MURRAY BAUMAN
journalist, ghostbuster, alleged arms dealer, disrupter of governments, radio host
biography. musing tag. connections. the watcher. rpg.

Janaina Medeiros

â

ellievsbear

Alisa U Zemlji Chuda
Jules of Nature
Sweet Seals For You, Always
"I'm Dorothy Gale from Kansas"
almost home
styofa doing anything
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Product Placement

if i look back, i am lost
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i don't do bad sauce passes

#extradirty
Stranger Things

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@murraybaumanz
MURRAY BAUMAN
journalist, ghostbuster, alleged arms dealer, disrupter of governments, radio host
biography. musing tag. connections. the watcher. rpg.

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JEFF GOLDBLUM for GQ Spain (June 2022)
PLAYER, THE FOLLOWING INFORMATION IS TOP SECRET AND NOT TO BE SHARED WITH ANY PLAYERS IC OR OOC FOR THE NEXT WEEK! YOUR CHARACTER, HOWEVER, MAY ALLUDE TO WHAT THEY ARE ABOUT TO EXPERIENCE. FOR THE NEXT WEEK, THEY MAY EXPERIENCE INCREASED PARANOIA, EXTREME MISTRUST, FLASHBACKS, NIGHTMARES, SORE THROAT, AND RESTLESSNESS. WELCOME HOME!
Letâs face it, youâre a smart guy. One of Hawkins best and brightest! Because of that, you seldom give out your address. Even clients just get the P.O Box. The only person who used to send you packages was Joyce, so when you see one on your doorstep, naturally youâre curious. Was it something from Joyce? For once, you were willing to set aside your suspicions in the name of your dearest friend. You unlock your several locks and deadbolts and peek your head out into the night. This deep in the forest, all you can hear are the cries of insects, and a couple of hooting owls. Clearly the package had been sitting in there. Carefully, you bring it inside, so enraptured with the prospect of it being from Joyce, you forget to lock your door when you take it back in. You tear open the package only to find something much more sinister, a pristine lab coat clearly embroidered with Hawkins Lab, a mock up pamphlet of âprovided servicesâ, and finally a file of documents with the Hawkins Lab stamp that had Bauman, Murray scrawled on the tab.Â
Evan had been looking for somewhere quiet to disappear to. Funerals were overwhelming for him because he'd never been comfortable around death. His sister was gone and missing before he could fully understand the meaning, his mother run out and states away, and his father died while he was overseas. He'd never had any other family to attend, so his closest connection to funerals was long-standing community members that had passed away. It was a small gesture that everyone would make but one that left Evan with goosebumps and a restless night of sleep.
Truth be told he needed to breathe. He needed to remind himself that he was grounded, that he was AWAKE, and would find peace again.
' Sorry, uh â ' but his words were clearly unnecessary, Evan moving out of the way so the other would shut the door behind him. His name was shimmering in Evan's mind, somewhere just beneath the surface of memory... M-something, M...
' Joyce Byers was the heart of Hawkins. '
It wasn't much, but it felt like the truth. Joyce wasn't someone Evan ever spent much time with, nor were her kids, but he'd been old enough when he first moved to Hawkins to know how important Joyce was to the community. Always kind, but never hesitate to fight for what she believed in or what she needed. Evan knew that if he ever had a problem, she would have been someone he could have turned to. Stranger, or otherwise.
Evan sat in the pew, grateful to be the closest to church since he'd left home, but unsettled by the irony. He tried not to think about how close to death he really was.
Murray didn't recognize the young man he'd all but abducted, but it didn't mater. A willing audience was a good one. He watched out of the corner of his eye as recognition flashed through the other's eyes. It wasn't totally unusual-- most people knew who Murray was, even if their ideas of him were based totally on untruths and old wives tales. But the man's suggestion was enough to stop Murray in his tracks.
