#joseph can have little a shitting himself in mcdonalds.

[nibwhipdragon]

Joseph.

Ok I felt bad leaving one of my mutual out so I'm doing this one for Breadcrust Crusaders Joseph. God there is so much wrong with him

As you can tell, I'm uh...less violent with him than canon Joseph. Just like Icarus I flew to close to the sun with him, gave him so much angst even I can't handle it

A great trade. Gave him canonically massive tiddies and sacrificed his mental health for it

You know what's under the cut. I am going to go insane. Spoilers for Breadcrust Crusaders/The McDonald's Crisis of 1999. Spoilers for the main antagonist of the series too btw, and for stuff that happens to Kakyoin. Adding that last part specifically for you wifey <3

Literally what the fuck. Breadcrust Crusaders started out as just a story about Joseph really wanting the McRib. And at the end of The McDonald's Crisis of 1999 it ended up being about how trauma fundamentally changes you as a person but despite being so heavily scarred from it you can move on, you can heal, you can get better, it ended up being about how love (familial and platonic mostly) is a powerful force, that it can make or break you, that it gives you a reason to keep going, that it'll eat you up from the inside out until it kills you (not in the romanticised way though). It's about how I hate McDonald's and capitalism so fucking much

And Joseph is the main character of the fic, it's his story told through Jotaro/ Josuke's eyes, so of course he'd get fundamentally changed as a character as the overall gist of the story changed. And boy. He is so fucked up.

Like I am about to go English literature class level of analysis here on my own fanfic like damn I'm normal

Like for example. The Hermit Purple change from what it canonically is to the "bloomed form" in The McDonald's Crisis of 1999. At first I just made it red because Dio's Hermit Purple was more red, so it's like a little headcanon of mine that hamon users have Hermit Purple and it can "develop" the more the hamon user practices hamon, and it'll change to red and grow flowers. And ofc that's literally just bloomed form Hermit Purple in the fic. The flowers were hard to choose a colour for and I eventually landed on yellow as I didn't want the flowers to clash with the vine colour and. Just. Everything else fell into place after that

Like holy shit red and yellow? Like the fucking McDonald's colours? Like the colours of the company that created an abomination of nature using black magic that Joseph accidentally revived from loving McDonald's that much? The abomination of nature that quite literally was nestled away in his soul, dormant?

Holy shit red and yellow? Like the coral snake? The snake that's the part of the "Red on yellow, kill a fellow" snake rhyme used to identify venomous snakes from similar looking non venomous snakes? Holy shit Hermit Purple is also referred to as serpentine as well? Holy shit this is about the character that (arguably) caused all the fucking character deaths in the entire duology?

Holy shit red? And Hermit Purple is sort of like a rope? Or a string? Red string of fate? The thing that ties fated lovers together? Love? The thing Joseph had too much of, for McDonald's, for Jotaro, for everyone else, to the point he was straight up slowly killing himself for everyone else's sakes? Hermit Purple? The stand that actively harmed Joseph the more he used it as the plot progressed? Like the actual red strings of fate were harming him?

Strings? Like the things on puppets? Damn bro, that's so funky, it mirrors how Joseph tries his hardest to break free of the narrative's cage but in reality plays into the narrative even more, as if no matter how much he tries to alter the narrative he'll always be a puppet, a toy to tell a story with. Damn it mirrors how he's a puppet, a slave to his own feelings with how he tends to jump the gun based on feelings before thinking about it first

Just. How the fuck did I manage to make a stand design so similar to the canon design that tells you so much about a character the hell

I know I wrote all that fucked up stuff he goes through but I genuinely want him to have a better time. Like jeez bro you live like this? He has Jotaro literally die in his arms. He ends up getting Kakyoin murdered. The whole cult thing. The whole getting lost in the middle of nowhere for about 3 days. The whole getting his head shot clean off. Yes yes I know I wrote all of that but that's not the point I did that because the narrative needed me to, genuinely this was so much angst even for ME. And I LOVE angst! That says a lot! He does get a better life and a better time eventually but like holy shit dude please go get therapy

Actually no with the therapy bit there that just makes him even more fucked because he DOESN'T go therapy for all he went through! He doesn't even consider it! His reaction to trauma is so different from Jotaro's/ typical PTSD symptoms that everyone literally doesn't see anything wrong with him and so he just goes about his day not getting treated for something he really should be getting treated for! Babygirl! The trauma doesn't "bounce off your brain"! You've developed complete apathy to things that would be traumatic as a way to cope! That's not healthy! Learning that Kakyoin, a close friend of yours, was murdered shouldn't have been something you brushed off so quickly! Learning that you were slowly being destroyed from the inside out by an abomination of nature shouldn't be something you brush off either, let alone laugh about! And now that I'm thinking about this facet of his character more I'm just realising he actually gets progressively worse as time goes on. Caesar's death absolutely breaks him, Avdol and Iggy's death upset him but he didn't outwardly grieve, he broke down when it came to Jotaro but that was his grandson dying in his arms even though he was helping as much as he could so like. That one can slide. Then he's just completely uncaring in The McDonald's Crisis of 1999, so uncaring even, that one of my friends found it straight up disturbing! God why aren't you going to therapyyyy (<– wrote the character)

Yes, he does start healing from trauma on his own, but he should still go to a professional for something that severe.

Ok I actually want to talk about his fourth wall breaking and how he heals from his trauma hold on buckle up everyone

The way at the end of the fic where he sorta almost just talks directly to the writer/reader about the future...my god. Holy shit. I wrote that chapter. I wrote that chapter and made 3 people (to my knowledge) cry over it. I actually wrote that. He. He is aware he's in a story, aware that there are readers. He's aware that there are readers that have him as their favourite character, possibly to the point where they'd never want to let him go, never let the story rest. Just continue the story past Dio and Seph because he knows that we'd want more of him, possibly to the point where we wouldn't mind if he went through more hell for the sake of more content, more Joseph. Despite all that he trusts us not to continue/ask for the story to continue because we love him. Love is a double-edged sword and he's trusting us with that sword, trusting that we'll use it in not just his favour, but everyone else's too. He trusts us, believes in us (and so far, that trust hasn't been broken) and because of that he believes that the future will be good, that things will get better. And with just believing it will get better that strongly, he's one step in the direction of healing his trauma.

Fruity bar is still at max bc he is bi + genderfluid in the fic. Literally ticked every box involving gender in any shape or form

Ok I think I'm done now. I've dumped enough thoughts here for today. If anything else comes to mind I'll add it as this is scheduled but uh. If you got to the end of this how you doing

#ask game answers #jjba #joseph joestar #Breadcrust Crusaders

[honeymoonshimbos]

All-Stars

HI! This piece is one I’ve written in a collab my best friend and I are doing. I don’t have ao3, so I will be posting my works here. However, they have already uploaded the first chapter here https://archiveofourown.org/works/26311690 The AU explores the characters in a more domestic, wholesome setting through a series of one-shots all centered in this universe we have created. There are emotional scenes and funny scenes. It will break your heart and mend it back together, like any good au will. I really do hope you consider checking out that chapter and giving my best friend support.

