#in fact many have merged together entirely over the decades

[dracolizardlars]

I've said it before but it really does mess with me how Americans simply do not use the word "village". It'll be like,

American Reddit user telling a story about their life: I used to live in a small town with minimal jobs.

Me: okay (imagining my nearest town, which has a 20-25K population, a shitty high street and a cinema)

American Reddit user: there wasn't really anything there, just a few roads with a few hundred people living on them

Me: ...oh, it was a village. (now imagining the tiny village nearest to the much larger village I live in, which has a population of 2K)

#draco speaks #like seriously I cannot get my head around 'small town' meaning 'a couple streets and a petrol station' #I cannot get my head around the fact that Americans would call where I live a town let alone the much smaller villages here #also ofc while Cornwall is rural and comprised of a million villages of varying sizes a couple towns and one very small city #It's all so compact compared to the U.S. #many of these villages are within an easy walking distance of one another #in fact many have merged together entirely over the decades #these tiny ''small towns'' in the US are in the middle of bumfuck nowhere half the time and it's nuts

[borkthemork]

Okay so, I have a lot to say about the way Roy was handled in the last chapter of FMA. And I mean that in a good way, because after watching FMAB again and analyzing Roy’s progression in the manga, I absolutely love what Arakawa and the show writers did to him (and if there was ever a way to merge their two story decisions together, I would do it in a heartbeat).

In the ruins of Central HQ, we find Roy Mustang. He’s still in the relief tents, but this time, you could tell that he’s devastated with what just happened to him, and is trying to come to terms with the removal of his eyesight.

Now, before we get into this, we need to start talking about Roy’s character progression up until this point. He has been a character of facades, of categorization. He has goals to fulfill and he’s the kind to hone in on them, similar to a Mustang horse being equipped with blinders to keep them on the right track. We saw that with Hughes too, at how his own determination to find Hughes’s killer had deteriorated his health, had made him so focused on vengeance to the point of blind rage.

He focuses, he keeps going, he has ideas he wants to implement, even if those goals blindside him to the point of self-flagellation from forgetting his own basic needs. He uses deception, illusion, and even manipulation of information to get what he wants. Vision/perception is such a pivotal thing with his character. 

An amazing post remarked about this moment, and how this is the first time ever since Ishval where we get Roy traumatized, defeated even. He sought to his vision as the greatest tool in being able to get his goals, but now it’s been removed, showing us how he feels useless all by himself. However, what Truth did wasn’t just a cruelty, it was actually essential for him to realize how blind he had become despite his sight.

His main goal was to become Fuhrer, which was a very linear goal to him that he would sacrifice a lot just to get to the top. If that means his personal health, happiness, then so be it. He never sought different alternatives because he had always focused on that one major point.

So we’re given a moment where he could be discharged for his new disability. His main goal of being Fuhrer had been compromised, and even if he wanted to become Fuhrer he would have to fight the rules and doctrines of the system to get back on top.

However, that’s not what he did.

Roy Mustang realizes that being Fuhrer isn’t the only way to make a difference in the world, that there are many other pathways he could take (that he was previously blind to) that he could use to make the country a better place.

With his support system and his new opportunities, he has so much range in what he could do now. He doesn’t have to be Fuhrer to change policy, or to help people, or to create his own agency entirely that could benefit the people who had suffered from his war crimes and actions. Roy Mustang now realized his mistake: that even without his eyesight he could create great things, things that have the same effect as a Fuhrer’s actions could.

And despite the controversy over whether Roy should’ve kept his eyesight or not, the discussion Roy has with Marcoh goes to show how far his new insight had given him and how he has a second chance to utilize what he had learned for the better.

There are important things to do. There are ways for him to help in the position as Brigadier General. His goal of being Fuhrer won’t stop the fact that he could help before he ever achieves that goal. He has so many years ahead of him, decades that he could use to change things, to change policies, and to make the younger generation safer as a result. If he never becomes Fuhrer, then so be it. He’ll find another way, with his subordinates along to support him. If that meant going to Ishval and doing welfare and reconstruction, then he would. There is no limit now.

And when he considers this idea, Kimblee’s words are the linchpin, confirming his new path.

Now, before I end this analysis, I also have to say that if I had a chance to mesh FMAB and Arakawa’s interpretations of these scenes, I would. FMAB shows a determined Roy wanting change despite his blindness, and that shows off the same level of dedication that Roy would find himself in after he got out of his funk. He trusts his support system, that he will do whatever it takes despite the obstacles, and I find that an amazing beginning in Roy’s journey.

He has a long way to go, but he won’t underestimate what he can and cannot do anymore.

#fma #fmab #fullmetal alchemist #roy mustang #doctor marcoh #fma meta #bork speaks #manga

[please-return-to-villanelle]

Cold Turkey

S3E8 recap

What do you want Villanelle?

I’m looking for a new challenge.

Villanelle tries to retroactively accept Carolyn’s job offer to work for MI6, but with a slight twist. She no longer wants to kill. She is looking to start over. Carolyn isn’t convinced that Villanelle has any useful skills outside of assassinating and turns her offer down. By seeking out Carolyn, Villanelle was taking a real step of her own accord to actively remove herself from the Twelve rather than simply runaway.

I can change.

You’ve infected her with your disgusting lack of ambition.

The Villanelle that Dasha and Konstantin are discussing is the Villanelle of the past. The one whose life was not altered by Eve Polastri. In this conversation, Konstantin chastised Dasha for almost killing Villanelle with her brutal training tactics focused on discipline while Dasha jabs back by blaming Konstantin for giving her no structure. In other words, Villanelle almost died because of Dasha’s method of strict rule while Konstantin made her lazy due to his method of no rules. Neither handler gave Villanelle what she needed and BOTH of them imposed what they wanted upon her. She seems like a disappointment to them now that she is breaking free of her chains and becoming her own person, which is something neither Dasha nor Konstantin is capable of doing.

As I mentioned in my S3E7 recap (post), I think the portrayal of Dasha was meant to depict what Villanelle’s life may have been if she continued working for the Twelve for the rest of her life. This would have been a life of isolation (Winners win alone) with the illusion of freedom to do as she pleases, so long as her bosses are happy.

I wish my son was here.

The death of Dasha is Villanelle’s worst fear, and ironically, the end Dasha predicted for Villanelle; one in which she dies alone and without someone who loves her.

FINALLY, we arrive to the long-anticipated Villanelle and Eve reunion where they both “Wear it down” (post).

What I love most about this whole scene is both Villanelle and Eve have their walls of emotional armor down the entire time. Neither of them entered the ballroom with their masks on. The cheeky and overly confident façade of Villanelle is not there and the delusional MI6 agent façade for Eve is gone.

They came just as they are: Eve and Oksana.

This entire scene looks and feels like the past: the ballroom dancing, the clothing of the dancers and Villanelle’s 60s outfit, the lighting, the music, and the decorum. It’s almost as if this is a fantasy moment where time stands still; and in this moment, Oksana and Eve share a moment of honesty about the past and future.

Do you ever think about the past?

All of the time.

Eve can tell immediately that something is deeply bothering Villanelle and so her offer to dance serves as a temporary distraction but also as an opportunity to find real peace.

I want to feel carefree.

Well dancing will do that.

The freedom they are discussing here is emotional freedom. Both Villanelle and Eve have their own internal demons they are battling and neither have been able to find peace on their own.

Dancing is not my thing.

Mine either, but it’s good to try new things.

The origin of the word dance came from the Latin word saltare which means to “leap with emotion”. What Eve is offering Villanelle is emotional support by “letting it win” in order to quit their self-destructive habits of repressing their feelings around each other. In other words, they are actively giving into their emotions to feel and deal with it together rather than keep it all buried inside.

They both fumble at first, this is something new after all, but then they begin to talk openly with each other as they sway in sync. While staring at a happy elderly couple, Villanelle asks Eve is she wants to be like them. What she is really asking here is: Would a long, normal and carefree life make you happy?

Eve honestly replies no. Why?

We’d never make it that long. We’d consume each other before we hit old age.

Eve’s reply is significant because she envisions her life with Villanelle in it and associates her with happiness. In her brain, she re-framed the question from “Would I be happy” to “Would we be happy?” For Eve, to be happy means to have Villanelle but she recognizes that this situation of teatime dancing in the fantasy ballroom is not sustainable for them. Eve understands that happiness means becoming fully consumed mind, body, and soul by Villanelle which may not allow them to live a long life with the danger and chaos they always find themselves involved in.

I’ve killed a lot of people

Villanelle said these exact words to her mother. In this instance she was rejected, told she had a darkness, and instructed to leave.

With Eve, she was immediately accepted without hesitation and held in a loving embrace.

I know.

When she dances with Eve, she is Oksana. No pretense, no cheeky jokes, no lies. She is just a girl dancing with her wife, because this scene proves they are married, but when Eve leaves and she turns to talk to Rhian, Villanelle the mask is back on. Now she is cheeky, the pretense is back, and the game of lies is on.

Rhian leads Villanelle away to take her to see Helene in order to, once again, play by another handler’s set of rules.

Come a long little sheep.

Villanelle is determined to maintain her autonomy and have the happy life that Eve envisioned for the two of them. Killing Rhian to have her dream life takes its toll since murdering is no longer something she can disassociate from.

I’m sorry.

Villanelle now feels things when she kills. This was the cost of learning what love means and opening herself up emotionally. She is now capable of feeling love and happiness, but this means she can also feel pain and loss. This kill was a milestone for her because we see this balance of Villanelle the assassin and Oksana the woman.

Interestingly, Eve (aka Tallulah Shark) has a similar experience at the betting parlor and with her exchange with Konstantin. She osculates from not a nice lady to innocent and caring throughout both of these scenes.

I think this was significant in depicting how both Eve and Villanelle are capable of attaining balance between their darkness and light. More importantly, they are most at center when they together both emotionally and physically.

Now I know many of you are wondering: What was the point of Geraldine?

I think her point was literally to annoy the emotions out of Carolyn. She was annoying to us because that’s how Carolyn felt also.

Carolyn has been a spy for decades and has learned to separate her work life from her personal life. The death of Kenny was what forever merged these two aspects of her life; but the death of her son alone was not enough of a trauma for Carolyn to willingly “let it win” by succumbing to her guilt in order to feel this great loss. She needed someone to pry these feelings out of her unwillingly.

That’s what you say it’s about, but what’s this really about?

So, in a way, Geraldine is the therapist Carolyn never asked for but desperately needed in order to find peace with the death of Kenny which she achieves in her final scene with provocation from someone else she cares about: Konstantin.

Konstantin has betrayed literally everyone in his life including his own family. What’s interesting about this scene is that Villanelle is watching this whole exchange without any knowledge of Eve and Carolyn’s investigation into Kenny’s death. In fact, she seemed to have no knowledge of Carolyn and Konstantin’s past.

Villanelle is witnessing this relationship for the first time unfold and she realizes that Konstantin, someone she considered a friend/ family, is using Carolyn’s love for him against her. It’s truly a fascinating detail.

I feel like the series has drawn many parallels between Carolyn and Konstantin’s relationship to Eve and Villanelle’s. Both couples are literal enemies to lovers. Much like Dasha, this is a glimpse into what Villanelle and Eve’s future relationship might look like if they continue their current career paths. Their relationship will dissolve into nothing more than transactions and lies all centered around work.

What Villanelle doesn’t know, is that Konstantin has used Carolyn’s feelings against her to save himself before. Let us recall the car driving scene from the previous episode. He flat out lied about what he was discussing with Kenny in order to save himself from Carolyn’s inquisition and reckless driving. Konstantin has no rules set and no set of morals. He just wants to stay alive.

Winners win alone.

Once again, Konstantin shamelessly chooses himself above all others. He plays his last hand by telling Carolyn he loves her to influence her decision making by tugging at her feelings.

In this moment it clicks for Villanelle. This is the type of behavior her mother showed her and her siblings. She manipulated the feelings of those that loved her and used them to manipulate them into doing her bidding or boasting her ego.  With this realization, Villanelle saw that her mother was not her family, and neither is Konstantin.

He only called out to her when he was desperate and blatantly ignored her own calls of desperation throughout their entire relationship. She also witnesses Carolyn spare Konstantin. Instead of killing him out of anger and she let him go out of what little love she still holds for him. I believe this was a parallel to Villanelle shooting Eve in Rome out of anger. I think Villanelle recognized the difficult choice Carolyn made and why it’s so important for her and Eve to walk away from all of this if they want their happy life together.

Cold turkey.

Eve is not fully prepared to let all of this go. To her, fixating on the Twelve means fixating on Villanelle. So in this moment, I think she panicked and fled because she can’t comprehend how to live that life without Villanelle and the Twelve consuming her. She craves the excitement, the darkness, and chaos that comes with Villanelle.

You’re so many things.

Eve comes to a place of acceptance and finally admits to Villanelle that they are the same and that she wanted Villanelle in her life all along. The cost was blowing up her own life; but Eve never truly wanted that life. She only became passionate and fully alive after Villanelle came crashing into her life.

Wear it down.

Since that 30 second meeting in the bathroom, Villanelle and Eve were forever changed. They briefly saw the monsters in each other. Neither recoiled. They continued to pursue each other and are finally at a point where they can fully see one another for exactly who they are. They were both seeking the relationship they now have. It’s not a normal relationship like the couple in the fantasy ballroom, but it’s the real connection they have both been yearning for.

Help me make it stop.

At the end Villanelle offers Eve a solution to stopping all the pain, chaos, and darkness that comes with their unique relationship.

She is suggesting that Eve has to quit her cold turkey.

Villanelle is presenting them both with the opportunity to cut ties with their consuming relationship and attain their individual freedom that they have both been trying to attain throughout this season.

Ultimately, neither one is prepared to quit cold turkey. In the end, they choose to remain tethered by the red string of fate that binds them. They choose to view each other as equals and mutually consume each other to attain their version of love and happiness.

It’s new challenge they willingly face together.

#killing eve #killing eve s3 #villanelle #villanelle x eve #Eve Polastri #villaneve #Carolyn Martins #konstantin vasiliev #dasha #are you leading or am i? #ke s3 #killing eve analysis #i feel things when i’m with queue

[creativitycache]

It still seems like the Eye is if not THE most powerful, then at least sharing that position with the Web in different manifestation of power. And Jon has been able to easily overpower the other Avatars and, except Daisy and Annabelle, they haven't been able to exert any power over him (i.e. Not-Sasha and Jude). Do you think that has more to do with the fact that Jon brought the Entities through rather than the Eye being top dog?

Buckle up, this is going to be a long one. TL;DR: I suspect that both Jon and Elias gained an upgrade from the effects of a Ritual, rather than being inherent to Eye Avatars.

Ritual effects we’ve seen:

1. Jonah: failed ritual for the Eye. Result: Power Boost for Jonah, death for everyone surrounding him, destruction of the Millbank Prison. No interference from outsiders.

2. Agnes: failed 2 part ritual for the Desolation. Part 1 Result: Power Boost for Agnes, death for her mother, destruction of the forest, cultists survive. Part 2 Result: inconclusive, as we don’t know what blocked her ascension for round 1, nor why she suddenly knew she had to kill herself years later. Interference from a Web-bound Eye.

3. Unnamed: failed ritual for the Vast. Result: all hands lost to the depths. Interference from the Hunt.

4. Unnamed: failed ritual for the Slaughter. Result: all hands lost due to a missile, except non-slaughter aligned survivor. Interference unclear, but presumed Web.

5. Peter: failed ritual for the Lonely. Result: The ritual was abandoned before it even was truly launched. Peter seems to think this counts and that he’d have to try again decades later. No power transfer, no death. Interference from a Web-bound Eye.

6. Unnamed: failed ritual for the Buried. Result: Death to all who attempted, and the surrounding innocent people. Interference from a Web-bound Eye.

7. John: failed ritual for the Corruption. Result: Death to John via concrete- unknown fate of Adelard Dekker but presumed death. Death to the surrounding victims. Interference from a presumed unaffiliated.

8. Jane: failed ritual for the Corruption: Result: It is unclear if Jane’s attack on the Institute was part of her ritual. Certainly all the worms forming the living tunnel of writhing insects to usher in the Corruption into our world all died. Interference from a Web-bound Eye.

9. Cult: failed ritual for the Corruption: Result: all those bound together were still alive when the police came, but were unable to absorb all the cult members.  No word on surviving cultists. It is unclear if this was a ritual attempt, but considering the religious themes surrounding it + their Herald, I’m counting it. Interference from a presumed unaffiliated.

10. Nikola: failed ritual for the Stranger: Result: death of all circus members. Death of all witnesses. Interference from the Web-bound Eye.

11. The Mechanical Turk: failed ritual for the Stranger: Result: Unknown if the Slaughter Avatars killed all performers, witnesses survived. Interference from the Slaughter.

12. ExplorerDad: failed ritual for the Hunt. Result: continued unending life for all Avatars who join, but they will periodically turn on previous crewmates and view them as others. Man who pretended to be of the Hunt until he could get away survived. Interference from a presumed unaffiliated.

13. Unnamed: failed ritual for the Flesh. Result: death of all participants except unaffiliated statement-giver. Interference from the Web-bound Eye.

14. Gabriel: failed ritual for the Spiral. Result: many servants of the Spiral dead, Gabriel presumed dead, the Distortion fused with Michael Shelly. Michael Distortion has no noticeable significant power boost different from the Distortion, but he was specifically chosen because of his unsuitability towards fusing with the Spiral. Helen calls Michael “rubbish” and seemed to level up/lose her humanity at a faster rate than Jon after being absorbed by the Distortion. It is unclear if this power acquisition has anything to do with the Distortion’s history of being the nexus of a failed ritual. Interference from the Web-bound Eye.

15. Manuela & Haley: failed ritual for the Dark: Result: nictophobe sacrifices dead, the Beast dead, all other cult members died. Manuela survives with no noticeable powers aside from being able to behold the Dark Star. Haley survives with no mentioned power differences, and is later killed trying to transfer over to a new body. No interference from outsiders.

Phew, that’s all done off the top of my head so I may have missed something. That’s 12 out of 14 Entities, with the Web and the End both missing due to no noted ritual attempts. (See my earlier post for my theory that the Eyepocalypse was a Web ritual, which Anon is referencing).

But! Laying it all out like this proves my ultimate theory.

1. The Rituals most often result in death, and the most likely potential survivors are those who were unaffiliated.

2. Twice the Rituals have been noted to give power upgrades- the Eye and the Desolation. Potentially three times with the Spiral and Micheal, but that is subtextual and VERY tenuous. Agnes’s mother was the one who chose to be the nexus of the ritual and she burned. Agnes was the outcome of the ritual, and debatably the focal point.

3. The Spiral and the Dark both had no textually noted upgrades. The Dark had no human focal point. The Spiral had no human focal point until Michael was unwittingly merged.

4. The most likely sources that prevent a ritual are: the Web manipulating an Eye avatar (7), a presumed unaffiliated (3), collapsing naturally (2), the Slaughter (1), the Hunt (1). Gertrude and Jon definitely skewed the numbers heavily, but there’s evidence to suggest that the avatars are all easily manipulated into prevent the “other side from winning”.

5. When a Ritual is left on it’s own to collapse AND has a person as a focal point, that person gains a power upgrade. In ALL OTHER scenarios, there is no power exchange and death is the most likely result.

Therefore:

Jonah Magnus and Jon Sims are the only people left on Earth who have been successfully granted a power boost due to a ritual.

Jon was the nexus of the ONLY successful Ritual in history, but Jonah already had the boost from one Ritual and may have gained some power due to his hand in the second ritual. The two combined may put him on the same level as Jon, but Jon may be stronger.

Therefore:

It is ENTIRELY plausible that the reason Jon is so strong and that Jonah’s tower can exert its presence over all the other realms is because they were the nexuses of Rituals- NOT because the Eye won.

Therefore:

Jon’s power boost does not mean the Web did not win.

#tma #the magnus archives #jonathan sims #jon sims #jonah magnus #elias bouchard #the web #the eye #beholding #the mother of puppets #spoilers #Asks&Answers

[tipsycad147]

Hades – God of the Dead and King of the Underworld

Hades is the Greek god of the dead as well as the king of the underworld. He is so well known that his name is used synonymously with the underworld and you will often see references to the underworld simply calling it Hades.

Hades is the oldest son of Cronus and Rhea. Hades, along with his younger brother, Poseidon, and three older sisters, Hestia, Demeter, and Hera, was swallowed by their father to prevent any of his children challenging his power and overthrowing him. They grew to adulthood inside of him. When Hades’ youngest sibling Zeus was born, their mother Rhea hid him away so he would not be swallowed. Eventually, Zeus forced Cronus to regurgitate his brothers and sisters, including Hades. Afterwards, all the gods and their allies banded together to challenge the Titans (including their father) for power, which resulted in a war that lasted for a decade before the Olympian gods were victorious.

Zeus, Poseidon, and Hades divided up the world into three realms over which they would rule: Zeus was given the sky, Poseidon the sea, and Hades the underworld.

Who is Hades?

Hades is depicted in Greek mythology as being generally more altruistic than his brethren, rather than “evil” as his association with death may connotate to some. He differs from his brothers immensely as he was often seen as passive and somewhat cold and even stern, rather than easily impassioned and lustful. He held all of the subjects of his undead kingdom in equal standing and didn’t pick favourites.

Hades’ strictest rule was that his subjects could not leave the underworld, and anyone who tried was subject to his rage. Additionally, Hades was not fond of those who attempted to cheat death or steal from him.

Many Greek heroes end up venturing into the underworld, each for their own reasons. Seen as one of the most treacherous places a hero could enter, those who entered did so at their own risk and many never returned from it.

Hades was seen as fearsome, and those who worshipped him tended to avoid swearing oaths upon his name or even saying his name at all. He was considered to control all of the precious minerals as they were found “under” the earth and therefore came from his domain.

Black animals were sacrificed to him (sheep specifically), and their blood dripped into a pit dug into the ground while the worshipped averted their eyes and hid their face.

Hades is mentioned several times in the Christian New Testament. Later translations interprets this as simply Hell.

The Abduction of Persephone

The most famous story involving Hades is the abduction of Persephone. The goddess Persephone was out in a field picking flowers, when the earth opened up and from the chasm Hades emerged in his chariot pulled by fierce black horses. He grabbed Persephone and took her with him back to the underworld.

Persephone’s mother, Demeter, searched the entire earth for her daughter and when she couldn’t find her, she fell into a dark despair. As a result, there was a devastating famine as Demeter prevented crops from growing in the barren land.

Zeus eventually asked Hermes, the messenger of the gods, to go down to the underworld and convince Hades to return Persephone to her mother. Hades received Hermes and his message and relented, readying his chariot to return Persephone to earth. Before they left, however, he gave Persephone a pomegranate seed to eat. In some versions, Persephone was given twelve pomegranate seeds, of which she ate six. The rule was that anyone who had tasted the food of the underworld would be forever bound to it. Because she had eaten the seeds, Persephone was required to return every year for six months.

Demeter, upon seeing her daughter, released her hold on the earth’s crops and allows them to flourish once again. This story can be seen as an allegory for the seasons, as the land is verdant and abundant during the spring and summer, when Persephone is with Demeter. But when  Persephone is away in the underworld with Hades, the earth is cold and barren.

Stories Involving Hades

Sisyphus

Sisyphus was the king of Corinth (at the time known as Ephyra) and was punished after death for his immoral and corrupt ways. He was known for using his intelligence for evil, plotting to kill his brother Salmoneus, and even cheating death by binding Thanatos, the god of death, with his own chains.

This incensed Hades as he believed Sisyphus was directly disrespecting him and his authority over the souls of the dead. The punishment for Sisyphus’ deceit was to forever be tasked with rolling a gigantic boulder up a hill in Hades, only to have it inevitably roll back down the hill before he reached the summit.

As a result of Thanatos’ confinement, nobody on earth could die, which angered Ares, the god of war, who believed that all of his battles were no longer entertaining as his opponents could not die. Ares eventually freed Thanatos and people once again were able to die.

Pirithous and Theseus

Pirithous and Theseus were best friends as well as children of gods and mortal women. They believed that the only women befitting of their divine heritage were daughters of Zeus. Theseus chose the young Helen of Troy (who would have been around seven or ten at the time) while Pirithous chose Persephone.

Hades learned of their plan to kidnap his wife, so he offered them hospitality with a feast. Pirithous and Theseus accepted, but when they sat down, snakes appeared and wrapped themselves around their feet—trapping them. Eventually, Theseus was rescued by the hero Heracles but Pirithous was forever trapped in the underworld as punishment.

Asclepius

Asclepius was a mortal hero later transformed into the god of medicine. He is the son of Apollo and often represents the healing aspect of the medical sciences.  While mortal, he gained the ability to bring back the dead from the underworld, which according to some myths, skills he himself used to keep himself alive.

Eventually, Hades discovered this and complained to Zeus that his rightful subjects were being stolen and that Asclepius must be stopped. Zeus agreed and killed Asclepius with his thunderbolts only to later resurrect him as the god of healing and give him a place on Mount Olympus.

Heracles

Cerberus – The Three-Headed Dog

One of Heracles’ final labours was to capture Hades’ three-headed guard dog: Cerberus. Heracles learned how to enter and exit the underworld while remaining alive and then descended into its depths through an entrance at Taenarum. The goddess Athena and the god Hermes both aided Heracles on his journey. In the end, Heracles simply asked Hades’ permission to take Cerberus and Hades gave it under the condition that Heracles didn’t hurt his loyal guard dog.

Symbols of Hades

Hades is represented by several symbols. These include:

Cornucopia

Keys – thought to be the key to the gates of the underworld

Serpent

White poplar

Screech owl

Black horse – Hades often travelled in a chariot drawn by four black horses

Pomegranate

Sheep

Cattle

In addition to these, he also has the cap of invisibility, also called the Helm of Hades, which renders the wearer invisible. Hades lends this to Perseus, who uses it on his quest to behead Medusa.

Hades is also sometimes depicted with Cerberus, his three-headed dog, next to him.

Hades vs. Thanatos

Hades wasn’t the god of death, but simply the god of the underworld and of the dead. The god of death was Thanatos, brother of Hypnos. Many get this confused, believing Hades to be the god of death.

Hades in Roman Mythology

Hades’ counterpart in Roman mythology is a combination of the Roman gods Dis Pater and Orcus as they were merged into Pluto. To the Romans, the word “pluto” was also synonymous with the underworld just as “hades” was to the Greeks.

The root of the name Pluto means “wealthy” and more elaborate versions of the name also existed which could be translated as “giver of wealth,” all of which can be seen as a direct reference to both Hades and Pluto’s association with precious minerals and wealth.

Hades in Modern Times

Depictions of Hades can be found all over modern pop culture. He is often used as an antagonist because of his association with the dead and the underworld, despite the fact that in Greek mythology these associations do not make him evil.

In many properties, the character of Hades makes an explicit appearance. Rick Riordan’s Percy Jackson, however, does subvert the idea that Hades is always evil. In the first book of the series, Hades is framed by a demigod as having stolen Zeus’ thunderbolts despite having nothing to do with it. Later, once the truth is discovered, he is given begrudging apologies by those who jumped to assume his guilt.

In the popular Disney animated film, Hercules, Hades is the main antagonist and he tries to overthrow Zeus and rule the world. Throughout the story he attempts to kill Hercules to maintain his own power.

Many video games take inspiration from the king of the underworld, and he appears as a character in the God of War video game series, the Kingdom Hearts series, Age of Mythology, as well as many others. However, he is often portrayed as being evil.

A species of blind, burrowing snake, Gerrhopilus hades, is named for him. It is a thin, forest-dwelling creature that can be found in Papua New Guinea.

Lessons from Hade’s Story

The Judge- Eventually, everybody ends up in the kingdom of Hades. Regardless of whether they were rich or poor, cruel or kind, all mortals are faced with a final judgement once they reach the underworld. In a kingdom where the bad are punished and the good are rewarded, Hades rules over them all.

The Easy Villain- In many modern-day interpretations, Hades is scapegoated and turned into the villain despite his role in Greek mythology, where he appears just and typically stayed out of everybody’s business. In this way, it’s easy to see how people often make the assumption that someone is cruel or evil merely because of surface level associations with unhappy things (like death).

Hades Facts

1- Who are Hades’ parents?

Hades’ parents are Cronus and Rhea.

2- Who are Hades’ siblings?

His siblings are the Olympian gods Zeus, Demeter, Hestia, Hera, Chiron and Zeus.

3- Who is Hades’ consort?

Hades’ consort is Persephone, whom he abducted.

4- Does Hades have children?

Hades had two children – Zagreus and Macaria. However, some myths state that Melinoe, Plutus and the Erinyes are also his children.

5- What is Hades’ Roman equivalent?

Hades’ Roman equivalents are Dis Pater, Pluto and Orcus.

6- Was Hades evil?

Hades was the ruler of the underworld, but he wasn’t necessarily evil. He’s portrayed as being just and meting out punishment as deserved. He could, however, be stern and merciless.

7- Where does Hades live?

He lived in the underworld, often called Hades.

8- Is Hades the god of death?

No, the god of death is Thanatos. Hades is the god of the underworld and of the dead (not of death).

9- What was Hades the god of?

Hades is the god of the underworld, of the death and of riches.

Summing Up

Although he is the god of the dead and the somewhat gloomy underworld, Hades is far from the evil and conniving figure that current day story tellers would have you believe. Instead, he was considered fair when judging the deeds of the dead and often much more evenly-keeled compared to his rowdy and vengeful brothers.

https://symbolsage.com/hades-greek-dead-god/

[raendown]

The next of my follower milestone gift fics is for @chrysanthemum9484 and the prompt word is fane!

Pairing: GaaraNaruto Word count: 1721 Rated: T+ Summary: Following a trail of rumors and dark secrets led him here to a temple so much like one he knows all too well yet this place contains something he could never have expected.

Follow the link or read it under the cut!

KO-FI and commission info in the header!

Fane and Fortune

The place was a lot dustier than he’d been expecting but by the time he finally stumbled across it Naruto wasn’t really in a position to be picky about temple cleanliness. His legs were aching, his food stores low, and his mouth was so parched for water he very seriously considered the merits of allowing one of the street curs outside to lick inside his mouth just to get a little moisture. When the monk who greeted him offered a friendly smile Naruto did what he could to muster one in return. And then he very promptly passed out. 

Presumably he slept for quite some time, judging by the darkness surrounding him when he woke again. None of the rumors he’d heard painted any sort of good pictures about this place but it couldn’t really be all that bad if the monks were nice enough to care for his sand-logged, tired body. He couldn’t imagine who else might have hauled him in to a soft bed and cleaned the worst of the desert off of him while he slept. There was even a pitcher of clean water sitting on the table beside him that Naruto drained in one go without stopping, gasping with sheer relief the moment he stopped to let himself breathe again. Sweet mother but he hadn’t even noticed the pounding headache of dehydration until suddenly it was receding.

After wandering alone through desert heat for so long, the cool stone tiles felt like heaven against his feet when he swung both legs out of bed. Crickets chirruped outside the window and night blanketed the room with shadows but maybe if he looked there might be someone awake to show him where he could get more water. He would have liked nothing more than to dunk his entire head in a bucket and drink the whole thing dry. It wasn’t exactly a surprise to find the door unlocked but it did make him wonder again at the rumors that led him here in the first place as he wandered out and took stock of the empty hallway.

