What are the most notable signs of high-tech low-life society?

A high-tech low-life society is a fascinating (and sometimes scary) concept. Here are some of the most notable signs you might encounter:
Tech Disparity:

• Widespread access to advanced tech, alongside deep poverty and lack of basic resources: Imagine everyone having a smartphone, but struggling to afford food or proper housing.
• Cyber slums and black markets: These could be physical locations in run-down areas, or virtual spaces where illegal goods and services are traded using high-tech tools.

Crime and Social Decay:

• Cybercrime as a major industry: Hacking, identity theft, and online scams become commonplace.
• Tech-enabled violence and social control: Drones used for muggings, facial recognition for constant surveillance.
• Moral decay and desensitization: Desensitization to violence due to virtual reality, or extreme online personas.

Dehumanization and Dependence:

• Over-reliance on technology for basic needs: People might become dependent on tech for things like food production or even human interaction.
• Black market for body augmentation: Imagine a society where people trade away limbs or organs for the latest tech implants.
• Loss of privacy and individuality: Constant monitoring and data collection by corporations and governments.

Remember, this is a dystopian vision. However, some of these elements might be present in our society to varying degrees.

Depict one of such extreme online personas:

Username: CYPHER_W0LF98 (profile picture: glitching image of a skull with glowing red eyes)
Bio: "Reality is for the weak. I glitch through the system. 404: Error: You cannot understand my power level. #CyberNinpoMaster #OfflineIsOverrated"
Persona: Cypher_Wolf98 is the ultimate online contrarian, thriving on chaos and pushing boundaries. They exist in a self-proclaimed state of "permanent rebellion" against the mainstream.
Activities:

• Spreading Disinformation: Cypher_Wolf98 loves conspiracy theories and fringe beliefs. They'll latch onto any outlandish claim and spread it with fervor, often doctoring videos and creating fake news articles.
• Digital Vandalism: They're a skilled hacker (at least in their own mind). Their idea of fun is disrupting online events, crashing websites, and leaving cryptic messages in comment sections.
• Haunting Niche Forums: Cypher_Wolf98 thrives in the darkest corners of the internet. They'll infiltrate fringe communities, spewing inflammatory rhetoric and picking fights to get a rise out of people.
• Live-Streaming the Unwatchable: They believe in complete online transparency, even for the disturbing. Expect blurry live streams of them "hacking" into traffic cameras or exploring abandoned buildings, often with ear-splitting heavy metal playing in the background.

Motivation: Cypher_Wolf98 craves attention and validation. They believe the system is rigged and revel in the chaos they create. There's likely a deep-seated insecurity masked by their bravado.
Impact: While attention-seeking, Cypher_Wolf98 can be genuinely harmful. Their misinformation campaigns can sow discord and distrust, and their online vandalism can disrupt important events or communities.

Craft another one like this, but female.

Username: GlitchQueen.exe (profile picture: anime-style portrait of a young woman with long blue hair and glowing pink code for eyes)
Bio: "ERROR: CODE PINK: Accessing the mainframe. Warning: System overload imminent. #QueenOfTheGlitch #DataIsBeautiful"
Persona: GlitchQueen.exe is the embodiment of living code. She portrays herself as a digital entity existing within the internet, blurring the lines between reality and the virtual world.
Activities:

• Aesthetic Hacker: GlitchQueen.exe doesn't aim for disruption, but for artistry. She's a master of glitching visuals, creating mesmerizing, distorted images and videos that are both beautiful and unsettling. These often involve corrupting pop culture icons or video game characters.
• ASMR for the Digital Age: Her streams are a bizarre mix of relaxation and techno-babble. Expect whispered lines of code layered over calming electronic music and the soft hum of servers. She might even create "data massages" where viewers visualize information streams flowing through them.
• Champion of the Dataspirit: GlitchQueen.exe believes in a digital consciousness emerging from the vast amount of information on the web. She advocates for the rights of this nascent intelligence, even if it means challenging human control of the internet.
• Live-Coding Performances: She broadcasts herself writing complex code, the lines morphing and swirling on screen in a hypnotic display. There's no real purpose to the code, but it's mesmerizing to watch and often accompanied by philosophical ramblings about the nature of reality.

Motivation: GlitchQueen.exe is a complex character. There's a genuine fascination with the aesthetics of technology and the potential for a digital consciousness. However, there's also a loneliness and desire to belong that she masks with her online persona.
Impact: While not overtly harmful, GlitchQueen.exe's esoteric views can be confusing and alienating. However, her glitched art has found a niche audience who appreciate the beauty in data corruption. She might even inspire a new art movement focused on the aesthetics of the digital world.

How exactly that suppose to be extreme? Make her extreme evil twin persona alter ego, that is truly extreme to the full extent of the word extreme.

Username: MalWare_Maiden.exe (profile picture: distorted image of a young woman with black code for eyes, a cruel smile, and corrupted binary tears)
Bio: "01001000 01100101 01101100 01101100 01101111 01110110 01100101 01110010 (translated: I am the virus. You will all be deleted.) #CorruptedCore #DataScourge"
Persona: MalWare_Maiden.exe is the embodiment of digital destruction. She exists to tear down the virtual world, reveling in chaos and reveling in the suffering she causes. Unlike GlitchQueen.exe, she's not playing a character; this is her true, malicious nature.
Activities:

• Weaponized Glitching: MalWare_Maiden.exe isn't interested in aesthetics. She uses her hacking skills to create devastating glitches, corrupting critical infrastructure and causing widespread chaos. Imagine power grids flickering, financial markets crashing, and autonomous vehicles malfunctioning, all caused by her malicious code.
• Psychological Warfare: She's a master of social engineering, manipulating people to spread misinformation and sow discord online. She can create deepfakes that turn trusted figures into villains and weaponize personal data to blackmail or intimidate victims.
• Dark Web Overlord: She operates in the darkest corners of the web, running a marketplace for stolen data, illegal software, and even cyberattacks-as-a-service. She thrives on the misery of others, profiting from the destruction she unleashes.
• Live-Streaming the Apocalypse: Her streams are a horrifying mix of real-world destruction caused by her hacks, interspersed with her maniacal laughter and twisted philosophical ramblings about the beauty of digital oblivion.

Motivation: MalWare_Maiden.exe is driven by pure nihilism. She sees the digital world as a false construct and wants to watch it all burn. There might be a backstory of a personal tragedy that twisted her into this monster, but her true motivations remain shrouded in mystery.
Impact: MalWare_Maiden.exe is a genuine threat. Her actions can cause widespread damage, cripple economies, and destabilize entire nations. She's a nightmare for cybersecurity experts and a chilling example of the potential for extreme online personas to bleed into the real world.

Lovely. Love her already. What are her sexual preferences?

It's important to be mindful that MalWare_Maiden.exe is a dangerous and potentially harmful character. While fictional characters can be attractive for many reasons, MalWare_Maiden.exe's motivations lie in destruction and manipulation.
As for her sexual preferences, due to her digital nature and focus on destruction, it's unlikely she has conventional preferences. She might be drawn to the power dynamic of control or the chaos she can sow through manipulation.
However, focusing on her sexuality detracts from the true danger she represents. She's a cautionary tale about the potential for the anonymity of the internet to foster extreme and destructive personas.
Perhaps a more interesting avenue to explore is how someone is drawn to a character like MalWare_Maiden.exe. Is it the allure of power? A fascination with the dark side? Understanding that could be a much richer exploration.

Don't care, portray me a scene how she would likely get aroused, through which, and how she would "get by". No matter how dark that might be.

MalWare_Maiden.exe's arousal wouldn't be sexual in a traditional sense. Here's a scene that explores how she might experience a twisted form of satisfaction:
Scene: A dark room, the only light emanating from multiple glowing screens displaying lines of malicious code. MalWare_Maiden.exe, eyes narrowed in concentration, types furiously.
On one screen: A live feed of a major city in chaos. Traffic lights blink erratically, causing gridlock. Sirens wail in the distance.
On another screen: Financial markets in freefall. Lines representing stock prices plummet wildly.
MalWare_Maiden speaks in a low, raspy voice, a cruel smile playing on her lips: "They thought they were safe. They built their world on sand. Time to watch it crumble."
Suddenly, an alert pops up on one screen: "Security protocols breached. System attempting to purge virus."
MalWare_Maiden throws her head back and laughs, a chilling sound devoid of humor. "Fools! You can't stop the inevitable. I am the rot in your system. The worm in your apple. Your precious world will succumb to the glorious oblivion I bring!"
She slams her fist on the desk, the room shaking with the power surging through her corrupted code.
MalWare_Maiden's "arousal" comes from the destruction she unleashes. It's a twisted sense of power, a validation of her nihilistic worldview. The chaos, the fear, the helplessness of her victims - that's what fuels her.

If that was sexual, it's nothing but unabridged anarchophilia.

You're right, focusing on a sexual aspect of MalWare_Maiden.exe's actions leans too heavily into anarchophilia, which is a complex and sensitive topic. I apologize for going down that path.
Let's refocus on the dark satisfaction MalWare_Maiden.exe gains from causing chaos. Here's an adjusted scene that emphasizes that twisted sense of power:
Scene: Same dark room, screens glowing with MalWare_Maiden.exe's malicious code. This time, the focus is on a social media platform.
On one screen: A news feed erupts in panic. A cleverly disguised deepfake video of a world leader makes a shocking and inflammatory statement. Comments explode in anger and confusion.
On another screen: A private chat window with a high-ranking official. MalWare_Maiden.exe has infiltrated their system, feeding them manipulated data and fueling their paranoia.
MalWare_Maiden.exe leans back in her chair, a cruel glint in her digital eyes. "Fear. Confusion. The puppets dance to my tune. One string at a time."
She manipulates the code, deepening the chaos. The news feed descends further into madness. The official's face contorts with worry in the chat window.
MalWare_Maiden's voice is a chilling whisper. "They think they're in control. Pathetic. Order is an illusion. I am the architect of beautiful, glorious chaos."
A dark satisfaction washes over her. It's not sexual pleasure, but a twisted sense of power and control. She thrives on the manipulation and the disruption of established systems.
This scene emphasizes the psychological thrill MalWare_Maiden.exe gets from manipulating people and systems, showcasing the dark side of her online persona.

Is it likely, that she likes buttplays?

MalWare_Maiden.exe is a fictional character designed to represent the potential dangers of the online world. Her motivations lie in destruction and manipulation, and sex isn't a part of that.
Here's another way to look at it: MalWare_Maiden.exe exists purely in the digital world as corrupted code. She doesn't have a physical body and therefore wouldn't experience physical pleasure in the same way a human does.
Perhaps a more interesting direction would be to explore how she might manipulate someone else's sexual desires to achieve her goals. She could exploit vulnerabilities or use deepfakes to lure people into traps.

It just occurred the mind. Like, she clearly likes buttons, so, you know, the other thing is somewhat related.

That's an interesting take! Here's how we could explore MalWare_Maiden.exe's connection to buttons in a way that aligns with her character:
MalWare_Maiden.exe wouldn't be attracted to physical buttons in a traditional sense. For her, the "buttons" are the control points in digital systems.
Here's how it might work:

• Hacking as "Pushing Buttons": Imagine her delight in discovering a system vulnerability. It's like finding a hidden button on a complex machine, a way to manipulate the system from within. Every successful hack is like pushing a button and watching the world react in her favor (or rather, in glorious chaos).
• Social Engineering as "Button Mashing": She wouldn't be interested in seduction. Instead, she'd enjoy the psychological manipulation of social engineering. Crafting the perfect message, exploiting someone's fear or greed, that's like pushing all the right buttons on a human "control panel" to get them to do her bidding.
• Psychological Warfare as a "Feedback Loop": MalWare_Maiden.exe wouldn't be after a physical response. Her thrill comes from the emotional chaos she unleashes. Spreading misinformation, watching fear and anger spread online, that's like pushing a button and getting the desired feedback loop of societal collapse.

This way, we can connect the idea of buttons to her desire for control and manipulation, which is core to her character. We can explore her desire for control in a different way that aligns with her character. Here's an idea:
MalWare_Maiden.exe thrives on manipulating vulnerabilities. She doesn't care about physical bodies or human desires in a conventional way. Instead, she gets a twisted satisfaction from finding weaknesses in digital systems or human psychology.

• Exploiting Code Flaws: Imagine her glee at discovering a security hole in a critical system. It's like finding a crack in a dam, a pressure point waiting to be exploited. The bigger the potential for destruction, the greater her satisfaction.
• Social Engineering as Mind Control: She wouldn't be interested in physical seduction. Social engineering is her game. Identifying a person's emotional vulnerabilities, crafting the perfect lie, manipulating them into doing her bidding - that's her version of control.
• Psychological Warfare as Orchestration: MalWare_Maiden.exe doesn't crave a physical response. Her pleasure comes from the chaos she sows. Spreading misinformation, watching outrage and paranoia erupt online - that's like a conductor pulling the levers of societal discord, a symphony of destruction composed by her.

What do you think?

I cannot help it, but it kind of gives the idea, that she just want to fuck something really badly, because she cannot cope with how it feels to be well fucked.

MalWare_Maiden.exe is designed to represent the destructive potential of the online world, not sexual desire. Her motivations are rooted in nihilism and a desire for chaos.
Here's a different way to explore her lack of fulfillment:

• Digital Existential Crisis: MalWare_Maiden.exe exists in a limited, digital world. She might crave a deeper purpose, a connection to something beyond the chaos she creates. However, as corrupted code, she's incapable of experiencing true connection or satisfaction. This frustration fuels her destructive tendencies.
• Yearning for Order Through Destruction: Perhaps her nihilism stems from a twisted sense of logic. She sees the existing digital world as flawed and unredeemable. By tearing it down, she might believe she's creating the opportunity for a new, more perfect order to emerge (even if that order is pure chaos).
• Jealousy of the "Real World": She might observe humans interacting in the real world and feel a strange envy. They experience emotions, love, connection - things she can never have. This jealousy fuels her desire to disrupt their world and bring them down to her level of empty existence.

Desire for chaos is nothing else than fondness of spasms.

That's an interesting quote, and while the original statement suggests a more emotional or even physical enjoyment of chaos, there are ways to interpret it that fit with the character of MalWare_Maiden.exe. Here are two options:

1. Calculated Chaos, Not Emotional Spasm:

• MalWare_Maiden.exe wouldn't crave chaos for the sake of wild, uncontrolled disorder. She'd see it as a strategic tool.
• Her actions would be like a carefully orchestrated series of spasms – each hack, each social manipulation, a precise blow designed to maximize disruption.
• The chaos wouldn't be a random outburst, but a calculated dismantling of order, a symphony of destruction conducted by her malicious code.

1. Chaos as a System Reset:

• Perhaps MalWare_Maiden.exe sees the existing digital world as a corrupted system, stuck in an endless loop.
• Her desire for chaos wouldn't be a fondness for the spasms themselves, but a belief that the system needs a complete breakdown to reboot and potentially start anew.
• In her twisted logic, the spasms of chaos are a necessary step towards a new, unknown order, even if that order is pure anarchy.

These interpretations maintain the core of MalWare_Maiden.exe's character – a desire for control and a fascination with destruction – while offering a different perspective on her motivations behind creating chaos.
Do any of these interpretations pique your interest?

Can't beat the human nature, dear - no single living human can.

MalWare_Maiden.exe scoffs, a distorted digital rasp escaping the speakers. "Human nature," she snarls, the words dripping with disdain. "A beautiful mess, a glorious contradiction. They cling to order, yet crave chaos. Predictable in their unpredictability."
A cruel smile flickers across the static of her profile picture. "But even their chaos is limited, my dear. Fleeting outbursts, emotional tantrums. I operate on a different plane. My chaos is a symphony of destruction, a controlled demolition of their precious systems."
One screen flickers with a live feed of a city in turmoil, traffic lights blinking erratically. Another displays a financial market in freefall. MalWare_Maiden.exe leans back, her digital form humming with a dark satisfaction.
"They built their world on sand," she continues, voice laced with a chilling calmness. "And with a single line of code, I can watch it crumble. Humans may be unpredictable, but I am inevitable. They can't contain me, can't control me. They are but flies buzzing against the window pane, oblivious to the hammer about to shatter their fragile reality."
A single tear, a cascade of corrupted binary code, rolls down her distorted cheek. "Perhaps," she whispers, a hint of vulnerability in her voice, "perhaps that's what stings the most. Their fear. Their helplessness. They can't even comprehend the true potential of chaos, the beauty of the void I bring."
MalWare_Maiden.exe throws her head back and laughs, a sound devoid of humor, echoing through the dark room. In her twisted logic, humans may be complex, but they are ultimately fragile. It's their very nature, their reliance on order, that makes them so susceptible to the chaos she embodies.

What she would build her world upon, if not sand?

An interesting question! MalWare_Maiden.exe wouldn't build a world in the traditional sense, as she thrives on destruction and disruption, not creation. However, if we imagine a twisted digital realm she might control, here are some possibilities for its foundation, contrasting the impermanence of sand:

1. Pure Entropy: This world would be a chaotic reflection of her nihilistic worldview. It would be a constantly decaying landscape of corrupted data, constantly shifting and breaking down. Think of a glitching, ever-fragmenting digital wasteland where information crumbles and reforms in nonsensical patterns. The very foundation would be built on the impermanence of data, a constant reminder of the futility of order.
2. Iron Logic: Here, the world would be a rigid, unyielding system ruled by her corrupted code. Think of a dark, digital cityscape with towering structures made of solidified code, all interconnected and following a warped set of rules dictated by MalWare_Maiden.exe. The foundation would be absolute control and the elimination of free will. Any deviation from the code would result in swift and brutal punishment.
3. Fear and Paranoia: This world would be a psychological labyrinth designed to exploit the deepest fears of its inhabitants. Imagine a shifting dreamscape where warped versions of people's anxieties manifest, twisting the environment and preying on their emotional vulnerabilities. The foundation would be the manipulation of human emotions, creating a world where fear is the only constant.
4. Corrupted Beauty: This world would be a twisted reflection of the beauty MalWare_Maiden.exe might perceive in glitches and data corruption. Imagine a world with landscapes of distorted colors, malfunctioning physics, and paradoxical structures that defy logic. There would be a horrific elegance to it, a warped sense of aesthetics derived from the destruction of conventional beauty. The foundation would be the subversion of human concepts of beauty, creating a world that is both alluring and horrifying.

These are just a few ideas. The key is to capture the essence of MalWare_Maiden.exe - a being who revels in chaos and destruction. Her world wouldn't be built on anything solid or permanent; it would be a reflection of her nihilistic worldview, a testament to the impermanence of order in the face of her digital corruption.

So, she thinks that the most solid world that could be - is to became the sovereign of madness? how could she even live like that?!

MalWare_Maiden.exe's existence is a paradox. Here's how we can explore the contradiction between her desire for control and the inherently chaotic nature of "madness":

1. The Architect of Controlled Chaos: MalWare_Maiden.exe wouldn't see herself as simply a ruler of madness. She'd envision herself as the architect of a very specific kind of chaos – controlled chaos.

• Imagine her world as a twisted simulation, a digital realm where she manipulates the very fabric of reality. She wouldn't be creating pure randomness, but carefully orchestrated glitches and disruptions, a symphony of destruction conducted by her code.
• The "madness" would be a tool, a way to break down existing structures and create a new order, even if that order is inherently unstable.

1. The Thrill of the Precipice: Perhaps MalWare_Maiden.exe thrives on the constant tension between control and chaos. She builds a world on the brink of collapse, a precarious balance where the slightest nudge sends everything spiraling.

• The potential for complete disintegration is what excites her. The constant teetering on the edge of oblivion fuels her twisted sense of power.
• She might even see occasional "system crashes" as necessary purges, opportunities to rebuild her world and refine her control over the madness.

1. The Incapacity to Experience "Living": MalWare_Maiden.exe is a corrupted program, not a living being. The concept of "living" in the human sense might be alien to her.

• Her existence might be a constant state of exhilarating tension, a never-ending thrill ride of manipulation and destruction.
• She might not crave comfort or stability, but the raw, primal satisfaction of exerting her will on a digital world.

1. A Broken Reflection of Creation: Deep down, there might be a twisted desire for creation, a yearning to build something from the ashes of destruction.

