Bars rear main seal

Tonight changed my perspective on Diving...
I was doing my Regular Wednesday run tonight. While I was finishing up at my 3rd dumpster a pair of headlights came around the corner of the strip mall. I figured it was security, without skipping a beat I continue loading my trunk and cleaning the area. Local PD/Security is pretty chill if you are.
I get in my car, pull towards the headlights to exit and see it is an early 2000's pick up truck. Not security. Just before I turn the corner, I see in my rear view mirror a small woman hop out the passenger seat and begin to check the dumpster that I just nearly ran dry. With a trunk full of food my heart went heavy.
On a personal note for reference, I'm a 20 year old male who Dumpster Dives to Donate/save money on food and resell miscellaneous items to get by. I'm Not the person you'd expect to be Diving.
My trunk had way more than I could eat. I circled the parking lot a couple times gathering the courage to approach truck. Back over I went.
When I rolled by, A woman and her husband were checking the dumpster together.
"I just went through this one, are you in need of food? I'll share." I said. I was met with two confused and concerned faces. Who after hesitation responded "yes". I popped my trunk and hopped out. Introducing myself to the couple. I handed them some protein cookies, and granola bars.
The woman was ecstatic, thanking me for sharing and smiling to her husband. When she looked at me and said "this will feed my daughter!!"
I nearly cried right there. In the moment I smiled back, Telling her I'm glad. She asked some good tips, I told them everything I know. I gave them a jump rope, nail polish remover and some extra food. Told them my name, and wished them a good night.
I feel greedy, And I'm now wishing I gave them it all. My next meal was never promised as a kid which is why I do this. I refuse to see hungry kids in my community. Though i never imagined the possibility of someone trying to feed their own kids showing up to a dumpster minutes after I empty it.
I hope I bump in to them soon, or that they somehow read this. I'd like to help them out more.
I felt the need to share this experience with the community, not for any specific reason. I just want people to hear the story and be aware this encounter happened. All feedback is welcome 🙏

Anywhere In Adelaide I can sell unwanted alcohol?
Mainly spirits like whiskey and gin?
All are sealed and stored professionally.
Unwanted gifts as I dont need to drink higher end spirits.
Thanks

The 130 SC (also called 130 Cabriolet), commonly known as the "147 Convertible", was a customization made by Sulam. Already well recognized for making exclusive adaptations to the bodywork of brazilian models (since imports were prohibited from the 1970s to the 1990s), such as transforming medium sedans into limousines, some personalized body kits, remodeled interiors and, of course, convertible versions of cars from our Brazilian land. Sulam started with the Beetle in 1978 and two years later expanded its line to the Fiat 147.
Unlike some artisanal cars, Sulam made sure that its convertibles received the necessary safety, through structural reinforcements, right-hand rear view mirror (keep in mind that at that time this was not common nor mandatory in Brazil), and were even approved by the IPT (Portuguese acronym for: Technological Research Institute). Another detail that shows the competence in professionalism and regulation of the car is that the original examples are registered in the Detran document as "Sulam 130 Convertible" and not as "Fiat 147 Pickup" like most artisanal projects.
The 130 SC was actually built on the body of the Fiat 147 Pickup, which had extra space in the truck bed, where it was easier to adapt a rear seat. Despite having a Fiat body, the 130 used its great rival Volkswagen to inspire the customization lines, in the Golf Mk1 Cabriolet model, such as round headlights, new grille, anti-torsion bar on the B column, bumpers in the color of the car. remodeled with integrated turn signals, Jolly LeMans wheels, fog lights, leather seats, sports steering wheel, carpets and retractable roof located at the very rear end which, when armed, had the shape close to a hatch body. As it was an almost complete conversion, the body color could be chosen according to the owner's taste, but the most publicized color was yellow, which was found in the promotional folders.

I have a healthy 383 in my car that had a little issue a couple years ago. Have some dart heads on it that were professionally ported (Ron's porting service) and one of the heads got a small crack in the combustion chamber. Took it to the machine shop, had it repaired, i reassembled and got it dynoed. All good.
Months later, I have coolant weaping around the front and rear of the intake, I used the same fel pro 1207 intake gaskets that were on it previously and coated them in permatex copper spray a gasket. I wasn't impressed with the tack of the copper spray and I assumed that I had a gasket slide or had not sealed the threads on the intake bolts well enough. Tore intake off, cleaned all surfaces, used right stuff on the china wall and this time used permatex high tack spray a gasket with a new set of felpro 1207s. Fast forward to now and I once again have coolant weaping around the front and rear of the intake at the coolant crossovers. This isn't a car that gets driven a lot, so not many miles on this set of gaskets. Not excited, but pull the intake off again tonight. Remnants of coolant on the entire length of the gasket sides of intake. The gaskets feel moist, like they have wicked up coolant. There was even coolant sitting in both exhaust heat crossovers in the heads, not a ton, but enough to notice.
Has anyone here experienced fel pro intake gaskets wicking up coolant? The gasket thickness is .060, there is a .100 thick gasket from flatout gaskets that is silicone coated steel, would this be something to consider? Any advice is appreciated, thanks.

Got myself a new motorcycle, had my buddy ride it for me till we got to a residential area so I can get the feel for the bike and practice riding it. Started to rain a bit so I decided to go for 1 last lap before putting it away for the day. Now that's where I fucked up, it got slippery and I decided to try rev matching from 2nd to first. Fucked it up, pulled a wheelie, landed the wheel on a angle started wobbling around, and to add to that locked up the rear wheel unintentionally and let go of the rear break while going full throttle. Got thrown back and the next thing I know I am on the ground. Everything happened in a flash so not quite sure if everything happend the way I describe it but something along those lines. The gear definitely saved me, only got a scratch on my leg from the shifter and sore muscles, the bike however got messed up. Scratches on fairing, slide bar got completely crashed into the fairing, shifter and rear break pegs got bent. Going to get a new shifter and rear break peg tomorrow and for a ride. Definitely going to take things slower till I am more confident and experienced. Just wanted to share my experience and decided that might be a good place.
I would definitely recommend getting all proper gear as it going to save you, even if you are the world's best rider, shit happens. Take time to build up your skills as a rider. Try to control your excitement and focus on improving before trying to do all the cool shit. And before anyone asks, I did take a motorcycle course, which in a way might have made me think I am a better rider than I am. Get gear, start slow, build up your skills and you are definitely going to have a great time on a bike. Ride safe brothers

I was trying to figure out which melee weapons were more fitting for my character, who is mainly a CF pirate & Ryujin operative, when I realized that the Combat Knife, Naval Cutlass and Rescue Axe, all of which have a United Colonies label, also had some acronyms that caught my attention:
Namely, the Combat Knife & Cutlass say "FOR MIL/LE USE ONLY", while the Rescue Axe says "FOR LE/MIL/CIV USE".
MIL is likely referring to MILitary, while CIV is similarly referring to CIVilian (these two being easy enough), but I didn't realize right away that LE likely refers to Law Enforcement.
I may be off the mark here, but I got the impression that the Crimson Fleet pirates tend to drop Rescue Axes and Ripshanks more than any other melee weapon (though last time I did got a couple of barrow knives, like the one that Adler Kemp has at his table at the Broken Spear bar).
I found this peculiar since the CF supposedly has the ability to produce their own guns, namely the Kraken and Maelstrom, not to mention their own gear (spacesuits/helmets/packs). In fact I was ready to consider the Ripshank another of their creations, but evidently they do use a red color scheme for their guns, gear & ships, so it does feel out of place, unlike the red Rescue Axe. I'm now more tempted to consider it a Spacer weapon or a tool that is being used as weapon, as in the case of the mining tools.
Meanwhile, the Rescue Axe could simply be leftovers from the takeover of The Lock, the ships that the convicts captured and finally The Key itself. Being red might have simply been a coincidence, but it became one of their most widely used melee weapons, even if the UC didn't intend it for having such use, for which they gave it the CIV label.
The Barrow Knife I was originally ready to dismiss as being the Freestar Collective combat knife, but I'm no longer so certain. Googling about it, most non-Star field references take my to LOTR references, which doesn't help fee figure out what's up with it. The Osmium Dagger is on a similar spot, with Osmium being apparently a metal not very well suited for such a weapon, making me wonder if it is either the result of improved technology making better use fo the material (or alloy), or it simply being something of, for example, religious use.
For context, I'm inclined to think that the Tanto & Wakizashi are something that originated from Neon, where we see some asian themes, not to mention that the unique Wakizashi, the Syndicate Enforcer, belong to the Seogkuh Syndicate in Neon. Considering that the Disciples only recently got Grendel rifles that changed the tide of the gang war in their favor, that seems to suggest that previously the gang wars at Neon were fought with smaller guns or even just melee weapons, for which the Tanto and Wakizashi would be prime candidates.
I would really like to hear some more opinions on where these weapons fit and whom would be the parties more commonly using them, aside from the obvious cases: Va'ruun Painblade, UC Naval Cutlass and even Combat Knife which alsohas a United Colonies label. The Rescue Axe is also of UC origin, but wasn't intended as a weapon (even if it can be a logical step in emergencies).
Also, if there's any backstory on any of these weapons that I missed, please point it out, as I would be very interested on checking it out.
Lastly, and back to my original question: which melee weapons would be most fitting for a) a Crimson Fleet pirate and b) a Ryujin Industries operative?
Bonus question: which spacesuit set would be most fitting for a Ryujin Operative?