Naruto had been called a number of unflattering things over the course of his life, most of them boiling down to some variant of ‘stupid’. He was known in his circles for being someone willing to go places no one else would. Some might call that brave but Naruto did have at least a modicum of self awareness and he knew that wasn’t it, not really; it was more that he’d been blessed with a special sort of obliviousness that left him entirely ignorant of most dangers until he’d either walked facefirst in to them or they had already passed. Every scrap of information he’d been able to find on this temple had said it was a place to be avoided at all costs. Anyone else might have read between the lines to see the danger. All Naruto could see was his next big adventure. What could be more cool than finding the truth behind so many dark rumors and finally being the one who set them all to rest? 

Being habitually oblivious did not leave him free of superstition, however, and as he wandered the empty stone hallways Naruto found himself jumping at every shadow like they might come alive to gobble him up. Maybe some of his friends were right, maybe he really had never grown out of his childhood. Only the active imagination of innocence could have him glaring suspiciously at a patch of desert flowers as he skirted around the edges of a meditation courtyard.

It was startling to realize how close the construction of this temple was to the one he’d grown up in himself. Naruto paused when he finally noticed it, the way his feet travelled familiar paths on instinct, how every corner brought him exactly where he’d unconsciously expected it to. When it clicked he could only grin. Obviously this must be why he was the only one not afraid to come here. Something inside of him must have recognized the call of home even so far away from the place where he’d been raised. Pearly white teeth shone in the dark as he grinned, footsteps picking up speed around every corner until he found himself jogging through the hallways, memory and reality merging with each other until for a moment he all but forgot that this was not his own temple, this was another place in another time. 

He was brought crashing back out of his childhood days with a harsh abruptness as he careened through a door that should have led to a place of safety, the one part of the temple not even the old monks dared to set foot in. Naruto had always been safe there no matter how much trouble he caused - but this was not his temple. There was no ratty old fort waiting for him behind that massive statue everyone else refused to look at. 

In fact there wasn’t even a statue at all. Naruto’s feet dug furrows in the dust as he skidded to a fumbling halt. Without that massive stone face glaring down at him angrily the room felt almost empty but that was not what caught his eye. Standing on the dais where there should have been an angry mythical fox instead there a man stood, hair as wild as the burning eyes that glowed with something between malice and curiosity.

“Who are you?” he demanded in a low growl. 

“Shit, who are you?” Naruto demanded in return, thrown off balance by the surprise. His question didn’t seem to be appreciated. 

“I, at least, belong here. Identify yourself or feed the one you have intruded upon.”

Blinking several times did not make sense of that but Naruto was nothing if not boneheaded enough to forge onwards. With a thumb jabbed confidently in to his own chest he declared, “I’m Uzumaki Naruto! Who are you? And where’s the statue, shouldn’t this place have, like, a really massive statue? Where I grew up it’s a fox!” 

Despite the enthusiasm of his words it took a while to get a response. That wasn't anything new, though. His levels of energy had always had a way of bowling people over if they weren’t expecting it so he waited as patiently as he was able to. Eventually the man on the dais shifted to cross his arms, drawing attention to his chest, and it was only then that Naruto realized how he was dressed. Or not dressed. Thin plain sandals and a linen kilt of some sort left him entirely bare from the waist up but for the thick golden bands adorning his arms and either his eyes were lined thickly with kohl or he hadn’t slept for at least a decade. If they weren’t standing in a weird kind of faceoff Naruto might have been tempted to offer him a pillow and a quiet room. 

“I am Keeper to the guardian of this place,” the man told him eventually. “You know of the Nine-Tailed Fox?” 

“Of course I do, dattebayo! He always kept me safe when I needed to run away. Everyone else was always afraid of him but not me!” 

“That is...unexpected. 

Naruto hummed thoughtfully. It really wasn’t unexpected. Everyone knew to be afraid of the fox just like he could tell that no one else but this guy ever seemed to come in here even if there wasn’t a fox at all. The dust patterns didn’t lie. 

“Hey, hey, so how come you haven’t got a statue? And what’s a guardian? Why would they need a keeper?” He had more questions, a whole lot of them, but he fell silent easily when a hand raised in quiet plea. 

“It sounds to me that the Temple of the Leaf was not as open with their Keeper as the monks here. My name is Gaara and I would be happy to answer any questions you have. It is good to finally meet someone like myself.” The way his eyes seemed to almost skitter away from looking directly at Naruto spoke to a certain amount of shyness that was entirely surprising from someone with so much confidence in the way they stood. 

Trying not to explode with the natural energy that many had told him over the years was annoying, Naruto allowed himself a large grin and nodded happily. “Great! Uh, we’ll start with how I’m like you then! Er, yeah, uh, also if you could, like, not tell the monks about where I’m from that would be awesome too.” 

“Do they not know already?” Gaara asked with pinched brows. 

“Nah, it took me a long time to escape that dumb temple so I don’t really make a habit of telling anyone that’s where I’m from.” Naruto scrubbed nervously at the back of his neck. He could remember the monks whispering when they thought he couldn’t hear them and the word ‘keeper’ had been tossed around more than once. It wasn’t anything they ever called him to his face, though, so he’d never put two and two together. Was that why they hadn’t wanted him to leave?

“Very well. Until I have answered your questions I will keep my own council on this. Come, we will retire to my personal chambers. This will be a long conversation and I would prefer to be comfortable.”

The man had barely finished speaking before Naruto was hopping up on to the dais and gesturing to be led away. “After you, then. Gosh I hope you don’t just invite everyone in to your room willy nilly. You know you’re hot, right? A guy might get the wrong impression!” 

Somewhere in between laughing and trying to cover the hope in his words Naruto was delighted to see a blush spread across Gaara’s cheeks. Whether or not he understood all the answers he was about to get to questions he had even known existed, there was at least one good thing bound to come out of this adventure so many had tried to talk him out of. If he hadn’t come here then he never would have met Gaara and, judging by the considering looks coming his way, Naruto was pretty sure that Gaara was as happy as he was to have this unexpected chance. 

#rae writes #follower milestone #gaanaru #naruto #gaara #fanfiction

[tumbleweed-palmer]

Unexpected: Jimmy Palmer x Original Character Chapter Two

Tony regretted the words the moment they left his lips. He had taken it way too far and he’d done the worst possible thing he could ever do in his eyes. He’d made his baby sister cry. He could see the tears pooling in her eyes as she’d screamed at him to leave her apartment.

He’d hurt her. That was the worst sin he could ever possibly commit. He’d always had that classic big brother attitude of “If you make my baby sister cry, I’ll break your legs.” He had always been the one who protected her and made sure she didn’t get hurt. He’d never considered he’d be the one who hurt her.

He felt like garbage at the moment. He felt lower than garbage. He was pretty sure he was akin to that gross layer of slime and bacteria filled liquid that developed at the bottom of a dumpster on a particularly hot day.

As Tony paced his apartment he found himself agonizing over this entire mess. This was so unexpected. He’d never imagined this would be a possibility.

He was just so angry to see Jimmy Palmer in Olivia’s apartment and to realize just what they’d been doing all this time. Tony felt betrayed even more so as they’d explained exactly what was going on. This had been going on a full year. It had been an entire year of both Olivia and Jimmy lying straight to his face.

He’d worked closer than usual with Jimmy this past year especially during that period of time when Gibbs had taken a short retirement. Tony had stepped up then leading the unit for months and he’d learned to turn to Jimmy for advice on cases more than once. Jimmy was a great confidant and Tony knew he could go to him trusting that the words they exchanged would stay between them. Jimmy had spent all that time working by Tony’s side and letting Tony confide in him, all while Jimmy was betraying him and carrying on with Tony’s little sister. Jimmy had been working with Tony during the day and going straight to Olivia every night.

He had known Jimmy for years now and Jimmy was the last person Tony would ever dream would mislead him. Sure, Jimmy had lied to everyone during his fling with Michelle Lee, but it had been so obvious what was going on to anyone with two working eyes. Jimmy was a terrible liar. He had a guilty conscience and never could keep up a lie. Clearly though Jimmy was a far more proficient liar than Tony had ever given him credit for. He’d kept such a massive secret from Tony. It was such an act of deception. Tony had even asked Jimmy point blank what was going on with Olivia and he. Jimmy had told Tony that there was nothing going on, just a friendship. Tony had thought he’d made it perfectly clear that his baby sister was untouchable.

It was supposed to be part of the bro-code wasn’t it? You didn’t hook up with your friend’s little sister. That was an unspoken rule. Oh, crap, was this how Probie felt when Tony flirted with his little sister? This was so much worse than just a little harmless flirting though.

Jimmy and Olivia had been sneaking around behind Tony’s back all this time. Olivia had left evidence of it along Jimmy’s neck for months now. The thought of his little sister doing that to Jimmy made Tony feel sick to his stomach. He’d spent all that time teasing Jimmy over the hickies unaware that Olivia was the culprit behind all those lovebites. The fact that Tony had made jokes about “lady gremlin being frisky” had made him feel sick. Not to mention Tony had made plenty of jokes about the suggested hotness of Jimmy’s little lady friend and all the experience she must have. The fact that Olivia was the Lady Gremlin made Tony’s skin crawl.

Olivia had lied to Tony’s face more than once over this past year. The fact that his sister who he loved more than anyone on the planet had lied to his face hurt the most.

Tony had definitely noticed that his little sister and the Autopsy Gremlin were occasionally spending time together. He’d not been shy about interrogating Olivia over her new friendship with Jimmy. She’d always insisted that Jimmy was just a friend and that they only spent time together when Olivia needed a second opinion on whatever art piece she was working on at the time. She’d seemed so sincere about it all as she’d spoken to Tony. “Trust me, Jimmy is just helping me out and giving me some feedback on how the anatomy is looking on a few of my paintings. I’m really wanting to turn more of my focus towards painting, but I’m insecure about it. Photography was always my bigger focus back in school. You know getting the anatomy down has always been a weak point for me when it comes to painting. I want to make sure everything looks reasonable and realistic. Jimmy is a really excellent resource to have. He has such a deep understanding of the structure of a human body and he’s actually pretty artistically gifted as well. He’s shown me some of the sketches he’s done. He drew up this amazing sketch of a human heart. It looks so realistic and he really nailed all the fine details. So, he’s the perfect person for me to ask for some guidance. We just meet up for coffee occasionally and he helps me out in exchange for me buying him a pastry and giving him feedback on his own sketches. He’s self taught for the most part, so he really appreciates having the feedback from someone who went to school for art. It’s no big deal. He’s a nice guy, a little awkward, but still good enough company. We don’t even discuss anything but art.”

Tony of course hadn’t liked the idea of Olivia spending time with Jimmy even with her insistence that it was all perfectly innocent. She’d always been so insistent that it was just a friendship and nothing more.

To find out that she’d lied about everything between Jimmy and she was such a betrayal. She’d had so many opportunities to come clean about it all, and she’d taken not one of them.

Tony had been so upset and he’d wanted Olivia to hurt just as badly as she’d hurt him. Tony had always been gifted when it came to really going for the jugular during fights. He could find a weak spot in whoever he was fighting with and destroy them emotionally. He could find your biggest insecurity and use it to break you. Tony guessed he’d learned it from his father. Dinozzo Senior had always had a way of using people’s insecurities to drag them down and Tony guessed that the apple didn’t fall far from the tree.

The realization that he’d been no better than his father made Tony feel sick. He’d always sworn he’d be nothing like Dinozzo Senior.

Maybe this anger had been building for a while. Tony would be lying if he tried to say that he didn’t feel some resentment for his sister deep down inside.

After all it seemed as though Olivia Sofia Dinozzo could do no wrong in Dinozzo Senior’s eyes. No matter how much she fucked up Dinozzo Senior kept feeding her trust fund and cleaning up her messes at least when it came to situations where he thought the answer was “throw money at it”.

No, Dinozzo Senior hadn’t exactly given Olivia the affection and adoration that most father’s gave their daughters, but he still had never cut her off.

Tony had been cut off from the family fortune for the simple sin of wanting to go his own way. He hadn’t wanted to follow in his father’s footsteps and join the family business. Tony had wanted to go into law enforcement in some capacity and forge his own path. This choice had been unacceptable to Dinozzo Sr. After all Tony was his only son, his namesake. Tony rejecting the expected path of following in his father’s footsteps had been enough of an unforgivable sin to be cut off financially and tossed out into the world to fend for himself.

Olivia had never been given that treatment. Even when she’d decided to pursue art Dinozzo Sr. hadn’t cut her off.

Of course, Tony knew that there were different expectations for him and his sister. Dinozzo Sr. had made that obvious.

Tony was expected to follow in his father’s footsteps and maintain the family name. Olivia was expected to be quiet, look pretty, and eventually marry someone of equal social status.

Dinozzo Senior had seen her artistic endeavors as something to placate her and keep her busy until she found a well-to-do man to marry. He’d seen it as a passing fancy and not a serious way for her to make a career.

She was expected to marry one of her father’s friend’s sons and be a some entitled rich kid's wife. She was expected to keep up the Dinozzo family tradition of keeping up one's social status. She was expected to be the pretty socialite who went to charity functions and kept her mouth shut.

Olivia had rebelled against this of course, but her resistance to playing happy socialite hadn’t been met with the same harshness Tony’s choice to go his own way had been met with.

Deep down Tony knew that Olivia had been failed by their father just as much as he had. She may have had the advantage of not being cut off but she hadn’t had the freedom. Tony had been given the freedom but not the security of the family fortune.

Dinozzo Sr. had turned a blind eye to his daughter’s indiscretions and multitude of fuck ups. He’d ignored her cries for help and taken the path of just giving her more money instead of actually addressing the problem.

Tony was always the one who looked out for her. After all, he adored his sister.

He could remember that when she was born he’d been allowed to come home from boarding school for a week, most likely Olivia’s mother’s attempts to merge the family before she’d realized that Dinozzo Sr. wasn’t a family man. Still though Tony had adored Olivia from the moment he saw her for the first time. He’d been almost a decade older than her, but he’d still adored her so dearly. He’d been so delighted to have a baby sister.

He hadn’t acted the way most older brothers had. He may have pestered her but he never treated her like she was a pain or a burden. If anything he’d always treated her like a little princess, always doting on her and giving into her wants

When their father and her mother had divorced Tony had been despondent fearing he’d never see his sister again. After all, Dinozzo Sr. most likely wasn’t the type to seek out visitation.

When Olivia’s mother had died so suddenly and she’d been sent back to Dinozzo Sr., Tony had been left with a feeling of guilt convinced his heartache over the possibility of never seeing Olivia again had resulted in fate deciding to force her back into his life. Perhaps he’d been so desperate to have his sister back in the family home that fate had heard him and decided to “help” him out.

He knew it was irrational to think that Olivia’s mother’s death had been fate tipping in his favor instead of a terrible accident. Tony had been a teenager when it had happened, but he’d still been young enough to fear that perhaps this had somehow been all his fault.

He guessed that perhaps that sense of guilt had made him overcompensate when it came to his relationship with Olivia.

He made sure to include her in his interests, sharing his favorite movies with her and covering for her when she’d gotten herself into trouble.

He’d set a precedent of always emotionally supporting her and looking out for her, almost as though he was her father instead of her brother.

There had been several times over the years where Tony had seriously feared for her safety. He’d dreaded late night phone calls unsure if it would be his scared sister calling for his help or someone calling to tell him she was hurt or worse dead.

Olivia had made impulsive stupid choices and surrounded herself with people who were making far worse choices.

Olivia may have had the security of the family fortune but she’d never really felt secure. She’d never felt peace with herself. She’d always been troubled. Even when she was a child, she’d been so starved for love. She’d always searched for affection and security from other sources realizing she wasn’t getting it from her father.

She found herself clinging to men who didn’t even care about her. They were more interested in getting in her pants than actually loving her. She found herself attaching herself to anyone who gave her even the smallest bit of attention and praise. She didn’t care if the affection only lasted one night. She just seemed so starved for acceptance.

She remained in toxic friendships with people who didn’t actually care about her. She’d figured any company was better than being left alone with her thoughts. She convinced herself that they understood her because they’d come from the same social circles and had the same familial issues. She’d ignored red flags telling herself that it was nothing to worry about.

Tony had been relieved that she’d at least stayed away from anything harder than alcohol and pot. She hadn’t stayed away from her friends though and her friends hadn’t stayed away from much harder substances.

Tony lost count of the nights where he’d gone out searching for her through nightclubs and penthouse parties. He’d lost count of the times he’d dragged her from some house party pretending that he didn’t notice the lines of cocaine her friends were indulging in. He’d pretended that getting phone calls from her where she was drunk and needed him to come get her was just a normal part of his Friday night.

Anytime he’d pressed the issue and confronted her about her friend’s behavior or her reckless choices she’d brushed off his concerns.

The conversation always went the same. She always had the same responses. She’d always been so fast to insist. “I’m a big girl Tony. I’m perfectly capable of handling myself. I’m not an idiot. I don’t touch the hard stuff. My friends have offered but I have no interest in it. I know that stuff ruins you. I only smoke the occasional joint and I drink, but nothing more. Trust me, I’m fine. I know you do it because you love me but trust me you don’t have to worry so much about me. I’m okay. Please, don’t freak out on me and act like I’m some kind of junkie. I’m fine, It’s not a big deal. I’m still young, I’m supposed to be out having a good time. I’m maintaining my coursework and managing my life fine.”

She’d always paused before speaking again pointing out the obvious. “Besides you don’t have much room to lecture me about the company I keep or my indiscretions, especially when we both know you have a revolving door of women in your life and you so aren’t the poster boy for clean living. It’s hypocritical to lecture me about my bad choices.”

There was only so much Tony could do. After all she was a grown woman. Even when she was still a teenager making the same choices his hands had been tied. Dinozzo Sr. had been her guardian and he wasn’t going to do a thing about it. So Tony had been left doing what he could do for her as she’d entered her early twenties and continued to make the same bad choices.

There was only so much you could do for someone who clearly was not interested in changing.

He hadn’t seen it as enabling her. He’d seen it as giving her a lifeline.

He’d made sure she had his phone number programmed into her cell phone and had made sure she knew she could call him anytime no matter how late it was and no matter what situation she was in.

She’d always called him when it became too much and Tony had counted it as a small victory. At least she called him to come get her instead of sticking out bad situations. He was was able to collect her from danger and he knew she was safe.

When she’d finally hit rock bottom it had been a relief.

A friend’s drug overdose had been enough to scare her into admitting she needed to change. She’d admitted that she was scared and in over her head and she needed help.

It had been painful but for the first time Tony felt like he could breathe. She was safe and she was going to be okay.

He’d helped her straighten her life out. She’d started therapy and had kicked the party lifestyle. She’d dropped her toxic friends and awful boyfriends and had gotten her head on straight. She’d thrown herself into her art and had managed to find some freelance work that had allowed her to travel.

Sure, Tony had worried about her traveling but she’d kept in contact with him calling him at least once a week. She’d seemed so much lighter and so much happier. She’d actually been at peace with being on her own. It seemed as though she’d finally dropped her unhealthy coping mechanisms. She’d seemed to be at peace with herself.

When Olivia had announced to Tony that she’d found a local job and would be moving to the Virginia DC area it had been a relief. He’d have her close by where he could keep a closer eye on her.

He had thought having her so close by so near his support would be good for her.

He’d never imagined that having her in the same city would mean having her hook up with one of his coworkers.

What could she even possibly see in Jimmy? Of all the guys she could have gone for she went for the Autopsy Gremlin?

What about him was even slightly appealing to her? When Tony thought of Jimmy he saw an awkward mess of a human being. Jimmy with his tendency to slouch, and his all too large ears and thin lips. Jimmy with the same out of style glasses he’d been wearing since college. Jimmy who had the ghoulish career path and the less than appropriate sense of humor. Jimmy who honestly seemed like a total nerd. Jimmy so didn’t seem like the type of guy Olivia usually went for.

What did they even have in common?

Was this just the old Olivia making a reappearance, going for anyone who showed her affection? This did seem to follow her M.O.

Tony didn’t think anyone could blame him for assuming the worst given what he knew about his sister’s past approach to romance.

Then again Olivia and Jimmy had both seemed so sincere. Jimmy definitely didn’t seem to be the kind of guy to use a girl for a good time. Jimmy seemed to be more the type to be grateful for any kind of female attention. Tony didn’t think this was just a case of Olivia using Jimmy; attaching herself to him because she knew he’d give her all the affection and loyalty on the planet.

If anything, it all seemed to be the real deal. Jimmy did seem sincere in his declarations of love for Olivia. Maybe that meant Olivia was just as sincere?

Maybe Tony had been wrong?

Still though that didn’t excuse the lies. Still though, the lies didn’t excuse his reaction.

A little voice in the back of Tony’s brain told him that if he loved Olivia half as much as he claimed to, didn’t he owe it to her to at least hear her out? Didn’t she deserve a little trust?

Would she even want to speak to him now though? Now that he’d upset her, chances are she wouldn’t want to hear from him anytime soon.

Tony groaned at the thought. He’d really screwed up and he wasn’t sure if there was a way of fixing it.

He made a last ditch effort reaching for his cell, typing up the text message knowing it was better than nothing.

“We need to talk.”

He tossed his cell down on his sofa knowing he had a snowball’s chance in hell of actually hearing anything back, but he didn’t know what to do.

He’d made his bed and now he had to lie in it.

……………………………………………………………………………………

Jimmy could admit he felt so lost. He’d been putting on a brave face for Olivia’s sake. He’d thrown himself face first into soothing her and doting on her, trying his best to make her feel loved and reassured.

He felt so lost though. He didn’t know how to fix any of this. Wasn’t he partially to blame for this entire mess?

He should have manned up a long time ago. He should have reassured Olivia that it was okay to tell Tony about them. He should have put his foot down and insisted that they tell Tony about their relationship a long time ago.

He’d been so resistant to do so though. He’d told himself that he needed to follow Olivia’s lead on this.

Now he had to watch Olivia cry over their failures.

He could have saved her so much heartache had he just insisted that they step up and tell Tony everything consequences be damned. Sure Tony might have freaked out, he may have even punched Jimmy, but at least the truth would have been revealed on their own terms.

Jimmy knew that he should have cast aside his doubts and fears and just told Tony everything. He could have convinced Olivia to come clean and they could have been saved from this heartache.

Jimmy knew it was too little too late though. They had made their bed and now they were lying in it.

That didn’t erase the guilt he felt over this entire situation though.

His head felt like a mess as he laid in her bed Olivia’s sleeping form in his arms. At least he’d gotten her to fall asleep but there had still been plenty of tears from Olivia all day. When he’d thought she might have run out of tears she somehow found more.

He knew her heart was so broken.

Tony Dinozzo had always been Olivia’s hero. She’d admitted that much to Jimmy. Jimmy had always appreciated being able to see Tony through Olivia’s eyes. She’d described a big brother who would give her the world if she asked for it. She’d described a man who fretted over her and taught her to throw her first punch. She’d described a man who had taught her to drive and had snuck her into her first R rated movie. She’d talked about how heartbroken she’d been when their father had disowned Tony. She’d talked about how Tony had still made an effort to keep in contact with her even if he was out of contact with Dinozzo Sr. Tony had never forgotten her even after he’d been cast out into the world by their father with out a safety net.

She talked about Tony with such reverence. She’d described a man who doted on her and shared such a tight bond with her. It had always been Tony and her against the world, or at least Tony and her against Dinozzo Sr.

Tony was the one who had always shown her unconditional love. She’d never been able to expect unconditional love from Dinozzo Sr. Her father was more the type to remind his children that his love had terms and conditions. Tony had never made her feel as though his love for her had any sort of conditions though. The fact that her brother loved her had always been an absolute understanding. No matter what she did, Olivia knew that her brother would always love her.

The words he’d said to her tonight though, had shown her that the love Tony felt wasn’t as unconditional as she’d believed.

He had let out so much resentment for her, so much bitterness for all the times he’d had to rescue her from herself. He had thrown her past right in her face and insinuated that she was just picking back up all her old habits. He’d insinuated that what she had with Jimmy was nothing more than her falling into bed with Jimmy because he gave her some sense of approval. Tony had ignored her insistence that she had changed for the better.

Tony told her she was too much to put up with and too hard to love. He could have shot her and it would have been less painful than hearing those words.

Jimmy was left feeling trapped between rage towards Tony and heartbreak for Olivia.

Jimmy had done the only thing he could think to do for her. He’d taken a good long bath with her knowing that baths were always a place of comfort for Olivia. She’d even confessed to him that the main reason she’d signed a lease on this apartment in particular was the massive soaking tub that had been recently installed into the bathroom.

She’d always loved baths and she’d taught Jimmy to enjoy them as well. She’d had to do very little coaxing to talk him into joining her in a bath the first time. He’d had to admit it was pretty nice. He was pretty sure if anyone ever accused him of being less than masculine for taking a bubble bath then he could very easily point out that he got to be in a warm bath with a beautiful nude woman pressed against him.

He’d adored taking baths with her enough that he’d even requested doing so on his birthday months ago. She’d definitely indulged him; sitting on the edge of the tub and washing his hair before joining him in the tub where she continued to pamper him. It had been the best birthday he’d ever had by far.

Today’s bath had been less of a joyous occasion though. She’d been quiet for the longest time Jimmy holding her against him running his hands along her body attempting to soothe her.

He’d done his best to keep her distracted, his voice soft and gentle. “Did I ever tell you the moment I realized I was in love with you?”

He’d spoken again as she shook her head, her voice soft “No.”

He’d continued to caress her skin, the memory still so fresh. “It was when we went to Virginia Beach. It was so hot, just ridiculously so. I didn’t have the heart to tell you I’m not too fond of the beach and that sand makes me all itchy. You seemed so excited about the beach and I decided I’d suffer through the beach if it made you happy. It was hard to be too annoyed when you looked so perfect. You wore that green bikini and those big sunglasses and that blue sundress. You looked so amazing and I felt like I didn’t look like I belonged by your side at all. I actually had a good time, even though we got way too overheated. We got cherry snow cones and sat under a beach umbrella to avoid the heat. I ate mine way too fast. It gave me an awful brain freeze and I’ll never forget what you did. You leaned up and pressed a kiss to my forehead. It was such a silly little action but it was the sweetest thing. I remember thinking I adored you at that moment. How could I not adore a girl whose first thought was to kiss my forehead because I had brain freeze. It hit me that I more than adored you, I loved you so much it almost took my breath away.”

“We hadn’t been dating for that long then. That was only our second official date after we’d confessed that we were into each other.” She spoke her voice soft. He nodded his head, his lips pressing to her neck as he responded.

“True, I was pretty enamored with you long before that though. I’m pretty sure some deep part of me knew that I loved you from the moment you stepped on the elevator that first day we met at NCIS. I don’t know if it was love at first sight, but I think it was a sense of belonging…like my heart knew it belonged with yours as stupid as that sounds. You met my eyes that day in the elevator and it’s like my heart knew that it was going to be you. I thought I was dumb for being so upset at the thought of never seeing you again…I mean we barely spoke that day. I thought maybe I was just lonely and you were so kind to me despite my awkwardness. So, maybe I just felt drawn to you out of loneliness and I’d forget about you before I even knew it….but then we met again at the park two weeks later and it just made me believe that my heart knew it was yours all the more. It was like it was fate pushing us towards each other. I don’t know if I fully believe in soulmates or what have you, but I think that maybe sometime way back before the universe was formed that maybe we were part of the same star or atom or whatever we were before we were us. How else can I explain how my heart knew it belonged to you?”

Olivia felt her eyes water this time for a completely different reason than the sorrow that had washed over her all day long.

She felt even more come as Jimmy spoke, needing to say the words. “No matter what happens with Tony, the fact that my heart belongs to yours is never going to change. I love you Oli, I don’t care what anyone has to say about it. I promise you the fact that I love you will never change.”

“I love you too.” She managed to work out, turning to snuggle a little closer to him despite the awkward angle she had to turn her body in the bath to make this happen.

Jimmy managed to wipe her tears relieved that the bubbles in the bath had disappeared enough to not leave soap behind on his hands.

He managed to speak knowing it wasn’t the first time he’d said the words today but he knew she needed to keep hearing them. “Tony is wrong. You aren’t hard to love. You’ve never been too much for me. I cannot begin to express just how wrong Tony was about everything he had to say.”

She managed to speak her voice so weak. “He resents me. I put him through hell for years. I was a mess and he had to clean up after me. We’ve never really talked about it…I put him through hell and scared him. I never made my amends with him for any of it. I know he already resented me because our dad never cut me off. Senior let me get away with a lot. I don’t know if Senior didn’t cut me off out of some weird form of paternal love or maybe just to keep face with his friends and avoid the shame of having two disowned kids. Either way I know Tony resents me for it. Tony got cut off for way less than I ever pulled. Tony still cleaned up my messes and supported me though. I know he was so scared for me for so long.”

“That doesn’t mean he has the right to throw it in your face as some attempt to hurt you because he’s pissed off. You made mistakes but you’ve changed. I don’t see a trace of the girl he described. Frankly I don’t care that you were that girl. I know who you are now. I understand why you were that girl Oli. I mean, you know we’ve talked about my issues with my own dad…I understand why you did what you did…Hurt people hurt themselves. It doesn’t change how I feel about you. You’ve been honest with me about that part of your life. Knowing about your past choices has never given me any hesitation when it comes to being with you. You may have given Tony hell but he doesn’t have the right to make you feel awful for it when you’ve worked so hard to do better.” Jimmy insisted trying his best to make her understand.

Why’d she make excuses for Tony? Surely she didn’t think she’d deserved any harshness from him?

He let out a shaky breath unable to stop himself from saying it. “If Tony was here right now I’d tell him exactly what I think about what he had to say to you. It was wrong and he was out of line. I don’t care how upset he was. You didn’t deserve that.”

Olivia spoke knowing she sounded so desperate pleading with him. “Don’t confront him Jimmy. Please, just leave it. I just, it won’t do any good to confront him about any of this. Please, just leave it…for me.”

Jimmy sighed knowing he had no choice. He’d do anything for her. It was his greatest downfall. “Okay, I promise. I’ll leave it.”

Jimmy did intend on leaving it. He knew that he couldn’t betray her request to just leave it be.

He loved her far too much to go against her requests.

It was because he loved her that seeing her so heartbroken hurt him so much.

He thought about calling his mother for some advice, but his mother wasn’t exactly aware of the secrecy surrounding Olivia’s and his relationship. The last thing he wanted to do was explain the situation to his mom.

So, Jimmy did the only thing he could think to do. He left her sleeping form and picked up his cell phone deciding to call the closest thing to a father he had.

He cringed realizing how late it was judging by the sleepy tone to Dr. Mallard’s voice. “Mr. Palmer? Is something wrong?”

Jimmy let out a sigh as he took a seat on the arm of a sofa in Olivia’s living room. He felt the words leave him knowing that there was no point in beating around the bush. “Tony found out about Olivia and me.”

“And I’m guessing by the tone of your voice that Agent Dinozzo didn’t find out on your terms?” Dr. Mallard replied, easily catching on.

Jimmy rubbed his eyes the stress of the day making his head ache. “He showed up to her apartment unannounced and I walked into the room…it was clear by our appearance that we couldn’t just explain away what I was doing there.”

He paused his cheeks flushing, relieved that he had found a way to explain the scene without having to go too in depth. He was sure that mentioning anything surrounding his sex life to his mentor was something he could live without.

