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justinspoliticalcorner · 7 days

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Mike Hixenbaugh at NBC News:

METROPOLIS, Ill. — The pastor began his sermon with a warning. Satan was winning territory across America, and now he was coming for their small town on the banks of the Ohio River in southern Illinois. “Evil is moving and motivated,” Brian Anderson told his congregation at Eastland Life Church on the evening of Jan. 13. “And the church is asleep.” But there was still time to fight back, Anderson said. He called on the God-fearing people of Metropolis to meet the enemy where Satan was planning his assault: at their town’s library. A public meeting was scheduled there that Tuesday, and Christians needed to make their voices heard. Otherwise, Anderson said, the library would soon resemble a scene “straight out of Sodom and Gomorrah.” The pastor’s call to action three months ago helped ignite a bitter fight that some locals have described as “a battle for the soul” of Metropolis.

The dispute has pitted the city’s mayor, a member of Eastland Life Church, against his own library board of trustees. It led to the abrupt dismissal of the library director, who accused the board of punishing her for her faith. And last month, it drew scrutiny from the state’s Democratic secretary of state, who said the events in Metropolis “should frighten and insult all Americans who believe in the freedom of speech and in our democracy.” Similar conflicts have rocked towns and suburbs across the country, as some conservatives — convinced that Democrats want to "sexualize" and indoctrinate children — have sought to purge libraries of books featuring LGBTQ characters and storylines. Republican state legislatures have taken up a wave of bills making it easier to remove books and threatening librarians with criminal charges if they allow minors to access titles that include depictions of sex.

To counter this movement, Illinois Democrats last year adopted the first state law in the nation aimed at preventing book bans— which ended up feeding the unrest in Metropolis. Under the law, public libraries can receive state grant funding only if they adhere to the Library Bill of Rights, a set of policies long promoted by the American Library Association to prevent censorship.

Many longtime residents were stunned when these national fissures erupted in Metropolis, a quirky, conservative city of about 6,000 people that has a reputation for welcoming outsiders. Because of its shared name with the fictional city from DC Comics, Metropolis has for the past half century marketed itself as “Superman's hometown.” Tens of thousands of tourists stop off Interstate 24 each year to pose beneath a 15-foot Superman statue at the center of town, to attend the summertime Superman Celebration, or to browse one of the world’s largest collections of Superman paraphernalia at the Super Museum.

“Where heroes and history meet on the shores of the majestic Ohio River,” the visitor’s bureau beckons, “Metropolis offers the best small-town America has to offer.” But lately, the pages of the Metropolis Planet — yes, even the masthead of the local newspaper pays homage to Clark Kent — have been filled with strife. Unlike in comic books and the Bible, the fight in Metropolis doesn’t break along simple ideological lines. Virtually everyone on either side of the conflict identifies as a Christian, and most folks here vote Republican. The real divide is between residents who believe the public library should adhere to their personal religious convictions, and those who argue that it should instead reflect a wide range of ideas and identities.

During his sermon in January and in the months since, Anderson has cast his congregation and their God as righteous defenders of Metropolis — and the Library Bill of Rights and its supporters as forces of evil. If Christians didn’t take a stand, Anderson warned, there would soon be an entire children’s section at the library “dedicated to sexual immorality and perversion.” And before long, he said, the town would be hosting “story hour with some guy that thinks he’s a girl.”

[...] A week later, the board went into a closed session and presented Baxter with an ultimatum: If she wanted to keep her job, she needed to sign a performance improvement plan. It stipulated that she would abide by the Library Bill of Rights, seek state grant funding and discontinue praying aloud with children and other religious activities at the library. Baxter refused to sign and began to criticize the board. Voices were raised, according to three members. After a few minutes, James, the board president, slammed her fist on the table. “This is not up for debate, Rosemary,” she said. “Either sign it, or don’t.” Baxter stood up and left. Minutes later, the board came out of closed session. By a vote of 5-3, they terminated Baxter’s employment. Baxter’s departure left the library in turmoil. Four employees resigned soon after, and the board got to work picking up the pieces. They brought on a former library employee to serve as interim director and embarked on top-to-bottom reviews of the library’s catalog and finances. “Our focus,” James said, “is making sure our library is strong and healthy and there to serve everyone.” Then, on March 19, the story of Baxter’s firing was picked up by Blaze Media, a national conservative outlet. In a column titled, “A librarian’s faithful service is silenced by a secularist takeover,” conservative talk radio host Steve Deace interviewed Baxter and Anderson and reported that both had come under fire for their Christian beliefs.

Deace presented the local saga as a warning that evil forces were now coming for small-town America and blamed the problems in Metropolis, in part, on “a California transplant who is living with another man,” referring to Loverin, the library board member. Three days later, Metropolis Mayor Don Canada — who in 2021 had appointed Anderson, his pastor, to an open seat on the City Council — took a stand of his own. In letters addressed to James and two other board members, Canada announced that he’d “lost faith in the Board in its current state.” As a result, he was removing James and two others who’d voted to terminate Baxter.

In Superman's alleged hometown of Metropolis, Illinois, the town has been engulfed with strife over conflicts on the direction of the town's public library, with Eastland Life Church Pastor Brian Anderson leading a war against the library as part of the faux moral panic about LGBTQ+ books that right-wingers falsely claim such books "sexualize" children.

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freshthoughts2020 · 4 months

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GUARDING NEW YORK: gettothecorner.com/welcome/guardingnewyork

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theknightmarket · 1 year

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This is like the most random concept to probably ever come to me so out of the blue, you don't have to do it if you don't want to, but also I feel like if anyone could make something interesting out of this it'd be you. (love your fics btw<3)

So like, Illinois, with his whole knock-off Indiana Jones bullshit, with an s/o who's similarly akin to James Bond...….yeah idk either, man- You can come up with whatever action movie plot, or maybe just some domestic fluff with comically abrupt fight scenes sprinkled in cus that's just how chaotic I imagine their life would be. It's entirely up to you. I am very tired rn.

“Berlin, 1996.”

In which Illinois and his partner – in more than one sense – relive their meeting.

TW: cursing, blood, drug use, general mature themes

Pages: 12 – Words: 5,000

[Requests: OPEN]

The distant sizzle of waffle batter on a pan was the first thing you recognised when you woke in your bed. The smell of coffee wafting from the same place was the second, and the third, while a strange sensation to anyone else, was comforting to you. Your dog lapping at your hand that dangled over the side of the bed had you shaking yourself from the fuzzy grip of sleep. It was going to be a long and laborious process considering the amount of work you’d had for the last week, but this was finally a day that you could spend doing whatever you wished – which, right now, looked a lot like following the sweet scent of breakfast into the kitchen.