For the sake of this one-shot, some context will be necessary. In this au, Dio (adopted) and Jonathan are in their thirties and are the older brothers of twins Johnny and Joseph (19), Jotaro (17), Josuke (16), and Jolyne (14). Their parents, George and Mary Joestar, have tragically passed, so Jonathan is stepping in as a caretaker for them. Giorno (15) is Dio’s son. Diego Brando (26) is Dio’s brother from his biological mother. That being said, all of these relationships are explored and bring a fun dynamic to the AU.

SO, without further ado, here’s the GyJo you came here for.

“Hey, Gyro? I think I’m ready.”

He didn’t even have to ask what for. Gyro knew. He had been sitting back with Johnny, and the two of them were on the topic of tattoos. Gyro was showing off one he found on the internet that he was thinking about getting, but he didn’t know. He didn’t know where to put it either, so until he figured that out he was refraining. But Johnny… he had this plan since he was 15, and he’s told Gyro about it before one night when the two of them were up too late in each other’s arms knowing they had to be awake for class in just a few hours. A lot of their nights went like that.

Johnny Joestar used to dream of getting 9 stars tattooed onto the back of his right hand. One represented each of his siblings, one represented his nephew Giorno, and two represented his parents. After the accident happened, Johnny couldn’t bring himself to do it. He would always love his parents, don’t get him wrong, but even just thinking about the tattoo made him so sad. It reminded him of his life before it all went to shit. It reminded him of when his parents were still around and how he wanted to show it to them after he asked for money for his 18th birthday from everyone so he could go have the tattoo done.

His 18th birthday was long passed. His desire to get the tattoo faded along with his normal life, and up until now it rarely even crossed his mind because he forced it out so much. Thinking about it was painful. It was easier to just give up the idea until he was ready, if he  was ever ready.

Gyro made Johnny an appointment with his tattoo artist, and Johnny got to work drafting an idea. It wasn’t like he wanted anything complex, but going in blindly and completely trusting someone to permanently ink him without giving just a little example of what he wants was scary, despite how much Gyro trusted the guy. Gyro’s opinion was worth the world to Johnny, and he trusted him a lot, but this was his body they’re talking about here.

Regardless, Johnny had a draft drawn up with the size of the stars and the colors he wanted. When the day finally came around, Gyro and Johnny went to the tattoo parlor. The two waited their turn at the reception desk, and Johnny looked super pale. “You know you don’t have to do this, right? We can go home, pick up some McDonald’s on the way.” There was a McDonald’s right around the corner from Gyro’s apartment, they’d be all set.

“No, Gyro. I want to do this.” He felt… good. This was a good decision. This was something he needed to do. This was something he avoided doing because he knew it might upset him. It’s not like this will be a tattoo he regrets, though. His family will always be his family. He isn’t having a lover’s name inked onto his arm, or someone’s face on his leg. These were simple stars to represent his loved ones. And when he places his hand against his heart, they will all be there too.  

Moments later, the receptionist called them up. They got checked in, and then the artist emerged from a hallway with another client. He usually walked them out. When he saw Gyro, he gave him a small smile. “Good to see you, Gyro. This is Johnny?” He turned to the smaller man. Johnny observed the weird shape of his beard, and the hair on his head too. His barber must be a professional to get a grid-like look like that!

Gyro was pleased to see an old friend, greeting the man in a hug before stepping back. “Yeah. This is Johnny,” he introduced him, then looked toward Johnny and continued the introductions. “Johnny, this is Wekapido.” With that, Gyro made a demonstrative hand in Wekapido’s direction, as if presenting him to Johnny.

Cool. Okay. Awesome! “Good to meet you Wekapido.” Johnny said. Regardless of the lack of smile, Gyro knew he was happy.

“Likewise,” Wekapido said. “Alright, come with me.” He led the two of them down the hall. There were various rooms in the hallway, some of the doors open with artists sitting in chairs on their phones, or washing their hands. Other doors were closed. Wekapido entered one of the empty rooms with an open door, holding it for the others before gesturing to the sink. “So, Johnny, why don’t you wash your hands and then we can get started.

The room was small. There was a sink and counters where a lot of the equipment was kept, things Johnny didn’t recognize. He didn’t know what most of these things did. The room was just large enough for a bench, a stool, two chairs by the door, the sink and counter, and some wiggle room. This was a tough space. Johnny did as instructed after his sky blue eyes took in the room. He washed his hands, then dried them with a paper towel. After he finished, Wekapido invited Johnny to sit on the bench and get comfortable. While Johnny did that, Wekapido washed his hands and got some of the materials ready. Johnny handed over the little sketch outline he made.

Gyro pulled up one of the chairs from next to the door and set it down right beside Johnny. He took a seat with his chest pressed against the back of the chair, manspreading and all. Bless Gyro and his inability to sit like a normal human being. Setting his arm against the back of the chair, Gyro picked up Johnny’s left hand in his own, just rubbing his fingers before kissing his knuckles. Mwah! Some green for you, Johnny. The grin on his lips revealed the little mark he left to Johnny before Johnny even saw his hand.  “Are you nervous?”

Of course he was nervous. Gyro could tell, couldn’t he? There was nobody like Gyro. Johnny just looked over at him, taking a look at his vibrant eyes and the sweet, mischievous smile on his face, unable to fight a soft smile of his own. He reserved all of his smiles for Gyro, and recently they’ve been showing themselves more and more frequently. Only for Gyro. “Yeah, kind of. I’m excited too.” He didn’t tell anyone he was doing this, not even Joseph, so he was really eager to surprise everybody.

Nodding in response, Gyro gave Johnny his best attempt at a reassuring smile. “I’d bet. It’s going to look so pretty, Johnny.” Honestly, it was really cool that Johnny was doing this, and Gyro was honored to be selected to accompany him today. They were getting really serious. If this was the rest of  his life, with Johnny, he would be beyond satisfied. “I love you. Squeeze my hand if it hurts.” Gyro already suspected it might hurt, bad. Johnny was tough, but when Gyro was around he tended to be a bit of a baby.

“I love you too.” Turning his hand around, Johnny grabbed Gyro’s and laced their fingers up together all nice,  just in time to see Wekapido approaching, ready to go through with the inking. Oh, god. Here it goes. Johnny’s pretty blue eyes widened a little when he saw the needle. Quickly,  he looked over toward Gyro. “Why did you let me do this??” He asked in a whisper-hiss. Gyro just laughed and gave his hand a gentle squeeze. He knew Johnny would be so grateful later.

He absolutely was.

A few hundred “GYROOOOOOO!!!!!!”s later, Johnny got a tattoo! His hand felt a little sore, numb for sure. The skin was red and swollen, irritated, but it would calm down with time. One of the good things about hands is that they heal faster than a lot of other parts of the body since they’re used so often. Thanks, for the fun fact, Kira.