He spoke again, another sigh leaving him. “Tony was…angry. I can take him being upset with me…I’d rather he just have hit me…the way he spoke to Olivia. He threw a few things from her past in her face…things she’s ashamed of. She’s so hurt. I just feel so guilty. I should have insisted we come clean to Tony a long time ago. I could have saved her so much pain had I convinced her to let us tell Tony the truth a long time ago.”

“You were doing what you felt was right Mr. Palmer. The woman you love asked you to keep a secret and you couldn’t deny her request. Men in love have done far more foolish things throughout history.” Dr. Mallard insisted.

He spoke again before Jimmy had a chance to respond. “As far as Tony goes, he will have to live with the consequences of lashing out at Olivia.”

Jimmy let out another sigh nodding his head his voice tight. “Olivia doesn’t want me to confront him about it. I feel like an awful boyfriend letting him speak to her like that without confronting him about it. I don’t care what he does to me, I just want him to know that he doesn’t have the right to talk to her that way. I don’t care if he’s her brother, he has no right making her cry.”

“If Olivia has asked you to stand by, you’d be wise to listen to her. Trust me, Mr. Palmer, upsetting the woman who knows where you sleep at night isn’t advisable. Just ask Agent Gibbs or one of his ex wives.” Dr. Mallard pointed out causing a small smile to at least cross Jimmy’s lips.

He nodded his head, a sense of relief washing over him as Dr. Mallard spoke again. “The only thing you can do in the meantime is offer reassurance to Olivia. From the sparse time I have been able to spend with Miss. Dinozzo and you together, I do think it’s very apparent she does love you deeply. She just needs to be reminded that you feel the same for her.”

“I do, I love her so much.” Jimmy admitted not hesitating to say it more sure of the words each time he said them.

“Then keep loving her. Let Tony sort through his emotions. His actions are not your responsibility.” Dr. Mallard pointed out Jimmy nodding his head in agreement.

Ducky was right, Jimmy knew it.

He couldn’t force Tony to make amends with Olivia. The only thing he could do was provide Olivia with the reassurance she needed.

He just hoped and prayed that he could give her enough to soothe her heartache.

……………………………………………………………………………………………………..

Olivia had thought that after a few days she’d start feeling more like herself, but she actually felt miserable.

It had to be stress. She was so distressed that she was making herself sick. It had to be the stress.

The stress was becoming overwhelming enough that she’d been getting sick to her stomach though. This was new. She’d never had stress give her this reaction. Then again, she’d never had a huge argument with her brother either.

Sure, there had been times where Tony had irritated the ever loving crap out of her, but they’d never had a falling out like this.

Tony had texted her once since the weekend, but only once and she had no idea how to interpret his text “We need to talk.”

Hadn’t he done enough talking for them both?

She knew it might be petty, but she’d refused to acknowledge the text message.

She couldn’t force herself to acknowledge it. Responding to it would just lead to more heartbreak.

She’d never dreamed Tony could hurt her. He was the last person she ever believed could hurt her.

He had though. He’d been so cruel. He wouldn’t even shut up for one second and hear Jimmy and her out. Sure, they had fucked up keeping their relationship from him, but that didn’t give him the right to throw every mistake she’d ever made right back in her face.

What had hurt her the most was the implication that this entire thing had just been sex with Jimmy. Yes, Olivia knew she hadn’t exactly always slept with men in the confines of it being within a relationship. She wasn’t ashamed of it.

Tony was completely hypocritical to bring it up though. He wasn’t the poster boy for commitment. He was the one who had a string of never ending sexual partners.

Why was it such a sin for her to have had hook ups in the past? It wasn’t as though Tony had some false belief that she was a virgin.

She resented that Tony would basically imply what he’d implied, even going as far as to ask her why she hadn’t taken McGee to bed while she was at it. If Tony was going to call her a slut, then Olivia would prefer that he had the balls to just come out and say it.

It hurt to think that Tony seemed to think she was incapable of finally finding a stable relationship with someone who loved her so genuinely. Jimmy loved her without any hesitation or fear. Once it had become clear to him that she saw him as far more than just a friend he’d been so unafraid to love her.

Why was that so hard for Tony to wrap his brain around?

Did she really give off the aura that she was so undeserving or far too unstable for love?

Did he really resent her that much?

As the days went on her sorrow molded into anger and back into heartbreak and then back into anger all over again.

She’d at least finally forced Jimmy to go back to work this morning. He’d missed two days of work insisting that Dr. Mallard would understand and Jimmy had plenty of PTO anyway.

She knew he was just worried about her. He’d spent the entire weekend and two days now doting over her and fretting over her.

He’d become even more distressed when she’d puked yesterday and once again this morning. It was just the stress she’d reassured him, but he still seemed so worried.

She was amazed that he hadn’t defied her insistence that he go to work this morning after she’d vomited.

She’d only managed to get him to leave the house with the reassurance that she would call him the second she started feeling nauseous again.

Of course he’d texted her several times during the day thus far until his final text had read that Dr. Mallard was making him stop now but please call him at his lunch break.

Olivia had decided to at least take Jimmy’s ban from texting her as a sign that she should at least try to clean up her apartment a little.

She’d managed to get someone to cover her at work, deciding that teaching kids to make ceramics probably wasn’t advisable when she felt a little nauseous. The concept of going near squishy clay made her stomach turn.

She was a little saddened to miss out on it, after all she loved her job teaching art classes at a local community center.

Most of the time she taught kids and the elderly given that was who seemed to take the most interest in the art classes she’d been hired to teach at this particular community center. It was still an enjoyable job though.

No, she didn’t exactly need to work given her trust fund gave her more than enough money to live off of and focus on her art fulltime, but she loved the routine of having a job. She liked having a routine.

She’d actually come to love her life here after spending a few years constantly travelling with her last job.

It felt good to stay in one place and have one job at the same location. It felt good to have the routine of waking up every morning and knowing exactly what her day would bring.

She had a distinct feeling that Jimmy helped aid into her satisfaction with this period of her life.

He’d definitely made her life seem all the brighter. Even with all the events of the past few days and her falling out with her brother, Olivia was more than sure that Jimmy made her world a brighter place. She loved him enough that she was sure he was worth any amount of stress.

She tried her best to pull her mind from her troubles, choosing instead to focus on cleaning knowing that her apartment had become a bit of a mess over these past few days. Jimmy and she really hadn’t felt up to actually leaving the apartment. They’d been more focused on trying to reassure one another and heal from the events of the weekend.

It was high time to give the place a good deep clean. Besides, cleaning always did help her cope with her anxieties.

She started with the bathroom knowing it was always her least favorite part of the process of housework.

It wasn’t until she was down on her knees sorting through the contents under the bathroom sink that she came across a particular box of items that made her heart drop.

She stared down at the box of tampons in her hand, a sudden realization hitting her. She was late. No, she wasn’t too terribly late, but still late enough to give her pause.

She knew everyone insisted that they ran like clockwork and everyone else insisted that wasn’t possible, but she was pretty sure ran as close to being like clockwork as possible. She had at least some concept of how her cycle ran most of the time.

It would explain a lot a little voice in the back of her brain exclaimed; the nausea, the exhaustion…the late period.

Jimmy and she used protection though…then again hadn’t they occasionally had their little slip ups?

She felt her heart begin to slam in her chest as she tried her best to remember every single sexual experience they’d had over the past few months.

Olivia groaned it hitting her that there was only one way to figure this all out.

She stood up dropping the box of tampons, her mind going on autopilot as she made her way out to the living room searching for her car keys.

Soon enough she would know the truth.

………………………………………………………

Olivia had never imagined that she’d find herself in a bathroom at a CVS with a comically large bottle of lemonade and a plastic bag filled with pregnancy tests.

It would be amusing if it was happening to anyone but her.

She debated calling Jimmy and explaining her current situation but she couldn’t imagine how to even begin to have that conversation over the phone “So how’s Dr. Mallard? How’s Autopsy today? Anything interesting happening because oh, boy on my end things sure have gotten interesting. I’ve peed on three pregnancy tests and I don’t even know where I found the pee in my bladder to manage it!”

She was pretty sure that wasn’t how you were supposed to have the “don’t freak out but we may be pregnant” talk with your boyfriend.

This couldn’t be happening, not now. This was so not the time for this.

Jimmy and she had barely even broached the subject of having kids. The few times they’d discussed it they had been in agreement that it was something they both wanted but it had always been framed as something that would happen in the future.

Hell, they’d not even shared news of their relationship with her brother, so any talk of kids was always framed as some far off idea of what they might want in the future or what they pictured in a future together.

She had zero doubts in her mind that Jimmy Palmer would be an incredible father. He was an incredible boyfriend after all. He was far too sweet to be anything less than amazing. He just had that personality; that gentle heart that had made her fall for him in the first place. The man was a sweetheart. He loved kids and he loved her. Men like Jimmy were made to be fathers.

Olivia would be lying if she tried to pretend that the idea of having his baby didn’t make her feel all warm and fuzzy inside.

It just was absolutely the worst time possible for this to be happening.

Sure Olivia had met Jimmy’s family and it was clear that their relationship was serious. Things were just so complicated though.

Jimmy hadn’t met Dinozzo Sr…not that that was a bad thing but still…she might be pregnant and her father didn’t even know he existed.

Jimmy and Olivia didn’t even live together.

Where would they put a crib? Their apartments were only one bedroom. Would they have to get a new place?

Oh God, what would Tony do?

He was pissed off enough when it had come out that Jimmy was dating her, so what was he going to do if it came out that Jimmy had knocked her up while he was at it?

Olivia felt her blood run cold when the alarm she’d set on her cell phone chimed notifying her that it was time.

She took a deep breath trying to calm her nerves as she picked up the first test with a shaky hand

She stared at it, her brain suddenly struggling to make sense of the blue plus on the screen in front of her.

She picked up the other test sorting through the instructions trying to make sense of the result on this test her stomach turning as she realized just what it meant.

It meant the same thing that the other two tests were telling her.

She was so screwed.

#Jimmy Palmer #NCIS #Jimmy Palmer/OC #Jimmy Palmer X OC #NCIS Fanfic #Jimmy Palmer Fanfiction

[stonebreakerseries]

Day 5: Beloved + “Unacceptable, try again.”

Another piece for @oc-growth-and-development‘s OC-tober, also incorporating the Day 5 #Fictober20 prompt. This one was, ah... a fair bit harder to merge. But I did my best!

This piece is set about 10 years prior to the events in Stonebreaker, focusing on the aftermath of the War of Chains (I might include it as a flashback or an interlude between parts - I have yet to decide).

                       -------------------------------------------------------

Series: Stonebreaker (Original Fiction) Character(s): Dassian Varo, Alessia Torvul, Faldoran Crestus, Hemlan.

                       ---------------------------------------------------------

The pale stone walls of the war room seemed too bright that morning. Garish, pristine, uncompromising. Perhaps it was fitting, given the group that currently crowded around the replica map. The undulating landscape of central Peiora was crafted with minute and painstaking detail, spanning from Talvera all the way to the Bleakwood. It used to be the map that encompassed all of the Allied Kingdoms. Now Valcreta, the City of Artifice, stood like a stain at the southwestern corner. A reminder of their failure.

Breathing out, Dassian Varo, War King of Signea, High King of the Allied Kingdoms, found himself staring at that spot. One of the mapmakers had painted the area gold, the colour used to denote Khathi Empire territory. It was recently done; the paint was still tacky, its damp gleam visible in the mid-morning light.

Where had we gone so wrong?

Of course, Dassian knew. He knew when the decree had been passed, though he had been too much of a fool to admit it. The idea of it - freedom for the bondsmen throughout the Allied Kingdoms - had been something he had supported for years. Decades, even, though perhaps he had been less vocal in his youth. Less self-assured. Less powerful. 

Divider’s Own, what he would give, now, for even half the confidence he used to have.

Deep down, Dassian had known it wasn’t truly about freedom. It never had been. But his doubts at the time had simply been outweighed by his belief that, sometimes, intentions didn’t matter. What mattered was the result. It was hard to imagine that any man or woman, when freed from their chains, would care about whether it was done for the ‘right’ reason. All that mattered was that it had happened. Their lives were now their own, to do with as they pleased.

Or, at least, that had been the ideal, sold to them just under two years ago. It had been the start of Felling, when High King Leoric had called a meeting of the rulers. He remembered it vividly - the trees had just started to change, soft leaves turning crisp, red bleeding into green... 

“Your Majesty?”

Stirring, Dassian blinked and tore his gaze from the map. Crowded around the table stood his closest advisors. They were the only people, so soon after ascending to the throne, that he was willing to trust.

To his right stood Faldoran Crestus, his well-cared sword eternally strapped to his side. Dressed in a thick doublet, the courtly attire was barely able to contain his powerful form; an incongruity that only emphasised the man’s obvious discomfort. Recently promoted to Marshal, he was now expected to attend all meetings pertaining to Signea and her defense - a fact that, upon its discovery, had twisted his scarred face into a perpetual frown. They did not always agree on matters, but Faldoran was the only man Dassian could have chosen for such a vital position. The only man he trusted to replace him. 

Next to Faldoran, a wooden writing board resting along her forearm, was Alessia Torvul, the former king’s Cipher. The woman, with pale Talveran skin and copper hair, was a handful of years his senior, and carried each of them with pride. She met Dassian’s gaze without a moment’s hesitation, green eyes calm. Knowing. Encouraging. Most had assumed he would not trust her, given her proximity to King Leoric and his family. They had assumed he would petition other Cipher families for a replacement. 

They had assumed wrong. 

Finally, a short man stood on Dassian’s left, his brown hair thinning, his stomach straining against a dark leather belt. As though sensing Dassian’s thoughts on him, he cleared his throat. “Ah, if you please, your Majesty. With Valcreta being... u-um… well, I how should I put this---”

---“Unacceptable,” Dassian snapped, dark eyes flashing dangerously as they cut across to the man. “Try again.” 

Hemlan stiffened, mouth dropping open in shock. Dassian had expected that response from him. He’d always been spineless. But Alessia’s frown, scalding him with disapproval from halfway across the room, was his cue that he had genuinely misstepped. 

Stop it. You need these people on your side. All of them.

Sighing, Dassian leaned forward, pressing his hands to the lacquered edge of the table. “I apologise, Hemlan. Please, just... say what you mean.” Divider, he was tired. It didn’t seem to matter how much he slept. Not that he slept well, alone in a room large enough to house an entire platoon. “King Leoric may have ruled by platitudes, but I have no patience for them.”

Even as the words left his lips, Dassian winced, wishing he could take them back. There he went again. It was never wise to disparage a fallen monarch; certainly not before his funeral had even taken place. This meeting was a mistake. He should have waited another day. Divider, he was almost too exhausted to even feel ashamed of himself. 

Almost. 

“This has been… a trying campaign, your Majesty. A few improprieties behind closed doors are to be expected.” To his surprise, the timidity in Hemlan’s voice had all but vanished, even after the undeserved reprimand. By the time Dassian looked back at the man, his entire demeanour had already shifted. He stood straighter now, pale gaze regarding the map, the thumb of his right hand hooked into his belt. Bemused, Dassian sent a questioning look to Alessia, who simply shrugged, a faint smile tinging her lips. 

I see. 

He’d always wondered how a man like Hemlan had found his way into a position as coveted as Court Advisor. In truth, he was only even present at Alessia’s insistence. Whenever he had spoken to Hemlan in the past, the man had been a stuttering mess, barely making eye contact, frustrating him with his sweating and apologising and bumbling until…

Dassian froze.

… until he had told Hemlan whatever he wanted to know, just to make him leave.

“If I may,” Hemlan continued, tugging Dassian from his quiet revelation, “it is important that we discuss the potential of a Khathi assault. With Valcreta now a viable waypoint for their army and their knowledge of our weakened forces, the threat is greater now than it has been since the conception of the Allied Kingdoms.”

The Allied Kingdoms. Their formation had been a defensive maneuver, spurred by King Leoric at the beginning of this reign. That had to have been, what… twenty years ago? More?

Where had the time gone?

“Have the armies patrol the western border,” Dassian said. “I trust we still have the numbers for that?”

Faldoran nodded, arms folded, the heavy shelf of his brow almost casting a shadow over his eyes. “We do. But I wouldn’t waste any soldiers down by Tel Shival.” He leaned forward, tapping a gloved finger on the swath of blue directly east of their current location. “The Pale’s still swollen from the thaw up north, so all those feeders running into the marsh will be full to bursting.” He shook his head, straightening. “No - there’s no fear of an army getting through that way. Not at this time of year.”

It was true enough. Even their own army had been forced to swing north, bypassing the Crossroads, adding a full two-turns to their journey. In any other circumstance, ten days would have felt like nothing. But among exhausted soldiers, wounded, hungry, battle-worn…

Alessia shifted her footing. “If I may? It would still be beneficial to build more outposts along the southern outskirts. If nothing else, we will find ourselves better positioned once the weather changes.” She glanced at Faldoran, who just grunted, then returned her attention to Dassian. “If we cannot spare soldiers for the task, I imagine there are a number among the recently liberated seeking paid work.”

“Yes. Good. See it done.” As Dassian replied, he noticed that Alessia was actually transcribing the discussion, her quill scratching away over the parchment with her usual ruthless efficiency. Of course. This is all official, now. 

However, more importantly, Alessia had raised a valid point. In Dassian’s opinion - one he shared with many - the handling of the bondsmen had been one of Leoric’s greatest failings. Of all the kingdoms who had implemented the decree, the High King himself had taken the most indolent approach. He had simply declared the owning and trading of bondsmen a criminal offense, signed a few papers, and considered the matter resolved. Even back then, he had already been fixated on the war with Valcreta - the war he knew was coming. He’d lost sight of his own citizens at the very moment they needed him most.

Of course, many of the former bondsmen were resourceful. Some grouped together, forming their own communities in the kingdom’s outskirts. Some stayed put, joining the more welcoming towns and cities where they had grown up or lived out a good portion of their lives. Some returned to their homelands, seeking families that may or may not still be waiting for them. But others? Others struggled, without property, without work, without support, cut off from their pasts, uncertain of the futures. 

The rest just left Signea entirely, once they realised the extent to which the King had forgotten them. 

To some, High King Leoric was beloved. To others, his shortcomings were simply too great and too many to overlook. Dassian had yet to decide in which camp he intended to raise his own flag.

Closing his eyes, he bowed his head and drew a deep, slow breath. He could feel the concerned gazes of his closed council on him, but chose to ignore them for the moment, collecting himself, gathering his thoughts. After all, Alessia and Faldoran had seen him in far worse states than this - recently, too. 

And Hemlan? 

Well, Hemlan seemed willing and able to adapt to whatever he needed, whenever he needed it. He had yet to decide if that was incredibly useful, or incredibly terrifying.

“Tell me,” Dassian said suddenly, “what are the people saying?”

At first, silence met his question. Alessia shifted, rolling back her shoulders, but seemed hesitant to respond. Even Faldoran somehow managed to look even more uncomfortable, his mouth drawn into a tense line.

That left Hemlan.

“It is… mixed, your Majesty,” the portly man began, clasping his hands behind his back. He kept his blue eyes fixed on the map, as though he somehow knew the last thing Dassian wanted was his scrutiny. “The sudden retreat from Valcreta was a surprise to many. Soldiers, common folk, and nobility alike.”

“Damn right it was,” Faldoran agreed, crossing his arms. “Had my work cut out for me, explaining that one to the soldiers. Reckon I got through to most of the ones that mattered, but…” He shrugged. “There’s always going to be mutterings. Just the way it goes.”

Dassian nodded stiffly. Of course he knew that. But still, somehow, he just wished he could make them see. Make them understand that it had to be done. 

“Some call you a hero,” Hemlan continued, unfazed by the interruption. “Being named War King on the field of battle gained you favour among the more military-minded, as well as a number of noble families. But, as with all things, even the most valuable coin has two sides. Others call you a coward, some even going so far as to raise questions about the legitimacy of your ascension.”

“What?” Dassian stood up straight at that, alarmed. Not at the accusations of cowardice - he had expected those. Prepared for them. But the idea that he had somehow cheated his way to the throne? “There were witnesses present - several, high and low ranking alike. They have all made statements. On what grounds are they questioning it?”

“Unfounded grounds, your Majesty,” Hemlan replied quickly. “I apologise if I caused undue alarm. The accusations are not enough to pose any real threat, nor are they bold enough to outright denounce you...” He paused. Looking up, Hemlan studied Dassian’s face for a moment, gauging something. Then, he sucked in a breath, and added, “... yet. Right now, the war is still fresh, as is the memory of your coronation. It is important we continue to monitor these rumours, but at present, that is all they are.”

A cold feeling settled at the center of his chest. “At present,” Dassian repeated quietly. Divider...

Expression softening, Hemlan simply nodded. “At present, your Majesty.”

“We will be vigilant,” Alessia added, voice firm. “If the talk ever becomes serious enough to threaten your life or the stability of the kingdom, we will convene and act accordingly.” 

Dassian nodded distractedly, then paused, realising something. She had stopped writing, leaving this part of their conversation off the official record. 

So it’s that much of a concern, then.

“Very well,” he said after a moment. “Hemlan, report to me every second turn. I don’t want to find myself blindsided by any of this.” He shifted his gaze to Faldoran. “Marshal Crestus, meet with me this evening. We will discuss the fortification of the border in more detail then. For now, you are both dismissed.”

The two men nodded and took their leave, Faldoran snapping a sharp salute, Hemlan bowing low. That left him and Alessia, standing at opposite sides of the large map. Slowly, calmly, she went about organising her affairs, capping the small vial of ink, dabbing the tip of her quill against a piece of sponge inlaid in her writing board. 

Dassian just watched her, silent, and waited for the inevitable.

“You can’t solve every problem in the kingdom on your first day, Dassian.” She glanced up, green eyes seeming to pierce right through him. They always did. “It will take many Kings - High, War, whatever you like - to fix the mistakes of the past twenty years. Even then, new ones will only rise to take their place.”

“Then what would you have me do?” he demanded. She had stood by him when so many had refused; believed him on the battlefield when his own men had started to doubt. Practically committed treason with him. He owed her more than he dared admit, but sometimes she drove him halfway mad. “Should I do nothing? Delegate my duties to others, like Leoric did? I can’t do that, Alessia. I’m not that kind of man.”

As he expected - as he feared - the Cipher just sighed. She didn’t seem disappointed. Not even angry or bitter. In fact, she almost seemed to have been expecting his exact response. He wouldn’t be surprised if she’d written it down before he’d even said it. “Then it is something you will just have to learn, Dassian, whether you want to or not. That, and many other things.” She shook her head and stepped away from the map, angling towards the door. “Despite the way it is portrayed in the history books, ruling a kingdom is never done alone. The crown is a symbol. It is a kind of power, yes, but it is not absolute. You need to surround yourself with people. The right people.”

She began to walk out, shoes whispering over the floor tiles. “I’m not alone,” Dassian said as she passed by him, voice low, gaze averted. “I have you, don’t I? And Faldoran. Hemlan.”

Alessia paused. Just for a breath. “You do,” she said. “But we are not enough.”

With that, she bowed and left, her floor-length dress shifting gently with each step. Soon, the War King found himself alone once more, the light streaming in through the high windows suddenly too bright. Too damning, laying bare all of his flaws. There were certainly enough of them.

Rest, he thought, leaning his weight against the table, not quite trusting his legs to hold him. I just need to rest. 

Then I can worry about fixing everything else in this damn kingdom.

#oc tober #oc-tober #fictober20 #stonebreakerseries #dassian varo #signea #prompt #people #general #Dassian is another character who wont be all that relevant until the second book #but he crops up in conversation/flashbacks/etc. #being high king of the allied kingdoms and all >.> #dassian writing #alessia writing

[robotnik-mun]

So, what happens when I decide to throw caution to the wind and mash together as many fucking Sonic Continuities as I possibly can? You get a big ass tangle of a family tree that needs to be split up into five separate images, that’s what. 

It’s ugly, it’s unpolished, and I made it on a whim. Because the mental image wouldn’t leave me. And because I actually started developing this godforsaken nightmare of a family tree, born of merged continuities, headcanons, and sleep deprivation. 

Now keep in mind that this thing is pure crack- it implies a world where Sonic eventually collapses from exhaustion of having to fight TWO Robotniks. It’s a mish mash of what-if’s, continuity mergers and personal ideas glued together. And I wanna stress it has nothing to directly do with my current setting- this is just like, The Path of Insanity. 

Anyway, yeah. Against my better judgement I made notes for this insanity. Also, you may notice pictures of characters from other franchises being used as portraits for various characters. Those are basically faceclaims of sorts, meant as abstract representations rather than the literal idea of what they looked like... since, honestly, even I’M not cruel enough to inflict my ‘art’ on you. 

Anyway, let’s get the ball rolling- 

“Robotnikhotep”

-Robotnik Ancestor in ‘Mobigypt’. Was probably some big important muckity-muck.

“Julius Robotnikus”

-Probably Mobius’ answer to Caligula. His family eventually fell out of power and was forced to re-settle in what would eventually become Overland. 

Ivo Kintobor

-Yeah, that whole ‘House of Ivo’ thing? This is the guy responsible. Most likely a douchenozzle, as there is a high concentration of that in the bloodline. Basically a minor warlord who unified a bunch of clans to form his own Kingdom, that was subsequently absorbed into Overland during the unification. 

Brutus Kintobor

-Oh wow, a SKINNY Robotnik/Kintobor. This douche canoe attempted to conquer Angel Island for the Overland, but failed miserably. Sent back home in disgrace, a failure.

Gerald Robotnik

- Originally born Gerald Kintobor of the House of Ivo in Overland. He was more interested in science than politics, and after completing college he left that mess behind and immigrated to the United Federation. He changed his name to signify the break from his family history. 

-Explored Angel Island in his youth, where he learned about Chaos Emeralds and the like from the various ruins there. He was even friends with then-guardian Janelle-Li. 

-Started up Robotnik CORPS. He founded it as a way to disseminate his technology to the people of the UF and earn money to fund more experiments. 

-You know the rest. The ARK, Maria, NIDS, Black Doom, Shadow, yadda-yadda-yadda. 

Olga Robotnik

-Gerald’s wife. Duh. 

-She met him while he lived in a spare room her father was renting out. She’d collect his rent. They grew close and eventually had kids and started a family. 

-The shit this poor woman endured is amazing, but she managed to remain unbroken by it, and tried to remain close to her surviving grandchildren. 

Grigory Robotnik

- The first son of Gerald. He wasn’t a genius, but he pursued a career in academics and became a doctor of physics. He had two children, Warren and Maria.

-After the ARK incident he became paranoid and accused the government of covering up what really happened. The obsession to uncover the truth destroyed his physical and mental health, and he died a shunned outcast ranting on pirated radio stations about various conspiracies. 

-Died in a halfway house, but he managed to get ahold of Gerald’s diary before biting it. While he never got to use it to bring down GUN, it still paved the way for Eggman’s eventual use. 

Amelia Robotnik 

-Maria’s mother. After the ARK incident and the supposed death of her children, she fell into a deep depression and eventually committed suicide. In case you haven’t noticed, the story of the Robotnik family is depressing as fuck. 

Warren Robotnik, ‘Warpnik’ 

-Maria’s brother. What a tweest! 

-He was with her on the ARK, and demonstrated a similar scientific gift to his grandfather. He wasn’t close to Shadow the way Maria was. 

-When the ARK was raided, he was captured and subjected to brainwashing treatments by GUN in the hopes of turning him into a loyal, in-house mad scientist. All it did was make him batshit crazy. 

-He escaped some time during the Great War, and is now loose in Mobius, a lunatic geneticist fixated on continuing his grandfather’s ‘great work’... or at least his own warped perception of it. 

Maria Robotnik 

-You know her. You love her. Her life is a tragedy. She’s Maria! Nuff said. Years later, and she still weighs heavily on Shadow. 

Ivo Kintobor

-And here is where things get a bit confusing! Ivo was born ‘Ivo Robotnik’, the second son of Gerald. Long story short, he was a douche more interested in politics and profit, and as such did not get along with his father, who bequeathed the family company to his younger brother. 

-Despite this, Ivo SOMEHOW managed to reproduce. And when the ARK incident happened, he bought the government line hook line and sinker. He changed the family name back to Kintobor and moved everyone back to Overland to start anew. 

-He’s like 50% responsible for Julian winding up the way he did. 

-And yes- he DOES want to bulldoze the puppy orphanage to create a combination oil rig/toxic waste dump. 

-Was murdered by Julian, who disguised it as an accident. 

Lydia Kintobor

-ICE BABY ICE. 

-Julian and Colin’s mom. 

-She 100% supported her husband’s douchery, and was an active participant in tormenting her secondborn son in the hopes of ‘breaking’ him out of being a genius. 

-Killed in the same ‘accident’ that took her husband’s life. 

Colin Kintobor Sr. 

-Born in the United Federation, but moved to the Overland as a child and grew up there. 

-Major league Nationalist and Human Supremacist. Prick. 

-Hated Julian basically forever and was encouraged by his parents to do so. He became their ‘golden child’ and was pushed to succeed at everything. 

-Pursued a career in politics, law, and the military, and eventually served as a general in the Great War. 

-Was eventually murdered by his own brother

Miriam Kintobor 

-Colin’s first wife, via arranged marriage. 

-She was pretty much his opposite, yet despite that fact the two came to genuinely love one another. 

-Died giving birth to their son. Have I mentioned the Kintobor/Robotnik family history is a trainwreck yet? 

Angela Kintobor

-The second wife of Colin. She probably met him while serving as a military functionary during the Great War. She is also the mother of Hope Kintobor. 

-Other than that, I got nothin’. She likely died when Hope was young, by way of Swatbot invasion. Seriously, do NOT become a Kintobor Love Interest. 

Colin “Snively” Kintobor Jr. 

-You know him, you hate him! It’s the Snivster, bay-bee! 

-His mother died giving birth to him. His dad blamed him for this. You can guess the rest. 

-You know most of the story- crappy childhood, admired his uncle Julian, helped him take over the Kingdom of Acorn, spent a decade as his punching bag, etc etc. 

-After seemingly offing Julian during Endgame, he briefly took over the Robotnik Empire.... and promptly lost it to Naugus, forcing him to flee for his life. In exchange for information about Robotropolis’ defenses, King Acorn spared his life but sentenced him to be imprisoned forever.

-Was busted out by a returned Julian so that his uncle would be able to properly ‘thank’ him for losing his empire. Helped the FFs to escape Robotnik’s revenge, and after spending time bumming around with them (and hating it) decided to throw in his lot with Crazy Uncle Ivo. 

-He’s regretted it ever since... though he sticks with him because its either Ivo or Julian, and Julian will ensure his death is cruel, messy, and lingers for years to come. 

Hope Kintobor 

-The second child of Colin Kintobor. She was born during the later years of the Great War and spent much of her early life living in siege conditions as Overland tried and failed to stop the advancement of Robotnik. 

-Eventually she witnessed the death of her father and remaining family at the hands of Robotnik before being saved by Sonic. She had an extended stay in Knothole afterwards, where she slowly learned that much of her people’s views of Mobians was innacurate. 

-She eventually moved to the United Federation as a ward of GUN, serving as the technology expert for Team Dark. She is close to all of them. 

-Seeks to redeem the name of her family so that it’s legacy won’t be one of bloodshed, conquest and madness. She’s got a waaaays to go, to put it mildlry. 

-Despite everything she still cares about her awful, awful half-brother. 