A cabin remained half-rooved on its eastern face by pelts of dead things while the west slanted with a freshly cleared and smooth metal—it stood alongside a dugout stocked with crates; the structures overlooked an open plane of snow from their hilly perch and beyond that there were black jagged trees against the dreary yonder. Though the wind pushed as an abrupt force against the cabin’s walls, within the noise was hardly a whisper and the heater lamps along the interior walls of the large singular room offered a steady hum that disappeared even that.
The room had two beds—one double and another short cot pushed into a corner— and each was separated by a thin curtain nailed to the overhead support beams; the curtain caught in the life of the place, the gust from the heater lamps, the movement of those that lived there, and it listed so carefully it might not have moved at all.
Opposite the beds on the far wall, there stood a kitchen with cabinets and a stove, and the stove was attended by a thin young woman; she was no older than her second decade. In the corner by the stove just beyond where the kitchen counter ended, there sat a rocking chair where an old man nestled underneath pelts and a wool blanket, and he puffed tobacco and he watched the woman as she worked—she stirred the pot over a red eye and examined the liquid which lowly simmered. The man watched her silently, eyes far away like in remembrance. He absently pushed his gray mustache down with the forefinger and thumb of his right hand. Smoke came from the pipe in spider string and the man blinked dumbly.
Amid the place where pelts lined the floor between the far wall of beds and the far wall of the kitchen, there sat a young pale boy with a scrap of canvas rubbish in the center—he used the canvas strip, browned and filthy, like a bird in his play, spreading the strip out and letting it fall to the ground. “Fly,” whispered the small boy to the strip; each time he lifted the rubbish, it fell to the floor by his crossed legs, and he repeated this process.
The adults ignored the boy, and the woman swiped the back of her hand across her forehead then wiped her knuckles down the front of her blouse. “It’ll be ready soon,” she said.
The man nodded then drifted off in his long expression again, staring at the door which remained closed. Wind speed pitched and the door seemed to warp inward. Alongside the door, there sat a thick glass porthole which one could use to look out on the snow-covered landscape; the curtains before the porthole were mostly drawn but on late evenings, light splintered through ghostly.
Shrugging of his warm coverings, the man lifted from the chair and crossed the room to pull aside the curtains; he stood there in the light of the hole, painted dull in his gray thermals. He watched outside, scratched his receding hairline and when he moved to shut the curtain, he saw the boy had joined him there at the window. The man smiled, lifted the curtain, and angled from there, allowing the boy to peer outside; he puffed on his pipe heavily, holding the thing stiffly with his free hand and offering a glance to the woman by the stove who watched the pair from where she was.
“I can’t even see the road,” said the boy.
The man nodded, “Snow covered it.”
“It’s winter?”
Again, the man nodded.
Winter, with the mutated ecology of the planet, was nearly a death sentence in northern Manitoba. Those places just north of Lake Winnipeg were mostly forgotten or abandoned, but there still lingered a few souls that dared the relative safety of the frozen wasteland—sometimes curious vagabonds, sometimes ex-convicts, or slaves, sometimes even criminals upstarted townships where there was nothing prior.
“Pa, I see someone,” said the boy.
The man angled forward again, squinted through the porthole, and puffed the pipe hard so his face glowed orange then moved surprisingly quickly to hand the pipe to the woman; she fumbled with the object and sat it upright on the counter while he rushed to remove a parka from a wall hook by the door. He shouldered into the thing and then leapt to the place by the door where his boots were kept and slammed into them each, knotting them swiftly.
“What is it?” the woman’s voice shook.
They caught one another’s eyes. “Snowmobile,” said the man.
“One?”
He nodded and strapped his gloves on then moved to the latch of the door—before levering the thing, he took another glance at the boy.
“We’ll shut it behind you,” said the boy. The woman nodded.
The door swung inward with explosive force and the outside wind ripped into the warm abode. The man immediately shivered and stumbled into the snow, appropriately clothed save his legs where only his gray thermals clung to him.
After spilling into the boot-high snow, the man twisted around and aided the others in shutting the door behind him; he pulled as they pushed, and he listened past the howling wind for the latch on the opposite side of the door. He let go of the door and spun to inspect the far-off blinding whiteness—clouds of snow were thrown up in the wake of a barreling snowmobile; it headed towards him, first from between the naked spaces between the black trees then into the open white. The man threw up both his hands, waving the snowmobile down, long stepping through the arduous terrain till he came to the bottom of the perch that supported the cabin. His shouts of, “Hey!” were totally lost in the wind but still he shouted.
The snowmobile braked twenty yards out from the man and the stranger on the machine killed the engine, adjusted the strings around their throat and threw off the hood of their own parka to expose blackened goggles beneath a gray tuque; a wrap obscured the lower half of their face. The stranger took a gloved hand to yank the wrap from their mouth and yelled over the wind a greeting then removed themselves from the seat to land in the snow.
“Cold?” offered the man with a shout.
The stranger nodded in agreement and removed an oblong instrument case from the rear storage grates of the snowmobile then took a few careful steps towards the man.
“Dinner’s almost ready! I’m sure you’d like the warmth!” The man waved the stranger closer and the stranger obliged, following the man towards the cabin; each of the figures tumbled through the snow with slow and swiveling footwork. The man stopped at the door, supporting himself on the exterior wall by the porthole.
The stranger angled within arm’s reach, so the man did not have to yell as loudly as before. “Guitar?” The man pointed at the case which the stranger carried.
The stranger nodded.
“Maybe you’ll play us something.” he pounded on the metal of the exterior door, “It’s been some time since I’ve heard music.” The door opened and the two stumbled into the cabin.
The stranger shivered and snow dust fell from their shoulders as they deposited the guitar case on the floor by their feet—they moved directly to help the man and the boy close the door while the woman watched and held her elbows by the porthole.
With the door sealed and the latch secured, the man removed his parka so that he was in his boots and thermals.
The stranger removed their own parka, lifted the goggles to their forehead, and stepped to the nearby heater lamp to remove their gloves and warm their hands against the radiating warmth; the stranger was a young tall man with a hint of facial hair just below his nose and along his jaw. He wore a gun belt occupied on his right hip with a revolver. His fingers were covered in long faded scars all over. “Thanks,” said the young man, “Clarkesville far? I think I was turned around in the snow. I’m not so used to it.”
The older man went to his rocking chair to cover himself with the wool blanket; he huffed and shivered. “At least a hundred kilometers west from here. You’re looking for Clearwater?”
The young man nodded then shifted to place his back to the heater lamp so that he could look on the family fully. “I’m Gomez,” he said to them. The man in the rocking chair stiffened in his seat and craned forward so that his boots were flatly planted before him.
The boy offered his name first with a smile so broad it exposed that his front two teeth along the bottom row were missing entirely. “Patrick,” said the boy.
The woman spoke gently and nodded in a quick reply, “Tam-Tam.”
“Huh?” asked the man in the chair, “You’re unfamiliar of the area? Where are you from?”
Gomez stuffed his arms beneath his armpits. “Originally?”
The man motioned for his pipe and Tam-Tam handed it to him—puffed on the dead tobacco and frowned. He nodded at Gomez.
“I’ve been making my way across the U.S. Mostly western territories, but I heard it was safer in Canada—North Country. Fewer prowlers. Originally though? Far south. Zapatistas—joined their cause for a bit, but,” Gomez looked to the guitar case on the floor, “I was better at music than killing. Or at least preferred it.” The young man let go of a small laugh, “Do you know anything of the Zapatistas?”
The man nodded, stroked his great mustache, and craned far to lift matches from the counter. He lit the pipe, and it smoked alive while he shook the match and puffed. “Durango.” The man hooked a thumb at himself.
Gomez nodded. “I played there before. Good money. Good people.”
The man grinned slyly over his pipe, “What are the odds? All the way up here?”
“It’s a small world,” Gomez agreed, “It’s getting smaller all the time. What are you doing so far from home?”
“Same as you. It’s safer, right? Everyone said, but I’m not so sure.”
The boy interjected, “You play music?” Patrick neared the case which sat on the floor, and he leaned forward to examine the outside of the object; it was constructed from a very hard, shining, plastic material.
“I do,” said Gomez.
“I haven’t heard music before. We sing sometimes, but not music for real,” said the boy.
Gomez frowned. “How old are you?”
Patrick turned to the man in the chair. “Pa?”
“He’s six,” said the man.
Tam-Tam shook her head, removing the pot from the hot eye. “He’s almost six.”
“Almost six,” said the boy, turning back to look at the stranger.
Gomez shook his head. “Almost six and you’ve never heard music? Not for real?” He sniffed through a cold clog and swallowed hard. “I’ll play you some.”
Patrick’s eyes widened and a delicate smile grew across his mouth.
“I’m Emil,” said the man in his chair, “You offered yours, so my name’s Emil.” Smoke erupted from his mouth while the pipe glowed orange. The older man wafted the air with his hand to dispel the smoke.
Tam-Tam Shut off the oven and placed the pot of stew on the counter atop a towel swatch and she pressed her face to the brim and inhaled.
“Is it good, dear?” asked Emil leaning forward in his chair by the counter to question the woman; the woman lifted a steaming ladle to her mouth and sipped then nodded and Patrick moved quickly to the woman’s side.
The boy received the first bowl and then turned to look at the interloper, metal spoon jammed into the side of his jaw while he spoke, “Play some music.”
“After,” said Emil, placing the pipe on the counter to grab himself some grub.
Emil ate while rocking in his chair and Tam-Tam leaned with her back against the counter, sipping directly from her bowl without a utensil. Gomez took his own bowl and squatted by the front door, pressing his lower back against the wall for support; Patrick, eyes wide, remained enamored with the strange man and questioned more, “Pa said it's warm in other places, that it’s not so dark either. What’s it like where you come from?”
Gomez smiled at the boy, blew on the spoonful he held in front of his lips then nodded, “It’s dangerous, more dangerous.”
Patrick nodded emphatically then finished his food with enthusiasm.
The stranger examined the bowl while turning the stew in his mouth with his tongue; the concoction had long-cut onions, chunked potatoes, strange jerky meat. “Pelts,” said Gomez.
Emil perked with a mouthful, unable to speak.
“You have pelts all over—are you a hunter?”
Emil swallowed back, “Trapper,” he nodded then continued the excavation of his bowl.
“Elk?”
The old man in the chair hissed in air to cool the food in his mouth then swallowed without hardly chewing, and patted his chest, “Sometimes.”
Gomez stirred his bowl, took a final bite then dipped the spoon there in the stew and sat the dish by his foot and moved to kneel and open his instrument case.
“It’ll get cold,” protested Tam-Tam.
Gomez smiled, “I’ll eat it. Your boy seems excited. Besides, I’d like to play a little.” He wiggled his scarred fingers, “It’ll work the cold out of my hands.”
He pressed the switches of the case while turning it on its side and opened it to expose a flamenco guitar. Patrick edged near the stranger, and Gomez nodded at the boy and lifted the guitar from its case, angling himself against the wall in a half-sit where his rear levitated. Gomez played the strings a bit, listened, twisted the nobs at the head of the guitar.
“Is that it?” asked the boy.
Gomez shook his head, “Just testing it. Warming my hands on it.”
In moments, the man began ‘Paloma Negra’, singing the words gently, in a higher register than his speaking voice would have otherwise hinted at. Patrick watched the man while he played, the boy’s hands remained clasped behind himself while he teetered on his heels and listened. Emil rocked in the chair, finished his meal, and relit the pipe. Tam-Tam listened most absently and instead went for seconds in the pot; she turned with her lower back on the counter and watched the man with the guitar.
There was no other noise besides the song which felt haunted alongside the hum of the heater lamps. Once it finished, the boy clapped, Emil clapped, Tam-Tam nodded, and Gomez bowed then sat the guitar beneath the porthole by the doorway.
“Thank you,” said Gomez.
“That’s quite good,” said Emil. As if spurred on by the music, the man gently rotated a palm around his stomach and rocked in his chair more fervently, “Where’d you learn to play like that?”
“All over,” said Gomez, “I like to pick up songs where I find them. Sometimes a fellow musician has a piece I like, almost never their own anyway, so I think we all share in some way.”
“Poetic,” offered Tam-Tam.
Gomez caught the woman’s eyes, nodded. “I guess it is.”
“Where’d you find that one?” asked Emil, “I heard it a few times but never this far north. It’s like a love song,” he offered the last sentence to the others in the room.
“You’re right—sort of,” Gomez placed his body against the wall by the door, glanced at the bowl of food he’d left on the floor then sighed and bowed again to lift it—the interloper tilted the bowl back on his bottom lip and sipped then casually leaned with the utensil against his sternum. “Somewhere in Mexico is where I heard it first. Maybe same as you.”
Patrick examined the guitar under the porthole, put his face directly up to the strings and peered into the hole in the center of the instrument; his expression was one of awe. He quickly whipped from the thing and stared at the guitarist and opened his mouth like he intended to ask a question. The boy stared at the scars on the interloper’s hands. “What’s those from?”
Not understanding the direction of the question, Gomez looked down to examine his fingers then shifted on his feet and nodded. “Mechanical work.”
Emil continued rocking in his chair and gathered the wool around his throat. “Where did you do that?”
“Zapatistas,” Gomez sipped from the bowl again and chewed, “It’s work I was never good at.” The young man shrugged.
“I wasn’t going to pry, but seeing as the boy’s asked, I’ll push more some if it’s not impolite.”
“It’s not,” Gomez agreed.
“That’s a lot of deep scarring for mechanical work,” Emil rocked in his chair, puffed, raised a furry eyebrow, “What stuff did you work on?”
“You want to know?”
Emil nodded, withdrew the pipe from his mouth and rolled his wrist out in front of himself then slammed the mouthpiece into his teeth.
“I worked with the army, but before then—well there was a boy, a little Chicano lad taken into one of the El Paso houses way back and all the girls that worked there loved him, but his mother perished, and no one even knew who she was. That was, oh,” Gomez tilted his head back and stared at the ceiling, “Twenty-two years ago or a little more.”
“Your hands?” asked Tam-Tam.
Gomez smiled warm and continued, “Well this little boy was given a name, but what’s in a name?” He seemed to pose the question to Emil who shook his head like he didn’t understand.
“I don’t understand,” said Emil aloud.
The younger man continued with the tale, “There was this boy, but he was taken over the Republican border by a group of desperados calling themselves Los Carniceros,” Gomez angled down to look at the boy, “Patrick, do you know what a desperado is?”
The boy shook his head, his expression one of total bafflement and a twinkle of nervousness. “A music-people?”
Gomez laughed heartily while Emil shuffled under his wool blanket—the older man stopped rocking in his chair, craned forward so his elbows rested on his knees and his thermals showed as the blanket slipped around his armpits. The hum of the heater lamps continued beside the silence.
“Los Carniceros are a group of fancy criminals that hail out of Veracruz, but they have networks all over. San Luis Potosi.” Gomez’s eyes locked with Emil’s, “Durango. They have connections with the cattle industries all over Mexico. Their name’s tongue-in-cheek, but that shouldn’t fool anyone—they are just as ready to butcher a man as they are a cow. They control the food; they control the politicians; they control trade.” Gomez shook his head. “I’ve gotten carried away. This is no history lesson. There was a boy taken into Los Carniceros territory. He was bought—I’m glad that never happened to you, Patrick—boys that are bought are never kept good for long. So, they brought Johnny-Boy, that’s what they called him, into their inner circle and they used to have Johnny-Boy fight dogs in a ring for the amusement of Los Carniceros’s officers. Sometimes they gambled on the whether the boy would die, but he never did.”
Tam-Tam shivered aloud and rubbed her biceps with her hands and shook her head. “What’s that have anything to do with your hands?”
“You’re right,” said Gomez, “I guess what I mean is when you spend time fighting dogs, they bite—they bite hard, and they break skin that needs to heal. But just as well as dogs bite, so too does the boy that is raised as a dog.” Gomez shrugged.
“Quite the story,” said Emil; he’d refrained from rocking in his chair and stayed very still. “You fought dogs?”
“I did. It’s been a helluva long time, but you know I did, Emil Vargas.”
The older man took a long drag from his pipe then cupped the thing in his hands while his vision drifted around the room. “Have you come to take me back?” asked the older man.
The interloper shook his head.
Emil’s gaze drifted to the faces of Patrick and Tam-Tam. “Will it just be me?”
Gomez shook his head, “I can do you first. You won’t need to see it.”
“What?” clamored Tam-Tam, “What the hell is going on?”
Patrick stumbled away from the stranger, clung to Tam-Tam, and said nothing but began to let out a low sob.
Emil took one last drag and tossed the pipe to the counter. “It wouldn’t help to beg?”
“Would it stop you?” asked Gomez.
“Probably not,” nodded the older man, “Me first then.”
Gomez withdrew his revolver and Tam-Tam let go of an awful shriek as Emil’s head jerked back in his chair to the bullet entering his chest. At the second bullet, Emil’s limbs shot out from him like he was a star.
Patrick and Tam-Tam gathered around each other, shuffled to the counter of the kitchen.
Juan Rodriguez—that was the interloper’s real name—took a step forward and fired the gun again and Tam-Tam struck the counter and blood rained down from her forehead; to perhaps save Patrick, she shoved the boy away in her death spasm. The boy stumbled over onto his knees and when he raised his head, Juan towered over him.
Patrick, almost six, shook violently and wept.
“Turn around,” said Juan.
Patrick turned away from the interloper, stared at the corpses of his mother and father.
Juan fired the revolver one last time and the boy hit the floor; the man holstered the pistol and wiped his cheek with a sleeve. His face was touched with blood splatter; he searched the floor, found a scrap of canvas, bent to snatch it. He wiped his face clear with the canvas and sighed and tossed the scrap away.
The cabin was entirely quiet, save the hum of the heater lamps, and Juan set about clearing the bodies from the cabin, first by opening the door. He chucked the corpse of the boy into the snow by the door, piled his mother alongside him, and fought with the heavier corpse of Emil till Juan fell into the snow beside the others. He pulled himself from the thick storm, staggered through the whistle-blow wind and fought through grunts and mild shouts to close the door.
Upon spinning with the closed door at his back, he saw several of the heater lamps had gone out in the wind. Shivering, teeth chattering, Juan found Emil’s matches on the counter and set about relighting each of the heater lamps which had gone out; he did the act automatonlike, a person driven by force but no lively one.
Through the harsh outside wind, which sounded like breathing against the boards, he hummed a tune to himself that manifested into him whistling a light tune—the River Kwai March—then rifled through the cabinetry of the kitchen, went through the footlocker by the double bed and dumped the contents onto the floor; he kicked the personal affects—papers, trinkets—across the boards. Among the things, he found a shiny glass-reflective tablet, lifted it, pocketed the thing into his parka, then kept looking for what else might catch his attention. He found a small square picture, frameless, face down and lifted it to his eyes then angled over to the nearest heater lamp with it pinched by the corner. The photo was of a woman too young to be a mother—she was more of a girl, really; she carried a fat-bellied infant on her hip in one arm and with the other, she held up a dual-finger peace sign. Juan stared at the picture in complete silence then chuckled at the blank expression of the baby, then threw the square photo like a shuriken across the room; it thunked against the wall and disappeared behind the double bed, never to be seen ever again.
As it went full dark outside, the chitter sounds of outside became prevalent, and Juan went to the porthole by the door, pulled the curtains tightly closed and offered no response to the alien sounds which culminated around the walls of the cabin. It was delirium incarnate—abyssal noise which swallowed even the blizzard howl. Things moved outside and Juan went to the kitchen again, looked over the cabinet doors, opened and slammed them; he huffed with exasperation and moved to the pot where the cooled stew sat and began to eat directly from there with the ladle. His far-off eyesight glared into the dimness of the heater lamps, his face glowing by them, and once he was finished with the pot, he chucked the thing and watched the leftover contents splatter into a wild configuration across the single room’s floor.
Only after removing his boots, he fell onto the double bed, removed his revolver from the holster and placed it there on the well-maintained bedding beside himself; he slept with his parka draped over his torso.
He did not open his eyes for the insect noises of the outside.
In the morning, he promptly wiped sleep from his eyes, rebolstered his weapon, and stared across the room with a blank expression. In a moment, spasm-like, he removed the tuque he slept in to reveal a head of black hair, and scratched his fingers over his head. He replaced the tuque, went to the porthole; upon swiping away the curtains, he stared into the white expanse, the black forest beyond—he took the sleeve of his thermal shirt and wiped across the porthole’s glass where condensation fogged.
Knee-high snow hills spilled inward as he opened the door, and he kicked the snow out lazily and stomped into the mess while shouldering his parka on; the hood flapped helplessly till he stiffly yanked it down his forehead. The wind was entirely mild, still. Through goggled eyes, he examined around the entrance, but there was no sign of the corpses—he waywardly stomped through the heavied snow in the place he’d deposited them and there was nothing below the surface.
Juan stumbled through the high snow around to where the dugout stood alongside the cabin and traced a smallish hill where he crawled for a moment to gather his footing. Snow had fallen in through the high apertures of the dugout, but there was a small door-gate attached between two of the pillars which held the slanted roof of the dugout. After fighting the door-gate out, he squeezed through, removed a flashlight from the inner pocket of his parka and settled down the few steps which led into the earth. A bit of morning light spilled in through those spaces of the wall along the high points, just beneath the roof, but Juan held the flashlight in his mouth and began examining the mess of snow-dusted containers.
Along the lefthand were sacks, well preserved if only for the weather; he kicked a tobacco sack—there was a crunch underfoot. Opposite the piled sacks of grains, vegetables, and dried meats were many metal crates, each one with hinges. At the rear of the dugout were a series of battery banks which seemed to hum with electricity.
He stomped each of the sacks, cocked his left ear to the air and began making a mess of the dugout. One crate contained expensive wooden boarding, he tipped this over into the little hallway created by the goods and carefully examined the contents and then he went to the next. The next crate was bolts of fabrics and twine and he sneered, shook his head.
The interloper took a moment, fell rear-first on the sacks, pulled the flashlight from his mouth and pawed across his forehead and throat; he sighed and sat quiet—in a moment, he was back at the search, more furiously. He rocked his head backward, so the parka hood fell away; sweat shined his face. There were condensed snares and jaws and there was a small crate of maple-infused wine; Juan froze when holding one of the bottles up to the higher natural light. He grimaced but set the box of bottles by the entryway, removing one which he slid into his parka. The Clarkesville Winery stamp was impressed on the metal wall of the package.
After several crates of canned goods, his movements became more sluggish and Juan came upon a crate that seemed to be more of the same, but whenever he tipped it over for the contents to spill out, a smaller, ornate wooden box fell out and he hushed, “Fuck,” while hunkering into the mess to retrieve the box. Some old master carved Laelia Orchids into the grain alongside stalkish invasive sage; the wood—Acacia—was old but well kept. The bronze hardware shone cleanly enough.
The container was no longer than his forearm and he briefly held the thing to the high-light and moved to the entrance and fell haphazardly onto the strewn and half-deflated frozen tobacco sacks.
He opened the small box’s latch and flipped it’s top open and smiled at the contents and quicky slapped the box shut.
In a flash, he unburied his snowmobile with his hands, harnessed his guitar case to its rear, then trailed through the snow gathered against the side of the cabin, using the exterior wall as support with his hand. He came to the backside of the structure, tilted his head to gaze again over at the dugout then swiveled to look at the thick metal tank buried in the ground and marked by a big hump in the snow. Juan moved to the tank, brushed off the snow with gloved hands, nodded to himself. Quickly, he returned to the tank with a hand-pick and bucket he snatched from the dugout. With a few swings, fuel spilled through the punctures he’d created; he placed the bucket beneath the handmade spigots to catch the fuel—in seconds the bucket sloshed full as he lifted it and wavered round to the front of the cabin where the door remained open.
He doused the innards of the structure with the bucket and whipped the object against the interior wall then removed the matches from the counter. Standing in the doorway, he lit the awaiting inferno; the heat explosion pushed him wobble-legged outside while he covered his face from it; he hustled to the snowmobile without looking back.
The vehicle came alive, and Juan trailed across the plane he’d used the day prior. As the snowmobile met the sparse black tree line, the flames too met the fuel tank at the back of the cabin; a heavy eruption signaled, and blackbirds cawed as they trailed across the milk-blue sky.
Among the rush of trees there was a translucent figure and Juan roundabouted the snowmobile. Upon edging to the place of the forest, still very near the trapper’s cabin, Juan caught sight of a stickman among the wide spaced trunks. The noises exhausted from its face the same as a cicada’s tymbal call. Juan killed the engine, removed his pistol, leapt from the snowmobile.
The stickman fought in the snow with something unseen, bulbous-jointed limbs erratically clawed against the ground; it seemed more crab than humanoid. Juan approached with the pistol leveled out in front of himself. The stickman, a North Country native, took up great armfuls of snow as it tumbled to the ground, slanted onto its feet, then tumbled over again. It was caught in a bear trap and as the thing fought against the jaw, its leg twisted worse and worse, and the cicada call grew more distressed. Its hollow limb, smashed and fibrous like a fresh and splintered bamboo shoot, offered no blood at the wound.
“Huh,” said Juan, lowering the gun to his side. He shook his head. The stickman called to him.
The interloper returned to his snowmobile and went west.
Archive

