Trhree men and hammer
Jeff Lemire
2017.07.27 03:31 SeacattleMoohawks Jeff Lemire
Sub dedicated to writeartist Jeff Lemire and his projects. Mostly known for his original work on Essex County, Black Hammer, Descender, Sweet Tooth, Royal City, Plutona and more. Also for his runs on Old Man Logan, All-New Hawkeye, Moon Knight, Thanos, Animal Man, Green Arrow and The New 52: Futures End, Bloodshot Reborn and more. (More of his work in sidebar)
2014.11.10 17:39 MachoNinja raisingmen: Discussions on Men Raising their Sons to be Men.
This Sub is for Men supporting other Men in the increasingly difficult task of raising our Sons to be Men. Subject should include but is certainly not limited to: Positive reinforcement. When it is time to drop the Hammer. Teaching responsibility. Drawing the line between Bro and Dad. Acting like a man. Teaching basic maintenance. Hygiene. Basic support for each other.
2018.04.25 03:00 captainsuckass Marvel Cinema
A place to discuss any and all Marvel films and TV shows. The Marvel Cinematic Universe, the X-Men movie universe, the Deadpool series, Sony's planned Spider-Verse, any current and past TV shows, and any past movies. (No matter how they were received.)
2024.05.19 21:35 rangernumberx Respect Deadpool (Deadpool (2013))
"Y'know why I love the internet? Because it's just like me." "Vulgar, combative, and contradictory?" "Overflowing with perversion and stupidity?" "Yes, and yes."
In 2013, Deadpool wanted a game, and gave a director at High Moon Studios his proposal written in the finest crayon he could muster. They accepted it (after being blown up following the initial rejection). As such, Deadpool finds himself trying to bring in the bounty on generic hateable villain Chance White, only for him to be rescued by the Marauders and killed by Mister Sinister. Driven by a desire for revenge (all while ignoring the X-Men and Cable's various attempts to get him to help save the world), Deadpool travels across Genosha in order to kill the supervillain.
Melee
Firearms
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In 2013, Deadpool wanted a game, and gave a director at High Moon Studios his proposal written in the finest crayon he could muster. They accepted it (after being blown up following the initial rejection). As such, Deadpool finds himself trying to bring in the bounty on generic hateable villain Chance White, only for him to be rescued by the Marauders and killed by Mister Sinister. Driven by a desire for revenge (all while ignoring the X-Men and Cable's various attempts to get him to help save the world), Deadpool travels across Genosha in order to kill the supervillain.
Strength
- Kicks a large sewer grate free when said grate had just been unaffected by him sliding into it
- Sends a group of private soldiers flying back into walls with a spin kick
- Hits an explosive barrel away a distance
- Stabs through a throne and a Mister Sinister clone's neck
- Cuts off a person's head and arms
- Pushes a large block
- Pries open a large set of elevator doors by a penthouse
- Controls a mounted machine gun with one hand which most people require two to fire
Durability
Healing Factor- After a short period of not taking damage, Deadpool's health rapidly refills to full
- His healing factor causes a person to believe that all his guards are constantly missing Deadpool with their gunfire
- Doesn't notice he's been impaled by rebar after coming conscious, and then pulls himself free
- Was once stabbed in the heart by Wolverine
- Shoots himself in the head, and comes back to consciousness later with a knife stabbed into his chest
- Falls from a Sentinel foot onto concrete, twisting his head around cutting an arm off, and he needs to stagger around to collect his arm, put it in place so it can instantly attach, before twisting his head back the right way around
- Bisected at the waist, being held in midair by his intestine and continuing to fight after falling on top of a man's head
- Is torn apart and beheaded by Mister Sinister, falling unconscious, and when he wakes up his body is reattached (though the X-Men may have placed his body back together)
- Cannot get drunk
- Doesn't take fall damage
- Takes hits from a clone of Blockbuster, who tears up large chunks of stone or concrete ground before throwing it
- Takes hits from Arclight (who may or may not be a clone), who jump punches a large platform in a sewer to break it into the ground before doing so again to send it into freefall
- Has grenades explode by him
- Shot by a launched rocket
- Tanks electric attacks
- Punched back a distance by Cable
- Fine after crashing his bike into a wall which had just launched him across Genosha
- Blasted back from an explosive shot destroying a door
- Sent flying from the explosion of a large piece of debris slamming into the tower he's on
- Walks out of a Blackbird crash which knocked out Wolverine, Rogue, and Psylocke
- Knocked back by an attack's shockwave
- Filled with electricity as he connects two large severed wires to open a door
Speed
Weapons
Deadpool is shown as owning a large range of weapons. Highlighted below are the ones he uses in-game.Melee
Firearms
- DT 1981S pistols
- Nuthals 220S submachine guns
- Kingmaker shotguns
- Harrison PLS pulse rifles, which are strong enough to turn foes into blood smears
- Frag grenades capable of blowing a home in the ground beneath Deadpool while bisecting him
- Carries C4, with one package blowing up the sewer ceiling, the wall to the bathroom above, and blasts a person walking away a notable distance
- Rigs explosives at a game studio that he sets off from his apartment in order to convince them to make a game about him
Teleportation
- Can teleport short distances
- Teleports into a helicopter to commandeer its gun
- Brings Deadpool back to the platform he jumped off of when he falls
- Teleports around Genosha to set up a plan
Fourth Wall Awareness
Medium Awareness- Starts the game by bombing the studio that made the game in order to have them make the game
- Sees two achievements he earns right at the start of the game
- Receives the script for his game before editing it in crayon and showing it to the player
- Notes his controls have been reversed after his head had been twisted backwards
- Commands goons to spawn in the tutorial
- Spawns in a crate containing a bouncy castle
- Brings in a coin operated rocket for him to sadly ride while Cable monologues
- Gives himself a woman on either leg, lightning to strike his sword, and fireworks in the sky before having the credits roll
- One section is filled in front of a live studio audience, somehow
- Stretches a censor bar
- Creates a bridge of thought bubbles to traverse an area
- Begs the player to get him out of Cable's boring monologue
- Uses a C4 trigger to replay the level he just went through, greatly draining the game's budget
Intelligence
- Controls Sentinel arms through loose wires
- Uses control panels at the top of a tower to shock a Mister Sinister clone, possibly play music (though this may be an aspect of the game), and ultimately destroy his plans
- At the end of the tutorial, spawns in a bouncy castle which he later falls onto alongside the person he's capturing so that he survives dropping out of the top of a skyscraper
- Has Cable assist him in modifying a Sentinel foot to launch him across Genosha
- Spray paints an X on the ground before the final battle which ends up being the location Mister Sinister stands on where he's squashed by a flying Sentinel foot
- Modifies a bike so it's rocket powered and can launch him across Genosha, then drops some C4 at a pre-set location so to knock down a Sentinel hand, propelling a crate with a greeting message and two more C4 packets onto the other side of a ravine, before that C4 explodes to knock down a statue and make a bridge for several X-Men
Other
- Cannot die
- Can double jump and wall jump
- Eats through his mask
- Is capable of becoming briefly invincible with an upgrade
- The two voices in his head may not share the same knowledge as Deadpool, though they may also just be different aspects of his personality that focus on different things
- When Rogue absorbs Deadpool's healing factor, she also gains his personality, fighting ability, and the two voices from his head
2024.05.19 20:15 ThisIsKeiKei [Excerpt: Tally of Slaughter] The Executioners chapter fight the first Vasthorr Space Marines
Context:The Ushmengar are a Chaos warband dedicated to Vashtorr. They were initially part of the Astral Claws, but when Huron was defeated during the Badab War, they ended up getting lost in the warp and they dedicated themselves to Vashtorr. These Space Marines in particular were some of the first Astral Claws that the Executioners slaughtered during the Badab War, and the Warband was formed by the survivors of their rampage.
In this short story, the Executioners, having just finished a Penitent Crusade, were hunting for the Ushmengar. They had managed to pinpoint them to a Mechanicum forgeworld, and the Death Speaker (Executioner's version of a Chaplain) of the chapter, an Astartes named Razel, a Librarian named Igikura, and a group of Bladeguard descended onto the planet. When they found the Chaos lord of the Ushmengar, named Kagal, this is what happened
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In this short story, the Executioners, having just finished a Penitent Crusade, were hunting for the Ushmengar. They had managed to pinpoint them to a Mechanicum forgeworld, and the Death Speaker (Executioner's version of a Chaplain) of the chapter, an Astartes named Razel, a Librarian named Igikura, and a group of Bladeguard descended onto the planet. When they found the Chaos lord of the Ushmengar, named Kagal, this is what happened
The Chaos Space Marine cocked its head to one side, eyes boring into Razel’s. When the Death Speaker was within reach, it nodded and spread its arms wide. The Executioner swung his crozius. The fractal form of the Heretic Astartes shivered as Sharur connected with it. There was the roar of a vast furnace underscored by the shriek of overtaxed bellows, the clanking of gears and the hammering of pistons, and the Ushmengar vanished like smoke blown in the wind, leaving only a chorus of trailing screams.After this, Razel and his men continued to go deeper into the Manufactorium and ended up fighting a bunch of Ushmengar
The Death Speaker swung his crozius, but the Chaos Space Marine dodged the attack. The strike went wide, cracking the side of the furnace. Razel punched out with his pistol and sent his opponent’s bolter flying off. Undeterred, the Ushmengar ripped off a piston hammer from a slain ogryn and arrested Razel’s downward swing. Muscles strained, his sinew coils contracted and he drove the Heretic Astartes onto one knee. The Ushmengar’s composure broke and he roared at the Death Speaker. With a burst of vigour he regained his footing and shook Razel off. Burst fire from the Executioner’s pistol stitched an arc across his helmet, which cracked, exposing his metallic face beneath. The delineation between the organic and inorganic had become blurred to the extent that they had become one and the same. Oil bled from ruined armour and unclean flesh-metal.After this, the Executioners then proceed to go deeper into the Manufactorium
Razel swung the hammer, only to have it kicked from his hand. The Chaos Space Marine charged at Razel and tackled him from his midriff, pushing him backwards into the bulging blowpipes of the blast furnace. Wedging the absolver pistol in the seal between helmet and gorget, the Executioner emptied the magazine into the traitor’s neck. The Ushmengar’s grip slackened, and Razel pushed him backwards before gripping the crozius with both hands and bringing it down with all his might on his hated foe’s head. It burst in a shower of metal and burning blood oil.
A storm had broken out at the end of the hall. Lightning flashed, lancing out from furnace to furnace as a rain of brimstone fell. An unholy radiance pulsed in the penumbral gloom, accompanied by the skirling of bronze horns lining the altar. The light rose out of the chancel of the command fane and drifted towards the Death Speaker and the Epistolary, who had advanced ahead to the binary-etched plaza. Within the pulsing storm was Kalag.As far as I'm aware, since Vashtorr was introduced to the setting a year ago, this has been the first mention of an Astartes warband dedicated to him. This is a really cool depiction of them, and I hope we get to see more in the future
Molten metal was siphoned off the blast furnaces, forming fiery wheels into an armillary sphere spinning around the floating Ushmengar. The skitarii shrieked in binharic as they were lifted from the raised walkways, torn towards the eye of the churning storm. They were disassembled, their flesh withering into ash whilst their bionics melded into the spinning rings upon which bleeding eyes had formed. As Kalag moved towards Razel and Igikura, a forge-vault vast beyond imagining spread out behind him, the hellish vision overlapping the reality of the manufactorum. There was the roar of colossal furnaces, the heave and gasp of monumental bellows, and the clang of countless hammers, thudding pistons and clanking gears, underpinned by the screaming of tortured souls fuelling the forges.
Whereas Kalag’s form had been ephemeral before, a charcoal sketch jumping in and out of focus, now it was wholly corporeal. His armour was burned black, running with unclean oils and unguents. Mechadendrites writhed from between the plates like fungal growths, straining for some dire unity with the emergent daemonic mechanism. Around him were the rings of the armillary sphere, which were both armour and a mechanism to unravel reality, spinning faster until they were a blur as the warpsmith approached them
Up ahead, Igikura stood alone, defiant. The crystalline matrix of his axe blazed, focusing his power before it lanced upwards into Kalag. For a moment, the spinning rings slowed and fire raged down upon the Epistolary, enveloping the Executioner. The apotropaic sigils upon his armour shone migraine-bright as they earthed the worst effects of the warpsmith’s attack. The Librarian’s mind was in the throes of a fever dream, the backwash of the Ushmengar’s barrage bruising his soul.
Sensing his brother’s agony, Razel rose and swung, striking again. A resonant peal shivered through the armillary sphere to no discernible effect.
Kalag, whose attention had been thoroughly upon Igikura, glanced at him, his quasar-like gaze boring into Razel’s own. A high-pitched screech preceded the obliteration of Razel’s helm display. His armour felt heavier. The fibre-bundle muscles tensed and servos halted, keeping him upright. Straining, he raised his hands and took off his helmet. When he beheld the ashes of penitence streaking down Razel’s defiant face, the warpsmith sneered. ‘Lapdog of the False Emperor.’ His voice thundered like the hammer of a god striking an anvil
Razel bared his teeth in response, glistening with blood. ‘You were supposed to die at Badab.’ ‘Oh but you see, I did die. We were marooned in the immaterium after our warp drives failed. Bereft, betrayed by a rotting Imperium and an unkind god bedecked in fool’s gold. Where was Lufgt Huron then? His promises and his lies? We no longer need him, nor your carrion god. We have a new divinity to serve!’ Kalag turned towards the growing portal behind him, his arms encompassing the hellish scene and the towering daemonic figure with scythe-like wings who was looking down at the Executioners with an amused interest. ‘Behold the Arkifane! Our salvation! We will deliver this forge-temple of Mars to him!’
"Brother…" Igikura’s voice was straining with titanic effort. "I will not make it to the end." The Death Speaker growled. The Librarian forestalled him. "Spare me your protestations. I will distract him and hold the rings, but I am not strong enough to make the final blow. That falls to you. May your own Penitent Crusade be over after this."
Igikura’s mind soared in the warp like the rising sun. He burned with immaterial energies. Coruscating lightning cascaded down his limbs and flared off him in streamer arcs, with a branching spark earthing itself in the Death Speaker’s crozius. One last parting gift from brother to brother.
Razel wasted no time. With the warpsmith’s attention upon the Epistolary, his armour was free. He trudged forward, pausing only to pick up Igikura’s axe whilst hefting his crozius. Breaking into a run, he leapt upon one of the stilled rings. Razel hurled the force axe. It spun, blazing, still saturated with Igikura’s psychic might and sacrifice. The blade wedged fast into Kalag’s breastplate, tendrils of darkness slithering out of the wound. A few moments later, Razel was upon him with Sharur, imbued with a shred of the Epistolary’s empyric strength. The warpsmith raged, blocking the Death Speaker’s strike with a cog-toothed, daemonic axe. Mechadendrites speared through Razel’s armour, biting deep into his flesh. Gurgling blood, the Executioner drew the mace back and slammed it forwards, again and again, shattering his foe’s armour in a frenzy until his corrupt essence could no longer be contained. The unravelling of Kalag was like that of a collapsing star. The death throes screamed out from his unwinding body, black flame rising between the plates, his flesh unmade into ash.
2024.05.19 15:35 Drakeishere_RUN The Year of the Dragon - Part 1 : 2014 Royal Rumble
26/01/2014 - WWE Royal Rumble
Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania
Commentated by Jim Ross, JBL, and Michael Cole
We see some footage of superstars arriving to the arena today. The Authority arrive in a limousine; WWE Champion Randy Orton, Triple H, Stephanie McMahon, and Kane. Daniel Bryan is shown walking with Brie Bella. "The Animal" Batista shows up in a truck and flexes for the camera. The feed cuts and glitches out revealing a dark room with a empty rocking chair moving slowly. "We're here."
The iconic voice of Jim Ross welcomes us to the 2014 Royal Rumble as pyro erupts from the stage and the fans go wild. The Authority's music plays and the mood quickly shifts, the crowd rains down boo's. Here comes the WWE World Champion Randy Orton. Orton talks trash to some fans in the front row while Triple H, Stephanie McMahon, and Kane make their way out as well. Orton raises the title as HHH passes him a microphone. Orton is in a great mood tonight. He's got the night off and there will be 30 men all vying for a chance to get RKO'ed in the main event of Wrestlemania 30. The crowd chants, “Daniel Bryan” as Orton laughs and promises that Bryan doesn't stand a chance. If you want to win the Royal Rumble you have to be taller than these marks in the crowd, you can't be a front row wrestler like Daniel Bryan or CM Punk. The crowd breaks into a deafening “DANIEL BRYAN/CM PUNK!” chant as Orton highlights some of the past winners like himself, Triple H, and Batista. True superstars who all pass the airport test. Triple H takes the microphone and tells the fans to shut the hell up and respect greatness. The reason The Authority are out here is because they want an answer from Batista. Will The Animal join them, take the #30 spot, and win the Rumble to make the biggest Wrestlemania main event a reality? Batista's music hits and he gets a great reaction. First of all, Batista thanks the Pittsburgh fans and everyone in the WWE for welcoming him back with open arms. Batista has a ton of respect for Triple H and Orton after all those years in Evolution. They all shake hands and it looks like he's accepting the offer. Triple H tells Batista to make the right decision and do whats best for business. Batista gives the THUMBS UP! The Authority are all psyched up until.... Batista, who still has his thumb in the air, says "What's best for business.... is listening to these fans! Doing things the hard way, the same way he did it through his whole career. Batista didn't come back to be handed anything, he came back to prove he can still be The Animal. The man who beat Triple H in the main event of Wrestlemania.... The thumbs up is turned into a THUMBS DOWN! Kane charges at Batista but gets clotheslined! Randy Orton and Tripe H flee from the ring as The Animal delivers a Spinebuster to Kane and rattles the ropes! Triple H screams that Batista is going to regret this decision.....
A video package of the feud between Divas Champion AJ Lee and Mickie James is next. After AJ Lee defeated Naomi to retain her title on RAW, AJ declared she had no competition in the locker room. Cue the surprise return of Mickie James! Former psycho versus current psycho, legend versus future legend. They exchange verbal barbs over the next few weeks, with Mickie picking up some big wins and earning a title match. During a contract signing on the final RAW before the Royal Rumble, things finally turned physical and Mickie put AJ Lee through a table with a huge bulldog from the top rope! Everything comes to a head tonight with the championship on the line.
Tony Chimel lets us know that this contest is scheduled for one fall as Mickie James makes her entrance and gets emotional at the ovation from the audience in Pittsburgh. Divas Champion AJ Lee is next and she gets a mixed reaction; the fans love her but are definitely backing Mickie in this one.
AJ Lee (c) vs. Mickie James for the WWE Divas Championship
The match kicks off with AJ slapping Mickie across the face! James returns the favour and tackles AJ, raining down a flurry of punches. AJ Lee cowers into the corner but then takes advantage by slamming Mickie to the mat by her hair! AJ taunts Mickie and stomps her in the corner but when the champion charges, Mickie backdrops her over the ropes! Mickie hits a Thez Press from the apron and tosses AJ into the barricade!
They battle on the apron until AJ sends Mickie head first into the ringpost. Mickie seems genuinely hurt and the referee goes to check on her, allowing AJ to expose the turnbuckle on the opposite side of the ring. She shows no regard for her possibly injured challenger, ignoring the ref and dragging Mickie back into the centre of the ring. Out of nowhere, James nails the Mick Kick! AJ is down! 1-2-AJ gets her foot underneath the bottom rope! James goes for the Stratus-faction but AJ Lee launches her into the exposed turnbuckle! Mickie James is out cold! 1-2-3! AJ retains!
Result- AJ Lee wins by pinfall via exposed turnbuckle shot. (12:58)
The Royal Rumble tumbler is back! Stephanie McMahon is overseeing things as superstars enter to pick their spots in the Royal Rumble. We see Alberto Del Rio, Brodus Clay, and other superstars pick their numbers. Triple H and Paul Heyman in the background; they shake hands and it appears that HHH hands Heyman something before he walks off.
"The American Dream" Dusty Rhodes is here! He introduces his sons, the WWE World Tag Team Champions Cody Rhodes and Goldust! The champions hug their father and make their way to the ring for a Six Pack Challenge Elimination Match! After being on the wrong side of The Authority, The Rhodes Brothers have been put in quite the predicament as they look to retain their title's against all odds.
Cody Rhodes and Goldust (c) vs. The New Age Outlaws vs. The Prime Time Players vs. Truth & Consequences vs. Hunico and Camacho vs. The Uso's in a Six Pack Challenge Elimination Match for the WWE World Tag Team Championship
Everything breaks down right off the bat. Bodies are flying everywhere. The Uso's hit a pair of dives over the ropes onto a pile of opponents. Back in the ring Hunico and Camacho eat a pair of Superkicks. Uso Splash to Hunico! 1-2-3!
Jey Uso pins Hunico via Uso Splash (Hunico and Camacho are eliminated)
The Prime Time Players take their turn dominating. Titus hits a Sit-Out Spinebuster to Billy Gunn. Darren Young launches Road Dogg from the ring and dropkicks an incoming Jimmy Uso. Xavier Woods comes out of nowhere with a springboard DDT on Titus O'Neil! Darren Young gets hit with a spinning elbow from R-Truth! Woods and Truth connect with a double Scissor Kick on Titus for the 3 count.
R-Truth pins Titus O'Neil via Double Scissors Kick (The Prime Time Players are eliminated)
Road Dogg chopblocks R-Truth immediately and throws him into the ringpost. Woods gets some shots in on Dogg but turns around into a Fameasser from Billy Gunn! 1-2-3!
Billy Gunn pins Xavier Woods via Fameasser (Truth & Consequences are eliminated)
Road Dogg grabs one of the tag title belts and brings it in the ring. The referee tries to stop him but Billy warns the referee that Triple H will fire him if he gets in their way. Billy holds Goldust as Road Dogg charges with the title ---- Goldust low blows Billy Gunn and ducks; Road Dogg knocks out Billy Gunn with the title belt! Cody Rhodes grabs Road Dogg and hits the Cross Rhodes!
Cody Rhodes pins Billy Gunn via Cross Rhodes (The New Age Outlaws are eliminated)
We are down to two teams. The Rhodes Brothers and The Uso's. The teams gather themselves in opposite corners as the crowd swells to a fever pitch. All four slug it out in the middle. Double Superkick to Goldust sends him to the floor. Cody hits the Bionic Elbow to Jimmy! Alabama Slam to Jey! Cody is all fired up! Cody goes for the Cross Rhodes but nearly gets pinned on a roll up. Double Superkick to Cody! Both The Uso's climb to the top rope but Goldust comes back in and drops Jimmy right on his yambags! Goldust meets Jey on the other side and delivers a giant superplex! BUT JIMMY RECOVERS AND FLIES OFF THE TOP! USO SPLASH TO GOLDUST! 1-2-CODY BREAKS UP THE PIN! Cody hits a Disaster Kick to Jimmy but gets Superkicked by Jey! With his last gasp of energy, Goldust nails Jey with the Final Cut! 1-2-3! Cody and Goldust retain!
Goldust pins Jey Uso via The Final Cut
Result- Cody Rhodes and Goldust retain the WWE World Tag Team Championship. (15:59)
CM Punk is taping his wrists in the locker room when Corporate Kane approaches with a bunch of security. Punk stands up ready to defend himself. But Kane tells him to calm down. He's here with a gift from The Authority. Kane hands Punk a Rumble number from the tumbler and tells him on behalf of The Authority, they wish him luck tonight. Kane leaves as punk opens the ball and shakes his head.
A video package showcases the rivalry between the United States Champion Dean Ambrose and Rob Van Dam. After RVD became # 1 Contender, The Shield brutalized him in a 3 on 1 beatdown. The next week, Rob Van Dam attacked Ambrose with a steel chair and delivered a devastating Van Daminator. Ambrose got busted open but the blood seemed to turn him into some kind of maniac. A bloodied Ambrose cut an iconically intense promo backstage in the boiler room where he challenged RVD to a Hardcore match at the Royal Rumble. Rob Van Dam accepted and began to tap into his hardcore style, even going as far as to bring back his old friend Sabu to help him fend off repeated attacks by The Shield. Tonight this rivalry concludes in a Hardcore match for the US Championship.
Dean Ambrose (c) vs. Rob Van Dam for the United States Championship in a Hardcore Match
Van Dam starts off hot with a barrage of kicks to Ambrose. RVD hits his signature barricade legdrop from the apron! He pulls out a kendo stick and starts unloading on the champion. Ambrose stops the beating by raking RVD's eyes and then snapping the kendo stick in half. Ambrose goes berserk, stabbing RVD with the sharp part of the broken kendo stick repeatedly in the corner as JR tells the TV audience to put their kids to bed because "this match is going to be bowling shoe ugly folks". Van Dam slides out of the ring and we see he's bleeding profusely. Ambrose stalks his prey on the outside but RVD tosses a steel chair full speed at his head! RVD goes under the ring and grabs a couple of trash cans and a lid. He smashes Ambrose over the head with the lid and throws him in the ring. RVD sets up a table on the outside but is momentarily distracted, trying to wipe the blood out of his eyes which allows Ambrose to crush one of the trash cans over Van Dam's head. Like a shark that smells blood in the water, Ambrose pounces on RVD and unloads punches to his open cut. The referee pulls him off and checks on RVD. But Ambrose is not done. Far from it. He goes under the ring and grabs a barbed wired baseball bat! As he gets in the ring, RVD kicks the barbed wired bat into Ambrose's face! Spike DDT! Van Dam puts a trash can over Ambrose's head and props him in the corner. VAN TERMINATOR WITH A STEEL CHAIR INTO THE TRASH CAN! RVD slowly drapes his arm over Ambrose. 1-2-Dean somehow kicks out! They exchange punches in the middle of the ring until Ambrose bites RVD's bloody head!!! RVD punches Ambrose just to get him off of him but Dean rebounds with a lariat that turns RVD inside out! Instead of going for the pin, Ambrose picks up the barbed wired baseball bat and smashes RVD in the back repeatedly! Van Dam rolls to the apron but Ambrose follows him and starts grinding the barbed wire in RVD's face! Using the pure adrenaline of survival instinct, RVD reverses into a suplex over the ropes, sending he and Ambrose crashing through the table on the outside!
The fans chant "Holy shit!" as the announcers question how much more these guys, specifically RVD, can take. RVD is first to his feet and throws Ambrose in the ring. RVD climbs to the top rope but Ambrose hits the ropes and causes him to lose balance. He tosses RVD off the top rope onto a trash can! Ambrose goes under the ring and grabs a bag..... The referee tries to stop him but Ambrose shoves him to the ground and empties the contents all over the ring ---- IT'S THUMBTACKS! He turns around and catches a steel chair hurled at him by RVD! VAN TERMINATOR! Ambrose falls into the tacks! RVD goes up top! FIVE STAR FROG SPLASH INTO THE TACKS! "BY GAWD!" Cover! 1-2-Ambrose kicks out by shoving a handful of tacks into RVD's face! Van Dam screams in pain as a now bloody Ambrose pulls himself to his feet and smiles. DIRTY DEEDS ON THE TACKS! 1-2-3!
Result- Dean Ambrose wins by pinfall via Dirty Deeds onto thumbtacks! (22:22)
Rob Van Dam is taken out on a stretcher as Dean Ambrose sits bloodied in the corner, with thumbtacks all over him and the United States Title over his shoulder, admiring his work.
Writer's Note: This match writes RVD out for the foreseeable future to give him a well deserved break. Ambrose is put over as a sadistic, hardcore, psycho path on RVD's way out.
We cut backstage where Mark Henry and The Big Show are picking their numbers. Stephanie McMahon plays nice with the legendary giants, telling them that there are always advantages to helping The Authority. Mark Henry laughs her off and walks out but Big Show appears to contemplate her words. Daniel Bryan walks in and has a face off with Triple H. Bryan wants to pick his Rumble number but HHH tells him there's only one ball left. He teases not giving it to him but places it in his hands. Bryan opens it, shakes his head and smiles, saying he wouldn't expect anything less from The Authority.
A video package on the history of the Royal Rumble match is next, highlighting past winners, elimination records, and obscure statistics. Ladies and gentlemen. We promised you a great main event.
Main Event- 30 Man Royal Rumble Match
1. Daniel Bryan
2. CM Punk
The two heroes of our story; enemies of The Authority that have been given the insurmountable task of winning from the opening spots if they want to main event Wrestlemania. They slug it out and the fans love every second of it.
3. Big E Langston
The Intercontinental Champion gets a chance to showcase his abilities in full spotlight. He tosses Bryan and Punk around much to the chagrin of the crowd. Punk and Bryan team up to stop the onslaught and slow the big man down.
4. Mark Henry
The World's Strongest Man double clotheslines Punk and Bryan before squaring up with Big E. The two meaty men begin slappin' meat until Henry squashes the IC Champion in the corner and takes advantage.
5. Alexander Rusev
The Bulgarian Brute from NXT goes nose to nose with Mark Henry. Rusev kicks Henry in the head and then charges full speed, clobbering him and sending Mark crashing from the ring for our first official elimination of the night!
Alexander Rusev eliminates Mark Henry
6. Evan Bourne
Bourne quickens the pace of the match and hits a barrage of high flying moves until he meets the brick wall known as Rusev. Rusev gets Bourne in a precarious position and clotheslines him so hard that he takes a nasty backflip bump off the apron ala Paul London 2005.
Alexander Rusev eliminates Evan Bourne
Rusev turns around and realizes he's surrounded by Bryan, Punk, and Big E! He fights valiantly but it's no use. YES+ Knee by Bryan! Rusev is rocked but still standing! GTS by Punk! Rusev is STILL somehow on his feet but falls back against the ropes ..... A clothesline from Big E sends Rusev over the ropes for another elimination!
Big E Langston eliminates Alexander Rusev
7. Alberto Del Rio w/Ricardo Rodriguez
As a former World Champion and Royal Rumble winner, Del Rio has to be considered dangerous in this match. He hits a nasty double foot stomp on Big E and trash talks the fans as they boo him out of the building. Bryan and Punk hit a Hart Attack on Del Rio to a massive pop!
8. Kevin Nash
It looks like The Authority have a couple of tricks up their sleeve tonight. Nash immediately targets Punk and Bryan, savouring the boo's from the audience. Meanwhile, Big E nearly has Del Rio eliminated until Rodriguez hops on the apron and allows Del Rio to get the advantage by jamming him thumb in Big E's eye! Del Rio kicks Big E in the face and eliminates the Intercontinental Champion!
Alberto Del Rio eliminates Big E Langston
Del Rio and Nash team up to beat down Punk and Bryan.
9. John Cena
Business is about to pick up! Cena hits the ring and takes the fight to Del Rio and Nash! AA to Del Rio! Nash immediately takes Cena down with a big boot and mocks the fans, pretending to cry. Jackknife Powerbomb to Cena! Nash tosses Punk over the ropes but Punk skins the cat and starts kicking Nash in his surgically repaired knee's.
10. Big Show
Nash throws Punk into the ring post and has a face off with The World's Largest Athlete. Nash extends his hand, wondering if Show is going to take The Authority up on their offer. Big Show teases joining him --- psych! Knockout Punch by Big Show! Nash crumples to the mat. The fans love it as Big Show gets hyped up and then starts chopping Del Rio in the corner.
11. X-Pac
Another surprise return! But is this another legend doing the bidding of The Authority? Pac does some crotch chops and gets a good reaction as he fist bumps The Big Show and hits a Bronco Buster to Del Rio! But X-Pac cannot be trusted as he kicks Big Show right in the family jewels! Kevin Nash pulls himself to his feet and two sweets X-Pac! Nash goes to stomping on The Big Show as Pac charges for a Bronco Buster on Punk ---- Cena takes X-Pac's head off with a clothesline and then AA's him from the ring!
John Cena eliminates X-Pac
Cena, Punk, and Bryan all attack Kevin Nash and buy enough time for Big Show to recover. Show grabs Nash by the throat and pushes him back over the ropes!
Big Show eliminates Kevin Nash
Show, Cena, Punk, Bryan, and Del Rio all fight and try to eliminate each other as the buzzer sounds for the next entrant.
12. Bray Wyatt
The mood has shifted in the arena! Bray Wyatt comes in like an absolute killer, wrecking everyone in his path. Sister Abigail to CM Punk! Daniel Bryan is the last one standing and the crowd breaks out into thunderous "YES!" chants as Bryan and Wyatt exchange stiff slaps and beat the piss out of each other!
13. Erick Rowan
A coincidence or the puppet strings of The Authority? The Wyatt Family now has two members and begin to dominate. Big Show grabs their throats but Rowan breaks free with several headbutts! Big Show slumps back against the ropes --- Wyatt and Rowan dump him to the floor!
Bray Wyatt and Erick Rowan eliminate Big Show
Wyatt sits in the corner moving his hands like a orchestra conductor as Rowan chokes Daniel Bryan on the opposite side of the ring. Del Rio tries to eliminate John Cena.
14. Brodus Clay
The Funkasaurus is in no dancing mood, he knows how serious this opportunity is and he also knows what he's up against. As soon as he slides in the ring, Wyatt and Rowan put the boots to him. Clay fights back but it's no use. It's Wyatt Family domination as Bray hits a Sister Abigail and then Rowan throws the big man over the ropes.
Erick Rowan eliminates Brodus Clay
CM Punk is Bray Wyatt's next target but he fights for his life and hits a big roundhouse kick to Rowan! Bray has to fend for himself and he smiles, it's time to dance!
15. Kofi Kingston
Kingston is a house of fire, flying all over the ring. SOS to Bray Wyatt! Trouble in Paradise to Del Rio! Kingston springboards off the ropes but gets caught by Erick Rowan! Rowan press slams Kofi to the outside ---- Kofi lands on the barricade! He trust falls back into the crowd and they surf him around as the arena breaks out into huge "KOFI!" chants.
16. Santino Marella
Santino breaks out THE COBRA! Wyatt does the creepy spider walk which freaks Santino out ---- he eliminates himself and walks to the back!
Santino Marella eliminates himself
17. Ezekiel Jackson
As Jackson walks down to the ring, the crowd bring Kofi back to the barricade and he hops to the apron! Bray Wyatt launches himself into Kofi, sending him flying into in the arms of Ezekiel Jackson! Kofi is all pumped up at avoiding elimination twice but Jackson bodyslams Kofi on the floor! Kofi is now out and Big Zeke has his first elimination before he even gets in the ring!
Ezekiel Jackson eliminates Kofi Kingston
Jackson joins the match and exchanges some shoulder blocks with Erick Rowan. Bray Wyatt continues to brawl with Daniel Bryan while John Cena fights Del Rio.
18. Christian
Captain Charisma joins the match and finds himself squaring off with his old rival Ezekiel Jackson. Jackson gets him up for a Powerslam but Christian fights out and hits the Killswitch! Christian then ducks a Bray Wyatt clothesline and hits a Spear! Del Rio cheapshots Christian and tells the fans to shut up as he chokes Captain Charisma in the corner.
19. Chris Jericho
Y2J makes quite the entrance with a boatload of pyro. Jericho slaps Del Rio and locks in the Walls of Jericho! The ring begins to fill up now as strategy changes this late into the match; nobody wants to risk elimination at this point.
20. The Boogeyman
JBL gets real quiet all of a sudden as the legend crawls out and smashes a clock on his head! Boogeyman gets in the ring and begins eating a handful of worms! This gets Bray Wyatt's attention and the two spooky guys have a staredown. The Eater of Worlds vs. The Eater of Worms. Boogeyman sets Wyatt up for the Pumphandle Slam but Erick Rowan boots him in the head and then tosses him from the ring!
Erick Rowan eliminates The Boogeyman
21. Fandango w/Summer Rae
As Fandango dances his way to the ring, Christian and Jericho team up to eliminate Ezekiel Jackson.
Christian and Chris Jericho eliminate Ezekiel Jackson
Fandango sets his sights on Jericho and shows a more vicious side of himself, stomping Y2J relentlessly. Bray Wyatt and Erick Rowan try to eliminate Christian.
22. Luke Harper
The Wyatt Family is now at full strength. They dominate the field and Luke Harper clotheslines Fandango off the apron!
Luke Harper eliminates Fandango
Bray instructs them to eliminate Bryan but Punk and Cena have something to say about that.
23. Bad News Barrett
As Barrett picks the most opportune time to enter, The Wyatt Family gang up on Christian and Bray Wyatt tosses him out!
Bray Wyatt eliminates Christian
Chris Jericho puts up a fight, nailing Rowan with a Codebreaker! The numbers game is still in The Wyatt Family's favour --- Harper decapitates Y2J with a clothesline, and Wyatt eliminates him as well!
Bray Wyatt eliminates Chris Jericho
The clock begins to countdown so Barrett is forced to roll in the ring and Harper attacks him.
24. Shelton Benjamin
AIN'T NO STOPPIN' ME, NOOOO! The Gold Standard makes his return to WWE and gets a nice ovation from the Pittsburgh crowd. He single handedly ends The Wyatt Family's domination by diving onto all three of them! As Bray Wyatt scurries to his feet, Shelton greets him with a T-Bone Suplex! Erick Rowan charges full speed at Daniel Bryan but Bryan avoids him by pulling the rope down and Rowan crashes to the floor!
Daniel Bryan eliminates Erick Rowan
Rowan is pissed and starts dismantling the announce table until the referee's force him to leave. The ring is full of superstars with full intentions of headlining Wrestlemania. Bryan and Punk are spent. Cena too. Del Rio hides in the corner to stay alive. Shelton battles it out with Barrett and Harper. Wyatt pulls himself to his feet.
25. Batista
THE ANIMAL IS HERE! Batista is a one man wrecking crew. Spinebuster to Luke Harper! Batista Bomb to Barrett! Del Rio sneaks up and attempts to toss Batista out but The Animal reverses his momentum and eliminates Del Rio!
Batista eliminates Alberto Del Rio
Batista and Bray Wyatt lock eyes. Wyatt loves it and yells "Show me that Animal, David!" Batista crushes him with a Spear and then finds himself face to face with John Cena. Cena is much more exhausted and ends up getting Spinebustered for his troubles.
26. Roman Reigns
The powerhouse of The Shield enters the ring with bad intentions; Spear to Shelton Benjamin! Superman Punch to Daniel Bryan! Reigns and Batista do battle until Wyatt and Harper attack them ---- Batista and Reigns hit a pair of Spears to The Wyatt Family!
27. Dolph Ziggler
Ziggler comes down with a microphone and tells everyone in the ring that this is his year. Number 27 is the most coveted position as more people have won the Rumble from this spot than any other. He smashes Batista with the microphone and unloads punches on The Animal! Dolph with a Superkick to Barrett and a Zig Zag to John Cena! 10 superstars are left in the ring with 3 more to make their entrance.
28. Seth Rollins
The Architect of The Shield is here and he joins Roman Reigns as they go face to face with Wyatt and Harper! Electricity in the air folks! Things break down; Bray and Roman fight in the corner as Harper drops Rollins with a clothesline! John Cena hoists Luke Harper up and sends him to the floor with an AA!
John Cena eliminates Luke Harper
Bad News Barrett sneaks up and dumps Cena from the ring! John Cena is eliminated! Revenge for The Nexus at last!
Bad News Barrett eliminates John Cena
29. Sheamus
The Celtic Warrior imediately Brogue Kicks Shelton off the apron!
Sheamus eliminates Shelton Benjamin
Everyone fights as the clock counts down for our final entrant.
30. Brock Lesnar w/Paul Heyman
Now we know what Triple H gifted Paul Heyman earlier! The Beast enters the ring and F5's Bad News Barrett to the floor!
Brock Lesnar eliminates Bad News Barrett
Dolph Ziggler jumps on Brock's back and tries to choke him out but Lesnar reverses into an F5 position! Lesnar sends Dolph flying over the ropes!
Brock Lesnar eliminates Dolph Ziggler
Lesnar now targets Batista and hits a series of shoulder blocks in the corner. He picks The Animal up for an F5 but Batista fights out and clotheslines Brock out of the ring!!!
Batista eliminates Brock Lesnar
Brock is in shock along with the announcers and everyone in the arena. He starts pacing around the ring as Batista sets Bray Wyatt up for a Batista Bomb. Lesnar shoves the referee to the ground and slides back in the ring, tossing Batista out!
Brock Lesnar eliminates Batista
Lesnar smashes Batista with the steel steps and then F5's The Animal through the announce table! We're down to five as Rollins and Punk fight on the apron until Punk hits a GTS! Rollins crumbles unconscious to the floor!
CM Punk eliminates Seth Rollins
The final four of the 2014 Royal Rumble: CM Punk, Daniel Bryan, Bray Wyatt, and Roman Reigns. Punk and Bryan entered at number 1 and 2. Incredible accomplishment for them. Roman Reigns Spears Daniel Bryan and then sidesteps Bray Wyatt, sending him flying from the ring!
Roman Reigns eliminates Bray Wyatt
CM Punk hits a GTS on Reigns and all three men are down. Triple H walks down to the ring and rips his jacket off. Kane follows behind him. Punk pulls himself to his feet as tells them to bring it. Randy Orton RKO's CM Punk out of nowhere! The WWE Champion soaks in the boo's as he and Kane throw CM Punk out! "This is bullshit" yells the fans and JR agrees!
Randy Orton and Kane eliminate CM Punk
Triple H smiles and grabs the sledgehammer. Orton and Kane hold Daniel Bryan as HHH charges with the hammer ---- Roman Reigns Spears Triple H! CM Punk pulls Orton from the ring and they brawl into the crowd! Daniel Bryan takes Kane out with the YES+ Knee! With everyone out of the equation, Reigns and Bryan get three minutes of back and forth action, a proper finish to the Rumble. Reigns gets locked in a triangle choke but shows tremendous strength, lifting Bryan up and over the ropes! Bryan holds onto Roman and drags him over with him! They battle on the apron until Bryan viciously kicks Roman in the head! Reigns falls to the floor! Daniel Bryan wins the 2014 Royal Rumble!
Daniel Bryan eliminates Roman Reigns
Winner of the 2014 Royal Rumble: Daniel Bryan
Fireworks explode as Daniel Bryan leads the fans in a YES chant and points at the Wrestlemania sign.
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Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania
Commentated by Jim Ross, JBL, and Michael Cole
We see some footage of superstars arriving to the arena today. The Authority arrive in a limousine; WWE Champion Randy Orton, Triple H, Stephanie McMahon, and Kane. Daniel Bryan is shown walking with Brie Bella. "The Animal" Batista shows up in a truck and flexes for the camera. The feed cuts and glitches out revealing a dark room with a empty rocking chair moving slowly. "We're here."
The iconic voice of Jim Ross welcomes us to the 2014 Royal Rumble as pyro erupts from the stage and the fans go wild. The Authority's music plays and the mood quickly shifts, the crowd rains down boo's. Here comes the WWE World Champion Randy Orton. Orton talks trash to some fans in the front row while Triple H, Stephanie McMahon, and Kane make their way out as well. Orton raises the title as HHH passes him a microphone. Orton is in a great mood tonight. He's got the night off and there will be 30 men all vying for a chance to get RKO'ed in the main event of Wrestlemania 30. The crowd chants, “Daniel Bryan” as Orton laughs and promises that Bryan doesn't stand a chance. If you want to win the Royal Rumble you have to be taller than these marks in the crowd, you can't be a front row wrestler like Daniel Bryan or CM Punk. The crowd breaks into a deafening “DANIEL BRYAN/CM PUNK!” chant as Orton highlights some of the past winners like himself, Triple H, and Batista. True superstars who all pass the airport test. Triple H takes the microphone and tells the fans to shut the hell up and respect greatness. The reason The Authority are out here is because they want an answer from Batista. Will The Animal join them, take the #30 spot, and win the Rumble to make the biggest Wrestlemania main event a reality? Batista's music hits and he gets a great reaction. First of all, Batista thanks the Pittsburgh fans and everyone in the WWE for welcoming him back with open arms. Batista has a ton of respect for Triple H and Orton after all those years in Evolution. They all shake hands and it looks like he's accepting the offer. Triple H tells Batista to make the right decision and do whats best for business. Batista gives the THUMBS UP! The Authority are all psyched up until.... Batista, who still has his thumb in the air, says "What's best for business.... is listening to these fans! Doing things the hard way, the same way he did it through his whole career. Batista didn't come back to be handed anything, he came back to prove he can still be The Animal. The man who beat Triple H in the main event of Wrestlemania.... The thumbs up is turned into a THUMBS DOWN! Kane charges at Batista but gets clotheslined! Randy Orton and Tripe H flee from the ring as The Animal delivers a Spinebuster to Kane and rattles the ropes! Triple H screams that Batista is going to regret this decision.....