"You knew her well?" Murray knew everyone Joyce did; At least, so he thought. Maybe the young man was a second cousin, or something-- certainly he hadn't visited in the last decade. "You don't live in town, do you?" he asked, for a moment forgetting about his eulogy and shifting into investigation mode.
Before waiting for confirmation, Murray pushed ahead: "You don't go to a lot of funerals, then," he offered, more a statement than a question.
Who: Hopper & @murraybaumanz
Where: Hop's Cabin
Why: Sad & Old Farts
Jim hopper was a man of action, a man with a plan, a man who could proudly fix his own shit. On any better day an allegedly broken television wouldn't leave him scrambling for the landline, but the alcohol did a number on his ability to mess with the tv's back panel (or even check if it was turned on). He downed a beer with dinner, followed by his collection of bourbon, moving over to the porch afterwards to wash it all down with a few cigarettes. The sobriety required to fix technical issues was long gone by the time he was ready for his late-night surf of the channel guide. That's when he discovered the television wouldn't turn on. After several failed attempts at fixing the goddamn thing, Jim's solution resided in dialing the only number that he could remember off the top of his head. Murray Bauman. That old fucker would know how to fix this problem for sure, regardless of the yapping and theories that it might take for it to happen. In the meantime he grabbed a bag of chips from the kitchen to soak up alcohol swirling in his stomach and got comfortable on the couch, bag tucked under an arm as he munched away.
Jim basically forgot that he called Murray until there was a knock at the door. "Come in," he grumbled , probably too quietly, adding in a louder, "the door's fuckin' open!" He struggled to wedge himself up as Murray let himself in, reaching for the remote again with a pained sigh. His focus doubled down on the issue that brought his friend here, smacking the device against his palm as if it would do anything to fix the problem. "I'm not sure if it's the remote but I swear tv's were better back when shit was black and white."
@murraybaumanz
"You leave your door unlocked, Jim?" Murray chastised him immediately upon entry. He didn't need much of an invitation to harass anyone, but when it was someone he had this much history with, it was basically second nature. Like Joyce's nagging-- it was a sign that he cared. "After everything you've seen in your ancient fucking life, you leave your door unlocked? Jesus," he muttered, walking into the living room and taking in the state of things with his hands on his hips. He was no stranger to the old-man-living-in-the-woods thing, but he and Jim had... different styles. Different ways of going about it. Murray's digs were much cleaner. "You need a housewife, Jim," he murmured. "And I'm not talking about me."
Murray picked up the remote, immediately flipping it over to pop off the battery compartment. He may not have a TV of his own, but he knows a thing or two about the turn of the century... something Jim couldn't be bothered with. Murray wriggled the very corroded batteries out and threw them at Hopper, one by one, smacking him in the chest. "Jim, didn't your mommy ever teach you about corrosion?" he joked, waving the remote in front of his face. He made himself at home, going into the kitchen and rifling through junk drawer after junk drawer-- although, if they're all junk drawers, would that make them all just drawers?-- until he found a pack of batteries. "You got spraying vinegar? Or lemon juice?" he called into the den, before finding an almost-empty lemon juice squeezer. "Nevermind! Don't get your rickety ass up on account of me!"
After a thorough wipe-down, Murray inserted fresh batteries and presented the remote to his friend. "Try now," he sighed. When it worked, he shoved Jim's feet off the end of the couch and settled in, as if saying now I'm here, you have to entertain me. "Next time, just buy me dinner?" he teased.