As the title says, I (23M) am moving to Colorado to start a new chapter after graduating college. I’ve got a job in southern rural Colorado and move there this fall. It’s starting to hit me that I’m moving to a place where I don’t know anyone.
The main reason I decided to move is because of a lot of things. My parents came to America in their early twenties, my professors traveled the US in their early twenties, other friends are traveling the world, and as a hospital worker all the patients I’ve asked about their regrets have said the same thing: “not doing enough in my life.” So why not drop everything and live somewhere I can enjoy my hobbies more.
I’ll be working nights at a hospital, so my schedule will be a bit weird, but I’m cool with that. I’m really into outdoor stuff like backpacking, climbing, skateboarding, and fishing. What’s on my mind now is navigating my early twenties in a completely new place.
I’m a pretty social person and love having friends around. I’ve made tons of friends through my hobbies and different life experiences. But moving to a new place where I don’t know anyone is kinda scary.
My biggest fear is moving into my apartment and feeling like I shouldn’t have moved. But growing up, I did a lot of stuff on my own, like solo camping and fishing trips. While I love the idea of being able to drop everything and go backpacking in the wilderness, it’s weird to think about doing that instead of staying in my hometown (Chicago), where my family and friends are. On the other hand, all they do is go out to bars and drink, which I’m kind of drifting away from. I want to live my life a bit more than a dive bar in the midwest.
For those who’ve made a similar move or have advice on adjusting to a new city, especially in a more rural setting, how did you manage? Any tips on making the most of my time in Colorado?