A video package of the feud between Divas Champion AJ Lee and Mickie James is next. After AJ Lee defeated Naomi to retain her title on RAW, AJ declared she had no competition in the locker room. Cue the surprise return of Mickie James! Former psycho versus current psycho, legend versus future legend. They exchange verbal barbs over the next few weeks, with Mickie picking up some big wins and earning a title match. During a contract signing on the final RAW before the Royal Rumble, things finally turned physical and Mickie put AJ Lee through a table with a huge bulldog from the top rope! Everything comes to a head tonight with the championship on the line.
Tony Chimel lets us know that this contest is scheduled for one fall as Mickie James makes her entrance and gets emotional at the ovation from the audience in Pittsburgh. Divas Champion AJ Lee is next and she gets a mixed reaction; the fans love her but are definitely backing Mickie in this one.
AJ Lee (c) vs. Mickie James for the WWE Divas Championship
The match kicks off with AJ slapping Mickie across the face! James returns the favour and tackles AJ, raining down a flurry of punches. AJ Lee cowers into the corner but then takes advantage by slamming Mickie to the mat by her hair! AJ taunts Mickie and stomps her in the corner but when the champion charges, Mickie backdrops her over the ropes! Mickie hits a Thez Press from the apron and tosses AJ into the barricade!
They battle on the apron until AJ sends Mickie head first into the ringpost. Mickie seems genuinely hurt and the referee goes to check on her, allowing AJ to expose the turnbuckle on the opposite side of the ring. She shows no regard for her possibly injured challenger, ignoring the ref and dragging Mickie back into the centre of the ring. Out of nowhere, James nails the Mick Kick! AJ is down! 1-2-AJ gets her foot underneath the bottom rope! James goes for the Stratus-faction but AJ Lee launches her into the exposed turnbuckle! Mickie James is out cold! 1-2-3! AJ retains!
Result- AJ Lee wins by pinfall via exposed turnbuckle shot. (12:58)
The Royal Rumble tumbler is back! Stephanie McMahon is overseeing things as superstars enter to pick their spots in the Royal Rumble. We see Alberto Del Rio, Brodus Clay, and other superstars pick their numbers. Triple H and Paul Heyman in the background; they shake hands and it appears that HHH hands Heyman something before he walks off.
"The American Dream" Dusty Rhodes is here! He introduces his sons, the WWE World Tag Team Champions Cody Rhodes and Goldust! The champions hug their father and make their way to the ring for a Six Pack Challenge Elimination Match! After being on the wrong side of The Authority, The Rhodes Brothers have been put in quite the predicament as they look to retain their title's against all odds.
Cody Rhodes and Goldust (c) vs. The New Age Outlaws vs. The Prime Time Players vs. Truth & Consequences vs. Hunico and Camacho vs. The Uso's in a Six Pack Challenge Elimination Match for the WWE World Tag Team Championship
Everything breaks down right off the bat. Bodies are flying everywhere. The Uso's hit a pair of dives over the ropes onto a pile of opponents. Back in the ring Hunico and Camacho eat a pair of Superkicks. Uso Splash to Hunico! 1-2-3!
Jey Uso pins Hunico via Uso Splash (Hunico and Camacho are eliminated)
The Prime Time Players take their turn dominating. Titus hits a Sit-Out Spinebuster to Billy Gunn. Darren Young launches Road Dogg from the ring and dropkicks an incoming Jimmy Uso. Xavier Woods comes out of nowhere with a springboard DDT on Titus O'Neil! Darren Young gets hit with a spinning elbow from R-Truth! Woods and Truth connect with a double Scissor Kick on Titus for the 3 count.
R-Truth pins Titus O'Neil via Double Scissors Kick (The Prime Time Players are eliminated)
Road Dogg chopblocks R-Truth immediately and throws him into the ringpost. Woods gets some shots in on Dogg but turns around into a Fameasser from Billy Gunn! 1-2-3!
Billy Gunn pins Xavier Woods via Fameasser (Truth & Consequences are eliminated)
Road Dogg grabs one of the tag title belts and brings it in the ring. The referee tries to stop him but Billy warns the referee that Triple H will fire him if he gets in their way. Billy holds Goldust as Road Dogg charges with the title ---- Goldust low blows Billy Gunn and ducks; Road Dogg knocks out Billy Gunn with the title belt! Cody Rhodes grabs Road Dogg and hits the Cross Rhodes!
Cody Rhodes pins Billy Gunn via Cross Rhodes (The New Age Outlaws are eliminated)
We are down to two teams. The Rhodes Brothers and The Uso's. The teams gather themselves in opposite corners as the crowd swells to a fever pitch. All four slug it out in the middle. Double Superkick to Goldust sends him to the floor. Cody hits the Bionic Elbow to Jimmy! Alabama Slam to Jey! Cody is all fired up! Cody goes for the Cross Rhodes but nearly gets pinned on a roll up. Double Superkick to Cody! Both The Uso's climb to the top rope but Goldust comes back in and drops Jimmy right on his yambags! Goldust meets Jey on the other side and delivers a giant superplex! BUT JIMMY RECOVERS AND FLIES OFF THE TOP! USO SPLASH TO GOLDUST! 1-2-CODY BREAKS UP THE PIN! Cody hits a Disaster Kick to Jimmy but gets Superkicked by Jey! With his last gasp of energy, Goldust nails Jey with the Final Cut! 1-2-3! Cody and Goldust retain!
Goldust pins Jey Uso via The Final Cut
Result- Cody Rhodes and Goldust retain the WWE World Tag Team Championship. (15:59)
CM Punk is taping his wrists in the locker room when Corporate Kane approaches with a bunch of security. Punk stands up ready to defend himself. But Kane tells him to calm down. He's here with a gift from The Authority. Kane hands Punk a Rumble number from the tumbler and tells him on behalf of The Authority, they wish him luck tonight. Kane leaves as punk opens the ball and shakes his head.
A video package showcases the rivalry between the United States Champion Dean Ambrose and Rob Van Dam. After RVD became # 1 Contender, The Shield brutalized him in a 3 on 1 beatdown. The next week, Rob Van Dam attacked Ambrose with a steel chair and delivered a devastating Van Daminator. Ambrose got busted open but the blood seemed to turn him into some kind of maniac. A bloodied Ambrose cut an iconically intense promo backstage in the boiler room where he challenged RVD to a Hardcore match at the Royal Rumble. Rob Van Dam accepted and began to tap into his hardcore style, even going as far as to bring back his old friend Sabu to help him fend off repeated attacks by The Shield. Tonight this rivalry concludes in a Hardcore match for the US Championship.
Dean Ambrose (c) vs. Rob Van Dam for the United States Championship in a Hardcore Match
Van Dam starts off hot with a barrage of kicks to Ambrose. RVD hits his signature barricade legdrop from the apron! He pulls out a kendo stick and starts unloading on the champion. Ambrose stops the beating by raking RVD's eyes and then snapping the kendo stick in half. Ambrose goes berserk, stabbing RVD with the sharp part of the broken kendo stick repeatedly in the corner as JR tells the TV audience to put their kids to bed because "this match is going to be bowling shoe ugly folks". Van Dam slides out of the ring and we see he's bleeding profusely. Ambrose stalks his prey on the outside but RVD tosses a steel chair full speed at his head! RVD goes under the ring and grabs a couple of trash cans and a lid. He smashes Ambrose over the head with the lid and throws him in the ring. RVD sets up a table on the outside but is momentarily distracted, trying to wipe the blood out of his eyes which allows Ambrose to crush one of the trash cans over Van Dam's head. Like a shark that smells blood in the water, Ambrose pounces on RVD and unloads punches to his open cut. The referee pulls him off and checks on RVD. But Ambrose is not done. Far from it. He goes under the ring and grabs a barbed wired baseball bat! As he gets in the ring, RVD kicks the barbed wired bat into Ambrose's face! Spike DDT! Van Dam puts a trash can over Ambrose's head and props him in the corner. VAN TERMINATOR WITH A STEEL CHAIR INTO THE TRASH CAN! RVD slowly drapes his arm over Ambrose. 1-2-Dean somehow kicks out! They exchange punches in the middle of the ring until Ambrose bites RVD's bloody head!!! RVD punches Ambrose just to get him off of him but Dean rebounds with a lariat that turns RVD inside out! Instead of going for the pin, Ambrose picks up the barbed wired baseball bat and smashes RVD in the back repeatedly! Van Dam rolls to the apron but Ambrose follows him and starts grinding the barbed wire in RVD's face! Using the pure adrenaline of survival instinct, RVD reverses into a suplex over the ropes, sending he and Ambrose crashing through the table on the outside!
The fans chant "Holy shit!" as the announcers question how much more these guys, specifically RVD, can take. RVD is first to his feet and throws Ambrose in the ring. RVD climbs to the top rope but Ambrose hits the ropes and causes him to lose balance. He tosses RVD off the top rope onto a trash can! Ambrose goes under the ring and grabs a bag..... The referee tries to stop him but Ambrose shoves him to the ground and empties the contents all over the ring ---- IT'S THUMBTACKS! He turns around and catches a steel chair hurled at him by RVD! VAN TERMINATOR! Ambrose falls into the tacks! RVD goes up top! FIVE STAR FROG SPLASH INTO THE TACKS! "BY GAWD!" Cover! 1-2-Ambrose kicks out by shoving a handful of tacks into RVD's face! Van Dam screams in pain as a now bloody Ambrose pulls himself to his feet and smiles. DIRTY DEEDS ON THE TACKS! 1-2-3!
Result- Dean Ambrose wins by pinfall via Dirty Deeds onto thumbtacks! (22:22)
Rob Van Dam is taken out on a stretcher as Dean Ambrose sits bloodied in the corner, with thumbtacks all over him and the United States Title over his shoulder, admiring his work.
Writer's Note: This match writes RVD out for the foreseeable future to give him a well deserved break. Ambrose is put over as a sadistic, hardcore, psycho path on RVD's way out.
We cut backstage where Mark Henry and The Big Show are picking their numbers. Stephanie McMahon plays nice with the legendary giants, telling them that there are always advantages to helping The Authority. Mark Henry laughs her off and walks out but Big Show appears to contemplate her words. Daniel Bryan walks in and has a face off with Triple H. Bryan wants to pick his Rumble number but HHH tells him there's only one ball left. He teases not giving it to him but places it in his hands. Bryan opens it, shakes his head and smiles, saying he wouldn't expect anything less from The Authority.
A video package on the history of the Royal Rumble match is next, highlighting past winners, elimination records, and obscure statistics. Ladies and gentlemen. We promised you a great main event.
Main Event- 30 Man Royal Rumble Match
1. Daniel Bryan
2. CM Punk
The two heroes of our story; enemies of The Authority that have been given the insurmountable task of winning from the opening spots if they want to main event Wrestlemania. They slug it out and the fans love every second of it.
3. Big E Langston
The Intercontinental Champion gets a chance to showcase his abilities in full spotlight. He tosses Bryan and Punk around much to the chagrin of the crowd. Punk and Bryan team up to stop the onslaught and slow the big man down.
4. Mark Henry
The World's Strongest Man double clotheslines Punk and Bryan before squaring up with Big E. The two meaty men begin slappin' meat until Henry squashes the IC Champion in the corner and takes advantage.
5. Alexander Rusev
The Bulgarian Brute from NXT goes nose to nose with Mark Henry. Rusev kicks Henry in the head and then charges full speed, clobbering him and sending Mark crashing from the ring for our first official elimination of the night!
Alexander Rusev eliminates Mark Henry
6. Evan Bourne
Bourne quickens the pace of the match and hits a barrage of high flying moves until he meets the brick wall known as Rusev. Rusev gets Bourne in a precarious position and clotheslines him so hard that he takes a nasty backflip bump off the apron ala Paul London 2005.
Alexander Rusev eliminates Evan Bourne
Rusev turns around and realizes he's surrounded by Bryan, Punk, and Big E! He fights valiantly but it's no use. YES+ Knee by Bryan! Rusev is rocked but still standing! GTS by Punk! Rusev is STILL somehow on his feet but falls back against the ropes ..... A clothesline from Big E sends Rusev over the ropes for another elimination!
Big E Langston eliminates Alexander Rusev
7. Alberto Del Rio w/Ricardo Rodriguez
As a former World Champion and Royal Rumble winner, Del Rio has to be considered dangerous in this match. He hits a nasty double foot stomp on Big E and trash talks the fans as they boo him out of the building. Bryan and Punk hit a Hart Attack on Del Rio to a massive pop!
8. Kevin Nash
It looks like The Authority have a couple of tricks up their sleeve tonight. Nash immediately targets Punk and Bryan, savouring the boo's from the audience. Meanwhile, Big E nearly has Del Rio eliminated until Rodriguez hops on the apron and allows Del Rio to get the advantage by jamming him thumb in Big E's eye! Del Rio kicks Big E in the face and eliminates the Intercontinental Champion!
Alberto Del Rio eliminates Big E Langston
Del Rio and Nash team up to beat down Punk and Bryan.
9. John Cena
Business is about to pick up! Cena hits the ring and takes the fight to Del Rio and Nash! AA to Del Rio! Nash immediately takes Cena down with a big boot and mocks the fans, pretending to cry. Jackknife Powerbomb to Cena! Nash tosses Punk over the ropes but Punk skins the cat and starts kicking Nash in his surgically repaired knee's.
10. Big Show
Nash throws Punk into the ring post and has a face off with The World's Largest Athlete. Nash extends his hand, wondering if Show is going to take The Authority up on their offer. Big Show teases joining him --- psych! Knockout Punch by Big Show! Nash crumples to the mat. The fans love it as Big Show gets hyped up and then starts chopping Del Rio in the corner.
11. X-Pac
Another surprise return! But is this another legend doing the bidding of The Authority? Pac does some crotch chops and gets a good reaction as he fist bumps The Big Show and hits a Bronco Buster to Del Rio! But X-Pac cannot be trusted as he kicks Big Show right in the family jewels! Kevin Nash pulls himself to his feet and two sweets X-Pac! Nash goes to stomping on The Big Show as Pac charges for a Bronco Buster on Punk ---- Cena takes X-Pac's head off with a clothesline and then AA's him from the ring!
John Cena eliminates X-Pac
Cena, Punk, and Bryan all attack Kevin Nash and buy enough time for Big Show to recover. Show grabs Nash by the throat and pushes him back over the ropes!
Big Show eliminates Kevin Nash
Show, Cena, Punk, Bryan, and Del Rio all fight and try to eliminate each other as the buzzer sounds for the next entrant.
12. Bray Wyatt
The mood has shifted in the arena! Bray Wyatt comes in like an absolute killer, wrecking everyone in his path. Sister Abigail to CM Punk! Daniel Bryan is the last one standing and the crowd breaks out into thunderous "YES!" chants as Bryan and Wyatt exchange stiff slaps and beat the piss out of each other!
13. Erick Rowan
A coincidence or the puppet strings of The Authority? The Wyatt Family now has two members and begin to dominate. Big Show grabs their throats but Rowan breaks free with several headbutts! Big Show slumps back against the ropes --- Wyatt and Rowan dump him to the floor!
Bray Wyatt and Erick Rowan eliminate Big Show
Wyatt sits in the corner moving his hands like a orchestra conductor as Rowan chokes Daniel Bryan on the opposite side of the ring. Del Rio tries to eliminate John Cena.
14. Brodus Clay
The Funkasaurus is in no dancing mood, he knows how serious this opportunity is and he also knows what he's up against. As soon as he slides in the ring, Wyatt and Rowan put the boots to him. Clay fights back but it's no use. It's Wyatt Family domination as Bray hits a Sister Abigail and then Rowan throws the big man over the ropes.
Erick Rowan eliminates Brodus Clay
CM Punk is Bray Wyatt's next target but he fights for his life and hits a big roundhouse kick to Rowan! Bray has to fend for himself and he smiles, it's time to dance!
15. Kofi Kingston
Kingston is a house of fire, flying all over the ring. SOS to Bray Wyatt! Trouble in Paradise to Del Rio! Kingston springboards off the ropes but gets caught by Erick Rowan! Rowan press slams Kofi to the outside ---- Kofi lands on the barricade! He trust falls back into the crowd and they surf him around as the arena breaks out into huge "KOFI!" chants.
16. Santino Marella
Santino breaks out THE COBRA! Wyatt does the creepy spider walk which freaks Santino out ---- he eliminates himself and walks to the back!
Santino Marella eliminates himself
17. Ezekiel Jackson
As Jackson walks down to the ring, the crowd bring Kofi back to the barricade and he hops to the apron! Bray Wyatt launches himself into Kofi, sending him flying into in the arms of Ezekiel Jackson! Kofi is all pumped up at avoiding elimination twice but Jackson bodyslams Kofi on the floor! Kofi is now out and Big Zeke has his first elimination before he even gets in the ring!
Ezekiel Jackson eliminates Kofi Kingston
Jackson joins the match and exchanges some shoulder blocks with Erick Rowan. Bray Wyatt continues to brawl with Daniel Bryan while John Cena fights Del Rio.
18. Christian
Captain Charisma joins the match and finds himself squaring off with his old rival Ezekiel Jackson. Jackson gets him up for a Powerslam but Christian fights out and hits the Killswitch! Christian then ducks a Bray Wyatt clothesline and hits a Spear! Del Rio cheapshots Christian and tells the fans to shut up as he chokes Captain Charisma in the corner.
19. Chris Jericho
Y2J makes quite the entrance with a boatload of pyro. Jericho slaps Del Rio and locks in the Walls of Jericho! The ring begins to fill up now as strategy changes this late into the match; nobody wants to risk elimination at this point.
20. The Boogeyman
JBL gets real quiet all of a sudden as the legend crawls out and smashes a clock on his head! Boogeyman gets in the ring and begins eating a handful of worms! This gets Bray Wyatt's attention and the two spooky guys have a staredown. The Eater of Worlds vs. The Eater of Worms. Boogeyman sets Wyatt up for the Pumphandle Slam but Erick Rowan boots him in the head and then tosses him from the ring!
Erick Rowan eliminates The Boogeyman
21. Fandango w/Summer Rae
As Fandango dances his way to the ring, Christian and Jericho team up to eliminate Ezekiel Jackson.
Christian and Chris Jericho eliminate Ezekiel Jackson
Fandango sets his sights on Jericho and shows a more vicious side of himself, stomping Y2J relentlessly. Bray Wyatt and Erick Rowan try to eliminate Christian.
22. Luke Harper
The Wyatt Family is now at full strength. They dominate the field and Luke Harper clotheslines Fandango off the apron!
Luke Harper eliminates Fandango
Bray instructs them to eliminate Bryan but Punk and Cena have something to say about that.
23. Bad News Barrett
As Barrett picks the most opportune time to enter, The Wyatt Family gang up on Christian and Bray Wyatt tosses him out!
Bray Wyatt eliminates Christian
Chris Jericho puts up a fight, nailing Rowan with a Codebreaker! The numbers game is still in The Wyatt Family's favour --- Harper decapitates Y2J with a clothesline, and Wyatt eliminates him as well!
Bray Wyatt eliminates Chris Jericho
The clock begins to countdown so Barrett is forced to roll in the ring and Harper attacks him.
24. Shelton Benjamin
AIN'T NO STOPPIN' ME, NOOOO! The Gold Standard makes his return to WWE and gets a nice ovation from the Pittsburgh crowd. He single handedly ends The Wyatt Family's domination by diving onto all three of them! As Bray Wyatt scurries to his feet, Shelton greets him with a T-Bone Suplex! Erick Rowan charges full speed at Daniel Bryan but Bryan avoids him by pulling the rope down and Rowan crashes to the floor!
Daniel Bryan eliminates Erick Rowan
Rowan is pissed and starts dismantling the announce table until the referee's force him to leave. The ring is full of superstars with full intentions of headlining Wrestlemania. Bryan and Punk are spent. Cena too. Del Rio hides in the corner to stay alive. Shelton battles it out with Barrett and Harper. Wyatt pulls himself to his feet.
25. Batista
THE ANIMAL IS HERE! Batista is a one man wrecking crew. Spinebuster to Luke Harper! Batista Bomb to Barrett! Del Rio sneaks up and attempts to toss Batista out but The Animal reverses his momentum and eliminates Del Rio!
Batista eliminates Alberto Del Rio
Batista and Bray Wyatt lock eyes. Wyatt loves it and yells "Show me that Animal, David!" Batista crushes him with a Spear and then finds himself face to face with John Cena. Cena is much more exhausted and ends up getting Spinebustered for his troubles.
26. Roman Reigns
The powerhouse of The Shield enters the ring with bad intentions; Spear to Shelton Benjamin! Superman Punch to Daniel Bryan! Reigns and Batista do battle until Wyatt and Harper attack them ---- Batista and Reigns hit a pair of Spears to The Wyatt Family!
27. Dolph Ziggler
Ziggler comes down with a microphone and tells everyone in the ring that this is his year. Number 27 is the most coveted position as more people have won the Rumble from this spot than any other. He smashes Batista with the microphone and unloads punches on The Animal! Dolph with a Superkick to Barrett and a Zig Zag to John Cena! 10 superstars are left in the ring with 3 more to make their entrance.
28. Seth Rollins
The Architect of The Shield is here and he joins Roman Reigns as they go face to face with Wyatt and Harper! Electricity in the air folks! Things break down; Bray and Roman fight in the corner as Harper drops Rollins with a clothesline! John Cena hoists Luke Harper up and sends him to the floor with an AA!
John Cena eliminates Luke Harper
Bad News Barrett sneaks up and dumps Cena from the ring! John Cena is eliminated! Revenge for The Nexus at last!
Bad News Barrett eliminates John Cena
29. Sheamus
The Celtic Warrior imediately Brogue Kicks Shelton off the apron!
Sheamus eliminates Shelton Benjamin
Everyone fights as the clock counts down for our final entrant.
30. Brock Lesnar w/Paul Heyman
Now we know what Triple H gifted Paul Heyman earlier! The Beast enters the ring and F5's Bad News Barrett to the floor!
Brock Lesnar eliminates Bad News Barrett
Dolph Ziggler jumps on Brock's back and tries to choke him out but Lesnar reverses into an F5 position! Lesnar sends Dolph flying over the ropes!
Brock Lesnar eliminates Dolph Ziggler
Lesnar now targets Batista and hits a series of shoulder blocks in the corner. He picks The Animal up for an F5 but Batista fights out and clotheslines Brock out of the ring!!!
Batista eliminates Brock Lesnar
Brock is in shock along with the announcers and everyone in the arena. He starts pacing around the ring as Batista sets Bray Wyatt up for a Batista Bomb. Lesnar shoves the referee to the ground and slides back in the ring, tossing Batista out!
Brock Lesnar eliminates Batista
Lesnar smashes Batista with the steel steps and then F5's The Animal through the announce table! We're down to five as Rollins and Punk fight on the apron until Punk hits a GTS! Rollins crumbles unconscious to the floor!
CM Punk eliminates Seth Rollins
The final four of the 2014 Royal Rumble: CM Punk, Daniel Bryan, Bray Wyatt, and Roman Reigns. Punk and Bryan entered at number 1 and 2. Incredible accomplishment for them. Roman Reigns Spears Daniel Bryan and then sidesteps Bray Wyatt, sending him flying from the ring!
Roman Reigns eliminates Bray Wyatt
CM Punk hits a GTS on Reigns and all three men are down. Triple H walks down to the ring and rips his jacket off. Kane follows behind him. Punk pulls himself to his feet as tells them to bring it. Randy Orton RKO's CM Punk out of nowhere! The WWE Champion soaks in the boo's as he and Kane throw CM Punk out! "This is bullshit" yells the fans and JR agrees!
Randy Orton and Kane eliminate CM Punk
Triple H smiles and grabs the sledgehammer. Orton and Kane hold Daniel Bryan as HHH charges with the hammer ---- Roman Reigns Spears Triple H! CM Punk pulls Orton from the ring and they brawl into the crowd! Daniel Bryan takes Kane out with the YES+ Knee! With everyone out of the equation, Reigns and Bryan get three minutes of back and forth action, a proper finish to the Rumble. Reigns gets locked in a triangle choke but shows tremendous strength, lifting Bryan up and over the ropes! Bryan holds onto Roman and drags him over with him! They battle on the apron until Bryan viciously kicks Roman in the head! Reigns falls to the floor! Daniel Bryan wins the 2014 Royal Rumble!
Daniel Bryan eliminates Roman Reigns
Winner of the 2014 Royal Rumble: Daniel Bryan
Fireworks explode as Daniel Bryan leads the fans in a YES chant and points at the Wrestlemania sign.
2024.05.19 14:41 SubstantialCreme7748 Howie Carr in Canton Townies and the Karen Read Case
https://www.bostonherald.com/2024/05/18/howie-carr-karen-read-trial-is-a-corrupt-canton-townie-sideshow/
POSTED: Howie Carr: Karen Read trial is a corrupt Canton townie sideshow
PUBLISHED: May 18, 2024 at 4:25 p.m. UPDATED: May 18, 2024 at 4:27 p.m.
Paul Revere used to summer every year in Canton, but he wouldn’t recognize the place today.
One thing, though, hasn’t changed since the 18th of April in ’75 — the locals still love their midnight rides, but with one big difference.
Paul Revere wasn’t hammered out of his mind when he was on horseback, spreading the alarm to every Middlesex village and farm.
Through the first 14 days of the Karen Read murder trial in Dedham, we have learned much about life in the Town of Canton, post-Paul Revere.
As you know, Read is accused of murdering her boyfriend, BPD cop John O’Keefe, by drunkenly running him over in a snowstorm in January 2022.
His body was found outside the home of another BPD officer, who has since sold the house, gotten rid of his phone and dog and abruptly retired from the job, not that there’s anything wrong with that.
How screwed up is this case? Well, the feds are all over it like white on rice.
Read’s defense attorneys have said the G-men’s accident-reconstruction experts have concluded that O’Keefe couldn’t possibly have been killed by a car.
Then there are all those texts that haven’t been “mistakenly” deleted…
The state’s lead investigator is thisclose to the Hibernian hillbillies who are up to their eyeballs in this mess.
According to opening statements, State Trooper Michael Proctor’s first thought when he was assigned the case was to text his Canton high-school buddies. He told them he was already searching online for nude photos of Karen Read.
Proctor is now under investigation by MSP Internal Affairs — if only because it’s the feds who discovered his texts, rather than the corrupt Staties themselves.
How will Proctor do on cross-examination? Do you remember an LAPD detective by the name of Mark Fuhrman?
Back on the stand Tuesday will be Jen McCabe. She’s the one who’s missing one of her front teeth.
Don’t confuse Toothy McCabe with Julie Albert. Julie is the one who chews gum while testifying. Her father’s name is/was Jack Daniels — coincidence?
Julie is married to Chris Albert. He did a six-month state bit in 1995 after killing a Hungarian exchange student in a hit-and-run accident.
His public defender was one John Prescott, whose sister is the judge in the case — Beverly Cannone. She’s a lifelong payroll patriot from Quincy, like the rotund district attorney, Meatball Mike Morrissey.
If you want to hide something real good, just stick it in one of Judge Cannone’s law books.
From her courtroom rulings, Cannone seems to believe that the synonym for “exculpatory” is “excluded,” as in, if the evidence is exculpatory for Karen Read, it’s excluded.
Chris Albert, by the way, is a Canton selectman. As the only jailbird in the fight, he was elected in a landslide. Forget it Jake — it’s Canton.
Even if you haven’t been paying close attention, there are easy ways to figure out who’s who. The townies — which is everyone except the defendant — all pronounce their hometown not as “Canton” but as “Can-UHN.”
Here’s how the examination begins after each witness is sworn in.
Where do you live? Can-UHN. Where were you born? Can-UHN. Where did you go to high school? Can-UHN High.
Have you ever been anywhere else? Yes, once I drove to a packy… in Stough-UHN.
Selectman Albert owns the local pizza parlor. On the night John O’Keefe died outside his brother’s house, he closed his shop, then walked across the street to a local dive where he ordered “appetizers.” That’s how good his own restaurant is.
Then, meeting up with the rest of the Can-UHN townies, the selectman ordered the usual — a round of Fireballs. How Canton is it?
After last call, he offered to take the crapulous crew back to his pizzeria for some free eats. Everybody said… nah.
Almost all these people live, or did live, in the same houses they grew up in, bought by their parents 50 years ago as they fled Boston after the start of busing.
Lucky for them they inherited these tear-downs, because otherwise most of them would have already fled back to their natural habitat — trailer parks.
See, Canton’s on the commuter-rail line, so housing prices have been going up, up and away. It’s only a matter of time until all these low-rent losers are priced out.
So resentment is simmering among the old Can-UHN crowd. They don’t like what’s happening — just last year, their favorite hang-out, Big D’s Neponset Grill, went out of business.
It was the last place in town where you could get a fried-baloney sandwich. Now that was some really fine Can-UHN cuisine.
What must the U.S. attorney be thinking as he watches this legal lynching unfold in deepest, darkest Dedham? The defense has said in open court that the feds already have a proffer — a deal — with the only witness who didn’t go to Can-UHN High.
The hack prosecutor did not dispute the statement.
Judge Cannone has instructed all the parties not to mention that federal grand jury, where at least three cops have apparently told conflicting stories from what they testified before Meatball’s state grand jury.
But the other day, one of the younger witnesses was asked who’s questioned him about O’Keefe’s death.
“The feds,” he blurted out in front of the jury.
Well, what could you expect? He went to Can-UHN High.
This trial is drawing a huge audience. Unlike Trump’s kangaroo-court case in New York, there are cameras in the Dedham courtroom. Live streaming coverage.
And Karen Read is not guilty. Tensions are running high. There have been fights and restraining orders — and that’s just among the reporters.
Aidan “Turtleboy” Kearney is the blogger who’s made the case into a national story. He’s been barred from the courtroom for certain witnesses — the “McAlberts,” as he calls the Alberts and the McCabes.
The McAlbert witnesses begin weeping when they talk about Turtleboy. He makes them want to spit out their chewing gum and order another round of Fireballs.
How dare he call their hero Jailbird Chris Albert “Chicken Parm Charlie?”
I have Turtleboy on my radio show most afternoons. On Friday, he said Jen McCabe has a worse set of teeth than George Washington did.
The most appealing thing about this case is that you can watch it and feel better about your own hometown. In Holbrook, they listen to Chicken Parm Charlie and realize that he makes their ex-selectman Daniel Lee look like Daniel Webster.
In Methuen, they see Canton’s Keystone Cops and think, you know, maybe Chief Solomon wasn’t that bad after all…
If Paul Revere could only see what’s become of Canton, he’d put the spurs to Brown Beauty and keep riding. Only instead of “The British are coming!” he’d be yelling something different. “The white trash are coming!”
submitted by SubstantialCreme7748 to justiceforKarenRead [link] [comments]
POSTED: Howie Carr: Karen Read trial is a corrupt Canton townie sideshow
PUBLISHED: May 18, 2024 at 4:25 p.m. UPDATED: May 18, 2024 at 4:27 p.m.
Paul Revere used to summer every year in Canton, but he wouldn’t recognize the place today.
One thing, though, hasn’t changed since the 18th of April in ’75 — the locals still love their midnight rides, but with one big difference.
Paul Revere wasn’t hammered out of his mind when he was on horseback, spreading the alarm to every Middlesex village and farm.
Through the first 14 days of the Karen Read murder trial in Dedham, we have learned much about life in the Town of Canton, post-Paul Revere.
As you know, Read is accused of murdering her boyfriend, BPD cop John O’Keefe, by drunkenly running him over in a snowstorm in January 2022.
His body was found outside the home of another BPD officer, who has since sold the house, gotten rid of his phone and dog and abruptly retired from the job, not that there’s anything wrong with that.
How screwed up is this case? Well, the feds are all over it like white on rice.
Read’s defense attorneys have said the G-men’s accident-reconstruction experts have concluded that O’Keefe couldn’t possibly have been killed by a car.
Then there are all those texts that haven’t been “mistakenly” deleted…
The state’s lead investigator is thisclose to the Hibernian hillbillies who are up to their eyeballs in this mess.
According to opening statements, State Trooper Michael Proctor’s first thought when he was assigned the case was to text his Canton high-school buddies. He told them he was already searching online for nude photos of Karen Read.
Proctor is now under investigation by MSP Internal Affairs — if only because it’s the feds who discovered his texts, rather than the corrupt Staties themselves.
How will Proctor do on cross-examination? Do you remember an LAPD detective by the name of Mark Fuhrman?
Back on the stand Tuesday will be Jen McCabe. She’s the one who’s missing one of her front teeth.
Don’t confuse Toothy McCabe with Julie Albert. Julie is the one who chews gum while testifying. Her father’s name is/was Jack Daniels — coincidence?
Julie is married to Chris Albert. He did a six-month state bit in 1995 after killing a Hungarian exchange student in a hit-and-run accident.
His public defender was one John Prescott, whose sister is the judge in the case — Beverly Cannone. She’s a lifelong payroll patriot from Quincy, like the rotund district attorney, Meatball Mike Morrissey.
If you want to hide something real good, just stick it in one of Judge Cannone’s law books.
From her courtroom rulings, Cannone seems to believe that the synonym for “exculpatory” is “excluded,” as in, if the evidence is exculpatory for Karen Read, it’s excluded.
Chris Albert, by the way, is a Canton selectman. As the only jailbird in the fight, he was elected in a landslide. Forget it Jake — it’s Canton.
Even if you haven’t been paying close attention, there are easy ways to figure out who’s who. The townies — which is everyone except the defendant — all pronounce their hometown not as “Canton” but as “Can-UHN.”
Here’s how the examination begins after each witness is sworn in.
Where do you live? Can-UHN. Where were you born? Can-UHN. Where did you go to high school? Can-UHN High.
Have you ever been anywhere else? Yes, once I drove to a packy… in Stough-UHN.
Selectman Albert owns the local pizza parlor. On the night John O’Keefe died outside his brother’s house, he closed his shop, then walked across the street to a local dive where he ordered “appetizers.” That’s how good his own restaurant is.
Then, meeting up with the rest of the Can-UHN townies, the selectman ordered the usual — a round of Fireballs. How Canton is it?
After last call, he offered to take the crapulous crew back to his pizzeria for some free eats. Everybody said… nah.
Almost all these people live, or did live, in the same houses they grew up in, bought by their parents 50 years ago as they fled Boston after the start of busing.
Lucky for them they inherited these tear-downs, because otherwise most of them would have already fled back to their natural habitat — trailer parks.
See, Canton’s on the commuter-rail line, so housing prices have been going up, up and away. It’s only a matter of time until all these low-rent losers are priced out.
So resentment is simmering among the old Can-UHN crowd. They don’t like what’s happening — just last year, their favorite hang-out, Big D’s Neponset Grill, went out of business.
It was the last place in town where you could get a fried-baloney sandwich. Now that was some really fine Can-UHN cuisine.
What must the U.S. attorney be thinking as he watches this legal lynching unfold in deepest, darkest Dedham? The defense has said in open court that the feds already have a proffer — a deal — with the only witness who didn’t go to Can-UHN High.
The hack prosecutor did not dispute the statement.
Judge Cannone has instructed all the parties not to mention that federal grand jury, where at least three cops have apparently told conflicting stories from what they testified before Meatball’s state grand jury.
But the other day, one of the younger witnesses was asked who’s questioned him about O’Keefe’s death.
“The feds,” he blurted out in front of the jury.
Well, what could you expect? He went to Can-UHN High.
This trial is drawing a huge audience. Unlike Trump’s kangaroo-court case in New York, there are cameras in the Dedham courtroom. Live streaming coverage.
And Karen Read is not guilty. Tensions are running high. There have been fights and restraining orders — and that’s just among the reporters.
Aidan “Turtleboy” Kearney is the blogger who’s made the case into a national story. He’s been barred from the courtroom for certain witnesses — the “McAlberts,” as he calls the Alberts and the McCabes.
The McAlbert witnesses begin weeping when they talk about Turtleboy. He makes them want to spit out their chewing gum and order another round of Fireballs.
How dare he call their hero Jailbird Chris Albert “Chicken Parm Charlie?”
I have Turtleboy on my radio show most afternoons. On Friday, he said Jen McCabe has a worse set of teeth than George Washington did.
The most appealing thing about this case is that you can watch it and feel better about your own hometown. In Holbrook, they listen to Chicken Parm Charlie and realize that he makes their ex-selectman Daniel Lee look like Daniel Webster.
In Methuen, they see Canton’s Keystone Cops and think, you know, maybe Chief Solomon wasn’t that bad after all…
If Paul Revere could only see what’s become of Canton, he’d put the spurs to Brown Beauty and keep riding. Only instead of “The British are coming!” he’d be yelling something different. “The white trash are coming!”
2024.05.19 13:18 pillowcase-of-eels [Music] Emilie Autumn's Asylum, pt. 6 – High-concept musician responds to online criticism by waging successful attrition war against her own fanbase
🪞
Welcome back to the Asylum write-up, where we explore the decade-long slow-motion car crash that is the Emilie Autumn fandom.
Sorry this installment took so long to upload! Just a heads-up, I may take some time to deliver the last one too – these posts take forever to format on Reddit's finicky-ass editor, and my dumb real life is currently keeping me from precious Internet time. Thank you for your patience! You have my word that everyone who pre-ordered the final installment will receive a PERSONAL, HANDWRITTEN letter autographed and illustrated by me, a list of the snacks I consumed while composing this write-up, some exclusive behind-the-scenes secrets, and a pony.
Part 1 Part 2 Part 3 Part 4.1 – Part 4.2 Part 5
This created a sort of primordial rift within the fanbase, between those who supported EA's right to speak her mind and regulate her own fan spaces however she pleased – and those who thought that her reactions were rude and inappropriate (at best), and that even fan spaces should allow for reasonable, non-abusive criticism of the artist.
Between a poorly-handled book release (see Part 3), the controversial (Part 2) or dubiously true (Part 4) contents of said book, and serious shade from various former collaborators (Part 5), more and more fans had pressing thoughts about EA's work ethic and choices. EA attempted damage control through drastic forum rules that made it virtually impossible to voice any “serious” critical opinion. It didn't work, of course: instead of squashing the mutiny, she created a schism.
Critical fans and active haters started congregating on unofficial platforms.
Either way, through these blogs, a number of potential drama bombs that had mostly flown under the radar were dredged up from over the years – some of which were hard to ignore, even for supportive fans. Where to begin?
There was that nonsense in-joke song, captured twice on camera during the 2009 tour (to very little outrage, at the time), crassly called “Manatee Retard”📺. Or EA's scathing response, in print, to a wheelchair user who found it insensitive that she used a bedazzled wheelchair as a prop to do sexy acrobatics on stage. (“Your offence taken at my hard-won self-acceptance proves that I indeed have something to fight against”, she wrote). Spoken word tracks where she made trivializing knock-knock jokes about serious mental illnesses she didn't have, like schizophrenia and OCD. Multiple instances of calling Britney Spears a “bimbo” and a “Hollywood fucked-up”, resentfully claiming that she only shaved her head because she was “hopped up on drugs” and certainly not because she was “bipolar”, a word the press liked to wield as an insult anyway. (“That's almost like calling someone a retard!” Yeah, heaven forbid.) The meanest, most distasteful paragraphs in the book. Basically everything problematic EA had ever said or written.📝 In retrospect, it had been a long time coming, but it was a lot to take in – and certainly more off-putting, even to less emotionally invested fans, than silly lies about her age and last name.
In another wing of Asylum Tumblr, some fans had had it up to here and just wanted to have fun. 🎵 If Plague Rats had learned one valuable lesson from EA, it was how to crack a joke in the face of absurd tragedy – and the general state of the EA fandom certainly warranted a few.
In 2012, Fight Like a Girl was released. After six long years, three of which had been peaceful, the Opheliac era was officially over. The new album and ensuing tour confirmed that the Asylum had entered a process of glamorous Broadway-style militarization. 🎵📺
The mood board was “Roman general meets Vegas showgirl meets Victorian street urchin”.🪞 The color palette was, to naysayers, “musty pink and rotten, stale piss yellow”. 🐀 The keyword was “REVENGE” (through the power of... self-expression! sorority! brutal assault with rusty medical implements!). The chorus of the title song had an intriguing run-on line about getting “revenge on the world, or at least 49% of the people in it” 🎵 – which seemed like an awful lot, and was widely interpreted (to cheers, boos, or uncomfortable sighs) as a misandrist jab at literally all men on Earth.
The show was essentially a demo version of the musical, in that the setlist vaguely reflected the order of events in the story – but prior reading was essential in order to get what the hell was going on on stage. This one Broadway reviewer had not perused the literature before seeing the show 🔍, and hated: the set, the choreography, the skits, the plot, the lyrics, the music, the concept. (Seriously, you should read the review. It's not even my show and I feel like quitting show business.)
Pre-show VIP encounters, now violin-free, were lorded over by EA's new manager🐀, whose official title was “Asylum Headmistress”. (Interesting choice – she sounds fun!) The swag bags were less substantial than before, and the “greet” part of the meet-and-greet was rarely more than a quick hug and photo op.
On Twitter, EA continued to embrace her “I am very badass” fronting attitude...
Spurred on by EA's rallying cries and “us vs them” mentality, loyalists turned the white-knighting up to 11. On Twitter, some Plague Rats got into cat fights with Lady Gaga's Little Monsters (what a time to be alive). Others tried to balance out the Tumblr negativity with initiatives like “Spreading a Plague of Love” – a “positive-only” confession blog, whose extreme fangirling, comically drastic rules and hyper-defensive tone📝 did not debunk the increasingly popular notion that “true Plague Rats” were a bunch of authoritarian and hopelessly brainwashed fanatics.
EA truthers and other anti-fans started lashing out at anyone who dared express any positive opinion of EA, solidifying claims that the backlash against EA was just a conspiracy of bitter, hysterical bullies.
All this to say: every passing day brought new reasons for fans to get mad at EA and each other, and everyone in the Asylum was in need of a laugh. It's not easy having a good time.🦠
Leading up to Fight Like a Girl and in the years that followed, user-submission-based meme blogs took off, most notably “Spreading a Plague of Lulz / Troll Like a Girl”. A lot of the early submissions were absurdist humor and toothless, cheezburger-Impact memes (a style that was, oddly, already dated at the time). Those often originated in good fun, and from loyal fans, on the official forum. But there was also true snark, satirizing EA's questionable ethics, outrageous claims, and easily spoofed artistic gimmicks. A new slang of Asylumspeak emerged: Glittertits (slight NSFW), GAGA!!, EA Gusta and all its memeface variants, Get outta mah house!, Are You Suffering?, Fight Like A Goat, [Random celebrity] copied EA (a subgenre in its own right), ...
Most of the “trolling” was directed at unrepentant bootlickers and, to a lesser extent, red-in-the-face haters and creeps. Meme blogs would post joke comments under “serious” or gushing submissions on Wayward Victorian Confessions, and taunt loyalist accounts by tagging them in their posts. When a few people complained on WVC that almost all of the Bloody Crumpets to date had been thin white able-bodied women, and a few fans responded by sharing their dream-casts for a more diverse line-up, the blog was flooded for days with confessions that “X should be a Crumpet” (candidates included RuPaul, Mitt Romney, Nicki Minaj, EA's therapist, and the WVC admins). Farcical shenanigans like that.