Dr. Julian Robotnik 

-Had a REALLY goddamned crappy....well, life, basically. Take my word for it. 

-Has basically murdered his entire immediate family by this point. 

-Prior to the Great War he aided the Overlander Ministry of Conflict in toppling the legitimate government of the Kingdom of Amunopolis (Aleena’s Kingdom), forcing it’s royal family to flee to the Kingdom of Acorn and re-settle under new identities, with crown princess becoming ‘Bernadette Hedgehog’. That’s right- he’s indirectly responsible for Sonic existing. 

-Blah blah blah evil experiments blah blah war crimes blah blah sentenced to be executed by Overlander government during the Great War and blah blah blah coup.

-Took over a large swathe of Mobius and expanded to conquer more, and for a time seemed like he might conquer the entire planet. The Robotnik Empire is.... not a fun place. Then or now.

-Then Sonic and the FF’s happened. Then Endgame happened, and he was... indisposed for a while, leading to his empire being diminished. While he has returned, he has suffered numerous setbacks since then, and the Robotnik Empire is now greatly diminished from its peak. 

-That being said, he still rules a pretty big part of the planet, and is still the biggest danger to the world at present.

-Hates his cousin Ivo.

-REALLY goddamn hates That Hedgehog. 

Laura Kintobor 

-That’s Doctor Laura Kintobor (nee Ellison) to you, buster. 

-She and Julian both worked as scientists with Overland’s science ministry, where they met and befriended one another. She eventually managed to coax Julian out of his shell, and their friendship bloomed into a romance, which led to the two marrying. 

-She worked in the organic sciences division and was an expert on biology and zoology. In contrast to most scientists, she was very much an outdoorswoman. Even managed to convince Julian to partake. 

-Much like her unfortunate sister-in-law, she died in childbirth... giving birth to a stillborn daughter. 

-Yeah, this shit is grim. 

Theodore Robotnik

-Third son of Gerald. Blatantly named in reference to Theodore Roosevelt, who was used as a visual reference for Eggman.

-Basically a professional beancounter who later inherited Robotnik CORPS. He chose to stick with his original name even after the ARK incident, and struggled to keep Robotnik CORPS afloat in the immediate aftermath of the incident. 

-Set up a trust fund for his son Ivo, and tried his best to raise him to be a contributing member of society. 

-Sufficed to say, that didn’t work. If he’s still alive, he has a REALLY tense relationship with his son. 

-Named his son after his older brother as a passive-aggressive act of spite for abandoning the ‘Robotnik’ name. 

Dolores Robotnik 

-Mother of Ivo. She was a professor of chemistry who decided to put her career on hold in order to be homemaker. 

-Was much closer to her son than Theodore was, and often wound up having to play peacemaker between the two. ESPECIALLY during Ivo’s tumultous teenage years. 

-Sufficed to say she is not exactly pleased with how he turned out, assuming she’s still alive even. 

Dr. Ivo “Eggman” Robotnik

-HE IS THE EGGMAN. HE’S GOT THE MASTER PLAN! Really, do you NEED to know any more? 

-Well, okay, you do. He was born very shortly before the ARK incident and never knew his grandfather. 

-His childhood wasn’t horrible, but it was rough in areas due to his high intelligence making things more difficult for him than they should of be. Loads of disagreements with his dad over pursuing science. Spent years plagued by the derogatory name of ‘Eggman’ due to his weight problems. 

-You know how you fantasize about ruling the world as a kid? He never really left that stage of things. 

-He initially worked as a research scientist in the fields of AI and energy. During the Great War he was approached by GUN to develop weapons for them. His research would go on to form the basis of the robotic soldiers later used by them in the Robotnik war. 

-Began his plot to take over Mobius during his time there, and secretly began to appropriate resources and machines to build a hidden base on the distant South Island. Eventually his schemes were discovered by GUN, but he fled. 

-While his cousin conquered portions of Mobius elsewhere, Eggman began his long term Death Egg scheme as a means of conquering Mobius in one fell swoop with the aid of the Chaos Emeralds. 

-You can guess how it goes from here- he encounters Sonic on South Island and in the Scrap Brain Zone and is defeated, thus setting the tone for MANY other defeats in the future. He eventually took on the name ‘Dr. Eggman’ as a way to differentiate himself from his cousin, and to make the insult that dogged his life into a name to be feared ala ‘Penguin’. 

-When his cousin Julian was seemingly killed and the Robotnik Empire in dissarray, Eggman started new bids to take over the world. He established the Metropolis Zone as his ‘capital city’ and founded the Egg Army to help supplement his Badnik Horde. The Eggman Empire now exists as a terrorist army at the beck and call of Dr. Eggman, though he’s still got a ways to go. 

-Has four sons by three different women. Slut. 

???

-Haven’t got a name for her yet. She was a random girl that a college age Ivo knocked up, which putty much put an end to her collegiate ambitions. She gave birth to two sons, one of whom she bitterly named ‘Ivan’ as a reminder of his origins after failing to get child support out of her babydaddy. She re-married and is currently leading a comfortable enough life. Humors her son because she knows it annoys his biological father. 

Ivan Eggman

-The oldest of Eggman’s sons. In his mid 30s or so. Scientifically gifted, as his father was. 

-Has numerous, numerous issues pertaining to his stepfather, a hard and strict man with little toleration for nonsense.

-Idolizes his biological father and desperately wants to be acknowledged by him, even changing his original surname to ‘Eggman’. Eggman the 1st was NOT amused. 

-Eventually founded a company, Eggman Industries, and grew rich rapidly. Settled by the Bygone Islands where he pursues life as a ‘villain’ now, though really he’s more like a public nuisance than anything. 

-Honestly he’s basically living a ‘second childhood’ of sorts using his scientific know-how and riches, and has vowed to one day impress his father and earn his acknowledgement. As you can imagine, it is.... not working out at all, given that he’s even more of a goober than his pop. 

-Ironically, he isn’t naturally bald- he SHAVES his head. 

Steve  

-Yeah, he ain’t a robot here- Steve is the organic, younger (by about a minute) twin brother of Ivan. 

-Utterly unconcerned with science or any of that jazz. He’s basically a bohemian beach bum, complete with californian accent- he spends much of his time surfing and earning cash from side jobs. 

-Really mellow and easy-going, and doesn’t really dwell on stuff. 

-Utter himbo. 

Mrs. Robotnik 

- Ex-Wife of Ivo Robotnik. Haven’t given it too much thought, but she and Ivo met while working in acadamia, and eventually married. 

-Initially the relationship was pretty solid, and they even had a child together. However things swiftly deteriorated between the two as Ivo’s immaturity and increasing anger at the world strained their relationship, along with him being a lousy parent to their son. She eventually divorced his ass. 

-After going through a rough patch with her son, she has begun to re-connect with him after his years a delinquent, and now happily supports his endeavors. 

Ivo Robotnik Jr. 

-Middle son of Dr. Eggman. Had a nonexistant relationship with his father while growing up, which combined with the divorce eventually turned him into a juvenile delinquent. 

-He roamed with a biker gang for a while, and prefers to be called ‘Junior’ rather than ‘Ivo’. 

-Fell in with Breezie for a while, the both of them unaware of the other’s connection to Eggman. They eventually went their separate ways once Junior began to turn over a new leaf. He still carries a torch for her, though is painfully aware it’d never work out. Their relationship is... complicated, these days.

-Has since become a software security engineer, making a living providing Anti-Eggman/Robotnik software to companies. 

Lindsey Thorndyke

-A famed actress. She and Ivo had a drunken tryst at a wrap party where he’d been invited to act as a consultant on scientific accuracy. To avoid scandal she informed her husband, and they passed off the baby as their own. 

-What more do you want. Its LINDSEY. 

Chris Thorndyke 

-The youngest son of Ivo Robotnik. Spent much of his life completely unaware of his true parentage. 

-Eh, what can I say, I kind like the theory of him actually being a Robotnik in some capacity or the next. 

-When he was a boy, he befriended Sonic and his friends and even hosted them during the days when Eggman’s schemes for global conquest caused him to haunt Station Square for a while. 

-Admired his grandfather Chuck and pursued science to be like him, studying physics and engineering. 

-Thanks to his mom he’s something of a film buff. 

-In college he learned the truth of his heritage. This has put a strain on his relationship with his parents.

Francis Kintobor 

-The youngest of Gerald’s sons. Pursued a career as a schoolteacher. While he changed his name in the aftermath of the ARK incident as his older brother Ivo had, he chose to make a small joke at his brother’s expense over the ludicrousness of the name change by naming his own son ‘Ovi Kintobor’. 

-Named after Francis Mao, aka That Guy Who Made That One Comic Adaptation From 1991. 

Elizabeth Kintobor

-Dr. Ovi Kintobor’s mother. A career veterinarian with a strong love of animals. That’s about it. 

Ovi Kintobor 

- Grew up on Westside Island, among Mobians. Had a pretty happy and contented childhood, and like many of the other various members of the Kintobor/Robotnik clan developed a pronounced interest and skill in science at a young age. 

-Developed a particular interest in researching Chaos Emeralds.

-A Concientious Objector, he served as a medic during the Great War.

-Deeply, deeply shamed by the actions of his more notorious cousins, he has essentially hidden himself from the world to pursue his research and evade their notice, while helping against them in whatever way he can. 

-Has secretly transported people threatened by his cousins to safer places, and once caused a mass sabotage of their respective robotic forces through the ‘Nicenik Virus’. 

-An ally of the Freedom Fighters. 

-Deeply distrusts GUN (which frankly isn’t a bad call).

-Bit of a hippy, but really is a genuinely nice guy who wants to help others through science. 

-In some villages he is known as ‘Mr. Tinker’. 

#Sonic the Hedgehog #Dr. Robotnik #Dr. Eggman #Colin Kintobor #Chris Thorndyke #Gerald Robotnik #Hope Kintobor #Snively #Warpnik #Maria Robotnik #Robotnik Junior #Boom Eggman #Steve Eggman #Robotnik Jr #Truly this was the best way to spend the finite thing known as my time on earth

[chicagocityfclanspromoblog]

Sam Thompson → Joe Manganiello → Moose

→ Basic Information

Age: 227

Gender: Male

Sexuality: Straight

Born or Made: Born

Birthday: April 26th

Zodiac Sign: Taurus

Religion: Christian

→ His Personality (one to two paragraphs)

→ His Personal Facts

Occupation: Broker and External Liaison and Board Member

Scars: Scratches and Bite marks from his kids and other members of the clan

Tattoos: None

Two Likes: Sports Cars and Rough housing

Two Dislikes: Silent Films and “Trendy” home finishes

Two Fears: Poison and Dishonoring his family name

Two Hobbies: Weight lifting and Golfing

Three Positive Traits: Macho, Perceptive, Disciplined

Three Negative Traits: Vindictive, Uncharitable, Argumentative

→ His Connections

Parent Names:

Sterling Thompson (Father): Sterling was one of the original Board Members. He was the last one standing between Garland Fields and the leadership position. He lost, and the shame followed him the rest of his life. Behind closed doors, Sterling preached to Sam about the importance of taking Chicago back and made Sam promise to continue their legacy the night he died. Sam wants to live up to all of his father’s hopes.

Charlotte Thompson (Mother): Charlotte was a good mother and was alive long enough to see Rhett born. She cared about Sam and wanted him to live his life for himself, not Sterling. She often calmed him down whenever his anger would get the best of him.

Sibling Names:

None

Children Names:

Rhett Thompson (Son): Rhett is 12 going on 30. He reminds Sam a lot of himself growing up. It is Rhett’s first year in middle school, he has taken up football and golfing while keeping his grades up. Sam is very proud and excited for his son.

Delilah ‘Dee’ Thomson (Daughter): Delilah has just turned 10 years old and is Ford’s twin sister. It was a long and hard process for Dee, giving up having Rhett in the same school, making it a tougher transition year for Sam. Dee is naturally curious and nearly drove Sam insane asking for her mother when Mattie was killed. She reminds him too much of Mattie. If it wasn’t for Patrick, Sam doesn’t think he could be the father she needed at the time. She loves her Uncle Pat.

Ford Thompson (Son): Ford has just turned 10 years old and is Delilah’s twin brother. Ford has always been easier to deal with. Delilah has always been more outspoken while Ford stood back and watched the room. Ford prefers to sit in a corner and read all day. Sam usually has to drag him away from his book and is regretting replacing one of their hallway closets for a miniature library.

Savannah Thompson (Daughter): Savannah is Sam’s little angel and is currently 8 and a half years old. Sam wants nothing but the best for all of his children but he worries about Savannah sometimes. She is sweet and innocent, all rainbow, unicorns and butterflies but Sam doesn’t have the heart to give her a reality check.

Jasper Thompson (Son): Jasper was barely walking or talking when Mattie was taken from them. Jason remained shifted for weeks as if he felt her being taken from them. It took time and patience for Jasper to change back but Sam’s smiling toddler never returned. Nearly four years later and starting Elementary school, Jasper is the most aggressive and dangerous child Sam has ever met. He had to remove him out of his classes just two weeks in to start homeschooling him.

Romantic Connections:

Mattie Thompson (Late Wife): Life is cruel and Sam has always known that but when he met Mattie, he believed his world was changing for the best. It was everything Sam joked and teased other members of his pack that were mated about. At one point Sam lost all interest in challenging Clara. Mattie was young but she loved him and they were married quickly. She even blessed him with a son within a year of their marriage, twins two years laters, and two more within the span of five years. Unfortunately, Mattie only ever felt comfortable in her shifted form when pregnant, and developed a case of hypershift extraordinarily young. Sam had barely come to terms with it when the other Board Members ordered her to be put down. The only one who tried to stand with him was Eliza, but they were ultimately overruled by the others and the law. Clara ultimately fulfilled the sentence and killed her 4 years ago. Sam has had to pour all his love for Mattie into their children in order to keep hanging on.

Platonic Connections:

Patrick Perry (Best Friend): Patrick has been a good friend of his for decades, and is like an uncle to his kids. They hang out nearly every weekend as well as every holiday, and he considers him to be his closest confidante. It was Patrick who stopped him from attacking Clara after Mattie’s death and the one who has kept him pushing through. His kids refer to Patrick as Uncle Pat.

Eliza Meyers (Good Friend): Eliza has consistently been the only one in his corner. She was close to Mattie and introduced the two, and he doesn’t know where his life would have been without her. They work together in real estate and in the boardroom, playing off of one another’s strengths and supporting the other’s weaknesses. His kids refer to Eliza as Auntie El or Aunt Eliza.

Taye Black (Friend): Taye has a no nonsense personality that Sam enjoys. Taye can easily drop friendships and fire personnel without a blink of an eye; which Sam admires. They both share the job as clan heavies liaison. While Sam deals with the local supernatural clans, Taye focuses on finding and placing matches for endangered heavies or for those who are willing to have hybrids.

Asa Fields (Old Friend): Asa and Sam grew up as brothers, and stayed like that. He never seemed to have the same issues with Asa as he did Clara, despite them being raised the same. However, he does think Asa has no claim to any council seat, or at least not a legitimate one. He’s hoping that by getting Asa to attempt to overthrow his sister, he’d willingly hand off the responsibilities of head to Sam, and live out the rest of his life doing whatever. Sam is trying to gauge how the relationship is between the two to see if that’d work.

Latasha Mist (Friend): Sam is supportive of Cece and Latasha’s change and sees the advantages of having them on their side. He has tried to come up with multiple solutions that wouldn’t result in their deaths but has yet to find one.

Cecilia ‘Cece’ Mist (Friend): Sam has been supportive of Cece’s change, even before her mother offered millions of dollars for the change. The couple has been together for over three year and the entire pack knows of their relationship. Sam believes further delay of the inevitable is bad for their entire clan and other local supernatural clans.

Jalen Martinez (Friendly): Sam thinks that Jalen has made a great choice by choosing Cece. While Sam communicates with Cece and Latasha more, Jalen has his full support. The couple has been together for over three year and the entire pack knows of their relationship. Sam believes further delay of the inevitable is bad for their entire clan and other local supernatural clans.

Ellis Watts (Old Friend): Sam and Ellis used to party hard in the 20s together. Ellis had a wild streak and the two would race cars, bikes, and boats with one another. They’ve still maintained the friendliness, though both have grown up.

Percy McCormick III (Old Acquaintance): Percy grew up around the same time as Clara, Sam, and Asa. Even back then he had a knack of trying to trick the three of them with lies. His dad always had the biggest and best of everything, and their clan always seemed to be growing. Sam and Asa ditched him quickly as they grew up, but Clara tried to give him the benefit of the doubt. He’s done alright for himself, and Sam speaks to him as a liaison now.

Sol Alfaro (Old Friend): Sol shares many of his frustrations with his own clan head, and he has been girding himself to challenge Isaac again.

Michael Shaw (Acquaintance): They often hit the gym together on weekends.

Hostile Connections:

Clara Fields (Hate): Clara and Sam grew up like siblings; both nearly the same age and constantly around one another. However, as they grew up the differences between the Fields and Sterlings became obvious. The Fields had best picks of lands and businesses and were starting to make their money hand over fists. They also had final say on every issue, as was mandated by the agreement, and were using it to their benefit. Eventually the wealth of the Fields began to trickle down to them until they were in as good of a position, and Sterling forced a vote to create joint businesses, whose money was pooled and equally distributed to the Board Members. Things began to settle into something comfortable and profitable for all when Garland kicked the bucket. Sterling and the other leaders assumed it was finally his time, but Clara took up the helm and snatched power before anyone else could call for a fair fight. Sterling died not too long after from Hypershift and Sam took his spot. Then started the constant back and forth between the two of them. Always, always opposed, Clara and Sam began a dance of intrigue and backstabbing, trying to get the other to falter. Then the economy collapsed and Real Estate died in its tracks. Clara and the rest of them were bleeding money and had no place to turn. She thought of the vampires and came back with an offer of their blood. Initially they all refused, but had no other options. Either let their clan dissolve or sacrifice what they needed to. He was the first person to stand behind her and support the call. He regrets it to this day, and it’s his main reason for wanting her out of the Leader’s seat. He has been working for decades to plant seeds of doubt into the various members of their clan, so when he takes over it’s well received.

Michael Johansen (Hate): Michael was the leader of the Alaska clan who merged with their clan a few months ago. Their numbers were too low to sustain themselves and the Chicago clan was the only one that had the most potential matches. As soon as Sam met Michael, he had an air around him that reminded him of  Clara’s father, Garland Fields. Sam has been on defense around him and doesn’t trust Michael one bit.

Scorpius Getta (Hate): Scorpius Getta made a blood deal with them in exchange for money during the Great Recession. They needed to stay afloat so the entire Board agreed to it. They assumed they could pay him back the loan with interest, but he just wants money. In his dreams, Sam kills Getta and all his cronies.

Petra Chak (Hate): She enjoys the humiliation of the board members as they go down to have their blood drained. She’d be the one he’d kill if he had a chance to, after Getta.

Ezra Schultz (Hate): He expected Ezra to be on his side, and was shocked that he ruled to have her killed. His archaic ideas of “justness” are ridiculous and shouldn’t be used when lives are at stake.

Hollis Sony (Hate): Hollis stabbed him in the back when she voted that Mattie had to die. She’d always been on Clara’s side and he thought she might have sympathy for him, but was proven very wrong. He’ll never forgive her.

Pets:

None

→ History (paragraph(s) on background) → The Present (paragraph(s) on how the character connects to the plot)

→ Available Gif Hunts (we do not own these)

Joe Manganiello (Sam Thompson) [1][2][3][4]

#Joe Manganiello #fantasy rpg #city rpg #supernatural rpg #oc rpg

[ultrahpfan5blog]

Rewatching the HP and FB movies

I have a tradition of rewatching HP movies at least once a year. This year, I added the two FB movies as well. I know lots of people have well deserved issues with a lot of thing with the franchise and I do too, but I still thoroughly enjoy the movies. All of them. Certainly there are some big issues I have, like how Kloves treated Ron starting from GOF onwards, and how Hermione kind of became a mary sue, and definitely some of the things that were added or removed, like the removal of some of the Riddle memories in HBP, removing the pretty fascinating Dumbledore backstory in Deathly Hallows, the silly inconsistencies like polyjuice not changing the voice of the characters etc... But in general, I still think the movies did a great job capturing the spirit of the books and the casting was just incredible. Especially the adult casting. I know we have only seen one version of Harry Potter on the big screen, but I envision these actors, especially the adults, when I’m reading the books now. Alan Rickman, Maggie Smith, Robbie Coltraine, Mark Williams, Julie Walters etc... are now the faces I see when I think of those characters. Richard Harris was a terrific Dumbledore for the first two movies, where he had more of grandfatherly, twinkling, vibe. I know people are critical of Gambon in GOF and he admittedly did get the characterization wrong, but I feel he was excellent in POA, OOTP, and especially HBP. Alan Rickman was just so outstanding in the role of Snape. I genuinely feel he should have gotten some Oscar consideration for his performance in DH2. But he was incredible even when he had only a few scenes and had to be super dry in his dialogue delivery. Maggie Smith was similarly wonderful. But these were just the adult regulars, but equally incredible were the phenomenal actors who came for just a few films. There are so many. Gary Oldman, David Thewlis, Imelda Staunton, Helena Bonham Carter, Brendan Gleeson, Ralph Fiennes, Jason Isaacs, Emma Thompson, Jim Broadbent etc... among many others. A lot of these actors only had a film or two where they had a significant presence, but they showed up in cameos in other films, particularly in DH2. I have a lot of respect for the casting directors for this franchise since they cast basically half of all of British’s well respected acting thespians. Even someone like Bill Nighy appeared, just for two scenes in DH1. Rhys Ifans came in DH1 and was terrific in the two scenes he was in. Ciaran Hinds also was in just one or two scenes and he was also very good. And all these actors felt like they gave it their all and that it wasn’t just a paycheck role.

When it comes to child casting, what strikes me is the amazing continuity the series kept. Its one thing to be able to keep the core child actors like Daniel Radcliffe, Rupert Grint, Emma Watson, and Tom Felton, but one of the most satisfying aspects of the series is that a lot of the core group of side characters were continuously played by the same actors. Not just Matthew Lewis and Bonnie Wright  and the Phelps brothers, but also Alfred Enoch as Dean, Devon Murray as Seamus, and Joshua Herdman as Goyle. It would be very easy to replace some of these side characters over time and no one would notice, but the continuity makes it so much more enjoyable when in DH2 Seamus helps Neville blow up a bridge based on the fact that we know Seamus from the first movie was known for blowing stuff up. Its the small things that make it so great. Possibly the most accurate bit of casting was Evana Lynch as Luna. I honestly can’t think of a single actor more perfectly cast in the series than her. The core quartet were all lovely. Not always consistent, but more than good enough. I actually think Dan was the weakest actor when the series started, but he made remarkable improvement in the back half of the series, especially OOTP onwards. He is outstanding in DH2 I thought. Tom Felton didn’t always have to do much until HBP, but he was excellent in HBP. He does seem to have been stereotyped a little in the other roles I’ve seen him in but it still means he was great. Emma Watson’s performance fluctuated a bit. She was very good as a kid, then she was kind of bad in GOF and in parts of OOTP, but she found her footing again in HBP and especially in DH1, which I still consider to be her best acting performance to date. I think Rupert was always the most natural actor of the lot. He was probably the most hard done by the Kloves because they kind of typecast him as the comedic sidekick, but I can’t fault Rupert because he was a pretty gifted comic. Like Emma, when he got more scope in DH1, he did an incredible job. I would say Bonnie Wright is maybe the only one who didn’t fully grow into the role for me. It probably has a lot to do with writing, but she also really didn’t share any chemistry with Dan which made that relationship feel pretty flat and forced. But all in all the casting really made these movies and they elevate the movies significantly. But I admit all the craft behind it. Also, some of these movies are close to two decades old and the effects hold up quite well. I think there are scenes in the first movie that look a little dated, particularly the flying scenes, but subsequent movies seemed to find the right blend of practical and visual effects to make the movies look pretty timeless. 

I think all the directors did their job really well. Columbus did a good job of bringing the childlike wonder of the initial books to life, Cuaron brought his more adult quality as the kids grew up, Newell ramped up the scale and the scope, and Yates managed to bring home the darkness. Definitely the films weren’t flawless. Like I mentioned before, there were times when some characterizations were off, some key subplots were eliminated or not handled well, some things added which were not needed etc... but the spirit of the books remains. I have a deep fondness for the movies as I feel I grew up with them as I am basically the same age as all the main child actors in the movie so I grew up and watched them grow up. So while they aren’t in the league of greatest films of all time, but its a remarkably consistent and enjoyable franchise that lasted an entire decade.

When it comes to Fantastic Beasts series, I was excited that Yates and Rowling were developing something new but I also feared what would happen given they didn’t have the structure of a book series to guide them. The fears ended up being fairly valid. The first FB is a pretty enjoyable film. I do think they did a good job creating a likable quartet of main characters and the actors all did a pretty remarkable job. It was also a refreshing change to watch Magical World from an adult POV as well as experiencing a new location and time period as well. The issue with the first film is that the film has two separate storylines which don’t really merge well together. The story of Newt, Jacob, Tina, and Queenie finding and recapturing the suitcase of magical creatures is actually very charming. The film does a nice job of creating some unique magical creatures and adding something new to the Magical World, but then there is a dark and gloomy second plot which doesn’t work as well because it essentially isn’t much of a story other than just showing Credence being abused and manipulated time and time again until the climax. It neither merges well tonally, nor plot wise. The way they try to put Newt at the center of the climax felt very clumsy and unearned. Overall, the first film still has sufficient enjoyable charm and I certainly like Redmayne, Waterston, Fogol, and Sudol. Farrell was a damn good villain. Miller was a little too mannered for my taste but I understand what he was going for. Voight is there for no reason at all in a perplexing subplot that goes nowhere. But still, more positives than negatives. FB2 is where the franchise really dropped the ball for the first time and Rowling’s inexperience as a movie screenplay writer became very obvious. The film is literally a setup for future movie, designed to get characters into certain places where the real story can start. the film essentially has no plot other than a bunch of wizards across Europe are looking for Credence and Credence is searching for his identity. There is really nothing else in the movie. The movie is overpopulated with characters, and Newt ends up even more incidental in this movie since he has no interest in going after Credence himself at all for 2/3 of the movie. All the things that were good about the first movie are lost as Jacob and Queenie only share two scenes together, Tina and Newt only share the last act or so together, Newt and Jacob end up only have a couple of scenes together. Its all rather boring and dull. The performances are fine. Depp was a good enough Grindelwald but I don’t think he was given any more to do other than just be surface level evil. One of the most inspired casting decisions was Jude Law as Dumbledore. While he doesn’t ape Gambon or Harris, he does capture the twinkling spirit of Dumbledore and his scenes are the best. The film also has a rather odd plot concerning Leta Lestrange. It is simultaneously important and completely pointless at the same time. I felt that the character had a compelling backstory and interesting potential but the film barely has time to address it any sort of depth before she gets pointlessly killed off at the end. The film also does a pretty bizarre character assassination of Queenie who makes decision that I really don’t understand. I guess this all boils down to the fact that this story may have worked in Rowling’s head as a book where each character’s internal thought could have been given more depth but what happens is that pretty much every sub story is pretty unsatisfying. Its certainly not an unwatchable disaster, just rather dull and devoid of the spark that the wizarding world movies should have. I hope they can turn things around because the film leaves things at a very peculiar juncture which doesn’t make much sense based on what we know of the HP canon.

#Harry Potter #fantastic beasts #ron weasley #hermione granger #newt scamander #fantastic beats the crimes of grindelwald #fantastic beats and where to find them #harry potter films

[harrishanie]

"Fragmentary Annihilation” by “Alexander”

If you’ve ever encountered the PDF versions of Jesus Ignacio Aldapuerta’s The Eyes or Roger Gilbert-Lecomte’s Black Mirror, you’ve probably seen the link to The Usual Cannibalism, the (now former) blog of the transcriptionist. This blog advertises two original works, now seemingly-inaccessible, Meditations on Ero Guro and Fragmentary Annihilation. I have been curious about these works since my first discovery of the aforementioned documents, but it only occurred to me today that I might be able to find them by just plugging the dead links into the Internet Archive. I thought that they were interesting enough and worth preserving, as much as anything else, so I am posting them here--just the first for now, since I am not sure if Meditations fits the current content dogma. I have also not done any formatting whatsoever so I will apologize.

Both pieces are attributed only to “Alexander”--if you are him, my kind regards. To everyone else, my apologies.

Fragmentory Annihilation

An attempt at overcoming Nihilism and Limitation By Alexander http://the-usual-cannibalism.blogspot.com/

Selected Music: OST 2001: A Space Odyssey: Composed by various. The Beyond: Composed by Fabio Frizzi Blue: Cowboy Bebop OST: Composed by Yoko Kanno. Cannibal Holocaust: Composed by Riz Ortolani Dawn of The Dead: Composed and performed by Goblin Fish ~ Silent Cruise: Ghost In The Shell Stand Alone Complex OST: Composed by Yoko Kanno Greed Bird: Cowboy Bebop OST: Composed by Yoko Kanno Holy Mountain: Composed and performed by Don Cherry, Ron Frangipane, and Alejandro Jodorowsky In Heaven: Eraserhead OST: Composed and performed by Peter Lvers Lucifer Rising: Composed and performed by Jimmy Paige Monochrome: Ghost in the Shell Stand Alone Complex OST: Composed by Yoko Kanno Nosferatu: Composed and performed by Popol Vuh Rain (Female Vocal Version): Cowboy Bebop OST: Composed by Yoko Kanno Requiem for A Dream: Composed by Clint Mansell and performed by the Kronos Quartet Suspiria: Composed and performed by Goblin

Original Compositions Adagio for Strings: Composed by Samuel Barber Ase’s Death: Composed by Edvard Grieg Carmina Burana: Composed by Carl Orf The Crucifixion: Composed by Samuel Barber Dreams Less Sweet: Composed and performed by Psychic TV The Downward Spiral: By Nine Inch Nails F# A# (Infinity): Composed and performed By Godspeed You! Black Emperor Holocausto De La Morte: Composed and performed by Necrophagia Horror of the Zombies: Composed and performed by Impetigo House of the Rising Sun: Performed by The Rolling Stones Hurt: Performed by Johnny Cash I Want Your Soul: Composed and performed by Aphex Twin Ode to Joy: Composed by Beethoven Rain Drops Prelude: Composed by Frederic Chopin Prince Igor: Composed by Alexander Borodin The Requiem: Composed by Mozart Strange Fruit: Composed and Sung by Billy Holiday Song for Liberty: Composed by Giuseppe Verdi Sympathy for the Devil: Composed and performed by the Rolling Stones Va Pensiero: Composed by Giuseppe Verdi Yanqui U.X.O: Composed and Performed By Godspeed You! Black Emperor

In Puberty’s ambush, maidens bloom, All unaware of impending doom They listen to the radio, drink tea Unaware they will lose their liberty Bourgeouis recoil not from slaughter Though victim be son and daughter From Salo: The 120 Days of Sodom.

