NIagra faaaaallllssss-hahahbaabababaaa…I falls in words
Dear Sheeple we are on an adventure. We journey east to a place called the Cave of the Winds. A windy place with a long cave and a falls. I never falls.
You feeeel wild and free standing under a waterfall. You move without moving. The wind moves around you and the air is fresh and clean. The power is in the air. You can feeel it. This is a place of power. Thats why I belong here. But, I can not stay. Not now. There are more power places to find. But, I’ll be baaaaack.
7130 Buford Hwy NE, Suite B110, Doraville, GA 30340, in the Global Forum Shopping Center.
BOCA2 IS FORKED UP! This isn’t your taco joint mislabeling itself. It’s Colombian. It’s bold. It’s got more attitude than an empanada wearing sunglasses indoors.
Small shop vibe in the Global Forum Center? Ya, Maybe. But don’t mistake compact for timid—it’s a flavor juggernaut disguised in denim and neon. TVs pump dance beats, the décor flexes with industrial grace, and you walk in smelling greatness.
The Crowd? A swirl of weekend warriors, families, and anyone craving that savory hug Colombian food gives. No velvet ropes here—just open arms, dancing sounds, and hot eats. The room’s alive—beautiful Colombian women, locals who know the secrets, and anyone craving heat and flavor.
The Bite
Every dish is a mini Colombian revolution—arepas bursting with chorizo or pork belly, burgers stuffed with eggs and sweet plantains, and salchipapas piled like altars of joy. Each flavor hits your tongue and whispers, “Remember this.”Postmates
Service Swagger
Staff are smooth operators—quick, clean, and flexible even when the post–dance-floor rush hits. Order accuracy dips sometimes, but that’s a horrible rumor.
Forked Up Tip
Come early or clutch your place in line—on weekends especially, Boca2 becomes the hotspot. It’s the place to be after thinking you’re done eating.
Verdict at a Glance
Forkability: High devotion. You’ll find yourself still chewing long after you’ve bowed out. Mood Sauce: Warm, industrial, open arms with zero pretense. Bite Energy: Every flavor layer demands respect and more bites. Savory and Sweet. Staff Swagger: “Friendly pros keeping the party rolling.” Damage Control: Very reasonable—$15–25 gets you a feast worth the next-day food coma.
There’s another one in Smyrna. I didn’t go there. I’m sure it’s fine.
You walk in and its giving “cafeteria with a bar” vibes; it’s everyone’s spot—Black, white, Latino, rich, poor—no velvet ropes, just people chasing satisfaction in a tortilla wrap. Tacos La Villa isn’t trying to be anything it’s not—this is a kingdom built on flavor, not hype.
The service is the good kind. Sweetest bartender making stylish drinks and a no-nonsense mama at the register. We know who really runs this place.
There’s a Queen in Smyrna, and her throne is a tortilla. The Queen Burrito earns its crown without a food stylist, without a PR team, and without your permission.
The burrito was so good I wanted to keep eating it after I was full. That’s not hunger—that’s devotion. Look at it.
No, really, look at it. I’ll wait.
Are you devoted? No prenup. Do you take this burrito to have and to hold because you can’t finish it?
That last bite will mock you on the way home. “You didn’t eat me…”
The cheese is melting into the tortilla like it signed a long-term lease.
The queso? Queso Amazo. The quesoiest queso this side of your abuela’s kitchen, where recipes are whispered, not written down.
The salsas? Smokey. The kind of smokey that doesn’t just hit your tongue—it goes straight to the stomach’s heart.
And yes, the margarita…was gorgeous-delicious, I ordered another without shame. Uno más, bartender. Las Bartenda?-hm…
Chapter Two cracks open the story’s ribs—listen close, because this is where the heartbeat changes.
Chapter 2: The Undercurrents and the Gathering Storm of Ambition
The city pulsed with the vibrant, sometimes dissonant, symphony of the mid-1970s. Bell-bottomed pedestrians swished past him, the insistent beat of disco music pulsed from open car windows, and the weary groans of air conditioners blended with the distant, rhythmic shouts of street vendors.
Mr. Rogers, guided by his unique blend of intuition and meticulous observation—a radar for the emotional landscape of the urban sprawl—found himself tracing Timothy’s path towards the bustling docks. The young artist, it seemed, had been drawn to the raw, visceral energy of the waterfront, a place where the grime of industry often collided with the spontaneous, uninhibited spirit of burgeoning art.