Ah, but some people will always cross the line, won't they. EA threads popped up on merciless, bully-friendly snark platforms like Lolcow, Pretty Ugly Little Liar, and Encyclopedia Dramatica. Snarkers with a mean streak and obsessive haters mingled in some of the more aggressive, 4-chan-spirited retaliation against EA – which would be called “brigading” in modern parlance. This included flooding EA's Goodreads page with one-star reviews (see part 4), repeatedly editing her Wikipedia page to include her legal name and birth year, and ensuring that Googling said name would bring up current pictures of her.
All of this compounded agitation fragmented the once-united fandom beyond recognition.🦠 Through substantial disagreements among fans, personal bickerings, layers upon layers of inscrutable in-jokes, and cross-platform telephone games, the Asylum morphed into a booby-trapped Escher room.
Satire blogs were taken in earnest. Earnest fan blogs scanned as satire. Memes would get called out as abuse. Appreciation without attached criticism would get mocked as bootlicking. Obvious jokes made by EA would be taken at face value. One divisive confession could trigger days and days of debate, to the point that WVC eventually banned confessions in response to other confessions. New waves of infighting created a confusing web of rival sub-factions🐀, each accusing the others of being toxic, cliquish, and delusional.
The shared fantasy was broken, the collective vision had crumbled, no onez was speaking the same language anymore. Fans would jump down the throat of other fans who held almost identical views about EA, except for that one thing she said or did that one time. Everyone had differing thoughts on what should or shouldn't acceptable to discuss, question, excuse, make fun of.
War is hell.
That's not entirely fair: unlike EA, the czar only did it that once.
By early 2013, as EA was gearing up for her third Fight Like a Girl tour at the end of the year, the official forum was... not as lively as it once had been. Not just because of the stifling rules and disgruntlement towards EA, or because EA herself hadn't really posted anything on there in years; the Internet was also changing, and forums in general were fast becoming passé.
This made it difficult for EA to create a safe space where she could talk to fans, and fans could talk to and about her, in a way she deemed suitable (ie, a space she could gate-keep and regulate enough to keep it completely free from negative criticism). Social media was a minefield; she still posted regularly, but didn't interact very much. So EA and the Headmistress came up with a way to filter out the unbelievers: an official fan club📝, aptly called the “Asylum Army”, with a $100 entry price.
Joining the AA came with a dog tag, a sew-on patch, and a lifetime membership certificate signed by EA and – for some reason – the Headmistress. (Unlike EA's best friend and sound engineer back in the forum's heyday, I don't think fans ever really embraced the FLAG-era manager as part of the Asylum in-group. She came across more as a coordinator / businessperson / adult chaperone, at best.🐀) So, slightly better goodies than you'd get by joining the other AA 🔍 ... but not by much. The main appeal was that members would have access to exclusive content, special merch, giveaways, early bird tickets for future shows, and regular video chats with EA.
The concept itself drew a fair amount of criticism, as you can imagine. Between the name🐀, the price, and the inherent gatekeeping of a pay-to-join fanclub, many balked at the monetizing of a concept that had once (like, three years back) been significantly more DIY, grassroots, and inclusive. 📝🐀
Then again, many also longed for a positive, drama-free space where fans could just be fans. And while the creation of the AA was generally recognized as a quick cashgrab, a lot of people were surprisingly cool with it. EA was trying to finance her dream musical, after all – although a number of fans wished she had gone about raising funds in a less sketchy way.
So around 400 fans shelled out (which, according to the Headmistress📝, “basically cover[ed] the cost of running the fanclub itself – keeping the database up, website, etc.”). Enough for a close-knit, but sizable community. But already, there was a conflict of interest: a high fanclub entry fee essentially demands that you pledge loyalty to the artist over loyalty to your fellow fans, who wish to join but can't afford to. Sharing, caring, and ensuring no one felt left out were some of the more positive values cultivated in the fandom... but leaking exclusive content would surely piss off other paying members🐀, and make EA feel betrayed all over again. (And she had barely just started to mellow out on social media!)
...But then again, this is the internet. After the first month of secret AA drops (lyric sheets, some photoshoot outtakes – nothing too juicy, really), there were, yes, some leaks. EA was predictably miffed, and retaliated by... ghosting the fanclub for weeks at a time in its first few months of existence (great look!). She eventually found the “solution” to her problem, by providing something you couldn't right-click-save (and which had been part of the promised perks to begin with): live interaction.
Over webcam, she was her usual in-person bubbly, charming, funny self. Everyone seemingly had a good time during the fanclub video chat, and this gave people faith and hope.
There were a few more events, giveaways, etc. As promised, ahead of the fall 2013 tour (the last one to date, it would turn out), AA members got priority access to show tickets and VIP bundles. The latter were much pricier than before, and only included soundcheck, a photo-op, and three goodies: a tin of loose-leaf tea, a signed printer-paper setlist, and a small flag that said “F.L.A.G.”.🔍 Some stuff continued to leak – but, as some of the outlaws pointed out (scroll down to the Disqus comments), they were mostly relaying information that was relevant to the entire fanbase, such as updates about ongoing projects (the dragged-out recording of the audiobook, for one).
In early 2014, lifetime memberships were closed, and replaced with monthly, quarterly and yearly subscription tiers. Bizarrely, you ended up paying $3 more per month if you bought a $99 yearly subscription📝 – but it did include the patch, dog tag, and piece of paper!
For the still-too-poor or still-undecided, there was always the forum! It wasn't as active as it used to be, but a few die-hards still managed to keep the lights on... until, inevitably, Someone Did Something and Ruined Everything. (Once again: EA's wrath is spectacular, but rarely completely unprovoked.) The incident features one notable figure in the Asylum community. Let's call him the Collector.
OK, so maybe you remember the meme I linked to in Part 4, with Christian Grey and the ginormous EA hoard. Well, that's the Collector's collection. The “Violin” promo that I called the "Holy Grail of the fandom" in the same paragraph? Also his. The handwritten lyrics that went for $940? Guess who won that auction. Over the years, the Collector had probably spent five figures on EA merch and shows, and although that fact was a little unsettling, he was a very active, easy-going, and generally well-liked fixture of the fandom.
One day in 2012, shortly after the Headmistress had replaced EA's old Chicago BFF as main forum admin, the Collector's account got banned or restricted over something dumb. When the ban wasn't lifted as quickly as he hoped, he took it... the way one takes things when one is unhealthily invested: he started spamming Headmistress and the mod team with increasingly rambling and abusive emails (lost to time, probably for the best). When that didn't work quickly enough, he tried a different route.
One of the many auctions that the Collector had won, some years prior, was EA's old iPod Touch📝 – which contained all of her favorite tunes and, buried somewhere in the data cache... a phone number. Which the Collector tried calling. And wouldn't you know it: EA picked up. She congratulated him on his sleuthing skills, listened patiently as he made his case, apologized for any distress caused by the unfair account restriction, and then they got married.
Kidding! She freaked the fuck out, hung up, and banned him for life from the forum and all EA shows and events.
After his ban, the Collector allegedly still tried to attend at least one VIP pre-show (one source in the comments says he was allowed to buy some merch, refunded for his ticket, and escorted out). He joined the Reform forum to bitch about EA and try to rally people to his cause, possibly made revenge posts about her on darker snark forums, and continued to hound the Asylum mod team. So in June 2014, EA came up with a radical and unexpected fix to the Collector problem.
The obliteration of the forum took everyone by surprise...
...Well, no point in living in the past. For those who could afford it, and still wanted to talk to/about EA after that (not everyone did 🐀), there was always the Asylum Army fanclub!
Over the summer of 2014, EA held regular live chats and Q&A's, and... many attendees really enjoyed them, and thought the AA was well worth the money after all. She also quietly parted ways with the much poo-pooed Headmistress around that time.
Turns out the fanclub had been the Headmistress' idea all along. EA had been reluctant from the start, and although she really enjoyed the live chats with a safe community of people “who are there for the right reasons”, she couldn't overcome her fundamental discomfort with the concept. Lifetime and regular members would receive a bunch of digital downloads and a -35% coupon on the Asylum Emporium for their troubles. EA said she would definitely pop back once in a while for live chats, for free, just for fun, but to my knowledge, she never did.
And so the most devoted fans were left standing in the rain...
But there were no chats or live shows anymore. There was only social media, where she ignored questions and vague-posted about overdue projects – and the newsletter📝, which was all saccharine love-bombing to promote bland dropshipped trinkets. For fans who remembered the handcrafted merch (and two-way communication) of the early years, it was a bitter pill to swallow.
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Welcome back to the Asylum write-up, where we explore the decade-long slow-motion car crash that is the Emilie Autumn fandom.
Sorry this installment took so long to upload! Just a heads-up, I may take some time to deliver the last one too – these posts take forever to format on Reddit's finicky-ass editor, and my dumb real life is currently keeping me from precious Internet time. Thank you for your patience! You have my word that everyone who pre-ordered the final installment will receive a PERSONAL, HANDWRITTEN letter autographed and illustrated by me, a list of the snacks I consumed while composing this write-up, some exclusive behind-the-scenes secrets, and a pony.
Part 1 Part 2 Part 3 Part 4.1 – Part 4.2 Part 5
Places, everyone This is a test Throw your stones Do your damage Your worst, and your best (...) And if I had a dollar For every time I repented the sin And commit the same crime I'd be sitting on top of the world today (“God Help Me”, 2006🎵)Quick recap of where we left off. First, there were five to ten halcyon years of pleasant and meaningful interactions between EA and her blossoming fanbase, prominently by way of her official forum. Then, circa 2009-2010, EA's online presence shifted towards sudden anger outbursts, ban-hammering, and an increasingly top-down communication style.
This created a sort of primordial rift within the fanbase, between those who supported EA's right to speak her mind and regulate her own fan spaces however she pleased – and those who thought that her reactions were rude and inappropriate (at best), and that even fan spaces should allow for reasonable, non-abusive criticism of the artist.
Between a poorly-handled book release (see Part 3), the controversial (Part 2) or dubiously true (Part 4) contents of said book, and serious shade from various former collaborators (Part 5), more and more fans had pressing thoughts about EA's work ethic and choices. EA attempted damage control through drastic forum rules that made it virtually impossible to voice any “serious” critical opinion. It didn't work, of course: instead of squashing the mutiny, she created a schism.
Critical fans and active haters started congregating on unofficial platforms.
“WITH MUFFINS LIKE THIS, WHO NEEDS ENEMIES?”: TROLL LIKE A GIRL
So here we were, the early 2010s. The official forum (which had about 700 members in 2006, if you recall) was now thousands-strong, reaching just over 12,000 registered users in 2012 – not all of them active, but still. In terms of sheer numbers and content creation, the party was POPPIN'... but increasingly in parts of the Asylum that escaped EA's jurisdiction, such as Tumblr, where they could speak their mind freely.You play the victim very well You've built your self-indulgent hell You wanted someone to understand you Well, be careful what you wish for, because I do (“I Know Where You Sleep”, 2006🎵)In one wing of Asylum Tumblr, a smattering of call-out blogs emerged, which laid out EA's various lies, faux pas, shitty takes, and general deep-seated terribleness in detailed timelines and screenshots (or, short of that, long-winded bullet points). While many such blogs framed it as “serious” whistleblowing and did their best to remain as fact-based and neutral as they could, there was some genuine disgust, animosity and creepiness towards EA on that side of Tumblr; for some ex-fans, “exposing the truth” was mostly justify obsessive hatred, prying and verbal abuse. Some, for instance, felt the bizarre need to side with EA's mother in their estrangement. (One user, with the URL “emilyautumnfischkopf”, argued in a serious and down-to-earth tone - but with zero sources - that EA's upbringing had been nothing but peaceful and supportive until she ungratefully kicked her loving family to the curb for no reason at all. They were later revealed 🔍 to have an alternate handle as “eaisalyingcunt”.)
Either way, through these blogs, a number of potential drama bombs that had mostly flown under the radar were dredged up from over the years – some of which were hard to ignore, even for supportive fans. Where to begin?
There was that nonsense in-joke song, captured twice on camera during the 2009 tour (to very little outrage, at the time), crassly called “Manatee Retard”📺. Or EA's scathing response, in print, to a wheelchair user who found it insensitive that she used a bedazzled wheelchair as a prop to do sexy acrobatics on stage. (“Your offence taken at my hard-won self-acceptance proves that I indeed have something to fight against”, she wrote). Spoken word tracks where she made trivializing knock-knock jokes about serious mental illnesses she didn't have, like schizophrenia and OCD. Multiple instances of calling Britney Spears a “bimbo” and a “Hollywood fucked-up”, resentfully claiming that she only shaved her head because she was “hopped up on drugs” and certainly not because she was “bipolar”, a word the press liked to wield as an insult anyway. (“That's almost like calling someone a retard!” Yeah, heaven forbid.) The meanest, most distasteful paragraphs in the book. Basically everything problematic EA had ever said or written.📝 In retrospect, it had been a long time coming, but it was a lot to take in – and certainly more off-putting, even to less emotionally invested fans, than silly lies about her age and last name.
In another wing of Asylum Tumblr, some fans had had it up to here and just wanted to have fun. 🎵 If Plague Rats had learned one valuable lesson from EA, it was how to crack a joke in the face of absurd tragedy – and the general state of the EA fandom certainly warranted a few.
In 2012, Fight Like a Girl was released. After six long years, three of which had been peaceful, the Opheliac era was officially over. The new album and ensuing tour confirmed that the Asylum had entered a process of glamorous Broadway-style militarization. 🎵📺
The mood board was “Roman general meets Vegas showgirl meets Victorian street urchin”.🪞 The color palette was, to naysayers, “musty pink and rotten, stale piss yellow”. 🐀 The keyword was “REVENGE” (through the power of... self-expression! sorority! brutal assault with rusty medical implements!). The chorus of the title song had an intriguing run-on line about getting “revenge on the world, or at least 49% of the people in it” 🎵 – which seemed like an awful lot, and was widely interpreted (to cheers, boos, or uncomfortable sighs) as a misandrist jab at literally all men on Earth.
The show was essentially a demo version of the musical, in that the setlist vaguely reflected the order of events in the story – but prior reading was essential in order to get what the hell was going on on stage. This one Broadway reviewer had not perused the literature before seeing the show 🔍, and hated: the set, the choreography, the skits, the plot, the lyrics, the music, the concept. (Seriously, you should read the review. It's not even my show and I feel like quitting show business.)
Pre-show VIP encounters, now violin-free, were lorded over by EA's new manager🐀, whose official title was “Asylum Headmistress”. (Interesting choice – she sounds fun!) The swag bags were less substantial than before, and the “greet” part of the meet-and-greet was rarely more than a quick hug and photo op.
On Twitter, EA continued to embrace her “I am very badass” fronting attitude...
Often wonder if cyberbullies r aware they’re fucking w/ a girl who’s BFs w/ maker of the SAW films & is marrying a knife-throwing scorpion. (🐀📝)...and her taste for needlessly inflammatory statements. About an aisle sign in a supermarket:
If this does not infuriate you, then you're a fucking potato.(Again with the confounding crypto-ableism, EA! 🔍) She also went through a phase of raging against Lady Gaga 📝, who had stolen her idea of using a wheelchair on stage as an able-bodied woman. 🔍 That failed to convince anyone that she wasn't the histrionic diva that haters made her out to be.
Spurred on by EA's rallying cries and “us vs them” mentality, loyalists turned the white-knighting up to 11. On Twitter, some Plague Rats got into cat fights with Lady Gaga's Little Monsters (what a time to be alive). Others tried to balance out the Tumblr negativity with initiatives like “Spreading a Plague of Love” – a “positive-only” confession blog, whose extreme fangirling, comically drastic rules and hyper-defensive tone📝 did not debunk the increasingly popular notion that “true Plague Rats” were a bunch of authoritarian and hopelessly brainwashed fanatics.
EA truthers and other anti-fans started lashing out at anyone who dared express any positive opinion of EA, solidifying claims that the backlash against EA was just a conspiracy of bitter, hysterical bullies.
All this to say: every passing day brought new reasons for fans to get mad at EA and each other, and everyone in the Asylum was in need of a laugh. It's not easy having a good time.🦠
Leading up to Fight Like a Girl and in the years that followed, user-submission-based meme blogs took off, most notably “Spreading a Plague of Lulz / Troll Like a Girl”. A lot of the early submissions were absurdist humor and toothless, cheezburger-Impact memes (a style that was, oddly, already dated at the time). Those often originated in good fun, and from loyal fans, on the official forum. But there was also true snark, satirizing EA's questionable ethics, outrageous claims, and easily spoofed artistic gimmicks. A new slang of Asylumspeak emerged: Glittertits (slight NSFW), GAGA!!, EA Gusta and all its memeface variants, Get outta mah house!, Are You Suffering?, Fight Like A Goat, [Random celebrity] copied EA (a subgenre in its own right), ...
Most of the “trolling” was directed at unrepentant bootlickers and, to a lesser extent, red-in-the-face haters and creeps. Meme blogs would post joke comments under “serious” or gushing submissions on Wayward Victorian Confessions, and taunt loyalist accounts by tagging them in their posts. When a few people complained on WVC that almost all of the Bloody Crumpets to date had been thin white able-bodied women, and a few fans responded by sharing their dream-casts for a more diverse line-up, the blog was flooded for days with confessions that “X should be a Crumpet” (candidates included RuPaul, Mitt Romney, Nicki Minaj, EA's therapist, and the WVC admins). Farcical shenanigans like that.
Ah, but some people will always cross the line, won't they. EA threads popped up on merciless, bully-friendly snark platforms like Lolcow, Pretty Ugly Little Liar, and Encyclopedia Dramatica. Snarkers with a mean streak and obsessive haters mingled in some of the more aggressive, 4-chan-spirited retaliation against EA – which would be called “brigading” in modern parlance. This included flooding EA's Goodreads page with one-star reviews (see part 4), repeatedly editing her Wikipedia page to include her legal name and birth year, and ensuring that Googling said name would bring up current pictures of her.
All of this compounded agitation fragmented the once-united fandom beyond recognition.🦠 Through substantial disagreements among fans, personal bickerings, layers upon layers of inscrutable in-jokes, and cross-platform telephone games, the Asylum morphed into a booby-trapped Escher room.
Satire blogs were taken in earnest. Earnest fan blogs scanned as satire. Memes would get called out as abuse. Appreciation without attached criticism would get mocked as bootlicking. Obvious jokes made by EA would be taken at face value. One divisive confession could trigger days and days of debate, to the point that WVC eventually banned confessions in response to other confessions. New waves of infighting created a confusing web of rival sub-factions🐀, each accusing the others of being toxic, cliquish, and delusional.
The shared fantasy was broken, the collective vision had crumbled, no onez was speaking the same language anymore. Fans would jump down the throat of other fans who held almost identical views about EA, except for that one thing she said or did that one time. Everyone had differing thoughts on what should or shouldn't acceptable to discuss, question, excuse, make fun of.
War is hell.
SCORCHED EARTH SHENANIGANS: HONEY, I SHRUNK THE ASYLUM
Would you tear my castle down Stone by stone And let the wind run through my windows Till there was nothing left But a battered rose? (“Castle Down”, 2003🎵)Haters vs sycophants is not really the kind of conflict where one side can come out on top (if you're participating, you've already lost). But in the long tug-of-war between “grassroots” and “EA-sponsored” fan spaces, the ultimate winner is obvious – in that the former is gasping in agony, a shriveled husk of its former glory, while the latter... is non-existent. This is due in no small part to EA's tendency, like the Czars of old, to settle conflicts by setting Moscow on fire.🔍)
That's not entirely fair: unlike EA, the czar only did it that once.
By early 2013, as EA was gearing up for her third Fight Like a Girl tour at the end of the year, the official forum was... not as lively as it once had been. Not just because of the stifling rules and disgruntlement towards EA, or because EA herself hadn't really posted anything on there in years; the Internet was also changing, and forums in general were fast becoming passé.
This made it difficult for EA to create a safe space where she could talk to fans, and fans could talk to and about her, in a way she deemed suitable (ie, a space she could gate-keep and regulate enough to keep it completely free from negative criticism). Social media was a minefield; she still posted regularly, but didn't interact very much. So EA and the Headmistress came up with a way to filter out the unbelievers: an official fan club📝, aptly called the “Asylum Army”, with a $100 entry price.
Joining the AA came with a dog tag, a sew-on patch, and a lifetime membership certificate signed by EA and – for some reason – the Headmistress. (Unlike EA's best friend and sound engineer back in the forum's heyday, I don't think fans ever really embraced the FLAG-era manager as part of the Asylum in-group. She came across more as a coordinator / businessperson / adult chaperone, at best.🐀) So, slightly better goodies than you'd get by joining the other AA 🔍 ... but not by much. The main appeal was that members would have access to exclusive content, special merch, giveaways, early bird tickets for future shows, and regular video chats with EA.
The concept itself drew a fair amount of criticism, as you can imagine. Between the name🐀, the price, and the inherent gatekeeping of a pay-to-join fanclub, many balked at the monetizing of a concept that had once (like, three years back) been significantly more DIY, grassroots, and inclusive. 📝🐀
Then again, many also longed for a positive, drama-free space where fans could just be fans. And while the creation of the AA was generally recognized as a quick cashgrab, a lot of people were surprisingly cool with it. EA was trying to finance her dream musical, after all – although a number of fans wished she had gone about raising funds in a less sketchy way.
So around 400 fans shelled out (which, according to the Headmistress📝, “basically cover[ed] the cost of running the fanclub itself – keeping the database up, website, etc.”). Enough for a close-knit, but sizable community. But already, there was a conflict of interest: a high fanclub entry fee essentially demands that you pledge loyalty to the artist over loyalty to your fellow fans, who wish to join but can't afford to. Sharing, caring, and ensuring no one felt left out were some of the more positive values cultivated in the fandom... but leaking exclusive content would surely piss off other paying members🐀, and make EA feel betrayed all over again. (And she had barely just started to mellow out on social media!)
...But then again, this is the internet. After the first month of secret AA drops (lyric sheets, some photoshoot outtakes – nothing too juicy, really), there were, yes, some leaks. EA was predictably miffed, and retaliated by... ghosting the fanclub for weeks at a time in its first few months of existence (great look!). She eventually found the “solution” to her problem, by providing something you couldn't right-click-save (and which had been part of the promised perks to begin with): live interaction.
Over webcam, she was her usual in-person bubbly, charming, funny self. Everyone seemingly had a good time during the fanclub video chat, and this gave people faith and hope.
There were a few more events, giveaways, etc. As promised, ahead of the fall 2013 tour (the last one to date, it would turn out), AA members got priority access to show tickets and VIP bundles. The latter were much pricier than before, and only included soundcheck, a photo-op, and three goodies: a tin of loose-leaf tea, a signed printer-paper setlist, and a small flag that said “F.L.A.G.”.🔍 Some stuff continued to leak – but, as some of the outlaws pointed out (scroll down to the Disqus comments), they were mostly relaying information that was relevant to the entire fanbase, such as updates about ongoing projects (the dragged-out recording of the audiobook, for one).
In early 2014, lifetime memberships were closed, and replaced with monthly, quarterly and yearly subscription tiers. Bizarrely, you ended up paying $3 more per month if you bought a $99 yearly subscription📝 – but it did include the patch, dog tag, and piece of paper!
Sometimes I kind of want to be part of the cool kids and register to the Asylum Army. Then I remember how it came about, what you could get for the same price a couple years ago, how the whole thing was and is handled, and that I won’t support any of this bullshit. (And then I roll around naked in all the money I’m saving.) (🐀)Still, a number of fans rejoiced at the affordable monthly option, and joined – if not for the exclusive content and merch (which were... okay, but not much to write home about), then for the friendly, drama-free exchanges with an artist they actually did love, in spite of all the frustration.
For the still-too-poor or still-undecided, there was always the forum! It wasn't as active as it used to be, but a few die-hards still managed to keep the lights on... until, inevitably, Someone Did Something and Ruined Everything. (Once again: EA's wrath is spectacular, but rarely completely unprovoked.) The incident features one notable figure in the Asylum community. Let's call him the Collector.
OK, so maybe you remember the meme I linked to in Part 4, with Christian Grey and the ginormous EA hoard. Well, that's the Collector's collection. The “Violin” promo that I called the "Holy Grail of the fandom" in the same paragraph? Also his. The handwritten lyrics that went for $940? Guess who won that auction. Over the years, the Collector had probably spent five figures on EA merch and shows, and although that fact was a little unsettling, he was a very active, easy-going, and generally well-liked fixture of the fandom.
One day in 2012, shortly after the Headmistress had replaced EA's old Chicago BFF as main forum admin, the Collector's account got banned or restricted over something dumb. When the ban wasn't lifted as quickly as he hoped, he took it... the way one takes things when one is unhealthily invested: he started spamming Headmistress and the mod team with increasingly rambling and abusive emails (lost to time, probably for the best). When that didn't work quickly enough, he tried a different route.
One of the many auctions that the Collector had won, some years prior, was EA's old iPod Touch📝 – which contained all of her favorite tunes and, buried somewhere in the data cache... a phone number. Which the Collector tried calling. And wouldn't you know it: EA picked up. She congratulated him on his sleuthing skills, listened patiently as he made his case, apologized for any distress caused by the unfair account restriction, and then they got married.
Kidding! She freaked the fuck out, hung up, and banned him for life from the forum and all EA shows and events.
After his ban, the Collector allegedly still tried to attend at least one VIP pre-show (one source in the comments says he was allowed to buy some merch, refunded for his ticket, and escorted out). He joined the Reform forum to bitch about EA and try to rally people to his cause, possibly made revenge posts about her on darker snark forums, and continued to hound the Asylum mod team. So in June 2014, EA came up with a radical and unexpected fix to the Collector problem.
The official Asylum Fan Forum has been shut down permanently. I have personally paid thousands of dollars each year to keep the forum safe and secure for you ... Unfortunately, the forum has not been kept safe and secure for me, a truth which disappoints me greatly, instead becoming a place where people who have physically threatened myself and my staff prey upon forum members, pressuring them to contact me and my staff on their behalf. If the gullible wish to humor my stalkers (who live in their parent’s basement at age 30 something) and thus put me in danger, they may do it on their own dime. They may also fuck off, because stupidity can kill, and I won’t be your victim. To those who enjoyed the forum, you know who to thank for its closure. (“On the closing of the Asylum Forum”)Voilà! This is how a decade-long archive of shared history ends: not with a bang, but with a dirty delete and a sod-off communiqué.
The obliteration of the forum took everyone by surprise...
I was actually on the forum when it was taken down. I was navigating between posts and when I went to click on a different board, an error message came up. I honestly cried a little, I'm not ashamed to say. (WVC admin on Reddit, 2024)...and I do mean everyone:
Chicago BFF / ex-admin, the next morning: Whoa, EA forum shut down? Ex-mod: It turns out that if someone spends enough years actively “waging war” to destroy what they can’t have, eventually they’ll be successful. * eye roll * Not even mods got prior warning. Just all the sudden, poof, gone. BFF: Really? She did not let the moderators know?! This is sounding worse and worse. Uggh. I’m so sorry. Such a loss. (...) Ok, threats are serious, but why not just put it in archive mode so no one can post? (...) Sad. I shall light a candle in the forum's honor. (Facebook posts; scroll down for screenshots)It was a gut punch, especially for people who had poured countless hours into the community, or could have used some prior warning to save years of their own writing from the role-playing threads. One last chance to take a look around the place that had meant so much to so many.
From the wording of the announcement of closing the forum and a number of other things, it sometimes seems like EA doesn't like her fans much. :/ (🐀)Three months after the forum was nuked, Battered Rose (a venerable EA fansite, which had been around since the Enchant era and had one of the most complete EA galleries online) announced that it was shutting down too.📝 The admin, who had also been a long-time forum mod, cited a lack of “time, energy, passion, or money” to keep the website going... and being upset at the sudden disappearance of the forum. It was, truly, the end of an era for the Asylum.
...Well, no point in living in the past. For those who could afford it, and still wanted to talk to/about EA after that (not everyone did 🐀), there was always the Asylum Army fanclub!
Over the summer of 2014, EA held regular live chats and Q&A's, and... many attendees really enjoyed them, and thought the AA was well worth the money after all. She also quietly parted ways with the much poo-pooed Headmistress around that time.
Just spent over 4 hours giggling, drinking tea and playing guessing games in chat with EA and other Asylum Army members ... No griping, no downers, just lots of fun. I think I like the way the ‘new fandom’ is going and now I’m really glad I finally decided to join the Army. (September 4, 2014🐀; Battered Rose had closed the day before)The forum was lost forever, but perhaps that was a chance for a fresh start. Could this fanclub thing really be the Asylum Renaissance that fans had been longing for?
...I have come today to a very difficult but necessary decision, and that is to discontinue the Emilie Autumn Official Fanclub. The site itself, and the community chatroom, will remain open to you indefinitely, but I will no longer be making updates to the site. (Newsletter, September 8, 2014📝)...Never mind, then.
Turns out the fanclub had been the Headmistress' idea all along. EA had been reluctant from the start, and although she really enjoyed the live chats with a safe community of people “who are there for the right reasons”, she couldn't overcome her fundamental discomfort with the concept. Lifetime and regular members would receive a bunch of digital downloads and a -35% coupon on the Asylum Emporium for their troubles. EA said she would definitely pop back once in a while for live chats, for free, just for fun, but to my knowledge, she never did.
And so the most devoted fans were left standing in the rain...
She is happy, she made it. She is fulfilling her dreams, found love and happiness after all the pain. I understand that she now doesn’t need “us” anymore ... That doesn’t change the fact she broke my heart with taking the Asylum Army and the forum from me. Yet, I am happy for her. (🐀)...while naysayers pointed and laughed, Nelson-style.🦠
I don’t feel sorry at all for the people that paid for the Asylum Army fan club. Most of them knew that EA is an atrocious business woman and has broken many promises before. In fact, I laugh at them. They seriously thought that EA would actually stay consistent with this? (🐀)
EVERYTHING MUST GO: THE ASYLUM WHOLESALE
EA fans were left without an “official” home for about three years. This gave them plenty of time to be annoyed at EA for: not releasing the audiobook on time, not materializing any new project for a while... and the new sin of peddling random, ridiculously marked-up AliBaba jewelry as “merch” on her official store. Think faux-antique cameo pendants and $30 Big Ben rings (...because the Asylum story is set in London, get it?).The whole accessories section looks like a tacky overpriced English souvenir shop. (🐀)The fanbase lost a lost of steam in those in-between years, because there wasn't much to stick around for. As evidenced by the positive reception of the AA live chats, even in the midst of unresolved drama, out-loud interactions in a friendly environment have always been EA's saving grace. Considering the amount of online hate, there are shockingly few accounts of bad IRL encounters with EA: most people say that in live conversation, she comes across as a fun, warm, and genuinely sweet person. Some report that their negative opinion shifted after meeting her.
But there were no chats or live shows anymore. There was only social media, where she ignored questions and vague-posted about overdue projects – and the newsletter📝, which was all saccharine love-bombing to promote bland dropshipped trinkets. For fans who remembered the handcrafted merch (and two-way communication) of the early years, it was a bitter pill to swallow.
CONTINUED IN COMMENTS
2024.05.19 11:59 GuiltlessMaple Best Carhartt Insulated Bibs
 | submitted by GuiltlessMaple to u/GuiltlessMaple [link] [comments] https://preview.redd.it/uolttuv7wc1d1.jpg?width=720&format=pjpg&auto=webp&s=b22d0803e2421effbfe1f659f590b2a051e7b50a Brace yourself for a roundup of the best Carhartt Insulated Bibs. We've scoured the market to bring you a selection of top-rated options, carefully selected for their superior insulation and durability. From construction sites to outdoor adventures, Carhartt bibs have proven their worth as a reliable choice for those seeking comfort and protection. Dive in and discover the perfect bib for your next adventure. The Top 6 Best Carhartt Insulated Bibs
Reviews🔗Carhartt Insulated Bib Coveralls - Blackhttps://preview.redd.it/3lqxox98wc1d1.jpg?width=720&format=pjpg&auto=webp&s=d58c986f3e63d0b85b879ea08cc613b33f2713d7 These Carhartt Men's Washed Duck Insulated Coveralls have been my go-to choice for work and outdoor activities. The cotton material has a comfortable and almost broken-in feel right out of the box, making them perfect for long hours on the job. Plus, the quilted nylon lining with midweight polyester insulation keeps me warm even in the coldest temperatures. One thing I noticed, though, was the adjustable closure. It's great that it's adjustable, but I found it a bit tricky to find the right fit. And while the full-length two-way zipper with storm flap is helpful for easy on and off, the brushed tricot trim on the interior collar doesn't seem to stay tucked in as I'd like. Overall, I'd say these coveralls are a solid choice for a rugged, insulated workwear with some minor adjustments needed. 🔗Carhartt Insulated Bibs: Warm and Durable Work Coverallshttps://preview.redd.it/jj6di5r8wc1d1.jpg?width=720&format=pjpg&auto=webp&s=5a6b1a530525c9afb9168552bdfb6a9bdce671d2 The Carhartt insulated coveralls are the perfect addition to my work wardrobe. The 12-ounce, 100% ringspun washed cotton duck fabric feels both durable and comfortable, allowing me to focus on the task at hand without any distractions from my clothing. One of the features that stood out to me was the quilted nylon lining, which provides a midweight polyester insulation that helps me stay warm during the colder months without overheating. While the ankle-to-waist zippers are convenient for easy entry, I found it a bit cumbersome to reach the pockets of my work pants underneath the coveralls. Additionally, the 360-degree kick panels make it easy to keep out the cold, but I wish they had a two-way function for a more comfortable fit. Overall, I believe the Carhartt insulated coveralls have a lot of potential, and with a few improvements, they could become even more versatile and comfortable for those of us who work long hours outdoors. 🔗Carhartt Firm Duck Insulated Bibs: Rugged and Breathable Workwearhttps://preview.redd.it/vobepd69wc1d1.jpg?width=720&format=pjpg&auto=webp&s=ebe26aa44ac667d9771db7cf09577d9ad767f947 These Carhartt Loose Fit Firm Duck Insulated Bibs are a dependable companion for those who work hard, play hard, or love to stay warm in various weather conditions. The quilted nylon lining around the waist area ensures easy on and off, while the polyester insulation provides mid-range warmth. The bib pockets are useful and practical, with plenty of room for your belongings. Despite the occasional fussiness with the pockets, reviewers have praised this bib's durability, ease of movement, and smart design aspects. It's been a consistent, hardworking favorite in their wardrobe, which speaks volumes about its value and the confidence one can have in Carhartt's craftsmanship. 🔗Carhartt's Flame-Resistant Quilt-Lined Duck Bib Overall - High-Quality, Heavy Fabric Workwearhttps://preview.redd.it/3xpz36k9wc1d1.jpg?width=720&format=pjpg&auto=webp&s=0d0a2ea78f45059d665896afcdce05589fb8f013 During my journey of using the Carhartt flame-resistant duck bib overall, I found myself in situations where I needed to put it through some tests. After wearing it for a few weeks, I noticed that it met the expectations for durability and warmth, as it's designed for cold weather work. The bib overall had a high back with elastic suspenders and center-release buckles, which improved its longevity by providing sturdiness. However, I also noticed that it lacked a few features that would have made it more comfortable, such as a soft fabric lining. Through my experience, I have discovered that this bib overall is great for those who need flame resistance and warmth in their workwear. While it might not be the most comfortable option, it does offer a level of protection and durability that many other options cannot match. Additionally, I have found that it's suitable for people who are taller, as the leg zippers go ankle to thigh, providing enough room for easy on and off. Nonetheless, it is essential to follow safety precautions and take proper care of the bib overall so that it serves its purpose effectively. 🔗Warm and Durable Carhartt Duck Bib Overall with Insulation and Tool Pocketshttps://preview.redd.it/yj8rxtv9wc1d1.jpg?width=720&format=pjpg&auto=webp&s=380e35b3aea36f7512f13b41e07cd2f444a6434d I recently had the chance to try out these Carhartt Brown Duck Bib Overalls with a quilt-lined design. First off, let me say that I was impressed with its durability right out of the box - it felt heavily built and sturdy, perfect for tackling any task on hand. The quilted lining made it an ideal choice for colder months, keeping me warm and comfortable even when the temperatures dipped. One of the key features that stood out for me was the zip-to-knee leg zippers. It made getting in and out of them a breeze, especially when I needed to switch between tasks or remove them quickly during a break. Plus, the fact that it accommodates kneepads was a huge plus, offering great protection for my knees and back. However, one downside I noticed was the zipper on the back left pocket. It seemed to stick occasionally and wouldn't close properly, resulting in a bit of hassle when I needed to access the tools stored inside. The pocket design also wasn't as deep as I would have preferred, which made it more challenging to hold larger items. Despite that, my overall experience with these quality Carhartt bibs was quite positive. The water-repellency ensured that I stayed dry even when working in damp environments, and the adjustable front-elastic suspender ensured a comfortable, customized fit. With a robust construction and multiple pockets that proved to be quite useful during my work, these bibs were a great addition to my collection. 🔗Carhartt Insulated Bib Overalls: Durable and Comfortable Winter Workwearhttps://preview.redd.it/kdvzw7fawc1d1.jpg?width=720&format=pjpg&auto=webp&s=3f48e3079769c5c04891540d2c690a929950f987 I recently had the chance to try out the Carhartt R02 Bib Overalls and I must say, they exceeded my expectations. Constructed with a mid-weight nylon quilted to polyester lining, these bib overalls are perfect for cold weather. The high back with elastic suspenders and leg zippers with protective wind flaps and snap closure make them both comfortable and functional. One of my favorite features is the ample storage provided by the hammer loop and ruler pocket on the left leg, and the tool pocket in the right leg. The addition of metal rivets at stress points and double knees with clean out bottoms also adds value to the product. While the reversed leg pocket configuration may take some getting used to, overall, the Carhartt R02 Bib Overalls are a great investment for those who want warmth and durability in their workwear. Buyer's GuideCarhartt Insulated Bibs are designed to provide warmth and protection for outdoor workers, hunters, and enthusiasts. These bibs are made from durable materials and come with features that enhance their functionality and comfort. This buyer's guide will help you understand the key aspects of Carhartt Insulated Bibs and make an informed purchase. https://preview.redd.it/26xc5foawc1d1.jpg?width=720&format=pjpg&auto=webp&s=4c0f2d65ceddf6a47d31dcd94440a1880a3787e8 Materials and InsulationThe primary concern when purchasing insulated bibs is the quality of materials and insulation. Carhartt Bibs are generally made from heavy-duty cotton or a combination of cotton and polyester. This combination provides superior warmth while maintaining a high level of breathability. The insulation is commonly in the form of fleece or quilting, which traps air to keep you warm in cold temperatures.Style and FitCarhartt Insulated Bibs come in different styles, including full bib, waist-length, and jacket-style bibs. Full bibs provide maximum coverage and warmth, while waist-length and jacket-style bibs offer more flexibility and ease of movement. The fit of the bibs can range from slim-fitting to loose, so it is essential to choose a size that provides a comfortable, yet snug fit. Additionally, consider the adjustable shoulder straps and waistband, which allow for a custom fit to ensure maximum comfort and warmth. https://preview.redd.it/srqd3ncbwc1d1.jpg?width=720&format=pjpg&auto=webp&s=a2f1f0398ad5c9e23accf5bceca9df3df6d260ab Durability and MaintenanceDurability is a critical factor when investing in Carhartt Insulated Bibs, as they are designed for heavy-duty use. Look for reinforced stitching, ripstop fabric, and tough zippers to ensure long-lasting performance. The bibs can be machine-washed and dried to maintain their durability and prevent shrinkage. When washing, follow the manufacturer's instructions to avoid damaging the insulation and materials.Additional FeaturesSome Carhartt Insulated Bibs come with additional features that enhance their functionality and comfort. For example, some bibs may have pockets or hidden stash pockets for storing tools or personal items. Reflective trim or piping can be useful for visibility during low-light conditions. Also, consider the bib's ability to be worn in different configurations, such as zipping off the jacket or converting a full bib to a waist-length bib for added versatility.When purchasing Carhartt Insulated Bibs, consider the materials and insulation, style and fit, durability, maintenance, and additional features. By taking these factors into account, you can make an informed decision that best suits your needs and preferences. Always consult the product specifications and customer reviews before making a purchase. https://preview.redd.it/1q9di0pbwc1d1.jpg?width=720&format=pjpg&auto=webp&s=dfa2b88ed316c4b2cb0a10aa065c469df60135c4 FAQWhat are Carhartt Insulated Bibs?Carhartt Insulated Bibs are a type of workwear designed for professionals and outdoor enthusiasts to provide warmth and protection in cold environments. They feature a unique combination of durability, insulation, and ease of movement, making them suitable for a wide range of activities, including construction work, logging, hunting, and farming. https://preview.redd.it/4400hu5cwc1d1.jpg?width=720&format=pjpg&auto=webp&s=6eaba4cf459e33a9576297335b0d8776cd4039a5 What are the key features of Carhartt Insulated Bibs?
What makes Carhartt Insulated Bibs an excellent choice for outdoor activities?Carhartt Insulated Bibs are well-suited for outdoor activities due to their ability to protect against harsh weather conditions, such as cold temperatures, rain, and snow. Additionally, their brushed-resistant finish ensures durability and withstands regular wear and tear in challenging environments. The articulated design allows for comfortable movement during physical activities, while the Thinsulate insulation provides excellent warmth to keep the user comfortable.Are Carhartt Insulated Bibs machine washable?Yes, Carhartt Insulated Bibs can be machine washed on a gentle cycle. However, it is essential to follow the recommended care instructions to maintain their durability and insulation. It is also advised to avoid using bleach or fabric softeners, as these may compromise the performance and longevity of the bib.How long can I expect Carhartt Insulated Bibs to last?The lifespan of Carhartt Insulated Bibs will depend on the specific conditions they are used in and how well they are maintained. With proper care, these bibs can last for several years, providing excellent value for their cost. The heavy-duty construction and brushed-resistant finish contribute to their long-lasting performance.Are Carhartt Insulated Bibs available in different sizes?Yes, Carhartt Insulated Bibs are offered in various sizes, ensuring a proper fit for users of different heights and body types. It is essential to consult the product sizing chart before making a purchase to help you find the best fit for your requirements.As an Amazon™ Associate, we earn from qualifying purchases. |
2024.05.19 09:55 tramp123 Dwarf hold - Bhraigh Torr
 | I’ve just finished basing my first x2 units for my dwarf hold army - Bhraigh Torr. This is going to be an all metal dwarf Army that he at I’m hoping to use in 6th edition Warhammer. So far my Hammerers, Miners & a bolt thrower are now complete! I have to base my crossbow men and I’m working on finishing paining my clansman unit, I like this part of the process where everything is coming together 🙂 submitted by tramp123 to WarhammerFantasy [link] [comments] |
2024.05.19 08:06 Mantis_Shrimp47 The monster in the sand dunes turned my brother into a bird
"You gotta know that there's an art to it, Ezra," Hitch said, cutting another piece of duct tape.
The sleeves of his weather-beaten coat were shoved all the way up his arms, to stop the fabric from falling over his knuckles while he was working, and goosebumps lined his skin. He was strapping a rubber chicken to the back of his truck, over the lens of the shattered backup camera, with the legs pointing down so that they hung a couple inches above the ground. There were dents in the hood from the crash last week, and scratches along the door from scraping into a curb. The chicken, hopefully, would keep him from breaking anything else.
"You can't go cheap," Hitch said. "The cheap rubber chickens only make noise when pressure lets go. That's no good. As soon as I back up into something, I want this chicken to be screaming like it’s in the depths of hell."
“Sure thing,” I said in a monotone, leaning against the side of the truck.
There were scrambled electronic parts piled in the back of the truck, the innards of a radio, a broken computer, tangled wires, a couple loose pairs of earbuds. He found the parts in alleyways or bummed them off his friends for a couple bucks or stole them from the vacation homes that were left empty for most of the year. Then he sold them for a profit at the scrapyard. Hitch had bounced between minimum-wage jobs for a while after high school, spending a couple months as a bagger at the grocery store or as a seasonal worker at the farm two hours down the highway. He'd never stuck with it. At the very least, the scrapyard got him enough money to eat and occasionally spend a night in a motel when he got tired of sleeping in his car.
