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rekkingcrew · 6 years

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Devaronian Headcanons Actual

So, right, actual devaronian headcanons, ranging from charming to full on dystopic.

Biological:

Devaronians have two livers and a resistance to all sorts of poisons- that’s just WASTEFUL if the planet isn’t throwing poison at you all the fucking time. Devaron is a toxic death trap, where the life forms have been engaged for millions of years in a toxin-based arms race. And devaronians are the winners.

Silver’s got anti-bacterial properties in laboratory situations. I think Devaronians are more disease resistant than a lot of other species.

Devaronians are listed as carnivorous. They seem like they’re resistant to most everything, so I’m sure they could choke down anything they needed to, but probably derive negligible nutrition from most plant matter. You might eat it for taste or digestion or something, but if it’s all you’ve got, you’re gonna starve.

Which I think means devaronian society probably stayed mobile and small in larger percentages than human society for a long time (not trying to minimize, like, human migratory and hunter gatherer populations, but by analogy if you look at meat as a percentage of diet of any given population group before, like, modern America, more meat equals more mobile), and that the devaronian analogue of the Neolithic revolution was a sort of proto-chemistry that opened up new techniques for long-term meat preservation, with permanent settlements springing up around places where you could get things like salt or caustic alkaline chemicals- though you’d still need people to go ranging.

Because devaronians CAN eat most any awful toxic thing, and because there’d be such a necessity to keep meat from rotting if you wanted to support a fixed population, a lot of traditional devaronian foods tend toward jerkying, pickling, and like, curing with lye. Lots of stuff that looks like lutefisk and hakarl, or some sort of meat kimchi. Lots of bitter, umami, sour, salty. Punctuations of insanely hot peppers. I think devaronians generally consider sweet an oddity and acquired taste.

While this preservation isn’t a necessity for modern devaronians, I do think they still season things with stuff that’s poisonous to other species, and if your host isn’t paying attention, they might forget to take their arsenic shaker off the table. Eat at your own risk. Because of this and the crazy flora and fauna, outside of the big cities, there aren’t a lot of aliens who stay on planet.

Devaronian babies are all white and fuzzy until they’re about 5-7, when they blow their coats and start being sexually dimorphic. No textual reason. I just like this.

Space-faring, better farming science, and the importation of some alien plants, have allowed post-hyperdrive devaronians a more stable and balanced diet with a wider range of stuff from which they can extract digestible protein.

Social:

Because of a relative inability to digest plant matter, devaronian society has always been very susceptible to famine. Different societies developed different strategies for dealing with this (because universal planetary culture is every bit as silly as single biomes), but one strain that gained a lot of dominance was an intense matrilinear/matrilocal strategy where men old enough to make their own way were “encouraged” to leave. There’s a rich intellectual history of justifying this behavior, from the cold calculus that it just takes fewer men than anyone else to maintain population levels, to pontification on how men are just naturally inclined toward wandering, to people making the argument that a low ratio of men to women makes for a happier and more harmonious society. There’s also a rich intellectual history of saying this is monstrous. No society always agrees with itself, and different voices have had more or less dominance at different times throughout devaronian history.

Devaron’s population is sometimes as much as 75% female.

This is the planet of nannies. Seriously. With loads of men gone and women in charge of most of domestic business and governance, childcare is a major industry. Job sharing is super common to provide time off with young children. Partnership and group ownership of businesses by several women is common.

In fact, I’m going to say there’s a mobile childcare corps, replacing a number of more traditional structures as increasingly technological devaronian society centralized; one that has some fun analogies to western conceptions of the military, ie. it’s seen by a lot of people as an important rite of passage for young people, a sign of a strong moral character, and full of exactly the sort of people who make good leaders. Compassionate. Patient. Capable of managing others. It’s hard to get elected office in some places without a service record. Men are, of course, discouraged, due to their natural tendencies. When devaron’s history takes its more authoritarian swings, the MCC is often a very visible propaganda arm, with more obvious uniforms and a chokehold on education and indoctrination. During those times, you will, of course, be expected to thank corps members for their service. Society would not run without them.

In the best of times, they run loads of public crèches and help out immensely in private homes as well. Devaronians of all walks of life often have fond memories of their MCC workers, the way you would with a favorite aunt. Or sometimes they commiserate over stories of their strict MCC workers, like you would with a least favorite aunt. Swings and roundabouts.

The most dangerous term generally applied to men is “expendable.” The second is probably “reckless.” There’s a widespread prejudice that men, as wanderers, lack the long-term vision and planning capacity necessary to manage things (the same way human idiots are prone to saying things like they don’t think gay men have a stake in the future because they don’t have children, both the premise and its conclusion are suspect.) Men who stay on devaron are often funneled into dangerous work, whether that’s the military, or construction/demolition, or less than safe factory work. Overseers and “logistics officers” will tend to be female. In more conservative media, stories about industrial accidents will often be spun as men not listening to their more level-headed female supervisor.

Most of the sources I found mentioned men sending money home to devaron. Headcanon: this is a semi-ritualized exchange with it’s own fun alien name (but for now I’ll just call it the Tithe, because I’m bad with alien names), it’s one of the foremost ways men can get social prestige, and the devaronian economy really relies on it. And it makes Devaron RICH. (American history side track: Tulsa’s “black wallstreet” was a really good example of outside money flowing into a relatively closed system).

Devaron, with early space faring, has had a few interstellar “Age of Sail” periods, where a lot of the Tithe coming in for prominent families straight up came from piracy, or “Devaronian Privateers”. Harsh on crime at home, and nominally against piracy abroad, there have been times Devaron has really profited by it. There’s an ugly vein of thought along the lines of “it doesn’t matter if it happens to aliens.” Obviously opinions differ. The dashing star pirate remains a popular romantic archetype in devaronian culture (though he often comes to a tragic end). The devaronian pirate is an archetype in a number of other species’ cultures as well, but notably less romantic.

One of the major ways the Empire controls Devaron is controlling the flow of Tithe, requiring all transfers go through imperial channels and making it much harder to send money back to anyone suspected of dissent.

A lot of men remaining on devaron are locked in a vicious cycle of having limited potential to advance because they’re traditionally seen as less invested in the future; and in turn being less invested in the future because they’re locked out of moving forward into it. Leaving all together is often an enticing proposition. This is often pointed to as evidence of both lack of ambition and a natural tendency toward wandering.

Exploration and travel for men are often deeply romanticized- a real source of meaning in their lives and a chance for something better. There is loads of poetry, literature, music, and other popular culture about it. This is encouraged. A number of female devaronian writers and thinkers have expressed the same. These are often considered scandalous and bad influences.

Obviously there have been, across the vast expanse of history, loads of counter cultures, different fashions, and changing ideas. But these’ll be the big ones, and what people talk about when they say “traditional” devaronian culture.

Anyway, that’s my attempt to reconcile canon! Hope some of it is useful!