The two of them were in the car, on the way to the Joestars’ for dinner so Johnny could show off his sick new tattoo. In the passenger’s seat, Johnny rubbed the ten stars with his opposite thumb, but stopped when Gyro took his hand. Touchy-feely Gyro was a giant teddy bear and a big snug bug. Johnny didn’t mind it one bit. He turned down the radio and looked over toward  Gyro with a smile on his face. His side profile was one to admire while he drove. Shining lime eyes illuminated by the setting sun, his patchy facial hair His skin was rich and smooth, glowing a warm tone. Long, dirty blonde hair framed his face and fell down his shoulders, to his mid-back. It was thick, luxurious, the hair of a Roman God. What a beautiful man…

“So, Johnny… What would you say if I proposed with a ring with stars on it? It would match your new tattoo so nice.” There he goes again. They were stopped at a red light, so Gyro turned to look at Johnny, waiting for his reaction.

This wasn’t the first time Gyro asked him something like this. Johnny always assumed they were some twisted, weird jokes. He had an odd sense of humor after all, wouldn’t it make sense? Although there was a small sparkle in his baby blues, Johnny rolled his eyes. “Stars on an engagement ring? The ring will be too small to even see it.” Regardless, Johnny had an appreciation for Gyro’s jokes.

Yeah. Stars on a ring was kind of a stretch. Testing the idea with Johnny wasn’t, though. Gyro just let it end there since the light changed. He was usually more on the aggressive side when driving, but kept himself in check with Johnny around. The last thing he wanted to do was make him uncomfortable, right? He was confident in his abilities to provide Johnny a safe environment, safe enough for him to realize it one of these times when Gyro brings up engagement again. The security veil of jokes was one Gyro could always fall back on when Johnny got irritated, like he did the first few times Gyro ‘joked’ about that kind of stuff. For now, he was alright with them being perceived as harmless jokes.

It wasn’t long before the two of them arrived at the Joestars. It wasn’t a birthday or a holiday or anything, more just dinner with the family. A few other cars were parked outside. Gyro recognized Caesar’s. He parked by the curb and took the keys out of the ignition, turning to look at Johnny who was already releasing his hand and getting out of the car. Gyro actually wondered what it was like to be this close to his family. Gyro was never this close, maybe with Caesar but that was it. He followed Johnny up to the door.

It was Josuke who greeted Johnny at the door; he was most likely in the living room anyway. As Johnny peered inside, he got a glimpse of Okuyasu on the couch. Yep. They were in there. Johnny conveniently lifted his right hand and waved with it. Much like a newly engaged woman in a rom-com, he was absolutely drawing attention to his hand.

“Hey guys- WOAH, Johnny?? When did you get that? Can I see it?” Josuke asked, very eagerly  as he already grabbed Johnny’s hand and held it up for closer examination. While examining that tattoo, he stepped back from the door so that Johnny and Gyro could come inside. With a reaction as strong as Josuke’s, attention was grabbed. Okuyasu was looking at the tattoo after not even a few seconds, and then in came Jolyne, Joseph, Caesar, Jotaro, Kakyoin, Giorno, Dio, Jonathan, and Robert were gathered around, looking at Johnny’s hand, fawning over his tattoo. Even Diego Brando was here looking at it. To Johnny’s surprise, he said it was cool.

“Dammit, now people can finally tell us apart,” Joseph cracked a joke, grinning before he pulled Johnny into a hug. “Damn, it looks good though.” After unhanding his twin, he looked at it again. If he wasn’t mistaken, this was the first tattoo of the family! Dio had none, Joseph had none, and did Jonathan really need to be mentioned? Mom and Dad didn’t have them either.

Silent approval even came from Jotaro, in the form of a nod and a small smile. Jolyne expressed her specific admiration and had to remind everybody that she too planned on getting a tattoo once she was old enough. Then, Jonathan spoke up. “It’s beautiful, Johnny. What does it mean?”

There was the question Johnny was waiting for. Admittedly, he kind of wanted to show off. He held up his hand, and with his left index finger he began to point out the different stars. “One of these represents each of my loved ones,” he said. “A star for Jonathan, Dio, Joseph, Jotaro, Josuke, Jolyne, and Giorno… And then one for Mom and one for Dad,” Johnny explained. There was one star unaccounted for. He pointed toward the star right at the base of his thumb, where his index finger connects. “And one for Gyro.” One for Gyro, of course. Gyro deserved a spot in Johnny’s Hall of Fame. Gyro didn’t even expect a star. He stood beside Johnny, a proud smile on his face before he simply turned and wrapped Johnny up in the biggest Gyro bear-hug he could manage. From the look on Johnny’s face, he was pleased. Patting Gyro’s arms, he got a look at everyone around. Dio was giving an approving nod, Jotaro too. Josuke and Jolyne were fawning over the fact that their older brother got a tattoo. Giorno was admiring the aesthetic of the tattoo, Joseph was brought to tears, and Jonathan just surged over and hugged Johnny too. Johnny was now sandwiched between two big hugs, it was really pleasant.

“That’s beautiful, Johnny.” Jonathan told him after pulling away. So easily moved to emotions as he got older… “Take it easy, though, it looks swollen.” After Johnny insisting he was fine, the emotional moment had passed. Joseph was sniffling all through dinner, though. He was so proud of Johnny. That’s his twin right there!

Dinner went well, as was expected with a Joestar family dinner. They were chaotic, and there sure as hell were a lot of people trying to fit at one large table, but it was always fun. Johnny picked up a few more belongings from his room to take with him to Gyro’s. He was doing it a little at a time, so slowly his room was becoming more and more scarce. Upon arriving home, Gyro packed away the container of leftovers he had been given to keep. Johnny put his stuff in a spot in Gyro’s bedroom. Gyro moved his stuff around to make spots for when Johnny wanted to bring his things over. It was a beautiful thing. The two were so happy together.

Gyro showered before bed, Johnny laid down and watched YouTube. He would shower in the morning. He didn’t want to deal with his tattoo right now. After Gyro got in his pajamas, just his boxers and an old OLD t-shirt that was somehow the comfiest thing in the world, he got in the bed beside Johnny, wrapping his arms around the smaller blonde. It’s CUDDLE TIME. Gyro couldn’t sleep if he wasn’t clutching something, and his giant teddy was elsewhere.

Luckily for him, Johnny settled into his chest. He made such a nice little spoon. Johnny set his phone on the nightstand so it could charge overnight, and he just settled into the comfort of Gyro, his hands against Gyro’s. Safety was best achieved in Gyro’s arms. However, Gyro soon picked up Johnny’s hand, his sensitive tattooed hand, and brought it up to his lips. Gyro pressed a single little kiss, right where his index and thumb met.

Right where his star was…

“Goodnight, Johnny,” Gyro said, Johnny’s name rolling so smoothly off of Gyro’s tongue like it always did.

Johnny could hardly take it. The smile on his face was so big, he could hardly bring himself to reply. He did, though. He couldn’t leave Gyro hanging like that. Johnny wanted him to know just how happy he was that he did that. It was the sweetest thing. “Goodnight, Gyro. I love you.” Just to solidify it, he gave Gyro’s hand a squeeze.

His Italian man practically purred, clearly pleased. “I love you too.”