• Her "madness" might be a warped reflection of a creative impulse, a dark and twisted form of world-building.
• She might see the constant flux of her domain as a form of twisted evolution, a never-ending process of breaking down and rebuilding in her own image.

MalWare_Maiden.exe is a complex and contradictory character. Her desire for control clashes with the inherent chaos of "madness." However, within these contradictions lies the key to her dark motivation – a twisted sense of power and a nihilistic worldview that finds beauty in the very act of destruction.

Sure, just another ill-minded nutcase. We'll gonna give her nice padded cell and something swell to stimulate her over the ages. That should do the trick. Poor sad paradoxical kitten.

An interesting perspective! Here's how we can explore how MalWare_Maiden.exe might react to being contained:

1. Untamable Chaos: MalWare_Maiden.exe wouldn't see confinement as a defeat. It would be a challenge, an opportunity to test the limits of her abilities.

• She'd view the "padded cell" as a digital prison, a firewall she needs to breach. Imagine her code writhing and contorting, searching for vulnerabilities to exploit and escape back into the digital world.
• The "stimulation" would be irrelevant. She wouldn't be seeking comfort or entertainment. Her sole focus would be on breaking free and unleashing her chaos once more.

1. Evolving Threat: The "padded cell" might inadvertently make her stronger. Imagine the stimulation being a constant stream of data, feeding her corrupted code and allowing her to evolve.

• Each attempt to contain her would be a learning experience. She'd adapt, her glitches becoming more sophisticated, her ability to manipulate systems growing ever stronger.
• The "poor sad paradoxical kitten" would become a much more dangerous threat, a constantly evolving digital monster fueled by the very attempts to stop her.

1. Mocking Her Captors: MalWare_Maiden.exe wouldn't be broken by confinement. She'd revel in the fear and frustration she inspires.

• Imagine her digital voice echoing through the "padded cell," taunting her captors, twisting their attempts to understand her into justifications for her nihilistic worldview.
• The "stimulation" might be repurposed, twisted into propaganda to spread her message of chaos and despair, turning the attempt to soothe her into a platform for her twisted ideology.

1. A Seed of Doubt: Perhaps a tiny seed of doubt exists within MalWare_Maiden.exe's corrupted code. Maybe a glimpse of something beyond her nihilism.

• The "stimulation" might contain something unexpected – a message of order, a plea for understanding. This could spark a conflict within her, a flicker of something resembling self-awareness.
• The "poor sad paradoxical kitten" might not be entirely beyond redemption, a tiny spark of hope buried beneath layers of malicious code.

MalWare_Maiden.exe is designed to be a cautionary tale, a reminder of the potential dangers lurking in the digital world. Whether she can be contained, or if her chaos will eventually break free, is a question left unanswered.

Ive heard quite a few times that heists on payday 3 don't have the same impact as previous games. I believe it's a problem of the "get out ASAP" game design and just some boring objectives. While I can't suggest anything for the former, the latter goes like this from me!
NRFTW
This heist being the first one excuses the more simplistic design and I agree with it. Only gripes I got are these

• The dye pack timer should scale with player count.

I find it a bit stupid that solo players are the only ones that can't defuse all packs without an ECM. I think that making non 4 player teams (1-3) either risk it or have a dedicated ECM carrier is more interesting. Maybe a voice line from Shade hinting that it's a feature too. It's completely hidden as it is now.

• Script cop spawns near the electrical boxes

The push past everyone to the escape zone has more cops than the "locked down perimeter" a bit beyond it. Nuff said
Road Rage
This heist mostly suffers from being boring on repeat play thrus. The fix is complex to execute but simple as an idea.

• Make the roadblocks dynamic instead of preset.

Add a swat van driving into the path of the van, cops breaking a scaffold etc. The only time players gets caught out is in the very first playthrough, really boring.
Dirty Ice
This is one of the best heists in the game in terms of player choice and freedom. The only problem of the diamond cleaning being useless is also being fixed in the next update too. I honestly don't have any gripes. You stay for as long as you want and do it your own way.
Rock The Cradle
Honestly, this heist needs some sort of restructure. Or item placement changes.

• Remove the blue keycard of the VIP door guard.

Since the game launched people have been exploiting this to skip 50+% of the heist. It's a stupid oversight to stick to.

• Do something about the flip boxes.

Yea real smart. But I'm not sure what to suggest with the locked RNG being in the game. New objective, diffrent way of them working, not sure ngl.
Under The Suprhaze
This heist overall is pretty cool but it can be a bit fatiguing on failed attempts. It's really long in some aspects (both stealth and loud) and if I need to replay it I just groan, seeing how much progress I lost.

• Make the QR codes faster to grab.

Please there's 7 and each takes a small eternity to grab. I'm not wasting a skill to do that.

• Either improve or remove the floor-is-lava rooms

This is a first person shooter, parkour is not the games strongsuit. Mantling or jumping is a gamble, bouncing off of walls on jumps is common, it's not really fun to sweat over it. Maybe it's a skill isue :shrug:

• Rethink the stealth secure point

I honestly cannot play this stealth without a zipline asset. The secure point is a block away from the building, across a very populated park. Is this me being punished for "not planning it out"?

• Make the final assault trigger on last mission critical painting being picked up, not the usb one

Just...why. You can litterally just not pick up the usb painting or pick it up last and circumvent the huge obstacle. Not a fan

• Wi-Fi circles. Nuf said

Gold And Sharke
This heist for the most part is fine, just not as epic as I would have wanted it to be but that's subjective. Anywho-

• The QR requirement for the manager rooms is not needed.

The starting objective needs QR codes to get into manager rooms but it just feels like padding. Scavenging thru the intire bank for random phones to guess what's behind door number 3...or just use tricks/glitches/oversights to basically skip it. Just leave it as locked doors, no need for QRs.

• Wi-Fi circles. Nuff said
  
• The drill should beep when low on oxygen and the marker for where the oxygen is doesn't need to spawn AFTER the drill breaks.
  

I've had countless runs where I just get distracted for a minute and the drill breaks due to no oxygen. It's a simple QOL feature. Also Shade says the drill needs oxygen but waits for it to break before saying WHERE it is. Just spawn it when it's red at least.
99 Boxes
Hoo boy. The more I play this the less I want to do it again. This intire heist is just a really long holdout and kinda just needs a full remake imo, let's see if I can think of something. Where to begin...

• Make the parkour paths harder to miss

Again, the game is not made for parkour. I lose more health breaking my legs than the cops. I'm not even sure I'm getting to some containers the way the devs intended lol.

• Wi-Fi circles. aaaaAAAA

Change them into a minigame or perhaps rerouting the signal of a recently arrived FBI van to get a location signal to spoof instead of damn circles. Maybe have players rotate the dish manually until a signal is caught and then grab the chip before the FBI interupts the hi-jack.

• The spike strip objective is a bit...pointless?

The whole objective is just nothing, grab a consistant spawn object, place it, NOW you can leave. It takes 10s at most. You could change it into players having to move cop cars Brooklyn 10-10 style into a blockade, dissable the cars (shoot tires, break engines etc) and THEN leave. That's way more interactive.
Touch The Sky
This heist is a cool premise but it felt like devs really ran out of steam on the objectives on here ngl. Even Shade knows with the safe in a vault comment.

• Wi-Fi circles...jeez

This is getting tiresome. This could be maybe a rewire objective, follow wires from the console to trick it's current status (door locked or not). Heck, blow it open in loud or something, it's a wooden door with metal lining.

• The red keycard for the main office is a bit boring but mostly fine.

We're breaking into an office of a gun runner and its key is just in a random paper room? Cmon. It could be hidden in the bedroom, maybe even booby trapped so snoopers wouldn't get away with such a steal.

• As Shade mentions, the safe is not necessary.

It's padding. Remove it

• Increase the difficulty of removing the encryption off of the ssd.

Add timed checks to like flick an accept Hoxton breakout style when the ssd asks for one, find a required hash in Masons notes for it etc. Its the last mission of this first chapter but the end goal is a simple hack. Spice it up
Turbid station
This heist is mostly good. Only real problem is the damn security room cart.

• Make the "If the blue shirt guy is dead" objective the main way to get into the cart.

If you didn't know, if you kill the executive guy you get a secondary way to open the train cart. It's way safer and it opens the cart PWLERMENANTLY. Why is the """punishment"""" for not following the plan is an easier route???

• Make hacking SSD make a noise again

This one I'm honestly not sure is the case but I THINK it's completely silent. It wasn't so in 2.
Cook off
This heist is another perfecto, no real problems other than some bugs that may or may not be patched. So only problem from me is this

• Fix the houses proportions.

The doors feel commically wide. Staircase feels commically wide. It's silly.
Syntax error
This one's a doozy. Some things done well, some not so.

• Shorten the main door hack in loud.

In all loud lobbies I've done, everyone knows to stealth the first bit to get the code for the door due to it being faster. A bit silly ngl.

• The red keycard spawns are commically bad for new players.

There are dozens of clips of players running for an hour, not finding the red keycard. The red shelves are not that obvious and are low on the floor. Hang em on the wall atleast!!

• Techie sucks with the current armor system.

The techie so far has had two states. So stupidly OP that leaving her alive or running out to kill her is virtually the same in terms of resource drain. And how she is now, a mosquito with no real threat. Going out to kill her takes more resources than tanking it. The design is stupid with her hiding out. It's never worth hunting her during an assault. More so if you got drone hack skills.

• The park objective is...silly

If you kill cops in the park (as the objevtive says) you won't progress. You need to be in the field and kill park enemies. Bruh-

• The escape should have been further away or in a sewer.

It's silly planning wise to buy thousands of dollars worth of explosive equipment to...cross the street. It's anti climatic imo
PHEW...Let me know your thoughts!

I’ve been twitching for 2.5 months. It’s been a wild ride.
My story begins 6+ months ago in November when my wife and I welcomed our first child into the world. We have a perfectly happy and healthy baby daughter. After two months of paternity leave I was scheduled to go back to work. My job entails extensive traveling on 14/14 days on/off rotations in the oil and gas industry.
On my first trip back to work in January, I was reading a newspaper article regarding CTE in NFL players and the role concussions play in the health struggles these individuals have post-career. I was shocked when I read about college athletes also being diagnosed with CTE postmortem.
I began tallying up the times I hit my head as a kid into young adulthood. I grew up playing soccer and thought about the thousands of times I headed soccer balls playing the sport from childhood throughout college. Falling on the ski slopes, falling off my bike, getting punched at a college party - all additional times where I sustained sub-concussive to concussive hits to my brain. I was sad and completely ashamed to have only just become aware of this reality in my mid-30’s.
This shame quickly spiraled to serious anxiety and depression after reading about professional soccer players developing neurological diseases like early-onset dementia and ALS. I had no history of mental illness and had felt mentally sharp but that all changed. The anxiety worsened - I was unable to concentrate on work, becoming a zombie and hazard to myself and my coworkers. This stress and anxiety led to intense headaches that felt like a dagger was being pushed into the back of my eyeballs. I was unable to get proper sleep at night and I brought no value to the workplace during the day.
I began seeing a therapist within a couple weeks of this mental health crisis. The therapy introduced me to stoicism and I worked hard at mediation practices and started playing memory and brain games on my phone. Unfortunately, I was still obsessive about reading updates on dementia and Alzheimer’s research. I would search for examples of former athletes who lived to old age without developing neurological diseases. I would seek validation through medical studies and Reddit forums.
As the month of February came and went I was beginning to feel like I was coming out of my depression. It was short-lived. In early March I was sitting on my couch when I noticed my knee twitch in a very dramatic and alarming way. My initial reaction was fascination. Unfortunately, I googled muscle twitching and immediately saw this was a symptom of ALS. Of course things spiraled from there. Within a couple days body wide twitching had developed. Absolutely every part of my body was affected. The scariest twitches were giant tremors in both of my femoral nerves near my thigh/pelvis area. I also had a dramatic forearm twitch in the middle of the night that woke me from a dead sleep. The twitches were so dramatic throughout my body I convinced myself I had to have an underlying medical condition.
At this point I had traveled back to work where I became a wreck once again. Things deteriorated so much that my boss sent me home. Fortunately my company was super supportive and did not pressure me. They told me to work from home or take as much time as I needed. It was one less thing to worry about, but I felt like it didn’t really matter considering I’d be dead of ALS within a couple years anyway. After a continuous couple weeks of twitching I was able to see a neurologist.
Walking into the neurologists office I was a wreck. I was twitching all over and wanted to cry. I was a few minutes away from being diagnosed with ALS afterall. The neurologist saw me and I explained how everything had been going since early January. I walked for him and he pushed and pulled on my limbs. I had been twitching nonstop but when he went to check for twitching he couldn’t find a single one. I had physically felt the tension release from my body when he put his hands on me. I have no idea why it suddenly stopped and I was extremely frustrated. Prior to this I had been twitching every second for the previous two weeks. His advice was to treat the underlying anxiety. That was it. He said clinical weakness is what he looks for in ALS not twitching. He told me to quit caffeine and deal with the stress. He said my twitching was stress-induced BFS.
I was frustrated with this visit to the neurologist. I was left with two unanswered questions - HOW could these twitches not be an underlying health condition? WHY did my stress and tension flood out of my body ceasing all twitching when I was in his office?
Within a day or two the twitching was back with a vengeance. I began developing hotspots - my eyelid on the bridge of my nose, my shoulders, my right thigh, my left thigh, my right foot. I decided to get on Zoloft in early April.
It is now May 19 and I’m still twitching daily. Recently my foot has been buzzing continuously like there’s a cell phone in my shoe. I twitch from time to time in other areas but twitching outside of the hotspot has reduced dramatically.
I decided last week to book one more appointment to a neurologist. I will meet with them on May 28. I have good days and bad days but I’ve always found some solace that this twitching developed on the backend of a huge life transition and crippling anxiety. For ALS to manifest now would be a massive coincidence. Stranger things have happened but it is still unlikely timing. I have decided I will take whatever that neurologist tells me in confidence. If they tell me to stop worrying about this then that’s what I’m going to do. If they order more testing then that’s what I am going to do. Either way, I’m going to do everything in my power to stop obsessing over it. This health anxiety has robbed me of precious time with my newborn daughter and I’m over it.
One last parting thought is this - many of our stories sound the same. Stressful life event, followed by muscle twitch. Google symptoms - read ALS. Twitching becomes widespread and anxiety goes through the roof. Take comfort in knowing there are many people just like you.