Moriarty led the way, the beautiful puppy, although actually a six-year-old Belgian Malinois, whom you had adopted a few years back. He had never liked many of your friends, and you trusted his nose enough to follow his advice. Sure, it might have seemed weird to take social cues from a canine, but he hadn’t steered you wrong yet. Whether it was a Russian spy you’d accidentally offered coffee to, or the smuggler who moved in down the road, Moriarty told you when people were off, and that just happened to be most of those you came in contact with. You’d long since given up making connections when the tenth potential acquaintance had turned out to be the head of some mafia you’d never even heard of.

And then imagine your surprise when you finally brought home someone he liked.

And your further surprise when he stayed the night, and then the morning, and then a week, and then a month, a year, and so on, until you should have been asking him for rent. All the while, Moriarty hadn’t made a peep, leaving you to your devices with this new and, for lack of a better term, strange fellow.

“Morning, gorgeous!”

Speak of the devil and he may appear.

That ‘devil’, affectionate, of course, was none other than the infamous Illinois Jones. A man chased by many, found by few, and held onto by only the luckiest of the lot. You were one of these people, aware that you had him in the palm of your hand, and you thanked him routinely in the morning with a kiss on the cheek for staying.

The clock on the oven flashed a sharp 08:41, an unusual time for Illi to be awake at, but you weren’t complaining. Your job was stressful; you were sure that any doctor would tell you to quit immediately with how often your blood pressure spiked, so you treasured these couple of moments when you were given a break. Your partner had an on-and-off relationship with missions, the things he preferred to call adventures, but he had a likewise relationship with the agency itself. He had a habit of running off to foreign lands without permission, looking for trouble and finding it, too. You wouldn’t mind it, had it not been for your unfortunate love of the man that drew you after him, like a dog on a leash. In the meantime, a good rest was well deserved, now that you were back in the comfort of your own home after an unexpected visit to Guyana.

Plus, he looked damn good in boxers and an apron.

You lazily wrapped your arms around his waist, unintentionally distracting him from the food he was preparing, and muttered into his neck, “G’morning.”

“If you want breakfast, you’re gonna have to let me cook, babe,” he laughed, though that didn’t stop him from leaning back into you.

Your only response was a muffled groan. It wasn’t your fault that you were so touchy-feely today. Work took up most of the daylight, and upkeep stole the rest away. The only time you really got together was in the late hours of the night when twilight would draw a sheet of privacy over the two of you and leave you alone. The stars would dance together, fireflies entertained themselves and you could just be together. Forgive yourself if you wanted to savor the minutes.

Alas, you couldn’t stay at Illinois’ side forever. You’d have to come out of hiding eventually, and now was as good a time as any, so you drowsily shuffled towards the front door. The rusted latches groaned with a mere press of your hand, swinging open with an inching pace. Immediately, a gust of dry air trampled past your face, and the faint smell of dust had you sighing more than breathing. It was a classic Louisiana morning, something you haven’t experienced in a long time – not for a lack of breaks. No, although your recent schedule has been clogged, this quant place was a safe house paid for by the agency, meaning it wasn’t only yours to begin with. It was difficult to get used to using the same amenities that a stranger had just a few days ago, in a room that had a tagline of ‘safe’, but you got over it. It just meant that sanitizing every surface was the chore of the first day.

Illinois didn’t have those reservations; the second that he stepped out of the truck, he declared it home, and went on the search for a good cave. He only agreed to come over camping in the wilderness because of the free food. Or, at least, that’s what he said. There was a small part of you that was sure it was because he didn’t want to be alone, you having no chance to agree on tents – and there was a big part of him that knew you were right.

You laughed to yourself, pulling a porch chair into the orange sunlight. Being a safe house, it was surrounded by the thickest stretch of trees in the state and, even further, lakes and rivers that made it looked untouched by human hands. The second day had been spent exploring nature together. Illinois tugged you by your hand through bushes, over boulders, underneath a couple fallen trees, all the way to the perimeter of the land. From atop a small cliff, you could see the start of urbanization, but it was sheltered by a haze of smog and lights. The city stayed alight until well into midnight and beyond, like a dying campfire, only to be fed at the crack of dawn.

A similar flicker of a flame shot into the air in front of you.

The metal of your lighter was calming, the grooves of the ingrained letters basing you in the present. ‘Berlin, 1996’ was written in small italic near the lever, making it unlikely for you to ever resist the temptation of running your fingers over the markings. It made you smile and, from time to time, had the added benefit of you putting the lighter back in your pocket. This was not one of those times, but a grin did spread over your lips, nonetheless.

The flicker met the end of a cigarette, which you promptly pulled towards your mouth when it took the flame. Illinois didn’t like the fact that you smoked, he always said how he wanted to be fit in his 90s, but you weren’t cheering for him when he jumped 20 feet down for the fun of it either. The compromise you came to was that both of you would continue to indulge the devils on your shoulders and could laugh at the other’s funeral if they died first.

In all honesty, it was not a situation that you liked to be in. The constant, looming cloud of loss scared you more than any danger the agency put you in ever could. Nights spent waiting for Illinois to come home, the fear that time would go by, and the sun would rise and set again, and the door wouldn’t open… it was damn-near paralyzing. The only thing that kept you going, ironically enough, was that same man. At least, if you went on the same jobs that he did, you could keep an eye on him. You would know what kind of danger he was in, and you had the chance to stop it. The question was: would you be fast enough?

You took another drag of your cigarette.

“You shouldn’t smoke, y’know.” The porch crackled as Illinois stepped onto the wooden planks. “It’s not good for you.”

“I hadn’t noticed.”

A light-hearted chuckle brushed against your ear, accompanied by the click of his boots and humming of cicadas. The deep sound stopped when he swung another chair next to yours. As he came into view, you saw he had replaced his apron with a simple, loose shirt that fell from him like a woman who had fainted in distress. To catch Illinois in a shirt that actually fit him would be to kill the king – impossible and, according to him, a crime punishable by death.

“You know,” he spoke up, “you don’t look like the rumors.”

Your head unconsciously twisted to the side, so that you could see Illinois only slightly better. His own gaze was fixated in the distant spread of trees. Questions as to what he was starting at batted against you, but you settled on making a curious noise, instead.

“When we first met, I thought you’d lied to me. I’d heard all these stories about a suave, collected, expert of a heartbreaker, and then…”

“They were proved incorrect?”