#devaronian headcanon

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sandwichbully · 5 years

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Sammy’s Avenue Eatery, 23 November 2018

“When people are hungry, you feed ‘em.”

OK, so about three years ago, I was working at UCare - “UCare, health care that starts with denying you your oxygen!” - and it was a slow afternoon one afternoon. Most afternoons were slow and the mail room was overstaffed for what we needed, so I logged a lot of time on Facebook and I saw this joint, Sammy’s Avenue Eatery, and I thought their sandwiches looked pretty good, so I made it a point to go there. ... aaannnddd I never did. I was broke as shit at the time, working fourteen hours a day six days a week between two jobs (and still being broke all the time) and feeling like shit because I was a terrible letdown to my then-girlfriend (the one from this episode) because I was always tired and just wanted a goddamned beer and two cigarettes. Eventually things improved but not by much and yadda yadda yadda, a whole bunch of shit happens, and going up to Sammy’s Avenue Eatery has been low priority. But I never forgot it. It kind of even nagged at me. And today, with it being almost fifty degrees for what is surely the last time this year if it isn’t the next to last time this year, I made it a point to go to what is likely going to be the final Sandwich Bully episode for 2018 - unless y’all want to come pick me up in your petite bourgeoisie automobile with “the heat” on in December and January. So I rolled up on the corner of Emerson and Broadway and walked in and looked over the menu and waited for the nice lady to finish making a chai latte for this other lady and I asked her which she preferred, the Hot Roasted Chicken or the Turkey Bacon Club. She said honestly that she preferred the chicken but they were out of that so turkey and bacon (I had to specify because I’ve had exactly one experience with turkey bacon and that shit is fucking gross and it’s so gross that I’m compelled to put up a picture of my first ex with a caption mocking her voice in which she chides me for having high blood pressure but that is seriously some SD&A shit and - Hm? Oh, Sound Design and Assembly. That was my old record review blog but I didn’t review records so much as I bitched about pop culture and waxed poetic on having picked up nookie the night before.)

Wait. Where are we?

OK, let’s start that over. She said honestly that she preferred the chicken but they were out of that so turkey and bacon (I had to specify because I’ve had exactly one experience with turkey bacon and that shit is fucking gross) it was and I grabbed a cranberry ginger ale and I found myself engaged in a conversation with her. Lot of personal stuff that isn’t my business to put up here but I guess maybe I can talk about the political side of it and that part was refreshing because nobody was bringing out words with “-ism”s on the end, we were just on the same wavelength, talking about how Minneapolis government is mishandling or outright ignoring a bunch of problems and how there are easy - very easy solutions to them. The homeless encampment whom the city couldn’t decide to house in either a warehouse or a vacant fucking lot? Well, hell, how many boarded up houses are there in north Minneapolis? I figured put the homeless at least in the warehouse out of the elements. The woman I was talking to told me they had plenty of empty houses in this neighborhood. A solution I never thought of. And even thinking about it now, I realize that there’s a lot of red tape and the banks own those empty houses but why does the bank own an empty house? Why is it held by a private entity and not by the state? What are the escheat and adverse possession laws in Minnesota? (And that’s over thinking it but that’s because capitalism doesn’t provide for simple solutions without the transfer of liquid assets.)

And enough of that. Anyway, at one point, this dude comes in and says he doesn’t have time to stop in and eat at the moment but he was just wondering what the soup of the day was for when he came back later and the woman said it was alright if he didn’t have time to eat, she’d fix him a “little” to-go cup (it was more like an eight ounce cup and I don’t know how metric people measure soup; by volume - 237mL - or by mass - 227g) and she handed it to him and told him to have a good day and he said thank you and he walked out the door and she stared out the window and she said, “When people are hungry, you feed ‘em.” No conditions, no clauses, just simple straight to the point action and solution. And she told me about how she wanted to start a homeless shelter, not like the ones downtown where you have to "tell ‘em everything about your life just to get in the door”, she wanted to start one where if you were tired, you could sleep, and if you got caught fucking up, you got kicked out. Simple as that. And my brain goes to how dangerous that would be because what about all the rapists and murderers and then my privilege checks itself and I got to remember that homeless folks aren’t homeless because they’re murderers and they do just want a warm place to sleep and a little something to eat. She told me she wanted to open a soup kitchen, too, and told me that one place downtown was in such a great location because it was centralized and somebody could even walk for forty blocks to get there, and they would, too, because, as she put it, “hunger travels”. I know that. I remember the time, it was like ten years ago or so, that I was with Georgie and we were starving and I walked two miles in a snowstorm to the food shelf and I lied on the paperwork and told them our twenty eight year old roommate was our four year old son because I thought I could get us more food that way (and, hey, there were three people in the house). I remember being dismayed at what we got and dutifully trundled it back home. I remember all that. Maybe it was meant to be that I didn’t get to Sammy’s until today to have this conversation. Maybe as a (timely) reminder to be thankful for what I do have, maybe as a reaffirmation of my beliefs, maybe to just talk to somebody over lunch, which I never get to do because I live alone and work alone.

ANYWAY! How was the sandwich!? How was the fucking sandwich, Charlie!? Remember how this blog is called Sandwich Bully? And it’s about sandwiches? And how it’s not a place for you to peddle your bleeding heart commie* beliefs or pontificate on how we need to be good and charitable toward our brothers and sisters!? HOW THIS PLACE IS MEANT FOR SANDWICHES!?!?!? TALK ABOUT THE FUCKING SANDWICH, CHARLIE!!! It was good. As I was grabbing a pop, the woman (I know her name I just don’t know how she spells it) told me that if I wanted to bundle the sandwich and drink into a combo, that she had chips and I told her nah, I had to watch my salt and she said she knew that was right. I watched her slice my tomato right out of a whole fresh tomato which I’ve seen maybe only Trieste do - slice fresh to order. And she asked if I liked onions and I said I did and she asked if I liked pickles and I said I did and then she held the pickle slices over the container and gave them a little wiggle and told me, “Getting the salt off them for you,” which was cool. Aint ever had anybody do that for me before. And then we set to talking while I ate at the counter and you read about all that. Well, let’s start with the size issue. I ordered a half sandwich (around seven dollars) and it was big enough that I feared what I might have gotten if I had gotten a whole one (around eleven dollars). Trust me, I beg of you, please trust me, I am on my knees begging you to trust me: Order the half sandwich. That is the reasonable human serving size. The tomato was crisp (natch) and the pickles and onions added necessary sour and bite. The cheese, I don’t know what it was but it was white and it was creamy and, tag-teamed with the bacon, it kind of overpowered the turkey but the bacon-cheese combo overpowers most things. The mayo on the sandwich was applied to the bread pre-grilling which, a few years ago, I would have said “ew” to but recently I had the revelation that mayo is just eggs and oil (no, not that part) which are both things that are perfectly alright to be applied to direct heat (that part) and I’ve been waiting to try frying my grilled cheese with mayo on the outside but I never buy bread and I never buy mayonnaise - Why buy mayo when you can make aioli? - so I finally got to try this technique at Sammy’s and I have to admit I didn’t notice anything inherently distinguishable about it but, again, bacon-cheese combo. Overpowers everything but... OK, probably the last time we get to do this this year unless somebody wants to drive me somewhere during December and January so we have to make this one good. Let’s see, let’s see, let’s see... [clears throat] But the real blackout drunk correspondent of Armenia Decides, 2018... No no no. [clears throat again] But the real evil twin unplugging the good twin’s life support so she can assume her identity and run off with her husband... No. Come on, man, you got this. You have literally nothing else. OK, I think I got it. But the real guest star in the dangers-of-huffing-gas-as-a-pregnant-teen episode of this highly rated Saturday morning teen show never to be seen again as, metafictionally, her character had been shipped off to an island of misfit one-off characters, each themselves never to be seen again, turned cannibal after the last hunt didn’t yield the boar’s head required to appease the god behind the sun, he who in-turn took his great veil from the white ball in the sky and scorched their crops in anger and now, teen pot dealer and teen wheelchair basketball player and teen army brat and teen with an eating disorder and all the rest, none of whom were ever seen again, are forced to turn on each other for survival, their malevolence a dance for the god behind the sun’s enjoyment, for when enough blood is spilled he veils his white ball and grants them rest from the heat, but now, a new arrival - The Pregnant Teen Gas Huffer... is the house sauce, which I suspect is a honey dijon vinaigrette. It was sweet, a little complex but not so complex that I couldn’t guess what it was while I was eating it. It stood out and balanced the savory fattiness of the bacon-cheese combo. The lettuce? We don’t have to do the lettuce thing, do we?