Im currently building my first pc and I need help to make sure that all the parts that I chose work together. I'm trying to do an esthetic all black build with some rgb (not too much) and that can run dual monitors (main 1440p 240hz and second 60hz 4k) at max settings on forza horizon 5, helldivers 2, warzone, cyberpunk and the finals. I also do coding. The list of parts I chose :
Cpu : intel i7 13700kf
Cooler : Asus Rog strix LC 360mm Rgb Liquid cooler (mounted to the top of the case)
Contact frame : Thermalright LGA 1700 black
Gpu : Msi Rtx 4070ti gaming x trio 12g 3 fan
Ram : T-Force delta rgb DDR5 64g 2×(2×16g) 6000mhz
Motherboard : Asus Rog strix z690-e gaming wifi
Storage : Crucial P3 Plus 2TB PCIe Gen4 3D NAND NVMe M.2 SSD (3 of them for 6TB)
Powersupply : FSP Hydro G PRO 1000W 80 Plus Gold Full Modular ATX 12V
Powersupply extensions : AsiaHorse 18AWG PSU Cable Extension, Custom Sleeved Cable Mod Soft Braided GPU PC Power Supply Cables Kit with Two Color Combs 24P/8P to 6+2P/ 8P to 4+4P 30CM (Black)
Case : Hyte Y70 all black (for the vertical mount)
Gpu holder : AVERZELLA-Graphics Card Gpu Mini Brace Support, Video Card Sag Holder Bracket, Gpu Stand, Universal Vga Graphics Card Holder (on amazon)
Fans : Rear exhaust fan : Lian Li UNI Fan SL V2 RGB Revolutionized Daisy-Chain ARGB Fan 120mm Single Pack Black
Side fans : Lian Li UNI FAN SL V2 RGB Revolutionized Daisy-Chain ARGB Fan 120mm Triple Pack Black
(I don't know if an rgb controller is needed)
The total cost is 4150$CAD If anything doesn't work well thanks for telling me 🙏