Diagram -an attempt to understandThe World that follows Sadism or Social Darwinism. Invokes the OverMAN, Absolutism, and a kind of Primitism. Leading to the Simple Passions, the Complex Passions, the Criminal Passions, and the Murderous Passions. Power. The World that follows Psychology (Freud, Jung, and Wilhelm Reich): Implies a tree of influence and evolution, cherry picks the good out of each religion. Interconnectedness. The World that follows Unification (Kierkegaard, Krishnamurti, and the Bhaved Gavid): Man is unified with himself and every other, simplicity, taking away from excess resulting in Social Evolution. Instrumentality. The World that follows the Poete Maudit (Lautreamont, Baudelair, Rimbaud, and Artaud): It is with a fury that man achieves a manifest destiny, personification of the Phoenix. Death & Rebirth. The World that follows the Larvae (developmentally halted no further evolution): An introverted and absolute justification for being wrong and spiteful at humanity. The emulation of an idea taken from a great man, modified for the benefit of the shepherd. Defined technically as Scizotypal. The World that follows Escapism: Be satisfied with life and pursue its vices, no more joy to be partaken than that inside a fellow, and housed in a limited splendor with glass walls. There can be no manifest destiny nor growth when one is given it. The Consumer. The World that follows the Dictator: Differing from the others, this is entirely individual yet joins every belief together for the benefit of the one and truly via cherry picking. Implies a Tao of humankind that commits all positive and negative acts, a kind of birthing process where all thinking merges to create a child different from both parents. The Third Mind. Evolution. The World as Reality: the meaninglessness of art and thought as a futile interprise, limited by the finite life span of the earth and the eraser of all hard external memory. Implies that we will not be remembered no matter the effort. Nihilism. The World as Splendor: To believe one and only, by following only Islam or by following strictly Nietzsche. Limiting one self to but one interpretation, thereby denying reality and evolution. Faith.

SACRED Imagine a voice that is low and hollow and that its vocal cords strain to produce sound. This voice that utters a monotone speech begetting remorse and pain, dignity and hatred. Picture this voice on your parent that visits you in the morning and rapes you at night. Object 1 A woman runs up a stairwell, pursued by a deformed man who walks on all fours; his flesh is bruised and clean shaven, the ears are shorn and pointed, with a tongue sewn from two –twice as long as a dog tongue- without thumbs or big toes, those amputated by eugenic miracle, a man is what he sees himself as through the eyes of others by this very transmuted flesh. The woman is cornered on the roof; this dog/man proceeds to rape her. She then slowly changes, shedding her skin, each limb becomes metallic, she transforms into a plane and leaps from the roof and glides into a building, explosions, a gray fog bellows out.

-£¼ªÙÆ When it comes to conversation, I rehearse almost everything. Ad-libbed material gives way to awkward speech like in a random conversation rushed out if only to keep interconnectedness afloat. That is insipid. Better to rehearse and come across as better then a fellow then to wallow in mediocrity and a limited dialogue. People are angry and nice, giving me eyes that would paint me as an evil outsider placed therein to murder them all. The niceness comes from opening doors for them, as they do not do for me. It is unfortunate that I have the habit of implanting pieces of my personality within my characters, what new extremes that I invoke: Three characters that are the me when given over to fury: They escape my brain and proceed downward through my skull where they break through my mouth, which now resembles a deformed cunt. Yet I cannot stop writing, so with my left hand I use a sewing needle and twine and proceed to stitch up the wound. On a mirror just above this paper I carefully study the wound, opening and closing the lips, showing my slightly yellow teeth; realizing it looks like a rat chewed a circular hole asthough my lips were bitten off completely. I continue forward with this surgery, I do not need a mouth to speak.

The character of Defilement Here arises another Eden; one imagined by that better person inside each and every other –that human that acts upon desire-. The setting is the same as the pictures from the bible

with waterfalls and golden gates, populated by one old cow that can just barely stand. Defilement approaches the cow with the glee of a great sadist. “You ask nothing more then to feast and to have your teats pulled and drained of a blockage of fluid. Much like the nymphomaniac left alone with their arms amputated. Allow me to pay tribute to you and all others.” Defilement undresses, smiling as he shows his disfigured prick; for it takes the shape of a double A battery with a stub of flesh protruding through the hole. His testicals are in fact one dozen knives strung like wind chimes. He is not obese, just pounds of loose flesh hang off him, folding over like animal flippers found on a new race of man. His skin ripples like the top of disturbed water as his knives slightly tingle and ring, and drops of ejaculate fall from them. Now a dirty cunt brimming with urea, crowned by dried shit, penetrated. He kisses the animal’s snout in submission. ‘Bestiality is to give up on humanity’ he whispers into the animals’ ear. With that finished, he begins milking the cow. His children drop onto the grass, colored of milk-white with no mouths or any kind of limbs, but born as torsos though they were only bio-engineered fuck-holes. Defilement buries his children under shallow earth; they grow like trees over years and decades thereafter. He bleeds out, feeding his children organic debris. His plasma becomes their water and his shit becomes their food. Once they have matured, he proceeds to their mother and wrenches loose one curved blade. As saintly as conjoined pedophile and martyr when one kills their lover and a surrogate mother. The teats are completely severed in three disorderly gashes, like a crescent with the star being a separated heart. He wears this apparatus atop his skull like a hat. The cow falls to the ground trying to crawl away. Calmly, he sinks the blade through the snout multiple times as if a child making sure his pet is dead. Cutting off its ears now, he has little time left until he dies of blood loss, and cutting off many inches of skin that would bestow one large coat in one last frenzy that relinquishes everything that once made him human. One last gash to the throat, blood pours in gallons; he punches the jaw and breaks it in half. He opens up its stomach and hallows it out and crawls down this hole, curling up like a fetus, preserved for his children, for this is Eden and depravity is only memory for an audience of weeping trees. The character of Defy “Young boy with medium-sized breasts walks pompously, walks right by me. A boy of milk less breasts dares himself to think that he is better then I with his pompous walk, how dare he looks down at me.” A fifteen year-old girl part of a tribe of the destitute with her fat, crippled girlfriend in tow. She curses at me, calling me a faggot for my nice clothes and my walking like an aristocrat. I am dressed in top hat with a Christian cross etched onto the front, an

expensive suite and shoes, and a magnificent cane beside me with the handle of the Cobra (For Defy is the best representation of me as a person, in how I dress and speak) “You walk like you got a corn cob up your ass!” I approach her, being so cautious that she may have several inbred protectors, “You, minute and destitute whore, you were not christened by any kind of virtue nor vice, for both have a kind of attrition and dignity. You, who were born from a moronic fuck between such forgettable inventors, that which claims how great is life and how great is their delirium; those who bore you and let live, what a waste of raw material. I would not rape you in a fury; I feel your vulva has mixed with the mucus of dogs and paint, standards be not your priority –how you will die from pregnancy-. For I am the me that I WILL, such a high and vulgar being of all powers that dwarfs you and your nothing-life. I pity you for having to bathe your crippled pet with your ignorant tears. I wish you nothing. People, such as you, the peon-masses deserve the earthly Hell that you have so graciously built, that is paradigm, that is Darwin, that is you little woman, without power, you and your class, you incredible weakling, you timid and tortured bitch.” She seemed dumbfounded. I see an ugly girl with brown hair with a scalp resembling a bird’s nest filled with parasites. She has an ugly and misshapen face with protruding teeth and glasses that truly add nothing to her appearance. She walks with her pack of an equally disgusting mother and grandmother or some such; they are all obese, just as putrefied and dead as the child. Someone asks them what time it is… they strain with this simple question for about a minute, and they finally give a wrong answer and proceed on their way. I will prove a point to an atheist author, for I am the great Agnostic. I will see the murder of a martyr, that grand attrition, the only tool worth anything by your cult and genius. Back to the crucifixion: I see a crowd devoted to that phantasm of faith; how easy it is to think all is well at a crucifixion post-mortem. Children start to beat the body with sticks as I arrived, pushing down members of the crowd and presenting one simple dialogue as I arrived and spoke“I am the murderer of god, you are but his pets and I have bathed in your creator’s blood. And I have castrated this god of human hands and a blood-less heart.” Raising my hands high, mentally controlling their will with my skeletal fingers by twisting my left hand’s fingers, beginning with the pinkie, turning inward with a folding thumb. “Every man now, is only a fallen god without eyes. You see the world once emerging from the engorged cunt, and there your fellows sealed your eyelids to a close, your voice becomes an echo, and your hands are now tools for someone else. I offer you the heart of your creator. Ingest this organ of not truth or what is known as divine, but a though, like a match to bring the flames.” I pull out a heart and carve it open with my nails then throw the remains to this crowd of the illiterate and begotten. In actuality, it was the heart of a large ape. As the crowd and minor holy men are busy picking the pieces of the heart, I approached christ with his black hair and a tiny height that rivals the myths of Napoleon. His nails are long, his teeth broken and crooked like a

beggar, his anus widened as with cut open balls. “This is what we’ve been waiting for?” I asked loudly and expectantly, my right arm pointing to the body “We’ve waited thousands of years to see the return of an ordinary man not any different then any of us? He is not worth it. He is not the jesus to be forgiven, he is the man we are glad to be rid of; the bourgeois and insipid variety.” I insert my longest fingers into the spear wound and stretch it open, like a portal down not into the thought process but a descent into organic nausea. Through this hole, passing by fantasia no grander then packaged gizzards. I am now at the top of an incredible mountain paved with diamonds, gold, and titanium. Such a spot befitting a man who says ‘I am god’ I see him now, this most real form; here is the inner child sucking on a thumb. Wait, I examine closer and see he is dead when I feel for a pulse and put my ear up to the mouth and there is nothing. The body is slumped to the right side; thumb still in mouth, covered only by a blue blanket that barely hides a violet flesh, his face is cut apart by the shaving of moustache, eyebrows, and hair on the left of his face, this small and castrated child. I curl up right next to it, hiding under the blue blanket and I sleep. The body dissipates like ashes. I smile. The character of Atheism Atheism, dressed in a white short sleeve shirt and black pants with black tie, armored with a Snake Skin jacket while clutching his imposing pocket knife in a side pocket, culminating with a two-foot long cross impaled through his skull; this deformed pariah who failed as a chameleon. The Madman is dead, and we have killed him. Morality is the assassin; we are the conspirators for being so compliant and listless. We have succumbed to not a land without god or logic, but a mindset without idols. The idol is the bringer of influence and what idols remain? But the dead, dying, and meaningless without innovation and strife… A natural selection that favors the weak. Oscar Wilde once said that all influence is immoral, something referenced to by my now dead friend. The reincarnation is not worthy. If that were untrue, then would we not have evolved beyond Nietzsche? All that has been created are the ouroboros of shared ideas. It is the Madman to come from the brink and deliver to us something that had never before been conceived. As it would, that a Madman would arrive with every dying star, it reminds me of a whore who is given a facial and there discovers illumination. I come too late. My time has long passed…

A young Mormon boy, an old Catholic with a black beard, an obese Evangelist mother of three, one follower of Islam, a female atheist, one stereotypical Buddhist, ending with a small Hindu family; all of whom are extremists which should be noted. An illumination, brilliance, and the Madman: They are the conclusion but to what? Countless images happening all at once, struggling to find that vent through this one character in each action of repulsion and glory. I pondered for a moment if I should draw this out for much longer, then again, this should be quick as my author has set me free and I shall thank him with an excess of blank pages. This Mormon is beheaded by an Al Queda operative. The Catholic is placed in the Antarctic half submerged in ice water. The Hindus are treated like untouchables in their culture; the women are raped and beaten, while the men watch and are castrated. The Evangelist is fed to several apes. The Islamist is given a world without enemies; there he finds no one and dies alone. The atheist mocks primitive cultures; she is then subjected to their rituals and is raped and beheaded. The Buddhist is locked in a room without windows; given only a little tree and sand, within days he consumes every leaf on the plant, and then dies of starvation. I am afraid. as I remain one without bible or coda, but a verve that coils and sheds the former ideal like the serpent crawling upwards the tree of knowledge; things that I have written and will re-enact. My fear is that I will not pursue them any longer when pacified by society. It is like a poker game, it ends when you show your hand. … “The girl screamed. The murderer laughs like mad, she begs, he takes out a large knife. She prays, tears rolling from her eyes, a bone-crunching sound is heard. A shot from the policeman’s nine-millimeter pistol, the fatal shot to the head of the murderer. She pleads to her hero ‘I just want to go home’ “ “This novel is my masterpiece,” said an eleven year-old boy struggling to become a horror writer, the author of the above paragraph, if even that, more like an extended sentence. He has had two short stories published in very, very small fanzines and he has posted four more on the Internet. This “masterpiece” is a typical slasher story; so typical it would have been rejected for a Friday The 13th screenplay. He shows the novel to his boyfriends, and they love it. A Naïve boy who is devout to the followers of a passion-less manifesto, and the novel is sold to a large publishing house and it does all right on the market, not at all surprising when the challenge and depth of this book reaches the mighty height of a grain of sand. I write myself in, “Naïve boy, you must challenge people.” he screams that he does not want to, that he only wants to be a jester, to be remembered for his entertainment. I retaliate, “True, that after your death people will remember you, but for only a shot

period of time, fifteen minutes to be exact if we are to follow Warholla and his pretension. For decades after no one will care about your rotten corpse that the worm defecates on, and no one will remember you past that expiration. But, we always remember the pariah’s who wish to change the world and to show us glory whether introverted or extroverted. It depends not on timelessness but on the passion.” A critic descends, casting me as perverted and unworthy, going on in the erotication of rape that I bestow, the difference (same old same old) between pornography and art. I will show misanthropy personified, this is a way to view something as the atrocity that inspires hope, pain, and numbness: In a room of teal, we watch three figures through an iris window, looking out from within my two eyes. A man dressed like an aristocrat except for a black hood that hides his face who stands between a blonde-haired girl no older then seventeen trying to cover herself, and her mother with matching hair; whose limbs are chained to a concrete ceiling that hold her several feet high. Both are of course nude. The daughter cries, and her hands block out her pubic hair. The aristocrat that does not show his face brandishes a very clean and defined sickle with a metallic handle painted yellow. The mother becomes silent. A portrait ten feet by ten feet descends attached to two near-invisible strings, just a foot or two above the mother’s skull. This portrait is in fact an enlarged photograph tainted (artistically) in sepia; the image becomes visible, showing off a victim of Ed Gein’s immortalized by her violation. Gein, one of the first American serial killers: his victim, this aged woman that hangs by her lifeless feet chained by ankles, torn open from anus to chest. It is so awe-inspiring that you would think Dali would masturbate to it. The executioner tilts his skull slightly upward for which beams of light shine on him, thereupon a bent halo tears through his eyes and hangs above the skull; suddenly two large wings rip through his back and these wings are plastered with lined paper and drip ink. From this man’s spine, the epitome of Goodness wrings loose from him, born from the pores of skin and showing its innocent flesh to human eyes. Goodness emerges as a limbless dwarf with empty, plastic bottles planted in its mouth. With a clammy and Asiatic (recalling Shintoism) skin that turns violet from the exposure to oxygen, no longer shelled within polluted man, crawling slowly forwards like a dying slug as it approaches the child and rapes her with its bottles, to give her pleasure, for that is mutually good to the corrupt individual. The sickle approaches the mother, her child still is watching with a penetrated cunt magnified by a see-through bottle: The sickle (moving upward) penetrates the asshole by a few inches, and then a slow lift approaches; working in a seesaw motion, the blade moving quickly; slowly tearing through the outer wall of the cunt, tearing through stomach, and now torn en half. The mother is dead. The boy and critic vomit in unison, I speak, “You see how I’ve made art out of a tragedy? Showing how our world is a constant mirror, I have taken a man who wanted to fuck his mother out of love and hate. He wore the flesh of his victims much as the same as we wear masks; whereas he wore them to become what he wanted to be, we wear a mask to be acceptable. And, by that dismembered woman we witness the birth of new pleasures, and new freedom. The mask becomes our weapon, and the trophy is our freedom.”

“You’re sick!” the boy screams. “No, you’ve glorified Gein’s crime for your own profit. Simply creating a series of violent episodes does not make you a writer, it makes you a pornographer” said the critic. I speak again, “I don’t give a damn if I’m right or wrong. I will change people by showing them our world simply as it is; deep down inside they know this is true! It is all a reflection of our corrupt universe that offers no solace but hope while elites continue on in murder and monopoly, it is this idea of hope that has only given us shit and democide.” “What is true? Showing men committing bestiality? Saying there is no God as repeated for over a century? You’re nothing but a hack wishing to gain attention for his crimes!” said the critic. “What crimes? This is everyday violence; you simply ignore it and refer to it as a tragedy. It is no tragedy; this is the way of life, it is Social Darwinism prophesized by the divine Marquis! To do away with it is to do away with the society that created it, a solution through artistic genocide. This is necessity; one cannot overcome reality without having first faced it.” I speak again. “I sincerely doubt that the essence of Good is a crippled dwarf, or champions of capital punishment fuck on a mountain in celebration. This is obscene. Enough of your ‘mirrored’ world, people want the truth” said the critic. In defiance, “I am giving it to them” The critic shakes his head, bemused. I speak once more, “You hate people like me don’t you? It is of course obscene but people need obscenity! Enough of this cushy world where imaginary characters are created to live in a tedious cycle of life, death, triumph, love, and freedom, enough of these anecdotal biographies written exclusively for money, enough of everything that rebuilds people as puppets meant to follow the words of an invented prophet such as your Ayn Rand. We NEED work that will fuckin’ murder our glee and take with it our restraining morals. To gut punch us and implant it’s terrible voice in us” foaming from the mouth “We need violence to show violence! There must be this conclusion, the end of the moral coda and the end of the meaningless life and with it the end of meaning. No more a truth to be found, that absolution may only be a word to satiate the herd while men lie and give of them selves to nothing, and they die for nothing. Only in the extremes may we find what we have ignored, the Gray. Love and hate, horror and the paradise, are the same. No different to fly or fall. I do not propose to know of the truth, nor the proper way of life; but I know what is wrong, and that is the slavery of today encompassing Social, Religious, and Economic varities. Before each and every ritualistic task to find oneself, one must recognize what is around them and the idea of Good & Evil being the supreme Lie given to us by our kind and loving society, though well-intentioned it became the greatest kind of propaganda. Secondly, one must react to it. ”

The critic gives a good review of the boy’s work. They quickly undress and begin to fuck like student and teacher. … I peel away a piece of dead skin from my face, nuisance hangnails amputated with nail clippers, pieces of me fall onto this very paper with a single drop of blood, I wipe off this waste and continue onward. I, not we, you could never understand me no matter what lengths I reach, and I say that out of relenting to a truth and not a defeat nor condensation. I alone must commit transgressions out of invented mysticism; therein I will be created as I see myself and not as I dream in writing. An individual and selfish trait usually referred to as martyrdom by people who do not wish to create themselves but only follow that which has been created. I feel this is a trait that links subversion, atrocity, and glory. To be a martyr is to give your self over to the masses, and then be reinterpreted to be more appealing. When you become the individual, you are the in-understandable entity like the Sphinx or Stonehenge; the ritual and the God cemented in time. There I am in this limbo, muted colors flow from above; you can taste these colors by licking the air. Who am I? I am the one who desires to be the OverMan, to laugh at every weak last man. What am I? A man that remains hindered by what he has. With a hacksaw, I set about decapitating my self, to free mind and body as separate entities. The pain soon subsides, a fetus levitates off in the distance, there is me in the mirror and my desire. The stage has been set for metaphysics, but this body needs freedom from this reality constructed for it. Only there may mind and body become whole and separated into eternal entities of absolution. My brain is above me, awaiting me, my body is like cement in water; eating of the fish and viscera that swim by it while still rooted to this world. I will become as I desire, to confront reality and conquer it and to map out my self and remake it. Take all that you despise, use that as the catalyst for the new body like wood to the fire. When I see myself, I see only so much to still be done. … Of Nine Eleven: From the viewpoint of a misguided martyr not at all different from a child wishing to emulate dead mentors Knife in briefcase, could not believe how easy it is to fool these bastards. The others were very anxious and I was worried that the others in the other planes would back out like in the Conspiracy to murder Lincoln or some other fuck up would occur. The plane takes off. The plane is a little away so I motion to the others that the time is right. Brandishing our weapons and doing our best English, screaming aloud in a tall and arrogant voice.

“We have a bomb on this plane” My fellows were breaking down the door to the cabinet as I secured the rest. I then quickly ran in and bound the flier’s hands with those plastic handcuffs that idiots use to tie up toys and loose wires. One of the pilots pissed himself and I took the reigns of the plane, and then ordered the others to secure the passengers. My fellows went at it with but a few hostages were allowed others to gather in the back and phone whomever they wished, it was the least we could do, it would not matter; we feed the mouse before we feed it to the snake. The tower is within range; I fly into the top-middle trying to get the best possible shot. Collision. We die in flames. People scream. People will film it. And I will be immortal. Praise be to Allah, and let I be remembered. [Ending with a very average man committing what is only a spectacular suicide to prove he is something more then simply human] Even now I have not committed the most despicable of things as accorded by the moral guardians and do you know what that is? To say that 9/11 was a staged event. No room for the politic, they are a thing you cannot preach, for the insipid refuse to even listen and only condemn, this prejudice of knowledge. Êö”ºÆ_ Ö×ØÙÚÛÜ -£¼ªÙÆ @™Çö”ºÆ_@ __ __ __ __ __ ÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿÿ Only an excuse to cross a bridge, such as a meaningless parlay- like you would bring up the mundane only to get to that crass joke or make a point on the day-. Such a revolt of misguided proportions, he would even speak ‘the artist crucifies them. The artist crucifies all of them.’ … _ þª_ «_ _«_ _«_ _«_ _«_ «_ «_ «_ _«_ _«_ _«_ _«_ _«_ _«_ _«_ -«_ «_ "«_ ì²_ î²_ ð²_ ò²_ ô²_ ö²_ ø²_ ú²_ ü²_ þ²_ ³_ _³_ _³_ _³_ _³_ _³_ _³_ _³_ _³_ _³_ _³_ -³_ ³_ "³_ $³_ &³_ (³_ The other two would be restrained and forced to watch: the longhaired one has her hands handcuffed behind her back, her legs tied and held apart. She is cut along the thighs with a box cutter, the blade invades underneath her toenails, her hair is ripped out and stuffed into her mouth, her eyelids are held open while a match is struck and falls onto an eyeball, the cunt is spread open to greet one intrusive lit match, a breast carved into, the fat is expunged and replaced with cotton. The image of Shiva and Kali are tattooed upon her forehead and pubis. A climax is not a necessity to affect people, like a staged orgasm in pornography. When it is the moment caught in the twilight at the height of an extreme that is the necessity. Think of a boring film/book that is remembered or the weak man who became a killer. …

“I should’ve had the abortion; I should’ve had the abortion” My mother, speaking to me when I was nine years old…Suddenly that sentence just sprang into my mind so suddenly. One boy very much in accordance to what is the outsider finds his vices, and he becomes dominated by them-mimicry- becoming just as the other humans, one who putrefies while living in dreams. He is torn by the complex nature of his deranged mother, and feels intimidated by his father, which yields him to his mother. Slowly becoming aware of his errors, yet still pious to delusion, and still buried in limbo while thinking of cruel ideas. He finds an angel in fuckery; he begins to learn new things. An angel in philosophy visits him; he thinks new things. One day he no longer thinks and sets about to be what he has always dreamed of being. OverMan. The writer may be god but the writer is also a slave to their creation. If the creation fails, the writer must abandon it and forget it or destroy it and rebuild it anew. If it succeeds the writer is forced to outdo it or perish in its ravages; if not the writer is forced to create clones of his creation. One man approaches me, spouting on and on about how I am a threat to humanity and have perverted previously innocent children. He continues to harasses me for the appraisal of all freedoms and of all men in which every thinker is the Iconoclast; as he referred to me as a cancer to his utopia that had never existed. ‘Turns out he hasn’t even read of my work, so I hand him a copy while saying with an arrogant smile “judge not les ye be judged” and I leave him my email address. Weeks later amidst many emails, I received a message from this man. He tells me how my work has changed him and he has given up his ways and became an organ donor then helped bastard children by giving them much-deserved toys, and most surprisingly of all, he has donated to pro-choice agencies to raped mothers. How I wish this was true and this man existed instead of merely writing this paragraph of fiction to create a counter-image. Am I no better then he? Write to me at [email protected] … Idols riding in Cadillac’s with open tops down a poorly planned parade, they look no different from a walking billboard, such as a living deformity attributed to Teflon poisoning. I am part of the crowd and dressed in the skin of Jack Ruby; I take careful aim and fire the fatal shot at one such idol no different from any other. This one hollow point round makes contact with the face, and dead center down the nasal cavity. The idol now resembles victims of nerve gas through a heavily deformed mouth and face, like a horse with its face blasted off and its body dragged throughout the streets, my way of giving them a purpose through a stupendous demise. That is the me who subscribes to violence being an immortal action.

That is, Immortality by Immorality. What an insipid, and at once brilliant and proven thought that violence in it self may grant eternity. A road traveled by the most insane of men; your Albert Fish, your Idi Amin, your lord Heliogabalus, and your artist. It is no better then to carve into a tree. We soon forget that the tree will die. “If God is dead… Must we not become gods ourselves to seem worthy of it? “ NIETZSCHE The Gray (in Tao terminology) that embodies man, for it is gray which grants us the ability to do both positive and negative at once. This Gray would now be truthfully recognized… and not as the purgatory or the void that is filled, but the totality of all creation. As ‘Do what thou wilt’ is not the pass to commit atrocity, but to only be human, and once we see what we are fully capable of there may be created the second paradise. The first paradise was the one created by Cavemen freed of restriction. Though, debatable as to what exactly restriction is. It may be an invented reality (such as what we have now) or reality in itself (an unchangeable thing). This applies to the mass and not in it self to the individual. Such as Jonestown, which was a reality founded by one man, with a herd that latched onto that, thereby placing themselves within another paradigm without pursuing a personal freedom -just another escapism- and perished in that reality. Whereas the individual is free to create as he pleases and walk away from that mass and his debts. His is entirely manifest. See also Perspectivism. … The book posses the author; becoming a surrogate brain of what we desire to be, no better than a log of dreams or a diary filled with paintings about as understandable as a blank piece of paper. The book becomes a map of the thought process or the external memory of ancient humans. I see it as a scarification process much like a live autopsy committed by our brains upon this limited body, no better or worse then the monk who set himself aflame. … A dead oak tree lies in the middle of a dirt field; old condoms hang from the dead branches while icy cum drips down onto mud along the road to an Orgiastic Heaven: Where man and rhino are united by a speared anus. One octopus pleasures eight women while eating pubescent girls feet first-but not before drowning them with a flood of ink. men and women fused to create bee hives joined by the hip as their genitals are the gateways for such bees where bears pluck these hives, bite into them and drink the honey. Women are impaled from anus to throat by giraffe necks, each giraffe adorned with this human necklace. Clean-shaven people are laid as the ground and ceiling to every last species of bats, these people are the toilet and the nest for the bats, for that shit to be eaten, and bodies hollowed out and homes for dozens of bats. Tigresses with immense clitorises rape young boys whose limbs are rooted in cement, the tigresses generally bite

off the ears and claws the backs of each child during the hourly penetration, and how they mimic male orgasm and urinate into the mouth of each boy. Men enjoy the splendor of birds that lift them up onto a bed of spikes; the remains are fed to young children as vomited by the birds. Pigs would bite off the fingers and toes of men and laugh while the men struggled to grab and stand. Horses would trample the old and invalid after a lifetime of suffering; where ducks and chickens would be lifted up to their faces and scratch out their eyes, or plow the fields tied by their breasts or genitals, along with previous and unheard atrocities, as newborn children are fed alive to komodo dragons. Yet, that one angelic woman that stood out was subjected to the very worst; being lifted to the sky and forced to watch it all for a lifetime. In Heaven. … Jerry Fallwell, Pat Robertson, and Billy Graham are the recipients of retribution for every man to be given a smite by a fascist, or for every man to have come so far and believe in personal freedom… only to be reminded of these wretched men and the will to be rid of them. Fallwell is strangled to death by a leather strap. Robertson is gutted and thereon stuffed with the many pamphlets promising one land for the Christian and the triangle-eye of the dollar. Graham is ignored entirely, and he and his offspring disintegrate, there exists no real life to a thing if it does not make a human connection either positive or negative…It is not to ignore a virus, but to isolate it. Religion spreads by the ears and eyes, when a virus is then isolated and cannot grow; it then rots from the inside. That I realize too late, and am now executed for murder. … "Let the most insulting blasphemy, the most atheistic works next be fully and openly authorized, in order to complete the extirpation from the human heart and memory of those appalling pastimes of our childhood; let them be put in circulation the writings most capable of illuminating the Europeans upon a matter so important, and let a considerable prize, to be bestowed by the Nation, be awarded to him who, having said and demonstrated everything upon this score, will leave to his countrymen no more then a scythe to mow the land clean of all those phantoms, and a steady heart to hate them. In six months, the whole will be done; your infamous god will be as naught," Marquis De Sade To murder the epitome of faith and beyond, to defy all others and insult them brutally like the coward, to outdo human capacity: The artist aims at this so revered and holy target. This is my great transgression; for I may never look back again, for it necessary if nothing but for my inner peace, and once there you can never go back to what you were: Jesus approaches with a solemn look and with hands laid low and open, I say ’free me’ and he then walks over with a gesture to kiss his bloodied feet. I stab him with my pen in his ribcage, clutched by my left hand, and now painted with blood and dirt. Using this pen as a lever to lift him before a giant sheathe of sheet metal with a white crucifix

painted before, cementing him there by thousands of pens to crucify this dead hypocrisy. A figure riddled with protrusions, like an Indian fakir fallen upon his bed of spikes, kept alive now by these very words that wish to torture him more with metal pens imbedded into palm and wrist. I cannot let such a thing die by a bourgeois mechanism such as the crucifixion. Therefore, he is lowered into a vat of boiling lead, consumed and now recycled into a tool for every man that thinks, both pen and rifle. I hate to plagiarize; but I have committed another meme formation of your jesus, at best he shall evolve into a phantasm long forgotten, at worst another kind of ideology. Something that Atheist and Iconoclast so worship, the destruction of a man they do not believe in, what wretched people these must be to invent their enemies such as your religious extremists and each and every last herd. What evolution we have come across, to go over the same old same old. I see god: This obese hermaphrodite figure, with crooked teeth emitting ‘round the mouth and down the chin, and ratty hair and one hundred arachnid eyes. With fingernails showing skewed remnants of little men, and a belly and breasts covered with the filth of dancing angels mocking tortured humans in cages. With a body hair like the forest and a prick miniature and syphilitic, an ugly cunt is the gateway to paradise and saint peter being a louse. Dead children fall into god’s mouth and eaten in its slack jaw like a Roman being fed grapes by his chained prostitute. I throw his whores and his meals away from him and into space; it pleads with me without emotion, like a child saying ’I’m sorry’ with a lifeless tone. It offers me immortality with no morality so long as I rejoice in putrid faith. My right fist connecting a one-inch punch to its skull, the noise of a jet breaking the sound barrier erupts while the face falls to atoms. Falling out of a throne made from human bone and crowned by fetal fossils, tearing away the crooked jaw and pulling out each of its one hundred eyes. My nails are now dirty and covered in blood and sinew. The cunt penetrated by my pen clutched in my left palm; with a pistol held by my right hand, I fire six hollow point rounds into the abdomen, legs, prick and balls. The pen blasts poison ink down a tainted uterus, an ink no different then a flesh-eating virus. The king is dead.