He took in a steady breath. “No. They were proved, uh, very correct. Actually, after hearing about you, I kinda,” he coughed, as though that would transfer his thoughts directly to you and take away the need to say the words, “made some assumptions that were not as correct.”

Illinois prided himself on being right most of the time – and expressed himself as being right all of the time. However, this was one of the only things that he would admit he was wrong about, this being you. The image he had conjured of you was snide and snobby, only in it for themself and with the biggest case of holier-than-thou syndrome he’d ever thought of. Those stories of you driving fancy cars had pushed him into a corner, trapped by a cage of disgust and partial envy. Then, the rumors of how many people you had seduced worked their magic, followed by a notorious habit of smoking and drinking, which designated you, though he perished the thought now, a scumbag.

But when he’d actually met you…

“And I’m, uh, glad they weren’t.”

He swung an arm around your chair, drew rough fingers across your collarbone and directed your jaw into facing him. The light breeze shifted your hair like a lover’s touch, and the yellow sun decorated you like a bespoke artwork. Something he’d steal from a museum if he had to, but, no, he had you sitting right in front of him, with the quirk of an eyebrow and a small smile on your lips. He was lucky, he knew that, and he thanked his lucky stars every time he woke up next to you in sparkling mornings, every time your hands brushed when he pulled you up from a ledge, every time your eyes met from across a ballroom.

The first time that happened was still something he treasured more than any bespoke jewel or painting.

“Let’s get this business started.”

The night was young, the guests were pleasantly tipsy, and you were perched at one of the centre tables, next to three attractive models and the focus of your attention.

At this moment, you and your company were in the Berlin Operetta House, a classic establishment with smoke and liquor running through its veins. You had joined in – for lack of anything better to do while biding your time – and had been seated with these four the last two hours. The women you had no information on, except for what you had observed in the time given, most of which boiled down to being pretty faces for the big guy sitting across from you.

Earnest Whimson, dramatic irony demanding repentance of his parents as he was anything but earnest. He’d made his living on buying and selling anything he could get him tobacco-stained hands on, be it stolen goods, illegal drugs, or people themselves. It was a desolate trade, rotten but protected by the wallets of the people at the top. In those cases, there was only one person the authorities would routinely turn to.

You.

The authorities, the uncorrupted minorities, would plead with your agency for help, and you were the first person on the list. Call it luck or honed skill, you didn’t care. What you did care about was getting the job done in a quick and efficient manner. These places weren’t good to stay in for more than a day, lest you want to gain a certain reputation in all of the sectors. Thus, speed was top billing this night. That, and types like Whimson made it hard to keep your cover with the way he was talking.

Luckily for you, nine o’clock was rearing its head, the lights were dimming and only a few people were left still chatting over their expensive dining. All eyes were directed towards the stage with fervor, those who didn’t know what was happening watching in piqued interest and those who did waiting with bated breath for the real show to begin.

You did know what was happening, you were indeed waiting, but your breaths were slow and steady, like a smooth rock in a brook. The plan was simple; starting at nine, you’d watch Whimson, make friendly banter with him while he bid on whatever items caught his eye. When he inevitably would call out a ludicrous amount of money for a bejeweled crown or statue and the night comes to a close, you’d excuse yourself and make your way to where that thing was located, wait for Whimson, and kindly dispatch the man before anyone could catch wind of what happened. The money he had taken out the few hours before would go to any witnesses, and you’d get back home in time for a smoke and martini.

Simple.

Except your life had to be hard, didn’t it? You couldn’t just have a plan and stick to it, without something going wrong. Why? You didn’t know. If it had to do with karma or just bad luck, you didn’t know. A pity, really, when it would have made it so much easier to fix it if you did. It almost made you laugh, the thought of what a normal, easy mission was like.

And the things that went wrong never stayed the same. In one instance, you’d find your getaway driver with a bullet through his skull – in another, your target was informed of your mission and managed to get away – sometimes, it was just raining.

Right now, the thing that went wrong was something that had never happened before.

That thing being the infamous Illinois Jones.

Not even half an hour into the auction, and yet this man, adorned in an open, off-white shirt and multiple belts, was leaping onto the wooden slats. Your jaw would have been on the ground had it not been for the table, if not for his bravado, then for his stupidity. The artifact Whimson had bid on – go figure, a bejeweled crown – slotted nicely into his hand as he snatched it from its marble pedestal, shocking the woman presenting it into stumbling back. A wink was sent her way, she ran off, and Illinois turned to the audience.

You listened as he spoke. You sat quietly, pretending that you were shocked, when, in reality, you were seething. The boiling of your blood was louder than the whispering of the bidders, and you found yourself restraining the urge to run up there and slap him for ruining your mission. Questions preoccupied your mind while he lectured the guests about the importance of culture and integrity. Why him - why now?! He wasn’t even a part of the agency, he shouldn’t have known about this bid, and yet there he was, like a smug reaper coming to steal your soul into hell. Did he even know you were there? Did it matter to him?

You only noticed Illinois had stopped talking when he swiveled on the heel of his boot, presumably struck a pose, and then stalked off the stage. Everyone was in such a shock that they didn’t stop him, at least, not at first. After a few seconds had passed for people to gain their composures, that was the cue for havoc to befall the room. Illinois had single-handedly converted an organization of logical, fat cats into a daycare for screaming toddlers; suited men pushed themselves away from tables and darted down the hallways, bodyguards unequipped their guns and set about searching for the adventurer, while some of the wives, understandably, stayed to sip on white wine. You would very much join them if it weren’t for Whimson leaning over to his personal bouncer to whisper in his ear.

“Get the street rat.”

You sighed and took a final swig of your drink. Illinois was a menace, sure, but you weren’t willing to let him die for his ignorance. The agency may have applauded you as you returned, but you had maintained something of a moral compass during your work, so you liked to think you wouldn’t let him die like this. As you said, the man was infamous, and infamous people would not find their ends at the hands of a capitalist bastard’s lapdogs.

The clink of your glass against the wooden table did not draw Whimson’s attention, but, if it had, he might have been able to avoid the bullet that wedged itself into his skull. You had aimed for his temple, and you were a brilliant shot. The smoke of your pistol camouflaged itself into the ceiling’s belt of fog. Cigarettes, similar to the one you now pulled out from a pocket to light. This job was not only stressful, it was stress. No mission could be easy, no day could go according to plan, and no panicked mob of refined guests could leave the building in an orderly fashion. People swarmed to the exits at the sound of the gunshot, tripping over one another and abandoning their guests to, presumably, your slaughter.