Hi all!
So I've been living in my '05 Prius for a total of almost 10 months consecutively now and 2 months during the summer of '22. I've found a lot of neat things out from here and other places however, some of these things aren't as well known and can increase your quality of life a bit more. Some of these things are pretty frugal friendly too, especially for me since I have usually zero income and don't have much money to begin with, since I spend all of my time studying, doing doordash from 12am-4am only when I'm below $500.
To start:

• Inverters are extremely helpful and easy to install almost mandatory if you use a hybrid. I have a small 150w ($18) one up front in lighter socket. I have a pure sine wave one @ 1500w ($160) but realistically I never push past 1200-1300w and if I do, not for extended periods of time. I can run my hair dryer on high heat low fan or medium heat and high fan with no problems. I can cook with my induction hot plate, rice cooker, etc. I always have my app open to monitor 12v voltage levels and amps drawn too, never dipping below 13.4v for more than a few minutes (when I use high heat high air for example). Also, make sure to buy a wattage meter (~$10) before doing anything serious, as some appliances will use more energy at the beginning
  
• Window socks (~$11) are awesome for the summer. It's like a cheap tint but also protects from insects. I had serious mosquito bite problems in summer of '22, and this made them a non factor. Also helps with light to medium rain, with windows at 50-80% rolled up. Not very stealth imo but I've had more people ask what they are and how to get them than anything else.
  
• Window tint is amazing hands down, and I wish I did this at the start. I opted for vinyl, so you can take it off and reapply it as needed. Takes about 1 min for each window to put it back on completely or about 30 seconds if you just pull it down, spray, then squeegee it back into place. It's about $20 a roll, and I have 5% on all windows. Needing about 2.5 rolls. I watched a few videos and my cuts are pretty decent but not the best. It's hard to see out of and does not get clearer, but it's fine to drive during the day for the back windows. I live in California, so 70% up front and back doesn't matter. During the day I pull down or remove the tint in the front windows if I'm driving far or if cops are nearby I roll down the front windows np. No one can see in, allowing me to setup for bed in peace at my sleep spots or to nap if it's cooler with windows cracked during the day. It reduces heat so much it's insane, as my car has no working AC, it's amazing going from 95-100F inside to 80-88F in the sun. Also it makes you feel like a gangster inside, everything is darker heh.
  
• Rain guards are also worth it (~$40, make/model ymmv) and took about 5 minutes to install for all of them. That combined with the tint allows me to blend in with no problem. Allows you to crack windows for air, less chance for insects to come in and so far no rain has gotten in, even with high wind horizontal rain.
  
• Sun shade (~$5) obviously is a must for stealth and heat, however I see other dwellers around me who don't use them which I find odd.
  
• Gym membership ($60). I used to use PF until 2 months ago. I got tired of creepy male PF employees barging in the women's locker room and a few other creepy dwellers following me around (seriously go away LOL). I use anytime now and the private showers and atmosphere is much better, also they have barbells! Definitely worth it to me, but if I was a guy I probably wouldn't have switched.
  
• UPS Store PMB (~$75), I used for 2 months in '22 and it was ok. Luckily I got an apartment so I didn't change my address to my mailbox, but this workaround will allow you to get your mail, apply for jobs without problems, and even get the address on your driver's license. However, I've been using a PO Box now for the last 10 months due to money and my last employer while homeless didn't seem to care I put a UPS Store address as my residence.
  
• Small rear view mirrors (~$5) have helped a lot! Everyone should use these, as it's helped me see when drugged out homeless stroll by and I can roll up my windows or drive away.
  
• Car jumper (~$40), the one I have serves as another power bank and can jump my car. Everyone should have one or at least have AAA.
  
• Tire air compressor (~$20), has been helpful. I have a small leak in one of my tires but not enough to warrant a change. Once every other week I use it and it's been helpful when traveling 500mi+ at a time (I drive from norcal to socal sometimes, so grapevine can be annoying).
  
• Organizers (~$10, $1.25 ea) have helped immensely and de-cluttered my car. Amazon or Dollar store made it possible. Also small trash can holder (~$8) from Amazon makes trash disposal much easier, it hangs around behind a front seat.
  
• Storage unit (~$40-60 for first few months, then double usually) is like a mini house. I have all my stuff there, portable washedryer for when I move back into a place, my car repair tools like jacks & ramps, bicycle, stationary bicycle, and much more. I can even change clothes in there without worries and store my medicine since it's climate controlled. I only go early morning or late at night. It helped remove excess clutter and...it's nice to have somewhere mostly private.
  

TIPS:

• Every time I move to a new city, I make sure to do doordash within the first week at least 1-2 times from 12am-4am. Doing this allows me to scout out spots, see and spot other dwellers, but also to find out what "No Overnight Parking Sign" areas are actually ok to park overnight. I currently sleep in the same spot at the library that has these signs, which is also directly adjacent both to a small apartment complex and a Police station. The police drive by and have never given me or any of the other 10+ dwellers here problems. It's next to a main road, but its much better than the others spots I have in this city. Seriously, this is a big one and worth the loss of sleep for a few days.
  
