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i-write-and-therefore-i-am · 4 years

Text

One Monstrous Miracle (Part Five)

Okay. So. This one got away from me. It got unexpectedly dark, and I’m not sure how I feel about that but I’m going to post it and move on with the story. I am not a happy author about this chapter, for many reasons. Nevertheless, I love each and everyone of you and I hope you find it within you to enjoy this <3 (Pst! If you’d rather read on Ao3, here ya go!)

Previous-Next-First

Pairing: Aziraphale/Human!Reader

Summary: Michael takes some initiative. So does Sandalphon. Uriel is basically the emotional support nerd ig. Aziraphale has a nightmare. Reader does NOT have a good time.

Warnings: Okay listen closely. I have written a non-graphic description of a kidnapping, and subsequently a heavily-implied violence segment. I might be overstating or understating (please tell me if I am understating!), but I just want to keep you lovelies safe.

ALSO: This is NOT a warning, but while you’re here I might as well tell you that I have used they/them pronouns for Michael, and it/its pronouns for Sandalphon (from the script).

Word Count: 2730

(@gif, shits going down)

Michael was not stupid. They were not dimwitted, or blinded by heavenly goodness, or any of the things that they could very easily accuse their fellow celestial beings of…being. They had been paying the Angel Aziraphale very close attention these past millennia, and they had seen exactly what they had expected; the Angel had gone native. Worse than that, he had gone native and he was fraternizing with the enemy. THE enemy. El Numero Uno. The Demon Crowley.

Because Michael was none of the things mentioned above, they had quite a bit of room to be some other things, like cunning, vigilant, and good at waiting for just the right moment. They didn’t bring the aforementioned knowledge to Gabriel’s attention straight away for the sake of…strategy. It had nothing whatsoever to do with the fact that the Archangel-Fucking-Gabriel wasn’t the only gosh darned Archangel around (and that’s with a capital ‘A’, thank you very much), and so there really was no pressing need for Michael to give the information in the first place, now that they thought about it. They could investigate on their own, build up a solid case, and then work from there. Maybe get some respect around the elitist promotion trap that was their Heavenly home. If only.

Michael enlisted Uriel, knowing that she would be invaluable when looking for documents or anything paper related. She had the memory for things exactly like that. Michael brought Sandalphon precisely because they knew that Aziraphale was still terrified of it after what happened at Sodom and Gomorrah. Together, they monitored Aziraphale’s every move—although the angel had somehow devised a way to keep the group from ever being able to overhear any of his traitorous conversations with the hated Crowley, they weren’t deterred in the slightest bit. They could follow the pair, take pictures, perhaps the odd selfie when the mood hit. Michael was building their case against Aziraphale, and it was only a matter of time.

Armageddon threw everything into quite a pretty mess, now didn’t it? Aziraphale was openly discussing his meetings with his “wily adversary”, reporting on the current status and whereabouts of the Antichrist (Warlock. What a revolting name). Things were starting to get fun for the first time in about a hundred years, and Michael simply didn’t have the time for their surveillance missions anymore. Not to mention that Gabriel was demanding that they all stay together as often as possible, which was a nightmare in and of itself. Michael was rather looking forward to the end of the world, not for the gargantuan blood bath that would ensue, as most of their angelic associates where no doubt panting for, but for the endless peace that comes after a job well done.

One day, when the Antichrist (still Warlock, despite Michael’s very best efforts) was 10, nearly 11, Michael noticed something very strange about the familiar bookshop that they and the rest of the group had been watching for the last couple of centuries. There was a woman, well-dressed (Michael assumed. Angels, proper Angels, that is, Aziraphale not included, have no real sense of human fashion), practically cantering down the pavement, apparently towards Aziraphale’s shop. “No, that can’t be right,” Michael thought to themselves. Although, thinking back, that woman did look strikingly familiar. So familiar, in fact, that—

“Uriel! Take a look at this.” Michael had rolled her rolly chair away from her workstation and towards the cubicle to the right of hers. Uriel popped her head around the weird, cloth divider separating their “offices” with a curious expression.

“Yes, Michael? What is it?” The other angel asked from her rolly chair. Michael gestured that she should roll her rolly chair into Michael’s cubicle.

“I’ve found something strange in the Eden files, take a look at it.” The Eden files was their special code name for anything pertaining to Aziraphale that was not, strictly, on the books. This strange something happened to be a livestream of the street where Aziraphale lived. The woman was getting closer to the shop, although not quite close enough to tell if that was, indeed, where she was going. Michael pointed the woman out to Uriel.

“Now. She looks awfully familiar to me.” Michael’s gaze drifted from their finger to Uriel sitting beside them. Uriel had her thinking face on, which could mean one of a million different things and by this point in their long, coworker relationship, Michael had learned to just let her think. Uriel frowned slightly, moved closer to the screen, tapped a single key on the keyboard in front of them on Michael’s desk, and rewound the feed. She paused it. Zoomed in. Michael wondered why it was so difficult for the Management to install some touchscreens on the ground floor, at least for the Archangels and Possibly a few of the Principalities. They’d seen inside of Gabriel’s office (Yes! A whole, bloody corner office with glass windows instead of walls so that he can survey the worker bees in their nest and not one but TWO whole touchscreens!), after all. Uriel snapped her fingers in front of Michael’s face.

“Michael? Were you listening?” Michael, as you know, had not been listening. At all.

“Of course, Uriel. What was that last bit, again?” Uriel sighed and pointed at the woman zeroed in on.

“She visits the shop almost every day. She might be important.” Michael leaned forward in their rolly chair, squinting at the grainy image despite the fact that every angel had perfect 100/100 eyesight. They hummed.

“Yes. I quite agree. Sandalphon?” They called out the name of the coworker whose cubicle stood on the left side of theirs. They heard the familiar sound of the rolly chair growing nearer until Sandalphon sat beside the two other angels. Michael pointed to the woman on the screen.

“Let’s keep an eye on her.” They all watched as Uriel unpaused and the woman entered the shop.

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They did not have to wait long for the woman to make another move. Only a few hours later, she was hurrying out of the doors, clutching onto her purse and…crying?

“He doesn’t hold on to them long, does he?” Sandalphon remarked, rubbing its forefinger across its teeth diamonds. Uriel giggled but sobered when Michael glared at her. This was not the time for making jokes. That woman was certainly a human woman, there was no doubt about that. Why was she spending so much time around Aziraphale? Why had she run sobbing from his shop? Was this like that holiday Aziraphale took with Alexander the Great? Michael very dearly hoped not—Aziraphale had positively ruined that poor boy.

“Keep your focus on that woman. We need to learn more about her.”

The kept the feed trained on her as she made her way home. She didn’t live too far from Aziraphale’s shop. But just far enough that walking was just slightly out of her way. Uriel, the more softhearted of the bunch of angels huddled around the screen, wondered whether they should miracle her a taxicab, but she was quickly shut down.

“What, and give ourselves away? Gabriel would have our halos!” Michael exclaimed, shifting in their chair. Once the woman was in the door, Michael cut the feed, gaining the attention of the others. They cleared their throat.

“Ahem. So. Not only has Aziraphale been seen consistently in the presence of known Demon Crowley, but he also appears to have developed some sort of relationship with a…mortal woman. Once again, Aziraphale proves that he does not have the strength required to walk among them. Instead, he cavorts with them, befriends them—”

“Runs a bookshop,” Sandalphon growled helpfully. Michael nodded appreciatively.

“—and runs a bookshop. Clearly, he is no longer fit for his position.”

“That’s all well and good, Michael, but he can’t be removed from said position. Only the Almighty can deal with that level of personnel change.” Uriel reminded them calmly. Michael sighed deeply.

“I know that. We all know that. The only problem is something must be done about it. Aziraphale can no longer be allowed to continue this way. It’s heinous.” All the angels nodded their head in mutual agreement. They all tried to think of something they could do, but nothing seemed to jump out at anyone. It stayed like this for a few long moments before suddenly, Sandalphon gasped loudly, startling the other two.

“I know!” it said. “The girl. She’s important to him, right?” Uriel scoffed.

“She did just run from his shop in tears, Sandalphon, did you miss that part?” It was unfazed by Uriel’s goading.

“Exactly. It’s Aziraphale! He’s so soft, he’ll go groveling for her forgiveness within a fortnight. And when he does…”

“They’ll make up with each other. Where are you going with this?” Michael interjected impatiently, not in the mood for idle chatter. Sandalphon grinned, its teeth glinting in the Holy light.