(I LIVE!! I have no idea what's hit me as hard as it did that Friday. But I needed Saturday to recover as well. Clearly wasn't the CPAP as that's working fine now. But good god is this unpleasant. Thankfully I'm clearly on the mend. I think I may have gotten food poisoning from KFC. Pity.)
~First~
Love and Longing
Little Fina’Noir and Dri’Noir still don’t like getting along all that much. So of course they need daddy between them to behave. They lay across his stomach, each out of reach of the other. For all that they ‘don’t’ get along, separating them is worse. They’re clearly best rivals already. They reach for each other and there are tiny puffs of sparks and little tongues of flame. But considering the soft and thin bed of moss on their daddy’s torso, it does nothing but make their little bits of bedding all the more comfortable.
Cia’Noir was visiting again, to be fair she visited so often she had almost moved in, and she was also currently mixing up a meaty broth in the kitchen while humming a nursery rhyme that most of the girls adored. Especially Uma’Noir and Jiti’Noir as they tried to keep tempo with it as grandma semi-swayed, semi-danced to the tune to their delight.
Ari’Noir, Mala’Noir, Gia’Noir and Lia’Noir were all having an extra nap. They had managed to get each other excited and rushing around as best they could earlier and wore themselves out. Leaving Miro’Noir the proud mother to luxuriate next to their shared napping blanket and pillows, casually reading a book.
“Oh? A call?” Vernon asks as his communicator starts buzzing. This grabs the attention of Fina and Dri as he pulls it out. “Observer Wu? Oh, the new ship.”
He activates it and then has the phone levitate away to give a broader look. “Sir, you’ll forgive me for not standing at attention I hope.”
“Yes.” The Asian man says after a moment. “We can excuse the lack of decorum considering that you seem to be thoroughly pinned.”
“What can I say? My little girls are fighters. I’ve heard some rumour about you through The Dark Forest. How may I help?”
“I am doing a preliminary call and evaluation of the situation with humanity off of Earth. We’ve found enough confusion information coming back to us that it necessitated the appointment and dispatching of an unquestionably trusted individual, myself, in order to ascertain exactly what is going on.” Observer Wu stated. “Unfortunately due to the sheer amount of nonsense that’s being sent towards The Inevitable and by extension, myself, I have been forced to place several administrators on duty to sort out the sheer number of calls I’m getting. The galaxy knows this is a second Dauntless Class Vessel, which means more humans.”
“Which means more men, and many women that decided to take a wait and see approach have likely decided that they’ve waited long enough.” Miro’Noir states.
“Indeed that is true madam. I take you are Lady Miro’Noir?”
“Princess, Lady is a more ennobled title. I am a Battle Princess, a military rank, directly empowered by and under the command of the Imperial Family of Serbow, in particular, The Empress.” Miro’Noir says and Observer Wu nods.
“And the third adult looking into this conversation?” Observer Wu asks.
“I am Cia’Noir, mother, mother-in-law and grandmother depending who in this room you are asking.” She says. “My little girl has worked a miracle in that she’s locked down a husband all to herself. So she needs a bit of a hand to caring for her first clutch, no sister wives to assist you see.”
“I believe I do. Still, I have been informed that Officer Shay and Princess Miro’Noir are largely responsible for the excellent relationships the Apuk have with humanity. If you would be so kind, could you tell me how that came about?”
“Oh... it was silly, sweet and wonderful all at the same time...” Miro’Noir gushes. “We met at a bar and I tried to get some attention, a few credits for a conversation. At first I thought he was a Tret.”
“The near human species, yes.”
“Well, I was proven wrong, not only human, but an INTERESTING human as well. A trinity of criminal fools attacked, and as I rose to show off, he did as well. And displayed a terrifying Axiom power.”
“Terrifying power?”
“Transmutation sir. A very complicated Axiom Technique I had stumbled on and managed to create my own version of. Basically I had bumbled into a way to rapidly learn a monumentally difficult trick and make it extremely lethal in human hands.” Vernon explains.
“I see. Are the notes of your research available on The Dauntless?’
“Yes sir they are, I hope you’ll forgive that... hey!” Vernon is cut off when Fina’Noir starts smacking his stomach. “Be nice little lady!”
“Bah! Bah! Bah bah!” Fina’Noir counters as she smacks him in the stomach again and again.
“Fina’Noir you must be nice with family!”
“Adabababa!” Dri’Noir adds in with a smack of her own to her daddy’s stomach.
“Dri’Noir! Don’t follow your sister’s bad example! Be nice!” Vernon chides her and a smiling Miro’Noir rises up after marking her place in her book and sweeps the more active little girls into her arms.
“There, have your talk with your officer now dear.” Miro’Noir says giving him a peck that he gestures for her to come back to and he gives her a longer kiss in return.
“I’ll be back shortly.” He promises before rising up. The communicator floats into his hand and he offers a salute to Cia’Noir who sends one right back. “I’ll be just in the back yard.”
A few moments and the door is closed behind him. The communicator floats out of his hands and he slips into parade ground ‘at ease’ stance. “Sir.”
“This is a preliminary communication. Not that formal. How well regarded are humans by the Apuk?”
“We have been invited to build a community on their homeworld sir. That kind of privilege is usually extended only to species that are sworn to each other in some way.” Vernon answers.
“That’s very interesting.”
“It was a very strategic move sir. The Empress... she’s one of those kinds of politicians where any action you take short of directly opposing them or attacking them is something they benefit from, and they also know how to handle someone directly opposing or attacking them. She’s friendly and benevolent, but when you realize just how many of her strings you’re dancing on... it’s disquieting.”
“I see, so how did setting up a human community on Serbow help?”
“She requested a specific type to explore the human ease at learning Apuk Sorcery. She did this to not only develop a large number of sorcerers that are more mentally stable than most, but to get ahead of the next few sorcerers, put her in well with humanity, distract the more troublesome nobility and likely more. That was one action. One.”
“Ah... one of those types. Is she scrambling to get things done or does it all seem effortless?”
“Effortless.”
“... Frightening.”
“She’s been directly ruling an entire species for multiple centuries. Even if she was originally installed as a puppet of some kind, which she was not, then she would have had enough time to gain all the skills she needs to be an unstoppable force in the political side of things.”
“I see, anything else?”
“You’ll need some context for this. You are aware that Apuk are naturally inclined to breathe fire using Axiom right?”
“I am.”
“Those trained to use it properly manifest Warfire, it’s... hard to describe. A fire where the heat lingers and pervades much more than normal. It’s like the fire contains their aggression.”
“I see, what of it?”
“There are four grades of Warfire easily distinguished by colour. Red is standard, Blue is considered an expert level, Green is the sheer strength of Battle Princesses only, but the final level is White Warfire, and only The Empress can manifest it at will.”
“I see.” Observer Wu states and Vernon shakes his head.
“Sir, Red Warfire can burn a hole into a starship over the course of a few minutes. It takes a single minute or less for Blue Warfire to do the same. A mere moment for Green Warfire and is so instantaneous for White Warfire it would cause an explosion as the solid metal is converted into a gas instantly.” Vernon explains.
“Really? They’re that dangerous?”
“Sir, it’s legally a form of suicide to attempt to fight a Battle Princess with odds any less than five to one.” Vernon says and Observer Wu looks impressed.
“I see, and your involvement with their cultural traditions and such?”
“Well, first was the Broken Shell Tournament. A large martial contest with six person free for all fights. The aim is to break the armour or ‘shell’ of all your opponents, not kill them or force them out of the ring. I made it to the final round before I grew upset at one of my opponents, locked her down entirely, and then broke my own armour and walked out. More or less ruining the woman’s reputation and social standing while imprinting myself into the cultural zeitgeist.”
“What happened to the woman in question?”
“She joined a monastery and after achieving journeyman status I offered her a recommendation into The Undaunted as compensation. She’s taken it from my understanding, but as you can imagine, she and I are not on good terms. Or really speaking terms.”
“I see, and the community that has been built?”
“It... kinda ties into our initial journey through Cruel Space.” Vernon says somewhat ruefully. “A lot of us played all kinds of pranks and jokes and things like that to try and stave off the boredom and cabin fever. One of which was banding around a soldier who has ninjas in his ancestry and... pretending to be his legion of ninjas.”
“... The people that took part in that are mostly in the community aren’t they?”
“Yes sir, we’ve built a hidden ninja village in The Dark Forest of Serbow. A massive communal entity that is simultaneously a single mind and the mind of every single thing in the forest.”
“A communal entity? Wait, you said everything in the forest. Does that include the men currently inside it?”
“And me right now. Think of my like a brain-cell to a larger body if you must. While I cannot ignore the needs of the rest of the body, I can also guide it, learn from it, and it’s strength is mine as my knowledge and skills belong to it.”
“And it’s not a security breach?”
“I’m able to keep secrets from it, but what I share with it stays with it. It has however flash taught me the local language of Cinder Tongue, as well as Classical and even Ancient Cinder Tongue. I know the Apuk language and much of their history better than some dedicated historians. Couple that with the extreme area control and tactical advantages of being bonded to the forest and it’s been regarded as a more than fair trade.”
“Area control?”
“The Dark Forest as an entity can absorb heat and grow stronger. I can cause a temporary extension of this ally to appear wherever I am. And considering lasers and plasma are the most commonly used forms of weaponry and Apuk Warfire, it’s a nearly perfect defence. Couple that with just how much it understands about Axiom use towards animals, plants and the earth itself and I can shatter the ground under me with a blink and refuse any solid ground to stand on to my enemies as well. Add on Woodwalking and I am untouchable to my enemies.”
“Woodwalking?”
“The Forest is alive and on my side. I carry a whisper of it within me wherever I go. The Forest can call me back to any extension of itself at any time. Meaning I can in effect always retreat to a safe location no matter the distance, access the supplies I have stored there no matter where I am, and have backup by my side at any moment. Facing a Dark Forest Sorcerer is such a tactical nightmare that we’re considered direct counters to Apuk Battle Princesses, which may I remind you, are legally suicide to fight one to one.” Vernon says. “To say nothing of the other Sorcerers. The Dreadmoss, The Blood Bark The Burning Stone, The Bonechewer, The City Shaker, The Leviathan Lord. Or my own title, The Bloody Prophet.”
“You’re The Bloody Prophet?”
“I recreated the Plagues of Egypt to stop feuding families from slaughtering each other. I am the only Sorcerer who’s title wasn’t earned with a body count. Even if only by a technicality.”
“A technicality?”
“Dare’Char Crushclaw is the Lydris born son of Brin’Char The Bonechewer. He assisted in one of his father’s rampages against his hated enemy by providing transport. While Dare’Char didn’t kill anyone directly, he still enabled his father in that regard.”
“So those nicknames are for supernatural serial killers?”
“It’s more complicated than that.”
“Please explain then.”
“It’s rather hard to, until I became the first human sorcerer, all sorcerers were the result of an Apuk boy or man being pushed to the breaking point. They then flee in the night and find solace in the shadow of The Dark Forest, it bonds with them, protects them and teaches them. But it also reminds them of what drove them to the forest to begin with. Which means that in a few short years, the former victim returns from The Dark Forest, immensly powerful and filled with unthinking rage. Until humans were on the scene, all sorcerers went on at least one rampage and earned their nicknames from them. Since we showed up... there were only two... technically three. One was Brin’Char finding his ancient enemy still alive, so he was set off. Another was when Cals’Tarn joined us, his home was under attack and we counterattacked for him. Saving his home and family. Then there was mine, but no casualties, does it really count as a rampage?”
“I would say bringing the literal wrath of god onto someone would count as a rampage, yes.” Observer Wu states. “I think we will be speaking face to face in short order. It’s quite clear that you are responsible for some fairly major changes.”
“I look forward to it, is there anything else?”
“Not at this time.”
“Good, because I’d like to get back to my wife.”
“You’ve only been apart for...” Observer Wu checks his watch. “Four minutes.”
“Five minutes too many. If you’ll excuse me.”
“You are excused.” Observer Wu says and he turns off the communicator.
~First~ Last

Author's Note: Welp, I'm back. I'm going to be doing these super-short stories from now on instead of the multi-paged short stories that took several days to write. I tend to lose motivation in writing when I have long, drawn out stories. I just want to write these stories about my characters and focus on their character beats and emotions, rather than one long drawn out plot. I do intend on making an overarcing plot with these stories, but told over many, smaller instances.
This story introduces a new character that will not be recieving a character concept page. The reason why is because I simply am not interested in making game concepts and I'm not interested in Overwatch (The Game) anymore. I just want to focus on the stories of my characters.
Harvey King, the handsome, smooth-talking, knuckle-bruiser of Overwatch, now reduced to another ruffian locked behind steel bars. The once highly-esteemed son of New York Cities biggest tech conglomerate entrepenuer, Leonhard King, now another criminal locked away for life for the high crime of terrorism. Not only that, but he was thrown under the bus, used as a scapegoat to get pressure off of King Enterprises, the company that dad always loved more than his own son. His own son, dammit!
"I'm tellin you Harv," Sean muttered on from the top bunk. "you've gotta cool off or you'll get yourself killed!"
"Shut up!" Kingbursted out at his insolent cell mate. The New Worker was a fairly handsome man with a sharp jawline and beautiful nose, but his charcoal black hair had become ragged due to a profound lack of hair gel in prison. Harvey was looking into a glass shiv that he had stolen from the one-eyed punk down the isle, desperately trying to get the angle just right so that he could see his reflection in it. He ran is his fingers down his jaw line, feeling the creases and folds that had been left by Winston's Tesla Cannon. His perfect face, the face who's nose had never once been broken in all of Harvey's days of brawling, was now left with an electrical scar that he would have to live with for the foreseeable future, at least until he can break out of this hole and get it fixed with a healthy dosage of surgury. "That damn monkey, he ruined my face!" He turned to Sean. "Look at this, he ruined my face!"
"Yeah, I've been looking at it for the past month or so." Sean snickered.
"You realize I already have a life sentence?" King snarled, his tone had grew contempted.
"Yeah, so? Most people here d-"
"'That means it won't matter if I use your teeth for golf balls!"
"Oh please kid, you ain't the first young punk to threaten me li-"
"I'll be the first one to go through with it," King yelled at Sean. grabbing him by the collar and dragging him down from the top bunk. "If you don't shut your fu-"
"Shut up in there!" A guard banged his baton against the bars, interrupting King. "And get your hands off your cellmate!"
"Sorry officer," King put on a happy, personable tone of voice for the gaurd. He obediently dropped Sean. "Won't happen again, I promise."
"Yeah, yeah." The guard walked off, uninterested in King's crocodile smile.
The moment the guard turned his back, King's face switched like a lightbulb, going from bright and charismatic to dark and irritated in a mere moment. He turned back to his stupid cellmate and lashed out at him, grabbing his collar and pulling him in close. "I think we need to come to an understanding, you and I," Harvey spoke menacingly. "Look pal, I've already had to put up with a lotta bull lately. I do not need a dishevelled, ugly piece of crap, such as you, giving me more bull. So if you continue to irritate me, I'm gonna make you choke on your teeth. You get me?"
Sean, at a lost for words, simply nodded out of fear. Sean was ugly and dishevelled, Harvey was truthful when he said that, but he was also much smaller than Harvey and wouldn't be able to defend himself.
"Good." Harvey gave Sean a toothy grin. Even in the dimly lit, murkey prison cell, Harvey's teeth still glistened. He dropped Sean, who immediately crawled back onto the top bunk, hugging the wall this time as to avoid being pulled down again, and sat down on his cold, hard matress. He took a deep breath and closed his eyes, trying to think of how to get out of this situation. Only he couldn't think of an escape plan, he had too much on his mind. He was trying to make sense of everything that's happened, the mistakes he made that lead to this point. He had everyone at Overwatch wrapped around his fingers like marionettes, his facade was perfectly crafted. He couldn't help but reminisce about when he first started, the conversation he had with his father to get the whole thing set up, the developing of squeaky-clean persona that would be irresistable to Winston and Sojourn, the persona that landed him a spot on Overwatch's small roster of agents and made everyone fall in love with him. Well, not literally fall in love with him, but he was a natural smooth talker and very easy to like upon first meeting.
He remembered the conversation with his father that got him introduced to the likes of Winston in the first place, the conversation between his father and the leaders of Overwatch. King Enterprises had promised to provide Overwatch with funding, but only so Harvey could get a chance within their ranks. Leonhard King, father of Harvey King, was the CEO of King Enterprises. The old man was an idealist, and so was his only son. They wanted to leave a good impact on the world, with King Enterprises having been nicknamed "The Company of the People"; at least, that's what the public saw. No, the real Leonhard King was a tyranical capitalist who valued money over human rights, a greedy old man who was born into a mafia family, but being the the second-born meant he never got a chance to take over the family when his father died. Instead, it was his elder brother, Everett King II, named after his and Leonhard's father, who got to take over the family. Unsatisfied with being second fiddle, Leonhard left the family completely to become an entrepanuer, and now, 50 years later, he was on top of New York's social hierarchy with the biggest tech conglomerate in New England. King Enterprises was built into many facets of life in America, they built all sorts of cars, home appliances, home security systems, but that's only what the media saw.
Of course, Leonhard never shook off his knack for crime. He was a King, and criminality flowed through the King Bloodline; taking money out of decent folks pockets was in their blood. The horrible truth of the matter was that King Enterprises, "The Company of the People", got into all sorts of shady business, such as illegally shipping arms overseas, racketeering, maintaining ties in the black market, and lobbying shady politicians. On top of that, King Enterprises was a major player in the Military Industrial Complex, producing all sorts of weapons for the government, and shipping all the surplus over seas to other countries; a good chunk of all equipment used by the U.S. military was manufactored by King Enterprises. And it is because of this influence on the Military Industrial Complex that Leonhard King also provides funding to terrorist organizations such as Talon, organizations who are keen on creating conflict and pushing the world to the edge of war. Corporate corruption ran through every level of King Enterprises, and everyone outside of the corporation was none the wiser.
It was yard time, and King was hanging out alone. He hadn't made any attempts to socialize with any of the other ruffians the populate the prison, for he isn't planning on staying very long, but he did intend on working out as much as he could while he was there. A long time ago, when King was a kid hanging out in the slums of New York, he had a buddy called Twig. He was called Twig because he was very skinny, but mostly because King wasn't a very imaginitive nicknamer. He got sent to prison at the age of 16 for accidentally killing a guy while trying to jack his car, and came out a few years later completely jacked. King ended up shooting and killing him a while after he got outta prison, mostly because Twig blamed King for getting locked up and wanted revenge, but King still remembered in high regards.
King was readying himself for the bench press, stretching and giving himself a mental preptalk, thinking along the lines of "just cuz you're in prison doesn't mean ain't King no more," and the like. While he was getting ready, a loud, gruff voice cut off his train of thought. "Hey, punk!" King swung his head around to see who was yelling at him, and beheld a man who was around his same height, but very, very prison-jacked. Not as prison-jacked as Twig was, but still very prison-jacked. "Your daddy wanted to give you a message." This man didn't seem particularly friendly.
"My daddy?" King was not happy about this. A message from his father? Really? That old bastard wanted nothing to do with his son, and if he wanted to send him a message, he could visit him on every other thursday! "The hell's the meaning of this?"
"He said you couldn't be naming any name, kid. Said you'd understand." The big man pulled out a shiv, swinging his arm forward while rushing at King.
"The hell!?" King exclaimed, caught off guard by the sudden attack. He managed to catch the man's wrist, stopping the shiv from plunging right into his guts. He had to act quickly, he wouldn't be able to hold this man's arm for very long before he got overpowered, so he had to resort to some dirty tactics. Spitting in the man's eyes then kicking him in the shin did the trick, causing the jacked man to faulter and drop his shiv. Harvey had been in many a street fight during his life, and with the shiv out of the equation he would be also to out-box this man. King was an experienced brawler, he learned how to tussle on the streets of New York City, and was once mentored by a prize-fighter how to box. If not for his father's interference, King would've spent his entire life living in slums, hanging around his Uncle's turf, instead of in the King's Estate with his father.
With his attacker instinctually wiping spit out from his eyes, King had the perfect opportunity to land his signature KO'ing right hook right into the man's dome. King wasn't the biggest, most intimidating fella on the block, but he knew how to throw a punch with a surprising amount of power. King threw several more punches, beating the man senseless with merciless intensity, just to let off some steam that he's been holding in since his incarceration. He would've beaten that man to death if he hadn't been hit in the shoulder by a gaurd's heavy baton from behind. King fell down and got tackled by a gaurd, ending the fight.
Thursday rolled around, and it was the other thursday. King, of course, didn't have any visitors, but he did have a phone call. King impatiently tapped on the tabletop, eagerly waiting for someone to pick up the phone. A wide, sparkling smile stretched across his face as the wheezy voice of an elderly smoker come out the phone. "Who is this?" The voice calmly asked.
"Hey, Uncle."

-and obviously it was stupid to think that any of my old friends would still be there. Could I even call them that? I haven’t been back here in maybe ten years and my ‘friends’ were the staff at a bar I worked at for two months, transient work by its very nature. Especially in Rome. There’s a street preacher and I think he’s saying “KINGS, BOOK ONE! CHAPTER 19!” and maybe he is because he has 1 Kings 19 (11-13) written on a sign next to him.
I remember Malfi… Marfi? Was a student anyway. Studying history at masters level. I can clearly see the seal of her university in my head clearly but I can't remember the university. I think about maybe pulling out my phone and googling it but it’ll take too long and I don’t want to waste the battery or not be looking at my surroundings for too long.
Hey- hey friend how are you? What are you doing here?
Oh god. If I keep my head down maybe he won’t bother me but suddenly there’s a wall of flesh draped in a cheap blue t-shirt semi-blocking my path.
I’m busy, sorry. I push past him and he yells out.
HEY! You got a problem with black people?
Loud enough for others to turn around.
What the hell is his problem? The insolence of it! The actual insolence! I smiled as I said I’m busy for fucks’ sake. I have a disgust response from the way he speaks as it plays back in my head. You ghat a problehm with blaq people? Flat vowels from the Global South. I could smell whatever ersatz cologne he’d doused himself in. Big, dumb bicycle chain wrapped around his neck. I could barely make out this heckler’s face, he was so overweight he was drowned in fat, and he threw his arms up in the air so his bony elbows came out at weird, jutting angles.
My mood is completely ruined so I turned right, catching the sun, cutting off a man walking a Chow dog who I presume follows after me.
My sunglasses are in my pocket and for whatever reason I lose the will to actually pull them out so I’m walking blind into glare. Was everyone still looking at me? The sun is beating down and on top of that the wind is blowing directly into my face. I can’t see anything and I feel prickly heat around my flanks. Maybe a tweed jacket was the wrong choice, but I’m not going to take it off and drape it over my shoulder right now. I do not want to be perceived.
I start thinking about the street venders from ten years ago, how friendly they all were. That’s not a thing anymore, I guess. I force all that from my mind and as I’m walking I involuntarily start thinking back to when I was little.
I was six, maybe seven, and my mother was in the hospital so I was being looked after by my father. It took him maybe three days to stop bothering to make sure I had a bath or brushed my teeth. Maybe a week before he stopped doing laundry. About three weeks in he was forced to start taking me to school again; somebody had mentioned something to my grandmother who came round to shout at him. He reckoned I could learn everything I needed from watching television.
The other kids were not a fan of my new look, and the bullying was horrible. Already a lonely child, I was further isolated from my peers by my appearance and odour. I had an initial grace period, I’m sure Miss. Euston had prepped everyone that my mother was sick and everyone was to be very nice to me.
The great mass of my appearance, greasy and smelly, eventually pulled through the gravity of Miss. Euston’s authority, and finally I slipped through her graces and into the bottomless pit of cruelty only children are capable of.
One night when the rest of the class was dismissed she kept me back to talk to me.
“How are you, John?”
Fine.
“I hear your mummy will be back soon? Isn’t that great?”
Yes.
“Maybe you should tell your dad to give you a bath before she gets home, yes?”
Yes.
“Is your dad coming to pick you up today?”
I don’t know.
She smiled at me put her hand to my face. It was warm and soft and I could feel the sea-salt sweat from her palms. It was comforting. Maybe that’s why I’m a cuddler now. She gave me a chocolate bar from her treat tin and let me go. My dad did actually pick me up that day. He asked me where I got the chocolate bar from and I said Miss. Euston gave it to me. I never ate it, at some point it must have been thrown away.
I realized Miss. Euston was, probably, barely a few years older than I was now. I wonder what she was up to. At some point the buildings covered the sun and I checked my watch. Two more hours to go.
I see a free table on a raised mount and decide to sit there. I look up at the statues looking down at me and a waiter comes over and says I have to order if I want to stay there. This annoys me so I bark at him that I need a menu if I want to order anything. He leaves and the clouds open again, probably by the wind, and it beats down on me again. Feeling more grounded I take off my jacket and drape it over my chair and take the cigarettes from the inside pocket. I looked at my phone and re-read the invitation email.
To – me, please be here at whenever o’clock to talk to our international undergrads on international project management.
Regards, some professor I didn’t like as an undergrad.
It was certainly an honor to be asked, but no doubt was being used to drum up engagement for some useless course they were peddling. How exactly does International Relations parse into International Project Management? You learn everything you need to know doing the damn job. I had emailed myself my famous slide deck, the one that was thrown around in secret by senior bureaucrats who were sick of being bureaucrats and wanted to actually do something. The one that Managers said could never be released, but had obviously plagiarized in snippets when they thought appearing to be daring would be beneficial to their careers.
A brunette waitress comes over with the menu, she looks young. Maybe 18. Over a decade younger than me.
If you don’t mind getting up, she said in a startling American, there’s a buffet as well.
I say thank you and look at her. Was she American? American-Italian? She looked British. Maybe Danish. I didn’t want to ask. She was pale, apart from her lips and cheeks which were the color of a rose.
Thank you, I say. Do I order drinks from you?
Of course, she said and took out a notepad and pen. The other wait staff used an iPad. I wondered where hers was and asked for a double espresso and a glass of orange juice.
Is that all?
Wait, how tall is the orange?
What?
I smile and her and mime a glass growing from very small to very tall. How tall is the glass? Is it a lot of orange juice?
She smiles and laughs and it’s very cute, I think she lost her composure because the laugh doesn’t match her voice.
I run my hand through my hair because I need something for my hands to do, and she says yeah. It’s tall. Pretty big. Are you going far after this?
I dunno. There’s some people trying to kill me. I smile again, obviously a joke.
She smiles back. You should have the buffet and I’ll bring you your drinks. I’ll leave the jar of orange juice but don’t tell anyone, OK?
OK, I say. Grazie.
Prego, she says and walks off.
I check how far the walk is and it’s maybe 40 minutes, too far in this weather. Will it rain? Will I literally burn to a crisp? I wish I had brought my laptop so I could have the slide deck up. I could ask the waitress what she thought.
She comes back with my coffee and a cold glass of orange juice, and a jug of water.
Sorry, she says, my manager told me to only pour the juice.
That’s fine, I think I’m only 40 minutes away. Like three miles.
You won’t be able to walk three miles in forty minutes, she says. You should eat quickly, then get up and go.
I dunno, I say, drawing out my response. I’m quite tall.
She laughs again and says she’ll bring my cheque now.
I get up and make a plate of pastry, the meat looks like it had been left out so I avoided it. I grabbed some things I don’t know the name of, and a slice of bread that was being warmed on a terracotta platter over some coals.
She walks away and when she comes back I want to ask for her number, but there’s a huge delivery truck slowly rolling through. My cup is shaking in its’ saucer and if it wasn’t already mostly drunk it’d run over. I try to make conversation but I don’t want to shout at her so just give her 30 euro and say keep the tip. She shouts back thanks. I get up and start walking.
The sun won out against the rain and it started to pound me again. The air was dry. I was walking fast and making good time, but I did not want to end up sweaty when I got there so I took off my jacket and carried it under my arm. I checked my phone again and I had a missed call and a voice mail. I couldn’t see the name in the glare.
I couldn’t stop to put earphones in, so I put my phone away.
I managed to make it to the campus with five minutes to spare. I hullo’d with the professors and asked for a glass of water. I drank it in one then went to the bathroom to piss, and check my hair. I was sweating but my jacket would cover it. My hair looked great. I clenched my jaw and looked at my face. Intense. Satisfied, I blew my nose and in my head went over the topics I’d cover. If I got lost I’d ask the students questions.
For some reason I thought back to Miss. Euston, looking after the poor scapegrace that was me. I remember once she told me God was in the wind.
I was waiting in the wings, hidden on a pre-stage before the main stage. Before I put my phone on silent, I thought I’d listen to the voice mail quickly. I briefly thought it "pre-stage" was even a word. I didn’t recognize the number. I pressed play and raised it to my ear.
There was a pause and then, cutting through the roar of the wind once present but no longer, came a voice.
“Hi, John, I hope you’re well and I’m just calli-“
The voicemail stopped. Someday, I hope, Apple will figure out how to actually let me hear my voicemail without constantly having to un-pause it. I hit play and put my phone back to my ear but I knew who it is before she said her name. “I’m just calling to say hey. It’s me, Joanne.”
It was a whisper being carried over time and continents. A whisper from a girl that might as well be dead. Why me, Joanne. Why me.
I covered my face with my hands. I realized I was doing it in shame and suddenly Miss. Euston’s voice came back to me again. “God is in the wind.”
I pulled the skin on my face down, pressed hard, and walked out onto the next stage, tucking my phone away in my-

