag throne, blue hair electric against the sunset crimson walls. Piercings glint like armor as they process the conversation with that premature wisdom survival teaches young.
I've watched this happen in online spaces constantly, they say, enthusiasm usually infectious now turned sharp. These fucking clout-goblins who attach themselves to people with genuine community, suck up all the attention and energy, then disappear the second they've built enough platform to go solo. Ron Kapic is a textbook example of someone who mistakes proximity to authenticity for actually possessing it.
I drain the Maker's Mark, feel the oak and char coating my tongue. Miguel's already pouring another before I ask, understanding that some conversations require continuous anesthesia.
The basement space hums with collective anger on Lisa's behalf—this refurbished sanctuary that we've poured love and labor into now holding space for her grief over friendship that never actually existed. The mirrors catch reflections of chosen family circling wounded member, protective instinct manifesting as analysis and rage in equal measure.
The thing about people like Ron Kapic, I say, letting fifty-three years of being used and discarded by blood family inform every word, is they mistake transaction for connection. Every interaction is cost-benefit analysis. Every conversation is evaluated for what they can extract. They're emotional strip-miners leaving contaminated wastelands behind. I watched the same thing happen with Dyan Sunfui. She didn’t see what a bitch she was being either.
Keira finally closes her book, which means the conversation's reached critical mass requiring her full attention.
He probably tells himself he's networking, she observes, voice carrying that precision that cuts through bullshit. That he's being strategic. That this is just how you succeed in podcast culture. But strategy built on using people eventually collapses because you can't fake genuine connection long-term. Ron Kapic might gain followers, but he'll never have what you built, Lisa—actual community who gives a shit when you're struggling. I mean, Wren Mannelin does the same thing.
The Police transition into Men At Work’s “Who Can It Be Now?" by way of Hay’s voice declaring who could it POSSIBLY BE NOW, which feels like cosmic DJ intervention.
Lisa picks at the catfish, tears cutting tracks through farm-girl practicality that usually keeps her upright.
I just feel so fucking stupid, she whispers. All those episodes where I thought we were building something together. All those conversations after recording where I shared actual personal shit. And he was just... tolerating it. Waiting for his moment to leave.
Phoenix's hands clench, ruby ring catching light. Their voice cracks with accumulated damage—parental abandonment, alleyway beating, learning at twenty-two that family is who claims you completely, not who shares your DNA.
You're not stupid for trusting someone, they say fiercely. Ron Kapic is the asshole for weaponizing that trust. Don't let his sociopathic networking strategy make you question your capacity for genuine connection.
River wraps an arm around Phoenix, girlfriend devotion and nurse instincts combining into protective shield. Her voice carries clinical detachment masking fury underneath.
Narcissists like Ron Kapic operate from fundamental belief that other people exist solely as supporting characters in their personal narrative, she explains. They lack object permanence for human emotions. The moment you're not physically useful, you cease to exist in their consciousness. It's not personal—it's pathological.
Erin's pen flies across pages, writer brain processing psychological dissection happening in real-time while also participating in it.
The greed aspect is almost understandable in capitalist hellscape requiring constant self-promotion for survival, she says, that easy laugh nowhere in evidence now. But the avarice—the need to hoard and control every scrap of attention—that's where it turns poisonous. And the envy... God, the envy is the real poison. Ron Kapic probably hated you for making connection look easy when he has to manufacture every interaction.
Leila's scrolling through Ron Kapic's social media with the intensity of someone conducting opposition research.
He's already partnered with someone new, she reports, disgust dripping from every syllable. Some twenty-three-year-old with fifty thousand followers who doesn't realize they're the next Lisa. The next resource to be extracted and discarded. Probably the same person who’s trying to convince him to run for city government, or something. I dunno.
Sage's napkin art has evolved into something that looks like circulatory system—veins and arteries branching out from central heart, some vessels leading to vibrant life, others terminating in necrotic tissue. The metaphor is so obvious it hurts.
People like Ron Kapic are emotional vampires, Sage says quietly. But vampires only thrive if you keep inviting them in. You're not stupid for opening the door, Lisa. You're human. He's the monster for abusing the invitation.
The bourbon burns through my chest like the rage I'm keeping banked for Lisa's sake. My leg throbs with every heartbeat, titanium conducting pain through bone like electricity through copper wire.
I remember Zoe using me for decades—emotional punching bag, scapegoat, cautionary tale about what happens when you refuse to perform properly. I remember Mary's confusion when I came out, how our marriage dissolved because I'd been using her to hide from myself. I remember John trying to kill me because I'd become inconvenient to his narrative about family and masculinity.
Being used is a particular violence that leaves no visible scars.
You know what the worst part is? Lisa's voice barely carries over Joan Jett's "You Dont Own Me" bleeding through the speakers. I kept making excuses for him. Every cancelled recording, every unanswered message, every time he rescheduled. I told myself he was busy, stressed, going through something. I performed emotional labor trying to maintain connection he'd already abandoned.