#gyjo #jojo #jjba #jjba fanfiction #fanfic #fanfiction #jjba fanfic #jojos bizarre adventure #jojos #jojos part 7 #steel ball run #steel ball run fanfic #gyjo fanfic #gyro zeppeli #johnny joestar #jojos bizarre adventure steel ball run

[practicingprose]

If I Was A (White) Boy

I vividly recall my 18th birthday. My senior prom was the night before and I was doing my “grown man” thing. That morning, my friend [Chase] hit me up to hang out. Before I pulled up on him, I bought a cheap cigar just to say I could. He gets the bright idea to go to Cracker Barrel. At the time, both he and his girlfriend worked there. His plan was to leave her a little love letter in the car. Simple enough....and then the cops got called.

What I wouldn’t have given back then for the benefit of the doubt. “They might not be causing trouble. It is Sunday, the busiest day at this restaurant during the post-church rush...Can’t nobody be THAT stupid.” But, nah.

That’s what makes it so interesting to see that way certain young men are coddled and protected. No matter the damage they’ve done or how old they are, they are to be helped -- not held responsible. 

So when Brock Turner rapes a woman, he gets months in jail because they wouldn’t want a rape conviction to sully his future. 

When Billy McFarland scams millions out of people, her’s still considered a “kid” and given a chance to defend himself. 

When a crowd of kids surrounds a Native elder, we see the narrative shift from their aggressive behavior to the Black Israelites who had previously riled them up. No mention at all about any of the group -- who were there counter protesting against the Women’s March -- and their rowdy behavior even before the stand off. We’re given every reason to excuse their fangs. We’re told that dog don’t bite. And now this boy is trying to profit from his actions by suing publications for portraying him as a racist. 

The Washington Post should be more responsible for his portrayal than he should.

Throughout time, there have been thousands hundreds of thousands millions countless examples of the disparity of judgement of white males and black males. 

Black preschoolers were 3.6x more likely to be suspended than their white counterparts. A study released by the Government Accountability Office last year found that although black students made up only 15.5% of the student population, but accounted for 39% of students suspended from school.

Students with learning disabilities or histories of poverty, neglect, or abuse are particularly vulnerable to removal-style discipline that leads to the "school to prison pipeline," according to the American Civil Liberties Union, a national trend wherein "children are funneled out of public schools and into the juvenile and criminal justice systems."

Why can waves of white boys crowd and surround this elder and these “aggressive men they were so afraid of” and be seen as children when black boys can’t walk in groups of 4 or more in the mall?

Why are MAGA hats -- which are quickly becoming seen as kindling to an everlasting ember -- allowed to be displayed so prominently, but ordinances get passed just so I have to pull my pants up?

Whenever a white man commits a crime, he’s always depicted in the press as a really nice person who no one knew had this dark side. Or they snapped. This is often despite countless people who had gone on record with concerns. Sometimes, they have a long record of offenses overlooked or played off. We’ve seen this with the terrorists -- let’s call it what it truly is -- in Las Vegas,  Sutherland Springs, Parkland, Thousand Oaks, Pittsburgh and Santa Fe.

This isn’t even unique to America. It’s been less than 48 hours after the mosque massacres in New Zealand, we have sympathetic articles being written about the shooter by the Daily Mirror -- a tabloid in London. Stark contrast to their coverage of the Pulse shooter in Orlando:

Meanwhile, black boys and girls shot dead by anyone* don’t even get to grow cold before their names and images are torn apart by the media and racists worldwide -- those both unrepentant and “unknowingly” [wink wink]. The fear of some big black person attacking you is often seen as stronger than the need to uphold “the law.”  

*[Ed. Note: One day we need to have a conversation about how white vigilantism ranging from Permit Patty to Zimmerman levels stem from their inability to mind their own business.]

It happened with Oscar Grant. Trayvon Martin. Jordan Davis. Michael Brown. Dontre Hamilton. Sandra Bland. Tamir Rice. John Crawford III. Ezell Ford. Laquan McDonald. Akai Gurley. Jereme Reid. Renisha McBride. Charley Leundeu Keunang. Tony Robinson. Anthony Hill. Meagan Hockaday. Eric Harris. Walter Scott, Freddie Gray. William Chapman. Samuel DuBose. Jeremy McDole. Jamar Clark. Alton Sterling. Philando Castile. Joseph Mann. Paul O'Neal. Korryn Gaines. Sylville Smith. Terence Crutcher. Keith Lamont Scott. Alfred Olango. Deborah Danner. 

We say the names because these people should forever be remembered. 

Walter Scott’s Killer got 20 years. Laquan McDonald’s got 6.75 years. Mans who shot Oscar Grant did like 7 months. That’s it. The people are currently awaiting the sentencing of Nouman Raja, the officer who killed Corey Jones as he was waiting for a tow truck on the side of the road. Raja was not uniformed when he approached Jones at 3am. Raja claimed that Jones pointed a gun at him before he fired. This was disputed by the fact that Jones was on the phone with with roadside assistance when the officer approached unannounced.

Even with all of that evidence, it wasn’t a slam dunk that there would be a conviction in the case. Many police officers are exonerated when being investigated by their peers. They’ve got to present a unified front. These then become the cats who get fat and take pride in the system they’re perpetuating. Remember when the Fraternal Order of Police in California sang a song shitting on Mike Brown at a fundraiser? 

Look at the list of names again. How many never made it past grand jury? Isn’t it crazy that the police perform more due diligence to plan for the civil unrest after no conviction than they do during the investigation? How many names not listed here have been lost throughout history because of the justice system we can now see isn’t protecting all of us everywhere?

“Why all of the attitude against police officers?”

I don’t know, officer. Maybe he knows. He knows that had he been someone else, he would be home right now. He knows that despite what you’re saying to both he and his mother, you’re not just “doing your job.” Perhaps there are some actual violent crimes that the Violent Crimes Unit could be investigating. Mans went to the store for a slushie and got handcuffed for an improper turn?

There’s something to be said about the fact that it’s being done so blatantly yet people refuse to address these issues. Why do you think it’s so important to control the internet? Or that shaming people talking about issues is where we’re at as a society. There are two realities in America and when attention is brought to an issue, it’s called “racebaiting.” FOH. How do we engage in a dialogue about things we’re choosing not to discuss? When has an out of sight, out of mind approach ever fixed an issue?

That’s what’s got us to this point -- where the people being oppressed are being told that everything is fine by those doing the oppressing. And everyone else is on the fringe dancing along to the beat. People automatically believe that people who look like them act like them. They’re able to extend those people the benefit of the doubt. “I wouldn’t behave that way, so I know he wouldn’t behave that way.”

Remember that young girl who sued the University of Texas over their Affirmative Action policy? I wonder how she feels that the entire time she was looking at black people being the reason she didn’t get into school...whole time, the actual culprit was people with deeper pockets who looked just like her? 

But somehow this will be overlooked. Another week in this high speed newscycle and this will become a joke to some. Those are the people far removed from single mothers being jailed just for trying to get their children into better schools. Somehow one of those is a justifiably incarcerable offense. The other...the verdict is still out. But something makes me think that money, fame and influence will play a factor.

The rich are buying their underachieving children’s way into elite schools and high society networks while others are busy trying to protect their kids from the school-to-prison pipeline. 

This is America. There are definitely two sides.