“We kidnap her. Get us in Gabriel’s good books, get some information, and, of course, to scare powe ickle bitty Aziwaphawe. Perfect plan.”

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It was not, as it happens, the Perfect Plan. However, credit is due where credit is due, and that credit goes to Sandalphon for thinking of a Nearly-Perfect Plan. It would have been the Perfect Plan had Aziraphale and that blasted woman not been so stubborn and stayed apart for so long. The days until the Antichrist’s birthday were slowly running out, and the time during which the angels could execute said plan was drawing thin. Thankfully, the two made up just in the nick of time, so it had worked out in the end.

The trio had made the trip to Crowley’s flat, knowing that they would find Aziraphale there. Aziraphale had been flustered, but his story about checking about in the demon’s abode appeared to check out. Michael refused to take their eyes off of him the entire time. After they miracled away, they appeared in an alleyway not far from the woman’s home, and on her usual route. Michael had decided, because Michael was a little bit of an ass at times, to make the mystery just a smudge more difficult by abducting the woman outside of the home BUT simultaneously leaving a single, white wing feather on the floor of her locked flat. It really was quite devious for such a pure-hearted creature. Hmm.

The kidnapping went swimmingly. Uriel snuck up behind the woman, Sandalphon had thrown the bag over her head, and once everything was settled (or as settled as can be with a kicking and struggling woman in tow), Michael miracle them into a top-secret location. I’m afraid that I, as the author, am not at liberty to disclose the location of the following events, because of course I’d have to kill you afterwards, and I’d rather not do that.

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Angels do not have dreams. Angels cause dreams in other people, they take away dreams from other people, and they may, upon occasion, serve as conduits for messages from the Almighty, which often appear to other people as dreams. But Angels themselves do not dream. Except for Aziraphale, evidently, whose subconscious had decided to do away with the natural order of things to just…you know…spice it up a little. Aziraphale frowned deeply in his sleep and rolled over, sniffling.

He was in a corridor. There were no lights, only a faint glow that seemed to come from nowhere at all. There was one door, ahead of him, but the rest of the corridor was bare, empty grey concrete. He began to move towards the door, but the corridor seemed to get longer the closer he got, until he was nearly running, trying to make some progress down the hall but never moving one inch.

The scene changed, the corridor erupting into grey and black smoke that smelt faintly of saltwater taffy. The scene reconstructed itself as a square room lit with an old-fashioned lightbulb swinging slowly back and forth from the ceiling. There was a figure shivering on a metal chair in the center of the room, hands tied behind their back and a sack over their head. Aziraphale heard whimpering from the figure and made to rush over to help them but he found that his feet were rooted to the ground, as though someone had glued them straight to the floor. Aziraphale looked up from his shoes and gasped.

Surrounding the figure were Michael, Uriel, and Sandalphon. Michael stood directly in front of the figure, bending over slightly. Sandalphon stood directly behind the figure, fingers grasping at the sack. Uriel stood apart from them both, in the corner opposite to Aziraphale. Michael made a motion at Sandalphon and it yanked the sack off of the person’s head to reveal—

Y/N. Eyes red from crying, hair a mess, makeup smudged and beyond repair. Aziraphale felt his heart stop beating. What the hell was going on? Was this some kind of joke? A voice, nagging at the edge of his consciousness told him that no, it was not a joke. Aziraphale struggled against whatever was holding his feet down with renewed vigor. He stopped when he heard your voice, hoarse and trembling. It broke him to hear you like that.

“W-who are you? What do you w-want from me?” You coughed, and Aziraphale felt a miracle dance along the tip of his fingers. He would make you well again, he would heal whatever has happened to you. You continued. “I have m-money if that’s it! It’s n-not m-m-much but—”

“Silly girl, we don’t want your money.” Came Sandalphon’s voice.

“Mmm, that’s right.” Michael responded. They leaned in closer to you, and you sank deeper into the chair to escape them. “What we want is information.”

“Wh-What? What information? I don’t- “

“What do you know of the Angel Aziraphale?” Azriaphale’s blood went cold. He had been so close to telling you himself! After all of the Armageddon mess was straightened out, he had promised himself, he would march right up to you and tell you the truth. But not now! Not when he couldn’t be there to explain, when you were hurting, being hurt, tied up like some criminal. A noise horribly like a snarl erupted from Aziraphale’s throat, startling him. Was he truly invisible in this room? After a couple of seconds of pure terror, Aziraphale’s pulse began to slow and he realized that this was most likely a vision dream, a message from someone showing him something that was either already happening, or about to happen. He prayed to anyone who would listen that it was neither of those two options.

“I swear I don’t know!” The sound of your terrified voice brought him back. Sandalphon laughed its ugly laugh and Michael chuckled.

“Should we really be doing this, Michael?” Uriel inquired softly from her spot in the corner. Aziraphale was sure he was just projecting his terror onto her, but he thought he could almost see a hint of concern in her deep black eyes. Michael just shook their head.

“It’s not as though she’ll have very long to remember it, will she?” At this, your body seized in horror, eyes open wide in shock. Fresh tears were streaming down your cheeks. Aziraphale wanted to burn this room to the ground.

“Are…are you going to kill me?” you whispered through your crying. Aziraphale held his breath to listen for the answer:

“Oh, dear me, of course not. Do you know how much paperwork that would be? Oh no. Definitely not killing you. As long as you give us the information we need.” Came Michael’s reply.

Aziraphale felt that old rage bubble up inside him, and his sword hand itched, as though the missing sword were a missing limb instead. He took a deep breath and clenched his hands into fists. He would not debase himself in such an appalling manner. He had grown since those days, and he would not be brought to his knees by a dream.

“I told you, I don’t know anything!” you pleaded desperately. The room was beginning to fade away, smoke swirling at the edges, illuminated by the swinging bulb. Aziraphale cried out, reaching out for you only to be met with empty air.

“Oh, we’ll see about that, now, won’t we?”

The last thing Aziraphale heard before waking was the sound of Michael’s laughter.

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emmyrosee · 5 years

Text

Hopping.

On The Run I

Hey guess what.

It’s done! I’m so excited!

Don’t get me wrong, I’m terrified. This definitely isn’t how I thought this would go, but I don’t despise it??? I don’t know. Anyways.

WARNINGS: heavy plot, heavy dialogue, language. No smut in this chapter (don’t worry it’s coming😘)

Gordan Merkel x Fugitive!Reader; after a series of unfortunate events lands you in East Berlin, you fear everyone and everything in your path. And it crosses paths with a stranger who takes a risk on you.

———-

“Do you remember how you got here?”

The question snapped you out of your confused daze, and you stared at the man before you. His piercing green eyes bore into you like you were nothing more than a piece of wood, waiting to be carved.

It was a good question, to be fair. But which ‘here’ was this man referring to?

The ‘you,’ running in Milan?

The ‘you,’ hiding in the deepest, dankest corners of Paris?

Or the ‘you,’ committing the most heinous act that you knew possible all those years ago.

No one would blame you for jumping at the most random of sirens. The warrant for your arrest was out there, and the reward was obscene.

Hell, if you knew you would be given some form of immunity, it wouldn’t be such a big deal.

But this was your life on the line now. The police from home, various government officials, even the people who had once housed you had turned against you at the ridiculous amount of money being offered. And no stones could be left; whether they were criminal or not, their crimes would be lessened if they turned you in, dead or alive.

They weren’t very picky.

The chilled streets of Berlin’s alleys only seemed to make your stress levels grow, heart beating faster and faster as you tried to shield yourself from everyone you passed.

Night after night you wandered, opting it safer than the day. In the day, no one was willing to listen to your story, see another side of you. All they saw was money, and they wanted it.

At night however, stories howled like the wind. People of their own sins had more important things to focus on than you, and you accept and adore that lack of attention.

You’re not sure what tripped you off. A distant siren, maybe? Or maybe just one too many money-hungry eyes?

Whatever it was, you felt the need to run.

Well. Run further that is.

You dug your hands deeper into your pockets and slowly crept faster, walking speed feeling more of a jog.

Then faster.

The feeling grew and your holed, disgusting sneakers squeaking against the pavement.

You felt like you were doing this for your whole life. The same routine over and over and over and over again.

Your legs kick higher and higher as you dash, scrambling around as your weakened body struggles to keep up.

Until a massive force stops you, gripping your arms tightly to steady you.