I mean, it’s probably the last time this year.

Overall, not a bad bike ride, it was a pretty decent sandwich - it was good but I’m not falling over stupid for it. I mean, hey, it filled me up and I ordered the half sandwich. If there was a quarter sandwich option, I’d go for that. It tasted good, too. She asked me how it was and I told her it was wonderful and she said she was glad I liked it and I told her I was glad she made it. I guess that there was a sense of openness, of community to the place, which we’ve been over before: I prefer to go to places that feel worn in and homey. Places like Band Box and Ideal where the proprietors and the patrons are literally neighbors, where people have been going for years, people who are eating there now worked there in high school because their parents knew the manager. Sammy’s has that vibe. It’s kind of like Nye’s. I liked Nye’s (yes, past tense) when you could walk in and say hi to Phil, sit down, and have an ice cold Żywiec and there was a college football game on you could ignore and it was red Corinthian leather booths and tacky martini murals on the walls and mirrors behind the bar to make the liquor selection look more impressive (or whatever the mirrors are back there for) and it was locals in there. Last time I was in Nye’s, there was no Phil, the new guy didn’t know what Żywiec was, the interior designer clearly got all their ideas from IKEA (still love you, IKEA, but you are not meant for a bar), and the only patronage in there were literally tourists asking about the history of the Mississippi River. I can’t fuck with that scene because it doesn’t feel like it’s a part of the community that supported it through the years. Ownership changed and nobody gave a fuck about preserving the community aspect of the place, it’s clearly a cash grab more cynical and distasteful than when they made Game of Death with B-roll of Bruce Lee and two actors who looked nothing like him. Sammy’s, on the other hand, feels like it’s part of its community. Established in Near North, playing a role in Near North, employing Near North, feeding Near North. GO. GIVE. THEM. YOUR. MONEY.

* I was once briefly involved with a Randian Libertarian who called me literally a “bleeding heart commie” because I told her Atlas Shrugged was “right-wing oriented”. Ah, to be young again.

#2018 #near north #club sandwich #turkey bacon club #escheat and adverse possession #community #metric soup

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master-of-the-boot-blog · 6 years

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Lars’ Cornhole Christmas Catastrophe

Author’s note: This story is graphic as fuck. It features Lars from Steven Universe being sexually assaulted by a homicidally insane vampire from the Hellsing franchise. Reader perversion is encouraged.

Lars Barriga was jerking off when he heard his phone ring. Normally he would have ignored this because the porn video was getting to the good part, however this was Sadie’s ringtone and there was a very good chance that Sadie was going to be able to give him sex. So very reluctantly and with much anger, Lars took his hands away from squeezing his dick and answered his phone with sticky hands. “Yeah!” he said in a voice that was angrier than he meant it to be.

“Hey, Lars,” said Sadie Miller, Lars’s long suffering girlfriend. “I was wondering if you were good for tonight?”

Lars panted and took a drink from the energy drink next to his laptop. “Uh, yeah, sure I’m good,” he wiped the sweat from his brow and glanced at the paused image on the computer screen. He licked his lips and was nearly tempted to hang up on Sadie; but then he remembered that sex was better than five finger shuffle.

“Do you have any idea what I’m talking about?” Sadie sounded disappointed and miffed over the phone; more than she usually was.

“Uh, sure, I do,” Lars tried to bullshit his way through this conversation. “It was all about the . . . thing tonight. Okay what the hell was going on tonight?”

“I asked you if you’d come to Christmas dinner with me and my mom,” she said with her usual sense of trademark defeat and exhaustion. She became more hopeful for a moment, “Mom made your favourite, pizza rolls.”

Lars had a real dilemma. If Sadie’s mom was going to be home then there was a reduced chance she’d be comfortable enough to give him sex, but then again the prospect of pizza rolls was very tempting. “Uh, yeah sure I can try and be there, just make sure your mom doesn’t embarrass me.” He scratched the back of his neck.

“Yeah, fine,” said Sadie in a very resigned, defeated voice. She hung up and Lars was left nude and reminded about his throbbing boner. Frowning, the boy’s stretched ears flopped about as he sat back at the computer desk. On the computer was a video of a young, slender man being mercilessly pounded by a much larger, harrier man was paused in doggy style. The uncreative title of the video said everything; it wasn’t like Lars watched these things for the story.

Lars grinned as he began to start up the video again, his hands going back to squeezing his pickle. His pulse began to quicken and the climax of the video was nearing. He’d seen this video before; he knew where and how the money shot went. Still, there was a problem that was preventing Lars from enjoying his porn video.

The young man with stretched ears and stylized Mohawk hair glanced over at the picture of him and Sadie at last year’s Video Game Convention. It was one of their few happy moments, unmarred by couples fighting and a severe inability to communicate or express feelings in a healthy way. Lars knew that he’d fucked up, just forgetting his promise to Sadie like that. He knew that her mom was a big, loud, weird woman who embarrassed them both; but Sadie cared about her a lot. Lars wasn’t nearly kind or thoughtful enough to straight up apologize to Sadie and make it up to her; but he definitely could still show up and kind of save Christmas.

The young man shut the laptop. He would spank it to porn later; his boner was already dying from his conflicting and confusing teenager emotions. Throwing on his pants, coat and Jacket, Lars opted to go commando this cold December day in case Sadie gave him a blowjob or something.