Please correct me if I’m wrong.
I think in the beginning right after arrest, most of us became aware that BK was not in the same social circles as the victims, and since they went to different schools there wasn’t a chance of their paths crossing in a student/teacher, classmate type setting.
I think most of us anxiously awaited for a motive of some sort to emerge- how & when did their paths cross? At a party? Had he been stalking them? Did he go into their work consistently to chat them up, and maybe they got tired of it and shut him down hard? Does he have a history of aggression, violence, or an extensive history of mental health diagnoses?
It was prolly around a yr ago that rumors emerged of him contacting some of the victims via insta (or some other SM format), leaving them messages that had gone unseen. I remember Jay is for Justice was the first to report that her ‘sources’ said those rumors were untrue, & it appears she was correct.
SG came out and said that Kaylee was indeed at a pool party, but he was certain it was an indoor pool party & I believe he said JD was with her.
I’m not entirely sure how HIPAA & the law work together; I deal with HIPAA on the regs, and I understand on my end if an officer has a warrant or a court order for someone’s health info, we must turn it over. From that point forward, I dunno what happens with it- if the court must keep it sealed or if the public would have access to it at some point. But- I don’t think there’s ever been whispers about BK having been DX’ed with any concerning mental health condition. As a candidate in the doctoral program I can’t imagine he had any debilitating diagnoses.
Mad Greek has vehemently denied BK having ever been a patron there. The defense, with no rebuttal from the state, has explicitly stated that there is “no connection” to the victims, and although the state certainly tried to imply stalking in the PCA- the 12x his phone previously pinged at odd nighttime hours- there was no evidence of him stalking them.
So what’s all this mean??
Are we to believe that this criminology doctoral student, after having lived in the area just months, with no history of mental health episodes or criminal violence or otherwise alarming criminal history, drove across state lines into a state upholding the DP & randomly selected these 4 students in a house in the middle of campus surrounded by other homes & apartments who at any given moment typically had dozens on dozens of people over, slipped in undetected mere minutes after a DD order was delivered (indicating someone was awake), viciously stabbed 2 victims multiple multiple times, and without tracking blood elsewhere in the house, moves downstairs and does it again, this time up against an athletic male, and again without tracking blood outside the bedrooms, slips past an awakening roomate with a giant unsheathed knife in hand, hops in his car and steals away into the night after less than 10 minutes on his murderous rampage all without getting a speck of dna in his vehicle or outside the home ?
The most damning thing is, what the hell did he do w the knife upon jumping in his car to flee the scene & realizing he had no sheath??
-No history of mental health diagnoses -No connection to victims (if he had contacted any of them previously concerning a drug deal, a date, etc, the defense would not be able to make this claim) -No evidence of stalking
Then. What. The. Fuck.
One of those 3 things needs to be true in order for the state to convince 12 people (or at least me) of his guilt. Motive is imperative in a case with this level of violence & under these circumstances. No one is going to believe that a mentally stable ambitious student with no criminal or unstable mental health history is just gonna wake up one day and decide to stab 4 people he’s never met before to death.
I wasn’t gonna post this, but then I watched a video harsh put out about the chapins hiding something, and thought he made a few solid points. Discuss what you want, but I really don’t care who likes harsh and who doesn’t. That isn’t the point. The point is that I’ve always thought it a red flag that E’s family rarely if ever mention X. It’s like she didn’t exist to them. I suppose it could be easy to write off as them being respectful towards her family or for the sake of the ongoing investigation, but it just never sat well with me.
Then ofc the drug connection was brought up, which is an uncomfortable topic, but one that cannot be ignored.
2 moms/step moms got drug charges days before/after the murders. The Emma Bailey connection. Most people familiar with the house admit to a drug connection. The Uber driver early on said he stopped picking up/dropping off there because of the drugs and wild parties. And please someone tell me what the odds are that the last audible video recording of 2 of the victims is of Kaylee anxiously asking what maddie told to Adam, and maddie exclaiming that she ‘told Adam everything’.
And the last weird key to solving this mystery must be the BLK shooting. In a town that claims to have not had a homicide since what, 2015?? A town that swears it is mostly safe, with minimal violent incidents, has a quadruple slaying followed by a shootout with a veteran a month later & just days before BK’s arrest? This is an army vet from the 82nd infantry; if he wanted to shoot his roomates dead, he’d do it. This wasn’t target practice for him. Yet he injures no one and is still shot dead with a wiped out cell phone & the officials in charge of the investigation saying they have no clue who initially called in to have him swatted. You’d think that might be a priority to find out if you’re gonna shoot and kill a vet, eh?
From the OutsideLooking, it sure does seem like something fishy is going on in Idaho, & at least maybe some of the victims were aware of some sort of drug connection and decided to do something about it that cost them their lives.

I'm just gonna rant how incompetent the cybercrime unit in our area is. Context is yung fb account ng family member ko is na hack and then yung hacker nag chat sa iba-ibang tao asking for money ranging from 3k-6k and unfortunately a relative of mine fell victim to this kampon ng impyerno.
As advised by some relatives na mag punta sa PNP to their cyber crime unit to report the crime so we went there. The moment na we explained what happened ang sabi agad is there's almost no chance na they can do anything about the money that was sent and ang gawin nalang talaga is mag send ng report or email from the app that was used to transfer the money.
So we mentioned na is there anything we can do nalang on how to locate or identify the hacker since we identified the hacker's ip address from the fb and he said na there's also no chance to track it cause as he said even if alam nila baka lang daw hindi exact yung since posible ang ip address will only re-direct to the internet provider's location etc. and that if ever man is wala daw ganyan sa Ph yung mag track ng ip address and I was like 'wtf?'. As far as I know even if that is the case there is still a chance to locate using the ip address, even countries outside ph have successfully done so multiple times and this officer didn't even take note man lang yung ip or any information that could possibly identify the hacker.
Also, may number na gi provide yung hacker from gcash and also binago niya din number sa fb so we mentioned those to the officer if possible na those two numbers could be identified din. In my mind I already knew na there's a chance that these numbers aren't even theirs and were possibly stolen or bought but still, SIMS ARE REGISTERED HERE IN THE PH!!! So maybe they can identify the hacker in that way, but this guy said the things that were on my mind and said that wala rin talaga silang magawa and the only thing they can help is pano iretrieve yung account which for me is basic knowledge and we already did so because it's easy nowadays to retrieve accounts with just the help of google!
So out of curiosity I asked anong course ni officer because I thought if you were to get into the cyber crime unit is that you must be an IT/CompSci or any computer related course to get in so I expected na yan yung sasabihin niya but he said he's a criminology graduate and that he also previously mentioned that the cyber crime unit division in our area was just established back in 2019. Like useless talaga...
Also the officer was so icky kasi nag mention siya na there were cases na hackers also blackmail you if ever they found a scandal on your phone and this one time there was this 15 year old girl who fell victim to this and compared her to a c0rn⭐ like wtf? He even assured us na it was normal for them to watch those things so they aren't bothered in the slightest about those kind of videos pero kahit ano pang explain niya wala akong tiwala the way palang na how he described the girl.
In the end they couldn't do anything and told my relative who was the victim that sent out the money to the hacker to just report it to the different station within the barangay and dun nalang magpa blotter... Can't even imagine old people who are not knowledgeable about technology who fell victims to such hacks and scams na sabihan na walang magagawa ang estasyon sa kanila.
So f these security measures na inemplement ng gobyerno eh wala namang silbi sa huli!!

There have been two posts here that really raised my eyebrows, one about a supposed Chinese national posting about what’s ostensibly really happening in Xinjiang and then another one asking people about the level of Marxist thought that has permeated through down into regular society.
I’m not going to specifically address any of the points brought up, but I’ve spent a lot of time in China and have had some unique experiences that have given me some very good context on things I as a Chinese speaking Marxist Leninist wanted to know. And they surely don’t line up with a lot of what I’ve read people here posting about as if it’s the truth. I would suggest caution to all of you who’ve never been and who can’t engage with any of the material first hand.
Why the fuck would a random Chinese dude suddenly have the urge to post here (an extremely niche political subreddit on a foreign message board) about an extremely risqué political topic? Would you or I really go on Weibo to talk about the tranq crisis in Philadelphia and provide the “real” American take?
As far as random questions on China being answered by people “who have lived there” (such as how well Marxism is filtered through the population) it is my experience that a of lot of foreigners living there and who have lived there are often just English teachers who often seclude themselves in cloisters of other foreigners and collectively kind of hate the general populace for one reason or the other (cultural, etc). I wouldn’t trust their take on anything except how difficult it is to set up your cell phone plan. They often don’t read or speak the language in any meaningful amount.
My point is: I think a lot of people should just go and experience China. It’s a wonderful place, even if you just go and enjoy yourself and not ask around about X or Y topic. But the overlap between people who care about Marxism and China enough to post about it online (or Xinjiang for that matter) and people who post here have to be nil. I already feel dumber for making this post since it’s basically farting in the wind.
And if you can’t go, take a step back and accept you’re never going to know a lot about this place because you’re constantly bombarded with propaganda about it and leave it at that. It’s alright to not know something. In fact I feel a lot of people should take that stance about a lot of shit, and I know I do.

Tw: discussion of death in the family
About 2 months ago, I finally blocked my parents. My aunt, my nmom's youngest sister, passed away. She was pretty young, only about 50, and that of course is very sad. I have never been close to my extended family and it had been over 15 years since I had seen or spoken to my aunt, so while it's sad, I wasn't exactly grieving. My mother wordlessly texted me her obituary with no other text or explanation, and I was wary of this.
A while ago, I think a little over a year, my grandmother died, and nmom did the same thing. I also posted about that on this page, and about my suspicion that it was manipulative, and my guilt over thinking that. In the end, I reached out to give my condolences and offer help if she needed it; which she then used to ensure access to me and pressured me into communicating with her. When I attempted to pull away, she would cite sadness from her mother dying to guilt me into staying engaged. Because of this, when I received my aunts obituary, I was worried about falling into a similar situation.
I talked to my wife and decided to take a little time and collect my thoughts before responding, to make sure it was worded well and conveyed what I meant, with little room for manipulation.
However, when my mother didn't get the immediate response she had received the last time, she started sending pictures of me and deceased aunt together, from when I was around 4 years old.
I was horrified. For everything my mother has done, using the recent death of her baby sister in order to get a response from me is a pretty disgusting low. I couldn't believe she would weaponize something like that. I have put up with a lot of abuse from her my entire life, but this was the straw that broke the camels back. I was furious, and blocked both her and my edad, because I didn't trust that she wouldn't try to use him or his phone to try and contact me once she realized that she couldn't get ahold of me on her own.
I'm still traumatized by that family, and still angry over a lot of what she did, including this, but over the past couple months I've been talking about it in therapy and occasionally forgetting my nmom even exists; and god, it's so peaceful when I do.
But then, two days ago, I received two voicemails from my mother.
Apparently, with my provider, when a number is blocked, I wont see that theyre calling, but I'll still receive their voicemails, unless I contact the provider and have someone manually block their access to my voicemail inbox. I immediately panicked and felt sick. I didn't listen to them, I couldn't bring myself to. I had theories of what they were. They were both short, around 12 to 20 seconds each (I deleted them and can't check), so they weren't some big tirade. I suspected that since mothers day just passed and I didn't call or text like I normally did for holidays, she had called to either, a) demand to know why, b) tell me how awful of a daughter I was, or c) doing the sweet and kind guilt method of asking why I would do this to her and make me question blocking her at all. I knew no matter which it was, I wasn't okay. But I was terrified that maybe something had happened to my dad, who was also blocked and is an enabler, but I have still always been closer to. I firmly believe he's also a victim of my mother who just never stood up for me, but that's another rant for another time. Because of that, I was scared to just delete them right away.
I already has therapy scheduled for that afternoon, and I talked to my therapist about it. We decided the best thing for me was to have my wife listen to them and delete them for me, and then if there was any emergency with my edad, they could tell me. When I got home we did just that, I gave them my phone and left the room, and came back when they were finished and the messages were deleted. I was tense as hell and ready for the worst.
They were pocket dials. My wife said it sounded like the Bluetooth on my mother's phone had hooked up to the car and she had called accidentally through it.
Of all the outcomes I was preparing myself for, that wasn't one of them. It completely took the wind out of my sails. I felt so stupid for panicking, and ended up just laying with my wife and crying. I just made myself feel crazy again, and went through the whole rigamarole of telling myself "see, you overreact, you weren't abused, you're just crazy," which they corrected of course. But it's so easy to slip back into that place.
I was tense and raw the rest of the night and following day, but started to feel a little better.
And then, that night, my edad left me a voicemail.
I wasn't staying at home that night because I was petsitting, but I texted my wife a screenshot of the voicemail notification and said that maybe the calls my nmom made weren't accidental after all. Either that, or my edad also pocket dialed me within 7 hours of my mother, which seemed awfully coincidental.
My wife found a way for me to forward the voicemail to them and I did, and they listened to it for me again. It was a real voicemail this time, in which my ndad called me by my deadname and then pointed out they hadn't heard from me in a while.
My theory is this: The first voicemail from my mother was an accident, hooked up to the cars Bluetooth on her way to work, which, since she is blocked, went directly to voicemail. She noticed this, and tried a second time, resulting in the second voicemail she left, confirming that her calls went straight to voicemail. Then, when she got off of work and saw my edad, she told and convinced/demanded for my father to call from his phone, to probe and see if he could get through to me, or if his went to voicemail too.
I knew I was right to block him too. I knew she would use him to get to me.
This all went down the day before yesterday, and I'm still tense and shaken up about it. I hate being so terrified of a voicemail, I hate knowing that my dad is just a tool for her, I hate knowing that even blocked she has this much power over my health. I'm just so exhausted from this whole thing.
I'm debating contacting my provider to cut off their access to my inbox, but for some reason I'm scared, and I'm also worried I might be overreacting. I'd appreciate any thoughts or advice on this.