“Woah, woah, woah,” a voice says, struggling against your fighting form. You shove harder at the chest that’s trying to hold you, unsuccessful with every jerk of your much smaller frame. His large hands grab your shoulders and force you into the brick wall you were closest to. But the fire of fear was still roaring, and whether you wanted to or not, you couldn’t stop.

All you could do was bite, kick and scream, praying someone would hear.

“Relax!” He commanded, giving you one last, hard shove. The bricks bit into your skin, the small pebbles of the flaking wall crumbling in your struggle.

“Please,” You whimper in fear. “Please let me go, I-I-I don’t-“

“Shush,” he demands. You close your lips, though you’re unable to stop your shaking lips from allowing whimpers past. Your eyes creak open to look at the deep voiced, large German man who’s grip wasn’t about to falter.

Despite his demanding, deep voice, his eyes showed no malice or anger; in fact, nothing but sympathy was pooled in his forest green irises. His jaw was tight with authority, and he seemingly waited for you to look at him before continuing to speak.

Shit, you think to yourself, not like this. Shit shit shit-

“We need to get you out of the open,” he says sternly, yet softly. “Come on-“

“N-no!” You protest. “No!”

The man pulls back slightly at your apparent fear, and licks his lips in thought.

“I’m not going to leave you out here,” he explains. “God knows the last time you ate or bathed or-“

You tremble weakly in his grip, and almost on cue, your stomach growls loudly. He tilts his head, “you haven’t eaten recently, have you?”

Against your better judgement, you gently shake your head and avoid his laser sharp gaze. He nods, “so I thought.”

“I’ll be fine,” you spit, shrugging him off of your arms. He finally drops his arms as you spin on your heel, crossing your arms tightly over your chest and walk hurriedly away.

“You don’t have to go with me if you don’t want to,” he calls after you, making you stop. “But I sincerely want to help. Please? Just allow me to feed you, then I’ll sneak you over any boarder you’d like.”

“No,” you say quietly, so softly you’re not sure he can hear you. “I’ve made it this far, I can make it further on my own.”

“Don’t think I don’t know who you are,” he says. “You’re that fugitive, aren’t you?” He asks though his voice is sure, making you screw your eyes shut tight. “The one who’s been on the lamb for, what, three years?” His footsteps are loud as they pound on the pavement behind you. “That little pile of mad money that the government has raised is enough to make anyone an enemy, no?”

You say nothing.

“Lucky for you, I have no reason for the money. In fact, I’d set the money on fire and join you on the run as well before I give into any shit that the government spills to its sheep.

“Just let me take you someplace; a safe place that I know. And then wherever you want to go, I will take you. But just take the help I’m willing to give because God knows how long someone is going to show you this extent of mercy.”

You want to scream at him, ask him how he dares speak to you like that. You want to smack him one, tell him that he has no fucking idea who he’s talking to, and that you’ve survived without the help of anyone for those three years.

But you can’t.

Because everything he said is true. That, and you’re so weak- especially from trying to fight him off- that you literally aren’t sure if you raise your hand high enough to smack him.

“I’m heading to Sweden,” you say softly. “You feed me, you get my name, and you take me to the Swedish border. I go from there. Deal?”

“Deal,” he says with a gentle smile.

——————-

“Do you remember how you got here?” The man asks quietly.

Your fingers clutch at the warm, thick blanket that’s draped over your shoulders. In front of you sits a small plate of cookies and a cup of tea, which of you’ve cleared three of. Each time you clear the plate or drain the cup, the man chuckles and merely refills it.

“Any recollection of how you ended up in East Berlin?” He asks, shifting to lean forwards on his knee.

You avoid his gaze some more, eyes casting away to the plate of cookies as you eye them.

“Go on,” he nods. “Have more. Please. I insist.” He smiles encouragingly, and slowly you reach forwards to take another one.

“I don’t know,” you whisper at your cookie childishly, playing the edge against your chapped lips. “I just.... turned a corner and ended up in Berlin.”

“You and I both know that that’s not the type of ‘how’ I meant,” he teases. “I mean I know your records and I know your crimes, but how did you get here?”

Your heart sinks further into your stomach as you finally look up at the man. His face was soft despite his sharp features, the dim lights of... whatever building you were in (a printing house? Some form of passport office? You couldn’t put your finger on it.) casting shadows on him to make him look statuesque.

And you wanted to trust him.

Desperately.

His reassuring kindness and your endless bounty of cookies and tea brought you a new wave of hope, that someone out there just might want to help you with nothing else in mind.

If he wanted the money, why didn’t he just turn you in?

“Where were you before?” He asks.

“Crossed over from Poland. Settled in Cottbus before the game began again.”

He cocks a brow, “game?”

You grin, “of cat and mouse, of course.”

The man chuckles at your joke, smile bright against the dingy air around you.

“More like fox and rabbit, since you’ve been hopping around like a little bunny, no?”

And you laughed.

You actually laughed.

You couldn’t help but laugh.

It was the first time in three fucking years you’d been able to do so much as chuckle, let alone laugh.

The silence, for once, is comforting to you, and you grasp the blanket higher on your shoulders.

“The sun is rising,” he says softly, bring you back to him. Your eyes traveled upward to the windows of his building, and through the dark grey clouds, you could in fact see the brightness of heavens joy that brought you nothing but fear.

“Oh fuck,” you whisper in worry. “I can’t go out there! Not now. Can I just... stay here?”

The man sighs, “sadly, no. But, I can help you further, if you so desire.”

“How so?”

“Stay in Berlin,” he says, grinning as you tense up. “I’ll figure a plan to get you safely to the Swedish border, exactly as you asked. Then,” he crosses one leg over the other, “home.”

Home.

You missed home.

You missed home. A lot.

You’d rather die than not go home, but after three years you wondered if you could even attempt. And to think this man could?

Hm.

But he hasn’t let you down yet.

“That amount of money is going to keep rising, sir,” you insist.

He grins, “my trust for the government cannot be bought, Miss.” He stands up and slowly creeps towards the door, “if you want to come with me and be served with the utmost protection, we must leave now.”

Your ears perk up and your heart pounds. “I don’t even know your name,” you say, a certain sadness in your voice.

He grins.

“Merkel. Gordan Merkel. Trust me. You’re not my first,” he says, pushing the door open. “I’ll come with the car around.”

He winks.

“It’s time to relax on the hopping, little bunny. You’re safe now. I promise.”

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ancientbooshartifacts · 5 years