Winter in Delmarva was crisp, clean and magical. Something in the air was sweet and the winter air felt invigorating. Lars of course hated everything about this day. The cold weather made his metal ear plugs freeze up and the shaved sides of his head were vulnerable to the freezing winds. He fucking hated winter and thought it was shit. Old man winter could suck on his uncut cock for all he cared.

It was halfway to Sadie’s house that Lars realized something. “Oh shit!” he cried in these empty streets on the night before the night before Christmas. “My charger!” He cried as he searched the pockets of his jacket and pants. The jacket, embroidered with the logo The Big Donut should have had his phone charger. He reacted with horror as he realized that the power bar on his phone was turning into a red sliver. He had to do something about this!

Lucky for Lars, the Big Donut was halfway between his house and Sadie’s house. He could sprint over there, grab the phone charger from the office and be at the Miller house in time for Pizza rolls and a blowjob and/or hand-job.

Deserted and cold were the best words for the old donut place. Part of a larger chain of donut places, there was something about the workplace that rubbed Lars the wrong way. He wasn’t sure what the hell it was, but it wasn’t going to fucking stop him. Looking at it a certain way, Lars figured he’d just run in and take what he needed; maybe even grab a few unsold donuts destined for the garbage bins. Frost coated the stairs leading up to the back door. Lars cried out as he nearly fell.

Turning his employee key, he quickly disarmed the building alarm. He laughed as he locked the door behind him in the pitch black donut shop. He figured he had the cat in the bag when he slipped from the snow collected in the treads of his shoes. Screaming, Lars went down like a felled tree and banged his head against the floor.

He saw and felt no more . . .

. . .

Until—

Head head hurt like a mother fucker! “Oh Jesus Christ!” Lars shouted as he put a hand to the bump on his forehead. He groaned and swore. There was no way he could go to Sadie’s now. He’d be too embarrassed to be seen in public with such a big, angry, red lump on his head.

Stumbling like a zombie, Lars shakily got to his feet. Groaning and cursing, he ambled over to the staff lounge. There it was, his phone charger Soon, no longer would he live in fear of the dreaded low red bar. There was something rotten in the state of Denmark. Or in the State of Delmarva. Or Delaware. Or whatever.

Somebody was in the donut shop with Lars. He could hear them talking through the rusted metal door that led to the front area. Lars wasn’t sure who it could be, maybe burglars or homeless people; but he knew that the only way out was past that door.

Treading quietly, Lars didn’t want to alert the potential thieves. He could overhear what sounded like two of them arguing. “Come on Luke, you gotta let me fuck the bitch!” the first voice was nasal and reedy, like a crackhead.

“Jan, you’re such a disgusting sack of shit,” said a more refined, erudite voice, “For starters I don’t want to see my brother on the job.

Tiptoeing, Lars made his way towards the exit. His heart pounded and his palms grew sweaty. He was only a few steps away from leaving.

“Come on Luke!” begged this character, Jan, “The bitch is dead, she wont’ raise any noise! Nobody will know!”

The other one, Luke groaned, “I swear, this is why I bought you that flesh light. If you can just wait, we can head to Empire city and just grab a random tourist if it’s so bad for you.”

Lars was halfway through the mudroom when he felt a tickle in his sinuses and a sneeze that he couldn’t stop.

Achoo!

And just like that, Lars’s perfect escape was fucked.

It was like a light switch, the two burglar/break in guys were on to him. The door to the front area opened up and Lars got a good look at two of the weirdest guys he’d ever seen. One man, dark skinned with multiple piercings looked at him with an evil expression. The other, pale and dressed all in white just frowned at him, while also carrying the dead body of the district manager for The Big Donut.

Like a rabbit before a snake, Lars froze; his expression filled with horror as he started into the dead, cold eyes of Ms. Palahniuk. True she was always a cunt and a corporate tool, but seeing her limp and with multiple holes in her neck just did something to him.

The pale one, Luke narrowed his eyes at Lars. “So how much did you hear?” he spoke, drawing attention to the stream of blood running down his chin; as if he wasn’t holding a dead, pale body.

The darker one, Jan burst out into laughter, “Well fuck my ass and call me Britney! Spider just caught himself a fly, Zed!”

Trying to speak for himself, Lars began to slowly back up. “I-uh-I swear I didn’t see anything. You guys were never here.”

He bumped into something and a strong arm held him around the waist. Jan yelled into his ear, as if he’d run across the room so fast that Lars’s eyes hadn’t been able to see it. “You got a nice little ass, nigga!” He laughed most unpleasantly, “Be a shame if somebody were to fuck you!” Jan laughed even louder, his breath reeking of rotting meta and fangs peeking from his upper jaw.

Luke dropped the dead body of the district manager and zoomed in, too fast for the human eye. With one gloved hand he took Lars’s chin, who whimpered with fear as he stared into Luke’s red, inhuman eyes. “Well obviously we have a witness and we can’t let him but; but I think you’re onto something for once, Jan.”

The dark skinned man whooped with glee, “Alright! We’ll double team this little bitch and then drink all his fucking blood!”

Luke blanched even more than he already did, his red eyes flashing with irritation. “Jan, that’s absolutely disgusting. There’s now way I’m sharing with you or risking touching your sloppy seconds. Hold him down so that I can go first.”

Lars began to cry as the gravity and horror of his situation began to sink in. “Please,” he whimpered, “I have a family, I have girlfriend. You don’t have to do this.”

Disdainfully, Luke slapped Lars across the face, earning howls of laughter from Jan and comments about slapping bitches. “We have to kill you to prevent the truth of vampires from coming out,” Luke pontificated, “However, taking out our frustrations on your still warm body is purely optional and you have nothing to offer us to change our minds.”

One of Jan’s rough, calloused hands caressed Lars’s neck; pinching him and feeling him up like a farmer picking out a suckling pig for supper. When Jan turned and licked over Lars’s major arteries, the boy shuddered as he felt like his soul wanted to leave his body from revulsion.

Once more the dark skinned vampire laughed, “Boy tastes like donuts! For fucking real, Luke! Whoa! It’ll be like fucking and eating a mega sugar maple sprinkle donut!”

His brother rolled his eyes, “Shut up, Jan, just hold him down so that I can fuck him. After that you can do whatever you want to him.”

There was no warning as Jan pushed Lars forward onto his face. As he tried to run away, he felt a boot come down onto the small of his back. Limbs thrashing, Lars was powerless against the inhuman power of the two vampires. Like a fly in a web, there was no escape for Lars; though this fate was infinitely more cruel.

He shrieked when he felt a pair of rough hands grab his loose jeans and start to pull them down. Full on crying, the humiliation was more than he could bear. He bleat like a lamb at the slaughter, “No! No! Please!” One last attempt at seeking humanity in those who had none.