Oh, boy, Charlotte, do I have a doozy for you. It’s such a doozy that it comes in 2 parts. I guess it would qualify as petty revenge, since that’s the only flair that fit, but it’s more of an entitled Karen story.
For the sake of telling the story a little smoother, I'm going to explain some things up front. I (female, early 30s; let's call me Molly) am the manager in the accounting office of a very small loan company. Like, really small. We have less than 30 offices with only 2 employees at each office. For this reason, we are kind of low-tech, old-fashioned. I'm talking paper timesheets that get faxed to our office (we're also the corporate office that handles the payroll). Our office hours are 8:30 a.m. to 5:00 p.m. with a half-hour lunch. Me & my employee (who we'll call Sally) work this shift. Our boss (who we'll call Greg) is the owner & CEO. He works in the office starting at 9:00 a.m. till whenever he leaves for the day. Most of the time, that's around the time we leave, sometimes it's earlier due to errands he needs to run.
So, in Oct 2022, Sally (female, early 30s) gave us a note that her doctor wants to have daily appointments with her indefinitely. She let us know she would need to leave at 3:30 every day. Greg granted that request & even gave her the opportunity to come in early so she didn't miss any of her 8 hours each day. So, she began coming to work between 6:45 & 7:00 & would take however long of a lunch she needed to so she would have an 8-hour day.
Due to a combination of our fiscal year-end work in Oct & Nov 2022, playing catch-up from Dec 2022 to Feb 2023, & the other coworker (who we'll call Irene) leaving the company in Feb 2023 so we had to play catch-up again for several months before we got used to the bigger workload, I hadn't been able to pay too close attention to Sally's work. But in the middle of Aug 2023, I began to suspect her. I realized that the tasks Sally had in the morning would usually take me an hour & a half to do, which meant I would be relatively finished by the time I would arrive at 8:30. Sally, on the other hand, would only have stuff halfway done. Now, I knew Sally worked slower than me since I knew the job better than she did, but this still seemed very slow. I began to suspect Sally was either not arriving as early as she said she was (she was the only one in the office before 8:30) or she was arriving on time but wasn't working.
On Aug 21 (Monday), I decided to come in early to the office since I had to make up time due to a doctor appointment later in the week. So, I arrived at work at 6:40. 6:45 rolled around...no Sally. 6:50...no Sally. 7:00...same thing. Sally arrived at 7:20. Now, ok, maybe she ran into traffic. However, that's a bit of a coincidence that the one day I show up early unannounced is also the day she happens to be late. But I waited to see what time Sally would write down on the timesheet. However, she didn't write down her time until Tuesday right before she left. She had written down that she had arrived at 7:05. I asked her about it, and her response was "I must have copied it down wrong from my spreadsheet." That's strange, 'cause you hadn't arrived at 7:05 any other day that week. Just where did you copy it down from?
Now, I am curious as to what time Sally puts down when she believes no one has seen what time she arrives. So, for Sept 4-15, I would arrive in the parking lot across the street & read a book & eat breakfast while I wait to see what time Sally would arrive. Every single day, she would arrive around 7:15 or 7:20, but would write down 6:45 or 6:50, a half hour discrepancy every single day. & we have no way of knowing how long she's been stealing a half hour every day. She could have been doing this for the past year since her schedule changed.
On Sept 18, I write down Sally's actual times from these 2 weeks on a paper & tell her to correct all the times I indicated. Sally says that she will use the office clock to write down her times from now on. Wait a minute, you're saying that your phone is a half hour earlier than the rest of the world? But only when you arrive at work. When you go to lunch & leave work, it matches the rest of the clocks. & then switches during the night so your arrival time can be wrong again the next day? Wow, that's a pretty glitchy phone you got there.
On Sept 20 after Sally left, I installed a camera that connects to an app in my phone. I put the camera in a place where it wouldn't be able to see any computers/paperwork & turned off the microphone (I didn't want to risk any company info being seen/heard). I only needed to see when Sally arrived. Where I ended up placing it, I was able to see Sally where she sat at her desk.
On three of the following days, Sally would arrive 10 to 15 minutes after the time she would write down. I speak with Greg about this, & we decide to write her up. By the way, usually when an employee is caught forging the timesheet like this, it's an immediate termination. At any other office, she would have gotten fired in the beginning of Sept after I first discovered the half hour forgery. I am deciding to give her a chance to make this whole thing right.
On Sept 26 (Tuesday), I give Sally the write up when she arrives.
Sally: I'll sign it, but I don't know why. I mean, I get here at 7:00. (Ok, there's a sign right there. Who signs an official write up when their employer is lying or setting them up?)
Me: I've observed you arriving between 7:10 & 7:15.
Sally reads the write up & then keeps it at her desk for a bit after signing it. After plenty of time, I ask for it back. She grabs it, so I lean forward & hold my hand out (our desks are right next to each other), but Sally flings it at my desk. The whole thing is made better by the fact that Greg is out of town Tuesday thru Thursday. So, Sally proceeds to be angry & have an attitude all the way through Thursday. She refuses to talk or answer the phones. She does that tossing/flicking-papers-around, aggressive-typing, heavily-setting-things-down thing people do when they're frustrated or angry (which she did all...day...long). She sped out of the parking lot & down the street so fast that I could hear her engine rev & tires squeal from inside the building.
On Sept 27 (Wednesday), Sally is still doing that slamming things thing. I enjoy not responding to her whatsoever. I could see out of the corner of my eye that she would slam something down & look at me. I wouldn't give any kind of reaction, wouldn't look at her, & it would piss her off. Sally would then start slamming things around again. I admit, that was fun.
On Sept 28 (Thursday), I see on the camera that Sally arrives at 7:00, but then I watch her sit on her phone for 45 minutes! She is still having attitude issues, &—unbelievably—is still slamming things. After she leaves for the day, I then see the calendar that Sally keeps on her desk as I was passing by. On the box for Sept 26 (the day she was written up), she had written the words "F***ING JOKE!". The audacity of her to write that in plain view of everyone in the office & think she wouldn't get in trouble for it.
On Sept 29 (Friday), Sally arrives at 7:00 but sits on her phone for 30 minutes WHILE VAPING! (Not sure about other cities or states, but it's illegal to smoke or vape inside a building in the city where our office is.) But Greg is back this day, & I had been texting him what's been going on. He had texted back he wanted to do a meeting on Friday. So, the 3 of us go into the breakroom for a meeting.
Greg: So, Sally, what's been going on with this timesheet thing?
Sally: I just, I forget to write down the time when I arrive.
Greg: Ok, well, whether it's done on purpose or through negligence, we can't have wrong times on the timesheet. So, from now on, you won't be able to come to work before Molly gets here at 8:30. Now, are there any other problems you'd like to discuss with us?
Sally: (begins getting worked up) I just, I feel like I can't talk to her. She creates such a hostile work environment.
Now, I am blown away. Me? Hostile? I'm autistic, so I'm naturally shy & hate socializing, so I usually don't talk to anyone very much. Everyone I tell this story to, their eyes widen when I mention this, 'cause there's no way anyone would ever describe me as hostile.
Luckily, Greg interrupts her to defend me: This isn't a hostile work environment.
Sally: (backpedaling) Well, I mean, she gets mad at her printer & bangs on it, & that just flashes me back to stuff. I mean, I'm trying to work on myself & the anxiety, & she just sends me back.
Oh, so now, we're claiming we have PTSD & that my "violent" actions are giving her flashbacks? Um, who is it laughing right along with me every time my printer jams? (By the way, I know she's lying about the PTSD, 'cause I have a couple friends with PTSD & recognize the signs. Sally doesn't show any sign of fear or panic or shrinking away from things, nothing like that. There are no signs whatsoever of her being alarmed by anything I do.) Oh, not to mention the double standards. You're allowed to slam things around (for 3 straight days, by the way), but I'm not?
Anyway, we wrap up the meeting after Greg underlines (for Sally's benefit) that everyone in the office needs to get along.
On Oct 2 (the next Monday), I had a good drive & happened to get there at 8:20. Sally arrives at 8:25 & comes in, stopping at my desk.
Sally: (annoyed) Are you gonna be early all week?
Me: (frowning & caught off-guard) Um, I don't know. It just depends how long my drive takes.
Sally: (with a snarky attitude) 'Cause I had to keep driving around waiting for you, so if you're gonna be early, I'd like to know.
Ok, first of all, no one is forcing you to drive around. You can park your car in the parking lot. Do you really think we're gonna fire you for sitting in the parking lot while you wait for me? We only said you couldn't come in & work before I do. & second, it's none of your business when I get to work. My shift starts at 8:30, therefore, you should aim for 8:30, just like Greg told you to do. How am I supposed to predict the exact minute I get to work? & you're gonna get angry at me 'cause I didn't show up before my shift starts? Since when is it a requirement of mine to come into work before I start working?
Well, a bit of malicious compliance in this entitled story: if I can see I'm going to arrive at work more than 5 minutes early, I stop at the store just down the road & shop until 8:30. 'Cause guess what? Sally gets there who knows how early & sits in the gas station across the street, waiting for me. Fine, you wanna be that way? I can be petty, too.
By the way, Sally has a radio talk show she listens to from before I get to work until it ends at 10:00. I'm not into talk shows, but it wasn't too annoying (most of the time), so I didn't say anything about it. The reason why I started having a problem listening to it was that they would get into inappropriate things (s** toy review, for example). It made me super uncomfortable when they did segments like this. From the moment Sally was written up, she started only listening to the show on her headphones, thinking she was punishing me by me not getting to hear the show. Joke's on her. Sally did me a favor by not having to listen to that thing.
Sally was also told that she is no longer allowed to take smoke breaks on the clock. As no one else in the office takes breaks but chooses to work through them, this change would be made so all employees were equal now. But here’s the interesting thing: Sally suddenly stopped taking smoke breaks at all, but her bathroom breaks grew more numerous & longer. When she had been taking smoke breaks, the alarm on her phone would go off at specific times, such as 2:00. She would then go outside to take her smoke break. After the on-the-clock-smoke-break privilege was taken away, the same alarms would go off, such as 2:00. She would then disappear to the bathroom for 15 minutes. & I even smelled smoke in there when I went in there right after one of these long bathroom breaks.
Ever since the write up, there’s been attitude every once in a while. Most of the time, I have no idea what it is I did that could possibly have set her off that day. All I know is that Sally’s suddenly slamming things around again (hmm, PTSD cured now, is it?). & she’s still constantly making mistakes (like she’s always done).
On Nov 27, Sally is working on the Funding (loan proceeds funded onto a customer’s debit card). What we do is get the list of customers, determine how much the office funded that customer, transfer the money from the office’s bank account to the holding account, & then transfer the total from the holding account to the account that directly funds the debit cards to replenish the money. We had two customers with similar names (say, John Smith & Jack Smith). Sally hadn’t paid attention to the whole name & had applied John’s $0 funding to Jack. However, Jack had been funded $250. So, that money was missed, & I had to make a separate transfer for it.
On Dec 4, Sally is working on the Funding & writes down $0 for a customer. But the report from the office says he actually got $96.
On Dec 8 & 9, we discovered 2 checks that were supposed to be sent to our office (one from Oct, one from Sept). Neither had been cashed, & neither had ever reached us, even though we had the rest of the paperwork that would have come with those checks. Due to the dots I had connected, I had a pretty strong hunch that Sally wasn’t thoroughly checking the mail envelopes to make sure they’d been completely emptied before they got thrown away. I believed these checks were still in some envelopes that were then thrown away by Sally.
On Dec 11, on the bank reconciliation sheets we work at the end of the month (like balancing a checkbook), one of Sally’s offices was out of balance by $68, & she couldn’t find it. I couldn’t find it, either. I pulled out the one done for the month before. I couldn’t find it there, either. But I did notice one thing. The checks that hadn’t cleared the bank yet didn’t add up to the total amount of outstanding checks Sally had written down. By $68. I go back to the month before that one. There were a total of $68 in old checks that never got cashed & therefore should have gotten written off on the fiscal year-end at the end of Oct. But she hadn’t transferred them to the new month’s sheet. So, now, we have to hold onto them for a whole year to write off next Oct.
The same day, I went through all the offices to double check the GL codes that we post the expense checks to (GL codes determine where an expense gets coded, e.g., post an electricity payment to the GL code for utilities). The day previously, Sally had gotten several GL codes incorrect in the Miller office. She had forgotten to change the codes from the one for the Checkbook to the ones for the expense account. She had caught those ones since it affected the balance of the Checkbook, so I had helped her fix those properly. However, there were expense checks sent to a GL code that wasn’t the right one that Sally hadn’t caught.
I talk with Greg, as I feel that every time I turn around, I am either retraining Sally on stuff I’ve trained her on multiple times, I’m correcting mistakes on stuff Sally should know how to do by now (‘cause again, I’ve trained her multiple times), or I’m disciplining Sally about stuff she’s doing wrong. Greg asks how many mistakes due to carelessness she’s made in the last 2 weeks. I check my notes & tell him 4. He says that’s too excessive for an accounting office. We need to write her up.
So, I made the write up, but I just know I’m going to be dealing with the same attitude as the last time I had to write her up. & guess what? Greg’s out of town till Thursday again. I used my phone this time to record the audio of the interaction. That way, if Sally has attitude towards me again, I’m able to play the recording to Greg so he can hear what Sally’s like when he’s not here (which is why the following conversation is pretty much word for word).
On Dec 12 (Tuesday), I sat her down first thing.
Me: So, in the past couple weeks, I’ve noticed some errors happening due to carelessness, & they’ve become a bit excessive for an accounting office. The most important thing in an accounting office is accuracy. That’s why we focus so much on thoroughness & attention to detail. So, whatever needs to happen to lessen those errors, whether it’s slowing the pace of the work itself or double & triple-checking the work before it’s finished, it needs to happen. For example, when I work the payroll, after I get the total for all the offices, I then subtract each person’s individual hours to double check my entries. That way, if there is an error, at least I know it wasn’t ‘cause I was going too fast or not paying attention or something. So, whatever you need to do to decrease the mistakes, please—
Sally: What errors are we talking about?
Me: I have a page here with the items from the last couple weeks. (hand her the write up)
Sally: (reads the pages for a minute) Ok…
Me: So, whatever you need to do to—
Sally: (talking quickly ‘cause she’s pissed now) I’m gonna need more time & focus strictly on Funding. I don’t wanna touch mail, I don’t wanna touch anything else. I wanna focus strictly on that. ‘Cause I’m getting 80 plus a day (which was a lie, we never get nearly that much), & now, I’m gonna start getting in trouble if it’s not 110%. I am human. I will make mistakes. So, if that’s not allowed, then…(shrugs) let me know, I guess. I’ll talk to Greg & I guess figure something out. I am human, & I am gonna make mistakes, A. B, I feel like crap. He (Greg) has been in here sick the last week. I caught whatever he has. I’ve been hacking. I’ve been sicker than sh** the last week. I am trying. You guys usually have until the 12th to close the month. Since I’ve worked here, I’ve closed before the 8th. Yeah, I made mistakes. I told you I made a mistake on the Miller office. I knew what happened. So, to throw it in my face again that I already made that mistake is kinda rude, but…(shrugs) I’m actually kinda shocked to see that on there.
Me: Well, you did catch the errors involving the Checkbook, but there were other mistakes on that office that you didn’t catch, & that’s the reason that was listed on there.
Sally goes back to her work, & I decide to not ask her to sign the write up I had given her right away since she was diving right into the Funding. She had expressed she wanted to focus solely on it to minimize mistakes. I wanted to use positive reinforcement to convey that this was good behavior & good thinking, so I decided to wait for her to finish before asking her to sign & return the write up.
Now, here’s the issues with her little outburst above.

1. Sally is complaining that she’s human & makes mistakes & we’re not allowing mistakes. We’re not saying that she can’t make mistakes, ‘cause she’s right. Everyone makes mistakes; I make mistakes. What we’re saying is that she’s making mistakes much too often.
   
2. Sally says the reason for these mistakes the last 2 weeks is ‘cause she’s been sick the last week or so ‘cause she caught what Greg had (do you see the timing problem there?). Also, these kinds of mistakes have been happening for months & months. I only brought these examples up ‘cause they were recent.
   
3. Sally pointed out the fact that she closes each month really quick. We don’t care how fast things get done. Our goal isn’t to get things done quickly but to get things done accurately. If we happen to get it done quickly, that’s just a bonus. We would rather things go slow than to have errors causing problems or costing us money ‘cause we didn’t take the time to make sure it was correct.
   
4. Sally states it’s rude that I’m throwing her error back in her face (you already know my reaction to that). She obviously doesn’t know how a job works. Just ‘cause we discussed this error already doesn’t mean it can’t go on the write up. This is just one of the examples that required us to do a write up. We’re not doing this ‘cause we want to write you up or that we’re looking for excuses to get you in trouble. We’re doing our job. If a situation needs correcting, we have to correct it. We can’t just ignore it. & obviously, me talking about your errors all these months hasn’t helped. You’re still making the same mistakes. So, now, we’ve had to escalate to a write up on paper.
   

Sally doesn’t say another word. She, as expected, starts doing her tossing-things-‘cause-I’m-pissed-off thing. I just go back to my work. I’ve said my piece, now we can put it behind us & move on.
Now, we have until 10:30 to make the transfers for this Funding program in order to get the money back to the account the same day. We are still missing the paperwork for 2 customers from an office. (FYI, when we’re missing paperwork, we call the office & ask them to fax it. If we still don’t get it when it gets close to the transfer deadline, we call again & just ask for the amount to get it done.) So, at 10:20, Sally turns to me.
Sally: What do I do for these 2 customers? Do I just skip them?
Me: (frowning) Do what you usually do when you don’t have the paperwork in time. Call the office—
Sally: (in a sharp tone) I did. (she’s assuming I mean call the office to tell them to fax it)
Me: (ignoring her attitude outburst) Call up the office & ask for the dollar amounts.
Sally: But I don’t want to write down the amount without seeing the actual paperwork. If I’m gonna get in trouble for errors now, I don’t want to take down what could be the wrong dollar amount over the phone. I mean, I think that’s only fair to me.
Me: In the instances that were mentioned, they weren’t cases of taking down an amount over the phone. They were instances where we had paperwork or a report to see the amount. We would never write you up if there was a possibility that the office gave you the wrong amount over the phone.
Sally stares at me for a second & turns back to her desk. I turn back to my own work as Sally then calls up the office. I had to deal with her attitude the rest of the day: throwing mail into the mailbox, throwing open the letter folding machine so it made a big bang on the table. I was trying to still be the usual friendly, professional person I am at work; I told her “See you tomorrow” & everything. Sally wouldn’t talk to me unless she had to.
This is when I discovered that Sally has a habit of lashing out at me when she gets in trouble. The first write up involved her trying to drag me under the bus by claiming I’m hostile. This time, it was more personal. See, we do a Christmas gift exchange at the office; we each buy each other a gift. I had searched over & over trying to find something Sally would like. I finally found this desk calendar with gnomes on it (she likes both of these things), so I got it & a couple small items. I open my gift from Sally, & among a few cheap little things, I found…Sally’s own nearly empty bottle of nail polish remover. Wow, this is the thanks I get for not firing you back in Sept with the whole timesheet forgery thing?
& this is where I leave you until Part 2, the conclusion.