You took a drag of your cigarette, pressed it between your lips, and gathered the suit jacket that had been on the back of your chair. Movements slow and deliberate, it was a wonder how the guard dogs Whimson had sent to Illinois hadn’t turned around yet to catch you. Good for you, but stupid on their part. Nevertheless, you were out of the manic tide of bidders before they could even realise their owner was slumped against the mahogany, brain matter splayed on his dress shirt.

The sound of clicking dress shoes amidst the cacophony of panic sent leftover guests into hiding, with the thought that anyone that calm in the sea of chaos was in control of the situation, and that anyone who wouldn’t do anything to stop it was not to be messed with. This gave you the perfect path towards your new target. Calling out Illinois’ name was unnecessary, given you could already hear distant shots echoing down the hallways.

And when you came to the end, asking where those gunshots were meant to hit was also unnecessary.

The wall behind Illinois was pepped with holes, like a coral beach, while Whimson’s bodyguards looked relatively unharmed. From your position, it looked like Illinois was doing everything he could to dodge the bullets, and nothing to actually fight back. Putting your cigarette out on a recently polished cabinet, you delved into the fray.

The first man down was yours, with an ornamental vase smashed against his skull, the kind of ones only used for grasping at when someone’s strangling you, but they still worked well to knock him out. Next down was his friend, who charged at you with intent to kill, but a shard of the broken porcelain stuck in his throat sent him to the ground. Blood trickled from the cut like a damaged water fountain, but none of the others paid him mind. Really, how would they ever survive without comradery?

You didn’t know, because they wouldn’t; Illinois, in tandem with your bloodier style, brought a table leg down onto another of the staff, the frail wood cracking the second it touched his head. The man whirled around with fury in his eyes, but those soon rolled back with the force of a punch to his face. You watched on, subtly impressed, though now was no time to ogle. Instead, you could do so after these people had been dispatched.

Strikes to the lower abdomens, blunt-force trauma to their foreheads, and what you hoped were lethal cracks of bone kept everyone wanting to live away from the corridor. You brought one dress shoe down on a woman’s fingers, sighed at the pitiful crunch that was muffled by her scream, and then stood up to assess the situation. One, two, three- four, two were on top of each other, and the one that Illinois was currently bashing against the wall. That made five at the scene.

Six, if you were to include the one that popped a bullet past your thigh. Lousy shot, they barely grazed the clothing, though it was a shame; that outfit had been one of your favorites.

Swiping a hand to your gun, you whirled around to see a particularly bulky bastard rounding the corner you’d come from. Illinois jumped to your side to look at the arrivals and took notice of your weapon in quick fashion. If only he had more trouble with brutalizing that last one, you might have hit the bullseye.

But a pressure on your wrist distracted you enough to miss. With your target swiveling to look at the newly cracked mirror and one end of the corridor swarmed by suited staff members, your night was only getting worse, and you lamented as such while Illinois dragged you down to the only available exit.

Your job required a lot of running – more than the average desk job did, at least – and that was why your legs were able to work on autopilot despite the adrenaline working through your veins that pressured you to be aware of every little thing that crossed your mind. The shattered glass from dropped plates, the swinging of doors as the last party members escaped, the texture of Illinois’ hand that had steadily moved to wrap around your own fingers. He was decorated with callouses and rough patches, war wounds sustained in the battlefield of caves and climbing. They told a story, one that you could have read had you enough time, but, for now, you had to be satisfied with knowing his present – told to you, not by his skin, but by you also experiencing it at his side.

That involved the darting through doors, ducking under pipes, skirting around the staff members who hadn’t gotten the memo. You didn’t even have the chance to ask where Illinois was bringing you, too focused on not slamming straight into a wall. The steady sounds of boots marching behind you, of which you counted six or seven, propelled you forward, like striking a match against a line of gas. You barely felt conscious throughout the run; the rattle of Illinois’ pickup truck went over your head, and the jingle of a bar’s bell hardly registered until you were seated in one of the old bar seats where you came to, a drink in your hand and Illinois staring right at you. Well, not just staring right at you, but also spilling every bad pick-up line in his book.

“I was wondering if you had an extra heart, because mine was just stolen.”

You had half a mind to put your martini down and walk out the door.

“I’m really glad I bought life insurance, because when I saw you, my heart stopped.”

Did he have life insurance?

“You must be a bank loan, because you’ve got my int—”

“Why do you even want that thing, anyway?” you interrupted, vaguely gesturing to the crown peeking out of his satchel with your non-drink hand.

“So, now you’re interested?” he chuckled, but only stopped long enough to order a whiskey before he commented, “The crown of Dos Partom, an old relic from the Mesopotamian era. No idea how it ended up in a bidding war, but, really, it belongs in a museum—” he shot a glance to the side, acting as though he hadn’t been watching you for the past ten minutes, “—that, and the company isn’t bad.”

So, he was the cocky type? You could’ve guessed that from the million stories about his personality, but it was a wonder to see it in action. Sure, you had a habit of using your charisma to get into places you shouldn’t have been, but this? What was he hoping to achieve? You’d already saved his ass from Whimson’s lackeys, and yet there he was, perched on the bar stool next to you, continuing his verbal assault of shoddy lines. Your eyes rolling and your annoyance growing, you twisted in your seat and removed a cigarette from your belt’s pocket. Normally, on mission days, you had five or six, a large step down from when you had days off, and yet this day was taking its toll on your stash.

“You shouldn’t smoke, y’know.”

And so, too, was Illinois taking his toll on your patience.

“It’s not good for you.” Regardless, you continued your strut to the backgarden of the bar. Lucky for you, despite the lateness, the weather had taken pity on you. A gentle breeze carved through the foliage and guided the smoke of your cigarette into the moonlit sky. The growl of cars and humming of lights brought you to lean against the white brick wall and take in the scenery. When you got a moment to yourself, appreciating where you were was the best you could do – because, who knows, you could be dead tomorrow.

You took another drag, and then placed it on your bottom lip as you retrieved your phone. It was just a burner that you took on missions, but it had all the essentials, including the number of your assigned agency representative. The handlers, you called them. You didn’t know the name of yours, but you trusted them with everything about yourself; where you were, who you were with, what you were doing down to the shift of a foot. Right now, you were entrusting them with the simple name of your mission and the promise of it having been finished at your normal quality.

“Berlin, 1996,” you muttered as you typed the letters.

“Keeping a diary there, sweetheart?”

Could you catch a break? Apparently not, you assumed, as the sight of Illinois wrapped around the corner. His hat was off, held in one hand, and both your drinks in the other. You met his eyes, he stared back, and then you removed your glass.