Text

CRIMPETY CRIMPETY FUCK YOU

Author: Thieving_Gypsy

Year: 2008

Rating: PG-13

Pairing: Howince

It was a crisp, cold winter night. The best sort of night for vest-and-pants antics, that. A satsuma fight to get the circulation going, then a good hard heavy sweaty passionate noisy bout of crimping til the early hours. "Capybaras," Vince started, tentatively, but Howard didn't join in so he tried something else. "Marshmallow... um. Dishes." Still nothing. He looked at Howard, worried. "What's wrong?" "I don't know." Howard was sitting there on the edge of his bed, hands in his lap, just staring at them, exuding confusion like a human skunk. "I'm just... not feeling it tonight, Vince." "What? Why?" He couldn't make himself sound completely horrified, though. He felt the same. "You're always up for a bit of it." "I'm not a lightbulb. I can't turn myself on and off when you feel like it." "Come on, Howard, I know that." He shuffled forward and uncrossed his legs, sitting on the edge of his own bed so they were knee-to-knee. He went to take Howard's hand, then changed his mind and went to put his fingers under his chin instead and raise his head from its slump so he could see his eyes, but then he remembered he wasn't allowed to touch and his hand kind of wandered around the air for a bit instead, looking lost and foolish. He dropped it back to the mattress with a soft little thump and tried a different tactic - Old Faithful, the unbeatable gimmick. Vince made his eyes go very very big and said nothing. After a minute, Howard glanced at him, and quickly away again. And back. And away, and back. He seemed to hover on the edge of some kind of mental precipice for a while, then sighed and let himself collapse over it. (Vince smiled behind his hand, pretending to scratch his nose. Always worked, the big blue eyes.) "It's just... can't you feel it? There's something wrong here, Vince. There's bad juju afoot." "What kind of bad juju?" Vince leaned in and slid his hand up Howard's arm, clutching him tightly near the elbow. He didn't get yelled at. That scared him a bit. Howard must be really freaking out not to, well, freak out. He just sat there, looking somehow small, utter misery all over his face as obvious as if it had been stamped there by an over-zealous librarian. "I think someone's stolen the crimp." ... Two comforting cups of hot sweet tea later, and a gorilla-smack round the face for Howard, they'd just about stopped shaking enough to explain to Naboo why they'd woken him up by screaming hysterically and running around the bedroom like panicky trapped flies. "Bollo thought noise was sexnoise," Bollo said, stroking Vince's hair back off his sweaty forehead and glaring at Howard as if to say oh, you great Northern behemoth, this one's fragile. "Yeah, well," Vince muttered, shaking the big hairy hand off and huddling into himself as much as a man can when he's wearing nothing except a vest, knee-socks and little blue pants, "Bollo's a bloody creep, then, innee?" "Someone's stolen the crimp," Naboo repeated. There was a hint of dubiousness in his voice. A bit more than a hint, really. Quite a lot. An excess of dubiousness. Howard nodded frantically, sloshing lukewarm tea over the rim of his cup and all over his bare thighs. "You have to help us!" "How come I have to help you?" "Because that's how it works!" "...Oh yeah. Alright, then. Have you seen anybody weird lurking round the place recently? Let's start with that." Vince piped up immediately with, "I saw that fishy freak here the night we had the bouncy castle party!" and Howard went all shifty and said Vince was a nincompoop and his flighty eyes couldn't be trusted and that he, Howard, had exceptionally good eyes, although they were small, and surely would have noticed such a shameless blatant invader himself had one actually ever made it into the building. (Vince grinned to himself at Howard's blustering awkwardness, hiding the smile behind his cup, and decided he'd probe Howard later. Not like that. Although possibly like that, too.) "This useless," Bollo grumbled. "For sake of moving plot on, we pretend Honey Monster has been sighted like big yellow Dalston yeti." Naboo nodded, and sent him to fetch transportation. Higher minds were needed. ... The magic carpet skidded to a halt with a confusing screech of non-existent brakes. Howard promptly tumbled off, landing head-first on the leafy ground. Vince stepped down with a bit more grace, grimacing at the mud squelching under his long white socks, and offered Howard a hand that was completely ignored because apparently cold muddy half-naked Men of Action aren't allowed to accept help when they fall over. The hum of voices could be heard coming from somewhere nearby, although not quite the words being said until they made their way closer, rounded a corner, and stepped into the Board's clearing. "Is it true, Kirk? You're the father of Jamie Lynn's baby?" "Yes." "Naboo, you're late," Dennis said sternly, then seemed to deflate like a knackered balloon when he saw Howard and Vince and spent the rest of the scene trying to hide behind the bloke with the feathered hat (the bloke Vince's mate Kelly thinks has lovely pretty blowjob-lips) muttering vaguely obscene things about basic principles and the rethinking thereof. It was a difficult thing to explain to the Board, this crimp-theft. How do you convey the urgency of such a thing when the people whose help you're trying to get don't have a clue what you're talking about? It's not like they could do a bit to demonstrate, THE CRIMP HAVING BEEN STOLEN and everything. "It's a bit like two-way scat with words," Howard tentatively started, then the others had to hold a snarling red-eyed Kirk back from ripping open Howard's jugular with his teeth. "Oh, well done!" groaned the little pink tit with tentacles. "Go on, why don't you set him off again? We've just got him calmed down after last time someone referenced the j-word. My friends and acquaintances, this is, unequivocally, an outrage." The mêlée raged. Naboo turned his back on it, but nobody noticed and that made him sulky. "Bollo has cousin," the gorilla suddenly said. "He tiny-brained retard. His friends also tiny-brained retards. Perhaps tiny brains not matter. They will die anyway. Perhaps they could help." Howard still had his hands around his own throat in a sort of protective collar and he gave Bollo the dirtiest look he could manage. "Great, Bollo, thanks. You couldn't've told us this back at the shop?" "Aw, Howard, leave it out, alright?" Vince was shivering in the cold night breeze, feeling even more petulant than normal and willing to go along with any plan if it meant he'd get out of the mud. "It's not Bollo's fault. I think B just wanted to write the Shamans." "So how come they're fighting like cocks and not coming with us?" Vince shrugged. "Cos she discovered she was shit at writing them? I dunno." He turned to Bollo. "How can we get hold of your cousin, then?" ... Back in the flat, far too many odd little people were squashed into a kitchen that was only used to seeing one - a strange little chap dressed like an astronaut, an oversized bee, a leprechaun, a racoon on a skateboard, three little men who appeared only to be able to speak that snapcracklepoppy African language of tongue-clicks (and whom Howard secretly believed to be involved in a nasty sordid little sexual threeway in their spare time), an anthropomorphic tiger in a really homosexual neckerchief, a terrifyingly large cockerel, an aging pervert with a balding head and a white labcoat, and what appeared to be their ringleader, Bollo's cousin Coco, a small brown monkey in a baseball cap who seemed to have the unique power of making everybody he met want to murder him. Howard had already tried putting several moves on him, although these had all been foiled by Vince grabbing at him to keep him back and finding only small pants to hold, which for some reason made Howard go slightly funny on the inside and forget all thoughts of murder in favour of rainbows and bubbles and skipping through flowery meadows with some dark-haired little lady he didn't know yet but hoped he one day would, thoroughly and Biblically. Coco rudely invaded Howard's daydream by clambering onto the table and banging a couple of saucepans together. "ATTENTION!" he screeched, in an annoying high-pitched voice that made Howard's ears want to leave his body and take a gap year somewhere very far away. "Friends, my cousin Bollo-" ("Third cousin," Bollo corrected hurriedly, "several times removed.") "-has called us here to help him in his quest to rid the world once and for all of the infamous thief known as the Honey Monster." "HE STOLE MY LUCKY CHARMS!" the leprechaun howled. There was a great hullaballoo of noise, all the other weirdo little people and animals talking at once about the big yellow furry and its various heinous crimes. Vince shuffled as close to Howard as he thought he'd be allowed, shivering again and feeling rather in need of a big comforting cuddle. Somehow he felt worse, now, not better. This wasn't the way things were meant to be! He and Howard sorted out their messes on their own! Howard leaned in close to whisper. "This isn't the way things are meant to be," he said, sounding miserable and kind of lost. "You and I sort out our messes on our own!" He looked a bit confused when Vince BEAMED, but Vince couldn't help it, it was just reassuring to know that even when they were in the shit, when their crimp had been stolen and their kitchen overtaken by aggravating cartoon characters, even then they shared thoughts. One constant in this big stupid mess. It was something to hold on to. Something other than the pants, anyway - which, Vince suddenly realised, he was still clinging to from the last time Howard had tried to choke the monkey. (Not like that.) He almost let go, but didn't really want to so he, well, didn't. "Let's just go, then," he said. Howard raised his eyebrows, confused but kind of smiling, too. "Go where?" "Away. Anywhere. Fuck 'em. It's just you and me, innit? We don't need anybody else, 'specially not these little freaks." He plucked gently at the waistband of Howard's little pants, feeling suddenly shy. "I mean, I'll miss the crimping, but... I dunno, we'll just have to find something else to do at nighttimes in our room when no one's looking... yeah?" "Yeah," Howard said. He could feel Vince's fingers just inside the top of his pants. Somewhere in his head fireworks started going off in big gay colours like fuchsia and magenta. Like a slow-motion bad soap opera, he started to lean in for a kiss- -unfortunately, Bollo chose that exact moment (trying to hurry along the 'plot' some more) to get himself a little late-night snack of cereal, and maybe he had some lingering magic on his hands from tidying up Naboo's stock cupboard earlier because something very strange happened when he touched the Sugar Puffs packet. "SHIT, BOLLO, WHAT HAVE YOU DONE?" Naboo said, emoting with his customary vigour as his little form got swallowed up by the big black shadow of the monster erupting from the front of the cardboard box. All the little cartoons started freaking out, crowing and buzzing and clicking in fear, running and flying and skateboarding away as fast as they possibly could, except Coco who was an idiot and got crushed under the Honey Monster's massive yellow foot. (There was much rejoicing.) "How d'you kill a Honey Monster?" "Grab its balls?" "Vince, that's a kangaroo!" "Yeah, but grabbing anything's balls is gonna slow it down, innit?" But the monster didn't seem to want to have its balls grabbed, not even by Vince Noir, which Vince found incredibly hard to deal with as it was a good solid fact in his life that everybody wanted him to touch their genitalia, as solid as up is up and water is wet. To have this fact casually nudged aside like a leftover crust of cold toast was unsettling, and that made him falter. The Honey Monster smiled its big furry vacant evil smile and grabbed Vince instead. "DROP HIM AT ONCE, YOU... YOU... YOU BIG HAIRY UGLY MONSTER!" The outburst felt like something of an anticlimax to Howard, who had been hoping for something much wittier and more commanding when he opened his mouth to let spew the rising flood of rage. The yellow monster just laughed boomingly and shook its big head, holding Vince by one muddy ankle and dangling him upside-down above his gaping mouth like a tasty oversized Haribo... "Do something, Bollo!" Howard yelled, and Bollo scowled so furiously his glittering black eyes disappeared in folds of fur. "Why? Because Bollo too is big hairy ugly monster?" "Look, I apologised about that already." "Hmph." "Please, Bollo, I know you hate me but YOU LOVE VINCE and he's about to get eaten by a crimp-stealing furry!" "Yeah!" Vince yelled, flailing around and spluttering through the hair hanging in his face. "How're you meant to write a song about that kinda death? Do something! Anything! I can't die like this!" "Grab his balls," Bollo ordered. "No, you idiot, not Vince's. Monster's." "No, mine!" Howard hesitated, hand outstretched. "What?" "Um. I said, wine! Throw wine at it. Red wine stains like anything, 'specially on yellow fur." Nice cover-up, Vince thought, quite pleased with himself, and then his sparkly little braincell suddenly lit up like a billion torches and he screeched, "MILK! THROW MILK ON IT! HE'S A CEREAL-MONSTER!" Howard lunged at the fridge and wrenched the door open, hoping hoping hoping they still had that four-pinter of beautiful creamy full-strength full-fat... but no, they had half a cardboard carton of skimmed, one day over its date. "NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!" Howard screamed, but salvation came in the shape of a big homosexual tiger. "Stroke it!" the tiger said over its shoulder as it scarpered with the last of the cartoon cowards. "It's gets bigger if you stroke it! It's GRRRREAT!" If this didn't prove his love, Howard thought, wanking off a carton of turned milk, then he'd just give it all up and settle for the merman. It grew in his hands, though, swelling and bulging alarmingly until he could barely lift its throbbing weight. A white trickle dripped from the top down over his fingers. "Vince!" he yelled. "Lean back! You don't want this all in your face and hair!" Vince did a painful-looking backbend, wrenching his hair away from imminent danger, and Howard threw the massive carton of milk with a strength and aim he would never find again, directly into the Honey Monster's om-nom-nomming mouth. The beast roared, then made a funny glugging noise, then melted into a puddle of yellow gloop. Vince landed in it and shrieked hysterically because it was in his hair after all, and it was such a horrible piteous heartbreaking sound that Howard completely forgot he hated to be touched and threw himself at Vince for a bonecrushing comfort-hug. "Erk," Vince said, after a minute. "Flnahg." "What?" He loosened his grip slightly, and Vince heaved in a massive desperate breath. "I said, ow." "Oh. Sorry. Erm." "Oh LOOK!" Vince said, excitedly interrupting Howard's awkward manly stammering. "It's the crimp!" He plunged his hands into the lumpy goo and lifted the crimp out, cradling it tenderly in his arms and nuzzling it like it was a little teeny tiny pet fluffy kitten. Howard let his arms slip from round Vince's body and sat back slightly. Of course he was happy Vince was still alive, of course he was, but he was also three nanoseconds from giving himself a Chinese burn to soothe his INNER PAIN now they had the crimp back because surely Vince would take back that thing he said before about other things they might be doing alone at night in their bedroom, now. "Hey," Vince said. He was smiling a little bit, all crooked and lopsided like he was nervous, which was funny because when was Vince Noir ever nervous? He put the crimp down beside them and took Howard's hands. They stopped itching to mutilate his arm at once. "Hay's for horses." "Permission to make a joke about riding you?" Howard thought for a second. "Denied." Vince's face fell, but his smile picked it back up when he realised Howard hadn't pulled his hands away yet. Eventually, after a lot more awkwardness, and a very well-needed shower, they had blistering hot fluffy sex (Vince was on top, if you must know) - but that's another story for another time. end.