He felt a cold breeze over his bottom and he couldn’t stop himself from thinking about what was going to happen next. For the first time since he was a little boy, Lars prayed to God and asked to be saved, the hot tears dripping down his face.

Somebody was listening.

“Do you boys like Rick and Morty?” asked a deep, musical voice that seemed to come from everywhere at once. Jan and Luke spun around, hissing and baring their fangs. In their ensuing panic, they let go of Lars, who began to crawl as best he could along the cold tile floor; one of of his hands frantically struggling to pull up his pants and cover himself best he could.

Then he showed up.

The cackling, maniacal, joker laughter preceded him as he entered the mortal plane. To Lars it looked like Slender Man’s mental cousin jumped out of the shadows to go completely ape shit on these vampire thugs.

His long, red coat billowed out behind him like bat wings, his long black hair moved like a living thing and his inhumanly long limbs were extended like a grabbing predator.

The newcomer didn’t waste time as he kicked Luke in the balls as hard as he could with his fine leather boots. He laughed like maniac possessed, spraying snot and saliva everywhere. His big, wide, red hat fell off as he punched Jan in the face; a dozen bloody teeth flying out of his mouth in a horizontal line.

The psycho stranger grinned from ear to ear, flashing not fangs but rows and rows of shark like teeth. Overfilled with glee, he grabbed Jan by the shirt collar and started pummelling him like he was starting a chainsaw without gas.

Luke charged at the inhumanly tall stranger with that vampire speed, but the newcomer was faster. His body dissolved into shadows and reformed behind Luke. Whooping and hollering, the man put Luke into a choke hold and began raining blows into the pale vampire’s torso.

Brass coloured claws sprouted from the tips of his white, mickey mouse gloves and he slashed across Jan’s face when he tried to defend his brother. Not pausing for once second, took a gigantic, hungry bite out of Luke’s head. Luke screamed in agony as the man in red ate part of his skull like a fucking apple.

It was like watching a train wreck, seeing bit of bone, blood and skull fly everywhere. Lars shivered and watched, even when he should have run like hell. Maybe it was because he knew that he’d never really outrun these two legged crimes against God.

Luke shrieked in violation as the tall, non-human shoved a finger into his brain and started feeling around. “How’s this, fuck-o!” he laughed as the pale vampire screamed for mercy.

Throwing Luke over him in a judo through, the man used his insanely long legs to lunge at Jan. Grabbing Jan’s crotch in a testicle popping grip, he just looked so damn pleased with himself. “There’s never been a vampire sexier than me!” he bellowed ecstatically. Thrusting his knee up, he hit Jan on the chin and sent him flying backwards into a wall.

The man in red pirouetted like a ballerina. “Thank you! Thank you!” he bowed and kissed to an invisible crowd that only he could see. Then with the flourish of a magician on stage, the man in red produced an unknown device from his jacket. Lars couldn’t tell what it was, except that it had a circuit board, part of a cell phone interface, it leaked oil and it was held together with electric tape and staples.

Making like a linebacker, the man charged forward and through a wall. Drywall dust flooded the area and its acrid, sooty taste made Lars choke and hack. He was so consumed by coughing a lung up that he didn’t see the man in red activate the detonator on his device and throw it into the donut fryer.

It was like the fourth of July as the incendiary bomb detonated inside a vat of fryer oil. The entire inside of the donut shop was sprayed with flaming canola oil. The blast of heat struck Lars like a fist and he stopped coughing long enough to realize that his sneakers were on fire.

He was luckier than Luke and Jan. The two vampire brothers screamed and writhed as the stood directly in the blast of weaponized kitchen oil. Each one twisted and thrashed, burning like dry christmas trees in July.

Lars kicked off his shoes and started to look for a path to the exit that didn’t involve walking through pools of flaming oil. Then to his utter surprise, the tall vampire in red went tearing out of the flames like a bat out of hell; his jacket and hair on fire and his face and shirt smeared with drywall dust. “You think this hurts? THIS hurts, sweetheart!” he bellowed hysterically as he started punching Luke and Jan.

The two vampire brothers screamed even louder as they were burned to death and beaten to a pulp at the same time. The red coated man’s gloves were blackened by fire and smeared with blood as his knuckles got the perfect workout.

“That is hurt, darling!” he cackled like an abusive boyfriend, punching Luke’s jaw right off. “That’s pain, schnookums!” he giggled as he punched a hole right through Jan’s chest and out his back.

“How’s this, son of mine?” he asked as he kicked Jan’s legs from under him. For a very brief moment, Jan thought that he’d found his long lost father right before the more powerful vampire stomped on his head like a teenager vandalizing a jack-o-lantern.

Lars didn’t stay to find out how it ended. It ended with him burning to death inside the big donut. He turned and ran, his feet blistering from the hot tile floor. He was almost at the exit when the man in red teleported right in front of him, stopping Lars from getting to safety.

He tried to say something to Lars, but all he did was mumble as he chewed on Luke’s severed head like a dog with a treat; blood and drool ran down his sooty, drywall dust coated chest. Lars screamed as the edges of the man’s jacket rose up like bat wings and wrapped around him.

The young boy of Philippine descent screamed as he woke to blackness one more time. “Mom! Dad!” he screamed, “Someone! Help!” he banged on whatever pitch black enclosure held him. Trembling hands went into his pocket, searching for his lighter.

A weak flickering flame cast light on Lars’s situation and it was getting darker by the minute. From what he could tell, having seen it in various movies and TV shows, he was in a coffin. Lars had been buried alive.

Panicking, Lars started to pound on the lid of the coffin. “Let me out! Someone, please let me out! I'm not dead!” he began to sob and cry uncontrollably.

Then like before, his prayers were answered, just not by God.

The coffin lid flew open and the bright, harsh light blinded Lars for a moment. In the time that it took his eyes to adjust he fluorescent light, he realized he’d been looking at the crazy vampire who accidentally saved his life and was now probably going to end it.

“Hey there,” he said in a not totally friendly voice, “We never got properly introduced last time. Alucard is the name and sexual pleasure is my game.” He flashed Lars what he thought was a winning smile but looked more like something out of a Sam Rami film.

Lars looked back up from the coffin, totally frozen; his trembling hand still holding his lighter.

Alucard cocked his head, “Well, aren’t you going to say anything back to me?”

“Get your junk out of my face!” Lars shouted at Alucard. It wasn’t just that he’d kidnapped Lars and held him against his will inside a fucking coffin, but he was half naked while doing it. In the harsh light, Lars could make out that Alucard was nude from the belt up. His hairy body was grotesquely muscular, with oversized pecs and shredded abs that wouldn’t have looked out of place in Dragonball Z.

Alucard shifted, his tight leather pants doing nothing to hide his boner and his erect pink nipples peeking through his carpet of chest hair. “So, what’s your problem?” he adjusted his stance so that standing over the coffin, Lars got a better look at his hard cock and his tight, muscular ass. These leather pants weren’t exactly comfortable but they did do a good job showing off the parts of the sexiest vampire alive.