“Thank you.”

“No problem.”

“What do you want?”

Illinois pretended to be shocked, reeling back and pressing his hat to his chest. “Me? Want something? From you?” he gasped, a smirk overthrowing his lips only when you didn’t react. “Not at all.”

“Don’t play dumb, Jones,” you warned.

“I appreciate that you think I play dumb.”

That teasing smile, the glistening eyes, you had to look away before you did anything drastic. Whether that was punching him or kissing him, you didn’t know, but you knew that looked off into the well-trimmed hedges halted the urge. “I know you’re not just a pretty face, what do you want?”

“And I’m pretty?” Another chuckle. “You don’t need to say all that to get me interested.”

“Just—” you took a breath in, “—tell me what you want from me, and then we can part ways. Easy.”

“And what if I don’t want it to be easy?”

Someone inside the bar shouted that it was last call, but neither of you moved to grab your final drinks. Neither of you moved, at all. You stayed still, Illinois stayed still, and the only sound between you was the buzz of moths at the dangling light just a few inches away. Illinois was… he was something else, that was for sure. Either he was going to kill himself, or you were going to kill him yourself. No matter what, you wanted to be there for it.

Reaching out, you pulled a thumb along his jawline and took a sip of your martini out of the other hand. Illinois was too stunned to speak, leaving you the chance to remove your hand, snatch his hat and shove it onto his head in one, fast motion. He made some sort of sound, one that you didn’t catch as you waltzed back into the bar.

Illinois, standing in the porchlight, laughed to himself and followed you inside – and then, in another year, five months and two days, he’d be doing the exact same thing, except, this time, with a golden band around both of your fingers.

[As a Brit myself, and having seen neither James Bond nor Indiana Jones, this was a treat for me! Thank you for requesting! Also, as some of you may have noticed, I have currently closed my requests because exam season is coming up, but I should be back around the end of June. Thank you for sticking with me, and, again, thank you for requesting!]

#markiplier #illinois x reader #illinois #markiplier egos x reader #markiplier egos #fanficiton #theknightmarket #x reader #request #reader insert #oneshot #Indiana jones #James bond

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shutterandsentence · 24 days

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"Therefore, get rid of all moral filth and the evil that is so prevalent and humbly accept the Word that is planted in you, which can save you."

-James 1:21

Photo: Morton Arboretum, Illinois

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wouldntyou-liketoknow · 10 months

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I have a request! Pennsylvania getting trapped when a cave collapses (maybe even injured for extra angst) and Illinois has to get him out. There’s only a small hole they can talk to each other through, and Illinois talks to Penn to calm him down and keep him calm while he digs him out/waits for help (it’s up to you). If possible, can we get at least a few parts (if not the whole story) from Penn’s POV?

If this request isn’t to your liking, you totally don’t have to do it if you don’t want to. If you do want to do it, you have my greatest thanks!

"pRaCtIcInG wItH sHoRtEr FiCs" lmao who was I kidding?

Ah, I've been meaning to try and give Penn a story of his own! Sorry this took so long, but then again, this might be the very first story that I've managed to finish in a single day! I hope you enjoy it!!!

(Trigger Warnings: descriptions of dark and slightly claustrophobic areas, descriptions of puncture wounds, blood, panic/fear, pain and suffering, exhaustion, bruises/scars/scrapes/cuts, strong language. Please let me know if I missed anything.)

___

Pennsylvania James was many things. A dinosaur tomb-raider was definitely one of them, but he was pretty sure claustrophobic wasn’t.

Then again, perhaps it would be at the end of the day. . .

He generally preferred to work out in the open. Sure, sometimes you had to wear a few pounds of sunscreen. And sure, no matter how long you thought excavation was going to take, it would always find a way to take much, much longer.

You got to have plenty of light with outdoor projects.

You got to have actual space with outdoor projects.

Penn sucked in a sharp breath through his teeth. His eyes burned as fat tears streamed down his face.

Blistering pain wracked his entire body, racing up and down his tendons. He tried to move as carefully as possible, but even when his muscles merely twitched, that pain took it as an invitation to grow worse.

You typically didn’t find yourself in predicaments like this with outdoor projects.

Should’ve followed Illinois, a voice in Penn’s head chided. Should’ve read the writing on the damn wall!

“Penn. . ?” Illinois’ voice bounced along the craggy walls, but Penn could tell his companion was somewhere nearby. It was accompanied by the telltale sound of footsteps, which grew louder and faster and closer, then skidded to a stop.

And now Illinois had to be right outside the chamber—the entrance of which was now filled with rocks that came in various shapes and sizes—because he screamed, “PENN, OH MY GOD!”

“Illinois!” Penn finally responded. He hated how labored his voice sounded, but he knew he couldn’t exactly be blamed for that.

“I can tell you’re hurt!” Illinois declared. “Is anything broken? Did any rocks fall in there, too?”

“I-I’m not sure. I only know that I’m bleeding!” Penn stammered. Despite his pain, he felt grateful that Illinois hadn’t bothered asking if he was okay when he obviously wasn’t. “I haven’t been buried, but I still can’t afford to move too much!”

“O-okay, okay! Stay calm!” Illinois’ statement was punctuated by the cacophony of stone scraping against stone. “This pile isn’t too big—the rocks are loose! I can get you out of there! Just hold on!”

“Not much else I can do,” Penn snarked. His voice was dripping with reasonable anxiety rather than sarcasm, so his words didn’t really come off the way he wanted them to.

Illinois Jenkins (treasure-hunter extraordinaire) called this place Stamina Cavity. For one thing, Penn couldn’t deny how cool a title that was. For another thing, the Cavity consisted of multiple levels, with chambers that seemed to be connected by tunnels that stretched from almost the very top of the rock spire to the darkest depths of its underground bowels. Exploring the Cavity to its fullest would take a helluva lot of energy, even if the explorer in question was going at a casual pace.

Though their journeys together had been sporadic, Penn had gotten to know Illinois pretty well. He knew that Illinois preferred temples and the like, but apparently there had been some miscommunication in his recent adventuring plans. Apparently, it would take much more time and preparation than usual before Illinois could be flown out to the decaying shrine currently on his radar.

And there just so happened to be a forest on the outskirts of the town he’d been staying at. So, with not much else to do, he’d driven out there a couple days earlier, seeking to clear his head with a simple nature walk.

And in the middle of his hike, he’d come across the base of a mountain. One that just so happened to boast the yawning mouth of a cave.