#the mighty boosh #mighty boosh #boosh #howince #vince noir/howard moon #vince/howard #howard moon/vince noir #vince noir #howard moon #the board of shaman #dennis the head shaman #dennis #naboo the enigma #naboo #bollo #kirk #kirk (mighty boosh)#saboo #tony harrison

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ua-monoma · 5 years

Text

.05.05.

1-B groupchat:

@ua-kinoko 1:47 PM

[Kinoko is online]

.............everyone is invited to my funeral 😭😭

@ua-kuroiro 1:47 PM

=_=

ua-kinoko 1:48 PM

ITS NOT MY FAULT 😭😭😭

ua-kuroiro 1:48 PM

But it is.

ua-kinoko 1:48 PM

But I didn’t mean too

ua-kuroiro 1:48 PM

But you did

ua-kinoko 1:48 PM

I was unintentional

It happened while I was sleeping

ua-kuroiro 1:49 PM

You still did it tho

ua-kinoko 1:49 PM

YOU WOULDN’T UNDERSTAND KUROIRO 😭😭😭

ua-kuroiro 1:50 PM

I understand that we could all be lethally sick, and our pets as well.

ua-kinoko 1:50 PM

My quirk is hard to control at times

.........do you think I wanted to harm you guys?😠

ua-kuroiro 1:51 PM

No, but you should get quirk suppressants if you suspect that you may be sick.

ua-kinoko 1:51 PM

It’s not that simple

My quirk can take advantage of the environment, and when I’m too sick and it’s hard to control

ua-kuroiro 1:53 PM

I don't care, you should have been more careful and you should have better control over it. You put literally all of us at risk.

ua-monoma 1:53 PM

...

ua-kinoko 1:54 PM

If you had it, you would completely understand what I’m saying

You don’t have the expertise like I do

I kept my promise of coming back .

ua-monoma 1:55 PM

Komori...

ua-kuroiro 1:55 PM

I shouldn't have to

worry

about the safety of my

friends

and

pet

like this.

ua-kinoko 1:56 PM

Do you really think I’m not terribly sorry?

How many times to do I have to say?

I’m already waiting for Vlad

ua-monoma 1:57 PM

You have to at least understand why he's upset, though... He's allowed to at least voice it...

He's not trying to attack you, I'm sure...

ua-kinoko 1:58 PM

Why don’t you screenshot some more Monoma?

ua-kuroiro 1:58 PM

Tch.

ua-kinoko 1:58 PM

Because it seems no one believes my apologies

ua-kuroiro 1:58 PM

Because sorry doesn't really cut it in a situation that could kill us.

ua-monoma 1:59 PM

What, are you angry at me about that...? Are you serious?

ua-kuroiro 1:59 PM

None of this would have happened if you hadn't run off in the first place, would it?

ua-kinoko 1:59 PM

........

How come no one stopped me?

Clearly I was suspicious

ua-monoma 2:00 PM

What is that supposed to mean....

Your actions are your own. It's not our job to 'stop' you.

Not like we had any idea you would do this...

ua-kuroiro 2:00 PM

Half of us were asleep because of the curfew. It's not our job to keep you from breaking rules.

ua-monoma 2:00 PM

What kind of a ridiculous notion... Were we supposed to read your mind???

ua-kinoko 2:01 PM

Setsuna apparently knew something was up..... but didn’t confront me until the last minute

You only care about sucking up to being Vlad’s sidekick to notice

ua-kuroiro 2:01 PM

This is

your

fault.

You're

the one who stole from Vlad-sensei and ran.

ua-monoma 2:01 PM

But you were confronted, weren't you? Why are you trying to shift the blame?

If you're trying to say this was some desperate cry for help, say it already. God.

ua-kinoko 2:03 PM

Cry for help?

Wouldn’t it be worse if I didn’t come back AT ALL?

ua-kuroiro 2:04 PM

That's not the POINT

You shouldn't have committed theft and ran in the first place!

ua-kinoko 2:05 PM

Sure I ran! But I came back!!! READY TO DIE APPARENTLY

To accept my consequences

ua-monoma 2:06 PM

Komori, we are in a HIGH SCHOOL

The worst thing they could do TO you is kick you out

And you would have deserved it, honestly

ua-kinoko 2:06 PM

I’m just waiting for Vlad

You two just love to corner someone huh?

ua-monoma 2:07 PM

Ready to die, my fucking ass...