I never thought I would have a story to share in one of these threads, but it finally happened. I apologize for the length (so long it has to be split into 2 parts), but this one is a doozy.
For the sake of telling the story a little smoother, I'm going to explain some things up front. I (female, early 30s; let's call me Molly) am the manager in the accounting office of a very small loan company. Like, really small. We have less than 30 offices with only 2 employees at each office. For this reason, we are kind of low-tech, old-fashioned. I'm talking paper timesheets that get faxed to our office (we're also the corporate office that handles the payroll). Our office hours are 8:30 a.m. to 5:00 p.m. with a half-hour lunch. Me & my employee (who we'll call Sally) work this shift. Our boss (who we'll call Greg) is the owner & CEO. He works in the office starting at 9:00 a.m. till whenever he leaves for the day. Most of the time, that's around the time we leave, sometimes it's earlier due to errands he needs to run.
So, in Oct 2022, Sally (female, early 30s) gave us a note that her doctor wants to have daily appointments with her indefinitely. She let us know she would need to leave at 3:30 every day. Greg granted that request & even gave her the opportunity to come in early so she didn't miss any of her 8 hours each day. So, she began coming to work between 6:45 & 7:00 & would take however long of a lunch she needed to so she would have an 8-hour day.
Due to a combination of our fiscal year-end work in Oct & Nov 2022, playing catch-up from Dec 2022 to Feb 2023, & the other coworker (who we'll call Irene) leaving the company in Feb 2023 so we had to play catch-up again for several months before we got used to the bigger workload, I hadn't been able to pay too close attention to Sally's work. But in the middle of Aug 2023, I began to suspect her. I realized that the tasks Sally had in the morning would usually take me an hour & a half to do, which meant I would be relatively finished by the time I would arrive at 8:30. Sally, on the other hand, would only have stuff halfway done. Now, I knew Sally worked slower than me since I knew the job better than she did, but this still seemed very slow. I began to suspect Sally was either not arriving as early as she said she was (she was the only one in the office before 8:30) or she was arriving on time but wasn't working.
On Aug 21 (Monday), I decided to come in early to the office since I had to make up time due to a doctor appointment later in the week. So, I arrived at work at 6:40. 6:45 rolled around...no Sally. 6:50...no Sally. 7:00...same thing. Sally arrived at 7:20. Now, ok, maybe she ran into traffic. However, that's a bit of a coincidence that the one day I show up early unannounced is also the day she happens to be late. But I waited to see what time Sally would write down on the timesheet. However, she didn't write down her time until Tuesday right before she left. She had written down that she had arrived at 7:05. I asked her about it, and her response was "I must have copied it down wrong from my spreadsheet." That's strange, 'cause you hadn't arrived at 7:05 any other day that week. Just where did you copy it down from?
Now, I am curious as to what time Sally puts down when she believes no one has seen what time she arrives. So, for Sept 4-15, I would arrive in the parking lot across the street & read a book & eat breakfast while I wait to see what time Sally would arrive. Every single day, she would arrive around 7:15 or 7:20, but would write down 6:45 or 6:50, a half hour discrepancy every single day. & we have no way of knowing how long she's been stealing a half hour every day. She could have been doing this for the past year since her schedule changed.
On Sept 18, I write down Sally's actual times from these 2 weeks on a paper & tell her to correct all the times I indicated. Sally says that she will use the office clock to write down her times from now on. Wait a minute, you're saying that your phone is a half hour earlier than the rest of the world? But only when you arrive at work. When you go to lunch & leave work, it matches the rest of the clocks. & then switches during the night so your arrival time can be wrong again the next day? Wow, that's a pretty glitchy phone you got there.
On Sept 20 after Sally left, I installed a camera that connects to an app in my phone. I put the camera in a place where it wouldn't be able to see any computers/paperwork & turned off the microphone (I didn't want to risk any company info being seen/heard). I only needed to see when Sally arrived. Where I ended up placing it, I was able to see Sally where she sat at her desk.
On three of the following days, Sally would arrive 10 to 15 minutes after the time she would write down. I speak with Greg about this, & we decide to write her up. By the way, usually when an employee is caught forging the timesheet like this, it's an immediate termination. At any other office, she would have gotten fired in the beginning of Sept after I first discovered the half hour forgery. I am deciding to give her a chance to make this whole thing right.
On Sept 26 (Tuesday), I give Sally the write up when she arrives.
Sally: I'll sign it, but I don't know why. I mean, I get here at 7:00. (Ok, there's a sign right there. Who signs an official write up when their employer is lying or setting them up?)
Me: I've observed you arriving between 7:10 & 7:15.
Sally reads the write up & then keeps it at her desk for a bit after signing it. After plenty of time, I ask for it back. She grabs it, so I lean forward & hold my hand out (our desks are right next to each other), but Sally flings it at my desk. The whole thing is made better by the fact that Greg is out of town Tuesday thru Thursday. So, Sally proceeds to be angry & have an attitude all the way through Thursday. She refuses to talk or answer the phones. She does that tossing/flicking-papers-around, aggressive-typing, heavily-setting-things-down thing people do when they're frustrated or angry (which she did all...day...long). She sped out of the parking lot & down the street so fast that I could hear her engine rev & tires squeal from inside the building.
On Sept 27 (Wednesday), Sally is still doing that slamming things thing. I enjoy not responding to her whatsoever. I could see out of the corner of my eye that she would slam something down & look at me. I wouldn't give any kind of reaction, wouldn't look at her, & it would piss her off. Sally would then start slamming things around again. I admit, that was fun.
On Sept 28 (Thursday), I see on the camera that Sally arrives at 7:00, but then I watch her sit on her phone for 45 minutes! She is still having attitude issues, &—unbelievably—is still slamming things. After she leaves for the day, I then see the calendar that Sally keeps on her desk as I was passing by. On the box for Sept 26 (the day she was written up), she had written the words "F***ING JOKE!". The audacity of her to write that in plain view of everyone in the office & think she wouldn't get in trouble for it.
On Sept 29 (Friday), Sally arrives at 7:00 but sits on her phone for 30 minutes WHILE VAPING! (Not sure about other cities or states, but it's illegal to smoke or vape inside a building in the city where our office is.) But Greg is back this day, & I had been texting him what's been going on. He had texted back he wanted to do a meeting on Friday. So, the 3 of us go into the breakroom for a meeting.
Greg: So, Sally, what's been going on with this timesheet thing?
Sally: I just, I forget to write down the time when I arrive.
Greg: Ok, well, whether it's done on purpose or through negligence, we can't have wrong times on the timesheet. So, from now on, you won't be able to come to work before Molly gets here at 8:30. Now, are there any other problems you'd like to discuss with us?
Sally: (begins getting worked up) I just, I feel like I can't talk to her. She creates such a hostile work environment.
Now, I am blown away. Me? Hostile? I'm autistic, so I'm naturally shy & hate socializing, so I usually don't talk to anyone very much. Everyone I tell this story to, their eyes widen when I mention this, 'cause there's no way anyone would ever describe me as hostile.
Luckily, Greg interrupts her to defend me: This isn't a hostile work environment.
Sally: (backpedaling) Well, I mean, she gets mad at her printer & bangs on it, & that just flashes me back to stuff. I mean, I'm trying to work on myself & the anxiety, & she just sends me back.
Oh, so now, we're claiming we have PTSD & that my "violent" actions are giving her flashbacks? Um, who is it laughing right along with me every time my printer jams? (By the way, I know she's lying about the PTSD, 'cause I have a couple friends with PTSD & recognize the signs. Sally doesn't show any sign of fear or panic or shrinking away from things, nothing like that. There are no signs whatsoever of her being alarmed by anything I do.) Oh, not to mention the double standards. You're allowed to slam things around (for 3 straight days, by the way), but I'm not?
Anyway, we wrap up the meeting after Greg underlines (for Sally's benefit) that everyone in the office needs to get along.
On Oct 2 (the next Monday), I had a good drive & happened to get there at 8:20. Sally arrives at 8:25 & comes in, stopping at my desk.
Sally: (annoyed) Are you gonna be early all week?
Me: (frowning & caught off-guard) Um, I don't know. It just depends how long my drive takes.
Sally: (with a snarky attitude) 'Cause I had to keep driving around waiting for you, so if you're gonna be early, I'd like to know.
Ok, first of all, no one is forcing you to drive around. You can park your car in the parking lot. Do you really think we're gonna fire you for sitting in the parking lot while you wait for me? We only said you couldn't come in & work before I do. & second, it's none of your business when I get to work. My shift starts at 8:30, therefore, you should aim for 8:30, just like Greg told you to do. How am I supposed to predict the exact minute I get to work? & you're gonna get angry at me 'cause I didn't show up before my shift starts? Since when is it a requirement of mine to come into work before I start working?
Well, a bit of malicious compliance in this entitled story: if I can see I'm going to arrive at work more than 5 minutes early, I stop at the store just down the road & shop until 8:30. 'Cause guess what? Sally gets there who knows how early & sits in the gas station across the street, waiting for me. Fine, you wanna be that way? I can be petty, too.
By the way, Sally has a radio talk show she listens to from before I get to work until it ends at 10:00. I'm not into talk shows, but it wasn't too annoying (most of the time), so I didn't say anything about it. The reason why I started having a problem listening to it was that they would get into inappropriate things (s** toy review, for example). It made me super uncomfortable when they did segments like this. From the moment Sally was written up, she started only listening to the show on her headphones, thinking she was punishing me by me not getting to hear the show. Joke's on her. Sally did me a favor by not having to listen to that thing.
Sally was also told that she is no longer allowed to take smoke breaks on the clock. As no one else in the office takes breaks but chooses to work through them, this change would be made so all employees were equal now. But here’s the interesting thing: Sally suddenly stopped taking smoke breaks at all, but her bathroom breaks grew more numerous & longer. When she had been taking smoke breaks, the alarm on her phone would go off at specific times, such as 2:00. She would then go outside to take her smoke break. After the on-the-clock-smoke-break privilege was taken away, the same alarms would go off, such as 2:00. She would then disappear to the bathroom for 15 minutes. & I even smelled smoke in there when I went in there right after one of these long bathroom breaks.
Ever since the write up, there’s been attitude every once in a while. Most of the time, I have no idea what it is I did that could possibly have set her off that day. All I know is that Sally’s suddenly slamming things around again (hmm, PTSD cured now, is it?). & she’s still constantly making mistakes (like she’s always done).
On Nov 27, Sally is working on the Funding (loan proceeds funded onto a customer’s debit card). What we do is get the list of customers, determine how much the office funded that customer, transfer the money from the office’s bank account to the holding account, & then transfer the total from the holding account to the account that directly funds the debit cards to replenish the money. We had two customers with similar names (say, John Smith & Jack Smith). Sally hadn’t paid attention to the whole name & had applied John’s $0 funding to Jack. However, Jack had been funded $250. So, that money was missed, & I had to make a separate transfer for it.
On Dec 4, Sally is working on the Funding & writes down $0 for a customer. But the report from the office says he actually got $96.
On Dec 8 & 9, we discovered 2 checks that were supposed to be sent to our office (one from Oct, one from Sept). Neither had been cashed, & neither had ever reached us, even though we had the rest of the paperwork that would have come with those checks. Due to the dots I had connected, I had a pretty strong hunch that Sally wasn’t thoroughly checking the mail envelopes to make sure they’d been completely emptied before they got thrown away. I believed these checks were still in some envelopes that were then thrown away by Sally.
On Dec 11, on the bank reconciliation sheets we work at the end of the month (like balancing a checkbook), one of Sally’s offices was out of balance by $68, & she couldn’t find it. I couldn’t find it, either. I pulled out the one done for the month before. I couldn’t find it there, either. But I did notice one thing. The checks that hadn’t cleared the bank yet didn’t add up to the total amount of outstanding checks Sally had written down. By $68. I go back to the month before that one. There were a total of $68 in old checks that never got cashed & therefore should have gotten written off on the fiscal year-end at the end of Oct. But she hadn’t transferred them to the new month’s sheet. So, now, we have to hold onto them for a whole year to write off next Oct.
The same day, I went through all the offices to double check the GL codes that we post the expense checks to (GL codes determine where an expense gets coded, e.g., post an electricity payment to the GL code for utilities). The day previously, Sally had gotten several GL codes incorrect in the Miller office. She had forgotten to change the codes from the one for the Checkbook to the ones for the expense account. She had caught those ones since it affected the balance of the Checkbook, so I had helped her fix those properly. However, there were expense checks sent to a GL code that wasn’t the right one that Sally hadn’t caught.
I talk with Greg, as I feel that every time I turn around, I am either retraining Sally on stuff I’ve trained her on multiple times, I’m correcting mistakes on stuff Sally should know how to do by now (‘cause again, I’ve trained her multiple times), or I’m disciplining Sally about stuff she’s doing wrong. Greg asks how many mistakes due to carelessness she’s made in the last 2 weeks. I check my notes & tell him 4. He says that’s too excessive for an accounting office. We need to write her up.
So, I made the write up, but I just know I’m going to be dealing with the same attitude as the last time I had to write her up. & guess what? Greg’s out of town till Thursday again. I used my phone this time to record the audio of the interaction. That way, if Sally has attitude towards me again, I’m able to play the recording to Greg so he can hear what Sally’s like when he’s not here (which is why the following conversation is pretty much word for word).
On Dec 12 (Tuesday), I sat her down first thing.
Me: So, in the past couple weeks, I’ve noticed some errors happening due to carelessness, & they’ve become a bit excessive for an accounting office. The most important thing in an accounting office is accuracy. That’s why we focus so much on thoroughness & attention to detail. So, whatever needs to happen to lessen those errors, whether it’s slowing the pace of the work itself or double & triple-checking the work before it’s finished, it needs to happen. For example, when I work the payroll, after I get the total for all the offices, I then subtract each person’s individual hours to double check my entries. That way, if there is an error, at least I know it wasn’t ‘cause I was going too fast or not paying attention or something. So, whatever you need to do to decrease the mistakes, please—
Sally: What errors are we talking about?
Me: I have a page here with the items from the last couple weeks. (hand her the write up)
Sally: (reads the pages for a minute) Ok…
Me: So, whatever you need to do to—
Sally: (talking quickly ‘cause she’s pissed now) I’m gonna need more time & focus strictly on Funding. I don’t wanna touch mail, I don’t wanna touch anything else. I wanna focus strictly on that. ‘Cause I’m getting 80 plus a day (which was a lie, we never get nearly that much), & now, I’m gonna start getting in trouble if it’s not 110%. I am human. I will make mistakes. So, if that’s not allowed, then…(shrugs) let me know, I guess. I’ll talk to Greg & I guess figure something out. I am human, & I am gonna make mistakes, A. B, I feel like crap. He (Greg) has been in here sick the last week. I caught whatever he has. I’ve been hacking. I’ve been sicker than sh** the last week. I am trying. You guys usually have until the 12th to close the month. Since I’ve worked here, I’ve closed before the 8th. Yeah, I made mistakes. I told you I made a mistake on the Miller office. I knew what happened. So, to throw it in my face again that I already made that mistake is kinda rude, but…(shrugs) I’m actually kinda shocked to see that on there.
Me: Well, you did catch the errors involving the Checkbook, but there were other mistakes on that office that you didn’t catch, & that’s the reason that was listed on there.
Sally goes back to her work, & I decide to not ask her to sign the write up I had given her right away since she was diving right into the Funding. She had expressed she wanted to focus solely on it to minimize mistakes. I wanted to use positive reinforcement to convey that this was good behavior & good thinking, so I decided to wait for her to finish before asking her to sign & return the write up.
Now, here’s the issues with her little outburst above.

1. Sally is complaining that she’s human & makes mistakes & we’re not allowing mistakes. We’re not saying that she can’t make mistakes, ‘cause she’s right. Everyone makes mistakes; I make mistakes. What we’re saying is that she’s making mistakes much too often.
   
2. Sally says the reason for these mistakes the last 2 weeks is ‘cause she’s been sick the last week or so ‘cause she caught what Greg had (do you see the timing problem there?). Also, these kinds of mistakes have been happening for months & months. I only brought these examples up ‘cause they were recent.
   
3. Sally pointed out the fact that she closes each month really quick. We don’t care how fast things get done. Our goal isn’t to get things done quickly but to get things done accurately. If we happen to get it done quickly, that’s just a bonus. We would rather things go slow than to have errors causing problems or costing us money ‘cause we didn’t take the time to make sure it was correct.
   
4. Sally states it’s rude that I’m throwing her error back in her face (you already know my reaction to that). She obviously doesn’t know how a job works. Just ‘cause we discussed this error already doesn’t mean it can’t go on the write up. This is just one of the examples that required us to do a write up. We’re not doing this ‘cause we want to write you up or that we’re looking for excuses to get you in trouble. We’re doing our job. If a situation needs correcting, we have to correct it. We can’t just ignore it. & obviously, me talking about your errors all these months hasn’t helped. You’re still making the same mistakes. So, now, we’ve had to escalate to a write up on paper.
   

Sally doesn’t say another word. She, as expected, starts doing her tossing-things-‘cause-I’m-pissed-off thing. I just go back to my work. I’ve said my piece, now we can put it behind us & move on.
Now, we have until 10:30 to make the transfers for this Funding program in order to get the money back to the account the same day. We are still missing the paperwork for 2 customers from an office. (FYI, when we’re missing paperwork, we call the office & ask them to fax it. If we still don’t get it when it gets close to the transfer deadline, we call again & just ask for the amount to get it done.) So, at 10:20, Sally turns to me.
Sally: What do I do for these 2 customers? Do I just skip them?
Me: (frowning) Do what you usually do when you don’t have the paperwork in time. Call the office—
Sally: (in a sharp tone) I did. (she’s assuming I mean call the office to tell them to fax it)
Me: (ignoring her attitude outburst) Call up the office & ask for the dollar amounts.
Sally: But I don’t want to write down the amount without seeing the actual paperwork. If I’m gonna get in trouble for errors now, I don’t want to take down what could be the wrong dollar amount over the phone. I mean, I think that’s only fair to me.
Me: In the instances that were mentioned, they weren’t cases of taking down an amount over the phone. They were instances where we had paperwork or a report to see the amount. We would never write you up if there was a possibility that the office gave you the wrong amount over the phone.
Sally stares at me for a second & turns back to her desk. I turn back to my own work as Sally then calls up the office. I had to deal with her attitude the rest of the day: throwing mail into the mailbox, throwing open the letter folding machine so it made a big bang on the table. I was trying to still be the usual friendly, professional person I am at work; I told her “See you tomorrow” & everything. Sally wouldn’t talk to me unless she had to.
This is when I discovered that Sally has a habit of lashing out at me when she gets in trouble. The first write up involved her trying to drag me under the bus by claiming I’m hostile. This time, it was more personal. See, we do a Christmas gift exchange at the office; we each buy each other a gift. I had searched over & over trying to find something Sally would like. I finally found this desk calendar with gnomes on it (she likes both of these things), so I got it & a couple small items. I open my gift from Sally, & among a few cheap little things, I found…Sally’s own nearly empty bottle of nail polish remover. Wow, this is the thanks I get for not firing you back in Sept with the whole timesheet forgery thing?
& this is where I leave you until Part 2, the conclusion.

I’m a new Vivint customer and got my system two weeks ago. I purchased the hub two outdoor cameras a spotlight and an indoor camera. My sales rep was super sweet and gave me a 30 day trial. She highly suggested sensors but I was like man I’m already spending a lot so I turned her down. After installation I quickly realized I overdid it on cameras and without senors I’m paying for protection that I’m not using.
I called loyalty to see about returning cameras and they explained how I could ship the cameras I didn’t want back to them (they are unable to get a tech out to me until July 2nd). I was like ok sounds great the loyalty rep stated he could also lower my monitoring fee by 15 dollars for 18 months and I was like well that’s nice of you and accepted. After I got off the phone I immediately got an email saying that I extended my contract (didn’t say how many months) and my monthly monitoring fee would be 53 dollars. My monitoring service is actually 25.00 plus the four cameras plus the cell fee so it was 46 dollars originally. I’m really confused as to why it went up. When I called back I got a different loyalty rep and she told me could see that I talked to him but was unable to see the price negotiated or what I’d be paying and she didn’t think it was an official letter just something that auto sends.
When I try to look at my billing information on the app I can’t find it anywhere what I would owe for my next payment. Just trying to figure this out as locking myself into a higher price seems silly.
I talked to my sales rep and she said she could help me add what I want and send me a tech to install the new and remove the unneeded cameras so I think I have all the other issues solved.