He walked with his characteristic, unhurried gait beneath a massive scaffold where a new high-rise, a steel skeleton against the sky, was slowly ascending, its unfinished frame glinting like an audacious promise in the afternoon sun. A burly construction worker, his face a mask of sweat and grime, was bellowing directions to a crane operator, his voice rough as raw sandpaper, cutting through the din.
As Mr. Rogers passed beneath the dizzying heights, the worker abruptly stopped, his hard hat tilting back. His hardened gaze, accustomed to measuring girders and assessing risk, suddenly softened, then widened in startled recognition.
“Hey! You! Mr. Rogers!” the man bellowed, his voice momentarily cutting through the cacophony of the construction site like a sharp, clear whistle. He lumbered over, wiping his hands on his denim overalls, his expression shifting from gruff authority to unguarded awe.
“It is you! Jimmy ‘The Hammer’ Harrison! You probably don’t remember, but you talked me out of quitting that plumbing apprenticeship back in ’68, when I was sure I was useless, a washout. You said, ‘Every single day, Jimmy, we’re learning something new about ourselves, and that, my friend, is a truly remarkable thing.’ Best advice I ever got! My son’s going to college on plumbing money now, thanks to you talking sense into my thick skull!” He clapped Mr. Rogers heartily on the shoulder, a blow that would have sent a lesser man reeling, but Mr. Rogers, surprisingly grounded, merely swayed slightly. “Just wanted to say… thanks, neighbor. You always had a way of seeing the good in folks, even when they couldn’t see it themselves.”
Mr. Rogers, subtly adjusting his balance, offered a warm, genuine smile that seemed to momentarily illuminate the harsh construction site. “It’s a wonderful feeling, isn’t it, Jimmy? Knowing you built something lasting, not just with your hands and those pipes, but with your perseverance. Something good for your family.”
He continued on, a small, knowing smile playing on his lips. His unique brand of investigation—one part keenly honed observation (a skill sharpened in much harsher landscapes than this urban sprawl), two parts radical, unflinching empathy—was proving astonishingly effective in the often-callous urban jungle. He’d learned, from his time in Vietnam’s shadowy forests, that true understanding wasn’t about brute force or harsh interrogation, but about connection—finding the unseen currents that moved people, the hidden narratives beneath the surface.
But not everyone in the intricate, often cutthroat dance of the detective business shared his quiet, humane philosophy. Across town, in a sleek, coldly modern office of polished chrome and tinted glass, two men in impeccably tailored suits studied a grainy, poorly lit photo of Mr. Rogers, tacked to a dartboard. “Rogers Investigations,” the crude, mocking target read, pierced by several darts.
“The old man’s cutting deep into our missing persons market,” sneered Sterling Thorne, his voice a low, reptilian hiss, barely concealing a simmering rage. Thorne was the slick, ambitious, and utterly ruthless head of Thorne & Associates, a firm built on aggressive tactics, corporate espionage, and a chilling, almost celebratory, disregard for ethics. “All this ‘kindness’ and ‘neighborly’ nonsense. It’s bad for business, Brick. People are starting to prefer his… methods over ours. He makes us look… inefficient.”
His partner, a hulking, silent man named Brick, grunted, his eyes unreadable, like dull stones. “He found the Senator’s kid in three days. Took us a week just to get a lead on that one, and we had the inside track, paid off half the department.”
“Exactly,” Thorne spat, a dart glinting in his hand as he plucked it from the board with a sharp snap. “He needs to be… redirected. Permanently. The city needs to remember who really controls the flow of information, where the real power lies, and who isn’t afraid to use it.” He aimed the dart, with chilling precision, at Mr. Rogers’s forehead in the photo, a malicious gleam in his pale eyes. “We’ve got a new, high-profile missing persons case coming in, a very valuable art collection, vanished without a trace, and the collector’s son seems suspiciously involved. Let’s make sure Mr. Rogers gets tangled up in it. In a way he won’t untangle easily. And when the dust settles, his little ‘Neighborhood’ will be nothing but a forgotten address, a quaint, irrelevant memory.”
The trap was already being set, a meticulously crafted web designed to ensnare a man who only sought to help, a gentle soul in a ruthless world. Timothy’s case, which had innocently led Mr. Rogers to an unassuming art commune, was about to become the unsuspecting conduit for a far darker, more sinister scheme. The quiet currents of kindness were about to collide head-on with the turbulent undercurrents of pure, unadulterated malice. The storm, long brewing, was about to break.
The Gentlest Touch and the Echoes of a Distant War
Before the chase begins, before the conspiracy unfolds—there’s the man you think you know.