#race #america #race in america #inequality #racial disparity #black lives matter #new zealand shooting #maga kids #affirmative action #police brutality #police misconduct #college entry scandal #lori laughlin #felicity huffman #brock turner #billy mcfarland #fyre festival #school districts #school shootings #domestic terrorists #community policing #society

[loving-jack-kelly]

TALK TO ME ABOUT AUS FRIEND

LET’S GO I’ve had this one for a while and I talked to @lesmizteries about it yesterday while we talked about AUs we had but I’ve never posted it! so! 

So

If you know me, follow me, have scrolled through my blog for ten seconds you know

I

love

Spot Conlon

so much

but I also enjoy giving him (progressively more) tragic backstories in every au involving him

For example, the Kayla AU, which is my go to background/modern setting for any Spot related thing

i can’t find it to link it but it was sad anyway

this one is no exception to the “let’s hurt spot to see how it affects his character” rule i seem to have adopted

so let’s go!

read more ‘cause I already know this is gonna be long

Spot!

as in most of my aus, he’s a smart guy

very smart in this case, like super genius kinda smart

but

he grew up pretty much homeless

like technically there was an apartment he could go to? but he’d rather sleep in a shelter or if it was warm outside because his dad hated him and he hated his dad

his mom was a woman who met his dad because he was a drug dealer, but she was on probation when she got pregnant and couldn’t tell anyone who’s the baby was because she wasn’t supposed to be seeing him

and then handed Spot off to his dad and said “good luck he’s yours now”

so Spot grew up in Chicago, pretty much homeless

the only useful things his dad taught him were how to read, how to beg, how to pick pockets, and how to steal

the only good person who cared about spot was Romeo, his half brother, but we’ll get into that later

anyway

when Spot was around twelve his dad packed up and moved them to new york, where it was pretty much same deal, different streets, different people

but he’s eventually like, no, i’m going to school, i’m making myself better than what i am

so he goes to school these years don’t matter as much to the story

graduates hs early

graduates college early

gets several degrees

now on with the story!

by the time he’s twenty, he’s already a semi-public figure, cause he’s a twenty-year-old genius with a bunch of degrees and he’s like Dr. Conlon

and he and one of his friends from college, Davey, have a small lab together and then everthing kinda explodes because they patent a medical machine that’s revolutionary

and they get really rich, really fast, and really public, really fast

and Spot gets really good at circumlocuting around questions about his childhood so he doesn’t have to talk about it

but every time he does, he remembers

he remembers being a tiny, hungry kid, sitting on a corner in chicago watching the rich people go past. the people with obviously fat wallets in their front pockets, in fancy suits with huge watches on their wrists, and those people were the ones who tossed him a quarter and acted like it was a hundred dollars, like a gumball would fill his stomach

and then the people a step up from him, the blue collar workers, the people who were wearing fast food uniforms, they were the ones who pulled out a nearly empty wallet and handed him five, ten, twenty dollars if they could and pointed him towards the nearest McDonald’s

and that didn’t seem right, not when he was a kid and not once he had money and could afford to help

it seemed like the people with money should be helping the most, right? they’re able to, why shouldn’t they? and yet, they don’t

and every time he thinks about it, he gets mad.

especially at the parties. god, the parties, where the rich old men are hailed as gods among men, like they do so much to help while standing in their huge mansions in front of their classical art and museum worthy statues and vases

and one night he’s at a party at the home of media giant Joseph Pulitzer, forced to watch him stand in front of a newly acquired Monet painting talking about how much it cost and everything just reaches a boiling point which leads to him planning his first heist since he was like, fourteen and raiding the school for computer stuff and food

and he grabs the painting

but then he’s like, “shit. what the fuck do i do with a huge ass monet. i don’t know any fences, i haven’t had to fence anything since i was a kid, what the fuck do i do now?” so he ends up just literally leaving the painting in a shelter and hoping for the best

and what happened was Pulitzer got the painting back unharmed but the shelter also got attention and thus funds, but that put suspicion on the shelter, which is never what Spot wanted

so he went to Chicago to meet!

Romeo!

his half brother!

runs a ring of pick pockets and petty thieves, is an all around pretty neat guy, protects the kids who work for him with his life

also knows e v e r y o n e  worth knowing in the criminal world 

so he’s like “yeah i know some good fences. Kat and Saz are the best, girlfriends, loyal to those loyal to them, can sell anything. Kat works out of New York, Saz from Paris”

doesn’t quite mention Kat is Pulitzer’s daughter? Spot finds out when he goes to meet her and can’t contain his “Katherine?!”

which leads to Katherine laughing like crazy bc

a) her father had tried to set her up with Spot

b) the tiny little super genius had stolen her father’s painting completely successfully but couldn’t figure out how to sell it

also eventually Romeo kind of accidently reveals that Davey and Saz are twins, which leads to Dave being brought in on it for the second heist

the second heist is a bust, an old, valuable bust, and several smaller things from other media giant, Hearst’s, mansion. the smaller things were fenced off and the money used to pay Kat, Saz, and Dave and to give away, and the bust was left the same way the monet was

this kept going for a while, Spot recruits Crutchie after catching his IT guy breaking into his safe and learning that he was really, really good with tech and all he wanted was enough money for he and his husband to adopt

which also led to Jack being recruited as an art forger

eventually, Race hears about them and tries so hard to contact them to help that they let him, and he’s also a thief, so Race and Spot do the actual breaking in while the others take care of the details

and somewhere along the way, they got the idea to leave a calling card, so the people trying to do what they were doing couldn’t claim they were the real thieves behind the good they were doing

and Jack noted the similarity to them and robin hood, so they left a super specific arrow behind at every scene, signed “the Merry Men”

the normal people at least kind of accept what’s going on, because most people can see that some good it being done

the rich people obviously don’t

to stay secretive, Spot even steals from himself a few times, no more or less than the other rich people

now not in every version of this au? but for your consideration:

Spot gets caught somehow

he refuses to give up anyone else and even tells Dave to essentially disown him so Dave is in charge of their labs and everything so it can keep functioning

but his trial becomes legendary because he does admit to every crime committed by the Merry Men, but he shows no remorse at all

and at first nobody comments on it, but finally somebody does, and asks him, “Do you feel bad for what you did?”

and his response is never forgotten. he leans forward, makes direct eye contact, and says quietly

“Why should I feel bad, when they continue to live rich, happy lives, minus a painting? While people go hungry on the streets, while kids freeze and starve, and they have the money to help, and they don’t? Why should I feel bad when stealing a few paintings that almost all got returned unharmed fed hundreds of people? Clothed hundreds of people? I called myself the Merry Men for a reason. Steal from the rich, give to the poor, what happened to Robin Hood being the hero? I was Robin Hood, I helped people with my machines, with my money, with my means, and by taking from those who could afford it. No, I don’t feel bad, and no, I never will. Not when I know what hunger and cold feel like, and not when I know that I helped people.”

and after that he stops talking in his trial

#newsies hc #modern robin hood au #merry men au #yeah i started this as soon as i got it #and then my computer crashed #soooo #Anonymous

[occupyscifi]

Your authentic native American experience

The first thing Joseph Lau noticed about the natives was that they were faking it. As soon as he entered the reservation on the ‘Great Native America’ tourbus and they bounced down potholed and unpaved roads he could feel it all around him. Even the skintones of the natives looked faked, the wrong shade in the bright sun, like old movies where they just slapped on makeup rather than employ anyone of the right ethnicity. Or maybe it was because, as Lau looked down from the coach, it took one to know one. He could relate to the poor figures down below trying to eke a living out of their grandparents lost identity, trapped between two cultures, neither of which they belonged to. he’d lived that life for the last two decades of his life. Pretending to be someone else just so he would fit in. Speaking the right way had got him through school, had got him into a good College with good prospects. and now it had brought him to a cheesy Native American tour where he could watch his own heritage be prostituted before him. 