Like a moth to a flame, he’d immediately taken the obvious invitation and, sooner or later, discovered that what this cave system lacked in stuff like hieroglyphics and golden trinkets, it made up for in different kinds of fossils.

One thing led to another, and Penn (who’d also been bored out of his skull due to not being able to dig up the skull of something that had died an odd million years ago) had met up with Illinois for some good ol’ fashioned spelunking. Those who made up the excavation team he usually worked with were all busy with their own errands at the moment. Besides, he’d be lying if he said he hadn’t wanted to catch up with Illinois.

There were a decent amount of trace fossils adorning most of the chambers here. And while trace fossils were better than nothing, they were still. . .small. Basic. Just not quite enough to sate a curious appetite.

So, of course, he and Illinois had ventured deeper and deeper. It’d taken some time, but their tenacity had been rewarded.

Not only had they discovered a definite Big Boy (or Girl)—Penn couldn’t tell what it had been right now, but he knew it was some kind of carnivorous theropod—but said Big Boy (or Girl)’s skull was partially exposed! Like the creature had been standing; scratch that, had been practically posing at the time of its death!

Oh sure, digging the fossil out would still be extraordinarily difficult, but that was very much overshadowed by the fact that tHIS WAS THE FIRST EXPOSED SPECIMEN PENN HAD EVER FOUND! This type of circumstance was so. Damn. Rare!

He couldn’t even remember the last time he’d heard about another paleontology team finding something like this!

But then. . .just as Penn had been pacing around the fossil, listening to Illinois jokingly ask where his “thank you” was, jotting down notes, trying to decide the best way to eventually start excavation. . .an odd, distant rumbling manifested from elsewhere in the Cavity.

It’d made both of the archaeology buffs give pause, but Illinois had been quick to stroll out of the chamber, promising to investigate.

The rumbling failed to let up after that. In fact, it seemed to have grown louder and stronger with every second that Illinois was gone.

Things had happened so insanely fast from there. . .Penn wasn’t sure when the fossil had started shaking. . .

But that didn’t matter right now.

What mattered was that part of a huge skull was now on top of him, pinning him to the ground.

What mattered was that a number of large, jagged teeth had sunk into one of his legs, as though the dinosaur’s ghost wanted to bite him and had almost succeeded in an attempt to reanimate itself.

What mattered was that, even with a (admittedly high-powered) torch as his only source of light, Penn could very easily see blood saturating his clothes as it oozed out of his skin.

The stench of iron was heavy, apparently having filled the chamber at breakneck speed. Penn was sure that it’d wafted out through the rock pile blocking the entrance, as Illinois seemed to be gagging between his panicked reassurances.

The canvas rucksack Penn always brought on trips like this lay just a few feet away from him. The muscles in one of Penn’s arms shrieked as he reached out to claw at the bag. He managed to drag it closer, shakily propping himself up on his elbows in order to open it up and dig through it.

He was quick to find Old Reliable: a large, sturdy rock hammer that he’d received on his very first expedition.

Even with Illinois actively working to dig him out of the chamber, Penn wouldn’t be going anywhere. Not unless he managed to get out from underneath the skull—to get the skull’s teeth out of his leg.

Penn wrapped his free hand around the fossil’s premaxilla; there was just barely any space between it and his thigh. He dug Old Reliable’s claw into the dirt beneath him, then forced the hammer’s face up against the maxilla’s edge.

THWACK!

The tool reverberated in his grasp, but the skull indeed budged a millimeter or two. Unfortunately, ancient, almost dagger-like teeth shifting while still partially inside his flesh didn’t make for the most pleasant feeling.

A short scream escaped Penn’s lips before he could even try to bite it down.

“What was that?” Illinois blurted. From the sound of things, he didn’t pause his movements. “Penn, what’s going on?!”

“I’m trying to pull my damn weight, that’s what’s going on!” Penn replied. “I-I’m fine, just keep going!”

THWACK-THWACK!

Old Reliable had to offer up several more strikes. Which were accentuated by more agonized wails on Penn’s part.

The progress was slow, but it was still progress.

Yet another howl tore itself from Penn’s throat as the fossil’s ivories were finally dislodged. Thankfully, he was quick to leverage Old Reliable between the fossil and the ground, which allowed him to crawl a couple feet away before the skull could fall back onto him.

His skin stung and seemed to throb as the Cavity’s cold air met the fresh, deep cuts. The way his blood seeped almost felt like newly-hatched snakes crawling out of his skin.

Penn floundered in place, his fingertips turning slick and red as he gingerly prodded at his injured leg. After determining which of the lacerations was the worst, he rushed to take off his hiking vest.

He’d just finished tying the makeshift tourniquet when the ground near his head ever-so-slightly shook. He startled badly at what sounded like grinding gravel on steroids, barely able to process the sensation of hands grabbing onto his shirt.

Instinctual panic was just about to start welling up, but was quickly overpowered by relief as Penn heard Illinois’ familiar voice, as he remembered what had been happening on his friend’s end of this.

Penn was quickly dragged into an upright position, and while he gave no resistance, a sharp, hitching gasp still slithered through his teeth. Illinois flinched, quickly bowing his head to allow Penn to grab onto one of his shoulders for extra support.

Way back when the two of them had first met, Penn had been willing to put money on Illinois being unable to make any facial expression that wasn’t at least somewhat suave or suggestive.

Right here, right now, however. . .

Illinois’ naturally tan skin had turned an almost sickly pale shade. His dark brown eyes were full of fear, concern, guilt.

Of course, that transitioned to partial disbelief when he glanced at the fossil's bloodstained teeth. "Holy shit. . !"

“I. . .I don’t think a major artery was hit,” Penn coughed. “If that was the case, I definitely would’ve bled out by now.”

“Y-yeah, well, there’s still a chance for infection,” Illinois replied, his normally silky voice shuddering. “We’ve got to get you to a hospital!”

Penn raised an eyebrow, possibly more incredulous than he’d ever been before. “What, does it sound like I’m denying that?!”

And with that, the duo began half-sprinting half-limping up the tunnel they’d wandered through no more than fifteen minutes ago. . .

@insane4fandoms

#the edgelord gets fed #writing requests #my writing #penn/pennsylvania james #matpat #egopats #my character #fanmade egos #my fan egos #ahwm illinois #markiplier #tw blood #tw panic #tw pain/injury #tw descriptions of dark and slightly claustrophobic areas

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dontmeantobepoliticalbut · 2 years

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A grand jury in Lake County, Illinois, has returned 117 felony counts against Robert E. Crimo III, the man accused of shooting into a crowd during a July 4th parade in Highland Park, killing seven people and woounding dozens of others.