🎧 Listen to the audio version:
The bell above the door of “Rogers Investigations” chimed, a friendly, almost melodious sound that had, over the years, become synonymous with a fragile glimmer of hope for the lost and the found. It was 1974, and outside, the city was a tumultuous kaleidoscope of changing times: flared pants and platform shoes, the distant rumble of social unrest, and the faint, optimistic strains of a new pop song bleeding from a passing car. Inside, however, time seemed to deliberately slow, held captive in the amber glow of a single desk lamp, the comforting, almost nostalgic scent of pipe tobacco and faint lavender, and the quiet, immovable presence of Frederick Rogers. His familiar red cardigan, today, was a vibrant splash against the calming, neutral tones of his office, its fabric a soft, reassuring balm against the anxieties of the world. He sat behind a sturdy wooden desk, not polishing glasses now, but meticulously cleaning a small, well-worn pocket compass—a deeply ingrained habit from a life long past, a silent meditation on true north. The cool, smooth brass felt familiar in his palm, a ghost of a weight from another time, another purpose.
His current client, Mrs. Gable, was a living embodiment of profound grief, her handkerchief a sodden, crumpled mess. Her son, Timothy, a budding artist with a soul as vibrant and unpredictable as his canvases, had vanished three days prior, leaving behind only the haunting quiet of his absence. The police, efficient but perpetually overburdened, had, with polite finality, labeled it a typical case of youthful wanderlust. “He left a note,” Mrs. Gable whispered, her voice a fragile, brittle thread, “about ‘finding inspiration.’ But Timothy wouldn’t just leave without telling me. Not truly. We… we’re close, Mr. Rogers. He always told me everything.”
Mr. Rogers listened, truly listened, with an intensity that seemed to absorb every tremor in her voice, every unspoken fear in her eyes. His gaze was unwavering, deep with an understanding that transcended mere words, rooted in a quiet empathy few possessed. He didn’t interrupt with standard investigative questions about Tim’s habits, or his friends, or even his last known whereabouts. Instead, he asked about the way Timothy hummed when he was happy, a specific, off-key melody. He inquired about the color of light he loved most—the bruised violet of pre-dawn, perhaps? He asked about the tactile pleasure of his favorite brushstrokes, the subtle scent of his preferred oil paints. He listened, with every fiber of his being, to the unspoken language of a mother’s heart, the subtle, unique cadences of her private sorrow. “Sometimes, Mrs. Gable,” he said, his voice soft, yet resonating with a gentle, undeniable authority, “the most important notes aren’t written down at all. They’re felt, here,” he tapped his chest gently, over his heart. “And a mother’s heart, Mrs. Gable, has a very good ear for those unwritten messages. For the true north of a child’s spirit.”
He assured her, not with glib promises of a swift, miraculous return, but with a quiet, resolute commitment to diligent, compassionate attention. As Mrs. Gable finally rose, a faint tremor of nascent hope settling in her shoulders, the bell chimed again. An elderly woman, no taller than Mr. Rogers’s elbow, her frame stooped with the weight of years but her eyes bright with a spark of immediate recognition, peered into the office. She wore a faded floral apron, perpetually smelling of flour and a faint, sweet spice, and in her gnarled hands, she carried a wicker basket from which wafted the irresistible aroma of warm sugar and cinnamon.
“Mr. Rogers? My goodness, is that truly you?” Her voice was thin, but it carried the unexpected clarity of a distant memory. “It’s Beatrice! From the old neighborhood on Elm Street! My goodness, I haven’t seen you since… since you helped little Mikey find his teddy bear under that runaway bus at the Fourth of July parade! He’s a grandfather now, you know! Still talks about ‘the kind man’ who wasn’t scared of anything.”
Mr. Rogers’s smile unfolded, a genuine, radiant thing that seemed to banish any lingering shadows. “Beatrice! My, it’s been a long time. And how is Mikey doing these days? Still as adventurous?”
Beatrice bustled into the office, setting her basket on the corner of the desk, its contents briefly overwhelming the lavender scent with its comforting sweetness. “He’s grand, absolutely grand! Here, I made too many for just myself. You take some, dear.” She pressed a warm, slightly sticky cinnamon bun into his hand, her eyes twinkling with unreserved affection. “You always were a good neighbor, Mr. Rogers. Always. Even back then, you had a way about you, even as a young man. A quiet way of seeing things others missed, of knowing just where to look. Not many folks have that.” Her words hung in the air, a subtle nod to the precision honed not in a classroom, but in the unforgiving jungles of Vietnam, a past that still lingered in his preternaturally sharp senses, though rarely spoken of directly.