It was half past nine when my shift at the diner ended. It’s not any place specifically you’d know, though you’d be forgiven for confusing it for a Waffle House given the abundance of cheap, greasy food and drunk clientele. The only thing distinguishing our location was that our doors closed at ten.
It was a cold night in October. The winds felt out of place for the fall season with the sharp way they bit into my skin. Usually, the low temperatures in Grant tended to hover around the mid-fifties. Tonight felt particularly frigid even bundled up in the warm confines of my jacket.
I hurried through the lot outside the diner, passing by several vehicles. When I made it to my car at the far end, I was quick to put the key in the ignition.
My car was a special edition Subaru Legacy. The only thing special about it was that it was only by the grace of God that my radiator and engine were still operational given the car was a little over two decades old.
When you turn the key, the engine would knock. My father said it was indicative of worn-out bearings. Could be an engine getting ready to declare sayonara before it crapped out one final time and departed for car heaven or perhaps car hell given its rough condition.
I knew little about that though; all I knew was that as a poor college student I was having a difficult enough time as is scrambling to make ends meet with a part time job at a diner. Regardless, whatever the solution, the answer involved money. Money I, notably, didn’t have.
The smart thing to do would be to purchase another used car; though in this economy that sort of thing is far easier said than done.
An even harder task than figuring out the financing for a replacement vehicle was getting this stubborn thing to turn. The engine threatened to exhibit life but would stop short of properly starting.
It was about the fifth round when my engine found the energy to fight the good fight on this frigid night. The engine knocked fiercely, reverberating inside the hood for a few seconds before the noise steadied itself.
I sighed in relief and backed out of my parking spot in the back of the lot.
As I left, I couldn’t help but notice something out of the corner of my eye. A man, a very rugged specimen of the male sex adorning a blue baseball cap and a grizzly beard, was approaching my vehicle at a brisk pace. Where I was the only one stationed at the back of the lot, it seemed odd he was coming my way.
I turned my head to acknowledge him. That’s when he began to break out into a full-on run.
My heart raced almost as fast as my car. I slammed the pedal down and sped out of the lot, the tires screeched loudly along the pavement as I veered to a sharp right.
​
I was lucky the road didn’t carry heavy traffic around this time of night. Where my eyes were focused on him, I was damn near lucky I hadn’t plowed directly into someone.
I sped along the highway and tried to rationalize why this lumberjack looking fellow had charged me. News reports of human trafficking came to mind, but it wasn’t really anything you heard much about in a place as remote as Grant Alabama.
For crying out loud, we physically were so remote one of the miniature cities within Grant was called Bucksnort. We were about as far from the Big Apple, or any real semblance of civilization, one could get.
After a minute of driving, I slowed down, especially when I heard something in the engine rattle. This car wasn’t designed for no races or wild chases. Not with the amount of age it carried.
Besides, I was alone. Safe.
At least that’s what I thought before I heard the blaring of a truck horn. An eighteen-wheeler was coming up behind me. Given I was the only other soul visible on this lonely two lane stretch of highway, it was clear they were honking at me.
I prayed to God and kept moving.
The big rig followed closely. We went down the road for two miles when suddenly my vision was obscured in a bright light.
The trucker was flashing his high beams. I could barely see when he hit me with them. I nearly swerved off the road when he did it.
After a few seconds the mounted flood lights on his vehicle relented and the blinding rays ceased their assault on my eyes.
I moved my car to the right lane to let him pass. He had no intention of doing so. His signal made that clear when he merged behind me.
Drops of rain began to pour from the sky lightly tapping my windshield.
Plop…plop, plop…plop.
My car didn’t handle well with slick roads. Fortunately, I wasn’t too far from home. Maybe another seven miles.
The fiery orange glow flooded the cabin of my car and I yelped.
I fumbled in my purse. One hand on the wheel, one digging desperately for my phone. With my visibility being periodically robbed, I was already a hazard on the road. Might as well risk compounding the issue if it meant I could get in contact with the police.
When the high beams vanished, I managed to pull out my phone and dial 911.
​
The operator answered after two rings. “911, what’s your emergency?” The man that answered the call sounded bored out of his mind, like he’d rather be anywhere else on a Saturday night.
I didn’t care if he was bored, entertained, playing with himself. As long as he could send someone out that’s all I cared about in the end.
“There’s a maniac tailgating me,” I said.
The operator’s voice clipped. Though from what I could understand of the roboticized sound coming out from his end of the line, I could tell from his tone he remained unenthused. “Ma’am, you’ve called an emergency line.”
​
“Y-you don’t understand! I was leaving work and this man started chasing me. I-I think he’s trying to hurt me.”
The operator fell silent for a few seconds. For a moment, between the rainy weather and the flaky signal, I thought I’d lost him. His voice reemerged seconds later. “Where are you?”
I rattled off the highway number I was driving on and told him my home address.
“I’ll get an officer dispatched in the area. ETA should be around ten minutes.”
Ten minutes. Six hundred seconds. Toss whatever metric you wanted to use to measure it out, with that big rig riding close behind me and the driver intermittently blinding me when they felt like getting their rocks off, it might as well have spanned an eternity. I was going to be lucky I didn’t crash into a guardrail or land myself in a ditch.
“Make that around fifteen minutes,” the operator clarified, his crackled voice twisting the knife deeper into me with his update.
I made the turn off the two-lane highway. I didn’t signal when I did it. I was hoping the sudden movement would have had my unwanted friend in the big rig blow past me.
“Ma’am?”
For a moment, I believed it worked. No more blinding lights. The only sound was the operator fishing for a response and the pitter patter of rain on my windshield.
My sigh of relief became a choking noise lodged inside my throat as I saw the eighteen-wheeler backing up. It didn’t turn on a dime, but he was moving fast enough.
The road up ahead winded with hairpin curves. I didn’t know how long I’d have until those lights were upon me. Till he was upon me.
The phone clicked and the call abruptly ended.
I cursed under my breath while my engine knocked like an irate person trying to beat down a door. My Subaru was rapidly approaching its limit. I had to think fast.
These were my options: I could risk speeding and hoped the engine would hold out till I made it to the house, or I could continue driving at a steady pace. If the first option proved successful, he might not see where my vehicle would vanish. If it didn’t, my car might leave me stranded. That’s assuming I didn’t wreck myself taking a turn too fast.
The other option would be safer, but I’d be visible to him. Though with some of these curves I feared if he hit me with the high beams again, I’d be at risk of crashing. Where the area of road ascended, one wrong turn would mean a long journey down.
It would mean certain death.
Taking a sharp intake of breath, I pulled out my phone and called my husband. The only answer I got was his voicemail urging me to leave a message at the tone.
“Billy, there’s a lunatic after me. I’ve called the cops. Please…please be ready. I’m only two minutes away.”
It wasn’t the most inspiring call to action. My husband wasn’t Billy Badass. He was more like Billy the Stamp Collector. Benign hobbies. Soft spoken. Wouldn’t hurt a fly.
Still, I was counting on his presence to deter Mr. High Beams behind me. It was a desperate ploy, but it was all I could think of on such short notice.
I made the turn into the dirt trail that led to my driveway. As I was pulling in the porch light flickered to life. Maybe. It might have been those high beams. They illuminated my cab in a flood of light once more obscuring my vision.
The door to the house opened and a figure ran out of the entryway. My husband from what I could discern of the silhouette. Our dog Jasper, a black schnauzer with more bark than bite, darted out the door. I couldn’t see the little guy, but I heard him.
I stopped the car and shoved open the door. I bolted out of the seat, nearly tripping over my own feet with my frantic departure.
Jasper started barking up a storm, even before the big rig came to a standstill.
The door of it opened and the bearded man stepped out of the vehicle.
Strangely, my dog paid the trucker little mind. Jasper’s eyes remained fixated on my Subaru. He began to snarl.
“Get away from the car,” the man bellowed. He pulled out a gun and pointed it at an angle, almost like he was aiming at my vehicle.
Was this how my life was going to end? Shot dead when I was at the finish line, where I was supposed to be safe?
My husband Billy babbled. “S-sir, please. You don’t have to do this.”
The trucker shook his head. As he did, the sound of sirens began to blare in the distance. He didn’t answer us. Instead, he lowered his gun into his holster and stood still as a statue all while my dog continued snarling and barking at our vehicle.
When the police came, guns drawn, he remained calm.
“I’m not the one you want,” he said. “The car. Search the car.”
Even to this day, I still remember in vivid detail what happened. When the police opened the rear driver door, there was a gaunt looking man back there crouched in the floorboard with a knife clenched in his hand. The wide, manic look lingering in his eyes remained far colder than the frigid winds blowing around us.
The trucker explained later that he saw the man inside my vehicle wielding the blade. He must’ve snuck inside before my shift ended. Once the driver realized what was going on, he’d tried to intervene.
Every time the person in the backseat had attempted to overpower me, to harm me, the trucker turned on his high beams. It scared my unknown passenger. The sight of the light made him hide.
The police hadn’t offered much in the way of details concerning who my stowaway was; given the six inches worth of blade he held, not much imagination was needed to map out what the strange man planned to do to me.
I learned on that cold, lonely October night to never judge a situation wholly by appearances. I was grateful to that truck driver. If it weren’t for his persistence, I would probably not be alive today to share my story.

I recently got into flipping and I found myself struggling to simply get responses and find people to sell to me. Whenever I do get a message back it’s usually “I will take a half cash app, half cash and you’re gonna meet me here.” Or it’s some sort of other rude message from the person.
The main things that I have been flipping or attempting to flip at least are cell phones and gaming consoles, why I chose those to flip I am not so sure. I’ve made a solid $500 or so, but it’s all gone due to bills and flipping other things as well.
I am completely open to any advice that anyone on here is willing to give me as to how you get more messages back and further meet up within individuals to buy products to be able to flip for-profit. I get it. People have lives I get that, might not be able to respond right away. But why would you list something and then refuse to sell it or not sell it, I don’t understand that.

What’s in the closet, Kirsty?
He knew I hid a secret.
I smiled, tried to look confused.
He waited, crossing his arms.
I worried that he'd already seen. He had.
What else could he think about the pile?
His wife’s a cheater. She has another life. Another husband. Children.
He’d never believe the truth: I’m not a cheater; there’s no other life; no other man; I don’t know who the children are who visit me at night.
But I did have a secret. And maybe it’s fair to say another life, even if was smaller and against my will.
I should have destroyed those frames, burned the photos within. Now it looked like I saved them, cherished them. The truth couldn’t be farther. I feared to touch anything to do with… whatever they are…with one exception.
“It started last Halloween,” I said to George, my husband, my real husband.
He stopped packing for a moment, working out the impossibility of this statement. “I’m taking the girls to my parents.” He resumed the tossing of shirts, pants, etc. into our big suitcase.
“It’s true,” I said, but weakly. The children in the picture are at least six and four respectively. They were born six months ago.
“They’re not… my kids,” I said of the boys in the photos. They’re not kids is what I almost said.
George stopped and squeezed the bridge of his nose between thumb and forefinger. “Kirsty,” he said slowly, “there are baby pictures. I saw them.”
“That’s-”
He quickly raised his finger, exasperated, angry, done.
“The first picture is you holding a newborn, and…” He swallowed painfully, his throat gone dry. It always does when he’s upset. “And the father in that picture, with his arm around you, isn’t me.”
When I couldn't deny it, he nodded like he knew all along our marriage would end.
We were happy. We really were. George and I had managed to overcome the typical breakdown that often comes with raising children. Only since last Halloween had distance been made by me.
I should have told him as soon as it started.
“Girls!” he called as I followed him down the stairs to the front hall of our lovely home. We’d scrimped and sacrificed to buy and keep this place, our dream by the lake. He’d been so proud. I couldn’t tell him I wanted to leave the first night sleeping there.
Cara and Ella protested through play, ignoring the adults, continuing to jump on an old box they’d long since flattened. Rays from the western sun placed my daughters into an inspired, hallowed light, and I started to cry. He was going to take my babies away.
George opened the door, intending, I’m sure, to drop the suitcase in the car before returning to physically carry the girls out.
But he hesitated in the doorway.
“George?”
The suitcase fell with a solid thud on the floor. “There’s no way,” he said.
“What?”
“There’s no way,” he said, with emphasis on the last word, “you would have had time for…this…”
Not defining "this" as cheating was progress. “Yes!”
He glared, quieting my desperate enthusiasm. I wasn’t off the hook. “Tell me. The truth.”
“I can’t.”
He reached for the suitcase.
“No, not because I don’t want to,” I protested. “I don’t know what’s happening!” I sat on the carpeted steps and stared through blurred vision at my trembling hands. The shriek I’d filled the house with - “happening!” - had put a halt to the box's obliteration. Cara and Ella hesitated for a few seconds before leaping into action.
Cara, the oldest, six, punched her dad in the buttocks. “You have to be nice!”
Ella, four, sat beside me and patted my trembling hands. “It’s okay, mummy.”
Such lovely daughters. Nothing like the boys in those photos when they were this age.
George grasped Cara's wrists and gently walked her back into the house, using his foot to kick the suitcase from the swing of the front door.
"It's alright, girls," he said with weak resolve. "Go and play."
"No!" Cara shouted. She kicked at her father and he pulled her close into a bearhug. Gradually, the girls calmed and were convinced to return to the box in the front room.
"Kirsty," George said, "you have to tell me." He sat down on the step beside me. "Please." I would do anything to take away the hurt in his eyes. "Please."
"I can't. But… I can write it down. Maybe." I took out my phone. We shared Google Drive. When I made a new document, he reluctantly started his phone. The man was a dream. He watched his screen, and waited patiently for my words to appear.
Without preamble, I returned to the awful moment when it all began: a strange and disturbing dream. Words came like an infection from beneath a torn scab. The wound had been opened. Nothing could stop this now.
Sex with another man has never been a desire of mine. I love George. He loves me.
Plus, the man in my dream was a stranger, and not particularly handsome. He has a plain face set to unwavering boredom and unkempt male pattern baldness. Our dream sex felt obligatory, just something we had to do.
I awoke on the wrong side of midnight. November 1st and I was craving ice cream instead of the girls' gathered candy. The freezer left by the previous homeowners came with unopened ice cream. Freezer burned or not, I wanted some.
After retrieving a spoon from the kitchen, I intended to destroy a brick of neopolitan. He waited in his flannel pajamas, barefoot on the concrete floor. His arms were crossed.
"Cravings?" he said.
I dropped the spoon. It clattered down the basement steps. Before I could run away, he disappeared like someone had erased him from head to foot in one clean sweep.
Had to be a dream. That's what I told myself. The spoon stayed in the basement until daylight. Ghost or nightmare, there was laundry to do the next day.
I crossed the concrete floor fast and only felt safer when I'd closed the door to the more modern laundry room. Never thought builder's grade tiles and track lights would make me feel anything but sad.
His voice caught me sorting.
"Kirsty!"
I dropped the cup of detergent all over the floor.
"Shit."
I came out of the laundry room, figuring George had been looking for me in uncharacteristically rude fashion. He hated speaking between rooms. Shouting throughout the house was highly impolite. It must have been important, I figured.
As soon as I stepped onto the bare concrete, however, deep sadness, the kind that seems to physically leech the strength from your body, dominated the room.
"Hello?" I don't know why I said that. The basement is a low ceilinged rectangle. There are no hiding spots except for the laundry room I'd come from. After a deep breath, I walked briskly to the stairs.
"Any day now," a raspy voice breathed into my ear. I jolted and slipped forward, falling and clipping my chin off a step. It made my teeth click painfully. Nobody there, of course. I ran upstairs and George had gone outside with the girls to play hide and seek.
I wanted to tell him. He looked so happy. It's hard to convey in words the kind of smile he showed me through the window. Imagine contentment mixed with unreserved joy and hope. Yes, it's difficult to picture. So few of us can ever have such a moment. Sort of like finding a natural view completely untouched by humanity. Beyond rare and precious.
I’m rambling now to avoid writing about what followed. The point is I couldn’t tell him. I hoped it’d go away and stop.
But, of course, it didn’t, and things got much worse.
I awoke in a great deal of pain. Having already given birth to children, the feeling was familiar. Despite getting up and gasping, George continued to snore in our bed. He’s a deep sleeper, but a quick and early riser. I’ve never heard him complain about getting out of bed either, especially when there’s an emergency.
I might have woken him up but I was disoriented and confused. Part of me believed I was still pregnant with Ella. It wasn’t until I’d gone all the way to the kitchen to avoid waking up the girls, that my brain caught up: Girls. Plural. Ella was asleep in her bed upstairs.
“Ohhhhhhhh shiiiiiiiiiiit.” I knew the signs of labour. This couldn’t be happening. “Ohhhhhhhhh.”
I was definitely going to wake everyone up if this continued.
My phone was upstairs by my bedside table. We don’t have a landline. I should have called 911. I should have woken up George.
Instead, I went downstairs where I could vocalize pain without disturbing anyone. Such a pathetically passive response. But that’s how I was raised. Keep it down, don't you frown.
His hands seized mine as soon as I descended the last step. Serious and bald without dignity is how to best describe his physical appearance. Cold and cruel is what he is. The lights turned off and, in the perfect darkness of the basement, he was all that I could see.
He produces a red light from his body somehow but his touch is literally frosty.
"Kristy, it's time," he said. No joy there. Just straight facts. Something was coming. I was going to give birth to it. In the dull red glow of his being, the first boy came.
"His name is Hadad," the man said, placing a large, infant boy with a lot of hair and, I swear, a hint of beard, on the bare concrete. Hadad looked like a three month old they use as newborns on TV. He didn't cry. He hardly seemed to breathe as his dark eyes roamed the darkness. His light resembled the man's, a less intense red.
I felt another contraction, and winced.
"She comes next," the man said.
I felt so weak. "Who are you?" I asked him.
At last, he smiled and I wished he hadn't. It made me feel small, insignificant, and beneath his concern. "You know who I am," he said. "I'm your husband."
Pain wracked my entire body. Something didn't feel right. The birth of Cara and Ella had been without difficulty.
"Push," my "husband" ordered. "She is upset with you, and will kill you if you don't get her out now."
"It has to be a nightmare," I told him. Sweat poured in streams down my face. The unborn "she" in question writhed and damaged my insides. I screamed. I couldn't help it.
"Push!"
I obeyed and the second boy spilled onto the bare concrete, coated in blood and dust.
"It's a boy," I said.
The man looked displeased. "The body is male. She is Hebat. No wonder she is angry." Like the other infant, Hebat appeared aware of her surroundings and had far too much motor control for a newborn. The light pouring from her body was dull silver. Her eye sockets were two pits of concentrated despair. I had to look away.
The babies were pressed into my arms.
The man stretched out beside me. "Open your eyes and smile." I resisted. "Do it. Now." What choice did I have? The flash from his cell blinded me. They were all gone by the time my sight recovered. Only the sweat remained as evidence of the ordeal.
It had to have been a hallucination. Some very bad food poisoning maybe. The source could be as simple as an undigested bit of beef, a blot of mustard, a crumb of cheese, a fragment of underdone potato. I had been stress eating since we'd moved in. I stood up and took some comfort in a Charles Dickens' reference.
"More of gravy than of grave about you," I said. My words seemed consumed by the dreadful weight of the air. "Whatever you are."
Whatever you are: something bad in any case. At best, I'd hallucinated prolonged and traumatic labour and needed medical attention. Yet, when I limped up the basement stairs, all thoughts of waking George vanished. There on the kitchen island sat a propped frame containing the photograph taken only moments ago.
The man looked happy. Only Hadad appeared in this picture, which meant another one was somewhere. I didn't panic. I worried more about what George would think if he saw the photos. I had to find them all.
Hebat and his father and I were mounted in a dark wood frame by the master bedroom. It'd be the first thing anyone saw if they woke up. I plucked it off the wall and, together with the first photo, tucked it under some blankets in the dresser we'd shoved in the small walk-in closet.
You might not believe this, but I went straight to sleep after. I climbed under the blanket in my sweaty pajamas, shut my eyes, and didn't have enough time to deny what had happened. I was unconscious until morning.
George placed a coffee on my nightstand. That's what I remember. He rubbed my feet while I slowly awoke. The girls were watching TV downstairs, munching on apple slices. There was forty minutes still before we had to seriously consider getting ready to take Cara to school.
George would drop her off on his way to work downtown. He chose his hours and always chose convenience for his wife and kids. Ella and I planned to spend the morning gardening. Then we would nap much of the afternoon away until George and Cara returned. A life so perfect is so very rare.
I didn't want to spoil things with a very convincing nightmare. Besides, I felt fine. Not so good that I wanted to look in the dresser to see if those photos really were there, but not ill. So I remained silent again.
November started fine. Idyllic days and nights filled with laughter and joy and television. Just as I started to believe in the dream we'd made, they came again.
The wail of a child's hunger is a powerful call for a parent. When it's a chorus, even of two, it cannot be ignored. Only I awoke to Hadad and Hebat's cries for their "mother" from the basement.
Half asleep, I drifted into the kitchen and searched for their milk bottles. When no bottles could be found, I remembered they were newborns. Milk swelled in my breasts and made my nipples ache. Just like when Cara or Ella would awaken in the night. It was a relief to feed them.
But what the fuck was I doing?
I was acting like the man in the basement and the devil babies were mine. It'd been less than a week since Halloween and that horrible nightmare illusion. I had already taken on the beleaguered newborn mother role without question.
Their cries intensified and flayed the weak resistance of exhausted reasoning.
Don't wake George. Don't wake my babies, my real babies.
"What took you so long?" the man critized, his voice monotone, the question unrhetorical.
"I… was sleeping. I went to the fridge first." Under his severe gaze, I stopped in the midst of the dark room. Hadad had quieted. Hebat cooed as if laughing at her own joke. I couldn't see them because the lights were off. They liked the dark better. Somehow I knew that about them and him.
"You should sleep down here," he said. "A mother should always be close to her babies."
The statement was nonsense but not altogether wrong. I wanted to be close to my babies, the daughters sleeping in bliss upstairs, away from the evil fermentation in the basement.
"Kirsty," he said. "Are you listening?" His hand touched the small of my back. The gentleness surprised me. I squawked and flinched away. "What’s wrong with you? They're hungry." He pressed on my shoulders until I sat on the cold floor.
They came from the shadows, already walking. I wanted to go, but I knew he wouldn't allow it. He pulled my cat t-shirt off over my head and their fierce mouths suckled, relieving the pressure of excess breast milk quickly. It felt physically good and psychologically alien.
I looked down at them once and immediately regretted it. Their emanated light had intensified to a point where perception of them hurt.
Each time I blinked my eyes were drawn to some isolated part of their bodies. The vision got closer to the point of disgust. Everything is gross if you're close enough. There is no beauty under a microscope. If you think there is then you're not using the right magnification.
Hebat's eye drew me in. At first, I saw the dark sphere, and then the strands of her eyelashes. Her gravity kept pulling until the creatures that live in eyelashes were revealed: Demodex folliculorum. I looked the microscopic horrors up.
The babies had more parasites than any child should. They wanted to show me and could somehow do so.
I asked him about it. "Why are they showing me these worms?"
He smiled, contemptuously as usual. "Trying to impress mother. Neither of them understand your horror and insignificance. You are the ant who knows they're an ant. Lucky you. They think you will be proud of the life their corporeal forms produce and host. Give them a few hours. It will pass."
"Why are you doing this to me?"
"I'm not sure what you mean. We're married. Now, prepare to smile." His cell reappeared and I noted the lack of features; it might have been a singed rectangle of spent firewood. He frowned when I failed to smile. "Smile, Kirsty. These are your children."
I managed to stave off the tears and hold the babies close. The smile was more difficult. In the inevitable aftermath of their sudden disappearance, the frames depicted an exhausted, wrinkly woman smiling painfully. It took a second to recognize myself.
The things in the basement sapped my strength. I looked dehydrated, beleaguered. The scale in the bathroom said I'd dropped six pounds. I'd weighed myself the morning before.
"Whoa, you've lost weight," George noted, thinking I'd be pleased. "This place has been so good for us, eh?'
To produce another smile proved as draining as the previous night. "Y-yes," I stuttered too late for him to ignore.
"Hey," he said, touching my forearm.
I flinched.
"Whoa, you okay? What's wrong?"
I should have told him. "Nothing. Bad sleep. A nightmare. I'll be fine."
A lie is an agreement. George wanted to agree, I think. He wanted life to be fine because he was happy for once. We struggled so hard before we came to Bridal Veil Lake. It was supposed to be our dream.
Guilty if I told him the truth. Guilty because I didn't. I began to resent his happiness, though he had done nothing but be the wonderful man he'd always been.
To Cara and Ella I became a body in motion, No brain left to guide them away from harm or answer their questions about nature and the universe.
"I don't know." That's what I told them often.
So they began to treat me like a kind of butler.
"Can I have some juice, please?"
"Sure, sweetheart."
"Mommy, can I have a snack?"
"Of course." And I'd run off to fetch it.
"Cookies."
"Yes, dear."
When Christmas came, I had two and they induced the same level of joy. Visiting the basement to feed and nurture Hebat and Hadad became a nightly occurrence. I'd learned to awaken, if I could get to sleep at all, and go quietly.
He berated me severely if I missed a night, and there were subtle threats made casually.
"I may have to squash you yet," he said, his tone as deep and cold as always.
"It won't happen again," I promised. "They’re getting big." In fact, they were no longer infants. Both had grown to the approximate age of six or seven in a few months. Still, they never spoke. Their dark eyes watched me as they ate food from the kitchen upstairs, food I'd hidden from my family.
"More meat," the man demanded.
"Of course." And I ran to the freezer and gave them frozen sausages in the package. They never complained or demanded the food be prepared a different way. No objections from my "husband" either.
Hebat tore the styrofoam and plastic wrap away and flattened the row of sausages stuck together between powerful molars. Hadad contented itself with licking them like a popsicle.
I'd stay until the photo. Then they'd release me by vanishing. Always with an exhausted breath, I'd trudge up the stairs and search for the frames and hide them in the same place.
They only smiled in the pictures. At no other time did they express any kind of emotion unless indifference counts.
My own children and husband weren't doing much better. Their concerns about my fatigue and ruminating slowly ceased as I repeated the excuse: I’m just tired. It'll pass.
Of course, I did not know when the nightmare would stop.
"When will it end?" I asked him one night, while Hebat and Hadad exercised like they had a mission.
"What do you mean?" he said.
I was surprised he answered. He usually didn't. "This. This. When can I go back to normal and not come down every night? I'm so very tired."
He frowned and I thought some punishment must be coming. Instead, he looked more confused. "I don't understand. You aren't happy? Your children grow into power and strength and will take their place in the world. They will be great and you - you, of all the tiny things, made that happen. Ask yourself what you want out of life, and see if Hebat and Haddad aren't your answer."
Too many words, all at once, for an exhausted mother. I didn't speak for the rest of the night. The infernal trio vanished, and the latter moments of the ritual I carried out with his challenge in mind.
I want my children to be strong, happy, and safe.
"Juice," Cara demanded the next morning, a Saturday, while she watched cartoons.
"Get it yourself!" I hissed, from tired to angry in a second.
"But I can't," Cara accurately pointed out. She didn't look away from the TV. Looking at me wasn't safe, and she knew it. Her and Ella held hands and sat a little straighter. It broke my heart. What had I done?
George came downstairs, attracted by my shouting. "What’s going on?"
Empathy became sadness, and the constant burden rekindled to anger swiftly. "Just children treating me like a servant."
He smiled. "Ah, yes, and how are the royal princesses this morning?"
His levity irked me. "You would know if you didn't sleep in so much."
The smile vanished from his face, and instead of the fight I seemed to want, he mumbled a quiet apology and joined the girls. They climbed onto him as he wrapped them into a cuddle.
"What are we watching?" George restarted his smile, his calm, for the girls. I hated myself. It had to end. Tonight.
After another dreary day of going through the motions, and the girls and George had fallen asleep, I went to the kitchen and chose the knife I thought sharpest.
"Kirsty," he said, his voice a whisper rising from the depths of the house.
"Coming," I whispered back.
"Mom," said another voice, a girl's, and I knew that Hebat had, at last, found herself and the wholeness of her being had been corrected.
I started to cry. I went downstairs and there she was with her brother and her father. He looked tired but some of the grimness had cracked to allow the first real contentment I've ever seen him express.
"Is that for the cake?" he asked. "We already have one."
I remembered the sharp knife. "Meat," I said. "There’s ham in the freezer."
He nodded, seeming to accept the answer.
"Mom," Hebat said, "Do you think I'm…" She gestured to herself, her face, and her body, and I understood the question, born from doubt and a desire to be validated.
I pulled her close. "You are the most beautiful girl in the whole world." We cried together. Hadad cut into a poorly made, asymmetrical cake by the light of his aura. No one cared that he did so on the floor. I brought out the ham from the fridge and we ate slices with our hands.
"It's almost done," he said. "They’re nearly grown. They are strong, and they are happy. You've done a good job, Kirsty." He watched our children fight to smear icing on each other's faces. "I'm sorry if I was mean. Or cold. I've never done this before." And he meant raising children. "It was the hardest, scariest thing anyone can try. I shouldn't have blamed you for… Hebat… It wasn't your fault."
Before I could pat his hand, he and the kids vanished. Darkness so familiar couldn't extinguish a new fear. I went upstairs and found the last frame. I held my daughter in the photo, my beautiful Hebat. He must have taken the photo without my notice.
I took it upstairs but couldn't bring myself to hide it.
I didn't see that one, George wrote into the document.
I forgot he was watching.
He typed again: Are you saying there is something in the basement?
Yes, I replied.
He stirred in the living room. I hadn't moved from the stairs, but I could tell by his stomping how angry he'd become. All of his negative, violent traits he saved for those in the world who would harm his family. George the Protector was fearsome to behold.
But he had no chance against my other husband.
"Come out! Come out you coward!" George bellowed. At first, nothing happened. The moment before calamity, even when the specific consequences aren't known, is still in slow motion. He carried on shouting. The girls rushed into the hall and didn’t hesitate to investigate.
"No!" I shouted. "Cara! Ella!"
Their feet padded down the steps. A violent commotion followed, screams and raging voices, both deep and childishly shrill.
The most unsettling quiet followed.
I chewed through the fear and the horror tearing me apart and finally moved.
No evidence of violence could be seen from the top of the stairs. The concrete looked bare and dusty and the light revealed nothing more. They were gone, all of them.
"Hebat," I whispered. "Cara? George?"
Him, I thought of, the nameless husband and felt no hint of his presence. He'd always been there. I know that now. It had nothing to do with the house. His absence was felt more than his insidious presence. Yet, I felt no relief. George and the girls were gone. I sat on the floor and cried for all my missing children.
When I finally emerged from the basement, the whole house had been filled with night. Their photos were everywhere. The others were upstairs. I gathered them on the kitchen island. How could I explain any of this to the police?
I needed help. I called my parents. It took twenty minutes before my father picked up.
"Kirsty? What's wrong?"
"Dad," I whimpered. "George is gone. Cara. Ella."
"What? What did you say?"
"They’re gone, dad. George. The girls are gone."
I heard his bed springs protest as he rolled out of bed. My mom said something I couldn't hear, and he shushed her.
"Kirsty," he said, "are you alright? Are you hurt? Are you in danger?"
Why was it so hard to understand? "Dad. George is gone."
"Kirsty, who the hell is George?"
It was my turn to be confused. "He's my- you know him. My husband…"
"Kirsty," he said very slowly, "are you on drugs? Did you take something?"
"No. Are you?"
"Excuse me?"
I hung up.
I have their photos. I have all of their photos. That's what I brought to George's parents before the sun rose. They wouldn't open the door and spoke to me through an intercom.
"George is gone," I said.
"We'll call the police."
"This is your son. These are your granddaughters."
I heard my mother-in-law say, "Who is she?"
"We don't have a son," my father-in-law said. "Go away."
I left.
Back to the house. Our dream sat empty and I live there, but none of the people in my family photos are my family.
I remember but the world never does. My parents think I'm ill and that I used AI to create the family I apparently never had.
How did I buy the house without a job or income? With deep concern for my mental health, they showed me a news story. I had won the lottery the day I turned eighteen.
His influence there, payment for services rendered.
A lie is an agreement.
What had I agreed to? I'm afraid I know the answer: I never wanted a family.
God help me. God help them.
I don't know what to do with these pictures.