Crimo, 21, is charged with 21 counts of first-degree murder, three counts for each deceased victim.

He also is charged with 48 counts of attempted murder and 48 counts of aggravated battery with a firearm for each victim who was struck by a bullet, bullet fragment or shrapnel, a release from the Lake County State's Attorney's Office said.

CNN has reached out to Crimo's attorney for comment.

"I want to thank law enforcement and the prosecutors who presented evidence to the grand jury today. Our investigation continues, and our victim specialists are working around the clock to support all those affected by this crime that led to 117 felony counts being filed today," State's Attorney Eric Rinehart said in the release.

Crimo is expected to appear in person in court on August 3 for his arraignment, the release said. He has been held without bail since being arrested during a traffic stop hours after the shooting.

Crimo voluntarily admitted to authorities he emptied two 30-round magazines before loading his weapon with a third and firing again, Lake County Assistant State's Attorney Ben Dillon said earlier this month during a virtual bail hearing. If convicted on first-degree murder charges, Crimo faces a maximum sentence of life in prison.

Authorities have said they have not learned the suspected shooter's motive.

According to state police, Crimo bought rifles and other guns between June 2020 and September 2021. He passed four background checks, including checks of the federal National Instant Criminal Background Check System.

Almost three years before his son killed seven people and wounded dozens at a July 4th parade in Highland Park, police say Robert Crimo Jr. signed the young man's application for an Illinois Firearm Owners Identification (FOID) card.

The elder Crimo agreed to sponsor Robert "Bobby" E. Crimo III's gun license -- required to purchase a gun in Illinois -- in 2019, just months after local police received a report the son had said "he was going to kill everyone" in his family, police say. Officers had also checked on the young man earlier that year after he had "attempted to commit suicide by machete," according to a police report. An attorney for the parents says they have disputed details of the incidents in the police reports.

Now, with Bobby Crimo facing seven counts of first-degree murder in connection with the Independence Day shooting, his father insists he has done nothing wrong and denies any responsibility for his son's actions.

The Lake County state's attorney has not ruled out charges against the father, saying -- in response to a question about the elder Crimo's legal responsibility -- that prosecutors are still reviewing the evidence "in terms of who knew what when" in the case. The state's attorney has not said anything to suggest the parents were aware of their son's plans.

In the days after the 21-year-old gunman interrupted the holiday parade with a barrage from a Smith & Wesson M&P15 semi-automatic rifle, his father and mother, Denise Pesina, have hired a new lawyer as their actions before their son's heinous attack have come under question.

But criminal charges against the father and possibly the mother in the deadly shooting committed by their son would be highly unusual and difficult for prosecutors to prove, according to legal experts. Prosecutors must convince a jury or a court the parents aided and abetted the crime and consciously disregarded a known risk of death to prove involuntary manslaughter, experts say.

"These are hard cases when it's not the individual who actually fired the weapon, but someone else who we are expecting to have seen it coming," said Eve Brensike Primus, a University of Michigan law professor who specializes in criminal procedure. "Those are high barriers."

Attorney George Gomez, who represents both parents, said the family is "trying to cooperate with all local, state and federal authorities at the moment."

Asked if he felt there was any criminal wrongdoing by his clients, particularly the father, Gomez referred to Bobby Crimo's father: "We take the position that my client ... did nothing wrong in this case."

Gomez, when asked on Monday about the elder Crimo's sponsorship of his son's gun license despite the previous police visits to the home, told CNN that "in hindsight, when you look at everything, of course, the father would have never consented for his son to apply for the FOID."

CNN's calls to Crimo Jr. have not been returned. Pesina also did not respond to requests for comment.

Lake County State's Attorney Eric Rinehart said there is no criminal liability for sponsoring a firearm owner's ID but noted that prosecutors were still reviewing evidence.

"There's different ways to look at potential criminal liability in this case," Rinehart told CNN. "There's not a per se violation of law if you vouch for somebody in a FOID card and they end up doing something terrible like this. But, having said that, we are continuing to investigate the case and continuing to explore all options."

Asked about the potential criminal liability of the father, Rinehart said Monday that investigators are trying to piece together what family members and others may have known before the attack.

"We're looking at a lot of different ways to understand what was going on in the days before the attack," he told CNN. "What everyone's knowledge was, not just family members but beyond. So there's a lot of work to be done. There are lots of ways to look and think about what people knew and should have done or could have done."

Rinehart declined to say whether anyone else could be charged.

PROSECUTORS WOULD HAVE TO SHOW PARENTS FORESAW CRIME

Eric A. Johnson, a professor at the University of Illinois College of Law, says a reckless homicide charge against the parents remains a possibility.

Johnson says reckless homicide is applicable to any act that causes a death, so long as the person was reckless in performing the act -- meaning they were aware of a substantial and unjustifiable risk that the act would cause someone's death.

Parents of accused shooters historically haven't been charged in mass shootings until recently. The most notable case is that of a 15-year-old accused of killing four fellow students at a Michigan high school in November, CNN legal analyst Areva Martin says.

Michigan prosecutors say the negligence of parents Jennifer and James Crumbley allowed their son, Ethan, access to the weapon used in that mass shooting. Each has pleaded not guilty to four counts of involuntary manslaughter. Their son has also pleaded not guilty, and his attorneys filed notice they plan to use an insanity defense at trial.

A major difference between the two cases is the age of the defendants. Crumbley was 15 at the time of the school shooting. Bobby Crimo is 21.

"Their responsibility for overseeing him, parenting him, is different in kind from that of the Crumbley parents, who had a minor," Primus said of Bobby Crimo's parents.

Illinois prosecutors would have to establish that Crimo's parents not only had a disregard for human life but also foresaw their child committing a crime, according to legal experts.

"The question this prosecutor is going to have to ask: Was it reasonably foreseeable that someone who had made a suicide attempt and who had threatened to kill others would lead that person ... to commit the crime against the paradegoers," Martin said. "And if the answer to that question is yes ... there definitely could be manslaughter charges filed against his dad, who did sign that consent form and gave consent for him to gain access to the high-powered weapon and weapons that were used."

GUNMAN EXHIBITED DISTURBING BEHAVIOR AT HOME

In aftermath of the July 4th shooting, people in the Highland Park area and beyond have asked why the young man's parents did not take his increasingly disturbing behavior in recent years more seriously.

That alone, however, does not make his parents criminally culpable for his actions.