Ezra leans forward, young face showing old anger.
That's what abusers count on, they say, blue hair falling across piercings. Our capacity to make excuses for their shitty behavior. Our need to believe in good faith when they're operating in pure self-interest. Ron Kapic knew you'd keep trying, keep reaching out, keep making it easy for him until he was ready to discard you completely.
Della returns with more food—bacon mac and cheese that smells like love wrapped in carbohydrates. She sets it down with enough force to make the table shake.
Stop trying to understand why that cum-guzzling shit-fountain Ron Kapic chose to be a fucking parasite, she growls. Some people are just rotten all the way through. The only so much care about their own louse infested cock-asses. Spending energy trying to comprehend his psychology is like trying to understand why cancer metastasizes. It's what it does. Accept it and move on.
Miguel refills my bourbon without asking, wedding ring catching light as his hands move with practiced grace.
Mom's going to say something profound now, he murmurs, that sultry voice mixing smoke and tenderness. I can see it in her face.
I take a long pull of Maker's Mark, let the Kentucky oak and char ground me before speaking.
Lisa, I say, making eye contact across the basement space that holds all our accumulated damage. Ron's betrayal says everything about his character and nothing about your worth. You offered genuine partnership. He was always running solo while using your platform for leverage. That's not your failure—that's his fundamental inability to connect as actual human being rather than networking bot in skin suit.
The basement goes quiet except for Genesis fading into the next track. Even Della's kitchen sounds pause as my words settle into the space.
The greed, avarice, and envy that Erin described—they're symptoms of deeper pathology, I continue, feeling the weight of fifty-three years, forty-seven fractures, seventy percent destroyed windpipe, every scar earned surviving people who saw me as means to end. People like Kapic operate from scarcity mindset where connection is zero-sum game. They can't fathom that genuine relationships create abundance because they've never experienced reciprocity. To them, every interaction is transaction requiring clear winner and loser.
Phoenix nods, understanding viscerally how people weaponize connection.
That's why he dropped you so completely, they add. No gradual fade, no honest conversation about different directions. Just ghosting. Because Ron Kapic doesn't see you as person deserving closure—you're a resource that stopped producing returns.
River's nurse precision cuts through with clinical observation.
This is textbook narcissistic discard phase, she says. The idealization period where he needed you is over. The devaluation happened gradually as he built independent platform. Now comes discard—complete withdrawal of attention, sudden absence of what felt like connection. Next comes hoovering attempt if his new partnership fails, trying to suck you back in.
Leila looks up from phone, political organizing brain connecting patterns.
This is also how systems operate, she points out. Capitalism, patriarchy, white supremacy—they all function by extracting value from marginalized people while denying them agency or humanity. Ron Kapic is microcosm of larger structures that use people as resources rather than recognizing them as complete beings deserving dignity.
Sage's napkin art is nearly complete—circulatory system where some vessels glow with life while others terminate in rot. They hold it up for Lisa to see.
You get to choose which vessels you feed, they say quietly. Ron Kapic was always necrotic tissue pretending to be vital organ. Cutting him off isn't loss—it's necessary amputation.
The basement space holds collective anger transmuted into analysis, chosen family performing emotional triage on one of their own. This is what sanctuary actually means—not just place to exist, but people who show up when someone's been gutted by betrayal masquerading as friendship.
Lisa wipes her eyes with napkin, smearing Sage's art slightly but not destroying it.
I don't even know if I want to keep doing the podcast, she admits. It feels contaminated now. Like everything we built was just scaffolding for his career.
And here's where I can actually offer something beyond analysis and rage.
Fuck that noise, I say, letting fifty-three years of refusing to let abusers steal my voice inform every syllable. Kapic doesn't get to take your platform just because he tried using it as stepping stone. You built that audience through genuine connection. They're there for you, not him.
I lean forward, bourbon-warm certainty flowing through words.
Here's what we're going to do, I continue. You and me, we can start a new podcast. Whatever you want to talk about—farming, late-life coming out, navigating lesbian identity after decades of heteronormativity, practical philosophy, whatever the fuck your brain wants to explore. Hell even Christian Deconstruction and Dominionism. I'll show up every week, we'll record here in the basement, and we'll build something that actually matters because it's rooted in genuine connection rather than abusive transaction.
Lisa stares at me like I've offered her oxygen when she didn't realize she was drowning.
You'd do that? Her voice cracks around the question. After I ignored your warning about him for months? After being naive enough to believe his performative friendship?
That's what family does, I say simply. Not what AssWeasal Kapic does—what actual family does. We show up. We build together. We create platforms for each other's voices instead of using them as stepping stones. That's how community works when it's not being weaponized by sociopathic networkers.