You're the one who just loves to add insult to injury

ua-kuroiro 2:07 PM

And Vlad-sensei will give you the punishment you definitely deserve.

You should expect to piss some people off if you wanna go and fuck up.

ua-monoma 2:08 PM

You're the one who seems to have so much trouble getting that if you didn't steal in the first place, none of this would have happened

And if you had just apologized, none of this would have happened

And I get it

You were scared

But you're the one lashing out right now

God

You can't just do all this and trample over all of our feelings for days and days and then lash out at us for not being polite

ua-kinoko 2:09 PM

........

You know......

When I try to remember what happened while I was over there......

ua-kuroiro 2:10 PM

You're not going to make us fucking feel bad for you. You brought this upon yourself.

[Kuroiro is offline.]

ua-kinoko 2:11 PM

.......... a familiar feeling.......

Yes. Kuroiro run away, you emo edgelord.... you sure showed me

ua-monoma 2:12 PM

Are you trying to burn every bridge you have on purpose right now or what

ua-kinoko 2:12 PM

More like trying to repair it

ua-monoma 2:12 PM

You're doing a shit job at it.

ua-kinoko 2:13 PM

But alas it burns because of a French wannabe

ua-monoma 2:13 PM

Wow.

ua-kinoko 2:13 PM

I’m already a disaster

ua-monoma 2:13 PM

Sure.

So you might as well continue on your path, right? Is that how you're thinking?

Sure, then. Go run off again. Oh, maybe go and poison the 1A dorms too?

Maybe even the teacher's lounge!

Actually, let me give you the key to my home, you can go and fill that with whatever you'd like as well.

ua-kinoko 2:16 PM

You know Monoma. I thought you wouldn’t rush to conclusions..... I came back willingly to repair any damages from heinous actions..... but you horde me.....bashing instead at least being glad I’m alive..... and not hopefully being taken.....from Villains..........

You’re too busy sucking up as usual

Getting chopped even when you don’t know when to stop

ua-monoma 2:17 PM

Yep. Absolutely. All I care about is kissing ass and rising up in power.

ua-kinoko 2:17 PM

You said it not me

ua-monoma 2:18 PM

Yeah, because sarcasm doesn't exist at all.

ua-kinoko 2:18 PM

Hmph! I rather take sarcasm than excuse attempt at caring

ua-monoma 2:19 PM

Take it, then.

ua-kinoko 2:20 PM

Face it!!

You’re just mad at me because I disgraced 1-B!!!!

ua-monoma 2:21 PM

Is that what you think...

ua-kinoko 2:21 PM

You’re secretly thinking about 1-A as always

ABSOLUTELY

It’s always 1-A!!!

You think I’m bluffing but you have always been jealous!!!!

It feels like the only time you ever cared about us is when we manage to slip on top of 1-A! You’ve always used Pony to insult them, you put appearances before personality, you put too much time and effort to humiliate both classes!!

I guarantee you’re mad at me now! Because I ruined 1-B dorms, but if it were 1-A you would’ve used me like Pony!!!!!

If you claim to love us, why do you use us!!??

Mad at me for tarnishing 1-B looks, but not my safety?

ua-monoma 2:37 PM

...

Is that what you think... Haha.

Sure. I'll admit it. When I first heard about what you did, I was mad. Of course I was. You don't think this is an absolutely shameful thing to do? You don't think you and the whole class will go under fire for it? 1-A blinks wrong and the whole country is there to analyze and degrade it... Bakugou-kun did one unsightly thing on TV and he was kidnapped for it... Don't you remember? Do you really think my so-called jealousy is about anything other than them always stealing the spotlight and getting more than us? About us never getting what we deserve?

I've always just wanted to support our class. I want everyone to get the opportunities they deserve. How are you supposed to get anything good in life if you're doing things like this, Komori...? What if this had gone out in the public? You don't think you'd be crucified for doing this?

And that's not even-- Komori, Vlad-sensei has done so much for us and you betrayed him... That's what I'm so hurt by. That's what I'm angry about. Talking about me using people, but you're the one who took advantage of our teacher's trust in us. You disrespected his authority, you spat in his face and stole his hard-earned money, and then you had the gall to try and run away... Making a fool of us for trying to fix the situation...

And..

Fuck you.

I was so worried about you... None of that even mattered when you were gone. I... So much has happened. And I tried to do so much for you. And it means nothing because apparently... apparently I only care about appearances...

...

I'm glad you're safe. It's the fact that you're safe that we can even have this stupid conversation that's not going to matter in the long run. If you don't believe me, then so be it. I don't care anymore. Go talk to Vlad-sensei already...

ua-kinoko 2:39 PM

I HATE YOU NEITO!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

[Kinoko is offline]

ua-monoma 2:39 PM

... Tch.

#[[ fuck mE that took forever ]]#monoma.log #kinoko #kuroiro

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burnouts3s3 · 6 years

Text

Bully, a game review

(Disclaimer: The following is a non-profit unprofessional blog post written by an unprofessional blog poster. All purported facts and statement are little more than the subjective, biased opinion of said blog poster. In other words, don’t take anything I say too seriously.) Just the facts 'Cause you're in a Hurry! Manufacturer’s Suggested Retail Price (MSRP): 14.99 USD How much I paid: 36 USD (10 for the PS3 version and 15 for the Steam Version and 11 for the PS4 version while it was on sale). Rated: T for Teen How long I played: 10 Hours on PC while 2 hours on the PS4 version. Microtransactions: None! What I played on: PS3, PS4 and PC Performance Issues: Bully might be one of my favorite games and it might be one of the WORST PORTS EVER! Holy Shit! If the PS3 version isn’t bogged down with glacial framerates, it has pixelated graphics which are not done service on HD. (The PS3/PS4 versions are merely upscaled and have not been updated). The PS4 version runs much better with no crashes, but has been upscaled rather than remastered. The PC version, while looking better, constantly crashes and will inevitably result in lost progress as you must save manually at specific locations. And of course, that cursed plague returns, as Bully’s PC version is locked at 30 frames per second. My Personal Biases: Bully was one of my favorite games growing up during the PS2 era. So, I’ll probably be biased toward this game. CAVEAT: Bully comes in 2 versions: The original game and the Scholarship edition. The Scholarship edition contains all the content from the original game and adds features such as additional classes/mini-games, more outfits and extra story missions not found in the base game. I believe the anniversary edition is the same as the Scholarship edition only it’s released for mobile phones. (I could be wrong) Please be aware which version you’re getting. My Verdict: There’s no denying that Bully is at times juvenile, immature, naughty and that favorite word, problematic. But, if you can look past the surface, you can see, much like the protagonist Jimmy Hopkins, there’s much more underneath the surface. Buy it! Bully, a game review