The younger Crimo uploaded his own music videos on several major streaming outlets and on a personal website under the name "Awake the Rapper." Some of the music featured ominous lyrics and animated scenes of gun violence.

One video, titled "Are you Awake," showed the young man with multicolored hair and face tattoos. "I need to just do it. It is my destiny," he declared. In the video, a stick-figure animation resembling Bobby Crimo wears tactical gear and carries out an attack with a rifle.

Another video shows a stick figure that also resembles the younger Crimo lying face down in a pool of blood. The cartoon figure is surrounded by police officers with their guns drawn. A third video features Bobby Crimo in a helmet and a tactical vest as he drops bullets onto a classroom floor.

Officers were called to the family's home multiple times over the years after domestic disputes involving the parents and the troubling behavior of their son, police records show.

In April 2019, according to police reports, officers came to the home for a wellness check on Bobby Crimo, then 18, after a call that he had tried to take his life with a machete one week earlier. The report said mental health professionals dealt with the matter.

Months later, in September, police responded to a report that Bobby Crimo had "stated that he was going to kill everyone" in his family. The young man admitted to officers that he had been depressed and had a history of drug use, the police report says.

"The threat was directed at family inside of the home," said Chris Covelli, spokesman for the Lake County Major Crimes Task Force.

Gomez, the attorney who represents both parents, said his clients have disputed the accuracy of both police reports. He said the parents described the September 2019 incident as a "domestic dispute" and told him Bobby Crimo did not speak of suicide or of killing anyone else.

Gomez said officers spoke to Bobby Crimo at the time and he "denied ever trying to harm somebody and trying to harm himself."

Officers confiscated 16 knives, a dagger and a "Samurai type blade" that were in Bobby Crimo's closet. Later that day, his father went to the police station and picked up the collection, which belonged to him, according to the police report.

Gomez said the knives were "collectibles" and not "weapons for use of any type of harm." He added, "At the end of the day, the officers were there. They assessed the situation."

Highland Park police submitted a "Clear and Present Danger" report about the visit to the Illinois State Police, the police report says. State police say in the report that Bobby Crimo told officers he didn't intend on harming himself or others when police questioned him.

State Police Master Sgt. Delilah Garcia says that at the time they looked at whether Bobby Crimo had a FOID card that should have been revoked, but he did not. Three months later, the elder Crimo signed as the sponsor of his son's gun license.

Bobby Crimo used the card sponsored by his dad to legally purchase multiple guns before he turned 21 last year, passing four background checks, according to state police. That included the semi-automatic rifle he used in the shooting.

Gomez told CNN that "the family denies that there was any issues of suicide" during the 2019 incident and stressed law enforcement found "no safety risk."

"I believe that the parents would have done things differently if ... they had known that their son would have been able to commit such atrocities and would have in hindsight been able to see and connected all the dots at the end of the day," Gomez told CNN.

"The parents feel terrible for the actions of their son, for the loss of those who lost their lives, and for the devastation that it's caused the community."

FATHER SAYS HE THOUGHT SON WOULD TAKE WEAPONS TO RANGE

Primus, the University of Michigan professor, questions whether the two incidents in 2019 are enough criminally to charge Bobby Crimo's parents.

"I don't know if that makes it reasonably foreseeable that the person will be homicidal," she said of the suicide attempt. "There are plenty of people who are suicidal who are not homicidal."

As for the threats to kill family members, Primus says, prosecutors must take the context into account.

"What were these threats? How serious were they? If it was knives versus guns, does that matter? Does that mean that they could foresee this kind of thing with an automatic weapon? These are factual questions. Part of what is so hard about a lot of these kinds of cases is whenever you're dealing with legal standards -- was a person reckless or could they reasonably foresee something -- these are standards that are incredibly fact specific."

The elder Crimo told the New York Post last week that he decided to sponsor his son's firearm license because he thought the young man would take the weapons to a shooting range.

"He bought everything on his own, and they're registered to him," the father told the newspaper.

"They make me like I groomed him to do all this," the elder Crimo said, according to the report. "I've been here my whole life, and I'm gonna stay here, hold my head up high, because I didn't do anything wrong."

The shooter's father told the Post he wants his son to serve a long prison sentence.

"That's life," the elder Crimo said. "You know you have consequences for actions. He made a choice. He didn't have to do that."

Gomez told CNN that "the family denies that there was any issues of suicide at the time," and stressed law enforcement found "no safety risk."

"The parents feel terrible for the actions of their son, for the loss of those who lost their lives, and for the devastation that it's caused the community."

PARENTS MORE LIKELY TO FACE CIVIL LAWSUITS

CNN legal analyst Joey Jackson says he believes prosecutors contemplating charges against shooters' parents are taking notice of the growing public frustration with a series of mass shootings nationwide.

"Prosecutors are seeing that and they're making an assessment of what can we do, what role can we play in order to hold people accountable at all levels, not just the shooters, but everyone and anyone who may have had a part," he said.

Jackson also points to the ongoing prosecution of Ethan Crumbley's parents in Michigan.

The filing against James and Jennifer Crumbley -- who have pleaded not guilty -- alleges that when they left their son's school on November 30, more than an hour before the shooting began, they knew their son was depressed and "fascinated with guns."

"Defendants were in a better position than anyone else in the world to prevent this tragedy, but they failed to do so," the court filing states.

Referring to the Crumbleys, Jackson said: "The prosecutor is not suggesting they intended to do it ... They are suggesting they were reckless. If you want to deter this from happening then you have to look at everywhere that you can to find accountability."

Northwestern University Professor Lori Ann Post, who studies mass shootings, agrees, noting that criminal charges could have been filed against Nancy Lanza -- mother of Sandy Hook shooter Adam Lanza -- had he not killed her before his 2012 assault on a Connecticut elementary school.

"Something's got to break here pretty soon where somebody starts taking accountability for mass shootings," she said. "And I think if you're going to facilitate and enable a mass shooter then you should be held accountable."

Parents of mass shooters are more likely to face civil lawsuits where the legal bar is lower, according to experts.

"If anything comes out of this, just based on the history of these kind of complaints, I would bet that it would be a civil case, not a criminal case," Jonathan Metzl, a professor of psychiatry at Vanderbilt University who studies gun violence, said of the likelihood of legal troubles for Bobby Crimo's parents.

Metzl says he surprised at how often parents have helped young mass shooters obtain weapons.

"The question I have is, 'What does that reveal?'" he said. "I really think we need to know more about what kind of reasoning parents have for giving guns to children who are clearly disturbed. Perhaps the parents are in denial? Or they feel like this is a mode of negotiation or gift giving?"

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