Hitch pressed the last piece of tape in place and grinned up at me. "I've got something for you, duck."
The nickname came from when I’d broken my leg as a child and waddled around in a cast until it was healed. I hated it with a burning passion, and I glared at Hitch with the ease of twenty-one years of practice. He had a duck tattoo at the base of his thumb that he’d gotten in a back-alley shop as a teenager. He said that he’d gotten it to remind him of me, and the fact that I hated the nickname was just a bonus. It was shaky-lined, with an uneven face, but he loved it anyway.
The handle stuck when Hitch tried to open the door, a consequence of the rust collecting in the crevices of the car and running down the sides like blood from a cut. The car groaned when the door finally popped open, a metal against metal screech that had me flinching away. Hitch dug through the cluttered fast food containers in the passenger-side footwell, eventually coming up with a crinkly paper bag. He waved away the flies buzzing around the opening of the bag and held it out to me.
The last time Hitch had brought me food, I’d gotten food poisoning because he’d left it out in the midday sun for two days. The donut was squished slightly, and the icing was stuck to the bag. I still ate it, grimacing at the harsh citrus flavor. Taking Hitch’s food was an instinct engraved from the days when Dad had given us a can of kidney beans for dinner and Hitch had drank the juice, leaving the beans for me.
I rarely went hungry anymore, three mostly square meals a day and granola in my pockets just in case, but habits didn’t die easy.
These days, Hitch only brought me food when he wanted my help, like when he saw a place he wanted to hit but was worried about doing it alone.
I got in the car, like I always did.
We drove past the cluster of seafood-themed restaurants with chipped paint decks, the beachfront park where there were always shifty-eyed men sitting under the slide, the single room library where all the books had been water damaged in the flood last year. The change was quick as we drove across Main Street, heading closer to the beach. The roads were freshly paved, the concrete a smooth black except where the sun had already started to pick away at it. The three-story homes lining the sides of the street were crouched on elegant stilts, with space underneath for a car or three. Most of the garages were empty, with the lights off and curtains drawn in the house. Come summer, the streets would be swarming with tourists and vacationers, but until then, most of the buildings nearest to the beach were unoccupied.
Hitch stopped as the sun started to go down at a house that was leaning precariously out towards the beach, tilted ever so slightly, the edge of its foundation buried in the shifting sand of the beach. It certainly looked deserted, with an overgrown yard and blue paint peeling off the door in sheets.
Hitch took his hammer out of the backseat, hoisting it over his shoulder. It was two feet of solid metal with rags wrapped around the head to muffle the sound of the hits. Hitch squared up, bending his knees and holding the hammer like a baseball bat. Before he could swing, though, the door creaked open on its own, the hinges squeaking. The house beyond was dark enough that I could only make out general shapes, glimpsing the curve of a sofa to the left, what was maybe the shimmer of a chandelier on the other side.
Hitch lowered his hammer, looking vaguely disappointed that he didn’t get to use it. “That’s…weird as hell.”
“Maybe the deadbolt broke, maybe they forgot to lock it, it doesn’t matter,” I hissed, checking our surroundings for other people again. “Just hurry up and get inside before someone calls the cops.”
Hitch flicked the lightswitch on the wall, and the lights flickered on. They were dim, buzzing audibly and blinking off occasionally. The walls were plastered with contrasting swatches of wallpaper and splattered with random colors. There was neon orange behind the dining table, a galaxy swirl in the kitchen, and on the ceiling there was a repeating floral pattern covered in nametag stickers. Each of the stickers was filled out with The Erlking. Chandeliers hung in every room, three or four for each, and rubber ducks sat on every table. A miniature carousel sat in the corner along with a towering model rocket.
Sand was heaped on every surface, at least a couple inches everywhere. It was piled in the corners and stuck to the walls, and it covered the floor in a thick blanket. Our hesitant steps into the house left footprints clearly outlined in the sand.
Hitch took a cursory look around and headed immediately for the TV mounted on the wall. “Look out the windows and tell me if anyone is coming.”
I shook the sand out of the blinds and pulled them open, then had to brush sand off of the window before I could see anything.
Hitch was quick, practiced at finding and appropriating the things that were worth taking. He came back to me with an armful of electronics and chandeliers, dumping it at my feet before turning to head deeper into the house again.
There was a thump, somewhere upstairs, and then footsteps, slow and deliberate. Hitch froze at the threshold of the room, then ran for the door with me just ahead of him, sand flying out from under our feet.
My hand was almost brushing the doorknob, close enough that I could see the light from the streetlamp outside streaming in through the cracks in the door. My fingers touched the wood and it gave under my touch, becoming malleable and warm. I yelped, stumbling backwards, and the door started to melt. The paint ran down in thick drops, pooling at the bottom of the door, and the wood warped like metal being welded. The soft edges of the door ran into the walls until there was no sign of an exit ever being there.
“Well, well, well,” said a cultured voice with just an edge of snooty elitism. “What do we have here?”
The man was well over eight feet tall, with long black hair covering his eyes. He was wearing a yellow raincoat with holes cut out of the hood to accommodate the deer antlers jutting upwards from his head. There was sand settled on his shoulders and hovering around his head like a halo.
“Who the fuck are you?” Hitch said, inching towards a window.
He smiled, just a little bit, and his teeth shone in the dim light. “I am the Erlking.”
Hitch nodded, and seemed about to respond. I grabbed him by the hand and pulled him towards the window. I could feel sand in the wind roaring against my back as the Erlking growled in anger, the grains scraping harshly against my cheeks.
We were almost to the window when Hitch was ripped away from me, and I came to a startled halt. The sand had formed long grasping arms that pressed Hitch against the floral wallpaper. His wrists were held tight, and as I watched, a sandy hand wrapped around his mouth and forced its way between his teeth. He gagged, and sand trickled out of the corners of his mouth.
The Erlking strolled towards him, not seeming to be in any sort of rush. “You know, I’m not very fond of your yapping.”
He made an idle gesture and the sand wrapped around my ankles, tethering me in place.
“I yap all the time,” Hitch said. “Three-time olympic yapper, that’s me. Best to just let me go now and save yourself some trouble.”
The Erlking tapped a manicured nail against Hitch’s mouth, hard enough to hurt, judging by the way he flinched away. “But why would I ever let you go when I’ve gone to this much trouble to catch you and your sister? It’s so hard, these days, to find people that no one will miss.”
Hitch struggled against the sand, trying to escape and failing. “What do you want with us, then? You just said it, we’re nobody.”
“I’m fae, dear one,” the Erlking said. “I get my power from my followers. And I think that you two will make lovely additions to my flock.”
He flicked Hitch's nose and Hitch gasped. Feathers started to form on his arms, popping out from under his skin in a spray of blood.
Hitch pushed off the wall, using his bound hands as a fulcrum, and his knees crashed into the Erlking’s stomach. The Erlking fell backwards, wheezing, and the sand around my ankles loosened.
Hitch made desperate eye contact with me as feathers shot up his neck and jerked his head towards the window. The message was obvious. Run.
The last thing I saw before crashing out the window and into freedom was Hitch’s body twisting, his arms wrenching into wings and feathers covering every inch of his skin. By the time I landed on the concrete outside, he was a small black bird, held tightly in the Erlking’s hands. The whole building was sinking into the ground, burnished-gold sand piling up over top and streaming from the windows.
Thirty years later, I saw Sam’s Supernatural Consultation and Neutralization written in neat, looping handwriting on a piece of paper taped to the door. The tape was peeling at the corners and the paper was yellowed with age, but there was obviously care put into the sign, in its perfectly centered text and looping floral designs drawn over the edges in gold marker.
I knocked, hesitantly, drawing my woolen coat closer around my shoulders. I’d bought it as a fiftieth birthday gift for myself, and I took comfort in the heavy weight of it over my shoulders.
“Coming!” someone called from within the depths of the office.
There were a couple crashes, and the sound of paper shuffling. Eventually, the door was opened by a young woman with ketchup stains on her shirt and pencils stuck through her hair.
“Hi, I’m Sam, I specialize in supernatural consultation and hunting, how may I help you today?” Sam said, customer-service pep in her voice. She stood in the doorway, solidly blocking entry into the office.
“My name is Ezra, I’m for a consultation. I emailed you but you didn’t respond?” I shifted in place, suddenly feeling awkward.
“Oh! Yeah, I lost the password for the email ages ago. Sorry for the bad welcome, I get lots of people thinking I’m crazy or pulling a prank and harassing me.”
She ushered me into the office, clearing papers off one of the chairs to make room for me to sit down. There was a collection of swords along one wall, all of them polished to perfection, several with deep knicks in the metal which indicated that they’d been used heavily.
“So what can I help you with?” Sam asked again, more sincere this time.
“Thirty years ago, my brother was turned into a bird,” I started. I’d told this story so many times that it barely felt ridiculous to say anymore. I was used to the disbelieving looks, the careful pity. But Sam just nodded along, face open and welcoming.
“I’ve almost given up on finding him, at this point,” I said. “But I saw your ad in the newspaper, and…here I am, I suppose.”
“Here you are,” Sam echoed, smiling. She pulled one of the pencils out of her hair and took a bit of paperwork off of one of her stacks, turning it over so that the blank side sat neatly in front of her. “Tell me everything.”
I told Sam everything, and she wrote it all down, pencil scratching along the paper.
The last part of the story was always the hardest to tell. “I left him there. I ran and I didn’t look back.”
I had been to dozens of detectives and investigators over the years, once the police had dropped Hitch’s case. I’d been to professional offices with smartly-dressed secretaries and met scraggly men in coffee shops. All of them had given me the same look, pity and annoyance all mixed up into a humor-the-crazy-lady soup. Sam, though, just seemed thoughtful.
Sam leaned forward and put a hand over mine, carefully, like she thought that I would pull away. “Sometimes you have to leave people behind.”
I tightened her hold on Sam’s hand and drew it towards me, like I could make Sam listen if only I squeezed tight enough. “But that’s why I’m here. I don’t want to leave him behind.”
“Okay then. I’ll do my best to help you.” Sam agreed, finally. Then she paused, and said softly, “You know…I think I met your brother once. He might have saved my life. He’s certainly why I started in this business.”
“Really? What happened?” I asked.
This is the story that Sam told me, related to the best of my abilities:
It was a new moon, so the only illumination came from the stars gazing idly down and distant porch lights shining across the scraggly brush of the dunes. Sam’s neighbors were decent people who cared about baby turtles, so the lights were a low, unobtrusive red, and the ocean sloshed like blood. Sam walked on the beach almost every night, drawing back the gauzy pink curtains and clambering out her bedroom window. She didn’t often bother to be quiet; her mama worked the late shift and came home exhausted. As long as Sam got home before the sun, her mama would never find out that she paced the shoreline and dreamed of inhaling sand until her lungs became their own beach.
The sky was lightening. The sun would come up soon, and that meant Sam’s time on the beach was over. She needed to get back to her real life, go to her fifth grade class and stop that nonsense, as her mother would say. Her mother loved to say things like that, pushing Sam into her proper place by implication alone.
“She’s a good kid, of course, but she’s a bit…” Her mother would trail off there, usually getting a commiserating expression from whoever she was talking to. Sam always wondered how that sentence would have finished. She’s a bit strange, maybe. She’s a bit intense. She’s a bit abrasive. She’s quiet enough but when Jason tried to steal her pencil in math class, she stabbed him in the hand so hard that the lead tattooed him.
Her mother was better, for the most part. The days of her stocking up the fridge, and leaving a post-it note on the counter, and leaving for days at a time were gone. But Sam still stepped around the place on the kitchen tile where her mother had collapsed and caved her head in, even though the bloodstains had been replaced with new tile.
“Your auntie got an abortion, you know,” her mother had said from her place on the couch, slurring her words. “Pill in the mail and then bam, no more baby.”
She had clapped her hands together to illustrate her point. Her mother jerked forward and grabbed Sam by the wrist, then, staring up at her until Sam met her eyes.
“I love you, you know? But sometimes I wonder…” She settled back onto the couch. “Yeah. I wonder.”
She’d gotten up, then, back to the kitchen. She’d been stumbling, a shambling zombie of a woman. The ground in the entryway of the kitchen was raised, ever so slightly, and her mother went down hard. Her head cracked against the tile, chin first, and she didn’t move.
Sam had been the one to call the ambulance. She had stared at the scattering of loose teeth on the ground while she waited, and considered what her life would be like with a dead mom. Not so bad, she thought, and immediately felt guilty for it.
Her mom was better, now, for the most part. But Sam still stepped around the place on the kitchen floor where she had collapsed. There was still a matchbox hidden under her bed with the gleaming shine of her mother’s lost teeth, two canines and a molar. It was nice, having a piece of her mom to keep. Even if she left again, Sam would still have part of her.
Sam sighed, and turned away from the ocean. As she faced towards the low dunes further up the beach, she saw a sandcastle sitting nestled among them. It was such a strange sight that her eyes skipped over it at first, almost automatically, disregarding it because it was so out of place.
Sam found sandcastles out on the beach sometimes, usually half-collapsed and on the verge of being washed away by the waves, but she had never seen anything like the sandcastle in front of her. It was life-sized, something that wouldn’t have looked out of place in the Scottish highlands, with spires shooting up above her head and carefully etched out bricks lining each side. The front wall was dominated by an arched set of double doors, twice her height, with a portcullis nestled at the top, ready to be dropped. All of it was lovingly detailed, down to the rust on the tips of the towers and the wood grain of the door. It was made out of wet, densely-packed sand, held together impossibly. It had not been there two hours ago, when she had come to the beach.
There was a bird sitting on the overhang of the door, small and black.
As soon as she took a step towards the sandcastle, the bird shook out its feathers and swooped down towards Sam, landing at her feet with a little stumble.
“Hey, kid, get out of here,” said the bird.
Sam closed her eyes, very deliberately. When she opened them, the bird was still there. Sam considered herself a very reasonable person, so she immediately drew the most logical conclusion. The bird was, she was almost certain, a demon.
“Trust me, you don’t want to run into Mr. Salty, the queen bitch himself,” the bird said.
“Mr. Salty?” Sam inquired, polite as she knew how to be. She edged to the side, trying to get a good angle to kick the bird like a soccer ball.
The bird did something similar to a wince, all its feathers fluffing up then settling back down. “Ah, don’t call him that. He’d turn you into a toad.”
The bird gestured with its head, towards the looming sand structure. “That’s his castle. He’s in there, probably scuttling along the ceiling or some shit because that’s the sort of weirdo he is.”
Sam nodded, encouraging. She pulled back her foot and lined up her shot, the way she’d seen athletes do on TV. She aimed right for its sharp beak and let loose. The bird saw it coming, its beady eyes widening, and it cawed in distress. It flapped away, avoiding her kick only to fall backward into the sand in a scramble of wings.
“What’s your fucking problem?” it squawked. “I was trying to help you!”
“I don’t need the help of a demon,” Sam yelled, trying to remember the exorcism that her mama had taught her once, because her mama believed in being prepared for anything.
“I’m not a demon,” the bird said indignantly.
It was at about that moment that Sam gave up and just decided to roll with it.
“What are you, then?” Sam asked.
The bird shuffled its clawed feet, looking about as awkward as it could, given that it didn’t really have recognizable facial expressions. “Technically I’m a familiar of the Erlking, prince of the fae, but I prefer to be called Hitch.”
“You can’t blame me for assuming, though,” Sam said. “Ravens do tend to be associated with murder.”
“Hey, excuse you,” Hitch said. “I’m a rook, not a raven. Ravens are way bigger.”
“Sure,” Sam said, not really paying attention. Her eyes had caught on the details of the sandcastle, and she was transfixed by the slow spirals of the sand, the strange beauty of it. She found herself stepping towards the great doors, lifting a hand to knock, and as she did, the sand warped in front of her eyes, heaving itself towards her with bulging slowness. The door creaked open before her, revealing a vast, empty room. Just before she stepped inside, she felt a piercing pain in her foot, and she yelped, leaping backwards.
Hitch pecked her again, really digging his beak in. “Don’t be an idiot.”
Sam glared at him, rubbing her foot. About to retort, she finally really took in the room inside the sandcastle, and her words died in her throat.
There was a body just past the threshold of the door, face down and limbs hanging limp at its sides. Long hair splayed out in a halo around its head.
“Don’t,” Hitch warned, suddenly serious. “Just leave, kid, I mean it. I’ve seen too many people go down this road and you don’t want to be one of them.”
Sam ignored him. She made her way across the beach, slipping with every step. The sand felt deeper, piling up around her feet in silent drifts. She picked up the nearest stick and poked the body with it through the door, ready to leap back if anything went wrong, staying firmly outside of the sandcastle.
This close, Sam could tell that it used to be a woman. Her head wasn’t attached to her body. It hadn’t been a clean amputation, either. Her upper body was bruised, with chunks taken out of it, and the bones in her neck hung mangled, not connected to anything.
“Well, I warned you,” Hitch said, defeated. “I did warn you.”
Sam nudged the head with the end of the stick, nudging it over so that she could see the face. Her mother stared back at her, torn to pieces, breath still wheezing from her lungs. She wasn’t blinking, just gazing forward with glazed eyes. Sweat dripped down from her hairline.
Sam screamed and dropped the stick, tripping over herself in her haste to get away.
Her mother’s eyes were wide and pleading, and she was mouthing desperate words at Sam. Her vocal cords were broken to bits, and the only sound that came out was a strained groan.
The head rolled, inching closer to Sam like a grotesque caterpillar.
Her mother gasped for air, torn lips fluttering. Finally, comprehensible words came out. “Help. Help me, daughter.”
“That’s not your mother,” Hitch said, quiet.
Sam knew that. Her mother was sleeping back at home, and anyways her mom had never asked for her help. She had an aversion to accepting charity, as she put it.
“Okay,” Sam said, shaking all over. “Okay.”
She backed away from the sandcastle, not looking away.
“Failure,” her mother hissed as she stepped away. “I never wanted a daughter like you.”
The sun came up over the horizon. The sandcastle, Hitch, and her mom all disintegrated into sand as the light hit them.
The beach, the next night, was almost exactly how I remembered it. The beams of our flashlights sent light bouncing across the dunes, illuminating the waves, and I imagined faces in the foam of the waves.
“I’ve been back here a hundred times. There’s nothing left,” I said.
Sam took the car key out of her purse and pointed it at the sand, adjusting the sword slung over her shoulder in order to do it. The key had belonged to Hitch; Sam had requested an item of his, and it was the only thing I had left. She rested the key on the sand and drew a circle around it, inscribing symbols around the borders.
“What are you doing?” I asked.
Sam shrugged. “Not much, really. I’m…I guess you could say that I’m knocking.”
The key laid inert on the sand for long enough that I was just about to give up and go home, admit to myself that Hitch was dead and that I was a fool to believe that Sam could actually help me. Then a building started to take shape, flickering in and out like it was struggling to get away. With a pop of displaced air, the sandcastle settled into existence.
Sam banged on the entryway. Nothing happened. She did it again, harder, and scowled when the door still didn’t open.
“We demand entrance, under your honor,” Sam yelled. There was a hard rush of wind, and I gripped Sam’s arm to keep my balance, but the doors cracked open reluctantly.
The inside of the sandcastle consisted of one enormous hall, the roof arching up out of sight. Rafters crisscrossed from wall to wall, and a cobbled path led further into the building, but other than that, it was completely empty, except for the birds. There were thousands of them, perched on the rafters or hopping along the ground. They parted in front of Sam and I, and reformed behind us, leaving us in a small pocket of open space. They were all black-feathered, with sharp beaks and beady eyes.
The Erlking sat on a throne at the end of the hall, lounging across it with his feet up on the armrest. He watched them as they came forward, the soft caw of the birds the only sound.
“I am here to bargain for the life of my brother,” I said, with as much dignity as I could muster, before the Erlking could say anything.
The Erlking ignored her, tilting his head to look at Sam. “I remember you. I almost got you, once.”
Sam glared at him but didn’t respond.
“You want your brother,” The Erlking said to me, and he almost sounded amused. “Then go get him.”
As if by some sort of silent signal, every bird in the room took flight at once, and their cawing made me think of screams. I covered my head against the flapping of their wings, and my vision was quickly obscured by the chaotic movement of them. I found myself on my knees, just trying to escape them.
A hand met my shoulder. Sam urged me to my feet, and together we ran for the edge of the room, where the swarm was the thinnest. We pressed ourselves into the corner and the swarm spiraled tighter and tighter at the center of the room. It went on until there seemed to be no differentiation between the birds, all of them fused together into one creature.
When the chaos died down, the birds had become one mass, with wings and eyes and talons sticking out of its flesh, thrashing and chirping. Human body parts stuck out of it, bulging out from the feathers. It was hands, mostly, with a couple knees or staring eyes. The bird amalgamation had no recognizable facial features, but there was one long beak extending from the front of its head. Most of the body parts were concentrated around the beak, and they peeked out from where the beak connected with muscle, or grew from the tongue, nestled between the two crushing halves of the beak.
It turned its beak down and crawled forward, using the hands to balance. The fingers scrambled over the ground. I was afraid of centipedes as a child, and I felt that same crawling dread when it started moving.
“Holy shit,” Sam whispered, which was rather disappointing, because I had been hoping that at least one of us knew what to do.
The creature turned, a lurching movement that crushed some of the hands underneath it, and started heaving itself slowly towards our corner.
“Better hurry up!” the Erlking called from his throne.
It was blocking the exit, by then. The shifting body of it had moved to block us off. It ambled towards us and I tried to sink further into the corner.
As it approached, getting close enough that I could smell the stink of it, I saw a flash of a tattoo on one of the hands. I leaned in, trying to find it again, like looking for dolphins surfacing in the ocean. And again, I caught a glimpse of a duck tattoo, the tattoo that Hitch had gotten on his hand as a teenager.
I ripped away from Sam’s death grip and ran for the monster.
I fell to my knees in front of it, wincing as I impacted the ground, and reached into the nest of hands. I could feel them tearing at my forearms and ripping into me with their sharp nails, but I kept going. I pressed further in, up to my shoulder in a writhing mass of limbs, aiming for the spot where I had last seen that tattoo.
The hands were tugging at me, wrapping around my back and hair. They were pulling together, trying to draw me completely into the mass of them. I was aware of Sam at my side, anchoring me in place and bashing any hand that got too close with her sword or the sparks that leapt from her hands with muttered words. But I didn’t think it would be enough. They were too strong, and there were too many of them.
I was up to my waist in the hands when something grabbed my palm. I felt the way it clung to me, and the calluses on its palm, and I knew that I had found my brother.
I flung herself back. The hands didn’t want to let me go, and they fought the whole way, but slowly, I made progress. I kept hold of Hitch’s hand in mine the whole time, gripping it as hard as I could. I finally broke free, Hitch with me, and Sam was immediately charging the creature, able to use her sword with much greater strength without being worried about injuring Hitch. She swung it forward, and it sliced through the wrist of one of the hands. It fell without a sound, red sand flowing out of it. It deflated until it looked like dirty laundry, just a piece of limp flesh. The creature shrieked, scuttling away enough that the door was finally accessible. The three of us ran for it, Sam and I supporting Hitch between us.
I looked back as I left and found the Erlking staring right at me.
“Interesting,” he murmured, his voice carrying impossibly across the vast space between us.
The sandcastle collapsed behind us, the great walls falling in on themselves. We were out in the morning sun, the sandcastle disappearing as we watched. Hitch was on the ground in front of me, as young as he’d been thirty years ago, when he was captured. He started laughing, feathers puffing out of his mouth. He laughed until he cried and I hugged him in the way that he’d held me when I was young, in the times when my life had been defined by hunger and fear.
Hitch left, afterwards. He scratched at the pinhole scars covering his body, where feathers burst through his skin, and pulled his long sleeves down around his wrists. He didn’t know where he was going but he told me that he needed time
I had spent thirty years worth of time without him. I wanted to grab my brother by the shoulders and beg him to stay. But he flinched when I hugged him goodbye and he refused to go near sand and he stared distrustfully at the birds chirping in the trees. Hitch needed to go away and I loved him too much to stop him.
I sat out on the beach every morning. I felt the sun on my face and I waited for Hitch to come home.
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The sleeves of his weather-beaten coat were shoved all the way up his arms, to stop the fabric from falling over his knuckles while he was working, and goosebumps lined his skin. He was strapping a rubber chicken to the back of his truck, over the lens of the shattered backup camera, with the legs pointing down so that they hung a couple inches above the ground. There were dents in the hood from the crash last week, and scratches along the door from scraping into a curb. The chicken, hopefully, would keep him from breaking anything else.
"You can't go cheap," Hitch said. "The cheap rubber chickens only make noise when pressure lets go. That's no good. As soon as I back up into something, I want this chicken to be screaming like it’s in the depths of hell."
“Sure thing,” I said in a monotone, leaning against the side of the truck.
There were scrambled electronic parts piled in the back of the truck, the innards of a radio, a broken computer, tangled wires, a couple loose pairs of earbuds. He found the parts in alleyways or bummed them off his friends for a couple bucks or stole them from the vacation homes that were left empty for most of the year. Then he sold them for a profit at the scrapyard. Hitch had bounced between minimum-wage jobs for a while after high school, spending a couple months as a bagger at the grocery store or as a seasonal worker at the farm two hours down the highway. He'd never stuck with it. At the very least, the scrapyard got him enough money to eat and occasionally spend a night in a motel when he got tired of sleeping in his car.
Hitch pressed the last piece of tape in place and grinned up at me. "I've got something for you, duck."
The nickname came from when I’d broken my leg as a child and waddled around in a cast until it was healed. I hated it with a burning passion, and I glared at Hitch with the ease of twenty-one years of practice. He had a duck tattoo at the base of his thumb that he’d gotten in a back-alley shop as a teenager. He said that he’d gotten it to remind him of me, and the fact that I hated the nickname was just a bonus. It was shaky-lined, with an uneven face, but he loved it anyway.
The handle stuck when Hitch tried to open the door, a consequence of the rust collecting in the crevices of the car and running down the sides like blood from a cut. The car groaned when the door finally popped open, a metal against metal screech that had me flinching away. Hitch dug through the cluttered fast food containers in the passenger-side footwell, eventually coming up with a crinkly paper bag. He waved away the flies buzzing around the opening of the bag and held it out to me.
The last time Hitch had brought me food, I’d gotten food poisoning because he’d left it out in the midday sun for two days. The donut was squished slightly, and the icing was stuck to the bag. I still ate it, grimacing at the harsh citrus flavor. Taking Hitch’s food was an instinct engraved from the days when Dad had given us a can of kidney beans for dinner and Hitch had drank the juice, leaving the beans for me.
I rarely went hungry anymore, three mostly square meals a day and granola in my pockets just in case, but habits didn’t die easy.
These days, Hitch only brought me food when he wanted my help, like when he saw a place he wanted to hit but was worried about doing it alone.
I got in the car, like I always did.
We drove past the cluster of seafood-themed restaurants with chipped paint decks, the beachfront park where there were always shifty-eyed men sitting under the slide, the single room library where all the books had been water damaged in the flood last year. The change was quick as we drove across Main Street, heading closer to the beach. The roads were freshly paved, the concrete a smooth black except where the sun had already started to pick away at it. The three-story homes lining the sides of the street were crouched on elegant stilts, with space underneath for a car or three. Most of the garages were empty, with the lights off and curtains drawn in the house. Come summer, the streets would be swarming with tourists and vacationers, but until then, most of the buildings nearest to the beach were unoccupied.
Hitch stopped as the sun started to go down at a house that was leaning precariously out towards the beach, tilted ever so slightly, the edge of its foundation buried in the shifting sand of the beach. It certainly looked deserted, with an overgrown yard and blue paint peeling off the door in sheets.
Hitch took his hammer out of the backseat, hoisting it over his shoulder. It was two feet of solid metal with rags wrapped around the head to muffle the sound of the hits. Hitch squared up, bending his knees and holding the hammer like a baseball bat. Before he could swing, though, the door creaked open on its own, the hinges squeaking. The house beyond was dark enough that I could only make out general shapes, glimpsing the curve of a sofa to the left, what was maybe the shimmer of a chandelier on the other side.
Hitch lowered his hammer, looking vaguely disappointed that he didn’t get to use it. “That’s…weird as hell.”
“Maybe the deadbolt broke, maybe they forgot to lock it, it doesn’t matter,” I hissed, checking our surroundings for other people again. “Just hurry up and get inside before someone calls the cops.”
Hitch flicked the lightswitch on the wall, and the lights flickered on. They were dim, buzzing audibly and blinking off occasionally. The walls were plastered with contrasting swatches of wallpaper and splattered with random colors. There was neon orange behind the dining table, a galaxy swirl in the kitchen, and on the ceiling there was a repeating floral pattern covered in nametag stickers. Each of the stickers was filled out with The Erlking. Chandeliers hung in every room, three or four for each, and rubber ducks sat on every table. A miniature carousel sat in the corner along with a towering model rocket.
Sand was heaped on every surface, at least a couple inches everywhere. It was piled in the corners and stuck to the walls, and it covered the floor in a thick blanket. Our hesitant steps into the house left footprints clearly outlined in the sand.
Hitch took a cursory look around and headed immediately for the TV mounted on the wall. “Look out the windows and tell me if anyone is coming.”
I shook the sand out of the blinds and pulled them open, then had to brush sand off of the window before I could see anything.
Hitch was quick, practiced at finding and appropriating the things that were worth taking. He came back to me with an armful of electronics and chandeliers, dumping it at my feet before turning to head deeper into the house again.
There was a thump, somewhere upstairs, and then footsteps, slow and deliberate. Hitch froze at the threshold of the room, then ran for the door with me just ahead of him, sand flying out from under our feet.
My hand was almost brushing the doorknob, close enough that I could see the light from the streetlamp outside streaming in through the cracks in the door. My fingers touched the wood and it gave under my touch, becoming malleable and warm. I yelped, stumbling backwards, and the door started to melt. The paint ran down in thick drops, pooling at the bottom of the door, and the wood warped like metal being welded. The soft edges of the door ran into the walls until there was no sign of an exit ever being there.
“Well, well, well,” said a cultured voice with just an edge of snooty elitism. “What do we have here?”
The man was well over eight feet tall, with long black hair covering his eyes. He was wearing a yellow raincoat with holes cut out of the hood to accommodate the deer antlers jutting upwards from his head. There was sand settled on his shoulders and hovering around his head like a halo.
“Who the fuck are you?” Hitch said, inching towards a window.
He smiled, just a little bit, and his teeth shone in the dim light. “I am the Erlking.”
Hitch nodded, and seemed about to respond. I grabbed him by the hand and pulled him towards the window. I could feel sand in the wind roaring against my back as the Erlking growled in anger, the grains scraping harshly against my cheeks.
We were almost to the window when Hitch was ripped away from me, and I came to a startled halt. The sand had formed long grasping arms that pressed Hitch against the floral wallpaper. His wrists were held tight, and as I watched, a sandy hand wrapped around his mouth and forced its way between his teeth. He gagged, and sand trickled out of the corners of his mouth.
The Erlking strolled towards him, not seeming to be in any sort of rush. “You know, I’m not very fond of your yapping.”
He made an idle gesture and the sand wrapped around my ankles, tethering me in place.
“I yap all the time,” Hitch said. “Three-time olympic yapper, that’s me. Best to just let me go now and save yourself some trouble.”
The Erlking tapped a manicured nail against Hitch’s mouth, hard enough to hurt, judging by the way he flinched away. “But why would I ever let you go when I’ve gone to this much trouble to catch you and your sister? It’s so hard, these days, to find people that no one will miss.”
Hitch struggled against the sand, trying to escape and failing. “What do you want with us, then? You just said it, we’re nobody.”
“I’m fae, dear one,” the Erlking said. “I get my power from my followers. And I think that you two will make lovely additions to my flock.”
He flicked Hitch's nose and Hitch gasped. Feathers started to form on his arms, popping out from under his skin in a spray of blood.
Hitch pushed off the wall, using his bound hands as a fulcrum, and his knees crashed into the Erlking’s stomach. The Erlking fell backwards, wheezing, and the sand around my ankles loosened.
Hitch made desperate eye contact with me as feathers shot up his neck and jerked his head towards the window. The message was obvious. Run.
The last thing I saw before crashing out the window and into freedom was Hitch’s body twisting, his arms wrenching into wings and feathers covering every inch of his skin. By the time I landed on the concrete outside, he was a small black bird, held tightly in the Erlking’s hands. The whole building was sinking into the ground, burnished-gold sand piling up over top and streaming from the windows.
Thirty years later, I saw Sam’s Supernatural Consultation and Neutralization written in neat, looping handwriting on a piece of paper taped to the door. The tape was peeling at the corners and the paper was yellowed with age, but there was obviously care put into the sign, in its perfectly centered text and looping floral designs drawn over the edges in gold marker.
I knocked, hesitantly, drawing my woolen coat closer around my shoulders. I’d bought it as a fiftieth birthday gift for myself, and I took comfort in the heavy weight of it over my shoulders.
“Coming!” someone called from within the depths of the office.
There were a couple crashes, and the sound of paper shuffling. Eventually, the door was opened by a young woman with ketchup stains on her shirt and pencils stuck through her hair.
“Hi, I’m Sam, I specialize in supernatural consultation and hunting, how may I help you today?” Sam said, customer-service pep in her voice. She stood in the doorway, solidly blocking entry into the office.
“My name is Ezra, I’m for a consultation. I emailed you but you didn’t respond?” I shifted in place, suddenly feeling awkward.
“Oh! Yeah, I lost the password for the email ages ago. Sorry for the bad welcome, I get lots of people thinking I’m crazy or pulling a prank and harassing me.”
She ushered me into the office, clearing papers off one of the chairs to make room for me to sit down. There was a collection of swords along one wall, all of them polished to perfection, several with deep knicks in the metal which indicated that they’d been used heavily.
“So what can I help you with?” Sam asked again, more sincere this time.
“Thirty years ago, my brother was turned into a bird,” I started. I’d told this story so many times that it barely felt ridiculous to say anymore. I was used to the disbelieving looks, the careful pity. But Sam just nodded along, face open and welcoming.
“I’ve almost given up on finding him, at this point,” I said. “But I saw your ad in the newspaper, and…here I am, I suppose.”
“Here you are,” Sam echoed, smiling. She pulled one of the pencils out of her hair and took a bit of paperwork off of one of her stacks, turning it over so that the blank side sat neatly in front of her. “Tell me everything.”
I told Sam everything, and she wrote it all down, pencil scratching along the paper.
The last part of the story was always the hardest to tell. “I left him there. I ran and I didn’t look back.”
I had been to dozens of detectives and investigators over the years, once the police had dropped Hitch’s case. I’d been to professional offices with smartly-dressed secretaries and met scraggly men in coffee shops. All of them had given me the same look, pity and annoyance all mixed up into a humor-the-crazy-lady soup. Sam, though, just seemed thoughtful.
Sam leaned forward and put a hand over mine, carefully, like she thought that I would pull away. “Sometimes you have to leave people behind.”
I tightened her hold on Sam’s hand and drew it towards me, like I could make Sam listen if only I squeezed tight enough. “But that’s why I’m here. I don’t want to leave him behind.”
“Okay then. I’ll do my best to help you.” Sam agreed, finally. Then she paused, and said softly, “You know…I think I met your brother once. He might have saved my life. He’s certainly why I started in this business.”
“Really? What happened?” I asked.
This is the story that Sam told me, related to the best of my abilities:
It was a new moon, so the only illumination came from the stars gazing idly down and distant porch lights shining across the scraggly brush of the dunes. Sam’s neighbors were decent people who cared about baby turtles, so the lights were a low, unobtrusive red, and the ocean sloshed like blood. Sam walked on the beach almost every night, drawing back the gauzy pink curtains and clambering out her bedroom window. She didn’t often bother to be quiet; her mama worked the late shift and came home exhausted. As long as Sam got home before the sun, her mama would never find out that she paced the shoreline and dreamed of inhaling sand until her lungs became their own beach.
The sky was lightening. The sun would come up soon, and that meant Sam’s time on the beach was over. She needed to get back to her real life, go to her fifth grade class and stop that nonsense, as her mother would say. Her mother loved to say things like that, pushing Sam into her proper place by implication alone.
“She’s a good kid, of course, but she’s a bit…” Her mother would trail off there, usually getting a commiserating expression from whoever she was talking to. Sam always wondered how that sentence would have finished. She’s a bit strange, maybe. She’s a bit intense. She’s a bit abrasive. She’s quiet enough but when Jason tried to steal her pencil in math class, she stabbed him in the hand so hard that the lead tattooed him.
Her mother was better, for the most part. The days of her stocking up the fridge, and leaving a post-it note on the counter, and leaving for days at a time were gone. But Sam still stepped around the place on the kitchen tile where her mother had collapsed and caved her head in, even though the bloodstains had been replaced with new tile.
“Your auntie got an abortion, you know,” her mother had said from her place on the couch, slurring her words. “Pill in the mail and then bam, no more baby.”
She had clapped her hands together to illustrate her point. Her mother jerked forward and grabbed Sam by the wrist, then, staring up at her until Sam met her eyes.
“I love you, you know? But sometimes I wonder…” She settled back onto the couch. “Yeah. I wonder.”
She’d gotten up, then, back to the kitchen. She’d been stumbling, a shambling zombie of a woman. The ground in the entryway of the kitchen was raised, ever so slightly, and her mother went down hard. Her head cracked against the tile, chin first, and she didn’t move.
Sam had been the one to call the ambulance. She had stared at the scattering of loose teeth on the ground while she waited, and considered what her life would be like with a dead mom. Not so bad, she thought, and immediately felt guilty for it.
Her mom was better, now, for the most part. But Sam still stepped around the place on the kitchen floor where she had collapsed. There was still a matchbox hidden under her bed with the gleaming shine of her mother’s lost teeth, two canines and a molar. It was nice, having a piece of her mom to keep. Even if she left again, Sam would still have part of her.
Sam sighed, and turned away from the ocean. As she faced towards the low dunes further up the beach, she saw a sandcastle sitting nestled among them. It was such a strange sight that her eyes skipped over it at first, almost automatically, disregarding it because it was so out of place.
Sam found sandcastles out on the beach sometimes, usually half-collapsed and on the verge of being washed away by the waves, but she had never seen anything like the sandcastle in front of her. It was life-sized, something that wouldn’t have looked out of place in the Scottish highlands, with spires shooting up above her head and carefully etched out bricks lining each side. The front wall was dominated by an arched set of double doors, twice her height, with a portcullis nestled at the top, ready to be dropped. All of it was lovingly detailed, down to the rust on the tips of the towers and the wood grain of the door. It was made out of wet, densely-packed sand, held together impossibly. It had not been there two hours ago, when she had come to the beach.
There was a bird sitting on the overhang of the door, small and black.
As soon as she took a step towards the sandcastle, the bird shook out its feathers and swooped down towards Sam, landing at her feet with a little stumble.
“Hey, kid, get out of here,” said the bird.
Sam closed her eyes, very deliberately. When she opened them, the bird was still there. Sam considered herself a very reasonable person, so she immediately drew the most logical conclusion. The bird was, she was almost certain, a demon.
“Trust me, you don’t want to run into Mr. Salty, the queen bitch himself,” the bird said.
“Mr. Salty?” Sam inquired, polite as she knew how to be. She edged to the side, trying to get a good angle to kick the bird like a soccer ball.
The bird did something similar to a wince, all its feathers fluffing up then settling back down. “Ah, don’t call him that. He’d turn you into a toad.”
The bird gestured with its head, towards the looming sand structure. “That’s his castle. He’s in there, probably scuttling along the ceiling or some shit because that’s the sort of weirdo he is.”
Sam nodded, encouraging. She pulled back her foot and lined up her shot, the way she’d seen athletes do on TV. She aimed right for its sharp beak and let loose. The bird saw it coming, its beady eyes widening, and it cawed in distress. It flapped away, avoiding her kick only to fall backward into the sand in a scramble of wings.
“What’s your fucking problem?” it squawked. “I was trying to help you!”
“I don’t need the help of a demon,” Sam yelled, trying to remember the exorcism that her mama had taught her once, because her mama believed in being prepared for anything.
“I’m not a demon,” the bird said indignantly.
It was at about that moment that Sam gave up and just decided to roll with it.
“What are you, then?” Sam asked.
The bird shuffled its clawed feet, looking about as awkward as it could, given that it didn’t really have recognizable facial expressions. “Technically I’m a familiar of the Erlking, prince of the fae, but I prefer to be called Hitch.”
“You can’t blame me for assuming, though,” Sam said. “Ravens do tend to be associated with murder.”
“Hey, excuse you,” Hitch said. “I’m a rook, not a raven. Ravens are way bigger.”
“Sure,” Sam said, not really paying attention. Her eyes had caught on the details of the sandcastle, and she was transfixed by the slow spirals of the sand, the strange beauty of it. She found herself stepping towards the great doors, lifting a hand to knock, and as she did, the sand warped in front of her eyes, heaving itself towards her with bulging slowness. The door creaked open before her, revealing a vast, empty room. Just before she stepped inside, she felt a piercing pain in her foot, and she yelped, leaping backwards.
Hitch pecked her again, really digging his beak in. “Don’t be an idiot.”
Sam glared at him, rubbing her foot. About to retort, she finally really took in the room inside the sandcastle, and her words died in her throat.
There was a body just past the threshold of the door, face down and limbs hanging limp at its sides. Long hair splayed out in a halo around its head.
“Don’t,” Hitch warned, suddenly serious. “Just leave, kid, I mean it. I’ve seen too many people go down this road and you don’t want to be one of them.”
Sam ignored him. She made her way across the beach, slipping with every step. The sand felt deeper, piling up around her feet in silent drifts. She picked up the nearest stick and poked the body with it through the door, ready to leap back if anything went wrong, staying firmly outside of the sandcastle.
This close, Sam could tell that it used to be a woman. Her head wasn’t attached to her body. It hadn’t been a clean amputation, either. Her upper body was bruised, with chunks taken out of it, and the bones in her neck hung mangled, not connected to anything.
“Well, I warned you,” Hitch said, defeated. “I did warn you.”
Sam nudged the head with the end of the stick, nudging it over so that she could see the face. Her mother stared back at her, torn to pieces, breath still wheezing from her lungs. She wasn’t blinking, just gazing forward with glazed eyes. Sweat dripped down from her hairline.
Sam screamed and dropped the stick, tripping over herself in her haste to get away.
Her mother’s eyes were wide and pleading, and she was mouthing desperate words at Sam. Her vocal cords were broken to bits, and the only sound that came out was a strained groan.
The head rolled, inching closer to Sam like a grotesque caterpillar.
Her mother gasped for air, torn lips fluttering. Finally, comprehensible words came out. “Help. Help me, daughter.”
“That’s not your mother,” Hitch said, quiet.
Sam knew that. Her mother was sleeping back at home, and anyways her mom had never asked for her help. She had an aversion to accepting charity, as she put it.
“Okay,” Sam said, shaking all over. “Okay.”
She backed away from the sandcastle, not looking away.
“Failure,” her mother hissed as she stepped away. “I never wanted a daughter like you.”
The sun came up over the horizon. The sandcastle, Hitch, and her mom all disintegrated into sand as the light hit them.
The beach, the next night, was almost exactly how I remembered it. The beams of our flashlights sent light bouncing across the dunes, illuminating the waves, and I imagined faces in the foam of the waves.
“I’ve been back here a hundred times. There’s nothing left,” I said.
Sam took the car key out of her purse and pointed it at the sand, adjusting the sword slung over her shoulder in order to do it. The key had belonged to Hitch; Sam had requested an item of his, and it was the only thing I had left. She rested the key on the sand and drew a circle around it, inscribing symbols around the borders.
“What are you doing?” I asked.