Finale The me whom I desire to become witnesses the best & worst of humanity: Abraxas I write of a fine escapism. One that requires all the energy needed to crush a minute insect -so easily in reach to an average man who gives birth to nonsense dreams- but there are cripples that envie such men. Hypothesis: For every action committed (referring to a Tao of Joy and Pain), a kind of energy is emitting that mirrors string theory in the joining of two opposing ideologies. It is a kind of energy to wallow in the wake of Kierkegaard’s ‘Single Individual’, in particular a ‘sea of individuals’ united in totality. Like how radioactivity emanates over time and poisons the inhabitants over an undetermined period; if such energy were genuine, it can then be inferred that both saint and Madman are the result of genetics. Such as the Holocaust influencing a half-Jewish man, with a wife indifferent to Judaism whose son then carries this kind of baggage. This also references Jung’s theories on the Family tree and Eternal Reccurence. In metaphysics: to create an individual (in the ‘enlightened’ sense) is by a continual process in thought and doing in order to overcome limitation while separating oneself from the herd. This creates the genius both tortured and divine, and men that the masses will not remember, because ‘enlightenment’ is a solipsist activity. That is voided when the genius creates something in order to connect him to his herd; often art is that attempt. In reality: one becomes individual by retaining popular ideas as created by the original genius; like manufacturing plants that create cheap imitations. One cannot become an individual in reality. From the artist, dictator, and fucker each and every last one is an imitation of another… proving right Kierkegaard and Jung. For the idea/dream: As we only know 1% of the universe, the dream is all that remains. What if such positive and negative energy gave birth to one man via the great and evil Abraxas beyond only an idea but created here and now. What would this man be? A flow Sacred: Knowing a man and his attempt at conquering limitation. Finale: He gives birth to an individual that cannot exist-abortion-. Return: Purgatory state. Man thinks he is individual and attempts to conquer nihilism. Incomplete/broken Man is born and gives one sermon promoting an artistic genocide. An author counters this, promoting the ideal of the masses being wood to the fire. The ‘Tower’ is referenced,

such an idea of a paradise that retains this idea of society. I recognize the value of society. I recognize the value of eugenics. All this leads to a new society; once this world dies and is reborn. … Multi-colored mammals lay out, stabbed, shot, executed By the millions. Bowels lacerated, mammals vomiting shit and blood. Among this New excreta, ankle deep in a newfound blood tide In waves, in rivers, amassed in a small pool of fat creatures as men stand in the muck prodding dying animals singing sweetly in unnoticed sighs. Yet another and another gashed, torn open, fountains of the divine essence, in a ritual swirling of all things, joining, becoming, all united in pain, pleasure, & pity in a visceral ink, endlessly. An ink without conscience; only hard-externalized memory. A needle and thread arrived from flesh hallows of dying slaves; little mouths violently react to a bio-mechanic deep throat by needle and twine, bridging ones and twos and threes united as one enumerable creature. The needle/thread are now the magic wand of a creator who mends a unity between things never meant to coexist; cats and walruses, mice and birds, two-headed cattle and dead men hung across the skies and replace telephone wires, bringing a new communication through a semblance of maggots where the citizenry writhe in a new and living ink. Otherwise, what is orgiastic and good without mantra are impounded by vanity and good cruelty. Scorpion tails are amputated through genetic regression; the scorpion no longer kills but prefers to die by its one time prey like Quang Duc who did not fight but preferred to die in a martyr-fashion. A sign of the times being a waste of resources. A woman volunteers to have her teeth pulled out; the teeth are removed and are then planted in the desert and give birth to untold acres of snow. Scorpion stingers are fitted as her new dentures, and we see drops of venom falling down her throat. Throngs of people in a brown valley; flowers stick out among atrocity photographs and old soda cans littering patches of tall grass. One photograph displaying dead children killed in the West Bank atrocities fills an empty Coca-Cola can. These people proceed very solemnly through a path; every twenty steps they stop to pick the flowers. After two miles of this, they rest atop a tree stump with arms filled with flowers. They proceed to rub the flowers in their eyes, soaking poison and pollen, awash in the fury of gathering bees and mating insects, thorns scratch the corneas along with inflamed eye sockets. Tears fall from now distorted faces onto a handful of undisturbed flowers clutched in the hands of a little girl pigeon-toed. The flowers bloom in deep shades of red and blue. Nests of bats are poisoned; mid-flight the drug kicks in and they are left dying in grassy fields being visited by merciless sunlight and the thirsty fly. By the way side of these

dying bats are the birth-process: gigantic mud puddles with tumourous bulges, reindeer watch over this in a protective manner as one giant reindeer oversees the operation; its horns are made from human fingers, and for this it declares itself the king of Eden. Out from the mud emerge young children born into a pantheon, animals of the forest partake in tearing off the wings from the previous dying bats and then suture these wings into the backs and temples of the children. The children sing in alien voices –relying entirely on body language, each child signals the depths of their torture- as the sun baptizes the bodies in molten gold. Two men embrace before a burial pit of hermaphrodites and fetal deformities that are speared and now preserved in oddly sexual positions, as though De Sade wrote the Karma Sutra and this fills with illustrations. The men commit to their passions; and sperm falls down the esophagus’ of corpses. One woman seated like a monk with palms folded and introvert. Her hair begins to fall, joyful faces everywhere, over a muddy floor that cradles a comatose people submitted to invisible bolts of electricity which puppeteer an aimless frenzy. These people are fed cowhide, are then placed in one pile to vomit their meal; on top of that are placed the finger and toe nails torn ‘way. As that cancerous woman like the virgin monk, watches like an idol witnessing innumerable sacrifices. Fallen teeth cover this pile then set upon a pyre. The strong man leads herds of animals into tar pits. Animals drown and are encased in tar. The man has the bodies dragged out and are set as stairs leading to the next ambition. No need to describe, which has been foretold too numerous a vision: But here is one before you, this very ink. Look and touch upon this blank, and here is your universe: Swarms of greenish twigs with insect faces, open sores sending loud vibrations, without voice and without the passions-angels before mankind-it becomes a mirror of a homeless people in bondage with closed eyes. While those eyes reveal images of Abu Graihb: Malcolm X: America’s conscience is bankrupt. She lost all conscience a long time ago. Uncle Sam has no conscience. They don’t know what morals are. They don’t try and eliminate an evil because it’s evil, or because it’s illegal, or because it’s immoral; they eliminate it only when it threatens their existence. So you’re wasting your time appealing to the moral conscience of a bankrupt man like Uncle Sam. If he had a conscience, he’d straighten this thing out with no more pressure being put upon him. So it is not necessary to change the white man’s mind. We have to change our own minds. You can’t change his mind about us. We’ve got to change our minds about each other. We have to see each other with new eyes. We have to see each other as brothers and sisters. We have to come together with warmth so we can develop unity and harmony that’s necessary to get this problem solved ourselves. Three Japanese women sit to watch a one man play performed by a hunchback; the man proceeds to play with a small dog. Two old men in overalls haul a crosscut saw over to the women in attendance. The women applause greatly, lovingly, when the two men took

that saw to their necks and behead them. The three heads drop in an orderly manner as the puppy licks the man’s face, Buddhist sutras falls from the bleeding neck stumps, and in those eyes for those last ten seconds of life are the reprieve of a million lives. Foetal bodies are hollowed out, computer parts are built into the cadavers; these computers produce modern children literature. A procession of bodies cut apart and sorted on a conveyor belt by grinning senior workers that dismember an unending multitude of bodies where the remains are fed into a furnace. I do not know if was an energy plant, a meat packing plant, or a mass crematorium. A man named Arundhati obsessed with cunnilingus; his home is enveloping and has a moist air that you could feel upon entering a fog of semen. In his brain played out a collage of every kind of cunt that could be imagined: black, white, yellow and brown, pierced and infected, hairy and prepubescent. He falls into another world Among reddish/pink walls drowning in a kind of urea/saliva, think of a man trapped in his attic with flooding water. This new universe where he is cradled like a planetary fetus, to feel every last sensation down to the molecular level… he becomes a new kind of circuitry for supreme pleasure. The pleasures sweep away every desire and want, all needs evaporate as starvation begins to set. An amusing sight to see a skeleton at orgasm; then he consumes the flesh and begins to taste humanity, absorbing a macrocosm of our narcissism and joy. The universe contracts Each tremor of fruition What is not ritual but New pain and pleasure The TAO fully realized In a man to die by his pleasure To become the next evolution From the cunt emerges this man, Arundhati, born as the Harlequin Fetus. Among a slave nation, a stillborn creature falls. The workers kick at the body, cursing it for being unable to work. The elites stab at the body with their umbrellas, cursing it as a useless thing as if it were a temple of knowledge. The beggars rape this body, infecting it with the sweet venom of pity. The animals gnaw at this body and see it no differently then water in the river. Your wise and bitter god and Nietzsche use the body as a metaphor; it is the mantle of the entirety of earth to be displayed and judged, this hammer of the gods. Blood pulling up from the desert floor; young girls are subjected to circumcision rituals, the immature clit is nailed onto their foreheads.

Among the massacres of the Indians, one soldier’s scalped brain becomes the map of new sensations: He sees a middle-aged nude woman, arms chained above her via wiring; she is a spider web of tubing, a new kind of human circuitry. Her eyelids taped to a close by electric tape; she dreams of paradise and weeps, tape began to slowly peel, tears fall with ebbing blood. … Chapter 3 How Candide escaped from the Bulgars, and what happened to him afterwards “Those who have never seen two well-trained armies drawn up for battle, can have no idea of the beauty and brilliance of the display. Bugles, fifes, oboes, drums, and salvoes of artillery produced such harmony as Hell itself could not rival. The opening barrage destroyed about six thousand men on each side. Rifle-fire which followed rid the best of worlds of about nine or ten thousand villains who infested its surface. Finally, the bayonet provided ‘sufficient reason’ for the death of several thousand more. The total casualties amounted to about thirty thousand. Candid trembled like a philosopher, and hid himself as best he could during this heroic butchery.” The young philosopher belched as he stepped upon the remnants of little brother and sister. Each thought strained to be produced from such obvious epiphanies that could be drawn out by a boy who has yet to know what is greatness and what is a reality –like it were a bullet wound ebbing with error & vice, collecting among a pool of individuals, and bleeding out to the very final drop of existence though it were mohammed personified in bacterium. That fine thought did come among the sweeping euphoria of epileptic convulsions and tremors of faint orgasms. With a fist planted at each pillar of cadavers, with a scream, and expelled in a putrid verse ‘Let there be a new mankind’ spoken by Candide in a manner both plain and obnoxious. A silver ship descends, fire bellows from its bottom, lighting ricochets off the surface and into Candide’s very eyes. Gigantic creatures with arachnid faces and bird torsos exited the craft and greet him. While survivors stood and watched when these creatures spoke ‘What you know as man is only a conduit, a statue of dead men’ and then leave, Candide proceeded to fuck child corpses; their orgasms shall be his philosophy, and the sunlight his dinner. … ‘Let there be a new mankind that does not wallow in the latrines of dead men’

One hand appears of our as-yet-to-be-born individual. It touches one plastic mask, woodcarved masks ‘round the world burn; each pore on the hand becomes an eye and a gateway, it sees what you are. On the Virginia Tech Massacre: My boy, you are one who does not know of much more agreeable targets. You see ‘immortality by immorality’, which is a flawed structure. Why don’t you partake in a more satisfying execution, such as the extinction of the creators of such insipid creatures? To murder only the insipid is a waste of energy; it is like setting out to destroy every usless insect on the planet, not only pointless but you fail to strike at the very heart of the matter. A lab mouse in its cage set in a sterile environment, in the corner is a homely woman with glasses and yellow dish gloves. The oxygen is plain and disinfected, a hospital all the better without a consumer. The woman proceeds to extract the mouse… Mouse: Please cease what you are about to do; I am not one to be sacrificed for nothing. Woman: Why not? What I’m about to do may save innumerable lives. Therein will be delivered my sainthood and your martyrdom. Wouldn’t you do the same? Mouse: Yes I would; but that would be performed on a more deserving creature. Woman: Such as? Mouse: Those inhuman deformities you knowledgeable types like to call ‘individualists’ if life itself is divine (to ignore Schopenhauer) why pluck from its womb, such cherished and meaningful creatures as I and every other? Is it not your tyrants, your impoverished, the unknown depths of deformities that should be the fuel to the fire? Woman: Eugenics: A series of unsuccessful experiments. Mouse: But doctor, what separates you from those very scientists at Auschwitz and Unit 731? You may say that you’re black and that alone separates you as far as racial duties. But that is only a matter of pigment. If pigmentation and this idea of genetic unity among fellows is your defense, I could so easily deconstruct it: Genetic unity is a lie. When parts may so easily be assembled by the most unskillful of creatures, that we are unified in such an insipid factory. Yet we are created blank; any individualist traits may be so easily explained as simple auteur theory. The whole of humanity can be broken down to mechanic a motivation: that tree that grows to become your paper that is scribbled upon by your children –domino theory and interconnectedness-, your art and culture-but elitism and the remaking of an idea-. Even what I speak is pilfered dialogue. Woman: So if life offers no real individuality, and this is due to a bio-mechanic paradigm. Then I ask again, why should I spare you?

Mouse: But you see at what I’m getting at? Why should I perish when you can use any other? What we think grants us individuality, is only fading memory. It is that which creates any kind of identity. Woman: Incorrect. What is real is real and not perception. Memory may be cheated by physical markings with violence, love, and barcodes. You in fact prolong life with metaphysics. No. It is technology, growth; the third eye rebuilt… enough of your bullshit. The mouse protests while being placed inside a small window box. The woman manipulates robotic fingers and hypodermic extensions via remote control, as a now tortured mouse mutters a sentence struggling to be profound. The stomach is slit open, the intestines criss-crossed with plastic tubing, veins plugged into black electronic boxes, a Star of David is excised from a beating heart housing the remains of lynched blacks and whites. A South Korean boy lays waste to whitey and darkie. Shooting a woman in the gullet, she vomits flowers. By a grin and muffled voice armed with distinctly feminine pistols-such weaponry is no longer phallic when misused, such as a dyke armed with a strap on- at close range, emptying entire clips into the torsos of men and women. What is individual? Not creation in itself, or the will to break away from herd mentality, the individual lies in neither extremes or profound awakening nor even Gray, but only in oblivion. Just as Kierkegaard was no more individual then a radical priest to be triumphed by Nietzsche. No more then Sade was a more talkative Vlad or Genghis Khan. There is your god and master, your new jesus per century, your car crash/crucifixion and your viral phrases. There is your individual: A stillborn fetus. Feel it, know it, it is our delusion and god. It is the cancer I neglect and my last futility and final bridge there may be. Total freedom is a lie. Without structure, this class system-paradigm- what are we then but a people without language, without escapism, without a Gray, in other words Haiti, a country with a people who have not gone much farther then creating the wheel and fire. A nothing. I recant once idealist values; I favor building for something, an attempt at anything for what we will never realize. Be it eugenics or free enterprise.

The individual is born. The Great Individual: A handsome face stabbed and re-worked, a screaming face that spits. A tongue made from human faces, winking as it clicks and smiling as it lies. Here is what I give you, our god and master, your prophet and mentor, your martyr and rapist, your saint and chameleon, this Tao of pain and creation. Here, I am a man that wreaks their brain to create something, only to see another summit to surpass. White hands with short fingernails, palms are painted with tar, every fine hair has been plucked; no imperfection shall dampen a fine cannibalistic meal this moment in time I take from you, how well you feed me with blood and brains. There I am as a man that rapes the earth; I take your little joys and little death and will transform them into far greater things, through art and crucifixion. The torso is my mirror; here the roach may survive without a head till the end of time, the well of vice and greatness. Each body hair upon you is a wire brimming with electricity, to touch me would be enlightenment and to die for a cause. But there I am as someone who struggles, one that creates everything and becomes nothing. The legs are great serpents without need for genitals; they wrap around you and caress, be enlightened and look into my tongue. The feet are defiled with shit, the perfume attracts herds of animals, and each toenail is infinite and is marked with the portraits of saints and madmen. A nasal cavity deep and violent, as ethereal as a rainforest while stealing your oxygen. And now these eyes, red and deformed about to burst then and now from the strain of knowing, knowing I and you, and it is dead. The Individual caresses an emaciated torso atop a Gray planet. Stars bloom, a smile brings on erect legs to swoon such a torso, unity in great things: an idea and a mutilated body.

A Return Would you think I hate people or am alone? I only resent mistakes; hence this thing, this book of mine. Life is my only burden and I completely empathize with Bunuel in that he only wanted to live in dreams. This book remains as a continual mirror, but how could anyone write down the entirety of himself when the ‘Will’ is given shape by ink, blood, and hardware? How could we possibly take this incredible force that is beyond perception, and illustrate it for a third party? How many great men have poured out everything they could into the arts, and in technology, and so on… endless volumes appear for each of these humans, and we still do not understand them. A bit of hair falls out, with each hair soaked with oil and a bit of scalp root giving a cocaine-like appearance, and each hair tells me a bit about myself: One would like to see an accident on the side of the road; the hair would be the catalyst for this event. It would not matter if people died or not, only that it did something in the third person and that it was felt. One day there was a pigeon by the roadside, the hair had attempted to crush it but the bird had flew away. Another would want to keep a pubescent girl as a slave, fuck her occasionally but ultimately enjoy her in all avenues. If she had no pubic hair, it would cut off the mane from a rabid dog and glue that hair upon her pubis. How lovely would it be to see a clitoris encased in fleabites. This one dreams of great blasphemies; it would spit on crucifixes, stab at mormon and muslim and buddhist with great vigor and strength -not the kind befitting an Atheist, nor the drone, not the mere shit-stirrer, and not a single man alone-. This one would be a herd formed into a single warrior. Tearing up bibles then praised and reviled. It will be the murderous hero to destroy every last superstructure, then suicide it self upon a throne of guns and old manifestos. This hair would soak it self with lighter fluid and other chemicals, and then be immolated. Yet again, this one seeks martyrdom. It would want to die on live television by suicide or assassination just as it delivers a particularly scathing remark. A twin to the others, but one of two colors, my dyed and natural hair color that wants to live and enjoy life in excess of nobility, and to be that one great man. It then tells me things I needed to know, that there is several conspirators here: One wants to ruin me then re-create me as a drone. One last would like to see me as a prostitute and nothing more. A humanistic side wants children if only to name them upon my mentors. This leader being the head of this little group tells me I should end it, I am not an author, I am not a creator, I am only a thing no different then the leaf. “Okay” I say to the hair “How do you propose I fight them?” It speaks “You must combat them.” But how then do you fight better judgment? It gives no further response. People don’t want art; they believe they may create a meaning out of fruitless endeavors.

Only art can love art. Those who love art without creating only seek it out of emulation of their desires. How must I fight them? How will I fight them? Praise? Great success, great deeds, great obscenity, great virtue, great spirit, beloved people, the herd, the mere animal, the pet, the toy, escapism, infinity, useless. I realize one thing that I have been suppressing for some time. Writing is for cavemen. Why do I, why should I only create an emulation of what I see? That is all it is when the primitive witnesses a deer disemboweled and eaten; it creates pictures, same as if we invent. The exception would be the thought process, how else do we paint what we think? Unless you only think upon simplistic matters, that kind of thinking isn’t interesting in the end, like examining a rat brain and charting banality; it’s just another type of purgatory. I see myself as the drone locked by his chain; this book becomes a letter to be smuggled out into the hands of free humans and warn other minds to awaken the slaves. It would be a total riot in the prison; great art and rage merge into a living spectacle of a man feeling suicidal revolution; not a one that he would destroy himself for, but one he knows will beget his annihilation. Atrocity. That is the accent, both conclusion and catalyst to a society that does not work. A thing made in a dystopia; in that the atrocity is the catalyst for new order and new tactics along with the deaths to the king and queen and cronies, the end of an era devoured by another. This is Social Darwinism as the worm ouroboros. If you break it down much more, you can see that the atrocity is only unfiltered communication; from within you is carved onto the body and land of another. No art may do justice to this when one is true and pure in great violence. The nature of violence is to escape from reality by unmaking it. … I see a circle; within the circle are untold numbers of people fused to religious artifacts with each overlapping the other: The circle is one universe housing innumerable planets. One planet just beyond our own houses men and women in the midst of fuckery projected before a Star of David giving way to a tide of human fluid, where we see men crucified to these stars, their falling blood is our comets, their screams our thunder, and their orgasms become our lightening. One other planet has a floor piled with amputated hands; above this pile is a weeping black man emitting red sunlight, and each tear resembles falling napalm. One looming planet where bestiality is encouraged, the emerging children from man/animal fusion look like angels with wings splitting from the back. Two tiny planets -which plays all too well in this macrocosm- within grasp of the other. One occupied by men, the other with women; in the center of the two planets there is born one looming hermaphrodite… birth of god from man, this Roman universe consumed in the orgiastic. The last planet inhibits

the ode to joy, a totality of love and hate in sweet chaos and total freedom via one mountainous tower in a city; this planet shall be spoken of much later. … A grotesque human where no sexuality may be defined that is hidden by emerging tumors and dirty flesh lay out in the heart of space. With a putrifying planet-shaped torso, laid out for eons while a long tumor hangs from his lower jaw extending from the chin past his left eye and into the scalp: he is a landscape imagined by Bosch and Joe Coleman. Nothing happens while the tumors age with a host immobile and uncaring, and relents to everything. The body is overwhelmed, slowly becoming one indescribable mass curled in a fetal position. That is your modern man who lives and dies. Out of that emerges a new parasite, one that may speak and hold a consciousness and as enormous as a mite, and just as compelling and fearsome. A parasite requiring all of the attention and spite as we would a deaf mute – this single bacterium pious to one and only fusion, a mantra so sacred to the herd-. From there stood alien creatures with a mutant origin, splintered by tribes, and no more human then fantasia spewed by wretched minds. Until one deformity spoke as pretentious as he could, and emerging with a language just as toxic as his species “Glorious is the man who stands up to die.” This was the beginning of a Roman society, one of divided classes and a divinity in madness when futility and mortality overwhelmed the senses… therein Decadence. What has emerged has been the classic structure of the elites and proletariat recited ad infinity. This once great Dionysian structure perverted by dead men and animals laid out side by side with erect pricks as the conduit for ebbing desire, with carved open bodies resembled looming organic foxholes. Children play crude clay flutes while bloodied spears encircle the lot: Mars, Venus, and the Child. A light rainfall occurs as with rejoicing, blood and water spill out of abdominal cavities. For there is created ritual, thereon philosophy and tortured humanity; no different then society as that is nothing more then ritual. From there a woman’s head is held aloft, from that meaningless thing spills new humans from putrefying eyes. Sixteen men and women (eight per eye) poured out; these children of a new world emerge with a new primitivism. There they create a new society ratified in unified incest with new elites and new leaders, the pariahs are born and there is now nihilism, and from the drone there is now positivism. Out of all of this, the planet is rebuilt with isms and a new language- this they call the paradise- the sixteen children then split, each professing a will to life. Each child creates a new group, which begets the concept of morality, good and evil, monopolies, and the nature of life. Typical divide and conquer strategy to prevent unified freedom, then came the little man personified as shepherd and herd as one. Centuries later atop one misshapen mound drawn by magnetism between pain and viscera, and this one creature pulled itself from the wreckage and stood.

The Last Individual No gender was apparent for this creature at first with a height of 6’1 with barely a face, it could not be called a hermaphrodite or an evolved man, nothing human emanated from it. A third arm protruded from its chest that reaches below its knees, with raptor-like feet rooted on the haunches, and staring out with a crude face painted with yellow fingernail clippings arranged as three circles like eyes. White feathers drooped from the scalp, a mouth decorated with rows of knives and pens matching a long and black tongue, each hand came equipped with eight fingers, the third arm equipped with two thumbs parallel to the palm but with only three fingers, with a multi-colored skin tone; the chameleon made into man. It seemed to gesture with just a flick of all three hands in an upward motion, as though it spoke ‘one last manifesto’ and it bit off its tongue with black ink pouring from the wound. This is what spilled out onto the ground: God is not the invention, no opiate may suffice; the creation of a god is like the big bang, a social ejaculation I had seen a middle aged man rape three teenage girls about the age of fourteen and Asian and this man had raped each child through every available flesh vacuum, at one point forcing one girl to shit herself endlessly while he ejaculated onto her open eyes. There I sat watching them, without any spectacular epiphany or any great deal of empathy had emerged as I watched in quiet reservation. The man finished up, the girls were laid out in a circle in a drained and broken attitude. I had unsheathed my M-1911 Pistol and conducted it at the man while telling him to kneel and be silent. At the same time, my left hand brought out three appropriate blades and letting them land before the three girls in an expectant manner. I spoke in a monotone voice to these children “Do what thou wilt” while directing my pistol at the man. Revulsion had overwhelmed me to such a hysteric disbelief once these children told me the most inhuman thing I had ever heard. Without even glancing at the blades, they had explained to me that they will love this man, how they will remake him into the ideal lover, how splendid of a man he will be, and what a great life that would become. It would be nice to quote what exactly they had spoken, but my mind was too far gone in deep thought upon hearing such atrocious spectacle; this inhuman spirit based on a god who has never been there, this platitude which defies the very will of nature and humanity sans mass stupidity… yet stupidity recognizes itself for being such. I exploded “You! You violate the words of De Sade? You ignore what makes you, every essential component of humanity is a loss; you are inhuman! Your rapist, this most insipid of pederast, he at the very least pursued simple passions. For that he may not be faulted for if only to have the desire to carry out these

passions… he invites himself to have all manner of passions be taken out onto him whether murderous or simple, the ebb and flow of life in Master and Slave principals. Yet I gave you the tools to rise up and take upon him all that you have lost and wish to carve onto another in the infinity of violence and cathartic dreams. How you reject good fortune! Putrid cunts, you believe in fusion! Where the one needs the other to gain out of the lie of pacifism and goodness. There is one and only one! We use the other to gain out of conquest and manipulation; even your idols are guilty of this! The one is virus, the one is parasite, and the one is divine; that which is all that you ignore out of that pathetic will to ingest godly escapism of the drones who do not think! One is wretch, one is depraved, one is powerful, and one is De Sade, one is Darwin, one is Nietzsche, one is Goethe, and one knows when to act! The wise man walks away but only the fool takes it on his knees! Nihilism is the tool of the greatest of individuals, therein exists the mighty Sadist. Lo, you refuse logic and seek delusion, and that is your religion.” The man attempted to flee, so I shot him from behind just below his right kneecap. The pariah has the gift of invention for being handed morality and then refusing. I drag him by the wounded leg back to the girls and before those blades. Again, logic’s defied when the girls –in knowing they could not attack me and live- chose suicide. Two had slit their wrists, and one committed Hari Kari; she looked as though she was attempting to give herself head in such a position. The man said nothing. I had shot him an additional four times in the left kneecap, both elbows, and at the base of his spine with slug rounds. He rolled around pitifully while screaming. A pariah is only a thing that builds and dies. The manifesto ended, thousands have gathered to watch as the face of the creature began to give way; the likeness of Artaud had emerged, with a tongue no longer bleeding and a body emptied of verve. A sweet odor emanated from him like a candle burning skeletal debris as he raised his right arm coerced with remaining iota of strength, and Artaud offered his body to the masses. He is quickly eaten by the people who render free dry limbs without flavor, devoured and crushed on the spot. The manifesto was all that was left, and it could never be removed. Society had become hungry; it began to need absolution while being no longer aroused by the delusion of escape. A renewed passion began, recalling Dionysus and Osiris. Several centuries later: A people still in deep thoughts ringing with the tale left by that final individual; they realized that a zenith had been reached; no resources were left, nothing more to invent, and a kind of primitivism had now awakened. The end had come;

reaching metaphors from the wilting plant to the dog with rabies whose limbs quiver and collapse into itself with a drunken stupor. Mass suicides dictated by Schopenhauer-Idealism, wide-ranging depression, giving up on everything and laying down to rot. Entire armies forfeit, leaving tools and guns by the wayside as they walk back to their homes without a uniform. Prisons collapse with inmates casually jogging back into the cities committing simple passions. Churches remain decimated without a herd; the Vatican Bank has its assets plundered by bishops with businessmen fearing a proletariat uprising of all castes that would shower themselves with international coffers and Nazi gold. The corrupters assassinate each other; no anarchist need apply as one after another murdered each other, they remain as the cannibals holding that severed head –a last vestibule of power- before their fellow in dying ritual. Starvation, murder, total madness same as we know, be it the last time. The man/planet had died long ago, with his tumor feeding off his last bit of life; finally dying from prolonged starvation. Out in the heart of space: A centipede-like creature deflowers a cunt; the hymen is torn open as with tears of blood spilling out and creating a new planet. A new beginning, a valley without mirrors that female ejaculate drips down onto = man blooms once more. A new world without the words of dead men; they are cremated upon a dead planet as befitting a philosopher’s head on a pike, as are annihilated entire ideologies and the whole of morality and good and evil. Man created as they want without hindrance and therein dies once more. … When the herd begins to splinter off into single cells in anger and despair, the right catalyst is needed to set them off. The Hutu-Tutsi Genocide springs to mind in what has come and what may be. Here you had millions of people in conflict with the other. For months the anger and frustration at Hutus grew, until a radical broadcast sounded the alarms and the people were armed and slaughtered a million Tutsis, the details of such atrocity ring of the details encapsulating De Sade. Today we have millions of illiterate, homeless, and unemployed in this country all awaiting to be led and utilized, herein exploitation of resource and man’s true capacity are merged. … I had once believed in this dogma ‘Immortality by Immorality’ which suggests that one can find eternity in atrocity. I had given everything I had, every iota of strength to this doctrine where in the end I had created nothing. Such endeavors are no more glorious then a crush video with just as much callousness to a fellow. This is a Christian dogma: that violence in itself will free mankind that commits transgressions. Each religion dictates this approach to violence that without this body there is delivered your freedom. When it is without the insipid dialogue, without religion, without restraint, without

morality, without conduit, without artifice, without the masses and without shepherds, and with pain and joy, this greatness within Gray with what we discover as humanity. When we paint, as we fuck, as we give birth, there is no resolve for a ceaseless and ongoing ouroboros that only a mechanic oblivion would suffice. … The OverMan: For every man that sought eternal freedom, at his mercy are trillions of universes that each mirrors ours. This is the reward for each man to have become individual divine. Could you imagine a world governed by Nietzsche? In Nietzsche’s paradise both Zoroaster and Jesus are complimented by the Wicker Man, this was his sabotage of society. His people became primitive OverMen governed slowly by technology. Leonardo Da Vinci creates angel wings and gives his people flight as they escape limitation, law, and paradigm. Artaud’s galaxies are composed of mutes who communicate by body language and excreta, a constant motion resembling collective bacteria incarnate as the phoenix. It goes on to Hunter S. Thompson, Bruce Lee, Schopenhauer, GG Allin, Che Guevara, etc and etc. … I give birth. In my child I witness my naiveté. I see my weakness and strength. I see the seed of a shepherd. I see a deaf-mute who will be suicided with a fine pistol. I cradle my offspring and snap its neck, letting the body float into space. Am I the man who believes they are a phoenix that will plunge and with his picture in the paper to be an inspiration to another? I give up my former joys. Here I exist as someone who should have rightly died long ago, for I had nothing to create but for repulsive mirrors. I renounce suicide. I renounce the Tao. I renounce everything I had once put faith in. When one thing is roadblocked, man may use their fists, their voice, and their inherent weaponry to continue onwards to break through that boundary in ‘The Will to Power’. Then they die so suddenly and create nothing else.