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 murray bauman fit into the wheeler family so easily. outlandish and beyond weird. it was part of the reason she could easily tolerate him though.. he fit in perfectly - maybe even better than she did. so when she was escorted towards the pew bench, her brows furrowed, resisting the urge to make a loud groan. âi donât think itâll matter, murray.â she was too young to even remember the relationship the pair had but she knew it was strong, she knew that joyce was absolutely irreplaceable to murray and she knew it was safe to assume that a piece of him died when she had. âif youâre speaking from the heart, itâll come through. youâre smart.â holly didnât know what it was like writing something for someone youâve lost and god, she truly didnât want to know that feeling either. âhave you got like... a favourite memory with joyce? something that you can talk about maybe?â
Murray remembers feeling strangely relieved when Holly Wheeler had flown the nest. She hadn't been exposed to half the things her older siblings had, thus dramatically improving her prospects to have a normal life. A life like her mother's. Seeing her back in town for the funeral felt almost wrong, and watching her sit across from him, Murray had to resist the urge to shout 'run' at her. Nothing strange had happened for years, nothing strange would happen. Just average tragedies. It was ironic, truly, that Joyce had lived through so many spectacular things only to be killed by fucking cancer. Life was a bitch.
Murray smiled sadly at her sentiment. Speaking from the heart. It'll come through. She was right, of course, but Murray feared what would actually come out were he to surrender to the moment-- hence the cue card in his hands. "A favorite memory..." he mused, wondering if Joyce saving his life counted. "I don't know if you remember this," he prefaced, "But she was the worst fucking dancer I've ever seen." Murray laughed, "Like, so jittery and unnatural. Oh, God, and when she'd dance, Will would look at her like this--" he mimicked a horrified expression, laughing until tears pricked at his eyes.
mike shuddered when murray shouted, then took a second to turn his head and roll his eyes. he ducked fully into the room, announcing, ââitâs me, murray.â with a scoff. mike propped himself up against the wall, scratching his chin as he listened to murrayâs speech. mike didn't write as much as he did in college, but he still did from time to time. that qualified him to help murray, right? mike dramatically dropped his hand from his chin and nodded, âuh, yeah, man, itâs a little cheesy.â he thoughtfully paused, âwhat aboutâŚthere will never be another person like joyce byers?â mike sniffed, slightly more meek after the proposal. it was followed by a sigh when mike scrunched his nose up and swayed his head back and forth before her vocally agreed, âi donât think reputations matter at funerals, murray.â the following eye roll was more blatant than his first.
"Michael," Murray greeted, watching Mike's still-lanky frame settle against the wall. He'd stayed close with the Wheelers, and though he still much preferred Nancy to her brother, Muray liked Mike's kid, and didn't mind helping out when he needed it. He furrowed his brow at Mike's confirmation that the line was cheesy, and gave a slow nod to his suggestion. "That's good," he scribbled a note, but before he could finish, Murray sunk into the pew opposite Mike. "Funerals are so..." he looked around the room, as if the right word was going to appear. "Stuffy." He knew Mike knew all too well the feeling that Murray got on days like today, like the grief was wrapping around his neck and choking him. He ignored Mike's attitude, instead leveling him with a gaze. "I like to think they're listening. Joyce. Gabe. The kids," he suggested. He knew better than to name Will or El around Mike, of all people.
WHO: murray & open!
WHAT: a little eulogy-prep, nothing dark!
"Joyce was a once-in-a-lifetime kind of person," Murray mutters, taking a few quick paces towards the wall and back. With a frown, he crosses it out, deciding it was too cheesy. "Joyce was the best of us... Joyce was--" he threw the notebook at the ground with a grunt, turning to continue his pacing when the door pushed open. "Excuse me!" he bellowed, hands on his hips as he surveyed his intruder. "I'm working on something here, could you--?" he batted his hand, indicating they should fuck off. On second thought, though, a captive audience? Murray sashayed to the door and closed it behind the other, pointing to the pew bench. He cleared his throat and started again: "Joyce was a once-in-a-lifetime kind of person--" he paused, taking a swig from the flask tucked into his jacket pocket. "That's cheesy, right? I mean, fuck, not like she's gonna care, but I've got a reputation here."
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JOYCE BYERS (1942-2006)
Murray wrote an obituary for Joyce, which he read at the funeral and recorded himself giving for The Watcher. August 8, 2006, anyone who tuned into The Watcher only heard Vera Lynnâs âWeâll Meet Againâ on a loop, and a recording of the obituary at the top of every hour. The obituary goes:
Joyce was the kind of person you only meet once. She was a mother to all, even an old bastard like me. She never gave up on anybodyâ it wasnât in her nature. Joyce was the most unstoppable force of nature Iâve ever seen. She deserved a much better life than she got, but I do believe she was happy, in the end. When I went to visit her, those last few weeks, she kept lecturing me. Donât be a pussy, Murray, Iâll be fine. You gotta stick around for my boy. Her message was clear: buck up, move on. But I think Joyce underestimated her impactâ I donât think she knew that she was the one holding us all together. Or maybe she did, maybe she still will. Grief is a bitch, and losing someone like her⌠insurmountable. If thereâs a god, or a heaven, I know sheâs there. Sheâs hugging Will again, probably lecturing him about what heâs been eating the last twenty-five years and how tall he is now.Â
Joyce, I miss you like hell. Weâll meet again, some sunny day.Â
JEFF GOLDBLUM for GQ Spain (June 2022)