Sam shrugged. “Not much, really. I’m…I guess you could say that I’m knocking.”
The key laid inert on the sand for long enough that I was just about to give up and go home, admit to myself that Hitch was dead and that I was a fool to believe that Sam could actually help me. Then a building started to take shape, flickering in and out like it was struggling to get away. With a pop of displaced air, the sandcastle settled into existence.
Sam banged on the entryway. Nothing happened. She did it again, harder, and scowled when the door still didn’t open.
“We demand entrance, under your honor,” Sam yelled. There was a hard rush of wind, and I gripped Sam’s arm to keep my balance, but the doors cracked open reluctantly.
The inside of the sandcastle consisted of one enormous hall, the roof arching up out of sight. Rafters crisscrossed from wall to wall, and a cobbled path led further into the building, but other than that, it was completely empty, except for the birds. There were thousands of them, perched on the rafters or hopping along the ground. They parted in front of Sam and I, and reformed behind us, leaving us in a small pocket of open space. They were all black-feathered, with sharp beaks and beady eyes.
The Erlking sat on a throne at the end of the hall, lounging across it with his feet up on the armrest. He watched them as they came forward, the soft caw of the birds the only sound.
“I am here to bargain for the life of my brother,” I said, with as much dignity as I could muster, before the Erlking could say anything.
The Erlking ignored her, tilting his head to look at Sam. “I remember you. I almost got you, once.”
Sam glared at him but didn’t respond.
“You want your brother,” The Erlking said to me, and he almost sounded amused. “Then go get him.”
As if by some sort of silent signal, every bird in the room took flight at once, and their cawing made me think of screams. I covered my head against the flapping of their wings, and my vision was quickly obscured by the chaotic movement of them. I found myself on my knees, just trying to escape them.
A hand met my shoulder. Sam urged me to my feet, and together we ran for the edge of the room, where the swarm was the thinnest. We pressed ourselves into the corner and the swarm spiraled tighter and tighter at the center of the room. It went on until there seemed to be no differentiation between the birds, all of them fused together into one creature.
When the chaos died down, the birds had become one mass, with wings and eyes and talons sticking out of its flesh, thrashing and chirping. Human body parts stuck out of it, bulging out from the feathers. It was hands, mostly, with a couple knees or staring eyes. The bird amalgamation had no recognizable facial features, but there was one long beak extending from the front of its head. Most of the body parts were concentrated around the beak, and they peeked out from where the beak connected with muscle, or grew from the tongue, nestled between the two crushing halves of the beak.
It turned its beak down and crawled forward, using the hands to balance. The fingers scrambled over the ground. I was afraid of centipedes as a child, and I felt that same crawling dread when it started moving.
“Holy shit,” Sam whispered, which was rather disappointing, because I had been hoping that at least one of us knew what to do.
The creature turned, a lurching movement that crushed some of the hands underneath it, and started heaving itself slowly towards our corner.
“Better hurry up!” the Erlking called from his throne.
It was blocking the exit, by then. The shifting body of it had moved to block us off. It ambled towards us and I tried to sink further into the corner.
As it approached, getting close enough that I could smell the stink of it, I saw a flash of a tattoo on one of the hands. I leaned in, trying to find it again, like looking for dolphins surfacing in the ocean. And again, I caught a glimpse of a duck tattoo, the tattoo that Hitch had gotten on his hand as a teenager.
I ripped away from Sam’s death grip and ran for the monster.
I fell to my knees in front of it, wincing as I impacted the ground, and reached into the nest of hands. I could feel them tearing at my forearms and ripping into me with their sharp nails, but I kept going. I pressed further in, up to my shoulder in a writhing mass of limbs, aiming for the spot where I had last seen that tattoo.
The hands were tugging at me, wrapping around my back and hair. They were pulling together, trying to draw me completely into the mass of them. I was aware of Sam at my side, anchoring me in place and bashing any hand that got too close with her sword or the sparks that leapt from her hands with muttered words. But I didn’t think it would be enough. They were too strong, and there were too many of them.
I was up to my waist in the hands when something grabbed my palm. I felt the way it clung to me, and the calluses on its palm, and I knew that I had found my brother.
I flung herself back. The hands didn’t want to let me go, and they fought the whole way, but slowly, I made progress. I kept hold of Hitch’s hand in mine the whole time, gripping it as hard as I could. I finally broke free, Hitch with me, and Sam was immediately charging the creature, able to use her sword with much greater strength without being worried about injuring Hitch. She swung it forward, and it sliced through the wrist of one of the hands. It fell without a sound, red sand flowing out of it. It deflated until it looked like dirty laundry, just a piece of limp flesh. The creature shrieked, scuttling away enough that the door was finally accessible. The three of us ran for it, Sam and I supporting Hitch between us.
I looked back as I left and found the Erlking staring right at me.
“Interesting,” he murmured, his voice carrying impossibly across the vast space between us.
The sandcastle collapsed behind us, the great walls falling in on themselves. We were out in the morning sun, the sandcastle disappearing as we watched. Hitch was on the ground in front of me, as young as he’d been thirty years ago, when he was captured. He started laughing, feathers puffing out of his mouth. He laughed until he cried and I hugged him in the way that he’d held me when I was young, in the times when my life had been defined by hunger and fear.
Hitch left, afterwards. He scratched at the pinhole scars covering his body, where feathers burst through his skin, and pulled his long sleeves down around his wrists. He didn’t know where he was going but he told me that he needed time
I had spent thirty years worth of time without him. I wanted to grab my brother by the shoulders and beg him to stay. But he flinched when I hugged him goodbye and he refused to go near sand and he stared distrustfully at the birds chirping in the trees. Hitch needed to go away and I loved him too much to stop him.
I sat out on the beach every morning. I felt the sun on my face and I waited for Hitch to come home.
2024.05.19 02:42 ThisIsKeiKei [Excerpt: Tally of Slaughter] The Executioners Chapter fights the first Vashtorr Marines
Context:The Ushmengar are a Chaos warband dedicated to Vashtorr. They were initially part of the Astral Claws, but when Huron was defeated during the Badab War, they decided to forge their own path instead of following him to the Maelstrom. These Space Marines in particular were some of the first Astral Claws that the Executioners slaughtered during the Badab War, and the Warband was formed by the survivors of their rampage.
In this short story, the Executioners, having just finished a Penitent Crusade, were hunting for the Ushmengar. They had managed to pinpoint them to a Mechanicum forgeworld, and the Death Speaker of the chapter, an Astartes named Razel, a Librarian named Igikura, and a group of Bladeguard descended onto the planet. When they found the Chaos lord of the Ushmengar, named Kagal, this is what happened
submitted by ThisIsKeiKei to u/ThisIsKeiKei [link] [comments]
In this short story, the Executioners, having just finished a Penitent Crusade, were hunting for the Ushmengar. They had managed to pinpoint them to a Mechanicum forgeworld, and the Death Speaker of the chapter, an Astartes named Razel, a Librarian named Igikura, and a group of Bladeguard descended onto the planet. When they found the Chaos lord of the Ushmengar, named Kagal, this is what happened
The Chaos Space Marine cocked its head to one side, eyes boring into Razel’s. When the Death Speaker was within reach, it nodded and spread its arms wide. The Executioner swung his crozius. The fractal form of the Heretic Astartes shivered as Sharur connected with it. There was the roar of a vast furnace underscored by the shriek of overtaxed bellows, the clanking of gears and the hammering of pistons, and the Ushmengar vanished like smoke blown in the wind, leaving only a chorus of trailing screams.After this, Razel and his men continued to go deeper into the Manufactorium and ended up fighting a bunch of other Ushmengar
The Death Speaker swung his crozius, but the Chaos Space Marine dodged the attack. The strike went wide, cracking the side of the furnace. Razel punched out with his pistol and sent his opponent’s bolter flying off. Undeterred, the Ushmengar ripped off a piston hammer from a slain ogryn and arrested Razel’s downward swing. Muscles strained, his sinew coils contracted and he drove the Heretic Astartes onto one knee. The Ushmengar’s composure broke and he roared at the Death Speaker. With a burst of vigour he regained his footing and shook Razel off. Burst fire from the Executioner’s pistol stitched an arc across his helmet, which cracked, exposing his metallic face beneath. The delineation between the organic and inorganic had become blurred to the extent that they had become one and the same. Oil bled from ruined armour and unclean flesh-metal.
A storm had broken out at the end of the hall. Lightning flashed, lancing out from furnace to furnace as a rain of brimstone fell. An unholy radiance pulsed in the penumbral gloom, accompanied by the skirling of bronze horns lining the altar. The light rose out of the chancel of the command fane and drifted towards the Death Speaker and the Epistolary, who had advanced ahead to the binary-etched plaza. Within the pulsing storm was Kalag.
Molten metal was siphoned off the blast furnaces, forming fiery wheels into an armillary sphere spinning around the floating Ushmengar. The skitarii shrieked in binharic as they were lifted from the raised walkways, torn towards the eye of the churning storm. They were disassembled, their flesh withering into ash whilst their bionics melded into the spinning rings upon which bleeding eyes had formed. As Kalag moved towards Razel and Igikura, a forge-vault vast beyond imagining spread out behind him, the hellish vision overlapping the reality of the manufactorum. There was the roar of colossal furnaces, the heave and gasp of monumental bellows, and the clang of countless hammers, thudding pistons and clanking gears, underpinned by the screaming of tortured souls fuelling the forges.
Whereas Kalag’s form had been ephemeral before, a charcoal sketch jumping in and out of focus, now it was wholly corporeal. His armour was burned black, running with unclean oils and unguents. Mechadendrites writhed from between the plates like fungal growths, straining for some dire unity with the emergent daemonic mechanism. Around him were the rings of the armillary sphere, which were both armour and a mechanism to unravel reality, spinning faster until they were a blur as the warpsmith approached them
Up ahead, Igikura stood alone, defiant. The crystalline matrix of his axe blazed, focusing his power before it lanced upwards into Kalag. For a moment, the spinning rings slowed and fire raged down upon the Epistolary, enveloping the Executioner. The apotropaic sigils upon his armour shone migraine-bright as they earthed the worst effects of the warpsmith’s attack. The Librarian’s mind was in the throes of a fever dream, the backwash of the Ushmengar’s barrage bruising his soul.
Sensing his brother’s agony, Razel rose and swung, striking again. A resonant peal shivered through the armillary sphere to no discernible effect.
Kalag, whose attention had been thoroughly upon Igikura, glanced at him, his quasar-like gaze boring into Razel’s own. A high-pitched screech preceded the obliteration of Razel’s helm display. His armour felt heavier. The fibre-bundle muscles tensed and servos halted, keeping him upright. Straining, he raised his hands and took off his helmet. When he beheld the ashes of penitence streaking down Razel’s defiant face, the warpsmith sneered. ‘Lapdog of the False Emperor.’ His voice thundered like the hammer of a god striking an anvil
Razel bared his teeth in response, glistening with blood. ‘You were supposed to die at Badab.’ ‘Oh but you see, I did die. We were marooned in the immaterium after our warp drives failed. Bereft, betrayed by a rotting Imperium and an unkind god bedecked in fool’s gold. Where was Lufgt Huron then? His promises and his lies? We no longer need him, nor your carrion god. We have a new divinity to serve!’ Kalag turned towards the growing portal behind him, his arms encompassing the hellish scene and the towering daemonic figure with scythe-like wings who was looking down at the Executioners with an amused interest. ‘Behold the Arkifane! Our salvation! We will deliver this forge-temple of Mars to him!’
"Brother…" Igikura’s voice was straining with titanic effort. "I will not make it to the end." The Death Speaker growled. The Librarian forestalled him. "Spare me your protestations. I will distract him and hold the rings, but I am not strong enough to make the final blow. That falls to you. May your own Penitent Crusade be over after this."
Igikura’s mind soared in the warp like the rising sun. He burned with immaterial energies. Coruscating lightning cascaded down his limbs and flared off him in streamer arcs, with a branching spark earthing itself in the Death Speaker’s crozius. One last parting gift from brother to brother.
Razel wasted no time. With the warpsmith’s attention upon the Epistolary, his armour was free. He trudged forward, pausing only to pick up Igikura’s axe whilst hefting his crozius. Breaking into a run, he leapt upon one of the stilled rings. Razel hurled the force axe. It spun, blazing, still saturated with Igikura’s psychic might and sacrifice. The blade wedged fast into Kalag’s breastplate, tendrils of darkness slithering out of the wound. A few moments later, Razel was upon him with Sharur, imbued with a shred of the Epistolary’s empyric strength. The warpsmith raged, blocking the Death Speaker’s strike with a cog-toothed, daemonic axe. Mechadendrites speared through Razel’s armour, biting deep into his flesh. Gurgling blood, the Executioner drew the mace back and slammed it forwards, again and again, shattering his foe’s armour in a frenzy until his corrupt essence could no longer be contained. The unravelling of Kalag was like that of a collapsing star. The death throes screamed out from his unwinding body, black flame rising between the plates, his flesh unmade into ash.
2024.05.19 01:54 TheEnd725 [WTB] A lot fo samples.List has been updated do check it out (decant)
Sticky Fingers
Jubilation XXV Man Amouage
Maison Crivelli iris malhikan
Maison Crivelli oud maracuja
Mind games blockade
Sel Marin James Heeley
Mr Hulot's Holiday CB I Hate Perfume
overture Man Amouage
L'Air Des Alpes Suisses Tauer Perfumes
Tom ford oud minerale
Eau Sacree James Heeley
Bohemian Soul Une Nuit Nomade
Corsica Furiosa Parfum d'Empire
Faïsa Ramon Monegal
Young Hearts Eau de Parfum Bruno Acampora
Tindrer Baruti
Amongst Waves gallagher
Lorenzo Pazzaglia Black Sea Extrait
Murmure d'Ete Plume Impression
Jeroboam Vespero
Bois 1920 Oltremare
Trastevere Pantheon Roma
Vetiver Gris Jacques Fath
Opus 1144 Filippo Sorcinelli
Profumum Roma Ichusna
Mango Aoud Gritti
ennui-noir Filippo Sorcinelli
Ambre Suprême Les Indemodables
Profumum Roma - Vanitas
DS&Durga - Debaser
Figue Eau de Parfum Molinard
Blessed Baraka Initio Parfums Prives
mdci chypre palatin
nishane ambre calambria
Un Air de Bretagne L'Artisan Parfumeur
vanille Supermassive Les EAUX Primordiales
Bombay Bling! Neela Vermeire Creations
Perverso Baruti
Chypre Mojo 45 Parle Moi de Parfum
Sunplosion Simone Andreoli
Dirty Mango Richard
Soleil de Jeddah - Mango Kiss Stéphane Humbert Lucas 777
Osaïto M. Micallef
ennui-noir Filippo Sorcinelli
Vanilla Vibes Juliette Has A Gun
Belle Âme Les Abstraits
Dama Koupa Baruti
L'Attesa Masque Milano
iris cendre Naomi Goodsir
1270 Extrême Frapin
Methexis Manos Gerakinis
intio paragon
Narciso Rodriguez For Him
French Lover Frederic Malle
Encounters Francesca Bianchi
Summer of 84 Kerosene
Cocaïne Franck Boclet
Followed kerosene
Antalya Gritti
Aurea Pantheon Roma
Loudo Sarah Baker Perfumes
Des Cendres Les Abstraits
Phtaloblue Tauer Perfumes
Divine Vanille Essential Parfums
Couleur Vanille L'Artisan Parfumeur
Un Jardin en Méditerranée Hermès
Kirke Tiziana Terenzi
Nero Oudh Tiziana Terenzi
Hale Bopp Tiziana Terenzi
Dionisio Tiziana Terenzi
Musc Immortel Atelier des Ors
Iris Fauve Atelier des Ors
Summer Hammer Lorenzo Pazzaglia
Vanilla^2 Maison tahite
MAITRE PARFUMEUR ET GANTIER AMBRE PRECIEUX
MARLOU PARIS CARNICURE
Amoral Pernoire
Masar Pernoire
Bahar The Spirit of Dubai
Long Courrier Pierre Guillaume Paris
Tauerville Amberflash
xerjoff Cruz Del Sur II
Comme des Garcons Monocle Scent One Hinoki Eau de Toilette
Amazing green commes des garcon
Ambar Del Sur Carner Barcelona
Soul CoSTUME NATIONAL
Rosendo Mateu Nº 7
Wid Jazeel
Tolu Ormonde Jayne
Istanbul Gallivant
Barkhane Teo Cabanel
Isabey L'ambre de Carthage Isabey
King of Flowers Alghabra Parfums
Baraonda Nasomatto
Splendiris Parfums Dusita
L'Attesa Masque Milano
Bohemian Soul Une Nuit Nomade
Shah'ryar Rania J
Symmetry Sarah Baker Perfumes
Bois Mystérieux guerlain
Sex and the Sea Francesca Bianchi
Unspoken Musk Francesca Bianchi
Ambassador Men Gisada
Valhalla Paradis des Sens
renier oud rain
Encounters Francesca Bianchi
Les Indemodables Rose de Jamal
Derviche II Rogue Perfumery
Bon Monsieur Rogue Perfumery
B683 Extrait (Marc-Antoine Barrois
Au Coeur du Desert
Oud Satin Mood Extrait MFK
Armani Privé Bleu Turquoise Giorgio Armani
Vanextasy Maison Tahité
Tyger Tyger
Interlude Black Iris Amouage
Unspoken Musk Francesca Bianchi
1979 New Wave Les Bains Guerbois
Strangelove Melt my heart
submitted by TheEnd725 to fragranceswap [link] [comments]
Jubilation XXV Man Amouage
Maison Crivelli iris malhikan
Maison Crivelli oud maracuja
Mind games blockade
Sel Marin James Heeley
Mr Hulot's Holiday CB I Hate Perfume
overture Man Amouage
L'Air Des Alpes Suisses Tauer Perfumes
Tom ford oud minerale
Eau Sacree James Heeley
Bohemian Soul Une Nuit Nomade
Corsica Furiosa Parfum d'Empire
Faïsa Ramon Monegal
Young Hearts Eau de Parfum Bruno Acampora
Tindrer Baruti
Amongst Waves gallagher
Lorenzo Pazzaglia Black Sea Extrait
Murmure d'Ete Plume Impression
Jeroboam Vespero
Bois 1920 Oltremare
Trastevere Pantheon Roma
Vetiver Gris Jacques Fath
Opus 1144 Filippo Sorcinelli
Profumum Roma Ichusna
Mango Aoud Gritti
ennui-noir Filippo Sorcinelli
Ambre Suprême Les Indemodables
Profumum Roma - Vanitas
DS&Durga - Debaser
Figue Eau de Parfum Molinard
Blessed Baraka Initio Parfums Prives
mdci chypre palatin
nishane ambre calambria
Un Air de Bretagne L'Artisan Parfumeur
vanille Supermassive Les EAUX Primordiales
Bombay Bling! Neela Vermeire Creations
Perverso Baruti
Chypre Mojo 45 Parle Moi de Parfum
Sunplosion Simone Andreoli
Dirty Mango Richard
Soleil de Jeddah - Mango Kiss Stéphane Humbert Lucas 777
Osaïto M. Micallef
ennui-noir Filippo Sorcinelli
Vanilla Vibes Juliette Has A Gun
Belle Âme Les Abstraits
Dama Koupa Baruti
L'Attesa Masque Milano
iris cendre Naomi Goodsir
1270 Extrême Frapin
Methexis Manos Gerakinis
intio paragon
Narciso Rodriguez For Him
French Lover Frederic Malle
Encounters Francesca Bianchi
Summer of 84 Kerosene
Cocaïne Franck Boclet
Followed kerosene
Antalya Gritti
Aurea Pantheon Roma
Loudo Sarah Baker Perfumes
Des Cendres Les Abstraits
Phtaloblue Tauer Perfumes
Divine Vanille Essential Parfums
Couleur Vanille L'Artisan Parfumeur
Un Jardin en Méditerranée Hermès
Kirke Tiziana Terenzi
Nero Oudh Tiziana Terenzi
Hale Bopp Tiziana Terenzi
Dionisio Tiziana Terenzi
Musc Immortel Atelier des Ors
Iris Fauve Atelier des Ors
Summer Hammer Lorenzo Pazzaglia
Vanilla^2 Maison tahite
MAITRE PARFUMEUR ET GANTIER AMBRE PRECIEUX
MARLOU PARIS CARNICURE
Amoral Pernoire
Masar Pernoire
Bahar The Spirit of Dubai
Long Courrier Pierre Guillaume Paris
Tauerville Amberflash
xerjoff Cruz Del Sur II
Comme des Garcons Monocle Scent One Hinoki Eau de Toilette
Amazing green commes des garcon
Ambar Del Sur Carner Barcelona
Soul CoSTUME NATIONAL
Rosendo Mateu Nº 7
Wid Jazeel
Tolu Ormonde Jayne
Istanbul Gallivant
Barkhane Teo Cabanel
Isabey L'ambre de Carthage Isabey
King of Flowers Alghabra Parfums
Baraonda Nasomatto
Splendiris Parfums Dusita
L'Attesa Masque Milano
Bohemian Soul Une Nuit Nomade
Shah'ryar Rania J
Symmetry Sarah Baker Perfumes
Bois Mystérieux guerlain
Sex and the Sea Francesca Bianchi
Unspoken Musk Francesca Bianchi
Ambassador Men Gisada
Valhalla Paradis des Sens
renier oud rain
Encounters Francesca Bianchi
Les Indemodables Rose de Jamal
Derviche II Rogue Perfumery
Bon Monsieur Rogue Perfumery
B683 Extrait (Marc-Antoine Barrois
Au Coeur du Desert
Oud Satin Mood Extrait MFK
Armani Privé Bleu Turquoise Giorgio Armani
Vanextasy Maison Tahité
Tyger Tyger
Interlude Black Iris Amouage
Unspoken Musk Francesca Bianchi
1979 New Wave Les Bains Guerbois
Strangelove Melt my heart
Alexandria II Xerjoff
if you have a couple of these hit me up2024.05.19 01:08 idigclams Jack London - How I Became a Socialist
 | It is quite fair to say that I became a Socialist in a fashion somewhat similar to the way in which the Teutonic pagans became Christians–it was hammered into me. Not only was I not looking for Socialism at the time of my conversion, but I was fighting it. I was very young and callow, did not know much of anything, and though I had never even heard of a school called “Individualism,” I sang the paean of the strong with all my heart. This was because I was strong myself. By strong I mean that I had good health and hard muscles, both of which possessions are easily accounted for. I had lived my childhood on California ranches, my boyhood hustling newspapers on the streets of a healthy Western city, and my youth on the ozone-laden waters of San Francisco Bay and the Pacific Ocean. I loved life in the open, and I toiled in the open, at the hardest kinds of work. Learning no trade, but drifting along from job to job, I looked on the world and called it good, every bit of it. Let me repeat, this optimism was because I was healthy and strong, bothered with neither aches nor weaknesses, never turned down by the boss because I did not look fit, able always to get a job at shovelling coal, sailorizing, or manual labor of some sort. submitted by idigclams to socialism [link] [comments] And because of all this, exulting in my young life, able to hold my own at work or fight, I was a rampant individualist. It was very natural. I was a winner. Wherefore I called the game, as I saw it played, or thought I saw it played, a very proper game for MEN. To be a MAN was to write man in large capitals on my heart. To adventure like a man, and fight like a man, and do a man’s work (even for a boy’s pay)–these were things that reached right in and gripped hold of me as no other thing could. And I looked ahead into long vistas of a hazy and interminable future, into which, playing what I conceived to be MAN’S game, I should continue to travel with unfailing health, without accidents, and with muscles ever vigorous. As I say, this future was interminable. I could see myself only raging through life without end like one of Nietzsche’s blond-beasts, lustfully roving and conquering by sheer superiority and strength. As for the unfortunates, the sick, and ailing, and old, and maimed, I must confess I hardly thought of them at all, save that I vaguely felt that they, barring accidents, could be as good as I if they wanted to real hard, and could work just as well. Accidents? Well, they represented FATE, also spelled out in capitals, and there was no getting around FATE. Napoleon had had an accident at Waterloo, but that did not dampen my desire to be another and later Napoleon. Further, the optimism bred of a stomach which could digest scrap iron and a body which flourished on hardships did not permit me to consider accidents as even remotely related to my glorious personality. I hope I have made it clear that I was proud to be one of Nature’s strong-armed noblemen. The dignity of labor was to me the most impressive thing in the world. Without having read Carlyle, or Kipling, I formulated a gospel of work which put theirs in the shade. Work was everything. It was sanctification and salvation. The pride I took in a hard day’s work well done would be inconceivable to you. It is almost inconceivable to me as I look back upon it. I was as faithful a wage slave as ever capitalist exploited. To shirk or malinger on the man who paid me my wages was a sin, first, against myself, and second, against him. I considered it a crime second only to treason and just about as bad. In short, my joyous individualism was dominated by the orthodox bourgeois ethics. I read the bourgeois papers, listened to the bourgeois preachers, and shouted at the sonorous platitudes of the bourgeois politicians. And I doubt not, if other events had not changed my career, that I should have evolved into a professional strike-breaker, (one of President Eliot’s American heroes), and had my head and my earning power irrevocably smashed by a club in the hands of some militant trades-unionist. Just about this time, returning from a seven months’ voyage before the mast, and just turned eighteen, I took it into my head to go tramping. On rods and blind baggages I fought my way from the open West where men bucked big and the job hunted the man, to the congested labor centres of the East, where men were small potatoes and hunted the job for all they were worth. And on this new blond-beast adventure I found myself looking upon life from a new and totally different angle. I had dropped down from the proletariat into what sociologists love to call the “submerged tenth,” and I was startled to discover the way in which that submerged tenth was recruited. I found there all sorts of men, many of whom had once been as good as myself and just as blond-beast; sailor-men, soldier-men, labor-men, all wrenched and distorted and twisted out of shape by toil and hardship and accident, and cast adrift by their masters like so many old horses. I battered on the drag and slammed back gates with them, or shivered with them in box cars and city parks, listening the while to life-histories which began under auspices as fair as mine, with digestions and bodies equal to and better than mine, and which ended there before my eyes in the shambles at the bottom of the Social Pit. And as I listened my brain began to work. The woman of the streets and the man of the gutter drew very close to me. I saw the picture of the Social Pit as vividly as though it were a concrete thing, and at the bottom of the Pit I saw them, myself above them, not far, and hanging on to the slippery wall by main strength and sweat. And I confess a terror seized me. What when my strength failed? when I should be unable to work shoulder to shoulder with the strong men who were as yet babes unborn? And there and then I swore a great oath. It ran something like this: All my days I have worked hard with my body, and according to the number of days I have worked, by just that much am I nearer the bottom of the Pit. I shall climb out of the Pit, but not by the muscles of my body shall I climb out. I shall do no more hard work, and may God strike me dead if I do another day’s hard work with my body more than I absolutely have to do. And I have been busy ever since running away from hard work. Incidentally, while tramping some ten thousand miles through the United States and Canada, I strayed into Niagara Falls, was nabbed by a fee-hunting constable, denied the right to plead guilty or not guilty, sentenced out of hand to thirty days’ imprisonment for having no fixed abode and no visible means of support, handcuffed and chained to a bunch of men similarly circumstanced, carted down country to Buffalo, registered at the Erie County Penitentiary, had my head clipped and my budding mustache shaved, was dressed in convict stripes, compulsorily vaccinated by a medical student who practised on such as we, made to march the lock-step, and put to work under the eyes of guards armed with Winchester rifles–all for adventuring in blond-beastly fashion. Concerning further details deponent sayeth not, though he may hint that some of his plethoric national patriotism simmered down and leaked out of the bottom of his soul somewhere–at least, since that experience he finds that he cares more for men and women and little children than for imaginary geographical lines. * * * * * * *To return to my conversion. I think it is apparent that my rampant individualism was pretty effectively hammered out of me, and something else as effectively hammered in. But, just as I had been an individualist without knowing it, I was now a Socialist without knowing it, withal, an unscientific one. I had been reborn, but not renamed, and I was running around to find out what manner of thing I was. I ran back to California and opened the books. I do not remember which ones I opened first. It is an unimportant detail anyway. I was already It, whatever It was, and by aid of the books I discovered that It was a Socialist. Since that day I have opened many books, but no economic argument, no lucid demonstration of the logic and inevitableness of Socialism affects me as profoundly and convincingly as I was affected on the day when I first saw the walls of the Social Pit rise around me and felt myself slipping down, down, into the shambles at the bottom. 1905 |
2024.05.19 00:59 GoAheadMMDay UPDATE 3: Torment Techniques Used by Canadian and US Militaries
 | Update #3 appears at the bottom. submitted by GoAheadMMDay to Liberty [link] [comments] Due to numerous disparaging comments by multiple individuals, I have reposted my article. Heckling does not change what occurred. People need to know these truths, especially those who have experienced the same. They need to know they are sane, that such things are indeed being perpetrated, and the perpetrators use shame to silence them and protect their activities. I write to encourage them not to listen to disparaging people who speak without knowledge. February 10, 2024 I am Joseph Cafariello, a Canadian citizen and ex-member of the Canadian military. Of sound mind, not on medication, not a drug user, not a marijuana smoker, not an alcohol drinker, with no mental disorders. I recently posted to this Liberty subreddit experiences of harassment by Vancouver's police and fire departments (Vancouver, BC, Canada). I’m the fellow who was repeatedly ordered by police to stay out of Vancouver’s Stanley Park, and was continually harassed whenever I visited the park (which I do every second day on my early morning walks). Immediately following that post, they changed some of the techniques they use in my case. They were either informed of my post or found it themselves, seeing as my internet activity, and phone activity for that matter, are under continuous surveillance (plenty of proof which I will not include here to avoid running off-topic). In this post, I would like to shed some light on other harassment which is still ongoing, since it occurs in private, away from potential observers. It involves the Canadian and US militaries. Havana Syndrome In 2016, numerous employees of the Canadian and US embassies in Havana, Cuba, started experiencing head injuries ranging from mild headaches to concussions. It happened in their sleep, and came to be called Havana Syndrome. Wikipedia explains (https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Havana\_syndrome): “Havana syndrome is a cluster of idiopathic symptoms experienced mostly abroad by U.S. government officials and military personnel. The symptoms range in severity from pain and ringing in the ears to cognitive dysfunction and were first reported in 2016 by U.S. and Canadian embassy staff in Havana, Cuba. Beginning in 2017, more people, including U.S. intelligence and military personnel and their families, reported having these symptoms in other places, such as China, India, Europe, and Washington, D.C. The U.S. Department of State, Department of Defense, and other federal entities have called the events "Anomalous Health Incidents" (AHI). Of over a thousand purported cases, the majority of US investigative bodies found only a few dozen cases to be suspicious.” Ladies and gentlemen, I can tell you exactly what happens, because I have been experiencing this since I first joined the Canadian military back in 2002, and am still experiencing these “torments” (as I call them) to this day, already 3 years after leaving the military. I go to bed. In about 15 minutes, just as I am on the cusp of falling asleep, a hear and feel a heavy thud reverberate and ultimately strike my skull. My body releases a sharp burst of adrenalin, my heart starts racing, and my blood’s circulation speeds up significantly. Depending on the severity of the blow, it can take me anywhere from 30 minutes to an hour to fall asleep again. Though there have been times I could not return to sleep for more than 2 hours. A strong headache is felt immediately, and lasts for hours. There have been times when my heart felt like it was going to burst, having been startled as such. The pulse to the head sometimes reverberates through the wall and my bed’s headboard. I distinctly feel as though I have been hit on the top of my skull. At other times, it feels as though the pulse has come through the air, striking the side of my skull. This is not a sleep disorder, for it does not occur regularly. At times, my sleep is disturbed in this manner 3 or 4 days in a row. At other times, there is no disturbance for up to a week. But they never let me go more than a week without such interruptions to my sleep. Neither is it sleep apnea, as I do not awaken gasping for breath. The pounding headaches, sudden release of adrenaline, and heart palpitations I experience are caused by external impacts of sound waves or air bursts. Sonic Weapons How these pulses are produced is not easy to identify. As Wikipedia explains: “Once the story became public, various U.S. government representatives attributed the incidents to attacks by unidentified foreign actors, and various U.S. officials blamed the reported symptoms on a variety of unidentified and unknown technologies, including ultrasound and microwave weapons.” Sonic weapons have been in use for many years by militaries, and by police in crowd control. As Wikipedia explains (https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Sonic\_weapon): “Some sonic weapons make a focused beam of sound or of ultrasound; others produce an area field of sound. As of 2023 military and police forces make some limited use of sonic weapons.” (Do not believe the 2023 timeline. The Canadian military has been using these weapons since the early 2000’s at the latest.) Wikipedia continues: “Extremely high-power sound waves can disrupt or destroy the eardrums of a target and cause severe pain or disorientation. This is usually sufficient to incapacitate a person. Less powerful sound waves can cause humans to experience nausea or discomfort.” The users of these technologies must also be using thermal detection equipment to monitor the target’s sleep. As I mentioned, I most often feel these blows the moment I am falling asleep. Body temperature drops when we sleep, and brain activity slows. Heat-detection equipment is likely being used to identify the point at which the target is falling asleep. Why they prefer to strike at the start of someone’s sleep as opposed to the middle of their sleep, I do not know. Perhaps their intent is to deprive the body of early sleep, limiting the amount of deep sleep available to the person before their alarm rings in the morning. Ordinary Hammers Not all such “torments” (as I call them) are caused by high-tech equipment. I have heard and felt distinct hammer strikes running along the 2x4 beams inside my walls. These strikes can be a single hard strike, or several strikes in a row. It is definitely caused by a person with a hammer because the intervals between strikes are equidistant in time; that is, the time spacing between strikes is not random and does not change from strike to strike, but is constant between strikes, exactly as when someone is hammering. And no, it is not someone hanging pictures at 1:30 am, multiple times a week, for years. On one occasion, when I was standing at my kitchen sink, I felt the floor-board directly under my feet pulse so sharply it felt like a brick had struck the soles of my feet. In this case, my military neighbour likely used a hammer to strike the floorboard on his side of the wall. It is the only plausible explanation. Surveillance This leads to surveillance of one’s activities at home. I have plenty of proofs of that. They seem insignificant on an individual basis. But when you put them all together, they present a clear picture of home surveillance. My laptop computer’s lid cracked one night, at the bottom left corner of the screen. The next day at work, I heard my military supervisor relate to another co-worker that the night before, his laptop computer’s lid cracked at the bottom left corner. I swear to the Lord in Heaven, I am being truthful. I tested my suspicion of being surveilled. At home one night, I blurted out-loud, “VW Passat. What an ugly sounding word, ‘Passat’”, I said. A few days later, my military colleagues at work started playing a card game at lunch, invented by one of them. The name he gave his game was “Passat”, and when he spoke it, he looked at me for a reaction. If you ever contact the Halifax military base, ask for the Claims Department and ask them if they are still playing Passat. On another occasion, at a time when I frequented the gym every second day for a few years, I suspected my van had been fitted with a listening device. I suspected so because a number of things I had spoken with people about on my phone while in my van (nothing illegal) were repeated by people at the gym in conversations among themselves. Too many times, parts of other people's conversations matched parts of conversations I had had with others while I was in my van. I already knew my phone was being tapped, but I also suspected my van was bugged. So one evening while driving in my van, I blurted out-loud a number of things I said I hated. "I hate (this or that)"; "I hate it when...". One of them was, "I hate when people chew gum with their mouths open." I then vocalized an exaggerated gnawing sound, "Gnaw. Gnaw. Gnaw." The very next time I went to the gym, 2 days later, while I was at an exercise, a fellow sat at an exercise directly behind me. And sure enough, he started chewing with his mouth open, vocalizing that gnawing sound, "Gnaw. Gnaw. Gnaw." I didn't look behind at him, because I knew what was going on, and I wanted to avoid playing into his hand. So he repeated himself again and again until I was done and moved to a different station. Now, honestly, who chews gum at the gym? You can't. Or you run the risk of choking for the heavy breathing, not to mention when laying down on benches. And with precisely the same exaggerated vocalized gnawing sound I had made in my van just 2 days prior. Their whole intent is to let you know you are being surveilled. They want you to know, as both a warning and a provocation. They want you to say something, to launch accusations, which they would readily deny, making you look paranoid. If you react too strongly, they could even have you diagnosed with some kind of disorder, and put you on medication, which further plays into their hand. (More regarding medications in the last section of this post.) This is why, as I mentioned in my previous post, they would park their cars shining their high beams on me as I walked past them during my morning walk. And why on some occasions, a group of 3 or 4 would exit their cars and stand on my path just as I approached, forcing me to go around them. They would then remain standing on the path until my return trip through, and after I had passed by the second time, then would then return to their cars - making it absolutely clear I was their interest. Their intent is not only to make me aware, but also to present themselves in close proximity to me, within easy reach, in the hope I would confront them, resulting in an altercation that could land me in a lot of hot water - 4 witnesses against me, all pleading innocence. Again, it is all designed to make you look bad, and to warrant some kind of legal measure against you - preferably a medical diagnosis, discrediting you in everything you say about them. If they can't refute your claims, their only remaining option is to discredit you. That's what all of these tricks are designed to accomplish. Who would believe anything you say, once you have been diagnosed with a disorder? There are plenty more examples. But who would really believe them? I’ll save them for the future. Home Invasion Both during and after my military service, I have had my apartments entered without any signs of break-ins. How? Lock-picking and duplicate keys. Indications? Missing objects; ie: money, phone adaptor, etc. Nothing major. Just something to make us understand we are being watched, and to make us understand what they can do. But it is always something small, something for which you would be ridiculed for divulging. Two more examples: I found my razor, which I always lay-down razor-end to the wall, turned around, razor-end toward me. Also, in one of my house slippers I found a small shoe sticker on the up-side of the heel. I had those slipper for years, and never had any shoe stickers on them. Yet there it was, clearly visible on the top surface of my slipper, not the bottom. Could I have stepped on a shoe sticker when barefoot in my apartment, only to have the sticker transfer itself to my slipper when I wore it? How many shoe stickers do you have laying around your apartment that you can accidentally step onto? If I had stepped onto a sticker in my apartment and had it stick to my heel, that means the sticky side was up against my skin. This means the sticker would have had to flip upside down such that the sticky side would then be down, allowing the sticker to stick to the slipper. Do you really think that happened? That sticker was not there when I left my apartment, but it was there when I returned. And it was the wrong sticker, wrong brand, wrong size. Again, what is their intent? To make someone look ridiculous so no one will believe them should they speak of other more sensitive things. Staged Incidents The above incidents clearly point to coordinated and staged events (at my work, my home, on my walks, etc). This is so frequently met with incredulity. "But that would require coordination on the part of so many people," the public dismisses. "They wouldn't do that." Oh yes they would, and they have, as explained in https://fightgangstalking.com/. Note the documented cases involving the Canadian Security Intelligence Service (CSIS, Canada's equivalent to the US' CIA) and the Royal Canadian Mounted Police (RCMP, Canada's national police force), which were reported in national newspapers. From https://fightgangstalking.com/ : “Disruption operations often involve tactics which are illegal, but difficult to prove. These tactics include – but are not limited to – overt surveillance (stalking), slander, blacklisting, “mobbing” (intense, organized harassment in the workplace), “black bag jobs” [home invasions], abusive phone calls, computer hacking, framing, threats, blackmail, vandalism, “street theater” (staged physical and verbal interactions with minions of the people who orchestrate the stalking), harassment by noises, and other forms of bullying. Many of these tactics were used by the FBI during its illegal COINTELPRO operations, as documented by stolen official documents and subsequent Congressional investigations. "Although the general public is mostly unfamiliar with the practice, references to “disruption” operations – described as such – do occasionally appear in the news media, even though that fact would apparently be news to the editors of The New York Times. In May 2006, for example, an article in The Globe and Mail, a Canadian national newspaper, reported that the Canadian Security Intelligence Service (CSIS) and the Royal Canadian Mounted Police (RCMP) used “Diffuse and Disrupt” tactics against suspects for whom they lacked sufficient evidence to prosecute. A criminal defense attorney stated that many of her clients complained of harassment by authorities, although they were never arrested." She can add me to that list too. For the Benefit of Others The experiences I have recounted here seem so trivial, so insignificant, they make you look ridiculous if you talk about them. But if we don’t talk about such things, no one will ever know about them. Other people have experienced the same, and are forced to endure such torments in silence. They need encouragement to talk about their own experiences, and so I write about mine in the hope they will talk about theirs, even if I do look ridiculous. The perpetrators are more ridiculous for doing them. I remember a military colleague being hauled away by military police one morning, as she was struggling and having a violent fit. A fellow on her floor told me she was throwing chairs at her walls screaming, “Stop it! Stop it! Stop it!”. When he mentioned that, I knew exactly what they had done to her. She was considered unruly, and was being watched intently. They wanted her out, and that is how they accomplished it. Through wall tapping and sleep deprivation, they push you to the breaking point. And when you finally lose control and do something rash, they pounce on you, and you’re out. Now she has a criminal record, considered a criminal when in reality she was a victim. Welcome to the Canadian military, and other militaries besides, I am sure. There are dozens upon dozens of experiences I could present. But who will really read them? Worse still, who will really believe them? I overheard my military supervisor in Halifax whisper to another, “Do you think he knows?”, after I had mentioned one of the many “coincidences” I experienced, but with a tone of my being aware it was not a mere coincidence. As I turned my face to my computer screen, I whispered under my breath, but still loud enough for him to hear, “Yes, (rank) (name), I know.” A few minutes later, as he walked past my desk, he leaned in by my ear and whispered, “We’re trying to help you.” I should have pressed him for answers right then and there, but you just don’t know how much trouble you can get into when making such accusations in the military. So I let it go. But I will never forget. Should anyone reading this ever decide to launch some kind of inquiry, I can mention names of over 100 people to contact, including military personnel, family members, neighbours, building managers, and others who have been contacted by military personnel with false narratives about me. They flash their ID’s and other credentials, and people believe anything they say. They turn family, friends, co-workers and neighbours against you, even recruiting their participation. Your acquaintances not only participate, but actually feel justified and emboldened playing tricks on you. It isn't their fault, though; they have been misled. I would reference them solely for corroboration. As a final thought, here are explanations of two military programs in which certain persons (sometimes military, sometimes civilian) are kept under constant surveillance, and are in some cases subjected to conditioning in an attempt to turn them into what is called a “sleeper agent”. Almost all of the tactics presented below have been experience by me, including constant surveillance (ie: my previous post here regarding being harassed on my morning walks) and sleep deprivation (as per the top portion of this post, which other military members in Cuba and elsewhere around the world have also experienced). Pentagon’s Signature Reduction Program See Newsweek’s article: https://www.newsweek.com/exclusive-inside-militarys-secret-undercover-army-1591881 Some excerpts from that Newsweek article, plus more background information on the Pentagon’s Signature Reduction Program, can be found here: https://fightgangstalking.com/ “The largest undercover force the world has ever known is the one created by the Pentagon over the past decade. Some 60,000 people now belong to this secret army, many working under masked identities and in low profile, all part of a broad program called “signature reduction.” The force, more than ten times the size of the clandestine elements of the CIA, carries out domestic and foreign assignments, both in military uniforms and under civilian cover, in real life and online, sometimes hiding in private businesses and consultancies, some of them household name companies. “…a little-known sector of the American military, but also a completely unregulated practice. No one knows the program’s total size, and the explosion of signature reduction has never been examined for its impact on military policies and culture. Congress has never held a hearing on the subject. And yet the military developing this gigantic clandestine force challenges U.S. laws, the Geneva Conventions, the code of military conduct and basic accountability. “…The signature reduction effort engages some 130 private companies to administer the new clandestine world. Dozens of little known and secret government organizations support the program, doling out classified contracts and overseeing publicly unacknowledged operations. "Federal spy agencies are using Americans to spy on their fellow citizens – the same approach to governance famously employed by communist East Germany." How to Develop a Hypnotic Sleeper Agent By Dantalion Jones / Masters of Mind Control The following “was” on the web, but has been removed. Surprise, surprise. But I saved its web files to my computer years ago, knowing that sooner or later it would be removed. I made a jpeg image of the web page as it once appeared, attached here. Note that I have experienced almost all of the tactics described below, including the stalking I mentioned in my previous post here (regular walks in the park), the sleep deprivation noted at the top of this post, and the surveillance and intrusions described here as well. Quoting the now-removed webpage: “How to Develop a Hypnotic Sleeper Agent” (from here to end of post): Amid all the conspiracy theories one of the most feared is that there exist "sleeper agents" in our society who are programmed to come into service when they are triggered by a phone call or key word. These alleged sleeper agents don't even know they are programmed to become saboteurs, soldiers, suicide bomber, etc because of the thoroughness of their programming. They are the feared "Manchurian Candidate" that the movies portray. The question is "Are they real?" If they are true sleeper agents there is no way of telling until they are activated. One can however theorize exactly how they are made. Indoctrination Using indoctrination a person can be made to embrace a religious or philosophical belief that would make becoming a sleeper agent possible. This would be a person so committed to an ideal they would be willing to wait patiently as a member of society until they are called into action. These people would know their mission and consciously hold it secret while interacting with the rest of society. Conditioning Conditioning is a repetitive process where the desired responses are enforced and rewarded and unwanted responses are punished. This can be done consciously as part of training drill and it can be done subconsciously using hypnosis or drugs to create amnesia. Hypnosis It has been demonstrated that hypnosis can create "amnesia walls" in which the subject has no conscious memory of what happened in the hypnosis session. It has further been demonstrated that hypnosis can give post hypnotic instruction to be carried out automatically in the waking state without the subject knowing it or questioning the behavior. What follows is conjecture and theory based on testimonials of people who were alleged to be sleeper agents and soldiers. Continuous Supervisions Continuous supervision doesn't mean that the subject is cut off completely from society. It means that they are constantly overseen and every aspect of their lives are managed (without their knowledge or consent) to support their hypnotic programming. This would include: • Repeated reinforcement of all hypnotic conditioning. • Handlers. Handlers are people who help maintain the subjects environment to maintain all the programming. They can play the role of family, friends, lovers, psychologists, coaches or any roll the subject perceives as supportive. The truth is the handlers are their to support the successful fulfillment of the programming and not the subject as a person. • Minimal sleep so that the mind/brain does not process all the sleeper conditioning during sleep. • Creating constant environmental challenges like unemployment or poverty. This gives the subject something other than their programming to focus on. • Frequent hospitalization. This gives overt opportunity to sedate the subject for conditioning. If the subject has a history of hospitalizations for mental disturbances all the better. No one will take them seriously. Joseph Cafariello PS... Today is the second day after this post (February 12, 2024). A garbage truck just slammed into my parked car. PPS... I finish writing this post because I am satisfied with its shape and content; not because of what happened to my car. It is similar to when you are reaching for your coat, and someone tells you, "Take your coat." Since you have to take your coat, your brain tells you it's ok to obey them, and you comply. They just created an instance where they led you, and you followed them. And your brain accepted it. It's a technique the military uses all the time. It trains you to accept instructions from that person or group. Done enough times, you become comfortable obeying them. I just say, "I take my coat because I choose to, not because you tell me to." It's important to make that clear, to block the conditioning and affirm our self-governance; not just to them, but to ourselves as well. Now our brain realizes we took our coat by our own choice; we are still in command. So too, I say regarding today's event. "Thanks for the warning, but I had already finished writing my post. I finished by my own choosing." UPDATES 1 & 2: February 26 & March 07, 2024: My apartment was once again entered while I was out. Either a key was used or the lock was picked. This may or may not have included assistance from building staff. Home invasions are included in the list of their techniques noted above, referred to as "black bag jobs". All tenants on my floor received new fridges a couple of weeks ago. I removed the tape securing the bins inside my new fridge, and also removed all styrofoam pads from the corners of the glass shelves when I repositioned them. The person(s) who have been invading my living space on a regular basis have struck again. As you can see in the photo below, the styrofoam pads on the corners of my fridge's shelves were restored when I was out of my apartment. I had removed all pads when I repositioned the shelves. Yet now they are back. It is a tactic used to undermine our observational awareness in an attempt to make us second-guess and doubt ourselves. The aim is to cause people to feel less sure not only of the things we have done, but also feel less sure of the things others have done. They want us to question the accuracy of our observations and memory. The idea is to train you to dismiss any anomalies you may observe as being your own misperception of things. Once they convince you not to trust your own judgement, they are free to do whatever they want to you, and you will simply accept it without questioning. UPDATE 3: May 18, 2024: Confrontations with individuals keep occurring, at times potentially violent. Following are just 3 such encounters as of late. 1 - Kick-boxer in the park: As I parked my car in one of the parking lots in Vancouver's Stanley Park one night, another vehicle drove up behind me and parked several spots away. A tall man exited that vehicle, and walked hastily along the path I always walk, down some steps to the water's sea wall path. I took my time and followed my usual walk, also down the steps down to the sea wall. The man knew my routine, and was in a hurry to get ahead of me. As I walked along the sea wall, I saw the same man sitting on a bench, playing a loud religious sermon in a foreign language on a device I did not clearly see. As I walked past him, he called out to me to stop and chat. I ignored him and continued walking past. He rose and started walking behind me. I opened my umbrella, turned, and walked past him the other way, returning to the stairs back to the parking lot. He also turned and continued following me. I started running. He also started running. I ran up the steps, as did he. Being taller than I am, his legs are longer than mine, and he quickly caught up to me on a grassy patch at the top of the steps. I turned to him and asked, "Why are you following me?" He did not reply, but stood profile to me, the same stance a kick-boxer uses when ready to kick someone. He was tall, thin, and in excellent physical shape as you would see in a kick-boxer. He did not speak at all, but was just waiting for me to make a move. I turned, entered my vehicle and left. The encounter continued with a chase through the park in our cars. Yes, that is correct. He chased me out of the park in his car. 2 - Told to keep quiet: The perpetrators need to operate with as little detection as possible, and they repeatedly warn their subjects to keep their mouths shut about their experiences. On another of my recent nightly walks, a man stood on the sidewalk ahead of me about half a block away, looked at me, and shouted into the sky at nobody, giving the appearance of being a homeless person shouting for no reason. He then started walking in my direction. I continued walking straight. As he passed me, he leaned into my face and shouted into my ear, "Shut the f_ck up!" I continued walking in my direction, and he resumed walking in his. The idea is to make it seem as though he is just a deranged man wandering the streets at night, shouting at nothing, so that when he shouts at me, any observer would simply dismiss his actions. But in reality, he was sent to send me a message to stop publishing posts like this, which I had done many times on many sites, and continue to. They don't like it when we reveal their methods. But the truth must be known. 3 - You'll be sorry: On another occasion, while returning from grocery shopping one afternoon, I walked past a man sitting by a storefront. He was clean-cut, wearing clean clothes, without any carts or wagons or any belongings of any kind. As I passed him, he asked me for some spare change. I replied, "I'm sorry," and continued walking past. He replied, "You will be." There are numerous other experiences, like two seemingly unassociated men standing on the sea wall about 100 meters away from each other, each of them spitting just as I walked past each one. There are too many experiences to mention. Looking at each experience individually, one would easily dismiss them as being unrelated and simply coincidental. But put them all together and a picture starts to form, like putting together the pieces of a puzzle. As I hand you each piece of the puzzle one by one, you dismiss each piece, saying, "This could be anything." And you discard it. You keep discarding each piece as I hand it to you. By the end of it, you look down at the table and say, "You have nothing." That's because you looked at each piece as a separate item and threw it away. But if you leave the pieces on the table as I hand them to you and do not hastily discard them, you will see they form a clear picture when put all together. We must look at all these events as a whole. Individually, each one could be anything. But when all of these experiences are put together and considered as a whole, they form an undeniable picture. Do not be quick to dismiss each piece. Leave the pieces on the table and look at the whole. The picture I present is sound. Remember, I have all the pieces; you do not. I see the picture more clearly than you do. https://preview.redd.it/we31ymcsm91d1.jpg?width=966&format=pjpg&auto=webp&s=3d56ac3dd3558a60d477ba9315104d1b66b139f8 |
2024.05.18 23:46 Glittering_Muscle_62 (SPOILER) Can someone please explain season 4 ep 10?