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"So here I am, at probably the worst school in the country, whose alumni are nothing but arms dealers, serial killers, and corporate lawyers. Real scum. And that old creep thinks he can tame me? We shall see, my friend. I only give people what they have coming to them." — Jimmy Hopkins I don’t know how I can describe Bully in a way that fascinates me and makes it so near and dear in my heart. I was never really a Grand Theft Auto fan. Even, when I was old enough to legally play the game, I always felt detached from the main characters. It wasn’t until GTA IV came out that I really fell in love with the story, only for GTA V to come out and make things go back the way they were. Bully was released during a controversial period in the United States. When Jack Thompson was legislating heavily against game developers and video games violence, Rockstar was releasing Bully, a kid version of Grand Theft Auto. Early footage shown at E3 showed the protagonist doing heinous crimes like giving other kids wedgies, putting a kid’s head in the toilet and defying authority. Parent groups were outraged and a debate occurred whether the game went too far. The end result? Probably one of my favorite games of all time. Jimmy Hopkins is a 15 year old delinquent being sent away by his cold-hearted, gold digging mother and her fifth husband. Jimmy, having been expelled from multiple schools faces his last chance at the boarding school of Bullworth Academy. After he’s dropped off, he soon meets Gary Smith, an intelligent student who might not have the best of intentions, and Pete Kowalski, a shy boy who can’t even make friends with the geeks. Jimmy plans to get the bullies off his back and rule the school by taking out the Bullworth Cliques, the nerds, the Preps, the Greasers and the Jocks. But as Jimmy helps his fellow students (and a dysfunctional staff member or two), he learns that Gary doesn’t have his best interests in mind. What’s interesting about Bully is that Jimmy, unless dictated by the player, isn’t usually inclined to cause harm. Rather, he attempts to get payback from the various cliques who do cross his paths. (There’s been a long standing rumor that says that Bully changed its story and premise after the reaction from E3, changing Jimmy from a villain protagonist to more of an anti-hero). A lot of the criticism the game received was how small the world was and how limited Jimmy’s actions are, compared to the ground breaking Grand Theft Auto 3. Jimmy won’t be able to steal cars or kill any NPC’s. Instead, he can commit petty crimes such as shooting people with his slingshot, tagging on walls or pranking people he comes across. The delinquency meter shows the various amounts of trouble Jimmy can get into. Should he commit minor crimes such as being out of uniform or ditching class, he’ll be in minor trouble. But, violence against students, disrespecting authority or trespassing into the girl’s dormitory will send the local authorities (Prefects and teachers while in school, police officers out of school) after him. If Jimmy gets caught, he’ll be sent to the Principal’s office. Detention consists of mini-games such as using the school mower to mow lawns. But, there’s a benefit to attending class. Should you go to class, you’ll be treated to a mini-game. Completing a course will earn you benefits in the outside game world. For example, passing chemistry class allows you to make have a chem set in your room where you can create ‘weapons’ such as firecrackers, while going to English Class helps you apologize to authority figures for committing various crimes. My favorite is Art Class, where in the bonus is being able to get an extra bar of health when kissing girls. Should Jimmy complete all of his coursework (that is to say, finish all 5 difficulty levels of the mini-games), he’ll be excused from class be given free time. But it’s not all schoolwork and Frenching cheerleaders. There’s a variety of mini-games in the world such as Boxing, bike races, Carnival Games and of course, a huge number of collectables found throughout the game. If Jimmy’s strapped for cash, he can always take up a paper route. The strangest thing about Bully is that it’s a very small game. Even games like Grand Theft Auto III had a variety of environments and locations to explore with its small size. But Bullworth Acadmey and the town of Bullworth are small to explore. It creates a sense of intimacy. I can’t get lost in the world of Bullworth but I can become so intimate that the NPCs become familiar to me. That’s something special a lot of games don’t do. I’d rather have the familiarity of Bully over the vastness and at times emptiness of the Grand Theft Auto games, especially the modern ones. I should mention that the composer for the game, Shawn Lee, gave some of the most memorable music I’ve heard this side of some of the best soundtracks. Where Grand Theft Auto had licensed songs from various artists, Bully only has an original soundtrack, but it’s so alive and varied that I caught myself listening to it again and again.

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Tying it all together is Gerry Rosenthal as Jimmy. While it’s great to hear familiar voice actors, such as Martin Mull as the Headmaster, Rosenthal’s performance just manages to combine that weird teenage angst that makes the main character so relatable. Kudos to him. What really sold me was the story. I surprisingly found myself relating to Jimmy’s struggle to get through his school days and how he acts and reacts to the world around him. While Jimmy is no saint or perfect student, it does show that the world Jimmy inhabits is a flawed, corrupt and outright dirty society. All the cliques that Jimmy faces, whether it’d be the classist preppies, the posturing Greasers or the testosterone-filled Jocks, are shown to be bullies but in different ways. Meanwhile most of the adults and authority figures are two faced hypocrites. When Jimmy sees his gym teacher trying to sneak dirty magazines out of a pornography store, it becomes apparent why Jimmy doesn’t have any respect for authority. At the same time, I found certain NPCs not only memorable but also rather likable. There’s something about Jimmy helping out the strange homeless man in the Junkyard or spitting food with Edna, the lunch lady, that brings a smile to my face. So while the game holds up in terms of mechanic and I still find the characters and story charming, it pains me to say this has some of the worst ports to date. The PC version constantly crashes. I don’t know who was responsible for it, but given the number of crashes I experienced (as well as the frustration having to save your progress manually), I nearly broke my screen in frustration. Worse yet, Bully is locked at 30 Frames Per Second. The PS4 remastered version is more playable, but only features the vanilla version of the game. Closing thoughts: There’s a lot to say about bullying, the role of bullies and how our society now views bullies. And while I can’t comment on Jimmy’s reactions to the various groups of the schools will look like 50 years from now, I will say I had a blast firing my slingshot, riding my bike and getting into as much trouble with Jimmy Hopkins. It’s not what a game is about, it’s how it’s about it. Verdict: As long as you don’t get the PC Version, go buy it!

#bully #rockstar #jimmy hopkins #gta #grand theft auto #game reviews #v #/v/#vidya #video games #gaming #gamers #review

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5 Ways The War On Drugs Has Always Been Racist As Hell

Sometimes drugs can ruin lives, and sometimes they’re simply a fun Friday night. It’s a complicated subject, and we’re not going to take a side. We will, however, point out that a lot of so-called anti-drug efforts which authorities have put together over the years have mostly been excuses to harass minorities. We’re talking about how …

White Employers Got Black Employees To Use Cocaine, Then Panicked About It

Cocaine used to be just another food additive which could be found in everything from children’s pain medication to pop. You’d think its 1914 ban would’ve come down to “Holy shit, we’re putting cocaine in everything, what the hell were we thinking? It must have been all the … oh.” But while people were aware of the dangers of cocaine abuse among middle- and upper-class white Americans, that’s not why it was banned. Instead, lawmakers were driven by the early 20th century equivalent of a racist chain email from your grandpa. There were stories of black Americans supposedly abusing cocaine, gaining superhuman strength, and using that strength to attack white men and sexually assault white women.

Wiki Commons Using up precious cocaine earmarked for white children.

If you’re wondering what happened to the “black people gain drug-based superpowers and use them to commit crime” chapter of your history book, then obvious spoiler alert: It wasn’t really happening. What was happening was that cocaine use among black laborers was widespread. Its recreational use was tolerated, and sometimes white employers were explicitly giving it to their workers, in both cases because they believed it would make the employees work harder. We, uh … we used to be pretty dumb when it came to drugs.

Somehow, the “let’s give our workers coke” strategy backfired, as ridiculous stories began to spread. In 1914, The New York Times ran an article claiming that “most of the attacks upon white women of the South are the direct result of the ‘cocaine-crazed’ Negro brain” and “Negro cocaine fiends are now a known Southern menace.” While “Negro Cocaine Fiends” would be a great ironic album title, there was, shockingly, no evidence of crazed black people running wild.

While widespread use of cocaine probably wasn’t great for anyone’s disposition, “news” reports claimed that cocaine made black men hallucinate taunts and abuse, as well as gain incredible accuracy with guns and immunity to bullet wounds which would stop or kill a sober man. Holy shit! Why wasn’t cocaine being used in secret supersoldier projects? Oh, right, because it was all bullshit. But the 1914 ban was passed anyway thanks to those myths, and not out of fact-based concerns about the health risks of cocaine. (Because white people could handle their coke, goddammit!)

If you want a silver lining, the ban largely put a stop to lynchings of black men based on the “We think he’s high on coke, so he probably raped someone or whatever” clause. It also, uh, fueled nasty, often lethal stereotypes about impoverished minorities and drugs for decades to come, but that’s something, right?

Banning Alcohol From Native American Reservations Has Its Roots In A Myth That They’re Genetically Unable To Handle Booze

Yeah, there’s a running trend of white people thinking other people react differently to intoxicating substances. You may have heard the still-prevalent idea that the genes of Native Americans make them biologically prone to alcohol abuse. Supposedly, when Europeans introduced Natives to alcohol, their bodies didn’t know how to handle it and a tremendous cultural struggle with alcoholism ensued. No sir, it wasn’t the depression and trauma of watching their friends and family die while their culture and lifestyle were extinguished which contributed to alcohol abuse — it was biology! Not whitey’s fault, so deal with it.

William Faden “After all, they did trade Manhattan for four six-packs.”

It is true that Native Americans experience problems with alcohol … at a rate equal to white people. But thanks to stereotypes, we tend to view alcoholism among Natives as a moral failing endemic to their culture, while an alcoholic white guy is some dude with a problem who doesn’t reflect on other white people. Natives do experience more alcohol-related health problems than whites, but that’s because as a group, they have inferior access to healthcare, healthy food, etc. — a problem which is a subject for a future wacky comedy article.

For governing whites, prohibition laws on Native reservations were seen as a quick and easy way to address alcoholism. Natives can’t handle their booze, so cut them off and punish those who try to keep drinking. But Natives tended to see prohibition as white people trying to force a solution on them … to address a problem which they also forced on them. It’s like if someone smashed your car window and then took away your driver’s license because they said you were a bad driver for letting your window get smashed.