 Their guide, an obnoxious local who either didn’t know or didn’t care that he was about as authentically native as an extra in a movie, was droning on as they piled out of the bus, blinking in the light and feeling self conscious surrounded by natives.

“….and later we’re gonna show you a beautiful show. Local girls, local dancing. Real traditional stuff. You’re gonna love it okay?”

The guide’s voice caught in Lau’s ear. Maybe it was because the guys accent was such a crude attempt at the language Lau had grown up with from his grandmother or because it reminded him how badly he spoke native himself. Mainly though because he knew it was fake, firstly it wasn’t how native people spoke, and secondly he was a hundred percent sure the guide knew and it didn’t care. he knew what the tourists wanted and it wasn’t reality.

Lau stared around the traditional village, where various hideous stereotyped natives stared back, all waiting to be snapped by the tourists. The tourists would then buy themselves some locally made shit and then get the bus back home again, telling themselves that they’d touched something deep in the heart of America that went back hundreds of years.

“but first” the guide was saying, pointing them towards the traditional eatery that Lau knew with dread certainty would sell him a bland and homogenised version of native food and nothing like what his old departed grandmother could make “time for a spot of lunch, at the good old traditional restaurant”

It was a Macdonalds. But as Lau surveyed the pale sad eyed creatures dressed up like MAGA hatted rednecks and hipsters in beards, leather clad imitation rockers and ladies dressed like Jackie K, he realised that it was probably the most authentically American  thing there.

 Lau  hadn’t been born when the joint Indo-chinese pacification mission had started, neither in fact was his mother. But his grandmother did, and she would regale them in their cramped Hong Kong apartment when he was a kid.

“sure, they had their excuses” she would say, her voice gravelly and her accent harsh to the ear. Lau had grown up speaking English but switched to Cantonese whenever he could. He might not have been able to hide the pale midwestern look he’d inherited from his Euro ancestry but so long as he could curse in Cantonese  then he could at least fit in “blaming us for climate change and for Trump and for the nuclear strike. But that weren’t our fault” she would glare at Lau and his brothers, as if they were going to blame her for the many crimes of successive American administrations “and yeah, there was kinda a civil war. But that weren’t no reason to send in the troops. It was just cause they wanted our stuff. Patents and that kind of thing”

This meant little, of course, to Lau. And it was only after his grandmother’s death that he guiltily began to research his own past and the past of his country. That was what had made him book the holiday back to the old country, and on a tour of the reservation. There, he had been reliably informed, he would find the authentic connection with his people he was so lacking.

After they had eaten at the Mcdonalds there was a beauty pageant at the town hall. On the walk from the diner to the town hall they’d been treated to a performance of traditional American racism, where a red faced obese man had given them a tirade about Mexican rapists peppered with drops of the N bomb. Several of the tour party had argued back, either not realising it was faked up or else hamming it up for their social media feeds. These were the kind of guys – and they were always guys – that Lau knew would pay a bit extra to stay the night. They’d go to a bar and pick a fight with some poor asshole who’d probably been slipped some lolcoin in order to get knocked about a bit. Then they’d pick up some blonds with shining teeth and take back to their hotel rooms. Blonds who’d be instantly impressed with these brown skinned guys and they’d shyly say they’d never been with no one who wasn’t a white Christian and say, weren’t they awfully exotic? Course in the morning they’d be paid in the same way as the sap they’d got into the fight with. The worst part of that, thought Lau as he watched the racist go through the rest of his rant about the pacification campaign, was that with rampant  unemployment there were probably men and women queueing up to have their bodies abused for foreign cash.

“…..gonna rise again, and kick out the foreign libtards taking over our fair country” finished the racist “I’m callin’ my senator!” he finished, which got a big laugh out of the crowd. Everyone knew the Washington government was a sham, kept in place purely to nod through whatever laws Beijing wanted passed.

It was during the stripshow slash stars and stripes military parade that Lau realised he’d had enough. Watching some poor reservation girl practically goose stepping across the stage wearing almost nothing while carrying an M16 rifle made him physically sick. With an excuse to the guys next to him – fellow students from Hong Kong U on their spring break – he stumbled to the exit. He stood outside in the back ally of the stripjoint, breathing heavily. The heady aroma of meatloaf and mack and cheese just made him miss his grandmother. Knowing that both these dishes would have  been heavily spiced to appeal to the Asian tastes of the tourists  just made things worse.

“Jesus, why the fuck did I come here?” he said to himself, his eyes squeezed shut.

“to get in touch with your roots” Lau’s eyes shot open and he looked across the alley. In the bright daylight that had followed the neon dark of the club he hadn’t spotted the guy perched opposite on top of a bin. The first thing Lau noticed was that the guy was speaking the kind of American that his grandmother had. The second was that the guy was dressed in jeans and tshirt without any obvious agenda besides a normal Saturday afternoon. The third was that he wasn’t wearing that stupid fake colouring that the rest of the town seemed to be, a fake skin whitening because tourists didn’t get that most Americans were some shade of brown because demographics change and movie representation didn’t.

“how’d you know?” asked Lau suspiciously, aware of the cantonise lilt to his accent and hating himself for it.

“you got the look” said the guy. He looked partly African American, which wasn’t really the reservation tour that Lau had paid for. If he had paid extra then he could have taken a coach to the nearest city where various stereotypes of black American would have played out. There’d be fake shootings and even faker rap battles. There’s be some fake civil right black consciousness stuff because these days Nigerian and Congan tourists were the biggest spenders, almost edging out the Chinese and the Indians “like you’re looking for something you can’t name”

“yeah, well I don’t think I’m going to find it here” agreed Lau, looking back at the nightclub. He couldn’t tell if it was deliberately seedy or whether it was just because the reservation was poor. Since the Pacification Campaign those who had refused to accept the rule of the UN peacekeeping mission, or who had a history of causing trouble, had been decanted to specified zones ‘for their own protection’. That these zones happened to be in the worst areas, with the highest unemployment and worst quality of life was, of course, merely a coincidence.

“too true” said the guy, throwing a cigarette butt into the gutter. Lau, ever the expert, could tell from the aroma that it was a pre ban Marlboro. Illegal in most parts of Asia but still smoked by those Americans who rejected the humiliation of the peace accords that had ended the Pacification Campaign “well, if you work out that what you’re looking for is real Americans” he said, sliding off the trash can and landing on his Nikes “come and see my buddies in the Old Deplorable  bar off of main” a shimmering map hung in the air for a moment as the guy shared the details with Lau’s digital glasses “but if all you’re looking for is MAGA assholes and big titted blondes then don’t waste my time, okay?”