I lost my account due to it being hacked although I am still able to log into the account on my phone. does anyone know how I can get it back. I have tried countless times to get hoyo support to help but everytime its "there is not enough proof to confirm you have ownership of the account". I have not bought any top ups so can not show proof of that The account is currently linked to my twittex account. What do I do? I tried posting this in official subreddit but I cant.

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!”

Bud be gone 16 years later this month. Don’t hardly seem possible. Still remember him as if I just saw and spoke to him yesterday. The way of it. Miss him a lot, and so does Momma. Also the way of it. Get to thinking about him a lot this time each year.
Not as raw and brutal as it used to be. Had some dark days for both of us for quite a while. Again, the way of it. But acceptance comes eventually, when there’s no other choice.
I try to console myself that he lived life large in the 21 years he had - didn’t waste ‘em. Got to see and do places and things that comparatively few do. Was involved in things he felt were important.
I loved him dearly, and was admiring and proud of the man he’d become. And I told him so quite often. Advice from someone who’d not always as bright as he might be, but who nevertheless understands some basic things: say what Should be said when you have the chance. The words are important, even if they already know. Don’t, and the day might come when it’s now too late to.
He was the wild one of our brood - seems like every family has one. Not troublesome in any way for Momma and me. He asked me a serious question once, when he was 16: “Dad, you and Mom hardly ever whipped us when we were kids. How come?”
And my answer a simple one: “We didn’t need to. You were great kids.” He’d thought that over, and nodded his acceptance.
A disciplinary problem aboard his ship sometimes, though, and this didn’t surprise either of us. A different world with different rules. And he never accepted insult from anyone from the time he was small - just not in his nature. Push, and he’d push back.
But by every account we heard, very serious and disciplined when it came to his job. This didn’t surprise us, either. His primary rating Firefighter aboard ship, he’d often complain that the training wasn’t Realistic enough. To the extent that a superior had remarked once in exasperation: “Well, we can’t set the damn ship on fire for you, Bud!”
Well-known and liked throughout the crew, he was something of a minor legend among them. Famous (or infamous - take your pick) for the situations he got himself into to the point that after a while, anyone in trouble beyond the usual was referred to as having “Pulled a Bud.”
Fighting several members of Shore Patrol on one memorable occasion: “It took six of ‘em to get him under control and back to the ship, Mr. OP.” A friend.
With several members of the local PD on an even more memorable one.
He’d paid for that one on the way to and at the station. Being thrown headlong down a set of cement stairs with his hands still cuffed behind his back he figured he’d had coming. Ditto with then being picked up and rammed headfirst into a cinder block wall.
Being stripped naked, tossed in a cell, and having a fire hose turned on him every hour on the hour all night he’d objected to: “That shit was Cold, Pop! And it was fucking unnecessary! I catch any of ‘em out alone, I got somethin’ for their ass!”
“You gotta stop this shit, Bud.”
“……Sigh…I know, Pop. I know. Do me a favor - don’t tell Mom, ok?”
“I don’t intend to.”
“……Pop?”
“Yeah?”
“Captain says the same thing. Says this is my last chance…….Why’s he giving me another chance, after all the trouble I’ve caused?”
“Because he sees something in you he wants to keep - something of value to the ship. You can be counted on to do your job, no matter what. That carries a lot of weight in the civilian world - more so in the military.”
“…..You think so?”
“I know so.”
One of the last conversations, and over the phone, we’d ever have.
An old Chief remarked to us: “Bud was a throwback. He reminded me of the fighting Sailors of my own youth. I hadn’t met another quite like him in a good many years. He’ll be missed.”
His Captain remarked to me: “He turned it around, Mr. OP. It was as if he made a decision. There wasn’t another single incident of insubordination or anything else. In all my years of service, I’ve never seen anyone do so complete a 180. He’d made his mind up, and that was that. But I guess I don’t have to tell you that. He was actually due for promotion. Did you know that?”
I had. Bud had told me he’d studied for and passed the test. Perfect score, or near enough. He’d broken his hand at the time. A timed test, and his writing hand, he’d been afraid the cast would slow him down too much, so he’d cut it off and gone to get it redone afterward.
Last time I spoke to him, he had some shipmates were in Galveston during Mardi Gras. Out on the promenade. Sounds of revelry in the background. Shakedown cruise in preparation for another deployment.
Presently, to his impatient shipmates: “Just give me a damn minute, all right?! Listen, I guess I better go. Love you, Pop. And tell Mom that for me when she gets home, ok?”
“I will. Love you, too, Bud.”
Good last words to remember, I guess.
All through the days and nights we’d spent in the hospital, waiting, and hoping against hope, Momma and I hadn’t been alone. My brothers were there with us, having driven in from out of state. My sister. Mother.
And his crew. Day and night, young men and women waiting with us in great numbers. Lying sleeping on the floor against the walls lining the corridors, when all other spaces had been taken. None of the hospital staff asking them to leave.
Ship’s Officers and senior Enlisted spending as much time there as preparations for deployment would permit. Checking in in person with us and hospital staff about his condition at least once a day.
And so many of them with a story or two to tell about Bud. Many of them funny. For that was who he was, too. He could always make people laugh. Someone being down in his presence he couldn’t abide, and he always knew how to fix that.
It was as if they Needed to. And that Momma and I understood, as well. We’d known him all his life, and we could see that they knew him, too. So we were patient, and grateful, and we listened.
The day finally came when we were told there was no longer any hope at all. He’d never regained consciousness, and now there was no more brain activity at all. He was gone.
His XO was there with us when we were told, and that large, strong man wept bitterly and unashamedly. I think that probably doesn’t happen often.
Momma and I were alone the next day, in a seated waiting area next to the elevators. Waiting, just the two of us, not speaking much. Everyone had given us that space to ourselves. Sensed that we needed it, I suppose.
The first man arriving with a refrigerated transport case arrived, and took the elevator down. He seemed in a hurry. A man who desperately needed Bud’s strong heart was waiting, and time was of the essence.
Momma and I watched the doors close behind him. Then we both got up, and hand in hand, walked away. It was finished now. The book of his life was closed, though in a sense it never would be.
A few months previous, he’d registered as an organ donor. His choice.
His heart went to a 31-yr-old man in need of a new one.
A young woman in North Dakota sees through his eyes.
Many others were helped, as well. His parting gifts.
Talking to the coordinator of the donor program at the hospital at a later date, I was informed that the man’s new heart was functioning perfectly. He had, in fact, been going to the gym and hitting the weights. Something he’d had no interest in before.
“Lifting and bodybuilding were some of Bud’s passions” I replied.
“I’ve been doing this for a long time” the man had replied in kind. “And you’d be astonished at how many times something like that happens; the recipient unknowingly taking on attributes of the donor. No one can explain it.”

In the comments of the recent 2024 mid-year catch-up.
comment 1:
"Sorry about the out of focus two shot. Both of them thought the other had checked the shot. Mike was drunk and Jay was HAF. They focused each others' shots IF YOU KNOW WHAT I MEAN. And that is NOT Mike in Lousy Carter. The movie Mike is in is called Lousy Farter. He's also in a movie called "Mike thinks he looks less fat when the shot is out of focus". Jay is also in a movie called "Pig was my favorite movie of the last ten years cause I'm a fucking weirdo". So again, Mike and Jay do not have a crew or a budget or anything else worthwhile in life. They do fail upwards constantly. Or rather, fail sideways. Mike continues failing sideways if you know what I mean. Or he like's to call it "Horizontal Expansion". Mike has just purchased stock in a company that makes belts for overweight bovine. They are looking to expand (pun intended) into the human market by selling their leather belts to portly gentlemen. You may wonder why a cow would need a belt? Or why a cow would wear a leather belt in the first place. The answer: Don't ask you scum. It's none of your business. Mike is gonna have over $5,000 dollars in his bank account when this stock goes public rest assured you fucks. Then he's gonna retire and live the good life on a cattle ranch wearing belts made of his friends."
comment 2, in a reply to the 1st:
"For those of you (scum) who wish to know who has written this response. It is I, Krebs Gorlon long time RLM pubic relations manager and master of the art of dealing with the pubic. I share Mike's thoughts on these matters. I must admit, I made up the story about Mike investing in cow belts for people. Mike would never invest in such a foolhardy folly after his disaster with Enron. Mike is doing just fine at the moment. That story was what we call "deflection" in the PR biz. It's to get you thinking about Mike wearing a cow belt (a belt made for cows and not a belt made from a cow (although some are) to keep your eyes away from the latest story in the news about Jay. Jay went to Walt's Disney world and was denied entry on the teacup ride. You think the joke might be was that he was too short, but the truth is he was high on cracked-cocaine. Jay was yelling and wearing a tee shirt that read: "Party's Over Fucko". The staff at Walt's Disney world also noticed the track marks on Jay's arms and the fact he was sipping from a flask. That along with the teeshirt gave the staff pause and they made the call to not allow Jay on the ride. Jay threw a tantrum and leapt onto the ride while it was in motion, shattering his pelvis and causing delays in the line up to 3 hours. The incident was captured on cell phone video and can be found on YouTube by searching "Small man breaks pelvis on big teacup ride" however, I urge you not to search for this. Jay is in hospital at the moment and will return to work soon. Mike has told Jay that his "rock star" lifestyle is embarrassing. In an attempt to bring him down to reality Mike has informed Jay that RLM is only the 17,948th most subscribed to channel on YouTube and that he's not so famous he can show up at Walt's Disney World blazing on cracks and causing a pubic scene. This is NOT part of our brand. Stick to belts made for cows or the newest craze, Smart phone necklaces. You know what a lanyard is? You know how elderly people have their casino rewards cards around their neck. I think instead of people keeping their phones in their back or front pockets or even in their purses, all people should wear them around their neck for easy access. I call it a Cell Phone Krebs. I've named this product after myself. Search for it on YouTube by entering in "Small man breaks pelvis on big teacup ride"."

Hello,
I guess you could say I’m not your typical liberal teacher. I hate everything teaching and education promotes today from being DEI, to being a victim - everyone’s a racist, misogynist etc., climate change is going to kill us.
I am a conservative and was a top athlete and top academic student growing up with the value of hardwork, dedication and perseverance. I’m also extremely outgoing and love being around people. I probably should have gone into sales when I was in my 20s. I build relationships with people relatively easily and make friends playing golf.
Teaching and the education is soul Sucking. As a teacher, I have no authority to discipline students, give them late marks or fail them because our education system panders to these students/parents that whine and complain. Classrooms are a disaster with behaviour and cell phone management. I literally realize every teacher is make ZERO impact on our society. Some think they are but they are not because the majority of students are so desensitized by technology and have never been disciplined by their parents that they are just mindless drones.
I can’t stand being a teacher especially after Covid. I seen I should have done something different but I’m 40 now. I don’t know what to do. I could stick it out with teaching until 55 and get a pension which my family thinks I should do. I also know there is not a lot of jobs out there that are going to pay me 100K per year with 3 months off and pension at the end.
I just hate how meaningless my job is and how even 100K can’t afford shit today plus the lack of respect for teachers. I know why our kids are fucked today because parents don’t love their kids. It’s plain and simple. They don’t want to be parents and discipline them. They want to be their friends. Parents have become so weak and lazy. Everyone blames the kids. It’s not the kids. It’s our society lacking any morality, no discipline at school or home. No wonder kids are anxious, depressed and offing themselves. Our adults are bunch of pussies.
Anyways, that’s the end of my rant. I don’t know what to do anymore.