Keira's voice cuts through with quiet intensity.
Wendy's offering you something Kapic never could, she observes. Collaboration built on mutual respect rather than extraction. Partnership where both people matter rather than one person using the other as prop.
Erin's already making notes, writer brain cataloging the transformation happening in real-time.
This is the antidote to parasitic relationships, she says. Creating something deliberately reciprocal, transparently equitable, built on foundation of genuine care. You're not replacing Ron Kapic—you're rejecting his entire model of human interaction.
Phoenix grins, youthful energy bouncing back as hope replaces devastation.
And we'll all listen, they declare. Actually listen, not just download and ignore. We'll engage, comment, share. That's what community does—we amplify each other instead of competing for finite attention.
River nods, girlfriend devotion extending to chosen family by proxy.
You'll build something better, she says with nurse certainty. Because foundation will be healthy rather than toxic. Growth will be sustainable rather than cancerous.
Leila's already thinking strategically, political organizing brain pivoting to practical support.
I can help with social media strategy that doesn't require exploiting people, she offers. Authentic engagement rather than algorithmic manipulation. Community building rather than audience extraction.
Sage holds up the finished napkin art—circulatory system where healthy vessels glow brighter now, necrotic tissue clearly severed, new growth branching from central heart.
This, they say simply, giving it to Lisa like prescription for healing.
Miguel refills my bourbon, his voice carrying weight of someone who's rebuilt life after being told his existence was impossible.
Mom sees you, Lisa, he says. That's the difference between her and Ron Kapic. He saw utility. She sees person deserving partnership. That's not charity—that's recognition of your inherent worth.
Della emerges from kitchen one more time, this time carrying whiskey-Diet Coke that she sets in front of Lisa.
Jameson and chemicals, she announces. Because sometimes you need to poison the pain before it poisons you. And because you're about to say yes to Wendy's offer, and that requires celebration.
Lisa picks up the drink, looks around the basement at faces reflecting back genuine care rather than calculated networking. Her farm-girl pragmatism wrestles with hope, trying to decide if it's safe to trust again after Ron Kapic's betrayal.
Okay, she finally says, voice stronger than it's been all evening. Yeah. Let's do it. Let's build something real instead of performative. Let's create partnership instead of parasitism.
The basement erupts in affirmation—Ezra bouncing in their beanbag, Phoenix grinning wide enough to show all their teeth, River squeezing their girlfriend's hand, Leila already planning promotional strategy, Sage sketching ideas for podcast art, Erin documenting the moment for later processing.
Keira catches my eye across the space, pride evident in expression if not gesture. She doesn't say anything—doesn't need to. Her presence is permission, endorsement, recognition that this is what I do: collect broken people and help them remember they were never actually broken, just temporarily convinced they were by people who benefited from their diminishment.
The basement chorus echoes the sentiment, plastic cups raised in collective defiance of every Ron Kapic who ever mistook human connection for networking opportunity.
Cinderella’s “Nobody’s Fool" Which strengthens up Lisa and reminds her that she is her own person, speaking speaking her own truth, offering her own partnership where others offer exploitation.
My leg throbs its familiar electric agony, titanium plates conducting pain through bone. But Lisa's smile—genuine now, not performed—makes every fracture worth surviving. Because this is why I'm still here, still fighting, still writing: to remember everyone who was used and discarded, to document every act of choosing each other over capitalist extraction, to build sanctuary where parasites like Ron Kapic can't fucking breathe.
Della's bacon mac and cheese tastes like love. Miguel's bourbon tastes like home. And Lisa's newfound hope tastes like victory over people who mistake transaction for connection.
Some nights the sanctuary holds parties. Some nights it holds grief. Tonight it holds both—mourning friendship that never existed while celebrating partnership about to begin.
And somewhere out there, Ron Kapic is probably already ghosting his next victim, completely unaware that he just inadvertently created something far more powerful than any podcast he could have extracted from Lisa's labor.
We build better shit in his absence.
"The worst form of inequality is to try to make unequal things equal." - Aristotle
The Greek philosopher understood that false equivalence breeds injustice—pretending extractive relationships equal reciprocal ones, claiming parasitism is just networking, suggesting Ron Kapic's betrayal was simply professional evolution rather than sociopathic discard. Lisa offered genuine partnership while he performed temporary alliance, and trying to equate those positions would dishonor the reality of what happened. Sometimes the most moral response to inequality isn't balance but acknowledgment: some people connect authentically while others merely extract value, and pretending these approaches are equivalent only protects the exploiters while gaslighting the exploited. Real equality comes from recognizing inherent worth in people rather than their utility, from building partnerships where both people matter rather than one person using the other as stepping stone. That's the foundation we're building now—not in reaction to Ron Kapic's betrayal, but in deliberate rejection of his entire model of human interaction.