Lars was appropriately disgusted by the view presented before him. Dropping his lighter he shouted up at the literal sexual predator, “I’m getting the fuck out of here!”

Like Harvey Weinstein on a catastrophic acid trip, Alucard had other plans. “Oh no, you don’t, mother fucker!”

Suddenly his white gloved hands were all over Lars like big, horny spiders. The boy thrashed, struggled and swore. After being manhandled, groped and forced out of his clothes like a disobedient puppy, Lars got a good look at what he was wearing and shrieked with horror.

Sitting in the open coffin, Lars was now wearing nothing but a pair of tight, tight pink panties with a sprig of mistletoe tied over his dick. Other than two nipple pasties shaped like hearts, Lars wasn’t wearing any other stitch of clothing anywhere on his body.

Alucard flashed that shark toothed grin once more, deliberately putting his hands on his hips and flexing his muscles. “Now that’s impressive!” he commended the terrified lad, “Look at you, nice firm ass, clean, hairless limbs and those cute floppy ears that are all the latest craze with young people these days.” He sucked in his breath like he’d been talking about a delicious slab of meat instead of a person, “Yes, you’re definitely a looker, son. While you’re here, you can just call me Uncle Touchy.”

Alucard guffawed at his own terrible joke, failing to notice the fear and confusion on Lars’s face. “Or if you like, you can call me daddy,” he winked at the boy, causing him to turn green with disgust. “Think about that the next time you see your father in the shower. Now come give Daddy Alucard a kiss, Larsy boy!”

Lars did the only sane thing and ran. He jumped out of the coffin and began to run through a spacious, well lit dungeon made of damp stone. There was a large wooden door with no obvious locking mechanism or door handles. Alucard scowled at this.

As Lars was about to reach the door to the dungeon, a freakish thing materialized out of the ether.

“I’m Puppet-Rebeca Sugar,” the thing said. Lars stopped and fell on his ass, mortified by the life sized creepy puppet that looked like it came out of Jim Henson’s worst nightmares.

Puppet-Rebeca looked at Lars with plastic eyes while lewdly feeling up her felt vagina. In her free foam hand, she clenched a large, rusty butcher knife.

Grabbing him with more strength than something made of foam rubber should be, Puppet-Rebeca stopped feeling up her crotch to grab Lars by the throat. “I’m going to butter your bread, honey. I’m going to sit on your face with my big Muppet ass.”

“That’s enough, Becky!” Alucard commanded. “You’ll get your taste only after I’m done with that sweet thing.”

Bowing to her dark master, the creature who’d summoned her from the fiery pits of hell, Puppet-Rebeca let Lars go and stepped back.

“I don’t want you!” Lars protested, trying to cover himself with his hands; the panties were starting to ride up a lot. “I don’t want either of you, I want to go home!”

Alucard laughed at the boy’s emotional anguish, “Why? So you can fuck that fat girl, Sadie? You’re better off without that pasty cumbucket. I swear, she looks like a blob fish with hair.”

“Sadie’s my girlfriend!” Lars shouted at Alucard, “Nobody gets to talk about her that way, I don’t care who you are or what you can do!”

The master vampire laughed, “Well Laramie, assuming I care what you think; stop and take a moment, take a deep breath. Your parents don’t give a damn about you, as of now they think you’re dead and they’ll have an easier go mourning a dead son than caring for a sack of shit like you. Sadie thinks your dead and I’d give her a day before she finds a new fuck toy. Everyone else in Beach City hates you and thinks you’re full of shit. The Cool Kids laughed at you and think you’re a douchebag; no matter how you spin it, I’m all you’ve got. I’m the only one who can tolerate a miserable cumrag like you and you should get on your damn knees and thank me for it.” He took his belt off and then gave a most lecherous grin, “How come here and show Daddy Alucard that big mouth and fast hands of yours.”

Lars pointed a skinny finger at the mad vampire, “You don’t get to touch me! I’m a person, not your boy and you’re not my daddy!”

The lad turned around and started banging on the wooden door as Puppet-Rebeca looked on with her ping pong ball eyes. He had to get out he had to get out he had to get . . .

===============================================================

Lars woke up in his own bed, naked and screamed. Trembling, he looked over his body and felt everything. He had no cuts, no bruises and nothing broken. Feeling over his ass and crotch; he felt whole and untouched.

The phone began to ring and he yelped. It was Sadie calling him. Looking over his phone, he glanced around and saw that his computer had the same porno video on as this morning; the same video of a twink being dominated by a hairy muscle man. It was all the same. Had he really been dreaming?

“Sadie!” he nearly shouted into the phone, answering the call.

His girlfriend winced on the other line, “Lars, what’s going on?”

“Sadie I was—actually it’s nothing,” he managed to slow down, “Uh, how are you? Are we good for dinner with your mom?”

“You remembered? I mean, of course you remembered,” she couldn’t hide her shock, “Yeah, my mom still wants you over for dinner. She even made pizza rolls.”

The boy could hardly contain his glee, “Yeah I love her fucking pizza rolls. I’ll be there!”

Sadie was taken aback. Normally she and Lars brought out the worst in each other, but this day, this day before day before Christmas day he was really giving her what she wanted. “Thanks for remembering, Lars. See you there, Player 2.”

“See you there, Player 1,” Lars said goodbye, showing his love in his own way. She hung up and Lars knew that there was no time. His phone was dying, running low on power but he had no interest in getting his charger from the Big Donut.

The first thing that Lars did was throw on some underwear before tossing on his customary tight jeans. Next came on his favourite scorpion T-shirt and sneakers. He was almost good to go; he just had to get his jacket.

Lars opened the closet and there he saw a tall man in red overcoat and big hat. Alucard grinned at Lars and threw a punch through the coat hangers.

The blow completely cleaned Lars’s clock, sending the boy flying backwards and slamming into the desk. Groggily, he spat out one of his front teeth. The head trauma meant that he really didn’t feel all the pain right away, but he felt the fear when Alucard’s twisted mug loomed large over him.

“Happy Christmas, cunt!” he jeered at Lars, picking up the boy by the front of his shirt and lifting him off the ground. “Did you have a good sleep? Any good dreams?”

Lars could only manage a numb shock, that this living nightmare—Cthulhu’s diarrhea in a human shaped bag—was very much real and not a figment of some fever dream.

“Well that’s nice,” Alucard sneered, “I’m happy to hear all of that from you.” Violently, he threw the boy onto the bed and pointed a long, clawed finger in his face. “Because I’ve got a message for you. This year you get a Mulligan from me, but next Christmas and every other Christmas until you die I will find you wherever you are and fuck your ass and face. If you’re eighty and living in a cave on Mars, I’ll find you and make your asshole look like a burrito filled with sour cream.”

The insane vampire lord trembled with rage and sexual energy as his hair and jacket floated around. “Don’t think of hiding from me, I have control over space and time. I have powers you can’t possibly imagine.” he turned and grabbed his junk, “So Happy Christmas, Laramie Bariga; next year I expect you to be waiting naked for me, bend over a table!”