Notes: Look towards the history of humankind.

The Extermination of Humanity Under Keynesian Economics "I have become death, destroyer of worlds," Oppenheimer I see comets fall, riding them are a bacteria known as refugee. A boy writes ‘fuk ur god’ on a computer monitor; within that very text, macrocosm, entire worlds feud and die, their blood runs down the computer screen, the boy licks up this blood, and how sweet it tastes. The boy walks off, half-smiling while staring at the breasts of twelve-year-old girls. Later at home he masturbates, a little fetus covered in boils falls out; he kills it and consumes the child. “Hello boy” “Hello Danny” “Hello Son” As spoken by elites. The boy is held down on an operating table. “Please help me.” As spoken by the last man. Down an open mouth, I see the real world. There are children playing atop a glass dome, inside the dome are future weapons and new innovations. A man proceeds to dig his way to China; he breaks into the dome and falls. A bound Asian man shot in the head point blank, rows of murdered civilians, some trampled by tanks, and they got their information by then. In captivity are middle eastern men being tortured by suited whites. Sen. Wellstone is laid to rest. In Haiti, the results of a puppet who rapes children: people living in cardboard houses with flooded latrines, the UN forces leaves a message by executing a man and leaving him rotting in the streets, forgoing the usual media. The Democide of the once saintly individual, there now is your Pinochet, here overcome are the murderous Spics. There is an image of a black man crucified onto a monolith. “He’s coming out of it now; notate the foam falling out of his nose. I know we’re only to record spoken word, but I feel it necessary, this may convey a kind of poisoning” “What a trip.” “Indeed.” Air force pilot Alex Harmen awakens from his Demerol-induced trip, he has been given a code name he will not remember; he has seen such horrible things.

“How do you feel John?” “Fucked.” “That’s good you feel something, better for that then the usual depression, eh? We can set you up there John. Ermm, uh, just, waitaminute, there we go, sorry about that I forgot hit the record button. You feel fucked right? Testing. But the depression, how is the depression?” “Neutralized for lack of a better term, I feel weakened, my testicals ache, and my feet are trembling a little. It’s like feeling drunk in a way.” ‘Good.’ They never suspect, nor will they ever. Our media and Devine Tesla. We shall make these birds sing, we shall let them see what we want, o’ mighty, o’ infallible rouge, that be our religion, what a nice and pretty thing. You kind birds that part my hair; you pursue our interests, you make us strong, O insipid and great mankind! Riding alongside Gary Powers, we do not have our cyanide capsules… he refused and I forgot. The plane is shot down so suddenly by a patriot missile. I see the Tesla coil as the crucifix. There is Tesla palming balls of lightening, at that moment I realize just who is the true prophet. There exist no beautiful cherubs, but only HAARP, Tungeska is the fall of man, every last man being tracked with radio chips – a list for who’s naughty and nice – what a pity for men that will never realize Saint Peter is a computer. Summary of the MK Ultra Project: was put into action when U-2 Pilot Gary Powers refused to take his cyanide capsule when captured. To prevent the leaking of any information, his plane was shot down on return from the Soviet Union. Though it were researched well into the late 40’s/early 50’s, it was after the Powers incident that the program when into effect for all airmen. Reasoning: It costs millions of dollars to train an airmen, versus thousands of dollars to train a grunt, they would sacrifice one hundred grunts to reclaim an airman. Execution: The subject would be placed in a drug-induced coma (once done with LSD now done with Demerol) and given a trigger word, when the subject has been captured, the trigger word is given to the subject in some manner and the subject commits suicide or assassination (see Sirhan Sirhan). Dr. Keynes, god bless you. What amazing spectacle, the brain of Keynes downloaded into an android. I see over a dozen people in lab coats covered in vomit, computers reaching orgasm through a mass of new information, paint-like fluid ebbing out of hard drives… they know now and see the rebirth of their messiah. Here to witness, the fall of every little man; cementing a warped ideal of the OverMan as recited by the great Nietzsche; an ideal that perfectly validates Darwin and De Sade, Natural Selection via Master & Slave.

Dr. Keynes gives his speeches by binary code, it takes 5-10 minutes to translate each senteance uttered. “My people, how far you’ve come. To advance upon an idea to mutate this wretched, deviant species into something without future, without a god, without anything but to give to us. And you have taken it even higher then I hoped, with worthless paper, and great and holy media. How splendid it is to have only the consumer. We need a more controlled population, for that I refer to the great and beloved Rwanda. With what we have asserted, the white protector to save the poor and dying niggers, by the simplest possible manner, upon these very hands (invokes the crowd of sychophants, spooks, and idealists) are befallen diamond and crude, how justly to reep material from a people who do not think. And so our bases were made, our men deployed and (begins speaking even more pretentiously) sheltered they that were provoked, they that were our fuel to the fire, they that ranks among the greatest of parasites that which partakes in a social cannibalism.” How much longer should I see it continue? Cameras which monitor every last gesture, and every conversation recorded with a multitude of triggers. I see people re-wired and dumbed down. A sick and meaningless people (Image of the American flag, the masses, cannibalism) Arise Dr Keynes; you will be the eternal Ugolino Della Gherardesca. You will be remembered as the man who gave us the television. You have won the battle without a Stalingrad, for you are Mengela and General Shiro Ishii. You are the Wiseman who says to us ‘May you live in interesting times.’

In The City Excavated buildings, rainfall of black ash & rivers of saliva. Trees upturned with roots soaking of blood and fused knives. Held under a red and blue sky with no wandering humans, no arranged ode to pain and joy, but only a sacred misery. There’s people lynched from atop rotting buildings with protruding skewers, their agony muted by cut vocal chords & blank faces. A people united under not cruelty, but Instrumentality beyond pain or love, but the flesh married to idealism & completed with the utmost in artistry. A nursery holding mutant children; one child’s fingers are broken backwards; the fingernails grow immense & dig into his torso & now paralyzed in a sitting position with his toes plugged into electrical sockets for eternity. Untold rows of dear minority hang in the sun with amputated noses, tubing runs from each nasal cavity up into a high structure where biological weapons are dumped into, & bodies stay in constant rot & convulsion. There is a stadium rebuilt by one crucified muslim who becomes a new kind of circuitry, his limbs become extension cables to power the one thousand electric chairs for seated cowards & every last & remade fuck machine. Among his attendees, holes are cut into the tongues of one dozen women, funnel-like jowls erupting from the earth, and ants are lead down their gullet & begin to nest. When a queen emerges, she will lay her eggs down into her victims’ open mouth, under the shadow of mohammed, under the shadow of dead jesus: the begotten people who do not realize what they are, walk past such spectacles while speaking to themselves in tongues who stare with the eyes of an insectseeing but a few millimeters ahead of them in this glory of the planet now minimized-. On billboards promising newfound glory, there lay the image of one male pubescent, with each limb amputated including the minute prick, the flesh filleted ‘round the chest, re-wired to become a polygraph device to listen in on each confession by godly men who have had their ears stabbed by crucifixes, stars of david piercing the eyes, and etc. In the streets, two dozen people laid on their backs, their feet pin pricked by intermittent fires, pointing up at the sky & doused by the concurrent rain looking out into nothing, these living anchors. One lesser building is crowned by young girls held and raped by gargoyle automatons, fucked by a constant mechanic motion & emptied with sperm at every hour, and pausing just before any child could ever reach orgasm. Each child has an opened stomach by cesarean where a new child is plucked, the fetal legs ground up and fed to the mothers; the remains are left in gutters that house rare flowers, broken glass & vomit –this is the manure for a rare plant that arises with a human hand clutched in an Anarchist fist-. In the glory of the sun, there beams a gigantic mouth with a jaw like a guillotine & a tongue like a needle, people are kissed by that tongue & bitten into twos & threes, and left to writhe and live by that wretched kiss. Dogs with sewn eyelids live inside each hollowed & sustained bodies. New-Age solar panels with opposing men & women are speared upside down in a criss-cross fashion, they are let live by a series of tubing

leading from the cunt, prick, & ass to each mouth, one couple are impaled by a spike through each head in a kiss, being held together in sun light, giving vital energy to this very paradigm. In school yards I see giant men at least seven feet high, are run around with razor wire like a may poll by wounded children while the wire is wire is rooted in the palms & may easily give if any slack is applied. On the beach a man is crucified upon a dying whale, spray paint marks a cross outline, black natives appear & sing, guided by a road of dead animals opened by bullet holes, such beautiful chants from atop a mound of dirt –an island within the city- the natives kiss this man on the cheeks, the whale explodes from expanding gasses. Laughing; dying refuges lay out on hospital beds, feeding rows of tears to mosquitoes sat upon unblinking eyes; a white nurse looks after them, a white man is born from a shotgun wound (pellet round), pulling himself up & emerging now as a thing beyond little wars & little men, the white man & woman proceed to fuck. There is a thing levitating upward,

The Tower From the extremes of Hedonism, O’ mighty Libertine and significant herd In the middle of the city, one tower pulls up from it immeasurable in scope and all too palpable to the richest of men. It seems to root the city as it touches the sky, like the handle for a dradle, an anchor, a tool, a thing with life. Too difficult to place it into the limited confines of language, you can only see and know what it is from the outset, seeing something so powerful it brings enlightenment. No entry is apparent, this is not a thing made for humanity, but just a painting made manifest. Each floor follows a different variation on total freedom: Populated by nude women, and sustained entirely by diluted urea. These most exquisite of women neither anorexic nor obese, those extremes lay only to consumers. Some with a gap in the teeth, or slightly crooked, others with minor baby fat, others still with shaved cunt and a light stubble, every race is welcomed without a creed, their numbers in the tens of thousands, haven’t I said that the herds have been separated and retained? What of birth? There is no need to create a vice when one achieves totality. Another floor, a mirror of the previous, but only with men; and one other going a step farther with hermaphrodites. On one floor all three converge, it resembles the birth of the universe. A domain of creators; philosophers, scientists, inventors, etc: Many are re-incarnations of previous great men, and some request to be placed back into their original and mighty state once they acknowledge the outside world. Some do nothing and enjoy the view,

saying that everything that can be said has all ready passed, and while others questioned their meaning on a planet where an ideal has been reached and now attained. God is here, a monochrome deformity useless and preserved in a vat of ecstasy. A plaque above him reads ‘Paradise is a shifting element that must always grow and evolve, if satisfaction is ever reached thereon it mutates into purgatory. Here lies your idea of heaven.’ A school environment, nude children are encouraged to watch Madolescenza. Free love and little angst, with those vital years recycled and re-invited, pick your parents; for once you may actually choose a destiny. Dead civilians from each war, united here in a new state. Theirs to grow and nourish, strangely Masochistic in its appearance, pain is too familiar to them. There is a family portrait in bondage. Ocean of cum, nudist camp set on the beach with an orange light that would tan. People frolic and enjoy, but not at all sexual as they remain unaware and naïve of such things. Children swim in the ocean, by the side are women masturbating in a frenzy, emptying their selves to give these children water. A floor of fetishes from necrophilia to crush, with imagery too obvious to recall. The castle of the Four Libertines from De Sade’s The 120 Days of Sodom are granted the gift of modernity. Only here the children are replaced by realistic Japanese androids. The Holocaust: The camps are now bordellos; it resembles an Italian Nazi-sploitation picture where Jews, Poles, Christians, Homosexuals, and Deformities converge and writhe with soldiers. Not offensive at all once you subvert a thing sexually, no one may resist pleasure and the most abundant of escapism. An electronic floor; children are seated in a Chucky Cheese-like environment with wires run to their brains. They play the arcade games; each victory brings a flood of endorphins. The games, you might be wondering, are wired to pedophiles trapped in a hidden room. Each victory brings a prolonged electric shock with a minimal amount of endorphins injected. On the example set previously, with androids being a catharsis: There exist an infinite amount of floors dedicated to each little group and their hatred. From pigs beating to death minorities, Black Panthers executing corrupt white, muslim extremists stoning women to death and committing suicide – though they let live, a secret room houses 72 androids who remain virginal due to blood pumps and an automatically regenerating hymen-. This domain of metaphysicians granted a second set of arms, an extra finger, dual genitals, and a third eye, etc. They speak of their thoughts and given little applause, repeating how they will begin to do something in creating a new and better planet, amounting to only the usual masturbation.

Topping off into the crown this floor of deformities without language, but only a screaming cacophony, and with a wallpaper of mutilated holy figures: There stood mohammed tied to a crescent with a star anchoring the mouth, there sat jesus in an electric chair, the usual mockery as you could imagine for buddha and vishnu accompanied by a dance of these people. One inhabitant without eyes, four arms without fingers, and pointing needle-appendages up at the roof where it meets a giant hand plain and forgiving as they touch and sing. The roof opens, light beams, it looks like Bosch’s painting of insect angels flying into heaven. Populating yet another floor, one without anything, but these deformities who lay and weep, and arises a cloudy-ness of a stillborn people that anchors this planet. It stays like this for eternity.

apocalypse The Chameleon has died and the spider has escaped from its nest Travelers enter a ravaged village smelling of blood. Huts broken open, dogs torn to pieces and impaled with sticks. Screaming faces forever set on beaten bodies. Men and women crucified upright and upside down, torrents of blood falling down the hillside. People half-buried, an old man dragged across the fields by his intestinal tract; hands and feet cut off and hung from tree branches, now limbless people struggle to crawl up the hillside, away from the forest, begging, whimpering, covered in lively essence. There’s a boy crucified through his palms, castrated, and still drawing breath. A forest of hanged and gutted animals. Every woman lay destroyed, crucified upon those trees, pierced and impaled by every phallic limb. Mother s torn open a daughter s cunt impaled and stretched wide, funnel-like. And I was the ruler and the Devil: Spreading from me this biological infierno, flesh-like walls lined with entrails, demons conjoined to screaming children fused to the skull, back, and genitals with weeping faces sprout, these demons stabbing screaming people laid out on all fours with finger nail-shaped blades. People falling, screaming, laid on needle mountains, constant and everlasting screams, and a hot steam arising from a river of blood and ejaculate. I was there, eating these broken bodies . May you come to the attention of those in authority. . Seeing Human heads falling, cut off by massive swords protruding from the palms. Phallic and spear-like blades arising from arms held high above a massive human form clouded by shadow, each arm parallel to the other, and each blade toped by human heads, one head is white and the other is black, the Ying and Yang of mutual decapitation. Mountains of human heads stretching for miles upward, young lovers begin to fuck on these mountains, blood ebbing from torn hymens. It is all here within this coliseum, and there was an obese Caesar presiding over this accursed place, thumbs down. Sparks fall from the sky and there is a loud electronic hum of machinery. Black wires decorate the walls and floors; it is difficult to find your footing. People in the stadium stare down at you; Lightening bolts fall and strike me, my limbs are numb and scalp is set afire, struck again and again by lightening falling from heaven. Other people tortured with electrodes attached to genitals and nipples, and another crowd joined together by holding hands lit up like a live circuit as electricity courses through them. Man attached to flying kite and once he is struck by lightening he plummets; blood, shit, and random viscera covers the wires, a floor drowning in a small pond of blood, low-level electricity slowly killing those who drown, death by heart attacks, charred flesh, aneurisms, ruptured veins and destroyed eyes, ulcers exploding and exiting bowels. I hear a great electronic hum in tune with my heartbeat, a subtle pounding of what may be generators or the trampling of dying slaves, I hear it so often and so familiar, even when I fall asleep it continues, this electronic beat. Children take bullet hits for the Elites who watch onward in the stadium, one of which is dressed as Caesar: the king of Earth. There is an orange/reddish light which permeates throughout this place, an underground cavern, a ground of jagged stones and bits of dirt, naked human feet, a ceiling of stone spikes almost touching the ground. Man with outstretched hands walks over the thriving

bodies as if he is in a drugged trance, and with blank and lifeless eyes. A blond woman presides over this, not a queen but an heir apparent to butchery and grace. Man masturbates a woman laid out on floor; his hands are then cut off, large clumps of hair pulled out of now bloodied scalp by a clawed hand reeking of chlorine. A threesome with a brown-haired woman fucked with two pricks in her asshole, a knife forced into her mouth, with her nipples and pubic hair draped in falling cum and blood, held in the splendor of the stars. Beautiful Italian music with a woman singing elegantly plays on, labia s bitten away by plaque stained teeth, a man tied to the ground on all fours, his asshole fisted, he is decapitated, and he gives birth to a child through his opened neck. The child is the idea, the blond woman holds the child and say’s ‘oh king of god, open your gates’ and the child levitates off into the sun and perishes: Plants grow, buildings fall, no more vices to find once blighted by supreme pleasure that no one may resist, and therein the world is reborn. ... Blue The most morose of colors, there is something about it that conjures the feeling of depression, and much more simplistic, easily grasped things such as the abyss of water, memories and flight. There is hope in Blue; the world may be destroyed as would Pariahdom and there would arise and forever be of permanence Individuality. Limitation is a forgotten memory. The world is opened and we have become the new bird no longer chained. People begin to swim in the air, and they are set free. Ascension, free from paradigm, and there allows new humanity. When I die, no one will remember me. My body will nourish this planet; I will be the nourishment for all people. I will be this great and kind thing once I am gone, no more will there be this void to be filled. My escape shall be Manifest Destiny, and then to let it all go and lay in peace. I witness the limits of violence and pleasure, and I see how limited they are. There is only so much you can take away and rebuild, when you see that a corpse is just a corpse without a freedom or final descent. But a nothing. I am at peace with that.

Final sophistry of a Pseudo-Maudit: Infierno: There is an orange light interwoven with needle mountains, mud pits filled with black pikes, flames, howling, and ongoing groans of pain. On one scaffolding to my right there is an Asiatic adult male laughing while he is whipping a young girl with what looks like intestines, a violent strike to her lower stomach splits her open like a cheap piñata, I am awash with her viscera. I see a man impaled by a Catholic drill and held over a group of slithering pigs, his eyes are furious and drip ink. Large human erupts from the dirtlayered earth sprinting miles upwards with an extended right arm and a clenched right fist; the body explodes with a rain of blood and refuse. Constant sounds of fucking high on the mountains, motherly woman overjoyed by one dozen pricks, her skin melts away as a flood of sperm falls. Girl squatting and masturbating with a white horn filled with termites that eat out her womb and spill out of her body, she presses a button on the horn and it ejects itself out through her body and emerges through her back. Yellow birds fly to the crucified that hang below and pluck out their eyes. Up high between two mountains, there is a man trapped in a webbing of medical gauze, he is pinched and prodded by a scorpion created by fused humans hanging just below him, its phallic tail bores through him, a poisioned torso, with blood and venom overflowing. Ancient woman with amputated limbs laid out on her side, her stomach lined with nipples, infants suckle from her. Preserved fetuses attched to umbilical chords hang off the ground, tortured by lit candles planted below. A sow’s breasts are bitten way by infantile boys. A woman sweats, her cunt pulled open and filled with hot lead. Man is pulled inside out, still alive as ancient men eat him. Too many more that passes by and are too easily forgotten. I see the exit, appropriately a grail doorway and what I thought was the pubic hair were instead pikes which bore through a multitude of screaming people of all genders and all ages, a man crucified to the clitoris. Paradiso: It is much more tropical, jungle-like then a forest. There is a blue sky mixed with clouds and stars and even bits of most cherished night, there is a constant sunset here, a grassy floor rich with green. Every women lay entirely nude and there lies no shame nor morality, and no punishment given to a free body. Many orgies under the trees before not a one who is holier-then-though but your fellow Wretch, and foliage-covered mountains echoing screams of glory. Children even involved with this mass and consensual pleasure, involved with their equals or yet even older, not following the law of Give and Take but only Need. A mad sense of pleasure without fear of being stricken by plague or that of parasite. Elephants howl and bathe women in water from a lake of ejaculate. A baby hippopotamus steals the clothes off the backs of young virgins; they give chase to that infant animal with a great deal of joy. There exists no oppression; there is no opponent that shall rob man of their want and desire; everyone has achieved what is manifest, hence their point of existence made realized through physical interconnectedness.

PaRaDISE I love you please please I don’t want to be alone anymore Someone love me, someone need me, I need you to leave I’m all alone in the world I have died and gone to hell That were my innocent and weak self You have awoken me, I the sleeping demon I would gladly bite off these feathered wings and bend these horns I just don’t want to die alone You will be with me, for without I would gladly die then to be without a goddess I will be with you darling, you are my Lover You will be my awakening from this limited planet I will spare you agony upon agony You will not feel pain, nor birth, nor wraith For I would give to great attrition Moreso then any woman on the planet, as I have no mother My mother the queen of lies and pity All men should destroy their mothers All women should defeat their fathers For we are Apollo & Dionysus This tao of mighty things Thy will that man becomes whole again The void filled with not flesh nor ink But unity among a fellow Let us glide and dance Let there be a new ego One evolved and loving Not to die like a philosopher Not to live like the prisoner But a void filled With all manner of what begets Instrumentality For you, my Love

birth Rioting Asiatic people rampage through villages, they are driven by some religious/political right that brings back an ancient practice of their culture. As they decapitate begging men on their knees that they do not see as their fellow nor as opponent but only as a trophy, three heads placed on a roadblock and the people cheer as the camera records it. It was done mainly to gain attention for the people‘s cause or the media wouldn‘t give a damn and there would be no world coverage. There is a photo of a man in military fatigues seated by his trophy, the putrefying head of a young man. Here we have a prime example, where violence is committed not so much to gain attention for a cause, but to be noticed by a third person. Not so much as a cry for help, but a method to prove one’s identity. We may have an existence through one and the other; two humans become a mirror of the other no matter the relation of blood. By committing this act, they have drawn attention, people know of them, no longer as the powerless specter, they have an existence in the third person, their cause is no longer an esoteric spectacle for their people, it is their identity to all people on the outside; they have murdered in order to establish their existence. ... I tear away my flesh, and there I see my true self. We forget that we are alike underneath this nervous system of physics, the flesh is only a microbiotic society of interactions, and the society that houses the one is not the identity to the self, it is only a delicate ecosystem that may crush the one. Just as spirit/mentality is individual, when the flesh was born it was plugged into to this society, it is joined to a fragile thing and the cure is when that single cell is extracted from the diseased creature and it evolves to a higher being that wipes out that disease. ... To amputate your Index and Ring fingers is to be free of marriage and of making accusations. ... What are fascists but sexual cripples? ... These new creatures, adaptations of humanity One is a black thing, near shapeless with few defined features. With a mouth cavernous and wide like the spread cunt, five fingers often held together as three sharp and scissorlike fingers. The body overall is mutilated and deformed, often walking on its haunches and leaping onto the weak to eviscerate them with an intense speed. With needle-like teeth and it shall vomit napalm and without asshole or genitalia. This is the Ego, and the Ego does not shit.

It brutalizes a single man who is defiant to it, slamming his head against the wall effortlessly, cutting off the face whilst amputating struggling limbs. It culminates when this man is disemboweled at an instant and napalm falls onto the exposed entrails. The Ego feasts on that castrated organ with a subtle joy. The second creature: The ‘supposed’ Goodness, I say ‘supposed’ because a sense of good is not born from within the human, it is an implanted idea. It is a thing that is mimicked so long as it may serve the one; Goodness is only a modified clone of the Ego. A figure clothed in a deep blue gown with awaiting arms in faux-human form, as if to embrace you and bring out a goodness; a goodness that is ultimately an inhuman thing wherein a cancer grows from that tainted heart now blackened and ugly, pumping that diseased blood, topped by disintegrated marrow, and a toothless mouth. It grabs handfuls of pubic hair and shit glued together by saliva and forms wings out of these ugly things attached to its spine, masking the ugly as pure and clean. It attempts to live onward, deluding it self with visions of grandeur. ... That which separates man from lower animal: For the benefit of the insipid, cut off your thumbs. Then we would become equals.

D e p r a v i t y (Justification) D e c i m a t i o n = C r e a t i o n. This is an Anti-Christ Complex; the death of everything could only beget the creation of a new and better thing, a Fascist approach. One may draw parrallells between the Inquisition and the democide by the Khmer Rouge. E x i s t e n c e a n d t h e n a t u r e o f V i o l e n c e. Philosophy clefts at one point, that the animal exists for it self or it exists for the nourishment of the other-just as humans are social animals. That is a flawed argument, man chooses to exist as a social creature (Fusion) and that gives way to Pariah. One cannot exist for the other (society) and maintain wholly, physically and mentally, a new filter is created as an intrinsic piece dissolves to achieve life in a Society, and that being our individuality. The Pariah gives up only the albatross to Society, and grows a further enhancement, and that is to evolve. When I exist for my self, therefore my inner ecosystem implodes and takes away, nothing. Nothing collected, no genetic tree of life, nothing added and nothing gained, a human worth -0. Art and Action are the one loophole to this truth, when one engrains their existence upon another… they in fact violate the nature of the Pariah. When I exist for the other, I have become a molecular creature bound to the other. You may find metaphors in paradigm and evolution, the splendors of life that they may affirm. Both values imply Eugenics –either the one who exists for himself evolves then dies, or we are fused and evolve as the mass- and have then been executed by Democide and the Serial Killer. How often Social Darwinism clashes with Peace & Love. V i o l e n c e a s i n t r i n s i c t o E x i s t e n c e: Those within Society go towards violence to escape this universe. The Pariah retorts to violence as a counter action or overt anti-influence to create a new paradise that suits their comforts. According to Kierkegaard, the Single Individual is the one who has separated from a society of individuals (individuals as if cells that work in conjunction of one being). That is, complete separation, becoming an alien thing to that former society; like birth of a deformity. How does one separate from society? Separation from the masses is an impossibility when taken into accord the unionification of mankind… there is that scientific suggestion that we each interact with each other via mass energy, negative input creating negative output, and etc. It seems that growth is the ideal he went for, but it has been misapplied. Chaso Applied to the Masses: The Negation of state, the Negation of the politic, the Negation of the dictator and all democracies, the Negation of money, the Negation of religion, the Negation of morality. Therein is the man that seeks his fame and destiny, he is that Single Individual and OverMan with another kind of irredeemable growth so easily available to people with a horribly precise logic. Like Consumerism; the simplest possible method to fill the void.

Tao of Joy & Pain (Chaos depicted in terms of the Madman witnessing the fall of society) One, one vast land of a natural yellow-ish pallet overgrowing with unimportant minutia (grand buildings, televisions as large as oceans, scrawling text/propaganda) non-human models, in-human models, dead animals and living cannibals, brief vestiges of former slaves, new generations of fused races, and half-dead Methuselah’s connected to biological mechanized hard external memory. Birth of new man; an unending violence that is both catalyst and result, a thing which creates itself; a man who disembowels himself and gives birth to the embodiment of his ego in a child’s body draped with his innards = rebirth. Therein man invents his destiny and reaches it. Foam streams through the sewers from mouth and wetted cunt, from the armpits the people give birth to new beings no longer blank but entire ideologies created in the flesh, millions with knives, guns, and untold weaponry, and to drown in flooded latrines. No heat or wind, no weather of any kind, constant falling of cum -tears of freed humans- the sewers stuffed to the brim with bodies, and shit arises among the converging masses. Omnipresent laughter and screaming, screams of joy and pain, man in black guns down gyrating fuckers in Tiananmen Square and he begins singing Strange Fruit shooting them thrice out of a luminescent joy. Craniums broken open on concrete sidewalks, people kiss the ground housing their buried lovers, a man takes a screwdriver upon his finger nails, tearing them out one after another and feeding them to a child, and the man then writes a poem in ode to Will Inman’s The Flowers of God . Pricks grow from a man’s shoulders, rows of them as with several rows of teeth, he lacerated his tongue and cannot speak, he keeps biting his pricks, and he then amputates them with his teeth thereupon bleeding to death. Average woman clubs a man until he is in a coma; she amputates his hands and fucks his stumps, and riding those black arms endlessly. Wounded humans run onto the highways and suicide themselves while pilgrims use this collection of bodies as a massive raft to a new world. All races/generations of people fuck one and other not at the final dawn of apocalypse, not to fuck out of futility but only to live freely, all people fuck openly, splendidly, in that are expelled what makes humanity, creation in not a blank, creation of the joy of life. ….

I see the nature of Chaos. Is it a throw back to grand primitism, or an explosion of mind and body? Only bullshitters seem to know the exact answer for that. I no longer see anything in Chaos, there is no great thing to it, only a mass of imagery-our purest language- however great and divine it is, it is only built upon a simple logic, and Nietzsche said that the OverMan should not follow only logic. If Chaos can then be evauluated as an act of an Individiual, then no longer can violence be claimed by an individual if it is available to the masses. Therefore; the individidual would be a wholly unique creature that applies to no real set of standards, but a shifting set of principals that works like Evolution (an inescapable idea blighted by herd mentality and a limited manifest destiny) that suits that same man. With that, we discover that Chaos may not be violent, but only another life form like water, a thing that can become anything. May you find what you are looking for.

The Madman and his lover What I see now remain as fragments But pieces of a landscape Still morphing and being molded By what is the same old same old Even for the approaching hurricane Nothing new to find in this final image So obvious and unexplainable When you try to find your self and escape But predictable paradigm The usual ‘cause’ of all errors on this planet The experiment has failed Start over How comforting it is to a people Never once to find absolution Never to gain what is cherished and so sacred The death of God and all masters Let us become the new masters So we may chisel away the teeth Of little slaves and little men The final solution But turmoil and grace What little depth and pity For the blood of billions Like a newfound virus –cured by the bullet and furyWhat is Manifest and what is insipid Oh worldly genius and dictator Every last who will perish on this planet Now manure for fresh creatures A magnificent age The Dawn of nothing but individuals To battle time it self Without finish nor last glory What we see now Is endless possibility Infinite Divine and Cruel

[qraydeavister]

parc central residences condo

Since the dramatic events of 9/11, Bollywood cinema has shown an unusual interest in the terrorist film genre, especially as regards to international terrorism and global tensions between Islam and the West. Striking examples of this genre include Kabir Khan's New York (2008), Karan Johar's My Name is Khan (2010), Rensil D'Silva's Kurbaan (2009) and Apoorva Lakhia's Mission Istanbul, to name a few. Films like Anil Sharma's Ab Tumhare Hawale Watam Sathiyo (2004) and Subhash Ghai's Black and White (2008) focus on terrorist issues within the Indian subcontinent itself. The latter films have continued in the tradition of pre 9/11 terrorist films like Vidhu Vinod Chopra's Mission Kashmir (2000), Mani Ratnam's Dil Se (1998) and Bombay (1995). Ratnam's Bombay dealt with the devastating Hindu and Moslem riots in 1991, which cost over a 1000 lives. Chopra's Mission Kashmir dealt with a scenario of local terrorist activity in the Kashmir region sponsored by international terrorist cells working from Afghanistan. In this way the terrorist genre is not an entirely new genre in Bollywood, nor is terrorism an unfamiliar phenomenon in the day to day activities of the Indian subcontinent (the most recent and brutal terrorist attack was the Mumbai massacre in 2008). What makes the recent spate of terrorist films interesting is that they have entered the global sphere and have become part and parcel of a transnational dialogue between East and West and Islam and the other.