Hi,
I don't know if it's because I ended up pulling an all nighter binge watching this series but the series of events in ep 10 of season 4 doesn't seem to make sense. From previous episodes, we know that:
So here we can assume the ep continues from prev ep
2. (Flashback to 2 years ago) Port is finished + Hizuru arrives at Paradis Island
3. Hizuru talks about the plan Zeke made
4. Eren and Hange talk in the cell about the meeting they had with Hizuru + Eren notes how he has eaten the War Hammer Titan (same scene as point 1)
From 2 - 3 we can assume that Hizuru came to Paradis Island two years before the war in Marley and discussed about the plan that Zeke had made BUT THEN why is Eren and Hange talking about the plan in the present
5. Group of men talk about how Historia should have been turned into a Titan and fed with the Beast Titan (which was a part of the plan Hizuru talked about)
Considering what has happened so far we can assume that this entire plan was discussed in the present which doesn't make sense since of point 2
6. Survery Corps are making the rails + Sasha is alive
And now we're back to the past BEFORE the war????
Like what is happening??? Please send some help :(
submitted by Glittering_Muscle_62 to ShingekiNoKyojin [link] [comments]
I don't know if it's because I ended up pulling an all nighter binge watching this series but the series of events in ep 10 of season 4 doesn't seem to make sense. From previous episodes, we know that:
- Eren ate War Hammer Titan
- Sasha died
- Zeke is on Paradis Island
So here we can assume the ep continues from prev ep
2. (Flashback to 2 years ago) Port is finished + Hizuru arrives at Paradis Island
3. Hizuru talks about the plan Zeke made
4. Eren and Hange talk in the cell about the meeting they had with Hizuru + Eren notes how he has eaten the War Hammer Titan (same scene as point 1)
From 2 - 3 we can assume that Hizuru came to Paradis Island two years before the war in Marley and discussed about the plan that Zeke had made BUT THEN why is Eren and Hange talking about the plan in the present
5. Group of men talk about how Historia should have been turned into a Titan and fed with the Beast Titan (which was a part of the plan Hizuru talked about)
Considering what has happened so far we can assume that this entire plan was discussed in the present which doesn't make sense since of point 2
6. Survery Corps are making the rails + Sasha is alive
And now we're back to the past BEFORE the war????
Like what is happening??? Please send some help :(
2024.05.18 23:08 RightStage5749 Is it possible that I'm not trans based on a childhood event?
Since I was a child I showed myself to be a boy, even if I didn't realize it, I even cried and told my mother that I wanted to be a boy and that I wished I had been born one, I always fit in more with boys and identified with them, despite having female toys and having girl friends too.
In my state, we celebrate a special day typical here and we also wear typical clothes that are even separated by gender, women wear a specific dress and men wear a specific tie, beret, pants, shirt, and well, I hated the dresses and felt much better with the men's accessories. One day we went to celebrate this typical cultural day here at an event, and I went with the same men's clothing I always went.
I never bothered to wear them and I even liked, as I said, I hated the dresses and any typical feminine customs of our culture. But all of a sudden, as I was walking down the street with my parents, I started thinking "what if they're seeing me as a boy?" and I felt embarrassed, I felt wrong because it felt wrong, since I was born a girl and theoretically I should be one. I felt uncomfortable having that thought in mind, but then it passed.
It's as if I suddenly became paranoid about my men's attire for the first time, even though I never cared before, when I thought I might be mistaking me for a boy. I must have been about 5 years old in this story. Nowadays I'm the opposite, I feel uncomfortable and dysphoric when people see me as a woman and euphoric and comfortable when they see me as a man.
At the beginning of my puberty I hated my hair, I hated my face and body, I started covering myself with sweatshirts and men's clothes and I was only wearing a hoodie and one day a man called me a BOY in the supermarket, I must have been about 12 years old. It was a little awkward, but not uncomfortable. I actually can't tell you what I thought about it, because they had never treated me like a boy before. But it definitely didn't bother me.
I'm sure I'm a boy, but this childhood event keeps hammering at my brain and making me think that I'm invalid for this and that I may not be trans considering my annoyance at being mistaken for a boy when I was 5 years old, even though no one ever did that back then and that thought only occurred once. This really is something valid to question if I'm trans or it's something stupid considering it was just a child's thought and that I might be insecure about it because I thought it would be wrong for me to be a boy or something?
submitted by RightStage5749 to detrans [link] [comments]
In my state, we celebrate a special day typical here and we also wear typical clothes that are even separated by gender, women wear a specific dress and men wear a specific tie, beret, pants, shirt, and well, I hated the dresses and felt much better with the men's accessories. One day we went to celebrate this typical cultural day here at an event, and I went with the same men's clothing I always went.
I never bothered to wear them and I even liked, as I said, I hated the dresses and any typical feminine customs of our culture. But all of a sudden, as I was walking down the street with my parents, I started thinking "what if they're seeing me as a boy?" and I felt embarrassed, I felt wrong because it felt wrong, since I was born a girl and theoretically I should be one. I felt uncomfortable having that thought in mind, but then it passed.
It's as if I suddenly became paranoid about my men's attire for the first time, even though I never cared before, when I thought I might be mistaking me for a boy. I must have been about 5 years old in this story. Nowadays I'm the opposite, I feel uncomfortable and dysphoric when people see me as a woman and euphoric and comfortable when they see me as a man.
At the beginning of my puberty I hated my hair, I hated my face and body, I started covering myself with sweatshirts and men's clothes and I was only wearing a hoodie and one day a man called me a BOY in the supermarket, I must have been about 12 years old. It was a little awkward, but not uncomfortable. I actually can't tell you what I thought about it, because they had never treated me like a boy before. But it definitely didn't bother me.
I'm sure I'm a boy, but this childhood event keeps hammering at my brain and making me think that I'm invalid for this and that I may not be trans considering my annoyance at being mistaken for a boy when I was 5 years old, even though no one ever did that back then and that thought only occurred once. This really is something valid to question if I'm trans or it's something stupid considering it was just a child's thought and that I might be insecure about it because I thought it would be wrong for me to be a boy or something?
2024.05.18 23:08 RightStage5749 Is it possible that I'm not trans based on a childhood event?
Since I was a child I showed myself to be a boy, even if I didn't realize it, I even cried and told my mother that I wanted to be a boy and that I wished I had been born one, I always fit in more with boys and identified with them, despite having female toys and having girl friends too.
In my state, we celebrate a special day typical here and we also wear typical clothes that are even separated by gender, women wear a specific dress and men wear a specific tie, beret, pants, shirt, and well, I hated the dresses and felt much better with the men's accessories. One day we went to celebrate this typical cultural day here at an event, and I went with the same men's clothing I always went.
I never bothered to wear them and I even liked, as I said, I hated the dresses and any typical feminine customs of our culture. But all of a sudden, as I was walking down the street with my parents, I started thinking "what if they're seeing me as a boy?" and I felt embarrassed, I felt wrong because it felt wrong, since I was born a girl and theoretically I should be one. I felt uncomfortable having that thought in mind, but then it passed.
It's as if I suddenly became paranoid about my men's attire for the first time, even though I never cared before, when I thought I might be mistaking me for a boy. I must have been about 5 years old in this story. Nowadays I'm the opposite, I feel uncomfortable and dysphoric when people see me as a woman and euphoric and comfortable when they see me as a man.
At the beginning of my puberty I hated my hair, I hated my face and body, I started covering myself with sweatshirts and men's clothes and I was only wearing a hoodie and one day a man called me a BOY in the supermarket, I must have been about 12 years old. It was a little awkward, but not uncomfortable. I actually can't tell you what I thought about it, because they had never treated me like a boy before. But it definitely didn't bother me.
I'm sure I'm a boy, but this childhood event keeps hammering at my brain and making me think that I'm invalid for this and that I may not be trans considering my annoyance at being mistaken for a boy when I was 5 years old, even though no one ever did that back then and that thought only occurred once. This really is something valid to question if I'm trans or it's something stupid considering it was just a child's thought and that I might be insecure about it because I thought it would be wrong for me to be a boy or something?
submitted by RightStage5749 to honesttransgender [link] [comments]
In my state, we celebrate a special day typical here and we also wear typical clothes that are even separated by gender, women wear a specific dress and men wear a specific tie, beret, pants, shirt, and well, I hated the dresses and felt much better with the men's accessories. One day we went to celebrate this typical cultural day here at an event, and I went with the same men's clothing I always went.
I never bothered to wear them and I even liked, as I said, I hated the dresses and any typical feminine customs of our culture. But all of a sudden, as I was walking down the street with my parents, I started thinking "what if they're seeing me as a boy?" and I felt embarrassed, I felt wrong because it felt wrong, since I was born a girl and theoretically I should be one. I felt uncomfortable having that thought in mind, but then it passed.
It's as if I suddenly became paranoid about my men's attire for the first time, even though I never cared before, when I thought I might be mistaking me for a boy. I must have been about 5 years old in this story. Nowadays I'm the opposite, I feel uncomfortable and dysphoric when people see me as a woman and euphoric and comfortable when they see me as a man.
At the beginning of my puberty I hated my hair, I hated my face and body, I started covering myself with sweatshirts and men's clothes and I was only wearing a hoodie and one day a man called me a BOY in the supermarket, I must have been about 12 years old. It was a little awkward, but not uncomfortable. I actually can't tell you what I thought about it, because they had never treated me like a boy before. But it definitely didn't bother me.
I'm sure I'm a boy, but this childhood event keeps hammering at my brain and making me think that I'm invalid for this and that I may not be trans considering my annoyance at being mistaken for a boy when I was 5 years old, even though no one ever did that back then and that thought only occurred once. This really is something valid to question if I'm trans or it's something stupid considering it was just a child's thought and that I might be insecure about it because I thought it would be wrong for me to be a boy or something?
2024.05.18 22:51 RightStage5749 Is it possible that I'm not trans based on a childhood event?
Since I was a child I showed myself to be a boy, even if I didn't realize it, I even cried and told my mother that I wanted to be a boy and that I wished I had been born one, I always fit in more with boys and identified with them, despite having female toys and having girl friends too.
In my state, we celebrate a special day typical here and we also wear typical clothes that are even separated by gender, women wear a specific dress and men wear a specific tie, beret, pants, shirt, and well, I hated the dresses and felt much better with the men's accessories. One day we went to celebrate this typical cultural day here at an event, and I went with the same men's clothing I always went.
I never bothered to wear them and I even liked, as I said, I hated the dresses and any typical feminine customs of our culture. But all of a sudden, as I was walking down the street with my parents, I started thinking "what if they're seeing me as a boy?" and I felt embarrassed, I felt wrong because it felt wrong, since I was born a girl and theoretically I should be one. I felt uncomfortable having that thought in mind, but then it passed.
It's as if I suddenly became paranoid about my men's attire for the first time, even though I never cared before, when I thought I might be mistaking me for a boy. I must have been about 5 years old in this story. Nowadays I'm the opposite, I feel uncomfortable and dysphoric when people see me as a woman and euphoric and comfortable when they see me as a man.
At the beginning of my puberty I hated my hair, I hated my face and body, I started covering myself with sweatshirts and men's clothes and I was only wearing a hoodie and one day a man called me a BOY in the supermarket, I must have been about 12 years old. It was a little awkward, but not uncomfortable. I actually can't tell you what I thought about it, because they had never treated me like a boy before. But it definitely didn't bother me.
I'm sure I'm a boy, but this childhood event keeps hammering at my brain and making me think that I'm invalid for this and that I may not be trans considering my annoyance at being mistaken for a boy when I was 5 years old, even though no one ever did that back then and that thought only occurred once. This really is something valid to question if I'm trans or it's something stupid considering it was just a child's thought and that I might be insecure about it because I thought it would be wrong for me to be a boy or something?
submitted by RightStage5749 to Transmedical [link] [comments]
In my state, we celebrate a special day typical here and we also wear typical clothes that are even separated by gender, women wear a specific dress and men wear a specific tie, beret, pants, shirt, and well, I hated the dresses and felt much better with the men's accessories. One day we went to celebrate this typical cultural day here at an event, and I went with the same men's clothing I always went.
I never bothered to wear them and I even liked, as I said, I hated the dresses and any typical feminine customs of our culture. But all of a sudden, as I was walking down the street with my parents, I started thinking "what if they're seeing me as a boy?" and I felt embarrassed, I felt wrong because it felt wrong, since I was born a girl and theoretically I should be one. I felt uncomfortable having that thought in mind, but then it passed.
It's as if I suddenly became paranoid about my men's attire for the first time, even though I never cared before, when I thought I might be mistaking me for a boy. I must have been about 5 years old in this story. Nowadays I'm the opposite, I feel uncomfortable and dysphoric when people see me as a woman and euphoric and comfortable when they see me as a man.
At the beginning of my puberty I hated my hair, I hated my face and body, I started covering myself with sweatshirts and men's clothes and I was only wearing a hoodie and one day a man called me a BOY in the supermarket, I must have been about 12 years old. It was a little awkward, but not uncomfortable. I actually can't tell you what I thought about it, because they had never treated me like a boy before. But it definitely didn't bother me.
I'm sure I'm a boy, but this childhood event keeps hammering at my brain and making me think that I'm invalid for this and that I may not be trans considering my annoyance at being mistaken for a boy when I was 5 years old, even though no one ever did that back then and that thought only occurred once. This really is something valid to question if I'm trans or it's something stupid considering it was just a child's thought and that I might be insecure about it because I thought it would be wrong for me to be a boy or something?
2024.05.18 22:46 SamMorrisHorror Them Devils Part 2
Scott Masterson had first met Scarlett at a rooftop party in downtown Dallas. Their age and the time of year were both in late springtime, them in their mid twenties and the date in early May. He had on a sharp yet breezy blazer and she astonished in a thigh length sleeveless blue dress.
“Oh hey Scott I don’t believe you two have met…” his then happily married friend had remarked with a slow swinging open hand toward her.
“Scott Masterson…reluctant friend to this knucklehead” he said with a tight lipped grin, trying not to be so obvious with his instant rapture.
“Scarlett…a pleasure…”
Her hand was so delicate to Scott’s touch. They locked eyes. It was like looking back through centuries of connection, endless days of laying in the sun next to the Seine River, or rising to Hollywood fame in the 1940’s and only having each other who would understand the glory and the pain of it all, or generations of quiet, simple country love that would bear such beautiful, happy children that would go on to raise beautiful, happy children, all with their dark blue eyes. Yes, the memories of every love story since the beginning of time was swirling right there in Scarlett’s irises. Scott had to catch himself before he stared embarrassingly too long.
“Sorry Scottie here doesn’t get out often” his friend quipped, which Scott appreciated actually, it helped him snap back to professionalism.
“Well I don’t either…at least I prefer not to.” Scarlett’s words flowed through the air like a flock of rose petals.
“Hey, kindred spirits.” Scott was really sensing a rising energy out of her, they had barely broken eye contact.
“Well, I’ll let you two have at it, I got a wife around here somewhere. Hey…Scott and Scarlett…not bad, not bad.” His friend exited stage right with a sly chuckle.
“Nice guy…so…what are you drinking, Scarlett?” Scott looked around for the emptiest corner of the rooftop bar, hoping to find a nice place for them to be able to hear each other. This night had just become something.
“That depends, Scott…what do you like?”
Oh man.
Well, as you can expect, the evening blossomed into a beautiful, long winded conversation that etched a long list of similarities between the two. They both lived in the city, had never married, and had dreamed of stable, simpler lives far away from tall buildings and busy streets. The next morning Scott awoke in her arms, which warmed much deeper than just his skin. He could feel her soothing his very identity, his future, everything. Her arms were tailor made to fit his very soul, and he had never felt more safe and at home.
“Mmm…you can stay right here…” she whispered, eyes still closed.
“I will…I will”
They both fell back asleep, into a dream that wouldn’t end upon waking.
Two years passed and suddenly they lived that simple backwoods life, way out where acres of land far out-populated the few and far between people. They took a lovely home, which happily looked over a long backyard, right up to a lively yet mostly undisturbed river. Their only neighbor within a mile was an older ranch worker named Charles, who rarely made himself perceivable. Days were spent way on into town where they both had offices. They didn’t mind the commute. Nights were spent mostly like this night, cuddled outside near a lovely little fire, with a slowly shrinking amount of wine sitting between them. Enjoying their Kingdom. Tonight, however, would prove to be a special night, for many reasons, all unexpected.
“Honey, I’ve been thinking…” Scott began, sitting up and opening his hands to the warmth of the fire.
“Oh?” Scarlett also sat up, eyes widening.
“So look, Scarlett, the last two years have been the best of my life. An absolute dream…”
She held her breath, her focus darting between his eyes and mouth.
“Yeah?”
“We have everything we ever want out here. But…what if there’s more?”
“More?” She had envisioned this very conversation hundreds of times.
“Our dreams have come true, but what if we…made some new dreams?” Scott turned and embedded his eyes into hers. He burst into a big smile.
“Scott…I thought…”
“Nevermind what I said” he cut her off, which he always made a point to never do, but this was a good exception.
“I’m ready, Scarlett…let’s have a family.”
“Ohhhh Scott, oh Scott”
They hugged tight enough to where it hurt.
“Well, in that case, we may need to open another bottle.” She said playfully, bouncing her eyebrows twice.
“Excellent. I’ll be right up. I’ll put this fire out and then start yours up.”
“Oh stop!” She bounded away girlishly, up the snowy back steps and into the house.
Scott let out a big sigh that he could see in the cold air and sat back in his chair, taking in his decision. He really was ready. He had secretly been keeping a long list of names that he liked and that he thought would work in front of Masterson. Especially little girl names. He stared into the campfire flames, getting lost imagining the three of them sitting right here, a little girl resting securely in Scarlett’s arms, as Scott had found himself, and stayed within these past two years.
Suddenly his trance was broken when, from the road in front of their house, came the sound of a vehicle approaching at high speed. Scott snapped his head back toward the house to get a better listen. He could see, around the house and through the trees, a large truck barreling down the country road, its headlights racing and bouncing with intensity. In an instant, it had passed up the road and out of sight.
“Huh?”
Soon, after a moment of silence, another sound echoed into the night. This sound rattled Scott to the bone and tore all that was right in his world into pieces. A sharp, bellowing squeal. His eyes shot over to his neighbors house, which was about a tenth of a mile to his right but still had a couple dim lights on that he could see. The shriek seemed to come from there.
Then, more squeals. It was hellish. More than animal but not quite human. Scott stood up. He heard crashing and tearing and further destruction coming from Charles’ house.
“Scarlett!! Scarlett!” He yelled toward his house, where he looked and could see her silhouette behind the curtains at the kitchen window. She didn’t seem to hear him.
He turned back toward his neighbors. The chaos had gone quiet. Not a half a moment after, though, he heard something big barreling through the trees as fast as that truck had been sprinting. Running, running furiously between the two houses. Searching, hunting. Scott was taken aback so hard that his heel had caught the edge of the fire pit, throwing him down only inches away from severe burns. He had knocked his head in the whiplash, making him groan and take a moment to regain his bearings.
“SCARLETT!!!!”
He screamed out toward his home as he sat up, rubbing a quickly rising bump on the back of his head. He heard a loud breaching on the side of his house. The patio door. No. No. Then, all hell broke loose. Scarlett started wailing and crying and he could hear crashes of plates and glasses and deep guttural roars coming from the kitchen inside. Shadows danced in a frenzy from the curtained windows. Sounds of instinctual survival seemed to be thrown from Scarlett inside. Sounds of defeat. Sounds of agony. Sounds of insanity. Scott sprang to his feet, his equilibrium being more damaged than he realized after his fall. He had to catch his hand on a chair to stabilize himself. Scarlett’s symphony of pain had gone quiet. Soon after something burst back out the patio door again and off in the same direction as that truck before.
Scott struggled back up to the house, slowly climbing the wintered, crunching stairs that led to the patio. He no longer yelled for Scarlett. In fact, the only thing that came to his senses was the sound of his own heavy breathing. Everything else had been turned off, save for a heavy and sudden dread that he had prayed he would never feel. He came to the side of his house where indeed the patio door had been busted and forced open. It laid inside the kitchen, its hinges snapped like toothpicks. Scott, with eyes wide and twitching, slowly entered his home and looked into the kitchen.
He didn’t scream. He didn’t even change his breathing. He didn’t blink. He just got a good long look at what laid before him.
Everything was broken. The fridge was on its side, the door hanging open and food and drink scattered all over the floor. The table was upended, its legs to the ceiling. A chair was resting on the counter, possibly having been thrown in defense. And Scarlett. Oh Scarlett. She…was…everywhere. She was all over the floor. She was sprayed against the walls. She was stuck to the window. She was in the sink.
Scott gently walked through the carnal mess and sabotage of his world. Long ago he had known exactly what he would do if something anywhere near this bad were to happen to him. He politely stumbled through the kitchen, down the hall, and into the bedroom. He opened his closet door and lowered a fire safe from the top rack. He unlocked it with a passcode. 511, after that warm May date when he had first met Scarlett. In the safe was a Sig Sauer P320 handgun. Scott took it out, along with a box of bullets, loaded one into the gun, put the safe back on its rack, and walked out of the closet, sitting on his bed. Their bed. Where they should’ve been laying right at this very moment, working toward a happy future. Where he would’ve kissed her forehead and put a hand on her growing midsection. Where they would have awoken on Christmas morning to the sound of children who were way too excited to remain asleep. Where they would’ve grown old. Where they would’ve smiled at each other through wrinkles, satisfied with all the love they shared and passed on to the next generations. Where they would’ve held each other in deep peace as they finally fell asleep to this world.
“I will…I will”
In one quick motion Scott pulled back the hammer and stuck the barrel of that pistol right up against his Governor and blew himself away, far away, right back into Scarlett’s loving arms.
Jeremy “Smallmouth” Bassett quickly yet stealthily made his way back to his Uncle’s house. He hugged the sides of the dark country road, keeping his eyes and ears wide open as to notice any sounds pertaining to the event that he had just witnessed there in the field next to the huge blaze. His only thought was Uncle Chuck. His house was right on the warpath of that horrible thing and Smallmouth had to go to him and make sure he was safe. He dared not go back to his truck, which would bring a lot of unwanted attention. No, Smallmouth walked and walked and finally saw the lights of his Uncle’s house. He carefully approached the front door from the shadowed driveway. Suddenly it occurred to Smallmouth that something was very wrong here. The door was busted in, having been plowed through by something very large and very strong.
“No…no…no”
Smallmouth slowly entered the house. The kitchen and living room were a disaster, chairs and tables and bottles strewn about and shattered. Bloody hoof-prints covered the floors, each of them the size of dinner plates. Smallmouth heard no noise. He felt himself well with tears, his nose a faucet that he began to sniff up as he worked his way through to his Uncle’s room, the door there also being broken in. A small whine growing in his throat, Smallmouth peaked into his uncles bedroom.
It was all in tatters. The bed had been attacked and shredded, the mattress being ripped up and thrown about as if it were made of cotton candy. More bloody hoof-prints were painted all over the brown carpet. Smallmouth trembled and put a hand up to his wet face. He didn’t see a way that his Uncle was anywhere near alive, knowing what he knew about the monster that had been in this house.
Smallmouth slowly walked to the living room, to the only little table that had been untouched in the attack. It was almost as if the bottle of whiskey teleported into his hand from the overturned cabinet, unopened. He fixed that real quick.
Soon he was several pulls deep of the only thing in the world that he knew would make him feel better, even if only for a few hours. He found his pack of cigarettes in his coat pocket and lit one up, although he was indoors. What did it matter? He sat in a chair that he had turned right side up and set the bottle on the table and looked out the back window into the pitch black. He cried for his Uncle and he cried for the world. He cried for himself. He cried for broken promises and his own weakness. He drank and drank until his vision shook from right to left everywhere he looked. At first he didn’t even notice the figures on the back porch. Then his vibrating focus did pick up on them, but by then it was too late. It was so dark out there but in their outlines he could see they wore long robes and hoods.
“HA!! COME AND GET ME! HAHA!! YOU COME AND YOU GET ME!!” Smallmouth boasted with a delusional amount of courage.
A creak escaped from the kitchen and he drunkenly slung his head over toward it. Three more figures stood there. Or was it just one? Smallmouth was none the wiser. All at once the hooded intruders from both inside and outside began to chant a strange, twisted rhyme in strikingly low and dissonant harmony:
“A sliver…of liver…goes down…with a shiver… …and gives…your gullet…to gall… …but drink…the Cider…that drowns…the Spider… …and you…will be free…of it all… …so tighten the grip…that loosens your lips… …O raise…the bottle…of brown… …and wake tomorrow…to find…in sorrow… …ANOTHER…SPIDER…TO…DROWN”
Smallmouth groaned at them in dissatisfaction and turned his bottle up again and began to chug the whiskey. As he did they repeated the chant except this time it was louder and closer. By the time Smallmouth had finished his bottle he was quickly losing consciousness. This wasn’t just whiskey. As he closed his eyes he felt hands grabbing him from all sides.
Smallmouth pulled open his sticky eyelids. His head felt like someone had bowled a strike into it. Wind froze his face. The smell of sickly, wet iron stung his nostrils. His vantage was higher than usual. Way higher. He was looking out into another field, but from easily ten feet up. He saw an old church, formerly painted white but now a flaky pale-beige. He heard the friction of a quick pull of rope below him, matched with a slight, tight pain at his feet. He looked down. A red-robed figure was fastening him against a wooden structure of some kind. His feet sat on a small flat platform perpendicular to a post that went from the ground up past smallmouths head. He couldn’t move his arms, so he quickly shot his eyes side to side. They were also tied to another horizontal post. A cross. He was being tied to a crude wooden cross. His shirt had been removed, exposing a hairy, overweight belly. Smallmouth tried to speak, but all that came out was a slow, unintelligible grumble. He was still drunk. No, this was more than that. He was under the influence of something strong and absolutely inhibitive. He wallowed again, and took in a deep breath. The smell of iron once again hit his nose. He looked down at himself. He was covered in a thick, red liquid. That wasn’t just the smell of iron. He had been splashed full body with blood.
“Now now, young servant…” the figure at his feet had finished his task and took a couple of steps out to admire his own handiwork.
“Ahh…perfect. The picture of martyrdom. Yes, you will always be remembered, Brother Bassett. You are to be the first Saint of The New Bible.” He opened his arms in his declaration.
Smallmouth looked up into the cold night sky. The moon shown down, giving everything a midnight spotlight. It was a gorgeous waxing gibbous, big and bright but not quite full. Yes, he was in a great big snowy field that housed an old worn down church. From the windows of the church he saw candles glowing, showing dark heads and shoulders looking out to him, also covered in loose hoods, hiding faces. He was hanging on a cross about one hundred feet from the old church. In front of the cross was a partially covered pit, a couple of two by fours supporting double armfuls of branches and dead leaves.
The figure at the base of the cross put his arms back to his side. He was still looking right at the drugged Smallmouth’s dumbstruck face. Even with a veiled mouth you could hear the twisted smile in his voice.
“Tonight you will help us finally defeat this legion, Smallmouth. You see, it may have the evil spirits within it, but at its core, it is still an owned animal. An animal that knows its Master very well. An animal that will remember the smell of its Master. You, my friend, are covered in its Master right now. And you are hanging on a cross, the symbol of this brute’s most hated enemy. But take heart, young Brother. Before you is our pit of spears. Yes you will attract the beast, but our Divine plan will intercept it and the beast will fall and be pierced. And then, oh dear brother, you will forever be immortalized. You will be purified in fire by the hands of your church brethren. Out of your screams and into the smoke the iniquities of all will be released. We will go on to preach your good example and your sainthood forever and ever.”
Smallmouth began to drool and hum pathetically. He could hear and understand the words of the robed man but he couldn’t fight back. His body was useless, limp inside its rope confines. All he could do now is think, and watch, and wait, and dread his fate.
The figure turned away from him, walking over near the pit and gathering up a bundle of brambles and throwing them over the last open area, covering it completely. He then crunched through the snow over to the front door of the old church, groaning open the door. He stood at the dark doorway for a few seconds in silence, and then began to make a noise. An over exaggerated pig squealing noise, high pitched and infuriating. Soon after other voices from inside the church began to do the same, their wailing echoing out of the building and all across the field, loudly signaling, calling out. It may as well have been a dinner bell. Not a half minute after they began the distress signal it was loudly answered by a distant squall. A furious squall.
This was it. Either way it happened Smallmouth was about to die. Experience terror, and then die, and not even have the ability to put up any kind of defense. It wasn’t fair. He just slowly lifted up his head and watched out far into the moonlit, white field. He then raised his heavy head further and took a good gander at the moon and stars for the last time.
“God,” he thought to himself, still having full inner monologue yet no outer motor function, “I am so sorry. I am so sorry for being what I am. I am so sorry for ending up in this place. It’s only my own fault. If it wasn’t for me being so stupid and messy and drunk and terrible then this wouldnt be happening to me.”
He began to shed tears that washed lines into the blood on his face.
“Please forgive me God. Please, please, please forgive me for all of my sins. This is it. I’m gonna die. I’m gonna die. PLEASE FORGIVE ME!!!!” He yelled inside his own mind, hoping and trying to send his silent words as far up into heaven as they could go.
He lowered his eyes back to the ground. He looked over at the church again. The windows were empty, the candles were extinguished. Those hooded cowards were hiding from their own handmade sacrificial service. All was quiet for a long pause until a much louder, closer bleating began at the edge of the forest not even three hundred feet away from Smallmouth’s glazed over eyes. It was time, and it was too late for a miracle.
Out of the woods, slowly and heavily, stomped the massive hog. As it marched closer and closer Smallmouth could see its white, boiled over eyes and black-burnt skin. Its jaws were flying open and snapping its sharp, pocket knife-sized teeth together in an intimidating “clack”. It was now less than a hundred feet away, the dark old church to its right shoulder. It stopped, its pale glowing eyes fixed right on Smallmouth on the crude cross. It truly was a monster. It stood as tall as a man and as long as a canoe. Around its murderous mouth were stains of red, the remnants of all that it had taken from the world on this unholy night. In its clanging jaws were bits of flesh. It snorted and scowled.
Then, in a fury, it wailed that horrible squeal and started off into a dead sprint. It galloped and galloped toward Smallmouth at a high, blistering speed. It kept yawping and howling as it cut the distance from the cross down to fifty feet, forty feet, thirty, twenty. All at once it passed over the covered pit and plunged in. In his doomed, dead eyed stupor Smallmouth could hear what sounded like paint being dumped from a rooftop onto concrete. Trails of black liquid squirted and splashed up from the pit, which had been uncovered in the fall of the beast. Unbelieving, Smallmouth saw dozens of steel spear tips standing up from the dug-in ground. Right in the middle of them the beast was stuck. The sheer weight of the animal had caused the spears to pierce through its tough skin, sticking out of its back, soaked in black blood. One spear had stabbed right under the hogs chin, passing up through its jaws and out its black snout. It made agonized sounds. It roared and roared and shook the spears inside it, beginning furiously, then growing weaker and weaker within seconds. Finally, it let out one last weak little squeal, before it went still and quiet.
Smallmouth was frozen both physically by drugs and constraints and mentally by shock. His mouth hung open toward the pit of spears, his vision blurry. He took in a deep, troubled breath and let out a moan of disbelief and relief. The old church doors sprang open, and the sound of jubilation within flowed out into the night. The red robed figures flocked out of the building toward the pit, arms raised in celebration. They surrounded the hole, getting a good look at their success and their enemies defeat. Some held additional spears and began further stabbing the dead animal, causing more black blood to be shed up at them. They all yelled loudly and triumphantly. Some danced around the pit. Some skipped over to Smallmouth on the cross and danced around him, slapping his legs and spinning in circles.
Smallmouth looked on at the raucous celebration, both in utter disbelief of their trap actually working and also in turmoil. How long now until they fully execute their plan.
A taller robed man, whose voice matched the same one who spoke to Smallmouth as he tied his feet, spoke up, sounding almost happily intoxicated.
“Ahh yes my Brothers!! It is done!! We have won!!!”
They all whooped and cheered.
“Brother Norman, go into the church and bring me the small tank of fuel. Let us send our dear Saint Bassett to the Holy lands, where he will be adored for all eternity!”
They all clapped and hollered. One figure began childishly skipping away from the pit and over toward the front door of the church.
Then, it happened.
From the pit all of a sudden a great blaze erupted instantly. It stood as tall as the cross, and it burned a furious red and blue. It raged and raged, blinding Smallmouth and making him clumsily turn his face away from the heat.
All of the figures panicked, screaming and scattering away toward the church. They didn’t get far. Up from the fiery pit, dozens of long, long, black arms, adorned with six hooking claws emerged and stretched out of the flames and latched on to the legs of those trying to escape. Smallmouth heard crying and wailing from the men as the black, razor clawed-hands of the legion grabbed them and began pulling them back, into the blazes. One by one the red robed people were dragged into the flames, their clothes catching instantly. Smallmouth could see violently shaking bodies in the evil furnace. Oh, the screams. Above the tortured howling, the sound of laughing broke out. Deep, menacing laughter, hundreds of voices, echoed up into the air from the burning hole. Then, in one extinguishing squeeze, the ground swallowed the entirety of the fiery pit, leaving it completely covered in dirt, still and quiet. Soon after, and just like the pit of spears, the old church building caught in an instant and raging fire, quickly toppling the walls and dropping the steeple into its ruins. The smoke towered high in the night sky, which had just began to hint at a pale morning blue. Smallmouth hung on his cross in utter horror and surprise.
As the late evening hours glowed into early morning the smoke eventually tapered off, as Smallmouth’s drugs finally began to wear off as well. The fires of the church did garner long distance attention, though. Just as Smallmouth was able to regain control of his muscles and voice he heard emergency sirens call out into the cold morning air. Not long after, two fire trucks, an ambulance and a sheriffs truck tore into the field and toward Smallmouth on the cross. Not long after Smallmouth could feel the tied ropes being cut loose by firemen, their uniforms easily the best red clothes he had seen all night.
“What on God’s green Earth happened here son?” A bearded man with a dark hat and brown shirt and pants asked Smallmouth once he had been lowered down from the cross and sat on the ground with a shock blanket around his shoulders. The Sheriff, no doubt.
“God’s green Earth. It really is God’s, isn’t it?” Smallmouth whispered, staring out across the cold field. Then, at the very place he was staring, an old, familiar truck came barreling out of the gravel road in the woods and through the field in the steadily growing morning light. It was Uncle Chuck’s truck. It hurried over toward the other emergency vehicles, parked, the driver’s side door burst open, and Uncle Chuck came bounding out over to Smallmouth, his eyes wide and his mouth a wonderfully shocked “O”.
“JEREMY! JEREMY!!!” He basically fell on Smallmouth in a tight, warm hug. Smallmouth was caught off guard by Chuck using his real name.
His Uncle held him for several seconds and then let up, but kept his hands on Smallmouth’s shoulders.
“I thought you were dead.” Both of them said at almost the exact same time.
“I came back and your house was a mess and there was blood everywhere. I thought you were dead.” Smallmouth weakly spat out.
“Well, I woke up and you were gone, son, so I walked to the ranch to get my truck. I was worried bout ya son. I came back home and the whole place had been turned upside down. Blood on the carpet. I just thought the worst. Then I tried my neighbors house. Buddy, they’re dead. Looks like some wacko murder-suicide if I ever saw one. Scott probably tried to come kill us too and wrecked the place when he found it empty. I don’t know. But what I DO know is that you are right here! You are okay Jeremy!! Ahhh Praise Jesus!!”
“It’s not that, Uncle. That isn’t what happened out here. It’s..it was a..a, uh…”
Smallmouth’s fried brain couldn’t even comprehend what he had witnessed over the past few hours. It was all a violent blur.