But even if the root causes are horrible stereotypes, prohibition is still meant to help, right? It’s certainly an improvement from the days when laws against selling booze to Natives were lifted so settlers could turn a tidy profit from alcohol abuse. But “meant” is the keyword there. If you treat Native American alcohol abuse as a unique and more desperate problem than it is among other people, you create brand-new problems. Stereotypes about Natives and alcoholism can make them too embarrassed to seek medical treatment, and it can also lead to Natives who have never touched a drink in their lives getting rejected from jobs. Hey, do you think those kind of bullshit economic punishments might contribute to alcohol abuse?

Also, a total ban on alcohol leads to people getting arrested for possession of a single beer, even though the stigma of having a criminal record is going to do someone more harm than one can of Bud Light. In one especially depressing incident, one cousin stabbed another to death over a bottle of beer, which A) might not have happened if beer wasn’t illegal, and B) is a clear sign that prohibition isn’t working. Could the truly atrocious living conditions on many reservations be contributing to incidents like that? Nah, they probably just can’t handle their firewater, right?

America’s War Against Opium Was Fueled By The Fear Of Race-Mixing

Another trend in antique drug laws is a baseless belief that minorities were stealing away white women and enabling the heinous crime of race-mixing (and implicitly, the equally heinous crime of white women not having sex with racist white dudes, even though they were totally nice guys who had their best interests at heart). Exhibit #317-B is San Francisco circa 1875, when Chinese immigrants, mostly railroad and mine workers, liked to unwind after a long day on the job by smoking opium. Hey, we’ve all been there.

The Bancroft Library “Mondays, right?”

White locals accused the Chinese of taking jobs from them during a rough economic downturn (technically true, but they were performing dangerous labor for shit pay, which is the kind of job that white locals tend to turn down or not even be offered). That complaint somehow morphed into accusations that opium dens were “girl traps.” The Chinese supposedly lured white women and teens into their dens with opium-laced candy and other treats until they were addicted and willing to have sex for more, which maybe says more about the people dreaming up such accusations than anything else.

So San Francisco outlawed opium smoking in 1875. But this was a nationwide belief. In New York City in 1883, a local worrywart set up surveillance teams to keep an eye on suspected opium dens which were supposedly corrupting white women. Tellingly, this surveillance was done by people from other neighborhoods, as most local whites didn’t have an issue with their Chinese neighbors. But they called the police whenever they suspected a stranger’s vagina was in peril, and a series of raids uncovered … a 19-year-old woman. Singular. Who didn’t appear to be an addicted sex slave. Claims that girls as young as ten were escaping before the police showed up were unproven, probably because they were super-duper made up.

But troublesome “facts” didn’t stop people from declaring that “hundreds of American girls” were becoming “associates and then slaves of the Mongolian” (old-timey racists weren’t big on demographic accuracy). So by 1909, Congress had made opium smoking, and only smoking, illegal nationwide. Drinking and injecting tinctures — how white Americans liked their medicinal and recreational opium — was still totally cool for a while, presumably as long as you pinky swore not to seduce dozens of sex slaves with the contents of your medicine cabinet.

Alcohol Prohibition Was An Anti-Immigrant And Anti-Black Panic

Prohibition and the events leading up to it had all sorts of complex causes. But one of those causes was a bunch of tedious people getting together to complain about immigrants — specifically the still-viewed-as-extremely-anti-American Germans and Irish and their love of beer. Because when history is at its worst, the masses are swayed to the side of the people complaining about beer instead of enjoying it.

In 1855 Chicago, the mayor and his followers were concerned about the influence of foreigners who took jobs and pledged spiritual allegiance to one of the most dastardly villains in history: the Pope. Gasp! They were especially distrusting of Irish and German immigrants, who liked to hit the pub on Sunday, their one day off. The Chicago Tribune called Irish Catholics “depraved, worthless and irredeemable drunkards and sots which curse the community.” We’re assuming that “sot” was a harsh burn back then.

So Chicago dusted off an old law which required taverns to be closed on Sunday … but only enforced it in immigrant communities. Chicago also sextupled the price of an annual liquor license to $300 (about 7,800 modern dollars) to try to drive immigrant bars out of business. 200 tavern owners were brought up on charges, and when the first one went to trial, there were massive protests, because you don’t fuck with a 19th century working man’s booze. One protester was killed, the mayor’s political career tanked, and the laws were eventually repealed, but it wasn’t the end of anti-letting-immigrants-drink sentiment.

The Prohibition movement was in full swing during World War I, and as you hopefully remember from history class, Germany was on team Not America. So Prohibitionist propaganda linked beer and brewing with Germany, and therefore treason. Prohibitionists also connected drinking with the Irish and other immigrants, with one congressman calling foreign drinkers the “degenerate vote” which “overwhelmed the liberties of free people” and were a “menace to our institutions.” Irish Americans were accused of being unpatriotic if they opposed Prohibition or the war, which silenced dissent.

Meanwhile, in the South, “colored only” saloons were declared “centers of vice, schools of iniquity, and hot-beds of crime.” Prohibitionists dressed the movement up as concern for those poor black people who were spending all their money and “[feeding] their animalism,” but they also accused black saloons of threatening the safety of white women and children. Because who knew what those dastardly blacks were planning when whites couldn’t keep an eye on them?

Again, Prohibition was complicated, but to some proponents, taking away one of the joys of minorities while making them less scary to the sort of people who wring their hands a lot was a big plus. One Southern Prohibitionist even argued that getting rid of saloons could prevent a race war and keep black Americans from rampaging through the streets, because ready access to alcohol was obviously the only reason black Southerners might get mad at white Southerners.

Numerous Government Officials Have Confirmed That Laws Against Drugs Are Based On Race

So far we’ve only given you historical examples, but you know what they say about history repeating itself to screw over minorities. Here, for example, is a 2015 interview with a former DEA agent who says they were told not to target drug sellers and users in rich areas, even though drugs are as prevalent there as anywhere else. The reasoning was that rich (read: mostly white) people have connections to lawyers, politicians, and judges who could make life a living hell for the DEA, while people in poorer areas (read: generally nonwhite people) wouldn’t be able to fight back.

You can find comments like that throughout American history. In the ’30s, Harry Anslinger, one of the big shots behind cannabis laws, said, “Reefer makes darkies think they’re as good as white men,” and, “There are 100,000 total marijuana smokers in the U.S., and most are Negroes, Hispanics, Filipinos and entertainers. This marijuana causes white women to seek sexual relations with Negroes, entertainers and any others.” It’s admittedly kind of refreshing to hear someone be openly racist instead of trying to dress it up as being “for their own good,” although it sounds like Mrs. Anslinger probably had an unsatisfying marriage.

Ironic, considering her husband was named “Anslinger.”

Now let’s skip through time to a 2016 article on a 1994 talk with John Ehrlichman, one of Nixon’s top advisors and a Watergate jailbird. He told Harper’s, “The Nixon White House had two enemies: the antiwar left and black people … We knew we couldn’t make it illegal to be either against the war or black, but by getting the public to associate the hippies with marijuana and blacks with heroin, and then criminalizing both heavily, we could disrupt those communities. We could arrest their leaders, raid their homes, break up their meetings, and vilify them night after night on the evening news. Did we know we were lying about the drugs? Of course we did.” He then presumably twirled his mustache and demanded one billion dollars, or else he would melt the ice caps.

The Nixon administration’s official line was that they were responding to a heroin epidemic and an uptick in the smoking of jazz cigarettes, as we believe the cool kids still call weed. And to be fair, several of Ehrlichman’s children and colleagues called bullshit on his statements, suggesting he either never said them or was being sarcastic (the writer who talked to Ehrilchman thinks he was serious and trying to atone). Nixon did establish drug education and addiction treatment programs, but also signed off on no-knock searches and is on record as referring to black Americans as “little Negro bastards” who “live like a bunch of dogs.” Again, drugs are complicated. You’re welcome to draw your own conclusions.

But while you’re reaching those conclusions, keep in mind that the drug war is incarcerating African American men at a rate about four times worse than black South Africans were during apartheid. Oh, and thanks to drug laws, there are more black men in the prison system than there were black men enslaved in 1850. So … maybe a change in strategy is in order here.

Mark is on Twitter and has a book.

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