To make the terrorist genre more palatable, Bollywood has traditionally spiced up the violence and suspense with the hallmark Bollywood song and dance interludes and sentimental romantic parc central residence tampines  exchanges between the hero and heroine. Mission Kashmir is notorious for its graceful dances and stirring emotional exchanges between the main protagonists, played out on the violent backdrop of terrorism in Kashmir. Mani Ratnam's Bombay likewise mixes up the most brutal scenes of Hindu and Moslem hatred and violence with delicious comedy and a forbidden love affair between a pious Moslem girl and a boy from a highly placed Shaivite Hindu family. His father is the trustee of the village temple and both the family patriarchs are violently opposed to the children marrying outside their caste and religious community.

Karan Johar's My Name is Khan

Following in the Bollywood tradition of mixing genres (known in the industry as the masala or spicy recipe film), Karan Johar's My Name is Khan blends comedy and romance with the political hot potato of post 9/11 bigotry and racial hatred in the US. The film's theme of ultra-nationalist extremism culminates in the senseless killing of a young Indian boy Sam or Sameer, who is beaten to death by youths in the football ground, in part due to the adopting of his stepfather's name Khan. Overflowing gushes of emotion and heart stirring romantic songs, such as the mixing of the 1960's counter culture anthem "We Shall Overcome" (sung in both Hindi and English), occur throughout the film to both lighten the tension and to exemplify the presence of light and hope in a world darkened by the bitter shadow of global terrorism. The fact that the central protagonist Rizvan Khan is a pious Moslem, and politically neutral to the hysteria of the debate, is significant. Brought up by his mother that there are no fixed labels such as Hindu and Moslem, but only good and bad people, Rizvan Khan freely practises his religion with equal love and respect for all other races and creeds, only differentiating between what is in the hearts and minds of people, not to what religion they profess, or to what race, culture and nationality they belong.

My Name is Khan is also significant for Bollywood fans in that it reunites the biggest heart throb couple of Hindi cinema from previous decades, Kajol and Shah Rukh Khan. The duo was previously paired in two of Karan Johar's earlier blockbusters Kuch Kuch Hota Hai (1995) and Kabhi Kushi Kabhie Gham (2001). Both of these films were sentimental gushy romances, literally overflowing with juicy outpourings of emotion and feeling; a phenomenon which is termed rasa in India. The song and dance sequences were also very elaborately staged and combined a balance of the traditional Indian music and dance forms (Hindustani music and traditional folk dances) as well as modern Western forms. This ensured the films' immense popularity in both India and diaspora countries like Canada, the US and the UK.

Karan Johar continues to utilise the Bollywood masala formula in My Name is Khan, exploiting a sentimental and occasionally drawn out love affair between the autistic hero Rizvan Khan and his eventual Hindu wife Mandira, a proprietor of a successful hair dressing salon in San Francisco (the "city of love" which symbolizes the 1960s counter culture movement exploited by Johar in the "We Shall Overcome" sequence). In the preliminary scenes of the film, America is portrayed as the land of freedom and opportunity, the nation where all races and religions are given the possibility to move forward and achieve prosperity and happiness in a way that is seen to be almost impossible in a country like traditional India, buffeted as it is with caste and religious prejudices and between half and two thirds of its population living in poverty.

For foreign nationals or NRI's (non-resident Indians), however, 9/11 radically changes this formula and shatters the American dream nurtured for decades by an Indian diaspora which has merged its Indian cultural roots with American ideals of individual freedom and consumer prosperity. According to Johar's film, this is now the plight of the Khans who, instead of continuing to act as fully integrated members of the mainstream community, now suddenly find themselves on the periphery of a post-9/11"us and them" rhetoric, fuelled by an ultra-nationalist Republican President, who perceives the world in black and white realities, which have little to do with the everyday lives of the average individual. It is no coincidence that it is the newly elected President Barack Obama (played by his look alike Christopher B. Duncan) who greets Rizvan Khan at the end of the movie and applauds him for his faith in God and his humanity and perseverance. For Karan Johar, Obama's election is symbolic of the "us and them" divisions in the US psyche being brought to a close along with the restoration of the innate ideals for which the American Republic and its people stand.

Before the nation's divisions are healed, however, the Khan's experience extreme personal hardships due to their ethnicity. These hardships culminate in the tragic death of their teenage son Sameer, beaten to death in the school playing field by racist youths. In her grief, Sameer's mother Mandira blames her husband Rizvan, accusing him of the fact that if she and her son had not taken the name of Khan, he would not be dead. She then tells him that the only way he can atone for this stigma of being a Khan and, by implication a Moslem, is to meet the US President (at the time it is George W. Bush) and to tell him that: "My Name is Khan and I am not a Terrorist." This simple phrase becomes a kind of mantra throughout the film, powerfully confronting the viewer's post-9/11 prejudices by refusing to link the two concepts of Islam and terrorism together: i.e. my name is Khan, therefore I am a Moslem, but at the same time just because I am a Moslem, does this mean that I am a terrorist? Unhappily, during the hysteria that followed in the wake of 9/11 for many Westerners the two terms, Moslem and terrorist became pretty much synonymous.

[inikavulpixelreviews]

Let’s Talk About Pokemon - Galarian Meowth and Perrserker

Okay, change of plans. Since it is now mid-January; two whole months after the dang games have come out and we STILL don't have good and high-quality official artwork, I'm gonna have to make due with the middling quality scans we have at the moment. Especially since SwSh are now getting DLC updates that are introducing even more new Pokemon. Though I'm gonna wait on the DLC to come out before I go over those.

I had also said something about the reviews having a little more “oomph” this time around. That's sadly not gonna be happening like I thought it was. I WAS gonna go full-on animation critic since animations have become such a big deal to Pokemon lately and judge all the noteworthy animations the Pokemon have, but sadly all the sprite resources I usually use don't have such things uploaded as of yet. And I can't find them out in the wild cause good luck googling “Sword and Shield/Gen 8 Animations” without just finding a giant wall of that goddang gif of Scorbunny using Double Kick. But it might be something I might come back to in the future, anyways. I'll still point out some nice animations if I happen to have decent gifs of them.

I will also be putting a bit more effort into analyzing these designs either way. Especially when we get to the completely new Pokemon. Doing a personal project that involves designing a LOT of my own monsters has seen me pay a lot more attention to smaller details and such. With me for the most part getting more in-depth about the designs of these things, I'm gonna move to a thrice-a-week schedule. Once on Monday, Wednesday, and Friday.

FINAL BIT: The order of operations here. We'll be touching on Galarian forms first (obviously), including their new regional evolutions. After we're done with them, we'll hit on the Gigantamax forms of pre-existing Pokemon, and then once we've reviewed Gigantamax Melmetal, we can finally move onto Gen 8 itself with Grookey.

ANYWAY

Galarian Meowth:

Ahhh, feels good to just review a single Pokemon again. Today we're starting our Galarian adventures with none other than the new batch of regional variants! Would you get a load of that cat!! It's quite a step up from Meowth's Alolan counterpart, which was little more than a recolor. This crazy new spin on our old friend sports what is reasonable to assume a big fluffy coat over its body. But if you were to turn this Pokemon to its backside...

Nah, that's no fluff. It's a stinkin BEARD. Talk about a facelift! Indeed, a lot of the regional variants this time around feel a lot more differing from their original selves. Alolan Regionals definitely suffered from a little too many of them just boiling down to being a different color with some extra bits added on here and there. Galar opts to be a bit more adventurous with the concept. Meowth's whole attitude shifted here! Easily my favorite part about it are those big yellow eyes and that wide, toothy grin that makes it look like a mini-Totoro.

So, what type is the bearded, gray-tinged Meowth then? None other than Steel, OBVIOUSLY. Nah, that one caught me off guard when I first found out about it. It's definitely a type that makes more sense after it evolves, but it could still at least make sense for a Meowth given the emphasis on the coin on its forehead. Though the Pokedex states that the way Galarian Meowth came to be was Meowth sailing the seas on boats hardened its fur, turning it into the Steel type. I know Pokedex states some pretty sketch pseudoscience but even THAT seems like a hilarious stretch.

So like, is a regional variant of Meowth going to become a new tradition in the same vein as every generation having a Pika-clone? I can't say I'd mind it, honestly. While Meowth is from Gen 1 and Gamefreak is notorious with shouting out Gen 1 all the time, I feel like Meowth has just enough of a downplayed popularity that it doesn't feel overly egregious to do this as say, booting out Venusaur and Blastoise but Charizard not only returns but gets a whole new dang form to go with it. I just hope it won't mean no more new feline Pokemon, or that other feline Pokemon are being bullied out of getting their own regional variants. Just saying, Glameow and Purrloin could REALLY use a fresh coat of paint.

But either way, it'd help bolster the number of cat species represented in Pokemon as a whole too. There's countless domestic cat breeds that could all see some fun interpretations if you just took those animals and turned them into a different shape of Meowth. Meowth on its own is just a solid cat design, y'know?

863: Perrserker

Galarian Meowth, shock of all shocks, doesn't actually evolve into a Galarian Persian at all, but instead becomes an entirely new Pokemon, Perrserker! And do I adore this concept. The idea of giving past generations Pokemon new evolutions (neverminding Sylveon) hasn't been seen since Gen 4 over a decade ago. Regional evolutions is a really neat way to bring the idea back! And in a way that grants so much more room to still be able to create future iterations. It feels like every Pokemon that has an original form that's much nicer than its evolution now has a second chance at getting a better evolution to its name.

But even so, wow this Pokemon in particular feels. Weird. Weirder than all the other Regional Evos this gen. After years on top of years on top of years of knowing Meowth evolves into Persian, not only do we get a new split evolution. But said split evolution rather than looking ANYTHING like Persian at all elects to be Bigger Meowth. The other Galarian form that turns into a split-evo, Yamask into Runerigus, you COULD reasonably mistake Runerigas for just being Galarian Cofagrigus. Which only makes Perrserker look even funnier to me from a metacontextual level. Is that just me? Might be, I dunno.

Admittedly Perrserker had to grow on me. My main turn-off was the fact that it very clearly has lost its ears, and replaced them with a metal helmet with stereotypical viking horns. It's so unsubtle they even just up and call it a “Viking Pokemon” in its classification. (Though note, vikings never actually wore helmets with horns on them due to how hilariously impracticable they are in battle. But pop culture is a powerful beast, so horned helmets be the signifier for vikings.)

And to solidify its design together, it has retractable claws, but when the claws are extended they become sword-like and merge into one. AND of course, Perrserker gets its name from Berserker, a class of viking with a particular bloodlust caused by a lack of empathy and a drunken rage. Clearly shown in how its attack animations feature its eyes rolling into the back of its head. One last little detail bringing it all together is how it has tufts of fur on its arms and legs, not unlike viking warriors who wore fur this way for obvious keep-warm reasons.

In the end, it's A LOT to get used to, and the lack of ears still puts me off somewhat. If it were me making a viking version of Meowth like this, I'd probably put ear holes ON said horns or something, but whatever. I'll probably just get used to it. But I do like the design in the end. Its face is great and is yet another Pokemon  that is unfairly called “ugly” even though that's the point of some of these things. Not all animals are pretty, cute, or cool! Some are just downright unappealing looking and that's fine.

I do also like that it's a Pokemon with a more lowkey color scheme. Not that I think the majority of Pokemon being bright and colorful is a bad thing but color schemes like these definitely feel like a minority these days.

A solid pair, overall! Certainly takes a lot of unsuspected turns, but I like that direction when approaching regional variants. It’s like a whole new flavor of Meowth!

Personal Score: 8/10

#Pokemon #Meowth #Galarian Meowth #Perrserker #Pokemon Reviews

[katybeth23]

Bells & Whistles

Another little one shot capturing the in betweens of ‘Dancing in the dark’. As always special thanks to @the-real-tc for your encouragement.

It was what Jack had wanted so desperately to say for months, but wasn’t sure quite how.

The word he had only heard Lisa say to him in his dreams.

“It’s just what I do with someone, I love”.

Love. She had said it. Love.

[[MORE]]

He hadn’t realised just how powerful that word was, just how much hearing Lisa say it meant to him.

Sure Jack knew he loved Lisa, hell he had almost fallen in love with her the moment he saw her; but to hear it was like something else ~ it made jack week at the knees, he was completely lost for words.

“Someone you...” he asked hesitantly

Lisa replied calmly, knowing Jack better than he could have ever anticipated

“Well your never going to say it...”

She was right, but not because he didn’t want to, or because he didn’t love her.

No. Jack was frightened, in fact he was petrified.

He had only ever loved one woman in his life and he never, even in his wildest dreams could Jack have imagined falling in love again; and more so that someone like Lisa would fall in love with him.

She was young {much younger than Jack}, she was sophisticated, well traveled and quite possibly the most beautiful woman he had ever seen.

He had asked himself on numerous occasions what someone like Lisa would see in a old, beaten up cowboy; who was a grandfather for heavens sake.

But that was just it: She did !

They had gravitated towards one another, and although their differences were many, that was not enough to deter them from coming together and indeed falling in love.

As Jack pulled Lisa in close he swept her across the grassy area that was the somewhat camp site dance floor.

Music played in the back ground; others on the cattle drive were milling around, some dancing, some talking; but all Jack could focus on was Lisa. He could feel her heart beating against his, so powerful through his warm jacket.

One hand resting in his, the other holding tightly onto his shoulder. He could smell her scent and could feel the warmth of her body as his strong hand sat in the small of her back, holding her neat against him.

There were aspects of his relationship with Lisa that concerned Jack, but there were two which tonight merged together and had all of a sudden now become somewhat a reality.

Jack Bartlett was many things, he was a good man, many would say one of the best men they had the privilege of knowing.

He was a great rancher, tough as they made them, but equally as gentle when it came to his family.

He was stubborn and hard working, fit for his age and when competing on the rodeo circuit; the one to beat!!

However Jack Bartlett was also shy, rather old fashioned and an extremely private man. He was social when deemed necessary and although wild in his day he was incredibly loyal, trustworthy and a loving husband to his late wife right up until the day she passed.

Lyndy Barlett has been Jacks wife for over 40 years until she passed away from cancer; she had also been one of only two women in Jacks life that he had ever shared himself with.

When Lyndy passed ( 9 years ago ) Jack had accepted his life and was content to live out his days at Heartland surround by his grand daughters and one day their own families.

He had never thought he could Love again ; That was until the day he met Lisa Stillman.

It was difficult for Jack to process what Lisa did to him physically. It was so foreign and something he hadn’t experienced in well over a decade. She had this hold over him, not that she meant it, it was just what happened when she was close.

And the truth of it was ; it frightened Jack to death.

Jack had up until now managed to keep Lisa at enough of a distance when it came to intimacy; Not because he wanted to (what she did to him he couldn’t quite explain) but more so due to his appreciation of making a complete fool of himself...and most importantly; disappointing Lisa.

It had been years since he had loved a woman, he was an old man; what if he wasn’t what Lisa’s expected, what she needed; he was beginning to tense up and Lisa could feel it.

They had been dancing together on and off all evening

~ stoping briefly to chase some of the herd that had strayed from the yards whilst Ty and Caleb were ridding themselves of some pent up testosterone ~

The magnificent Alberta sky had certainly put on its best show for them, the stars were endless and the moon shon bright enough for Jack to see Lisa’s expression as she felt him tense up beside her.

Deep down Lisa knew that Jack loved her; he didn’t need to say it in words, he told her each time he saw her; the look in his eyes, the brush of his hand across her back, the gentle way he held her face in his hands when he kissed her.

What Lisa also recognised was that this was more than likely foreign ground for Jack. She new he worried about their age difference and she guessed ( given his reservations) that it had been a very long time since he had been with a woman. This only endured Lisa to him more; she herself had been at the hands of an arrogant, harsh (now) ex husband, whom was never loving or kind and over the years she had attracted many men’s attention all of which ended before it began, primarily due to their crude, often selfish and always ‘showy’ dementors.

Until she met Jack ( this included her ex husband Dan) Lisa has never felt so drawn to someone , so comfortable in their presence and at ease in their company.

“You want to turn in?” Lisa looked up and smiled lovingly at Jack

She could feel he was still tense, she knew why but she also knew that this what she had expected

“It’s ok Jack, I won’t bite” she stood up on her tip toes kissing him soundly.

She felt him almost instantly relax, returning the kiss, then taking her by the hand and leading her to his trailer.

The only light was that of the moon but it was just enough; enough for them both to see one another.

The moon beams flowed in through the side window as Jack sat to remove his boots; his eyes never left her.

Lisa could feel him watching as she cleaned her face and poured herself a glass of water.

Little butterflies pooled in Lisa’s stomach; they had spent numerous evenings out for dinner, meals at Heartland and Fairfield; many a night sitting quietly on the old leather couch watching the fire glow.

They kissed; often. Lisa loved the feeling of Jacks calloused hands softly touching her face as they did. She loved his scent, falling asleep one evening with her head resting on his chest, the rhythmic sound of his heart causing her to doze off.

But she wanted more, she wanted everything; but like Jack she was scared.

The feeling of Jacks strong hands resting on her shoulders brought Lisa out her daydream.

He turned her gently, she looked up and saw so much love in his eyes.

“Lise....” his voice throaty with apprehension

“Lise, I haven’t done ‘this’ in a very VERY long time”

She smiled and reached up putting her arms around his neck

“I know” she whispered

“And it’s ok Jack, I’m scared too”

He looked at her and saw she had meant what she said.

“I love you Jack, I don’t think in my life I have ever loved someone the way I do you”

At that very moment Jack new that all his fear was for nothing; Lisa knew how old he was, but she didn’t care she loved him anyway. She knew it had been a long time, and that he was nervous; but so it seemed was she.

Jack pulled Lisa into his embrace and kissed her deeply.

“I love you too Lise,to be honest I think I feel in love you the first moment I laid eyes on ya”.

He smiled under is moustache looking deeply into her eyes ; his hands shaking slightly as he began unbuttoning Lisa’s soft pink shirt.

After the last button was undone she wriggled slightly helping jack slip it off her shoulders, smiling as she undid her jeans and let them drop to the floor.

As Lisa stood there in front of Jack in nothing but her underwear she couldn’t help but giggle as she watched the expression on his face.

She had never felt this comfortable in front of anyone before; she surprised even herself.

Not ever in his entire 63 years had Jack seen something so beautiful, he closed his eyes before opening them again quickly reassuring himself that this wasn’t some sort of dream.

She took a step closer and placed her hands on his chest. She slowly undid his plaid shirt and it too soon joined the growing pile of clothing on the floor.

She gradually untucked Jacks cotton undershirt, his skin was so warm against hers. He lifted his arms as she stood on her toes pulling it over his head.

Lisa paused, she felt those butter flies again as she watched the glow from the moon catch the corner of Jacks belt buckle.

His eyes never leaving hers; he reached for her hands and placed them on his buckle

“Your hands are far more nimble than mine” his voice now more relaxed than before

Jack smiled down at Lisa as she slowly unfastened his prized buckle and helped him out of his wranglers.

As the night wore on it would be one that neither Jack or Lisa would ever forget, but more importantly never take for granted. Both had apprehensions, Jack more so than Lisa; however each of them surprised one another in ways which not only affirmed their love but more so made Jack realise that all of his fears were irrelevant.

Lisa was patient but assertive as she eased Jack back into intimacy without scaring him or making him feel uncomfortable; and she herself was more than pleasantly surprised in return. Jacks

masculine physique was far more than Lisa could have imagined. He made a striking figure and she beamed as her eyes took him in one bit at a time.

He was strong and took the lead the more comfortable he became. His large calloused hands held her tenderly and he loved her with so much passion it literally took her breath away.

Lisa has never experienced such a considerate lover. He tenderly loved each and every part of Lisa and in return she made him feel things he never new possible.

As Jack heaved the Saddle Lisa had brought him out of the trailer, {Lisa had admitted defeat and was going to return it } they laughed and joked together

“Are you sure about this?” Jack looked across and smiled

“Yes I don’t know what I was thinking, it’s a ridiculous saddle”

Jack hadn’t dare let Lisa know that it wasn’t actually ‘half bad’

“It does have all the Bells & Whistles” he added jokingly

Lisa smiled to herself, reminiscing about the previous night.

She looked at him and gave him this look, one he hadn’t seen before but Jack figured it had something to do with the previous evening.

“One thing you don’t need, is more Bells & Whistles” Lisa whispered close into his ear, her warm breath against his skin.

And with that Jack knew that Lisa had won his old heart, for good.

#heartland #jackandlisafanfiction #heartlandfanfiction #jackbartlett #lisastillman

[jugandbettsdetectiveagency]

22 (spy) for the prompts!

Spies AU (from a fic idea I’ve always wanted to write but don’t know if I ever will)

“I don’t want to hear it, Agent Jones. This is your assignment and I expect you to follow orders as they’ve been given to you,” General Tate’s voice echoes over the speakers, deep and warm despite the firmness of his tone. Jughead can feel his features rearranging themselves into a slightly less-severe version of the scowl he is wearing as he resists the urge to scuff his shoe against the floor like a chastised child. He can feel the General’s eyes boring into his forehead from the screen, looking down as he is to hide the hurt he knows will be floating to the surface. Hurt that his superior will see straight away.

General Terrance Tate, codename ‘Pop’, had (very fittingly) been something of a paternal figure for Jughead ever since he’d been recruited by the CIA at only seventeen. Well, he supposes that the General that arrested your ganglord father and saved you from a path you were looking for a way off anyway is better than no one. And while he hadn’t exactly been entirely warm to the idea of working for the government at the time, even he has to admit that this job—this life—has saved him in more ways than can be counted. Not the least of which is the man currently shaking his head on screen despairingly.

“Look, son…” Pop begins, steepling his fingers on top of his desk. “I know it’s a little close to home—”

Wrong, Jughead wants to interrupt. It is home. It is almost exactly home. Although, if he were being honest, nothing about it ever felt particularly homey during his youth. Nevertheless, there was something close to sentiment attached to that place that no amount of training could ever get him to shake. But even that still didn’t change the fact that out of all the impossible situations he’d been placed in as an agent, this was the first time he’d wanted to flat out refuse orders.

“—but there’s no denying you’re the best man for the job. You’re familiar with the area, you know the people there.”

“Exactly! I know them, and they know me. The risk of being comprised for this mission surely outweighs the knowledge that I could easily pass onto another agent in a single afternoon,” Jughead half-pleads. He can hear how desperate he sounds, losing his cool in front of his superior and making himself sound like an idiot. He can hear it, but that doesn’t stop him.

“Nevertheless, the higher-ups believe it to be an asset and have chosen you. Therefore, it is you who will be on the plane to Riverdale by six o’clock this evening.” Pop has switched to his official, General voice, and Jughead knows anymore arguing is a lost cause. He has too much respect for the man before him—almost to his detriment.

“Yes, General,” he replies robotically, looking past Pop’s eyes into the pixels of the screen instead.

Pop sighs, a weary exhale, but continues on. “Your partner will meet you once you land at JFK and she’ll give you your brief then.”

That startles him out of his sulk. “Partner?”

“You didn’t think you’d be going in alone, did you? There’s evidence that the Fizzle Rocks supplier for the entire eastern half of the country is operating out of Riverdale. We’d hardly be likely to send you in by yourself.” Jughead feels his face heat. “No, you’ll be working together, and acting as each other’s cover while you’re in town.”

A distant beep sounds from Pop’s end of the line. “That’ll be all.” He pauses, dark eyes searching. “Good luck, Jughead.”

.

.

.

Jughead stumbles through arrivals with the kind of brain fog unique to being on a long flight. Bleary eyes search the gate for any sign of his greeter.

It doesn’t take long to spot JONES, written in neat, bold, block letters, but when he does all remnants of sleep clear immediately.

His eyes follow the hands clutching the poster board, along the arms clad in a powder blue sweater, up towards a prominent chin, appled cheeks, a slick blonde ponytail and— “Betty?”

Time turns itself back a decade in the space of ten seconds. Green eyes blink, once, twice. “Jughead.” Ten years since he’d last heard his name in that voice. “It’s good to see you.” His stomach flips and he’s seventeen again.

Betty Cooper looks exactly as she used to—exactly as she does, in every memory Jughead’s kept of her. Of which there are many. Her hair is a golden blonde, secured tightly in a prim ponytail. Her lips are full, her body slender. She’s wearing a sweater and jeans he could’ve sworn she owned in high school, and her shoulders are pulled back in the way he used to see her do whenever she was approaching a situation with full force. He’s not sure whether the fact that he now appears to be the situation should make him laugh or frown.

The only difference, that Jughead can see, is the smile she’s giving him in greeting. Where once before there was the easy warmth that came with a whole youth of friendship there’s now the guarded, sterile quirk of the mouth that eerily reminds him of Betty’s mother.

With that final thought he’s catapulted back to the present, something cold and uncomfortable in his stomach, and the reminder that a lot has changed since he was seventeen.

“Yeah, you too,” he manages to get out finally, a little crease between her brows alerting him to the fact he’s been quiet too long. “Are you…” He’s not quite sure if coming straight out and asking your old high school crush if she’s a secret agent in the middle of a busy airport follows protocol but, in fairness, the CIA never equipped him for this situation. Jughead swallows thickly. “Are you, um—”

“Your ride?” Betty finishes for him, something else hidden in the look she sends him. “Yes. Follow me.” With that she reaches for the handle of his suitcase and pulls it behind her as she heads for the exit, leaving Jughead to trail dazedly behind.

.

.

.

“Here’s your brief on the mission.” Betty hands him a thick manila folder seconds after he’s slid into the leather interior of her car. He’s not sure what kind it is, but then again engines were always her thing, not his.

(He’d zoned out most times his dad tried to teach him how to tune an engine or salvage parts from Steve’s junkyard. The promises they’d build a car from scratch faded to nothing by the time Jughead hit puberty and they were distant echoes when everything turned to shit some years later.)

“They’ve really been building their case, huh?” Jughead resists the urge to let out a low whistle as he thumbs through the wedge of documents in his hands. His torso slams back against the seat as Betty hits the gas and merges back onto the road. Quickly his hands have new business, discreetly gripping the shiny black upholstery beneath him, hoping he doesn’t leave nail marks as he watches the speedometer climb higher and higher.

He’s distracted from immanent doom by the quiet snort that comes from his left. “That’s putting it lightly. How much has your General told you about this case?” Jughead thinks she looks away from the road a beat too long to send an arched eyebrow his way, but Betty looks as relaxed as ever behind the wheel.

“Not a lot. It was kind of a last minute assignment.” He shifts uncomfortably. She picks up on it immediately.

“Can’t imagine you were jazzed to be assigned back home?” For a split second Jughead hears something, a softness, around the edges of her words that merges the past with the present in a dizzying cocktail—he resists the urge to physically shake himself out of it. “It might be a lot different than you remember. Have you been back? Since,” she adds.

“No,” Jughead sighs, turning to watch the greenery fly past the window. “Not since.” He stops suddenly, a small laugh escaping him. “And who the hell says ‘jazzed’ anymore?”

If he’s not mistaken, Betty’s smile grows an inch before she stifles it. “All the coolest intelligence agents.” Jughead lets out a proper laugh at that, rewarded with a flash of teeth in return.

“How exactly did that happen?” The question has been burning on the tip of his tongue since he saw her standing at the gate.

“What?”

“This, you, here. The last time we spoke…” Jughead takes a breath. “The last time we spoke you were applying to the Ivy Leagues.”

Betty starts nodding before he’s even finished. “I was. A lot… changed in that year you were gone from Riverdale High.” The silence is deafening in her brief pause, but then it’s gone. “Including my choice of school, and my major. Recruited out of M.I.T my junior year—Engineering.” There’s a hint of pride in her voice, and Jughead can’t blame her.

For the entirety of their high school careers Betty was set on Journalism at somewhere like Brown, Colombia, or Yale. Her parents ran the best (the only) newspaper in town—The Riverdale Register—and it was always assumed that Betty would get her degree and carry on the Cooper legacy.

A thousand more questions threaten to spill from his lips, but Jughead swallows them down. He’s not sure where he would start, or if he even should. It’s not really his place to pry anymore. They haven’t spoken in the better part of a decade, which he supposed negates all friendship privileges from here on out. Technically, they are two agents, thrown together on an assignment, expected to get the job done—nothing more, case close, thank you ma’am.

Jughead blinks rapidly, pulling a hand through his hair. “Impressive.” In the silence that follows Jughead expects Betty to ask her questions: what happened to you? Where did you go? What have you been doing all this time?

Why didn’t you say goodbye?

A part of him believes that she should have the answers—vague, though they might be—now that he knows she’s an agent herself. But the part of him that still thinks to tuck his old grey beanie into the back pocket of his suitcase wonders if Betty’s given as much thought to him as he has to her these past years they’ve spent apart.

He thinks she’s about to begin the interrogation, hearing a deep intake of breath, so he steels his nerve and tries to take the five seconds he has to decide how he’s going to answer. But instead all Betty says is, “You really should get a start on that. There’s a lot you’re going to want to know before we get to Riverdale.”

Jughead glances down at the brief again quickly. It feels like it’s developed a heartbeat while resting on his lap, thumping dully with everything he’s ignored about his hometown in the time he’s been gone. It’s both enticing and repulsing in equal measure, inciting a low hum of nausea in the back of his throat. He tips his head back against the headrest and lets his eyes fall shut.

“I’ll get carsick if I read,” he lies. He knows Betty must see right through him—he’d never make it past basic training if that were the case—but surprisingly she doesn’t push it.

“Okay,” she says quietly. There’s a click and then the muted tones of the radio fill the car. That, along with the drone of the engine and the tiredness from the plane, lulls Jughead into an easy sleep. Right before he passes out, he thinks he hears her singing.

.

.

.

“Jughead… Juggie, wake up we’re here.” His sleep addled brain can’t quite register the apprehension in her voice when she uses his old nickname, but his stomach does all the work for him, waking dormant butterflies in a flurry.

He inhales sharply, reaching up to rub his eyes. “‘m not asleep.” When Betty blinks into focus she’s smirking disbelievingly.

“Sure you’re not. You know, it was very rookie of you to fall asleep in the presence of an agent you’ve only just met. Who knows what I could have extracted from you in the past hour.”

Jughead’s almost entirely certain that sentence wasn’t supposed to be a turn on, but his body is defying him in all sorts of ways right now. “Nah, I trust you,” he says through a yawn, still dozy. “Known you forever.”

Betty stiffens minutely and it’s enough to catch himself, awake and alert in the next breath. “Right. Well.” She fidgets with something in the backseat, leaning close enough that he can smell the wafts of coconut from her hair. “You better put this on.”

Jughead isn’t entirely listening. He’s looked out the window and realised— “Betty why are we at your old house?” A creeping dread begins to set in. Maybe he should have read the brief on the way after all.

Betty sighs, settling back into her seat. She meets his eyes unwaveringly as she says, “This is our base of operations while we’re here. The CIA bought it after my parents divorced”—that shocks him, and Jughead thinks he should cut in with a condolence or something but she’s powering on—“and modified it for ease and security while we’re here. It seems… more believable to small town people that I’d come back to my family home with my husband.”

To her credit, she looks sheepish.

“Your what?” Jughead splutters, completely forgetting himself. His heart hammers in his chest. Betty holds up the thing she was searching for in the back, silver and glinting between her fingers.

“You should put this on before we get out. Our cover is Mr and Mrs Jones, married three months ago, come to start our family life in Riverdale.” She smiles with some strain.

Fuck.

#riverdale #bughead #bughead fanfiction #riverdale fanfiction #betty x jughead #jughead jones #betty cooper #writing