“Dont worry bout it son, you can tell me everything on the way to the hospital. We gotta go get you checked out and cleaned up. C’mon.” He helped Smallmouth up and they walked over to the ambulance, his Uncle’s arm thrown around his shoulder.
Smallmouth would be sent home later that afternoon. It would take him and his Uncle a long time to sort through the chaos of that deadly night and rebuild their lives. But life kept on. Smallmouth would remain living with his Uncle, and would begin a job working with him down at the ranch. Together they started to attend a local church. Smallmouth never touched a drink or a drug or even a cigarette ever again, and remained steadfast in his newly revitalized faith.
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“Oh hey Scott I don’t believe you two have met…” his then happily married friend had remarked with a slow swinging open hand toward her.
“Scott Masterson…reluctant friend to this knucklehead” he said with a tight lipped grin, trying not to be so obvious with his instant rapture.
“Scarlett…a pleasure…”
Her hand was so delicate to Scott’s touch. They locked eyes. It was like looking back through centuries of connection, endless days of laying in the sun next to the Seine River, or rising to Hollywood fame in the 1940’s and only having each other who would understand the glory and the pain of it all, or generations of quiet, simple country love that would bear such beautiful, happy children that would go on to raise beautiful, happy children, all with their dark blue eyes. Yes, the memories of every love story since the beginning of time was swirling right there in Scarlett’s irises. Scott had to catch himself before he stared embarrassingly too long.
“Sorry Scottie here doesn’t get out often” his friend quipped, which Scott appreciated actually, it helped him snap back to professionalism.
“Well I don’t either…at least I prefer not to.” Scarlett’s words flowed through the air like a flock of rose petals.
“Hey, kindred spirits.” Scott was really sensing a rising energy out of her, they had barely broken eye contact.
“Well, I’ll let you two have at it, I got a wife around here somewhere. Hey…Scott and Scarlett…not bad, not bad.” His friend exited stage right with a sly chuckle.
“Nice guy…so…what are you drinking, Scarlett?” Scott looked around for the emptiest corner of the rooftop bar, hoping to find a nice place for them to be able to hear each other. This night had just become something.
“That depends, Scott…what do you like?”
Oh man.
Well, as you can expect, the evening blossomed into a beautiful, long winded conversation that etched a long list of similarities between the two. They both lived in the city, had never married, and had dreamed of stable, simpler lives far away from tall buildings and busy streets. The next morning Scott awoke in her arms, which warmed much deeper than just his skin. He could feel her soothing his very identity, his future, everything. Her arms were tailor made to fit his very soul, and he had never felt more safe and at home.
“Mmm…you can stay right here…” she whispered, eyes still closed.
“I will…I will”
They both fell back asleep, into a dream that wouldn’t end upon waking.
Two years passed and suddenly they lived that simple backwoods life, way out where acres of land far out-populated the few and far between people. They took a lovely home, which happily looked over a long backyard, right up to a lively yet mostly undisturbed river. Their only neighbor within a mile was an older ranch worker named Charles, who rarely made himself perceivable. Days were spent way on into town where they both had offices. They didn’t mind the commute. Nights were spent mostly like this night, cuddled outside near a lovely little fire, with a slowly shrinking amount of wine sitting between them. Enjoying their Kingdom. Tonight, however, would prove to be a special night, for many reasons, all unexpected.
“Honey, I’ve been thinking…” Scott began, sitting up and opening his hands to the warmth of the fire.
“Oh?” Scarlett also sat up, eyes widening.
“So look, Scarlett, the last two years have been the best of my life. An absolute dream…”
She held her breath, her focus darting between his eyes and mouth.
“Yeah?”
“We have everything we ever want out here. But…what if there’s more?”
“More?” She had envisioned this very conversation hundreds of times.
“Our dreams have come true, but what if we…made some new dreams?” Scott turned and embedded his eyes into hers. He burst into a big smile.
“Scott…I thought…”
“Nevermind what I said” he cut her off, which he always made a point to never do, but this was a good exception.
“I’m ready, Scarlett…let’s have a family.”
“Ohhhh Scott, oh Scott”
They hugged tight enough to where it hurt.
“Well, in that case, we may need to open another bottle.” She said playfully, bouncing her eyebrows twice.
“Excellent. I’ll be right up. I’ll put this fire out and then start yours up.”
“Oh stop!” She bounded away girlishly, up the snowy back steps and into the house.
Scott let out a big sigh that he could see in the cold air and sat back in his chair, taking in his decision. He really was ready. He had secretly been keeping a long list of names that he liked and that he thought would work in front of Masterson. Especially little girl names. He stared into the campfire flames, getting lost imagining the three of them sitting right here, a little girl resting securely in Scarlett’s arms, as Scott had found himself, and stayed within these past two years.
Suddenly his trance was broken when, from the road in front of their house, came the sound of a vehicle approaching at high speed. Scott snapped his head back toward the house to get a better listen. He could see, around the house and through the trees, a large truck barreling down the country road, its headlights racing and bouncing with intensity. In an instant, it had passed up the road and out of sight.
“Huh?”
Soon, after a moment of silence, another sound echoed into the night. This sound rattled Scott to the bone and tore all that was right in his world into pieces. A sharp, bellowing squeal. His eyes shot over to his neighbors house, which was about a tenth of a mile to his right but still had a couple dim lights on that he could see. The shriek seemed to come from there.
Then, more squeals. It was hellish. More than animal but not quite human. Scott stood up. He heard crashing and tearing and further destruction coming from Charles’ house.
“Scarlett!! Scarlett!” He yelled toward his house, where he looked and could see her silhouette behind the curtains at the kitchen window. She didn’t seem to hear him.
He turned back toward his neighbors. The chaos had gone quiet. Not a half a moment after, though, he heard something big barreling through the trees as fast as that truck had been sprinting. Running, running furiously between the two houses. Searching, hunting. Scott was taken aback so hard that his heel had caught the edge of the fire pit, throwing him down only inches away from severe burns. He had knocked his head in the whiplash, making him groan and take a moment to regain his bearings.
“SCARLETT!!!!”
He screamed out toward his home as he sat up, rubbing a quickly rising bump on the back of his head. He heard a loud breaching on the side of his house. The patio door. No. No. Then, all hell broke loose. Scarlett started wailing and crying and he could hear crashes of plates and glasses and deep guttural roars coming from the kitchen inside. Shadows danced in a frenzy from the curtained windows. Sounds of instinctual survival seemed to be thrown from Scarlett inside. Sounds of defeat. Sounds of agony. Sounds of insanity. Scott sprang to his feet, his equilibrium being more damaged than he realized after his fall. He had to catch his hand on a chair to stabilize himself. Scarlett’s symphony of pain had gone quiet. Soon after something burst back out the patio door again and off in the same direction as that truck before.
Scott struggled back up to the house, slowly climbing the wintered, crunching stairs that led to the patio. He no longer yelled for Scarlett. In fact, the only thing that came to his senses was the sound of his own heavy breathing. Everything else had been turned off, save for a heavy and sudden dread that he had prayed he would never feel. He came to the side of his house where indeed the patio door had been busted and forced open. It laid inside the kitchen, its hinges snapped like toothpicks. Scott, with eyes wide and twitching, slowly entered his home and looked into the kitchen.
He didn’t scream. He didn’t even change his breathing. He didn’t blink. He just got a good long look at what laid before him.
Everything was broken. The fridge was on its side, the door hanging open and food and drink scattered all over the floor. The table was upended, its legs to the ceiling. A chair was resting on the counter, possibly having been thrown in defense. And Scarlett. Oh Scarlett. She…was…everywhere. She was all over the floor. She was sprayed against the walls. She was stuck to the window. She was in the sink.
Scott gently walked through the carnal mess and sabotage of his world. Long ago he had known exactly what he would do if something anywhere near this bad were to happen to him. He politely stumbled through the kitchen, down the hall, and into the bedroom. He opened his closet door and lowered a fire safe from the top rack. He unlocked it with a passcode. 511, after that warm May date when he had first met Scarlett. In the safe was a Sig Sauer P320 handgun. Scott took it out, along with a box of bullets, loaded one into the gun, put the safe back on its rack, and walked out of the closet, sitting on his bed. Their bed. Where they should’ve been laying right at this very moment, working toward a happy future. Where he would’ve kissed her forehead and put a hand on her growing midsection. Where they would have awoken on Christmas morning to the sound of children who were way too excited to remain asleep. Where they would’ve grown old. Where they would’ve smiled at each other through wrinkles, satisfied with all the love they shared and passed on to the next generations. Where they would’ve held each other in deep peace as they finally fell asleep to this world.
“I will…I will”
In one quick motion Scott pulled back the hammer and stuck the barrel of that pistol right up against his Governor and blew himself away, far away, right back into Scarlett’s loving arms.
Jeremy “Smallmouth” Bassett quickly yet stealthily made his way back to his Uncle’s house. He hugged the sides of the dark country road, keeping his eyes and ears wide open as to notice any sounds pertaining to the event that he had just witnessed there in the field next to the huge blaze. His only thought was Uncle Chuck. His house was right on the warpath of that horrible thing and Smallmouth had to go to him and make sure he was safe. He dared not go back to his truck, which would bring a lot of unwanted attention. No, Smallmouth walked and walked and finally saw the lights of his Uncle’s house. He carefully approached the front door from the shadowed driveway. Suddenly it occurred to Smallmouth that something was very wrong here. The door was busted in, having been plowed through by something very large and very strong.
“No…no…no”
Smallmouth slowly entered the house. The kitchen and living room were a disaster, chairs and tables and bottles strewn about and shattered. Bloody hoof-prints covered the floors, each of them the size of dinner plates. Smallmouth heard no noise. He felt himself well with tears, his nose a faucet that he began to sniff up as he worked his way through to his Uncle’s room, the door there also being broken in. A small whine growing in his throat, Smallmouth peaked into his uncles bedroom.
It was all in tatters. The bed had been attacked and shredded, the mattress being ripped up and thrown about as if it were made of cotton candy. More bloody hoof-prints were painted all over the brown carpet. Smallmouth trembled and put a hand up to his wet face. He didn’t see a way that his Uncle was anywhere near alive, knowing what he knew about the monster that had been in this house.
Smallmouth slowly walked to the living room, to the only little table that had been untouched in the attack. It was almost as if the bottle of whiskey teleported into his hand from the overturned cabinet, unopened. He fixed that real quick.
Soon he was several pulls deep of the only thing in the world that he knew would make him feel better, even if only for a few hours. He found his pack of cigarettes in his coat pocket and lit one up, although he was indoors. What did it matter? He sat in a chair that he had turned right side up and set the bottle on the table and looked out the back window into the pitch black. He cried for his Uncle and he cried for the world. He cried for himself. He cried for broken promises and his own weakness. He drank and drank until his vision shook from right to left everywhere he looked. At first he didn’t even notice the figures on the back porch. Then his vibrating focus did pick up on them, but by then it was too late. It was so dark out there but in their outlines he could see they wore long robes and hoods.
“HA!! COME AND GET ME! HAHA!! YOU COME AND YOU GET ME!!” Smallmouth boasted with a delusional amount of courage.
A creak escaped from the kitchen and he drunkenly slung his head over toward it. Three more figures stood there. Or was it just one? Smallmouth was none the wiser. All at once the hooded intruders from both inside and outside began to chant a strange, twisted rhyme in strikingly low and dissonant harmony:
“A sliver…of liver…goes down…with a shiver… …and gives…your gullet…to gall… …but drink…the Cider…that drowns…the Spider… …and you…will be free…of it all… …so tighten the grip…that loosens your lips… …O raise…the bottle…of brown… …and wake tomorrow…to find…in sorrow… …ANOTHER…SPIDER…TO…DROWN”
Smallmouth groaned at them in dissatisfaction and turned his bottle up again and began to chug the whiskey. As he did they repeated the chant except this time it was louder and closer. By the time Smallmouth had finished his bottle he was quickly losing consciousness. This wasn’t just whiskey. As he closed his eyes he felt hands grabbing him from all sides.
Smallmouth pulled open his sticky eyelids. His head felt like someone had bowled a strike into it. Wind froze his face. The smell of sickly, wet iron stung his nostrils. His vantage was higher than usual. Way higher. He was looking out into another field, but from easily ten feet up. He saw an old church, formerly painted white but now a flaky pale-beige. He heard the friction of a quick pull of rope below him, matched with a slight, tight pain at his feet. He looked down. A red-robed figure was fastening him against a wooden structure of some kind. His feet sat on a small flat platform perpendicular to a post that went from the ground up past smallmouths head. He couldn’t move his arms, so he quickly shot his eyes side to side. They were also tied to another horizontal post. A cross. He was being tied to a crude wooden cross. His shirt had been removed, exposing a hairy, overweight belly. Smallmouth tried to speak, but all that came out was a slow, unintelligible grumble. He was still drunk. No, this was more than that. He was under the influence of something strong and absolutely inhibitive. He wallowed again, and took in a deep breath. The smell of iron once again hit his nose. He looked down at himself. He was covered in a thick, red liquid. That wasn’t just the smell of iron. He had been splashed full body with blood.
“Now now, young servant…” the figure at his feet had finished his task and took a couple of steps out to admire his own handiwork.
“Ahh…perfect. The picture of martyrdom. Yes, you will always be remembered, Brother Bassett. You are to be the first Saint of The New Bible.” He opened his arms in his declaration.
Smallmouth looked up into the cold night sky. The moon shown down, giving everything a midnight spotlight. It was a gorgeous waxing gibbous, big and bright but not quite full. Yes, he was in a great big snowy field that housed an old worn down church. From the windows of the church he saw candles glowing, showing dark heads and shoulders looking out to him, also covered in loose hoods, hiding faces. He was hanging on a cross about one hundred feet from the old church. In front of the cross was a partially covered pit, a couple of two by fours supporting double armfuls of branches and dead leaves.
The figure at the base of the cross put his arms back to his side. He was still looking right at the drugged Smallmouth’s dumbstruck face. Even with a veiled mouth you could hear the twisted smile in his voice.
“Tonight you will help us finally defeat this legion, Smallmouth. You see, it may have the evil spirits within it, but at its core, it is still an owned animal. An animal that knows its Master very well. An animal that will remember the smell of its Master. You, my friend, are covered in its Master right now. And you are hanging on a cross, the symbol of this brute’s most hated enemy. But take heart, young Brother. Before you is our pit of spears. Yes you will attract the beast, but our Divine plan will intercept it and the beast will fall and be pierced. And then, oh dear brother, you will forever be immortalized. You will be purified in fire by the hands of your church brethren. Out of your screams and into the smoke the iniquities of all will be released. We will go on to preach your good example and your sainthood forever and ever.”
Smallmouth began to drool and hum pathetically. He could hear and understand the words of the robed man but he couldn’t fight back. His body was useless, limp inside its rope confines. All he could do now is think, and watch, and wait, and dread his fate.
The figure turned away from him, walking over near the pit and gathering up a bundle of brambles and throwing them over the last open area, covering it completely. He then crunched through the snow over to the front door of the old church, groaning open the door. He stood at the dark doorway for a few seconds in silence, and then began to make a noise. An over exaggerated pig squealing noise, high pitched and infuriating. Soon after other voices from inside the church began to do the same, their wailing echoing out of the building and all across the field, loudly signaling, calling out. It may as well have been a dinner bell. Not a half minute after they began the distress signal it was loudly answered by a distant squall. A furious squall.
This was it. Either way it happened Smallmouth was about to die. Experience terror, and then die, and not even have the ability to put up any kind of defense. It wasn’t fair. He just slowly lifted up his head and watched out far into the moonlit, white field. He then raised his heavy head further and took a good gander at the moon and stars for the last time.
“God,” he thought to himself, still having full inner monologue yet no outer motor function, “I am so sorry. I am so sorry for being what I am. I am so sorry for ending up in this place. It’s only my own fault. If it wasn’t for me being so stupid and messy and drunk and terrible then this wouldnt be happening to me.”
He began to shed tears that washed lines into the blood on his face.
“Please forgive me God. Please, please, please forgive me for all of my sins. This is it. I’m gonna die. I’m gonna die. PLEASE FORGIVE ME!!!!” He yelled inside his own mind, hoping and trying to send his silent words as far up into heaven as they could go.
He lowered his eyes back to the ground. He looked over at the church again. The windows were empty, the candles were extinguished. Those hooded cowards were hiding from their own handmade sacrificial service. All was quiet for a long pause until a much louder, closer bleating began at the edge of the forest not even three hundred feet away from Smallmouth’s glazed over eyes. It was time, and it was too late for a miracle.
Out of the woods, slowly and heavily, stomped the massive hog. As it marched closer and closer Smallmouth could see its white, boiled over eyes and black-burnt skin. Its jaws were flying open and snapping its sharp, pocket knife-sized teeth together in an intimidating “clack”. It was now less than a hundred feet away, the dark old church to its right shoulder. It stopped, its pale glowing eyes fixed right on Smallmouth on the crude cross. It truly was a monster. It stood as tall as a man and as long as a canoe. Around its murderous mouth were stains of red, the remnants of all that it had taken from the world on this unholy night. In its clanging jaws were bits of flesh. It snorted and scowled.
Then, in a fury, it wailed that horrible squeal and started off into a dead sprint. It galloped and galloped toward Smallmouth at a high, blistering speed. It kept yawping and howling as it cut the distance from the cross down to fifty feet, forty feet, thirty, twenty. All at once it passed over the covered pit and plunged in. In his doomed, dead eyed stupor Smallmouth could hear what sounded like paint being dumped from a rooftop onto concrete. Trails of black liquid squirted and splashed up from the pit, which had been uncovered in the fall of the beast. Unbelieving, Smallmouth saw dozens of steel spear tips standing up from the dug-in ground. Right in the middle of them the beast was stuck. The sheer weight of the animal had caused the spears to pierce through its tough skin, sticking out of its back, soaked in black blood. One spear had stabbed right under the hogs chin, passing up through its jaws and out its black snout. It made agonized sounds. It roared and roared and shook the spears inside it, beginning furiously, then growing weaker and weaker within seconds. Finally, it let out one last weak little squeal, before it went still and quiet.
Smallmouth was frozen both physically by drugs and constraints and mentally by shock. His mouth hung open toward the pit of spears, his vision blurry. He took in a deep, troubled breath and let out a moan of disbelief and relief. The old church doors sprang open, and the sound of jubilation within flowed out into the night. The red robed figures flocked out of the building toward the pit, arms raised in celebration. They surrounded the hole, getting a good look at their success and their enemies defeat. Some held additional spears and began further stabbing the dead animal, causing more black blood to be shed up at them. They all yelled loudly and triumphantly. Some danced around the pit. Some skipped over to Smallmouth on the cross and danced around him, slapping his legs and spinning in circles.
Smallmouth looked on at the raucous celebration, both in utter disbelief of their trap actually working and also in turmoil. How long now until they fully execute their plan.
A taller robed man, whose voice matched the same one who spoke to Smallmouth as he tied his feet, spoke up, sounding almost happily intoxicated.
“Ahh yes my Brothers!! It is done!! We have won!!!”
They all whooped and cheered.
“Brother Norman, go into the church and bring me the small tank of fuel. Let us send our dear Saint Bassett to the Holy lands, where he will be adored for all eternity!”
They all clapped and hollered. One figure began childishly skipping away from the pit and over toward the front door of the church.
Then, it happened.
From the pit all of a sudden a great blaze erupted instantly. It stood as tall as the cross, and it burned a furious red and blue. It raged and raged, blinding Smallmouth and making him clumsily turn his face away from the heat.
All of the figures panicked, screaming and scattering away toward the church. They didn’t get far. Up from the fiery pit, dozens of long, long, black arms, adorned with six hooking claws emerged and stretched out of the flames and latched on to the legs of those trying to escape. Smallmouth heard crying and wailing from the men as the black, razor clawed-hands of the legion grabbed them and began pulling them back, into the blazes. One by one the red robed people were dragged into the flames, their clothes catching instantly. Smallmouth could see violently shaking bodies in the evil furnace. Oh, the screams. Above the tortured howling, the sound of laughing broke out. Deep, menacing laughter, hundreds of voices, echoed up into the air from the burning hole. Then, in one extinguishing squeeze, the ground swallowed the entirety of the fiery pit, leaving it completely covered in dirt, still and quiet. Soon after, and just like the pit of spears, the old church building caught in an instant and raging fire, quickly toppling the walls and dropping the steeple into its ruins. The smoke towered high in the night sky, which had just began to hint at a pale morning blue. Smallmouth hung on his cross in utter horror and surprise.
As the late evening hours glowed into early morning the smoke eventually tapered off, as Smallmouth’s drugs finally began to wear off as well. The fires of the church did garner long distance attention, though. Just as Smallmouth was able to regain control of his muscles and voice he heard emergency sirens call out into the cold morning air. Not long after, two fire trucks, an ambulance and a sheriffs truck tore into the field and toward Smallmouth on the cross. Not long after Smallmouth could feel the tied ropes being cut loose by firemen, their uniforms easily the best red clothes he had seen all night.
“What on God’s green Earth happened here son?” A bearded man with a dark hat and brown shirt and pants asked Smallmouth once he had been lowered down from the cross and sat on the ground with a shock blanket around his shoulders. The Sheriff, no doubt.
“God’s green Earth. It really is God’s, isn’t it?” Smallmouth whispered, staring out across the cold field. Then, at the very place he was staring, an old, familiar truck came barreling out of the gravel road in the woods and through the field in the steadily growing morning light. It was Uncle Chuck’s truck. It hurried over toward the other emergency vehicles, parked, the driver’s side door burst open, and Uncle Chuck came bounding out over to Smallmouth, his eyes wide and his mouth a wonderfully shocked “O”.
“JEREMY! JEREMY!!!” He basically fell on Smallmouth in a tight, warm hug. Smallmouth was caught off guard by Chuck using his real name.
His Uncle held him for several seconds and then let up, but kept his hands on Smallmouth’s shoulders.
“I thought you were dead.” Both of them said at almost the exact same time.
“I came back and your house was a mess and there was blood everywhere. I thought you were dead.” Smallmouth weakly spat out.
“Well, I woke up and you were gone, son, so I walked to the ranch to get my truck. I was worried bout ya son. I came back home and the whole place had been turned upside down. Blood on the carpet. I just thought the worst. Then I tried my neighbors house. Buddy, they’re dead. Looks like some wacko murder-suicide if I ever saw one. Scott probably tried to come kill us too and wrecked the place when he found it empty. I don’t know. But what I DO know is that you are right here! You are okay Jeremy!! Ahhh Praise Jesus!!”
“It’s not that, Uncle. That isn’t what happened out here. It’s..it was a..a, uh…”
Smallmouth’s fried brain couldn’t even comprehend what he had witnessed over the past few hours. It was all a violent blur.
“Dont worry bout it son, you can tell me everything on the way to the hospital. We gotta go get you checked out and cleaned up. C’mon.” He helped Smallmouth up and they walked over to the ambulance, his Uncle’s arm thrown around his shoulder.
Smallmouth would be sent home later that afternoon. It would take him and his Uncle a long time to sort through the chaos of that deadly night and rebuild their lives. But life kept on. Smallmouth would remain living with his Uncle, and would begin a job working with him down at the ranch. Together they started to attend a local church. Smallmouth never touched a drink or a drug or even a cigarette ever again, and remained steadfast in his newly revitalized faith.
2024.05.18 21:49 botfarmoperator Am I wrong for thinking that Republicans are my enemy?
I was raised in a Republican household, and have essentially cut off contact with all of them because of my disgust with their beliefs. I'm sure they think I'm a bad person. But I can't tolerate associating with people who would support the Republican party. I consider myself an American patriot, and I weep for what has happened to my once great country,
The way I see it, the Republican party is already responsible for an attempted coup and terrorist attack on our nation's Capitol. Donald Trump engaged in a criminal scheme to overturn the vote in multiple swing states he had no reasonable chance of winning. He did this by filing frivolous lawsuits, organizing slates of fraudulent electors, and pressuring election officials to manufacture votes for him. He then lied to the American public that the election was stolen from him, denying the peaceful transfer of power up until and after the actual certification of electoral votes, where he organized a rally next to the Capitol and encouraged his supporters that he had lied to and enraged to storm it. He is responsible through word and deed for January 6th. He betrayed his country when he lied about a legitimate election, and his party renounced their oaths when over 100 of them voted to deny the certification of the election. It was a coup in form and intent. The only tragedy in this story is that Trump and all 147 Republicans in Congress who voted to decertify the 2020 election were not immediately tried and executed for treason against the United States.
Even the most violent and seditious organizations among the insurrectionists, like the Oath Keepers and Proud Boys, have been called political prisoners and hostages, with Trump promising them full pardons. Why should I consider the Republican party anything less than a glorified terrorist organization?
Let’s look at Trump’s own words here for a moment:
“If I run and if I win, we will treat those people from January 6th fairly, and if it requires pardons, we will give them pardons."
"I am inclined to pardon many of them...I can't say for every single one, because a couple of them, probably they got out of control."
He added that "most likely" he would pardon "a large portion of them."
So the most wiggle room you have here is, hey, maayybee he's not going to pardon every single one of them. But he's probably going to pardon most of them. And that certainly applies to Oath Keepers and Proud Boys as well, who all were involved in and arrested for their involvement in J6.
The definition of terrorism: engaging in violence for political purposes. The Republican party is by definition a terrorist organization when they fully endorse violence as a political tool.
At recent events, right before Trump walks on stage, his campaign has been playing "Justice for All" by the so-called "J6 Prison Choir" -- a group of men incarcerated for their roles on Jan. 6 -- singing the "Star Spangled Banner" as Trump recites the Pledge of Allegiance.
Treason. Pure, unadulterated treason.
The definition of treason: the crime of betraying one's country, especially by attempting to kill the sovereign or overthrow the government.
Trump's actions show clear intent to overturn the results of a legitimate election and install himself as President in defiance of the will of the people. This act would overthrow America's Republic and replace it with a dictatorship. Trump engaged in a criminal scheme to overthrow the American government. He committed treason.
Just because he wasn't charged with the crime doesn't mean the crime wasn't committed. With all the facts laid out this seems like a pretty unassailable argument to me. I'm not shocked the hammer didn't come down on Trump when he has the Supreme Court and the power of the Republican party behind him.
submitted by botfarmoperator to amiwrong [link] [comments]
The way I see it, the Republican party is already responsible for an attempted coup and terrorist attack on our nation's Capitol. Donald Trump engaged in a criminal scheme to overturn the vote in multiple swing states he had no reasonable chance of winning. He did this by filing frivolous lawsuits, organizing slates of fraudulent electors, and pressuring election officials to manufacture votes for him. He then lied to the American public that the election was stolen from him, denying the peaceful transfer of power up until and after the actual certification of electoral votes, where he organized a rally next to the Capitol and encouraged his supporters that he had lied to and enraged to storm it. He is responsible through word and deed for January 6th. He betrayed his country when he lied about a legitimate election, and his party renounced their oaths when over 100 of them voted to deny the certification of the election. It was a coup in form and intent. The only tragedy in this story is that Trump and all 147 Republicans in Congress who voted to decertify the 2020 election were not immediately tried and executed for treason against the United States.
Even the most violent and seditious organizations among the insurrectionists, like the Oath Keepers and Proud Boys, have been called political prisoners and hostages, with Trump promising them full pardons. Why should I consider the Republican party anything less than a glorified terrorist organization?
Let’s look at Trump’s own words here for a moment:
“If I run and if I win, we will treat those people from January 6th fairly, and if it requires pardons, we will give them pardons."
"I am inclined to pardon many of them...I can't say for every single one, because a couple of them, probably they got out of control."
He added that "most likely" he would pardon "a large portion of them."
So the most wiggle room you have here is, hey, maayybee he's not going to pardon every single one of them. But he's probably going to pardon most of them. And that certainly applies to Oath Keepers and Proud Boys as well, who all were involved in and arrested for their involvement in J6.
The definition of terrorism: engaging in violence for political purposes. The Republican party is by definition a terrorist organization when they fully endorse violence as a political tool.
At recent events, right before Trump walks on stage, his campaign has been playing "Justice for All" by the so-called "J6 Prison Choir" -- a group of men incarcerated for their roles on Jan. 6 -- singing the "Star Spangled Banner" as Trump recites the Pledge of Allegiance.
Treason. Pure, unadulterated treason.
The definition of treason: the crime of betraying one's country, especially by attempting to kill the sovereign or overthrow the government.
Trump's actions show clear intent to overturn the results of a legitimate election and install himself as President in defiance of the will of the people. This act would overthrow America's Republic and replace it with a dictatorship. Trump engaged in a criminal scheme to overthrow the American government. He committed treason.
Just because he wasn't charged with the crime doesn't mean the crime wasn't committed. With all the facts laid out this seems like a pretty unassailable argument to me. I'm not shocked the hammer didn't come down on Trump when he has the Supreme Court and the power of the Republican party behind him.
2024.05.18 21:36 Necessary_Echo8740 Attila is the most difficult total war and I love it
I’ve played all the total war games except for the war hammer ones because I’m really not into fantasy. But compared to all of the other games, Attila seems like the hardest in terms of managing your cities and fighting battles (on normal-hard difficulties)
Like, cities can either A: make money or B: happy and have food and be sanitary, but never both, unless it’s a core province that you’ve spent half the game carefully balancing and having only one religion. As soon as you take a city the happiness plummets, and you have to keep your full stack army there for multiple turns and spend a bunch of money rebuilding and replacing buildings just for them not to revolt.
This forces you to go to war carefully and methodically. You can’t just take over an empires worth of land in a single go, even late-game, because there’s no way to make enough money and have enough men to take on all that extra management at once.
And as for the battles, units route very easily and have severe vulnerabilities that lead them to be practically useless in certain situations, leading you to have to really plan ahead in your army composition.
The only complaint I have for difficulty is that siege battles are too easy, both attacking and defending. I think that’s an AI problem though. They don’t take full advantage of fortifications and choke points, they’ll put melee infantry in front of they spear line to defense a cavalry charge etc, and don’t put enough focus on protecting the general
Basically I’ve come to really enjoy the difficulty, because I end up role-playing, doing faction politics, and diplomacy way more than in Rome 2 and previous titles.
That’s it, just an appreciation post
submitted by Necessary_Echo8740 to totalwar [link] [comments]
Like, cities can either A: make money or B: happy and have food and be sanitary, but never both, unless it’s a core province that you’ve spent half the game carefully balancing and having only one religion. As soon as you take a city the happiness plummets, and you have to keep your full stack army there for multiple turns and spend a bunch of money rebuilding and replacing buildings just for them not to revolt.
This forces you to go to war carefully and methodically. You can’t just take over an empires worth of land in a single go, even late-game, because there’s no way to make enough money and have enough men to take on all that extra management at once.
And as for the battles, units route very easily and have severe vulnerabilities that lead them to be practically useless in certain situations, leading you to have to really plan ahead in your army composition.
The only complaint I have for difficulty is that siege battles are too easy, both attacking and defending. I think that’s an AI problem though. They don’t take full advantage of fortifications and choke points, they’ll put melee infantry in front of they spear line to defense a cavalry charge etc, and don’t put enough focus on protecting the general
Basically I’ve come to really enjoy the difficulty, because I end up role-playing, doing faction politics, and diplomacy way more than in Rome 2 and previous titles.
That’s it, just an appreciation post
2024.05.18 19:25 Omegarus211 Ragnarok: Second Coming - Chapter 6
 | Chapter 6 – {Awakening} submitted by Omegarus211 to ShuumatsuNoValkyrie [link] [comments] “What a sudden turn of events! Camulus has undergone a startling transformation, and has now suddenly gained the advantage! Can Henry come back from this? Or will Camulus crush him like the unstoppable force he has now seem to have become.” “What are we gonna’ do nowwwwww?” Goll whined, tears streaming down her face as she shelled up on the floor. Arthur looked at her sympathetically, as if he were a dad looking at his crying daughter. Kneeling down, he placed a hand on her shoulder and rubbed gently, trying to rouse her from her worry. “There, there, the fight is not over yet.” Arthur assured her softly. Snapping up into a sitting position, she grabbed a hold of whatever cloth she could get her hands on and began to shake Arthur as hard as she could. With tear now of anger rather than sadness, she began to shout at him. “WHAT THE HELL DO YOU MEAN, “The fights not over yet”? HE'S JUST TAKEN ON A STRONGER FORM, AND HENRY CAN BARELY KEEP UP WITH HIM AT HIS BASE LEVEL! HOW THE HELL DO YOU SUGGEST THEY GET OUT OF THIS ONE?!” He tried to get out a response as he shook back and forth wildly, “Just-keep-wa-tching-the-ma-tch.” As Goll had a meltdown up in the stands, Henry was struggling to stand on the field. His left arm had been rendered little more than a clump of bruised flesh and powdered bone, the mangled limb twisted at a truly sickening angle. The rest of his exposed form was bruised, bloodied and battered, micro cuts crisscrossed his frame alongside deeper gashes and rents in his flesh from the many blows he had endured over the course of the fight. And now he stood, staring up at his opponent, stronger than ever, like a stone wall, waiting for Henry to shatter himself on his now indomitable stature. And yet, the light still burned in Henry’s mind. Like an everlasting flame, the spark of warmth, of passion and determination still burned in Henry’s soul. He would see this fight through, no matter the odds stacked against him, or the forces that sought to block his path, he would endure. It did not matter to him that one of his arms had been mangled. The god could have a leg, if they wanted, perhaps even both. As long as he could raise his sword, he could still fight. And if he could fight, he could win. All it would take, is one good shot. “I would advise you to surrender now. Perhaps they’ll let you keep your life.” Camulus suggested, a deep grimace on his face. Planting his sword in the cracks of the stone, Henry propped himself up on the blade, his muscle screaming for release, yet he could not stop. He strained to smile, his eyes bleary as he looked at his adversary. “I’m sorry,” he declared, pride creeping into his voice, “but a King bows to no one, not mortal, and since the gods show themselves cruel and fickle, not even them. As a leader, I would be a disgrace if I chose any path other than battle.” Camulus processed his opponent’s words for a second, then a toothy grin stretched on his face, one of pride and excitement, but more worryingly, one of sheer bloodlust, “Then we’re of the same mind.” Camulus’ image blurred as he seemed to vanish into thin air. Confusion didn’t even have time to set in, as the god’s fist smashed into the plate of armour protecting Henry torso just below the sternum. The shock wave of the blow boomed throughout the stadium. Henry heaved as the hit knocked him away, but before he could go very far, a nanosecond after the punch, the sole of Camulus’ foot slammed into Henry’s face brutalizing his nose and adding more momentum in addition to the punch, sending him clear across the ring, crashing into the walls and the arena. Henry hacked up a glob of blood as his head spun for the 1-2 combo of devastation. Camulus sauntered toward Henry as if he were taking a stroll through the fields. The image vanished, before appearing directly above Henry in an instant. A wicked grin near split Camulus’ face as he began to hammer down on Henry’s form. All Henry could do was shell up in hopes to stave off the onslaught. The blows came in a million a second, embedding him deeper into the stone as the armour continued to crumple under the pressure. “It seems Camulus has this battle won.” Andrasta commented, her tone pointedly neutral. “Yes, but at what cost?” Cnabetius answered, his voice wavering as he was on the verge of tears. “The little one is right,” Caturix answered, “that form may give him great physical might, but it comes at the cost of a deteriorating mental state.” Lugh spoke up. “And you would know about this?” he prodded, trying to get more information out of the Battle King. Caturix’s jaw clenched as he watched the fight intently, his mind and body on edge from the brutal display Swinging his arm wide, he dug his arm into the arena and dragged it through the stone, palming the side of his opponent’s head and sending them flying through the air, before quickly crashing into the ground with a sickening thud. Seeing his fallen foe splayed across the ground, Camulus crouched down and tensed, as if he were an apex predator waiting for the right moment to strike his prey. Henry, meanwhile, was struggling to breathe after the bombardment of blows. He heaved as he struggled to rise to his feet, the misshapen armour now digging into his body at odd angles. His knees were shaking as the struggled to rise to his feet. In an instant, his adversary was again upon him, battering with every kind of blow at every angle one could think of. Punches, kick, elbows, knees, chops, Camulus even made use of the spikes and blades on his knuckledusters, raking and slashing them across any exposed flesh he could see. Henry struggled to withstand the hail of blows, each hits threatening to knock him over. He couldn’t dodge the assault, he could barely block or even see the hits. The sheer speed and ferocity of the onslaught made it nigh impossible to even find an opportunity to counter, let alone pull it off successfully. Camulus began to laugh uproariously, seemingly enjoying the punishment he was inflicting upon his prey, almost relishing in the game of life and death. Each blow forced Henry back, his will struggling to keep him from being knocked clean off his feet. A punch smashed into Henry’s stomach, making Henry wretch as he struggled to keep his stomach contents from being violently forced from his body. An instant later, an upper cut hammered into his jaw with the might of a catapult, launching his body high into the air. Henry’s head wrung like a gong as not even a moment later, Camulus was directly above him. Henry tried to raise his sword to strike at his foe, but he found it kicked away as Camulus began to spin, gaining momentum as he prepared to strike his opponent down. As his fists came down, for just a moment, the metals shone like diamonds in the sunlight. [Colchester Crash] This time, there was no defence, no counter to the blow. It connected squarely into Henry’s chest, as the blow slammed down both combatants like a meteor. The ground was blasted to pieces as small rock were smashed to dust in the wind, and largerocks sent flying in every direction. The building seemed to be cracking apart, sending both god and man alike into a panic as they rushed to either escape or stop the damage from becoming worse. The sound boomed throughout the entire Realm as the dust settled into a thick cloud that covered the arena. Several moments passed as the cloud slowly died away to reveal the carnage. What ever hadn’t been destroyed before the impact as certainly pulverised now. The floor was a mess, rock jutting up from the earth at random intervals, as if they were whales breaching the surface of the sea. Cracks like spider webs sectioned the ground, transforming the terrain into a grid of madness. It was from that chaos one of the combatants forced themselves into the light. The rocks moved and shifted, giving way to reveal Camulus almost completely unharmed. Physically, at least. Mentally it was clear that something was not right. His eyes were red deeply bloodshot and demented, his grin splitting his face as his teeth slowly grinded together. If his sanity hadn’t fled him before, it was certainly gone now. “Uh, guys”, Cnabetius stammered, “I don’t like that look he has.” “It’s quite worrisome.” Andrasta replied, a slight warble in her voice from fear. “Most worrisome.” Lugh added. Meanwhile, Caturix began to shake, the pace of his breath increasing steadily as he took in the sight, his worst nightmare come back to haunt him. ‘Dammit, I knew this would happen, I knew that if that form was released it would be the end for all of us.’ He remembered that day as if he were living it. The day when the true God of War was decided. The great battles of unification had taken millennia, dozens, if not hundred of God’s staking their claim as the one true God of War. It was an intense and bloody affair, but at the end, it had come down to two men, two unbroken warriors; The Battle King, Caturix and the Untameable Flame, Camulus. It had been a battle that had been brewing for centuries, and in Caturix’s mind, it did not disappoint. For days, the two warred, battering each other bloody with everything they had in their arsenal. [Magh Ithe] https://preview.redd.it/0r71zysrx71d1.png?width=1024&format=png&auto=webp&s=70dfb70dbc3ab6c98510e84bdf98f1576ee27fde [Cicollui Clothesline] https://preview.redd.it/pijyzwkiz71d1.png?width=4096&format=png&auto=webp&s=2ac76f796bdb6a771ae5610b9d04cad53d6a266a [Helvetii] https://preview.redd.it/20lqcvwjz71d1.png?width=4096&format=png&auto=webp&s=b61ff27d99b8dbfc33cbe1a5f4d86ab91cb94478 Caturix hit Camulus with every attack in his arsenal, yet the kid refused to fall, refused to yield. Instead, the young God only used each blow as motivation to hit back harder [Colchester Crash] https://preview.redd.it/ctfzhvxzx71d1.png?width=1024&format=png&auto=webp&s=69fe9294178bdd12e42c8ebec7681c8076beeaf8 [Gae Pretannia] https://preview.redd.it/09zykjugz71d1.png?width=1024&format=png&auto=webp&s=d294b99e7cf9aebfa054d983c93c8f7c279b7e25 [Sacred Fire] https://preview.redd.it/rudzl0z8z71d1.png?width=4096&format=png&auto=webp&s=6660480e1a6b17f44936e9c2ad18be239d1e433b Blow after blow, each stronger than the last. But just as Camulus refused to fall, neither did Caturix. Even [Across the Channel], professed by many to be the knockout blow against him was not actually enough to drop him, not on it’s own. In fact, as the battle drew to it’s close, it seemed as if Caturix was finally beginning to get the better of his rival. He hit another [Magh Ithe] flush into Camulus’s chest. How many he had hit at that point was lost to Caturix, he lost count after 36. But this time, after so much punishment, Camulus finally looked as if he was about to drop. ‘Just one more.’ Caturix thought tiredly, yet hopefully to himself. ‘Just one more hit, and he might finally go down’. Caturix moved in, charging up a final blow, ready to finally put an end to this. “Eat this! [Europa: Overlord]” He launched the move with full might. The mere force of the group rending it asunder. Only to find a fist connecting squarely with his jaw. Now, Caturix had endured the feeling of a punch countless of his millennia of combat. He had endured countless punches in this fight alone. So it it is all the more notable that this punches, out of the uncountable masses, was the one he recognised about all others. He remembered it for one simple reason. Never before, and never since , had any one blow struck him as hard as that one punch. At that moment, Caturix knew one painful, and consuming truth. He was going to lose. The Camulus struck with [Across the Channel]. Whilst the first one had been impactful, this second flurry carried with it far greater speed and power, too great for even the battle king to withstand. It was as if Camulus had gathered a second wind, twice as strong as before. The final blow smashed into Caturix’s temple, sending his brain spinning through several dimensions as the battle king, after so long, finally fell. Camulus was the victor. Yet he did not stop. Instead, Camulus leapt upon his foe with ferocity, like a rabid animal tearing at a carcass. He began to pummel the battle king mercilessly, wanting his pound of flesh from his opponent. It was here, up close, that Caturix could see the change his opponent underwent, the strange blue markings that were spread across his body like war paint, and his deeply bloodshot eyes. The beating was relentless, as the new monster sought to punish Caturix for daring to challenge it. He knew he had to do something to seal this monster that had been unleashed from with Camulus’ soul, lest he rampage throughout the Realm. [Sheathing of the Blade] Caturix stabbed into Camulus at specific spots with the spikes on his gauntlets, finding the vital points where energy was drawn from, and sealing them. He would not know whether it worked in the moment, as he passed out a second later. It would only be when he awoke days later, did he find out his success. It would be the first and last time he would fight Camulus for the top. Not because he saw himself as lesser, but because he did not want to risk unleashing that terror again And now, that terror was staring him in the face once again. He could see that same all-consuming desire for blood and destruction. He tensed preparing to fight the one thing that put fear into his heart. He was bought out of his thought by a loud WHAM that shook the stadium as Thor rose to his feet. The God of Thunder stared down at his one challenger, ready for that long awaited rematch. “Ah, w-well...” Heimdall stuttered, still feeling from the chaos that had just occurred, “It would appear that the winner of Round 1 is...” Camulus’ Attention was now laser focused on Thor, tensing as he prepared to leap towards a new opponent. “The Celtic God of War...” Ready, set- “Camu-” A breath could be heard from the rubble. It was a quiet, rasping breath, yet it could be heard with clarity across the entire stadium. Everyone froze as they realised where that breath came from. The rocks shifted as out from the rubble emerged the battered, but still living form of Henry V. “Damn, that was too close for comfort!” Lancelot huffed, still trying to get his wits about him, “You almost got pasted there, and that means we both would have died, you damn fool. Not like that matters much now...” Camulus’ head turned to regard the bloodied king, salivating with demented glee, ready for the continued brutality. “Since we’re gonna be dead in a few seconds regardless.” As Henry lay there, broken and bloodied, he could hear voices from the audience. “HENRY!” his father yelled, “Don’t you give up now, boy! You are the best of all of us! Show that god what's what?” “Let that god know the might of the English!” Henry VII shouted. “Show them what a real warrior can do!” Richard Lionheart roared. “C’Mon dad, you can do this” Henry VI cheered. Hotspur stepped forward, gathering his breath before screaming to the Heavens, “MONMOUTH! What do want to do?! What is your one true desire?!” “To win, my way.” Pushing off his good arm, he strained to sit up, collecting his breath as he did so. “Never surrender, never retreat.” “Oh sure,” Lancelot responded, the sarcasm layered on very thick, “and how exactly are we supposed to do that.” Henry slowly stood, carefully balancing his weight between the sword and his weary legs. “There is one thing we can do... just one.” https://preview.redd.it/30opimuez71d1.png?width=4096&format=png&auto=webp&s=8725c7ced4d0cd872401fed592c0d97a92102b10 Closing his eyes, he focused deeply, bringing out every thought every emotion he had ever had, then let all of them flow from his mind. He let complete and total calm take hold in that moment. There was no emotion, there was no doubt or second guessing, there was only truth. Absolute, irrevocable truth. The deepest instinct, the greatest of them all. “[Royal instinct]” Less than a second later, Camulus had leapt to within striking distance, ready to end his foe. But whereas Henry was completely overwhelmed before, now his clarity was absolute. He knew exact what would happen, how each and every muscle within Camulus’ body would move before they even did so. Henry knew what Camulus’ second move would be before he even began his first. Camulus shot out with a wild punch, which the more focused Henry deflected with ease. If he had use of his other arm, he may have even followed up with a punch of his own. Instead, he simply let Camulus’ momentum work against him. The god overshot, and was sent crashing into the ground a few times before slamming into the wall. As the crowd looked on in shock at what had just happened, they turned to look at the man who had done it. He had change, it was clear to see for all through the change on his eyes, once filled with brown tones, now a crystalline, pale silver. The sword had morphed to reflect this new state, reflecting the mind of a king. Whatever this was, it had shifted the tide of battle yet again. https://preview.redd.it/i40thhpcz71d1.png?width=4096&format=png&auto=webp&s=8e2d91981867bbda4480edf1c3da008a9146e66a “Damn! What is this?!” Lancelot cried, “I feel my head is full of everything and nothing at the same time!” “[Royal Instinct]! A fine tuning of the instincts within all of us. By using this we, can reject all unnecessary thoughts and information, both new and old, as well as higher awareness and clarity of vital information. On the absolute truth of the situation will be known to us, truth we’ll know before the lie can even be made.” Camulus soon broke his way free from the rock and charged. He leapt forward again, this time with an elbow, again deflected. Again, Camulus skid across the rocks for several metres, but this time, he was able to right himself and charge in again. But again, the resulting attack was deflected. This repeated several more times, each attack and recovery was faster than the last. But Henry parried them all with perfect clarity, as he bided his time for the perfect moment. After another parry, Camulus righted himself and prepared the blast into Henry at full speed, all thought of technique gone from the raving gods mind. Henry readied his blade for his own strike. The mere tap of Camulus’ foot sent shock waves through the ground as he rocketed forward and max speed. But Henry was undeterred. Swiftly parrying the blow, he brought his arm in and then swung out. The pommel connected directly with Camulus’ temple, sending the force of the impact through his head, almost seeming to paralyse the god, as he crashed and skidded across the ground limply. For the first time since the transformation occurred, Henry had seized the advantage. ‘Where the hell am I?’ was Camulus’ first weary thought after being shocked back to sanity. ‘Ohhh fuck, my head hurts worse than that time me and Cna went drinking at the place the humans called Mamucium.’ Taking a moment to clear the thunderstorm in his head, he scanned over the decimated arena, his dizziness turning to confusion. ‘OK seriously, what the hell happened here?’ Pushing himself from the rubble, he survey the situation, trying to understand what was going on. Then suddenly, his skull felt as if it was about to burst, and his eyes swan with illusions and distortions of reality, hearing voices whispering behind his ears. Camulus clutched at his head, forcing the thoughts down. After a minute of excruciating pain, he finally returned to reality. 'Dammit, what's going on with me? Focus! You have a fight to win!' “Damn, we might have knocked him out cold. I’m loath to say it, but I think you were right, we may have a chance after all.” Lancelot commented, almost in awe of the current situation. Henry chuckled, “Wouldn’t have figured you to be one to admit when you were wrong.” Lancelot froze for a moment, before scoffing at Henry’s comment, “Just because you were right doesn’t mean I was wrong, jackass!” For a moment, Henry laughed at Lancelot’s Haughtiness, before that cheer was replaced by boiling pain, as he dropped to a knee. Lancelot was confused for a moment, before he felt a warm liquid pour from his eyes. As he dabbed at his eyes, he saw the crimson colouration that quickly gave away what that liquid was. Blood. “What the hell is this? What’s going on?!” Henry stammered as he spoke, still trying to get his wits about him. “A-ah yes, t-here is a cost t-to using the form.” https://preview.redd.it/bzcy3g8vz71d1.png?width=1024&format=png&auto=webp&s=a7682905a9a922d062639ce0d01afe3c1fff92e6 “And what would that be?!” “Working the mind at such an acute level can result in overload if stressed too hard, or used too long. I’ve been used to using against humans...” “...and you just now used it against a god.” Lancelot finish. “Y-yes” “Jesus Christ,” Lancelot mumbled, “WHAT THE HELL WERE YOU THINKING?!” he them screamed. “I’ve made peace with the fact that even if I win, I likely won’t live much longer anyway. So right now, in this moment, I don’t care how much damage I do to myself, or how much time I have left is eaten away. As long as I have enough to win this fight, long enough to bring humanity, and the people I care for, one step closer to salvation, it matters not.” Both Camulus and Henry stood, readying their guard, their bodies battered and bruised, yet their spirits unbroken, they both knew one thing. Win or lose, this fight was nearing its end. |
2024.05.18 17:59 xtremexavier15 TMA 8
The episode faded back in to a shot of the Gaffers' platform being raised up to the roof by Scott, Ripper, and Chase as MK watched and Izzy walked over, wiping slime off herself.