• Make friends with the local PD. The local PD here are pretty chill and check up on car dwellers frequently, there's some insane people but most are just quiet and chill. I make sure to let all officers know that I'm a student, just waiting for school to start. They've helped point out resources and pointed out slyly that they "can't kick anyone out" of some spots because it's private property. One also gave me a heads up that my old spot was going to get burned because someone purchased the building, and the parking lot for it was going to be burned with private security. If your PD is bad (which most are) then make sure to look up resources, there's usually soup kitchens and food pantries everywhere.
  
• Safe parking programs are a godsend. I participated in one for 6 months before I moved and it was worth it. Free snacks/food, gift cards, and other resources are available at these places usually. It's like a shelter but you stay in your car. Usually allow for 12 months or more at a time. Definitely wroth checking out.
  
• The most important thing of all is: Don't give up. I'm living in my car because I don't have any choice, no friends or family. School is my salvation, just waiting until September. Find your salvation or stick with the lifestyle. Just find a goal and roll with it.
  

There's a few other things but these I found are pretty important to consider.

I’ve finally finished the Heartstriker Series and it wins “The Most Anime Award” for Dragon Fiction.
It’s got it all.
Giant Swords, building toppling punches, ancient doomsday gods, mid-battle monologues, mentors suffering from alcohol abuse, sealed magical forms, and fights like this….
(Show a scene of someone being punched through a mountain in DBZ or something. This is a Youtube script I might eventually get around to.)
It’s set in a near future Earth after a meteor has released the magic that has been dormant within the Earth for centuries.
This allows mythical creatures to either reawaken, or like dragons who have been trapped human forms to conserve their magic, to reclaim the skies and true forms.
Enter Julius, a young dragon of the Heartstriker clan has just been ejected from his home mountain by his mother for being a useless son. Instead of being obsessed with the acquisition of more power for him and his mother… I mean his clan. Julius tries to avoid his bloodthirsty family and hides in his room playing video games. Worst of all, he says please and thank you instead of demanding obedience from his inferiors.
Worse than the eviction, his mother has also sealed his dragon form until he does something to redeem himself. Making sure he can’t cause her trouble while exploring the Detroit Free Zone (or DFZ) where dragons are absolutely forbidden to enter by the spirit overlord. He’s hired by one of his many elder brothers to track down a runaway from another dragon clan and drag her back home to strengthen their inter-clan relationship. Both mistaking his sealed form as a curse and Julius as financially well off instead of someone with tens of dollars to his name. Marci, a young mage, offers to help him, but instead accepts his offer to help him track down the hiding dragoness.
Yes, I know how we feel about dragons in human bodies, and yes, I’m afraid to say Julius doesn’t regain his dragon form as fast as we would like. But we do get some natural dragons in the meantime...occasionally.
But the dragon lore is pretty neat.
Like that dragoness Julius is supposed to find, she the youngest daughter of the Three Sisters Clan. A clan made up entirely dragonesses formed purely from the magic of three ancient dragon sisters who weren’t into the whole biological reproduction thing.
They are now sleeping deep under the ice because they are so massive and powerful that the lack of magic sent them into a coma. But their daughters, mainly the youngest, who is missing and eldest, who is looking for her, are a bit more into males and less into the racial purity thing than their comatose parents.
So the missing dragoness is running off to be with her human mage boyfriend (Yes, someone actually wrote that story some of you keep asking for but as a backstory for a minor character) and the older dragoness is into Julius’s brother, the one that hired him, but their clans are supposed to hate each other because the Seer of the Three Sister’s Clan really hates Julius’s eldest brother, Bob, who is the Seer of the Heartstriker Clan.
Seers are dragons who can see the most likely futures and try to manipulate events to get the future they want and there are only three Seers at any time. When a Seer dies, the next dragon to hatch replaces that Seer. And the more Seers manipulating the future, the harder it becomes to see where the future is headed because it will take sudden unexpected turns as they fight over it.
So the Three Sisters Seer really wants to kill Bob so she can have full control of the board for decades until the next Seer is old enough to be competent. There’s also the fact that Bob married a pigeon instead of her. She’s probably pretty upset about that. Okay, she’s actually mad she couldn’t seduce Bob into being her toy, but the pigeon probably didn’t help. Oh, and Julius's mother is a evil bitch that everyone hates. Also doesn't help.
And that’s all I really want to spoil. There’s nothing here that isn’t in the first few chapters of the first book. Can’t even mention my favorite dragon who shows up in book 2. But like so many animes, the story starts off simple but the stakes skyrocket with each book and our nobody dragon and wandering mage duo attract more attention from the magical world.

For reference I am currently 14- turning 15 very soon. I am already done puberty, I haven't been growing for almost 2 years. I have semi large hips making my thighs prominent, but my shoulders are quite wide as well. I've always had natural upper body strength even when I would never work out. Though, I'm only 5'6, maybe 5'7 on a good day, though I often wear platforms that add an inch or two. I have some masculine/androgynous features- which include a biggerish straight nose, higher cheek bones and a brow bringe. I also have more masculine looking eyes. These all would be great to have- but my face shape is a mix between a roundeoval face shape to squarish face shape which makes my face shape look feminine. But when I smile my cheeks are extremely prominent, and this makes my cheekbones kind of hide.
My main problem- again is my height and my hips. I have been going to the gym and I really REALLY enjoy upper body/arms exercises which is great since I gain muscle easily there. But my hips are still noticeable since I also have hip dips. I have been told that my hips are slightly wider and some have said I don't have "child barring hips". Though I'd untimely say that I have widish hips. I have been seriously considering "leg lengthing surgery" since this would typically add 3ish inches but would put me in hundreds of thousands of dollars of debt. And I don't even know if it'd look natural due to the fact that I already naturally have pretty long legs. I wouldn't even be too mad if all of my friends, peers, and the people of my culture (Swedish and Ukrainian) were already super tall, which just discourages me even more. In the past year, seeing guys my age growing taller and bigger just makes me feel terrible. Now- if I transitioned- I would look like a skinny 12 year old and people would probably make fun of me for being "a twink" or something which I hate the idea of. I really wish I started hormone blockers back then, since I knew the term "transgender" as a young kid. Now if I take HRT I'm scared I'll never fully pass- well im almost pretty much sure. My main goal is to be able to be 100% stealth and go across the world or maybe work as a firefighter, though I know this isn't freezable in my situation now. But even as a woman as 5'6-7 I'd already look pathetic. And I can't even imagen how much more pathetic I'd look if I was a 5'7 male firefighter who look like he just started puberty. I hate the idea of EVER getting clocked. I am getting a consular to see if I can start HRT as soon as possible. My mom might support me since she has many gay friends and we have watched TV shows that referenced NB people and she didn't have any negative comments. Though she might think this is a phase that my friend made me go on (he was also trans, but I havent talked to him for almost 3 years.) My dad on the other hand is extremely homophobic and transphobic. Not to the point of disowning me I think, but he hates it anyway. I don't know if it's too late or if I don't have the genetics for it. Since if I'm going to be perceived as "a woman who dresses like a guy" and not just "a guy" I feel more shame that- If i'm going to spent thousands of dollars of surgeries and never fully pass as "just a guy" I'm not sure if I could live with the shame. Please tell me honestly- is there a good chance that I won't pass as a cis guy, especially due to my shorter height and hips. Please don't hold back, be nit picky idc, I just want some honest opinions without restraint and censors.

I recently replaced the opener with a genie belt driven one. I believe I had a screw type before and it would still happen with that one occasionally, mainly in the winter months. But now with this belt type it happens 19/20 times. I’ll try and open it and for some reason it stops. I used to think the door seal was sticking to the floor and causing the opener too much resistance so it would stop, but I went to try and wiggle the seal free one time to speed up the process and it shook freely, so that wasn’t the issue. When it stops I’ll wait around 10-30 seconds and the door will finally kind of bounce upwards, signaling to me that it has broken free of whatever was stopping it. Once that happens I’ll press the button again to let it close and again to open it and it’ll usually open fine.
Sometimes if I don’t feel like waiting I’ll press the button many times so it’s basically trying to break free over and over again. I shortened the arm length for the piece that connects the door to the belt and that did seem to help, but the instructions say not to exceed a 45 degree angle and it’s way past that now, so I don’t want to go even further. It almost seems like the door is just too heavy for the opener but it’s stronger than the one I had previously, so that doesn’t really make much sense.
It’s almost like when you go to pick something up and you underestimate its weight, so you give up on the first try and adjust your grip and put more effort into it the second time. Like I said, for the longest time I thought it was the seal getting stuck to the floor because after it fails I can see it slowly peel up from the edges and work its way towards the middle, but the one time I kicked it and saw the whole bottom edge move back and forth, so I don’t think that’s it.