As Beatrice finally departed, leaving behind a lingering warmth and the sweet scent of baking, Mr. Rogers turned back to Timothy’s case file. He picked up the crumpled note again, not for the scrawled words, but for the almost invisible indentations on the paper where a pencil had pressed hard, drawing something beneath the actual message. He’d helped a lot of people find lost things, over the years. Some were simple toys, tucked away in forgotten corners. Some were pieces of themselves, fractured by life’s cruelties and hidden deep within. And some, like Timothy, were simply lost children, no matter their chronological age, searching for their own neighborhood in a world that often felt too vast, too loud, and too indifferent. He knew where to start looking, not in police reports, but in the quiet, unconventional places where creativity bloomed and, sometimes, people got a little too inspired, forgetting the path home.
What if Fred Rogers was wrongly accused of a crime—and the only weapon he had was kindness?
The Legend of Mr. Rogers is a character-driven mystery, a reimagined tale of empathy, resilience, and quiet rebellion. Told in audio and text, this novella unfolds weekly—one chapter at a time.
It starts here, with a personal prologue about why this story had to be told… and how a childhood hero can still save us today.
🎧 Audio below.
“Improvised Personal Prologue.”
“…”
“The Legend of Mr. Rogers Prologue.”
They say that when a star falls, it leaves a trail of light across the night sky. Frederick Rogers saw it as a silent, steady climb rather than a dramatic, abrupt plunge, leaving a trail of kindness that glistened in the deep shadows of a world that was all too quick to embrace darkness. Though life, in its infinite and frequently ironic wisdom, frequently puts the unlikeliest of souls in the most extraordinary of circumstances, he wasn’t born for the headlines or the high-octane thrill of a spy novel’s plot twists that was his hidden life. No, Fred wasn’t born for it. He was thrust into it. Some knew him as the gentle voice from the flickering screen, a comforting, familiar presence in living rooms across a nation increasingly in flux.
They pictured him, always, in his brightly colored cardigan, tending to puppets and singing simple, profound songs of friendship. And in a way, they were undeniably right. He was, fundamentally, all of those things. But beneath the soft, reassuring fabric of his knitted sweaters beat a heart that had navigated terrains far rougher and stranger than the Neighborhood of Make-Believe could ever conceive.
Before the gentle, rhythmic hum of a miniature trolley, there was the silent, almost imperceptible hum of a sniper’s nest in the humid jungles of Vietnam—a past he rarely spoke of, a deadly precision he rarely displayed. Before the quiet wisdom shared with wide-eyed children, there were the sharp, observant instincts honed in the covert operations that shaped a forgotten, unwritten chapter of his youth. And after the television cameras finally ceased their rolling, when most expected him to settle into a well-deserved, quiet retirement, Frederick Rogers, with an unmatched, almost supernatural ability to connect with anyone, truly anyone, became something far more remarkable than a mere retiree.
He became a sought-after negotiator, a private eye whose methods redefined the very essence of investigation. He used his gentle demeanor and quick, incisive wit to unravel the most complex of cases, specializing in the heartbreaking quiet of missing persons, bringing a unique brand of justice to his clients not with force, but with a profound understanding of the human heart. He spread an unwavering love and a quiet, persistent kindness even in the face of imminent danger, often going above and beyond the call of duty, willingly putting himself in harm’s way without a second thought, his empathy a shield, his wisdom a scalpel.
But in the gritty, unforgiving underbelly of the city, there were those who viewed his unconventional methods as a dangerous novelty, his surprising success an intolerable affront. A rival detective agency, built on cutthroat tactics, ruthless ambition, and a chilling disregard for ethical boundaries, was determined to systematically dismantle his burgeoning reputation, to steal his hard-won clients, to silence the gentle giant whose light exposed their shadows.
And in their desperate, calculated bid for supremacy, they framed him for a heinous crime he didn’t commit, a masterpiece of misdirection designed to destroy him. So, Frederick Rogers, the kindest man in the world, found himself thrust onto the cold, unforgiving streets, an unlikely, friendly fugitive, forced to navigate a treacherous world, yet still spreading love and kindness wherever he went. He would come to realize, in the crucible of his flight, that sometimes, even the most profound kindness can’t truly fix what’s fundamentally broken. But it can, in its own quiet, profound way, illuminate the path to healing, to understanding, and ultimately, to a hard-won justice. This is the untold story. The myth. This is the legend of a Mr. Rogers.
🔥 Forked Up Review Draft: Jimmy’s Tequila & Carnes – Roswell, GA “The Mexican Applebee’s, with a side of existential dread.”