"Uh, not to sound lazy," Scott said as he left the chain, "but I'm not feeling so good."
"You probably just have a cold," Izzy told him.
"Since when do colds have sores like this?" Scott followed up as he lifted his right arm and pointed to a round, reddish-brown spot on his elbow.
Izzy looked at him attentively and put her hand on his forehead. "Your body temperature is high, but it's possible that-" she was interrupted by a sudden burp from her teammate that caused her to cringe and take a step back. "Why does your breath smell like lemons?"
"Are you trashing my burps?" Scott asked in confusion.
"Hold on," Justin interrupted as the camera cut to him. "Red sores, fever, lemony burps? Aren't those symptoms of one of the diseases in the book?"
"Page 753," Millie exclaimed. "Mortatistical Crumples Disease!" She gasped. "And it's fatal!"
Everyone gasped. "Mortatistical Crumples is also highly contagious!" MK added, eliciting another gasp from most of the cast.
"Okay, looks like it's quarantine time!" Chris said, backing towards the door with barely-hidden panic. "See ya, wouldn't wanna be ya!" He gave them a quick wave, then dashed out the double door between the two vats. Both teams went over to it with shock on their faces as the sounds of power tools were heard on the other side.
The camera cut to Chris as he pounded a nail in with a hammer. It was one of many holding up a red banner with an orange skull-and-crossbones on it, set over several long pieces of wood that had been nailed up to bar the exit. "There's more to this disease than either team knows," he told the camera with an impish grin before walking away with a dark chuckle.
Another shot of the numbered studios was shown. "Hold on," Anne Maria spoke up as the shot cut back to the ten castmates in the challenge set. "How did Dirt Boy catch a fatal disease?"
“I'm sure it's just a twenty-four hour kind of fatal,” Scott hoped.
"We have to quarantine Scott! Stat!" Izzy said in a panic.
The camera showed Ripper furiously inflating a plastic bubble with a bicycle pump; the bubble had a yellow-and-black biohazard symbol on it. "Get inside now!" the bully shouted before Scott threw himself head-first into the bubble.
"Oh no!" Jasmine cried. "Brick has a sore too!" She pointed at the soldier boy's upper left arm, who took one look at the sore and began to wave his arm in a panic.
"It has to be a mistake!" Brick exclaimed.
"Hey!" Scott exclaimed from inside his bubble, another one getting inflated nearby. "Is there an exit to this thing?"
"There isn't one!" Ripper shouted as he continued to pump and Brick got into his bubble.
"Why didn't anyone tell me that before I jumped in?!" Scott griped.
“Okay, everyone just calm down!" Chase said.
"Agreed," Jasmine spoke up sternly. "We should make sure no one else is infected. Symptoms of Mortotistico Crumple's Disease include explosive diarrhea..."
"Oh no!" The camera cut to Chase as his bowels began to groan and he ran into a nearby portable toilet with a panicked look on his face.
"Itchy lips," Jasmine continued as the shot cut to Justin, who suddenly bit his lip.
"My… my lips," he moaned. "They're on fire!" He began to frantically rub and scratch at them, leaving them swollen and red.
"Sudden hot flashes," Jasmine listed off as MK began to sweat profusely and tug at her jacket. "Sea sickness," Ripper turned green and vomited. "Speaking in tongues," Izzy was the next to be affected as she babbled incoherently and indistinguishably with her eyes rolling upwards, which continued even as Jasmine listed the final symptom, "and temporary blindness."
"Everyone can see, right?" Jasmine asked as she checked over the castmates’ current states. "That's good to know," she said in relief before walking forward and bumping straight into Brick's bubble. "Oh no," she said in newfound panic. "I'm the one who's blind!"
Confessional: Anne Maria
"I know this is a reality show," Anne Maria told the confessional camera in a serious tone, "but I doubt that Chris would allow us to actually die on national television!"
Confessional Ends
The scene cut to Chris himself watching from his control room, leaning back in his chair with his legs propped up on the desk in front of him. "You'd think we wouldn't," he told the camera, "but, just imagine the ratings!"
Back in the quarantined set, the camera panned across the room to show that everyone except for Anne Maria, Millie, and the bubbled Brick and Scott were now laying on top of stretchers, groaning and moaning.
“This is super bad,” Millie said. “We have to do something.”
“Do you mean taking their temperatures, because we only have rectal thermometers, and I'm not in the mood to joke around with them,” Anne Maria responded.
“I wasn't even thinking about that at all,” Millie stated. “Joking with diseases is not funny at all.”
“Obviously, but have you noticed we're the only ones who didn't take part in the studying all-nighter, and we're the only ones who haven't been infected?” Anne Maria asked while looking over everybody.
“I'm not so sure about this supposed disease,” Millie mused. “We need to get our hands on one of those textbooks. There has to be something they missed.”
“I’d do it if Chris didn’t seal off the only exit,” Anne Maria argued.
"There’s another exit over there," Millie pointed to the Grips' platform, which was now sitting on the floor empty of body parts. The chain still led up to a hole in the ceiling where the reel was situated.
"Oh yeah. How in the world did I not notice that?" Anne Maria droned sarcastically before the two made a dash for the platform.
"I still haven’t forgotten you pushing me off the diving board a few days ago, so don’t think I’m scared of pulling the platform as high as possible," Millie informed as they stepped onto the platform and pulled down on the chain, making them ascend.
The footage flashed forward to the outside of the studio as the two girls jumped down from a ladder on the wall of the building. “You grab a textbook, I'll look in the kitchen,” Millie instructed before they split off in opposite directions.
Confessional: Millie
"I really hope that the disease is fake," Millie explained in the make-up trailer. "There were some diagnoses and symptoms in the textbook that I've never heard of before, but I've studied a lot about diseases to be familiar with a selective few."
Confessional Ends
Back inside, Scott was shown to be rolling around in his bubble. "How long has it been since I got in this bubble?" he groaned.
"I don't want to hold onto my bladder for more than an hour!" Brick cried while covering his groin with both hands.
"My lips," Justin groaned on his stretcher. "Of all places, why my lips?"
"I'd kiss them to make you feel better, but I'm not a princess and you are not a frog," MK said, sitting up on the stretcher next to him; Jasmine and Chase were visible in a row behind them. "And even then, I am not an animal kisser."
Ripper was sitting against one of the walls, writing something on a piece of paper with a bucket of vomit next to him. “To my parents; don't let my brothers keep the money I've taken from weaklings in the past.” He paused to throw up into his bucket before writing again. “To my brothers; don't even think about stealing my stash from me, especially you, Wolfgang! From your best son, Richard Kennedy.”
The double doors between the vats were thrown open by Millie and Anne Maria. The camera pulled out as the other cast members moaned, and the two young women stepped into the room – the Jersey girl holding a textbook, and the author with some kind of canister.
"Who's there?" Jasmine asked.
"Simmer down, everyone," Anne Maria said. "We're just here to expose the truth about these textbooks, which are actually bogus." She held the book she'd brought up, and easily tore the cover off it. "The book covers are just cereal boxes." Her bowels started to growl, and with a panicked look, she dropped the book and ran towards the portable toilet. "I'll be right back!"
"It can be a crock," Jasmine sat up on her stretcher. "Nobody's faking the sickness!"
“No, but it's still untrue,” Millie interjected. “I just went to Chef's kitchen, and I found this "cheese". The camera focused in on the canister in her hand as she held it up, showing that it had an image of a cheese wedge on the label.
"Uh, what is in that parmesan?" Brick wondered innocently.
"It is not cheese, but it is," Millie tore off the label to reveal a second beneath it with an image of scratching hands on it, "itching powder and laxatives!"
"Chef!" Brick muttered under his breath. "Why did he not inform me?"
It was then that Anne Maria burst back out of the portable toilet followed by a cloud of foul odor. "That explains the diarrhea and itchy lips."
"And I didn't get sick since I'm the only one who didn't eat the pizza," Millie added.
"What about the sores on Brick and Scott?" Chase asked.
"As for those," Millie laughed lightly, walking over to her quarantined teammate. "They're just pepperoni pieces that got stuck on you when you likely fell asleep."
Brick reached over to touch his sore, and it peeled off easily. "She's right!"
Scott also touched his own sore and it also peeled off quickly. "I was suckered! Now can somebody let me out of here now?"
"So wait," MK spoke up, "the disease is fake?"
Jasmine was the first to react, sitting up and blinking. "By golly. I'm not blind anymore!"
"And I can talk normally!" Izzy cheered.
"And I'm not gonna throw up anymore!" Ripper added. "We've been cured!"
"Could I be let out now?!" Brick pleaded. "I have some urgent business to take care of!"
"I'm comin’," Anne Maria rushed over to the bubble and simply popped it with her fingernail. Both of them winced as the bubble burst, and Brick immediately rushed over to the portable toilet.
"And don't forget about me as well!" Scott spoke up, rolling his bubble into the middle of the room.
Izzy took out a pin, popping her teammate's bubble. “This was all first year med school syndrome!” she said. “Too much studying and too little sleep can make you think you've got every disease in the book!”
"Congratulations, Killer Grips!" the voice of Chris McLean came suddenly, the camera pulling out to show the host descending from the ceiling on another chain. "You just won the challenge!"
The five Grips began to cheer and celebrate. "Brilliant diagnostic skills, Anne Maria and Millie. Way to suss it out. And, for your reward," Chris continued, frowning and looking down at his empty hands. "Knew I forgot something. Just a sec!" he said before stepping back onto the chain's foothold and raising back out of the room.
Confessional: Anne Maria
"This challenge was certainly… something," Anne Maria confessed. "I can't believe that I had to play the role of doctor just to tell everybody about the so-called disease being a lie. Who knew tainted pizza could make you have hot flashes and sea sickness?”
Confessional Ends
"One thing's for sure. I'm double checking my food from now on if I want to prevent temporary blindness or having to speak in tongues," Jasmine told the Grips as the footage cut back to them.
“Once again, the pizza was too good to be true,” Brick commented. “You made a good call not eating any slices, Millie.”
“I had no idea that there were laxatives put onto it,” Millie claimed. “If I wasn't so invested with the book, I'd probably eat the pizza and fall victim to the sickness just like you guys.”
It was then that Chris returned, descending down on the same chain as before but now carrying a covered platter. "As I was saying," he said as he walked towards the Grips, "for your reward!"
He removed the cover and the camera zoomed in on what lay beneath – five picture frames, three in back and two in front, each containing a photograph of a different person. The first on the left was a light purple cat. The second was a confident-looking Hawaiian woman with black long hair wearing a yellow tracksuit and red hoop earrings. In the middle was a teenage girl, pale with brown hair tied in a bun and a beige tank top. Fourth was a smiling white man; he had no hair, had golden dog tags around his neck, and was dressed in a dark green military outfit. And on the right end was an elderly black man with white curly hair, a white mustache covering his mouth, and a dark orange collared long-sleeved shirt.
"That's my cat Whiskers!" Jasmine said excitedly as the shot panned across the photos.
"And that's one of my girlfriends Vanessa," Anne Maria declared.
"Yup!" Chris told them. "One of you gets a whole spa night away from this cruddy studio lot, with your very best friend! So, who's the lucky stiff?"
“I'd kill for a spa day, even if it's with my mom, so how about letting me have it?” Justin smiled widely at his team.
“I have some things I want to talk about with my father,” Brick suggested.
“Now wait just a minute…” Jasmine interrupted as she, Brick, and Justin started to argue over who should get the prize.
“Can all of you shut up!!” Anne Maria ceased the fight, causing everyone to look at her. “As much as I would love to be away from this trashy film lot, I say we should let Millie have the reward.”
"Wait, me?" Millie asked in astonishment. “How come?”
"Clearly, you did the most research out of all of us, and you won the challenge for us," Anne Maria answered.
“You did say that the person who contributes the most should claim the reward,” Brick brought up.
“And with you also not eating that pizza, you've certainly earned that spa night,” Jasmine smiled.
“I don't want to be left out, so okay then,” Justin agreed with a shrug.
"Chris, the Killer Grips came to a decision," Anne Maria said before giving Millie a light shove forward.
"W-wow," Millie said softly as she began to tear up. "This is really generous!"
“Just accept the offer before I trade places with you,” Justin said.
"Eeeuuughh," Chris said in disgust. "Clean up on aisle two!" he called, and moments later, a pair of young white men in white work outfits walked through the open door, one of which carried a push broom. They disappeared off-screen for a moment, then reappeared with one pushing Millie towards the door and the other sweeping up after.
"Thank you for allowing me to take the reward!" Millie said as she allowed herself to be escorted out, wiping away her tears with her hands.
The scene cut outside as Millie walked up to the beaten-down Lame-o-sine. The door opened, and she smiled and stepped inside.
"Granddad!" the writer said happily as the shot moved inside to show her hugging the white haired old man who had been seen in one of the pictures. "I've really missed you!"
"I missed you too, Millie," the man said as he hugged his daughter. "Don't get my favorite shirt wet now. I got it dry cleaned."
"Sorry," Millie said as they broke their hug. "I have a lot to talk to you about ever since I competed in the first season."
Her grandfather smiled proudly. "Spill the details. I can tell you had a ball, but don't blame me if I start to doze off more than I do while writing best selling books."
"I'm not that boring!" Millie laughed cutely. "So it all started when I was dropped off on the dock..."
"Sheesh," Chris cringed as the scene cut to him in his control room. "Talk about a loving family! Hopefully they'll get their dullness smoothed while they're at the spa." He pulled a lever on the desk, cutting the monitor feeds to static, and stood up. "So, will the Grips' winning streak last? Or will they fall apart and lose their teamwork? Find out next time, on Total! Drama! Action!"
(Roll the Credits)
(Bonus Clip)
“That spa night was amazing!” Millie told the camera while in the trailer. “The manicures and pedicures were to die for, and the facials and mud bath really smoothened the rough parts of my skin. Granted, this spa night wasn't as fun as the two-day resort back in Camp Wawanakwa, but thankfully, I didn't have to eat any disgusting food this time, so that's an upside. Want to know something interesting? Granddad was more into the spa treatments than me, but don't tell him that I said that to you,” she added with a giggle.
Eva - 14th
Geoff - 14th
Izzy - RETURNED
Trent - 12th
Sky - 11th
Killer Grips: Anne Maria, Brick, Jasmine, Justin, Millie
Screaming Gaffers: Chase, Izzy, MK, Ripper, Scott
submitted by xtremexavier15 to u/xtremexavier15 [link] [comments]
"Uh, not to sound lazy," Scott said as he left the chain, "but I'm not feeling so good."
"You probably just have a cold," Izzy told him.
"Since when do colds have sores like this?" Scott followed up as he lifted his right arm and pointed to a round, reddish-brown spot on his elbow.
Izzy looked at him attentively and put her hand on his forehead. "Your body temperature is high, but it's possible that-" she was interrupted by a sudden burp from her teammate that caused her to cringe and take a step back. "Why does your breath smell like lemons?"
"Are you trashing my burps?" Scott asked in confusion.
"Hold on," Justin interrupted as the camera cut to him. "Red sores, fever, lemony burps? Aren't those symptoms of one of the diseases in the book?"
"Page 753," Millie exclaimed. "Mortatistical Crumples Disease!" She gasped. "And it's fatal!"
Everyone gasped. "Mortatistical Crumples is also highly contagious!" MK added, eliciting another gasp from most of the cast.
"Okay, looks like it's quarantine time!" Chris said, backing towards the door with barely-hidden panic. "See ya, wouldn't wanna be ya!" He gave them a quick wave, then dashed out the double door between the two vats. Both teams went over to it with shock on their faces as the sounds of power tools were heard on the other side.
The camera cut to Chris as he pounded a nail in with a hammer. It was one of many holding up a red banner with an orange skull-and-crossbones on it, set over several long pieces of wood that had been nailed up to bar the exit. "There's more to this disease than either team knows," he told the camera with an impish grin before walking away with a dark chuckle.
Another shot of the numbered studios was shown. "Hold on," Anne Maria spoke up as the shot cut back to the ten castmates in the challenge set. "How did Dirt Boy catch a fatal disease?"
“I'm sure it's just a twenty-four hour kind of fatal,” Scott hoped.
"We have to quarantine Scott! Stat!" Izzy said in a panic.
The camera showed Ripper furiously inflating a plastic bubble with a bicycle pump; the bubble had a yellow-and-black biohazard symbol on it. "Get inside now!" the bully shouted before Scott threw himself head-first into the bubble.
"Oh no!" Jasmine cried. "Brick has a sore too!" She pointed at the soldier boy's upper left arm, who took one look at the sore and began to wave his arm in a panic.
"It has to be a mistake!" Brick exclaimed.
"Hey!" Scott exclaimed from inside his bubble, another one getting inflated nearby. "Is there an exit to this thing?"
"There isn't one!" Ripper shouted as he continued to pump and Brick got into his bubble.
"Why didn't anyone tell me that before I jumped in?!" Scott griped.
“Okay, everyone just calm down!" Chase said.
"Agreed," Jasmine spoke up sternly. "We should make sure no one else is infected. Symptoms of Mortotistico Crumple's Disease include explosive diarrhea..."
"Oh no!" The camera cut to Chase as his bowels began to groan and he ran into a nearby portable toilet with a panicked look on his face.
"Itchy lips," Jasmine continued as the shot cut to Justin, who suddenly bit his lip.
"My… my lips," he moaned. "They're on fire!" He began to frantically rub and scratch at them, leaving them swollen and red.
"Sudden hot flashes," Jasmine listed off as MK began to sweat profusely and tug at her jacket. "Sea sickness," Ripper turned green and vomited. "Speaking in tongues," Izzy was the next to be affected as she babbled incoherently and indistinguishably with her eyes rolling upwards, which continued even as Jasmine listed the final symptom, "and temporary blindness."
"Everyone can see, right?" Jasmine asked as she checked over the castmates’ current states. "That's good to know," she said in relief before walking forward and bumping straight into Brick's bubble. "Oh no," she said in newfound panic. "I'm the one who's blind!"
Confessional: Anne Maria
"I know this is a reality show," Anne Maria told the confessional camera in a serious tone, "but I doubt that Chris would allow us to actually die on national television!"
Confessional Ends
The scene cut to Chris himself watching from his control room, leaning back in his chair with his legs propped up on the desk in front of him. "You'd think we wouldn't," he told the camera, "but, just imagine the ratings!"
Back in the quarantined set, the camera panned across the room to show that everyone except for Anne Maria, Millie, and the bubbled Brick and Scott were now laying on top of stretchers, groaning and moaning.
“This is super bad,” Millie said. “We have to do something.”
“Do you mean taking their temperatures, because we only have rectal thermometers, and I'm not in the mood to joke around with them,” Anne Maria responded.
“I wasn't even thinking about that at all,” Millie stated. “Joking with diseases is not funny at all.”
“Obviously, but have you noticed we're the only ones who didn't take part in the studying all-nighter, and we're the only ones who haven't been infected?” Anne Maria asked while looking over everybody.
“I'm not so sure about this supposed disease,” Millie mused. “We need to get our hands on one of those textbooks. There has to be something they missed.”
“I’d do it if Chris didn’t seal off the only exit,” Anne Maria argued.
"There’s another exit over there," Millie pointed to the Grips' platform, which was now sitting on the floor empty of body parts. The chain still led up to a hole in the ceiling where the reel was situated.
"Oh yeah. How in the world did I not notice that?" Anne Maria droned sarcastically before the two made a dash for the platform.
"I still haven’t forgotten you pushing me off the diving board a few days ago, so don’t think I’m scared of pulling the platform as high as possible," Millie informed as they stepped onto the platform and pulled down on the chain, making them ascend.
The footage flashed forward to the outside of the studio as the two girls jumped down from a ladder on the wall of the building. “You grab a textbook, I'll look in the kitchen,” Millie instructed before they split off in opposite directions.
Confessional: Millie
"I really hope that the disease is fake," Millie explained in the make-up trailer. "There were some diagnoses and symptoms in the textbook that I've never heard of before, but I've studied a lot about diseases to be familiar with a selective few."
Confessional Ends
Back inside, Scott was shown to be rolling around in his bubble. "How long has it been since I got in this bubble?" he groaned.
"I don't want to hold onto my bladder for more than an hour!" Brick cried while covering his groin with both hands.
"My lips," Justin groaned on his stretcher. "Of all places, why my lips?"
"I'd kiss them to make you feel better, but I'm not a princess and you are not a frog," MK said, sitting up on the stretcher next to him; Jasmine and Chase were visible in a row behind them. "And even then, I am not an animal kisser."
Ripper was sitting against one of the walls, writing something on a piece of paper with a bucket of vomit next to him. “To my parents; don't let my brothers keep the money I've taken from weaklings in the past.” He paused to throw up into his bucket before writing again. “To my brothers; don't even think about stealing my stash from me, especially you, Wolfgang! From your best son, Richard Kennedy.”
The double doors between the vats were thrown open by Millie and Anne Maria. The camera pulled out as the other cast members moaned, and the two young women stepped into the room – the Jersey girl holding a textbook, and the author with some kind of canister.
"Who's there?" Jasmine asked.
"Simmer down, everyone," Anne Maria said. "We're just here to expose the truth about these textbooks, which are actually bogus." She held the book she'd brought up, and easily tore the cover off it. "The book covers are just cereal boxes." Her bowels started to growl, and with a panicked look, she dropped the book and ran towards the portable toilet. "I'll be right back!"
"It can be a crock," Jasmine sat up on her stretcher. "Nobody's faking the sickness!"
“No, but it's still untrue,” Millie interjected. “I just went to Chef's kitchen, and I found this "cheese". The camera focused in on the canister in her hand as she held it up, showing that it had an image of a cheese wedge on the label.
"Uh, what is in that parmesan?" Brick wondered innocently.
"It is not cheese, but it is," Millie tore off the label to reveal a second beneath it with an image of scratching hands on it, "itching powder and laxatives!"
"Chef!" Brick muttered under his breath. "Why did he not inform me?"
It was then that Anne Maria burst back out of the portable toilet followed by a cloud of foul odor. "That explains the diarrhea and itchy lips."
"And I didn't get sick since I'm the only one who didn't eat the pizza," Millie added.
"What about the sores on Brick and Scott?" Chase asked.
"As for those," Millie laughed lightly, walking over to her quarantined teammate. "They're just pepperoni pieces that got stuck on you when you likely fell asleep."
Brick reached over to touch his sore, and it peeled off easily. "She's right!"
Scott also touched his own sore and it also peeled off quickly. "I was suckered! Now can somebody let me out of here now?"
"So wait," MK spoke up, "the disease is fake?"
Jasmine was the first to react, sitting up and blinking. "By golly. I'm not blind anymore!"
"And I can talk normally!" Izzy cheered.
"And I'm not gonna throw up anymore!" Ripper added. "We've been cured!"
"Could I be let out now?!" Brick pleaded. "I have some urgent business to take care of!"
"I'm comin’," Anne Maria rushed over to the bubble and simply popped it with her fingernail. Both of them winced as the bubble burst, and Brick immediately rushed over to the portable toilet.
"And don't forget about me as well!" Scott spoke up, rolling his bubble into the middle of the room.
Izzy took out a pin, popping her teammate's bubble. “This was all first year med school syndrome!” she said. “Too much studying and too little sleep can make you think you've got every disease in the book!”
"Congratulations, Killer Grips!" the voice of Chris McLean came suddenly, the camera pulling out to show the host descending from the ceiling on another chain. "You just won the challenge!"
The five Grips began to cheer and celebrate. "Brilliant diagnostic skills, Anne Maria and Millie. Way to suss it out. And, for your reward," Chris continued, frowning and looking down at his empty hands. "Knew I forgot something. Just a sec!" he said before stepping back onto the chain's foothold and raising back out of the room.
Confessional: Anne Maria
"This challenge was certainly… something," Anne Maria confessed. "I can't believe that I had to play the role of doctor just to tell everybody about the so-called disease being a lie. Who knew tainted pizza could make you have hot flashes and sea sickness?”
Confessional Ends
"One thing's for sure. I'm double checking my food from now on if I want to prevent temporary blindness or having to speak in tongues," Jasmine told the Grips as the footage cut back to them.
“Once again, the pizza was too good to be true,” Brick commented. “You made a good call not eating any slices, Millie.”
“I had no idea that there were laxatives put onto it,” Millie claimed. “If I wasn't so invested with the book, I'd probably eat the pizza and fall victim to the sickness just like you guys.”
It was then that Chris returned, descending down on the same chain as before but now carrying a covered platter. "As I was saying," he said as he walked towards the Grips, "for your reward!"
He removed the cover and the camera zoomed in on what lay beneath – five picture frames, three in back and two in front, each containing a photograph of a different person. The first on the left was a light purple cat. The second was a confident-looking Hawaiian woman with black long hair wearing a yellow tracksuit and red hoop earrings. In the middle was a teenage girl, pale with brown hair tied in a bun and a beige tank top. Fourth was a smiling white man; he had no hair, had golden dog tags around his neck, and was dressed in a dark green military outfit. And on the right end was an elderly black man with white curly hair, a white mustache covering his mouth, and a dark orange collared long-sleeved shirt.
"That's my cat Whiskers!" Jasmine said excitedly as the shot panned across the photos.
"And that's one of my girlfriends Vanessa," Anne Maria declared.
"Yup!" Chris told them. "One of you gets a whole spa night away from this cruddy studio lot, with your very best friend! So, who's the lucky stiff?"
“I'd kill for a spa day, even if it's with my mom, so how about letting me have it?” Justin smiled widely at his team.
“I have some things I want to talk about with my father,” Brick suggested.
“Now wait just a minute…” Jasmine interrupted as she, Brick, and Justin started to argue over who should get the prize.
“Can all of you shut up!!” Anne Maria ceased the fight, causing everyone to look at her. “As much as I would love to be away from this trashy film lot, I say we should let Millie have the reward.”
"Wait, me?" Millie asked in astonishment. “How come?”
"Clearly, you did the most research out of all of us, and you won the challenge for us," Anne Maria answered.
“You did say that the person who contributes the most should claim the reward,” Brick brought up.
“And with you also not eating that pizza, you've certainly earned that spa night,” Jasmine smiled.
“I don't want to be left out, so okay then,” Justin agreed with a shrug.
"Chris, the Killer Grips came to a decision," Anne Maria said before giving Millie a light shove forward.
"W-wow," Millie said softly as she began to tear up. "This is really generous!"
“Just accept the offer before I trade places with you,” Justin said.
"Eeeuuughh," Chris said in disgust. "Clean up on aisle two!" he called, and moments later, a pair of young white men in white work outfits walked through the open door, one of which carried a push broom. They disappeared off-screen for a moment, then reappeared with one pushing Millie towards the door and the other sweeping up after.
"Thank you for allowing me to take the reward!" Millie said as she allowed herself to be escorted out, wiping away her tears with her hands.
The scene cut outside as Millie walked up to the beaten-down Lame-o-sine. The door opened, and she smiled and stepped inside.
"Granddad!" the writer said happily as the shot moved inside to show her hugging the white haired old man who had been seen in one of the pictures. "I've really missed you!"
"I missed you too, Millie," the man said as he hugged his daughter. "Don't get my favorite shirt wet now. I got it dry cleaned."
"Sorry," Millie said as they broke their hug. "I have a lot to talk to you about ever since I competed in the first season."
Her grandfather smiled proudly. "Spill the details. I can tell you had a ball, but don't blame me if I start to doze off more than I do while writing best selling books."
"I'm not that boring!" Millie laughed cutely. "So it all started when I was dropped off on the dock..."
"Sheesh," Chris cringed as the scene cut to him in his control room. "Talk about a loving family! Hopefully they'll get their dullness smoothed while they're at the spa." He pulled a lever on the desk, cutting the monitor feeds to static, and stood up. "So, will the Grips' winning streak last? Or will they fall apart and lose their teamwork? Find out next time, on Total! Drama! Action!"
(Roll the Credits)
(Bonus Clip)
“That spa night was amazing!” Millie told the camera while in the trailer. “The manicures and pedicures were to die for, and the facials and mud bath really smoothened the rough parts of my skin. Granted, this spa night wasn't as fun as the two-day resort back in Camp Wawanakwa, but thankfully, I didn't have to eat any disgusting food this time, so that's an upside. Want to know something interesting? Granddad was more into the spa treatments than me, but don't tell him that I said that to you,” she added with a giggle.
Eva - 14th
Geoff - 14th
Izzy - RETURNED
Trent - 12th
Sky - 11th
Killer Grips: Anne Maria, Brick, Jasmine, Justin, Millie
Screaming Gaffers: Chase, Izzy, MK, Ripper, Scott
2024.05.18 16:46 kittehgoesmeow What A Day: Joe's School Daze by Crooked Media (05/17/24)
"...Bleach blonde, bad built, butch body." - Rep. Jasmine Crockett (D-TX) delivering a burn on Rep. Marjorie Taylor Greene (R-GA) during a heated Congressional hearing that immediately went viral.
The two major candidates offer up a strong contrast on this topic. President Biden released a statement Friday recognizing International Day Against Homophobia, Transphobia, and Biphobia. Meanwhile, a new expose from the Guardian found a dark money group with ties to Trump’s inner circle spent $90 million on racist and transphobic ads around the 2022 midterms. Again we ask, how in God’s name is this guy polling so well?
The Pentagon announced that humanitarian aid to Gaza will soon begin flowing through a new temporary pier anchored to the Gaza shore. The U.N., however, has expressed concern about the availability of vehicles and fuel needed to adequately deliver supplies.
An after-hours House Oversight Committee session turned into a now-viral verbal sparring match between far-right Rep. Marjorie Taylor Greene (R-GA), and progressive Reps. Alexandria Ocasio-Cortez (D-NY) and Jasmine Crockett (D-TX). Greene made a snide comment about Crockett’s “fake eyelashes” affecting her reading skills. AOC jumped to Crockett’s defense, and MGT refused to apologize. So Crockett responded with a jab of her own, inquiring if it was within the rules to comment on a member’s “bleach-blonde, bad-built, butch body.” Committee chairman Rep. James Comer (R-TN) seemed stumped by that one. He may want to call up Real Housewives’ own Andy Cohen to moderate the next session.
Supreme Court Justice Samuel Alito Jr. is trying his best to explain why an upside-down flag, which symbolized Trump’s “Stop the Steal” movement, was spotted outside his home in the days following the January 6 insurrection. Justice Alito threw his wife under the bus, telling Fox News she hung the flag upside down after a neighbor allegedly blamed Mrs. Alito for the Capitol riots and insulted her using “the C-word.” Right, okay then. Anyone would react by hanging an anti-democratic symbol outside their home. Makes perfect sense!
The man convicted of attempting to kidnap former House Speaker Nancy Pelosi’s husband and attacking him with a hammer was sentenced to 30 years in prison.
NYU is forcing some students who participated in anti-war campus protests to complete ethical decision-making and morality modules and write “reflection papers.” Some students have objected, calling the assignment a coerced confession. The university calls it a “restorative practice.” One NYU law professor called the move “an intellectual embarrassment.”
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Indulge your pup with the goodness of 90% real meat and 10% superfoods, sans any synthetic nutrients or artificial additives. Sundays believes in providing the purest, most nutritious fuel for your pet, ensuring a healthier and happier life.
Dog parents rave about the incredible transformations they witness in their furry friends after switching to Sundays. From softer fur and fresher breath to better poops and increased energy, Sundays is the key to unlocking the best version of your pup.
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Ten HBCU student newsrooms will receive nearly $200,000 towards new technologies, business operations, audience engagement, and reporting. The grants given by the Center for Journalism & Democracy at Howard University will also be used to hire contributing writers, injecting a much-needed boost in resources into Black student journalism. Yay, First Amendment!
submitted by kittehgoesmeow to FriendsofthePod [link] [comments]
A Different World
President Biden will spend this weekend reaching out to Black voters with high-profile visits to Atlanta and Detroit. Polls suggest he’s got plenty of work to do.- Biden kicked off the weekend at the National Museum of African American History in D.C. commemorating the 70th anniversary of Brown v. Board, which ended segregation in public schools, and meeting with leaders of historically Black fraternities and sororities known as the Divine Nine. The event marked the start of a series of appearances aimed at courting Black voters at a moment when their support is wavering. Recent polling shows 23 percent of Black voters in key battleground states plan to vote for disgraced former President Trump, after only 12 percent backed him nationally in 2020. Things seem especially fraught with Black men, of whom 30 percent now say they plan to vote for Trump according to a recent Wall Street Journal poll.
- That helps explain Biden’s commencement speech Sunday at Morehouse College, an all-male HBCU in Atlanta and Martin Luther King Jr’s alma mater. Yet this speech brings its own political risks for Biden. Some students strongly oppose his appearance in light of his handling of the Israel-Hamas war, and the school is bracing for protests. Morehouse president David A. Thomas told CNN he might shut the whole thing down “on the spot” if the event gets too rowdy.
- Next, Biden heads to Detroit to meet with small business owners and deliver an NAACP speech. The group’s president, Derrick Johnson, has dismissed the negative polls. But other Detroit voices say the disconnect is real. Zeke Williams, the founder of a community group called New Era Detroit that links up residents in disinvested neighborhoods with badly needed resources, said his group has been ignored. “We haven’t heard anything from a Democrat or Republican,” Williams told NBC News. “You wouldn’t even be able to tell this is an election year in our communities, unless somebody flies in for a day and gives a speech. Other than that, you know, it’s business as usual.”
Look No Further Than Crooked Media
More than 2800 people have been arrested at college campuses across the US during protests against the war in Gaza. How will this impact young voters? How will this affect the upcoming election? Peter Hamby joins Dan Pfeiffer in the latest episode of Pollercoaster to answer these questions. To listen in, subscribe to Friends of the Pod on Apple Podcasts or join the Friends of the Pod community at https://crooked.com/friends!Under The Radar
The share of Americans who identify as LGBTQ+ continues to rise, with 7.6 percent of U.S. adults now identifying with a sexual orientation other than heterosexual according to new polling data from Gallup. That’s up from 5.6 percent just four years ago, and 3.5 percent in 2012. It seems like a big win for inclusivity that more and more adults feel comfortable sharing information about their sexuality with some random pollster!The two major candidates offer up a strong contrast on this topic. President Biden released a statement Friday recognizing International Day Against Homophobia, Transphobia, and Biphobia. Meanwhile, a new expose from the Guardian found a dark money group with ties to Trump’s inner circle spent $90 million on racist and transphobic ads around the 2022 midterms. Again we ask, how in God’s name is this guy polling so well?
What Else?
The Israel Defense Forces said it recovered the bodies of three hostages taken by Hamas in northern Gaza on Friday. Shani Louk, 23, Amit Buskila, 28, and Itzhak Gelerenter, 57, were murdered after escaping the Nova Music Festival attack on October 7, and their remains were taken back to Gaza and found in a Hamas tunnel, the IDF said.The Pentagon announced that humanitarian aid to Gaza will soon begin flowing through a new temporary pier anchored to the Gaza shore. The U.N., however, has expressed concern about the availability of vehicles and fuel needed to adequately deliver supplies.
An after-hours House Oversight Committee session turned into a now-viral verbal sparring match between far-right Rep. Marjorie Taylor Greene (R-GA), and progressive Reps. Alexandria Ocasio-Cortez (D-NY) and Jasmine Crockett (D-TX). Greene made a snide comment about Crockett’s “fake eyelashes” affecting her reading skills. AOC jumped to Crockett’s defense, and MGT refused to apologize. So Crockett responded with a jab of her own, inquiring if it was within the rules to comment on a member’s “bleach-blonde, bad-built, butch body.” Committee chairman Rep. James Comer (R-TN) seemed stumped by that one. He may want to call up Real Housewives’ own Andy Cohen to moderate the next session.
Supreme Court Justice Samuel Alito Jr. is trying his best to explain why an upside-down flag, which symbolized Trump’s “Stop the Steal” movement, was spotted outside his home in the days following the January 6 insurrection. Justice Alito threw his wife under the bus, telling Fox News she hung the flag upside down after a neighbor allegedly blamed Mrs. Alito for the Capitol riots and insulted her using “the C-word.” Right, okay then. Anyone would react by hanging an anti-democratic symbol outside their home. Makes perfect sense!
The man convicted of attempting to kidnap former House Speaker Nancy Pelosi’s husband and attacking him with a hammer was sentenced to 30 years in prison.
NYU is forcing some students who participated in anti-war campus protests to complete ethical decision-making and morality modules and write “reflection papers.” Some students have objected, calling the assignment a coerced confession. The university calls it a “restorative practice.” One NYU law professor called the move “an intellectual embarrassment.”
What A Sponsor
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Indulge your pup with the goodness of 90% real meat and 10% superfoods, sans any synthetic nutrients or artificial additives. Sundays believes in providing the purest, most nutritious fuel for your pet, ensuring a healthier and happier life.
Dog parents rave about the incredible transformations they witness in their furry friends after switching to Sundays. From softer fur and fresher breath to better poops and increased energy, Sundays is the key to unlocking the best version of your pup.
Sundays takes convenience to a whole new level. Forget about refrigeration and complicated preparations – our unique air-drying process means all you need to do is pour and serve! Start a Sundays subscription today and enjoy 20% off plus free shipping on every reorder. With our 100% Satisfaction Guarantee, you can cancel or pause your subscription anytime.
For a limited time, What a Day readers can get 40% off your first order of Sundays! Just go to https://sundaysfordogs.com/WAD or use code WAD at checkout.
Light At The End Of The Email
The Senate is considering a bipartisan bill that would grant national monument status to Greenwood, Oklahoma, more commonly known as “Black Wall Street.” The once thriving predominantly Black neighborhood in Tulsa is the site of a racist massacre that took place in 1921, as federal recognition for the atrocity that claimed hundreds of lives continues to grow.Ten HBCU student newsrooms will receive nearly $200,000 towards new technologies, business operations, audience engagement, and reporting. The grants given by the Center for Journalism & Democracy at Howard University will also be used to hire contributing writers, injecting a much-needed boost in resources into Black student journalism. Yay, First Amendment!
Enjoy
Sophie Vershbow on Twitter: ""Please log into the patient portal to view a message from your doctor.""