 The bar was low and long, but not sleazy. Or at least it wasn’t Lau’s idea of sleazy. He’d seen enough movies to know what he should be expecting was all neon and darkened corners, bikers and truckers in low pulled hats and women who were part time strippers. the Old Deplorable was instead decnelty clean, with beers on tap and food that looked like it was made from ingredient grown in the fields around the town. Fliers for bands and fund raising events plastered the walls by the entrance and the last cakes of a bake sale were hardening in the sunshine.

“guess this wasn’t what you expected” said a voice from his right, and Lau turned to see the  guy from the alley and a light brown girl in  trucking coveralls sitting in the corner at a table lovingly recycled from old machine parts.

“umm, well..” said Lau nervously

“if you want the dive bar where some redneck’ll pretend to fight you if you pay him twenty dollars you’ll have to go down the street” said the girl

“I just wanna have a drink” confessed Lau “you know, in a place where it’s not like fucking Disneyland”

“they only speak Hindi in Disneyland” observed the girl “got bought out for nothing by Bollywood. Mickey Mouse does them dance routines now”

“you’re welcome here so long as you don’t start expecting us to act like dumb natives” said the guy, gesturing for Lau to sit. He collected a beer from the bearded landlord who retreated back to a muttered conversation and then Lau sat down “and we don’t wanna be part of no saviour narrative either. We aren’t charity cases waiting for some guy from the east to come and rescue us”

“I’m not here to save anyone” said Lau

“so what are you here for?” asked the girl, looking at him harshly

Lau opened his mouth, then sighed and opened his hands “I don’t know. Heritage I guess”

“heritage?” echoed the girl, her eyes narrowing

“I’m half American” he explained “on my mothers side. Grew up in Hong Kong” he felt the girsl hostility burning into him “and yeah, every day I was growing up everyone kept reminding me how I was American and they treated me like shit and so I yearned. I fucking yearned to be able to have other people of my culture to hang out with. So now I’m here and I see a bunch of people play acting americans who see me as nothing but  a walking wallet, and you guys” he hunched his shoulder “you guys treat me like I’m just some fuckming Chinese” he didn’t realise his volume had gone up, nor that his accent had gone more cantonese with fury. Both left an embarrassing taste in Lau’s mouth.

“hey, don’t worry” said the guy “we know your’re one us” he leaned forward, preffering his hand “I’m Vincent, this is Lina. She comes on strong cause she doesn’t want people to know she’s Mexican on her dad’s side”

“Joe” said Lau, shaking the guys hand. Reluctantly Lina did the same  “Joe Lau”

“welcome to America” said Vincent, smiling ironically “what do you think of it so far?”

“I think my grandmother wouldn’t recognise it” said Lau “but I think that there’s still a place like this” he gestured at the bar, at the multi-ethnic groups drinking at the bar “makes me thinking that not everyone wants to live like victims” he looked onto the main street where two people dressed as comic interpretation for polticians past were mud wrestling to the cheers of the tourists “but I guess it can’t be easy when you’ve got Chinese drones watching your every move”

“there are ways around them” said  Lina “if you know what to do”

“and like you said, we aren’t cool with always being victims” added Vincent “you’d be amazed how many ways there are to strike back. If you know what I mean”

“so, what you guys are terrorists?” said Lau, almost as a joke. Of course he’d heard that there were militants still holed up around the US, fighting the good fight against the pacification accords. But considering that most of these bunker dwelling survivalists offered tours of their hideouts and a chance to pose for photos with a range of weapons from their private arsenals he had assumed they were as fake as the big breasted blondes.

“no dude, come on” said Vincent, wincing at Lau and looking around the bar. Considering the fact that the bar had a combination of cultures and ethnicities Lau knew there wasn’t much chance of their being any tourists to hear. And since the reservation had its own police force who were more famously corrupt even than the almost mythical LAPD he doubted they would bother to take an interest “we’re freedom fighters. We’re the good guys”

“war never ended” said Lina, and Lau noticed that under her coveralls she wore a stars and stripes Tshirt. No doubt she earned a wage from the despised tourists too, her Nollywood themed tshirt. “it just went underground”

“sure, look I just didn’t it was for real” confessed Lau, holding his craft beer tightly “cause I’ve never heard of any attacks in California…”

“course you haven’t heard anything” scoffed Vincent “occupation authorities are fucking assholes but they aren’t stupid. They wouldn’t let it get out that we bombed the Napa Valley power supply. Or that we got people who can take out R05 drones…”

Lau tried not to show scepticism. The latest generation of PLA drone was meant to be invincible, but then again he had heard rumours of them malfunctioning. However he’d out that down to the usual incompetence of Beijing’s military industrial complex. The latest princeling in charge of the PLA’s procurements wing had grown up in Hong Kong and whilst he’d Inherited the family connections he hadn’t inherited their smarts.

“don’t believe him?” said Lina, looking around before flipping out an antique Apple device. This wasn’t the reskinned android that the tourists bought up for a few lolcoins apiece so they could pretend to be ragetweeting or selfying themselves in the sunset “look at this”

She tapped the screen, showing a slightly fuzzy picture beloved of terrorists since the dawn of social media. A lumbering mechdrone that Lau assumed was the R05 near a traffic patrol somewhere in the north. The camera then panned to some heavily disguised figures, one of whom threw an ultralight drone dart into the air. It flew gracefully towards the massive R05, a tiny gnat against a great big elephant. There was a pulse of white that momentarily knocked out the camera. When it came back on the R05 was on fire and the other terrorists were laughing and high fiving each other.

Lau wanted to say that he could have used the cheapest walking recognition software on his glasses to track down the terrorists  involved, and that the video was admissible evidence that could have had them all gulagged to Arizona. But Lau didn’t, because he felt something he’d been wanting for a long time. A cause. Suddenly he needed to be part of this group. To do whatever he could, however humble, to help them in their impossible aim.

“you see” said vincent softly “we can take the battle to them. We can fight back”

“you don’t expect….” Began Lau, feeling foolish “you don’t expect to win, do you? I mean, it’s the two biggest and most powerful nations in the world – you know like nearly three billion people – against, what two hundred and fifty odd million of you?”

“that’s what they said in 1776” said Vincent “and they were wrong then”

“US war of independence” said the girl helpfully

“Yeah, yeah I know” said Lau, who remembered his grandmother going on about it but couldn’t remember whether it was the one the Americans had fought in Europe and been the good guys, or any of the others where they had been the bad guys “just, look, be realistic…”

“Vietcong” Lina said quietly “nation that was tiny, and poor versus the biggest, most advanced country in the world. USA poured billions of dollars and thousands of lives into that conflict, declared victory more times that anyone could count. But the Vietnamese won. Because they didn’t give up. Because they didn’t listen when unbelievers like you said it couldn’t be done. We just need patience”

“and resources” said Vincent, folding his arms “it isn’t cheap to make dronekillers like that. It isn’t easy to keep fighting back against the two biggest superpowers in the world. They’ve got resources that we could never dream of. All we’ve got on our side is guts, and the fact that we know we’re right” Vincent shook his head sadly.