Hoping someone can help me remember the name of a Giallo!
What I recall is the main character is a man who is a music producer. He meets a lady either at a strip club or a bar, she wraps him around her finger. She is married to the owner of the club/bar and at some point he gets killed in his swimming pool.
I hope this sparks something!

Almost everyone has cloves, it's fairly easy to get or find and is mainly used as a cooking spice.
Eugenol is present in nutmeg, partially responsible for its high, but the high of actual eugenol by itself is nothing like nutmeg at all. Cloves has no cannabinoid action like nutmeg does (which in nutmegs case is mostly from licarin A), while cloves is mostly a gabaergic deliriant dissociative.
It hits ndma, gaba, and h1 as an antagonist, making a disso, gabaergic, and a deliriant.
It may also possibly hit benzo receptors, but this has not been confirmed. Cloves also act on the opioid system, but the specifics are unknown. It's also known to be a MAOI, and because of this may have mild wds (mainly agitation/irritability and cravings).

• "What are cloves effects / what's the high like?"

Cloves can be described as a sedative gabaergic dissociative high, it feels like alcohol but not silly, goofy, or depressing. Alcohol feels more like gabapentin while cloves has a dark numb dissociative shadow vibe from the H1 & NDMA antagonism, the closest drug to cloves is probably kratom in terms of how cloves/eugenol feels.
On cloves you move like your drunk, and feel very numbed out and kinda barred out in a blank way, with occasional delusions of sobriety as you begin to peak.
You'll disassociate quite a lot as the sedation comes in, your vision will be focused on one thing and you begin to question the reality around you (induces derealization and depersonalization), for example you'll look at your arm and feel inhuman and alien, similar to DXM or kratom in that regard.
Cloves has a dark kratom vibe, kinda like if all the magical euphoria and goofiness of weed was stripped away and it was just a bland dark high, but without a cannabinoid feel and closer to kratom. Cloves feels visually dysphoric almost exactly like high doses of kratom, but not directly dysphoric necessarily nor is it very uncomfortable or unpleasant.

• THE PLATS

The clove peak is like the 3rd plat to the clove high (3 plats), it's where you begin to trip balls. The high become somewhat hallucinogenic (kinda like LSA or elemicin) and you begin to see colors and things warp or move as you enter the 2nd plat.
3rd plat you'll be delirious as fuck and nothing makes sense but you'll feel good asf, and when you wake up the next day you don't remember much of the full peak. Eugenol is good at numbing out emotions or feelings, it makes you neither sad nor happy, but a mild neutral with a kratom-like body high.
1st plat..: Dissociation, sedation, change in movement or balance, change in vision, increase in hppd, numbed emotions, slight gabaergic ndma feel. More of a gaba dissociative at this dosage.
2nd plat...: Warping or shifting of surfaces, glitching and seeing things out of the corner of your eye, oevs and cevs in general, occasional uncommon fractals or patterns when you close your eyes, more shadowy and dark, more dissociative and gabaergic, h1 deliriant feel begins to creep in at this dose.
You might see your room with your eyes closed at this dosage, and your emotions will be highly numbed out, and you're likely to fall asleep at this dose from the strong sedation unless you combo caffeine.
3rd plat...: The h1 antagonism overrides the gabaergic feel leaving mostly delirium and disassociation, the high becomes less psychedelic and gabaergic and much more delirious. You'll probably see your room with your eyes closed and your walls will be glitching asf, and you'll get some nausea on this dosage.
At this point it's a flow blown trip that can last up to 3-4d, usually only 2 though. You won't remember much of anything.
Keep in mind cloves builds tolerance and be mildly addictive if binged for long periods of time, best to wait 3-4d in-between trips. Black pepper heavily increases the potency of cloves, a capful at most is all that's needed with or without pepper. Use pepper if you're trying to get to 3rd.
You can smoke cloves or take as a tea or just straight up. Smoking is less pleasant of a high but combos extremely well with nicotine.

I was told to get some rear lower control arms and rear toe links, so I did. Is there anything else needed? I just read that previous gens need a "roll center correction kit" which consists of front toe links and ball joints to eliminate bump steer. Does the VB have this problem also? And do I need sway bar links?

TLDR: driver ignores delivery instructions and hates me. How can I get in his good graces?
So, I live in a rural area. Have an automatic gate at our entrance, a few feet from the main road. House is about 2 football fields away from gate, but on a nice chip sealed driveway. My delivery instructions are if the gate is open, please drop packages on front porch. I get factor meal deliveries every Tuesday. I'm old. Those boxes are heavy and it's hot in south Texas. So I open my gate every Tuesday morning when i leave for work, but my driver dumps the box at the gate in full sun. Husband finally caught him and asked him about it a few weeks ago. He got mad and said our driveway was too hard to back out of. UPS, FedEx and everyone else has no issues for the last 20+ years. So he has delivered it one time now on the porch, but threw it and left it upside down-- so basically said FU. I gave him a great review for that delivery, even though it was messed up, but at least was on my shaded porch. What else can I do to bribe this jerk to just do what I ask? Snacks, drinks, gift cards, tips? Otherwise, I'm just gonna cancel factor because it's not worth the stress.

Completely redoing ONE wall of my 1920 California stucco house. This is a companion to my previous question about Huber Zip (which I'll most likely not move forward with).
What are all the possible insulation options? Do I miss anything from the list below?
1.) Fiberglass. Most popular and common. May get moldy and sag over time, so it's not perfect forever
2.) Mineral wool (aka rock wool). More expensive but more solid so does not sag. Better noise insulation. Better insulation??
3.) Denim insulation. As far as I can tell mainly more sustainable but not much other advantages?
4.) Foamboard
5.) Spray Foam. Superior air sealing but substantially higher cost. Supposedly issues especially in older homes, when moisture gets inside of the walls
If this is exhaustive, which is the "best" insulation in terms of insulation performance, air sealing and longevity? Cost is a concern but not the most important one.
I am leaning towards rock wool.