🌮 First Bite:
“Amigos! I was just voted Top 10% in Mexican Restaurants — by me. I celebrated like a champ: margarita, queso (not cheese dip, don’t be disrespectful), and a burrito — the perfect food. Then I met Jimmy’s Tequila & Carnes. And it was… fine.”
📍 Location:
Jimmy’s Tequila & Carnes Roswell, GA Plenty of parking. Because God knew you’d need something to smile about.
🌶️ Forked Up Metrics:
Forkability – How likely are you to return? 🚫 Not even for Cinco de Mayo. Cinco de No-no.
Mood Sauce – Atmosphere & vibe? Big Wagon Family Road Trip Energy meets Franchise Afterlife.
Bite Energy – Flavor strength? Rollercoaster burrito: one bite cold, next bite burnt, third bite hot. A culinary mood swing.
Staff Swagger – Waiter swap with no notice. OG waiter peaced out mid-shift but came back for the tip. That’s dedication… or something.
Damage Control – Price vs experience? Paid franchise prices for fast-food heat lamp steak. #FeelsLikeRegret
Spoonful of Drama – Any weirdness? They’ll switch your waiter like a Vegas card trick. Bonus points for passive-aggressive exit strategies. No wait—it’s on the border of Las Vegas and a K-Mart. – No wait—it crosses all lines and borders of mediocrity—wait!—
🍹 The Margarita:
Mescal, off-menu, and served in record time. When a drink comes out that fast, you know they ain’t muddling nothin’. The 2nd margarita they brought, they thought I would be too drunk to notice it was no mescal. It was no mescal! You can’t fool me?! Where’s the smoke?!
🧠 Final Word from Forked Up:
Jimmy’s feels like a restaurant clinging to middle-class respectability with Applebee’s charisma and LongHorn photography. It’s the ghost of better meals past, haunting us with convenience and mariachi Spotify.
“This place is what happens when you want to feel like royalty but order like a peasant.”
Jimmy’s isn’t bad. It just isn’t good. And in a world where tomatoes bounce and sincerity is mass-produced, “fine” is the death rattle of flavor. The sugar skull merchandise is the sweetest thing. Ai dios mio…
🐑 Fredrick’s Whisper:
“I ate hay with more soul.”
Want brutally honest, beautifully weird food reviews? Follow for more Forked Up findings. You never know what we’ll stab a fork in next.
Welcome to Forked Up™, the little corner of the internet where food isn’t just sustenance—it’s a spectacle, a spiritual experience, and sometimes… a total disaster we will not let go unmocked.
I’m Aeric Adams — food adventurer, Southern-born renegade, film guy, chaos wrangler, and the Top 10% Google Reviewer who’s been quietly sharpening my spork like a culinary Batman. You might’ve read my reviews and thought, “Did he just say that taco tasted like regret and redemption?” Yes. Yes, I did.
This isn’t your average food blog. This is where bad service gets roasted, flavor bombs get worshipped, and secret gems get whispered like urban legends. If a biscuit changed my life, I’m telling you about it. If your fusion sushi-rib shack made me cry, oh we’re going deep.
Here’s what to expect:
🍔 Brutally honest food reviews
📝 Short tales from behind the plate
🧭 Road food & hole-in-the-wall gold
🔥 “Forked Up Awards” for the absurd, the divine, and the deliciously dumb
💌 Postcards from Nowhere—dispatches from my travels with Frederick the Sheep (don’t ask… yet)
If you’ve ever bitten into something and whispered “holy sht”*, this is your church.
This is Forked Up™. And baby, we’re just heating up.
Ah, myyyy adventurous companion! Life, is meant to be lived to the fluffiest! It is a grand carnival where caution is but a forgotten friend. We must embrace the exhilarating dance of existence, twirling through the moments with a mischievous grin on our faces!
Why settle for a mundane existence when we can embrace the whimsical chaos of life? A keen eye may provide a glimpse of wisdom, but it is in casting caution to the wind that we truly soar to the heights of absurdity and discover the hidden treasures of spontaneity. Let us be the architects of our own destiny! Let us construct our lives with a glorious dance of watchful steps and wild leaps of faith. Prance! Prance into the unknown!
My fellow enthusiast, let us embark on this daring escapade! Every heartbeat is a drum and every decision a gamble! Raise your glass to the elixir of life, for it is in our willingness to embrace the unknown that we truly experience its drunken wonders. Cheers to living life to the fullest, my dear companion, for in the realms of adventure life awaits!