He began to laugh like a hyena on crystal meth as his body dissolved into bats which then dissolved into shadow and fire. Just like that he was gone and Lars knew that he’d gotten a gift that was way worse than coal.

===========================================================================

Epilogue

Lars of the Stars slept in his Captain’s chair. Becoming an undead pink zombie was in hindsight one of the least shitty things to happen to him. If nothing else it gave him command of a group of ragtag rebels on the run from a totalitarian government and allowed him the chance to tool around the galaxy in a top of the line gem cruiser.

His calm time was interrupted by Steven Universe and his buddy Connie Maheswaran coming out of the portal in his hair. It was a pain in the ass but he honestly missed those two kids. He appreciated them way more than he had before his death.

“Hey, Steven! Connie!” Lars shouted, “Rhodonite figured out how to synthesize tequila, we can all drink and your parents won’t be able to stop you.”

Connie looked at him warily but Steven was just full of smiles. “Thanks Lars but Connie and me will do the responsible thing. We came here to drop off a care package from your parents and weapons from the Crystal Gems.”

Lars did a fist bump, “Sweet, little guys!”

Then a monitor started beeping, and the ship’s grandma caterpillar fusion, Fluorite announced the danger . . . very very slowly. “There’s a . . . ship approaching . . . our vector.”

On Screen appeared a gem who looked like she was Cosplaying for Code Geass. “Captain Lars! This time you will truly meet your end!”

Lars laughed haughtily at this enemy who’d dogged him across multiple galaxies. “Bring it on, Emerald. You can’t out-think me, you can’t out-fight me or out-drink me! You’d need the devil himself to beat me!” Admittedly all the anime he’d watched over the years was getting to his head.

And speak of the devil, a deep, music voice rang out behind Emerald. “Get out of my way!” snapped Alucard as he elbowed the fierce looking gem away. “Lars! Thought that travelling to another galaxy would save you from my wrath and my cock?” demanded the loopy vampire.

Steven looked at the insane vampire in his Carmen San Diego outfit, confused. “Lars, who is that guy?”

Alucard snapped, answering Steven’s question, “Who am I? Who am I! I’m the greatest vampire who ever lived! I’m the head pimp at Yellow Diamond’s personal Whorehouse; and it’s now my job to deliver Lars of the Queers to her Yellowness!”

He jabbed a finger while Lars stood speechless, honestly scared shitless even after all he’d grown and learned. “When I start, I’m going to fuck you until you love me! I’ll video tape the whole thing and send your parents a copy, along with a lock of your hair and a set of cum stained panties! Finally you’ll be albel to feel every night Yellow Diamond’s python sized tongue up your ass!”

“He’s the guy who molested me last Christmas,” Lars said, nearly on the verge of tears.

The tiny defective seer Padparadscha stepped in front of Lars, wrapping her tiny arms around him. “I’ve had a vision where Lars is threatened by a rapist. I will defend him with my life!”

Steven and Connie hugged Lars as well, “You fuck off, you two-faced mutant!” Connie yelled, “Go back to sparkling in the sun or whatever the fuck it is you do!”

Alucard’s eyes widened as he realized they went there, “You will all pay with your asses!” before Emerald punched him in the face and knocked him off camera.

“Stop stealing my spotlight, you fucking deviant!” Emerald snarled. She glared at Lars and his little friends. “Give up now, Lars of the Stars; or I’ll screw you, kill you and bring you back. I’ll do it over and over until you love me!”

Was Lars afraid? Oh fuck yes, he was. But he wasn’t about to take any of of it lying down. “Let’s dance,” he said to both Alucard and Emerald.

#steven universe #hellsing #alucard #lars #christmas #violent #graphic #fanfic

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duhragonball · 6 years

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[FIC] Luffa: The Legendary Super Saiyan (70/?)

Nanwum Disclaimer: This story features characters and concepts based on Dragon Ball, which is a trademark of Bird Studio/Shueisha and Toei Animation. This is an unauthorized work, and no profit is being made on this work by me. This story is copyright of me. Download if you like, but please don’t archive it without my permission. Don’t be shy.

Nanwum Continuity Note: About 1000 years before the events of Dragon Ball Z.

Previous chapters conveniently available here.

[4 February 234 Before Age. Shafulb.]

Drang Dedruhn was the supreme authority on the planet Shafulb, but not really.

She was a plump humanoid, with lustrous skin that was black on her back and head, and white from her jaw down the front of her torso. The Shafulb were a semi-aquatic species, each possessing a healthy layer of blubber, but she was a bit rounder and more voluptuous than most. Her office afforded her what was known as a “pontifical apartment”, a very humble term for what was in reality a penthouse suite. Here, she lounged on a divan on the balcony overlooking the seaside, and savored a midday snack of pickled fish. Between bites, she would lick the brine from her thick, flipper-like fingers, and contemplate her place in galactic history. Despite her lofty titles, she had to admit that her position was tentative at best.

In the strictest sense, she was merely the high priestess of the planet’s largest religion, no more than a humble spiritual leader. In practice, her office had outlasted and overshadowed every secular administration and institution in Shafulb’s history. Regimes rose and fell, but the church endured, and the people came to depend upon it more with each century. Long before Drang’s ascension, the office of high priestess had become indistinguishable from that of a temporal head of state. Her vows precluded her from violence, but she had waged countless wars against the other regional powers in Shafulb’s sector of the galaxy. She had sworn an oath of poverty, but in practice this meant that she had to employ some creative bookkeeping rather than deny herself any worldly pleasures. Her sole duty was supposed to be safeguarding the souls of her followers for their passage into the afterlife, but she spent most of her time consolidating her power and riding herd over various bureaucracies. She was supposed to be the most fervent believer in the state religion, but a life in the political arena had made her cynical and pragmatic.

As for her supposed ’supremacy’, it was superseded by the compromises she had made with the rest of the universe. She had been locked in rivalries with other planets for decades, making and breaking alliances, fighting wars to jockey for position, and negotiating treaties to hold whatever gains she could make. And then Luffa changed everything.

Luffa was a Saiyan mercenary, but she was more powerful than any Drang had ever encountered. No one was sure what had happened to her, but the rumors said that she fought some terrible battle in a remote part of the galaxy, and was transformed by the experience. Saiyans were incredibly strong to begin with, but Luffa had the power to transform herself into an even stronger, more violent creature. She called herself a “Super Saiyan”, and while Drang had once dismissed this as a marketing ploy, she soon learned that Luffa wasn’t like the others of her race. Where other Saiyans saw mercenary work as an enjoyable way to make a living, Luffa grew bored with it. The wars Drang waged for Shafulb were mere child’s play for Luffa, so one day she changed the game. Luffa arranged a summit with Drang and the other regional leaders, and coerced them to form an alliance backed by Luffa’s immense power.