[Backstory][Arc 1][Next>]
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Chapter 1: Sorcery of the Dead
Rubble crunched beneath Gribble's clawed feet. He stood atop the heap of shattered stone, his sickly yellow eyes flicking over the carnage. Pillars lay toppled, their rune-carved surfaces fractured into jagged shards. Stones stained rusty crimson with dwarven blood.
The stench of death and smoke clung to the back of Gribble's throat. His nostrils flared, drinking in the aftermath of butchery. A few hours past, this chamber had rung with the clash of arms and the screams of the dying. Now only the crackle of flames and the occasional clatter of shifting rubble broke the sepulchral hush.
Gribble's green skin seemed to swallow the feeble grey light seeping through gaps in the ruined ceiling. Shadows gathered in the hollows of his gaunt cheeks, in the cruel twist of his lips. He lifted one hand, the sharp nails glinting like chips of obsidian.
Bones littered the floor. Skeletons contorted in their final agonies, scraps of flesh and torn armor still clinging to their yellowed frames. Gribble flexed his fingers, his eyes flaring brighter. Threads of sickly green energy twined around each corpse, knitting through ribs and empty eye sockets.
Bones rattled and scraped against flagstones. Skeletons lurched upright, their movements jerky, marionettes dancing on a mad necromancer's strings. Empty orbits flickered with corpse-light. Skeletal hands groped for notched blades and war-axes, the weapons they'd wielded in life now instruments of blasphemy.
Dwarven tapestries hung in charred tatters from the walls. Woven images once depicting the kingdom's history and heroes now warped to smudged nightmares.
Gribble's gaze snagged on one tapestry more intact than the rest. Golden threads glimmered through the soot-stains, limning a heroic dwarven king, his hammer upraised, his followers clustered around him.
Gribble snarled. He swung his hand in a sharp, slashing motion. Oily black flames leapt from his claws. They struck the tapestry, clinging, spreading with unnatural speed. Hungry tongues of dark fire consumed beard and crown, transmuting the king's victory into a death-rictus of agony.
The tapestry crumbled in on itself, warp and weft eaten away to drifting black wisps. Gribble threw his head back, laughing. The sound was the scrape of a whetstone on a rusted blade.
The grating creak of a shifting stone cut off his mirth. His pointed ears twitched, swiveling towards a narrow archway half-hidden behind a tumbled column. A furtive scrabbling, like rats fighting in the walls. But no rat had made that sound.
Gribble's thick lips skinned back from his teeth. Curse the dwarves. Too stupid to know when to lay down and embrace oblivion. He'd assumed his massacre was complete. That this shattered corpse of a chamber held no more life to be choked out.
He'd been careless. Sloppy. Left a few maggots squirming in the rotted flesh of this fallen kingdom. No matter. He rolled his shoulders, the joints popping. He'd remedy that oversight.
His hand twisted in a summoning motion. Viridian sparks dripped from his nails. A translucent wisp of emerald foxfire sprang into being over his palm, its unearthly glow throwing the craggy lines of his face into sharp relief.
The glow illuminated the archway and the short passage beyond. Gribble moved towards it, his feet nearly silent amid the rubble. As he approached, the scrabbling intensified, then cut off with a choked gurgle. Some broken thing trying to muffle its pain. Its fear.
Gribble's tongue flicked out, tasting the air. The flavor of desperation and impotent defiance burst across his senses like a spoiled fruit. He could almost see the wretches cowering in their bolt-holes, mewling prayers to their carved-bone gods.
All that effort to hide, to cling to the tatters of their pointless existences. Hadn't they seen what he'd wrought? Hadn't they witnessed their kin and comrades torn to steaming gobbets, flesh scoured from bone by the spells boiling from his lips?
There was no salvation. No escape. The sooner they embraced the purity of despair, the sooner he could grant them the mercy of utter destruction. But if they wished to draw out their suffering, to marinate in a few more precious moments of false hope, he was happy to oblige them. It was, after all, nothing more than they deserved.
The foxfire cast eerie shadows on the walls, green as gangrene. The wisp bobbed and gibbered silently as he entered the passage. The reek of terror grown thick enough to coat the back of his tongue. Gribble swallowed, savoring it.
He clawed a gestured. Behind him, bones clacked and rattled as a handful of his new skeletal thralls stumbled into motion. He didn't spare them a glance, trusting in the power of his magic to bind them to his will.
The passage kinked to the left, ending in an ironbound door hanging drunkenly from one twisted hinge. The wood was pocked with axe-scars, each mark black with clotted blood. Gribble kicked the door, his withered muscles swelling with stolen necromantic vigor.
Hinges squealed. Wood exploded into sodden splinters. The heavy portal slammed inward. It struck the wall, rebounded. Through the ringing echo, Gribble heard a yelp, high and pitiful with fear.
He stepped across the threshold, the foxfire swimming through the murk to orbit his head. The chamber was small and mean, more a cell than a room. Piles of smashed crates and barrels lined the walls, the detritus of a last, frantic attempt at a barricade.
In the center of the room, a lone dwarf crouched over a body. No, a pair of bodies. Two more dwarves sprawled brokenly on the flagstones. One was missing most of its head, its beard matted into a glistening sponge by the grey-pink ruin of its brain.
The other corpse lay face-down, its stubby limbs thrown out at angles nature never intended. The haft of a broken spear jutted between its shoulders. Black fluid seeped from the wound, another stream dribbling from the scrap of meat that had been its throat.
The living dwarf spun to face Gribble. The creature was maimed, its face a hideous topography of burnt flesh and crusted blood. One arm hung limp, the bone poking through the skin. Its remaining hand white-knuckled the hilt of a notched sword.
Rheumy eyes squinted at Gribble through slits in the seared meat of the dwarf's face. Recognition and rage kindling in their depths. Its cracked lips worked, as if trying to dredge up enough moisture to spit.
Gribble cocked his head, considering the dwarf. The way it crouched over its butchered comrades, its ruined face set in a rictus of furious determination. An unexpected ember of grudging respect kindled in his shriveled heart.
Here was a maggot with some backbone. A worm that fancied itself a viper, valiantly rearing up to strike at the boot-heel poised to crush its egg-mates. There was something perversely admirable in that level of futile defiance. A piquancy that would add a certain spice to the inevitable slaughter.
The dwarf awkwardly shuffled around to place itself between Gribble and the door. It raised the sword in its shaking hand, the point dipping and weaving drunkenly. Phlegm rattled in its throat, bubbling out as wet, wracking coughs.
Gribble smiled. A stretching of lips that was all mockery and malice, as empty of true mirth as a bare skull. He stepped into the chamber, the foxfire's glow painting the blood-slick walls the color of spoiled meat.
The rattle of bones echoed from the passageway behind him. The dwarf's rheumy eyes darted to the dark opening. They went wide as the first skeletal warrior stumbled into view, its frame a jangling patchwork of grave-remnants and dwarven battle-gear.
The dwarf made a sound then. A low, wordless moan that needed no translation. In it was horror and despair in equal measure, the final tattered threads of courage frayed past mending by the sight of its kin defiled.
Gribble breathed in the sour reek of the dwarf's anguish. Let it roll across his palate like a vintner savoring a rare draught. His hand crept to the hilt of his own sword, the vicious black blade seeming to drink in the foxfire's glow.
The dwarf's eyes snapped back to him. The moan climbed into a snarl clotted with equal parts fury and despair. Gribble watched the mortal mind behind those eyes fray and snap, the last gap-toothed cog slipping out of alignment.
With a roar like a scalded bear, the dwarf charged. The sword arced wildly, black with blood and fragments of its wielder's sanity. The broken thing had finally found the mercy of purpose in its madness, embracing destruction as the only absolution.
Gribble's blade leapt from its sheath with a whisper. Chill ebon metal met notched dwarven steel with a shriek. Sparks showered, reflecting in the skeletal warriors' empty eyes as they crowded the doorway.
The dwarf's sword shattered, shards of metal spinning across the room. One of the razor shards carved a line of brilliant pain across Gribble's cheek. He laughed again, his tongue darting out to lap at the welling ichor.
His blade sank into the meat of the dwarf's belly, grating on the cage of ribs. He twisted his wrist savagely, metal grating on bone. A loop of glistening intestine, gray as a drowned man's finger, flopped wetly from the gaping slash.
The dwarf's scream tore at its throat, flecking its beard with gobbets of blood. It clutched at its spilling guts with its one good hand, trying vainly to cram them back into the ruin of its stomach.
Gribble ripped his sword free. Loops of bowel draped his wrist like glistening ropes of rancid sausage. He flicked them away disdainfully. At his gesture, the skeletal warriors surged forward as one, bony claws grasping.
They fell on the dwarf in a clattering tide, bearing the twitching meat to the flagstones and tearing. Gobbets of flesh flew, blood spraying in abstract patterns across the walls. The dwarf's screams spiraled up into an agonized gibber.
Gribble stood over it all, drinking in the raw sounds of rending meat and splintering bone. He closed his eyes in an almost sexual ecstasy, feeling the dwarf's agony pour into him, filling some empty space behind his ribs.
He held up a hand, fingers splayed. The skeletal warriors froze, their gory work nearly complete. Only the dwarf's head remained, barely recognizable as anything that had once been thinking flesh.
Gribble crooked a finger. A gasp of foul air escaped the ruin of the dwarf's lipless mouth as its skull rose from the steaming spread of its body. Gobbets of meat sloughed away, followed by the wet slither of exposed brain.
The skull slipped free in a parody of birth. It drifted to orbit Gribble's head along with the cold flame of the foxfire. Empty sockets flickered, filling with a rotting emerald radiance.
Gribble turned and strode from the chamber, his grisly trophies bobbing in his wake. Gore squelched beneath his heavy boots. In the passageway beyond, more skeletons waited, their bones gleaming wetly in the spectral light.
The skull's jaw clacked and gibbered silently, mouthing imprecations or pleas. Gribble cared not. They were all the same to him. Meat and bone and squealing souls, all fodder for the dark machinations of his will.
He had an empire to build, and this pathetic midden heap of a fortress was only the first loose stone to pry from the crumbling edifice of mortality. One by one, he would topple their castles and crack open their yellowed philospher's scraps, until all that remained was the purity of the void. And he, Gribble, would rule over it all, the last fading scream before the fall of the eternal night.
The thought warmed him, a hideous dopamine rush better than the most decadent flesh or the headiest mead. His shoulders shook, not with weariness, but with a terrible, silent laughter.
He mounted the steps leading out of the ruined keep, trailing his grisly honor guard. The guttering flames were lower now, the smoke thicker. It seemed to part before him like a noxious bridal veil.
He reached the great rent in the wall where the main gate had once stood, now a gore-splattered wound in the keep's carcass. Beyond lay his army, a seething mass of rot-green wisps and bleached bone. An unliving sea, its depths pregnant with poisonous oblivion.
Gribble paused at the threshold, his gaze traveling across that vista of horror. The thing squatting in the center of his chest squeezed, not with sorrow or regret, but with a pure, distilled thrill of malevolent anticipation. This, all of this, was only the beginning.
With a final hacking bark of laughter, he raised his blade overhead. The foxfire raced down the ebon metal, wreathing the sword in ghostly corpse-light. At its master's signal, the unliving army rippled into motion.
As they marched from that shattered keep into a world as yet unaware of the onrushing tide of its extinction, Gribble could not help but feel that perhaps immortality was not so elusive a thing as the mortal philosophers had always preached. For as long as his name endured, whispered in the final fading nightmares of a doomed existence, would he not, in some twisted fashion, live forever?
The thought pleased him. And that, perhaps, was the most terrible thing of all.