Lau looked from Vincent to Lina, seeing the look on their faces. But it wasn’t despair, it wasn’t lack of hope. It was determination. Lau thought about how they’d given their lives to something bigger, for sure something that could end up with them in a prison camp or a re-education centre, sewing shirts for the masses to wear in Bangalore. But they knew what they wanted, and more importantly they knew who they were. Neither of these were things that Lau could say about himself, and he’d travelled five thousand miles and spent lolcoin these people would never see in their lives in a self indulgent search for something he saw now he could never attain. Or maybe he could.

“you need resources, right?” he said slowly, looking from one to the other “you mean money, yes?”

“listen buddy, we’re not a charity” said Lina “you want that you can donate to the kids school here so they don’t have to learn from E-books programmed in New Delhi“

“no, no” said Lau “look, I want to help. I’d be an American citizen right now if it was possible. My mom’s family is full blood native. Whole fucking reason we live in Hong Kong is because of the pacification campaign….”

“war of occupation you mean” said Lina sternly and Lau cursed inwardly at the faux pas

“sure, yes. Sorry” said Lau “but my whole life….I’ve wanted to do something. I’m not here to…” he raised up his hands, thinking of the other tourists “to watch some pretend racist show or buy a Mcdonalds and drink coca cola. I came here to, I don’t know, find my roots. Find out what it means to be an American”

“and did you?” said Vincent ironically

“no” said Lau “no, I don’t think so. But helping out you people. Trying to do something to end this… freak show we’ve been reduced to. Playing shows of dumb Americans to even dumber tourists isn’t just embarrassing its unbearable” he pressed his lips together and sighed “look, some day I’ll probably have kids. And I’m gonna have to explain their heritage to them. What do I say? That the USA is a puppet state occupied by foreign soldiers? That it’s a place that used to be the rolemodel for the world and its now just a glorified themepark?” he shook his head “I don’t think I can do that. I can’t just tell them I did nothing, because yeah, I’ll be honest. I don’t know if you got a chance in hell of ever succeeding. But I guess that’s not the point, is it? It’s better to die on your feet that live on your knees” he looked at the table suddenly embarrassed to have given the sort of speech he fast forwarded through in movies “I think I read that somewhere, I don’t know. Maybe I don’t have the right…”

“no. you know what you are?” said Lina her face inscrutable “you’re a real American patriot. Could do with more like you” she looked around the bar “lot of folks here have just given up. Ready to take foreign lolcoin and don’t care what it costs the rest of us”

“I think you can help, you know” said Vincent “if you’re willing that is”

“you guys are risking your lives” said Lau “and I’m heading back to the airport tomorrow. Just tell me what I need to do” he gulped “you know, that ticket. I can cash it in. I can stay and fight…”

“dude” said Vincent, looking him in the eye “that’s a big commitment for sure. But we got fighters already. We got way bigger plans than that for you”

 The next day dawned, wide and bright. Lau avoided the trip to the local survivalist bunker for the weapons display and instead met with Vincent on the edge of the reservation where the WIFI signal was strong enough and encrypted enough for Lau to set up access for Vincent to the accounts he held in Hong Kong.

“we got fighters coming out of our ears” Vincent had said back in the bar  “every kid grows up wanting to be a freedom fighter and can’t get jobs. So unless you got PLA skills…” Lau shook his head “we don’t need more raw recruits, no offense”

“none taken” Lau responded

“but what we do need is contacts. We need people overseas to help our cause” Vincent had leaned in closer “and we need you to be running that. Funnelling cash and convincing anyone back your end that the struggle isn’t over”

“money” Lau had said, visions of himself like Jefferson in Paris (grandmother had shown him a documentary and forced him to watch it to the end) raising money and being the centre of the resistance overseas “now that is something I can do”

“I can come back” lau said as Vincent drove his ancient Tesla back to the reservation town “next year maybe. I can get army training like that” he snapped his fingers “PLA is always looking for people to sign up for cyberwar training. I can be your man on the inside, they’re begging for American speakers…”

“yeah, that might not be the best idea” said Vincent “we need you over there, but we can’t have too much contact over here. If you know what I mean. Too much of a risk”

“yeah” said Lau, nodding as he recalled guerrilla warfare lessons he’d had to learn about at school when they did the history of the revolution. Mao would never have triumphed if he hadn't been cunning “we have to be smart”

“see” said vincent, a broad grin on his face “I knew you were the right guy for the job” he looked at the tourists as they started to board the coach in the middle distance “jesus, would you look at these assholes?” he shook his head “you’re a better man than me. Don’t think I could stand to listen to them thinking they know who we are”

“I’ve had to listen to them all my life” said Lau, grabbing his bag as the car slowed “you learn to blank them out, after a while” he looked at Vincent “and, you know, knowing I’m doing something to change things. No matter how small”

“sure thing” said Vincent, and gave a secret little salute. Lau exited the vehicle and jogged slowly towards the coach. As he stepped up he gave one last look around the town, at the poor beaten down people he had sworn to help liberate. He nodded once to Vincent and then got on board the coach. A sense of resolution in his chest, a certainty that now his life had a direction. He didn’t look back at the town. He didn’t need to.

However had he looked back he would have seen, getting into the passenger seat of the tesla, the guide whom he so hated the day before.

“so, how much you get from him?”

“coupla thousand lolcoin now, he’s gonna wire through a monthly amount. Says he’s gonna raise it through his college campus”

“Shit, what con did you use this time?” asked the guide “no, lemme guess. The old ‘Join the resistance’ schtick, right? Got your pal Lina to help out?”

Vincent nodded

“showed him that fake video, right?” said the guide “one the Anderson kids put together for their school project?”

“still had to talk the guy round. Took me and Lina, like, two hours to lay the groundwork” Vincent looked annoyed “and it was me who spotted he had American heritage. Had to do a lot of improv stuff, you know?”

“sure, you’re an artist” said the guide with a laugh “you saving up for Bollywood auditions?”

“hell, we get more  rubes like that thinking this is fucking Red Dawn then I can pay for business class to Mumbai” said Vincent bitterly “Jesus, at least the other foreigners you can satisfy with a  cheeseburger or a handjob. They know what the score is and don’t give a fuck that its fake. These guys want to play the big Asian saviour like Li Mao or Tony Iskander in Bullets in the Bronx” he pulled out a Chinese cigarette from his pocket. He only smoked American for the tourists “Like we’re dumb enough to try and fight those occupation bastards after the rinsing we got last time. Guys like that think they’re doing us a favour by coming here”

“well, I guess they are” said the guide tartly as the coach vanished around the corner. There’d be another in an hour, filled with rubes ready to be rolled for their cash “cause instead of blowing that lolcoin on guns and killing we spend it on getting our kids educated so they don’t have to spend their lives on this fuckin rez shilling for dumbass tourists. For that I’d pretend to be Patrick Swayze”

#sf #nativeamericafirst