The Federation became a great success, as other worlds rushed to join eager to reap the benefits of a mutual defense pact underwritten by an invincible warrior. Drang and the other leaders retained their authority over their own worlds, and they managed to cooperate well enough to run the Federation, but there was no mistaking who the real power was.

Luffa’s motives were as simple as they were baffling to Drang. The Saiyan had no interest in ruling the Federation worlds. She was content to act as an enforcer, protecting the alliance from outside threats, and stepping in to resolve internal disputes. In short, Luffa had the power to bend multiple planets to her will, yet she continually declined to do so.

This irritated Drang greatly. She rather liked Luffa personally, but the Saiyan’s lack of political aspirations was vexing. To have so much power and so little use for it! And this was what made Drang’s “supremacy” a joke. Luffa could depose Drang in a day if she wished. The Super Saiyan could conquer Shafulb, or simply destroy the entire planet if it displeased her. Whatever power and autonomy Drang enjoyed was merely a dispensation granted to her by Luffa.

It wasn’t all bad, of course. Drang wasn’t so arrogant to think she had ever been truly supreme in the universe. There were always bound to be more powerful forces out there, and it was nice to have one of them supporting Drang’s rule. Luffa’s sole motive for establishing the Federation was to dare stronger enemies to attack it. She had gotten her wish when the Shockmaster invaded the sector, and the war was only won by Luffa’s intervention. Shafulb might have survived the Shockmaster, but Drang doubted that his yoke would have been any lighter than Luffa’s.

Now, a year after the Shockmaster’s defeat, Drang wondered what her next move should be, and whether or not that move would be for or against Luffa. The Federation was a profitable venture, certainly, but Drang was beginning to wonder if it had outgrown the need for a Super Saiyan to maintain it. Since defeating the Shockmaster, Luffa hardly spent any time in Federation space. Had she grown bored with the Federation, just as she had grown bored of mercenary work? Would she abandon her role in the Federation government, leaving behind a power vacuum?

During the war, Luffa had disappeared from the public in similar fashion, and one of her colleagues, Ryba Booth, had tried to take advantage of the situation. His power play backfired, and he seemed to give up entirely once Luffa returned to win the war. Most dismissed his scheme as folly, but Drang knew better. Booth’s timing was bad, but his idea was sound. Luffa couldn’t be driven out of the Federation, but if she could be convinced to leave and never return, it would be possible for one of them to seize power in her absence. The key was to be the first to notice that Luffa wouldn’t be coming back.

Drang considered this dilemma as she scooped up a handful of morsels from a large bowl. Was there a way to lure Luffa away from the Federation? All she cared about was battle, and there seemed to be no opponent in the galaxy that could hold her attention for long.

The problem, Drang decided, was that no one really understood the woman. Drang herself had a number of vices, for example. She had a weakness for fine food. She liked watching her enemies be publicly humiliated. She enjoyed the way her people supplicated themselves to her. These were hardly secrets, as Drang felt no particular shame about her less admirable traits. She was petty and venal and she didn’t care who knew it.

By contrast, Luffa was an enigma. She lived alone in a starship, possibly accompanied by a single aide. There were rumors that she had a lover, perhaps an alien woman, but these were unsubstantiated. If the lover did exist, then she was even more reclusive than Luffa. All Drang really knew about Luffa’s personal habits was that she liked to cook. It wasn’t enough to go on.

One question that stood out in Drang’s mind was: Why didn’t Luffa interact with her own people? One would think that she would have invited Planet Saiya to joint the Federation. Of, if Luffa despised her own people, she could have conquered then and ruled there instead of an alliance of alien worlds.

The more Drang thought about it, the more sure she became that her answers lay there, with Planet Saiya. If Luffa wouldn’t reveal her own weaknesses to Drang, then perhaps she could find someone else who would...

*******

[4 February 234 Before Age. Wrantool VI]

“Luffa, do you have anything you’d like to add?”

She shifted uncomfortably in her chair, and looked down at her knees. “No,” she mumbled.

The blue-skinned, red-haired women in the chair beside her was much more forthcoming. “She was telling me just before we got here how much these sessions were helping. Right, Luffa?”

Luffa crossed her arms and looked up at the ceiling of the office.

“Zatte, we discussed this last time,” said the molluscoid behind the desk. The nameplate on his office door read: “Dr. Shunga.” “We agreed that Luffa can speak for herself. She doesn’t have to share something if she doesn’t want to.”

“I’m just trying to help,” Zatte said. “You know how she gets during these visits.”

Luffa shot Zatte a dirty look, then stood up and started pacing around the room.

“Oh here we go,” Zatte grumbled. She opened her mouth to say more, but the man behind the desk raised one of his tentacled hands to signal for quiet. Zatte sighed and slumped in her seat.

“Luffa, Zatte said you’ve been preparing more elaborate meals lately,” Dr. Shunga began.

“Nothing special,” she said. “Just trying out some new things. She likes Alteri cuisine, but we’re a long way from Alteri IV, so I thought I’d try a few recipes. Made some for’cosh last night, nothing fancy. Turned out pretty well.”

“It was great,” Zatte added. “And so was the sadanash she made last week. It’s like I’m living in a restaurant on Alteri IV, and I never have to wait in line. I’m the only one who’s ever had her sadanash. It’s an honor, really.”

Luffa shrugged. “I’ve still got some kinks to iron out, but I think I’m getting the hang of it. She thought it was too spicy, so I’m gonna tweak the recipe next time.”

“I never said it was too spicy,” Zatte said. “I thought it was—“

The man raised his hand again before she could press the issue. “Luffa, how did you know what Zatte thought about the meal?” he asked.

Luffa clenched her fists and turned away from him. “I know, all right?”

“Is it because you used your telepathic powers to read her mind?” he asked evenly.

Luffa sighed. “Yeah.”

Zatte was blushing now. “It was my fault,” she said. “We had a fight and I was upset and...”

“They’re my powers,” Luffa said. “It’s my responsibility. I should have said no.”

“Why didn’t you, Luffa?” he asked.

Luffa stopped pacing and started rubbing her temples. When she stopped she waved her hand at Zatte and said: “Look at her! I couldn’t just refuse! I’d do anything for her. She... she needed to know that I still loved her. I told her I did, but she needed to know. And I guess... I needed to know she still loved me.”

She frowned at the man. “Is that so bad?” she asked.

“In and of itself, not at all,” he said. “But while you were linked, reveling in your love for one another, you picked up stray thoughts you hadn’t bargained for. Was the meal too spicy, Zatte?”

Zatte was suddenly tense. “Well, yeah, a little. But I didn’t hate it or anything. I was just happy she made it for me.”

“But Luffa didn’t get that context when she probed your mind,” he explained. “She only took your unspoken complaint, and let it build into resentment.” He turned to Luffa, who had resumed pacing. “Isn’t that right, Luffa?”

“Yeah.”

“I’m sorry,” Zatte said.

“It’s my own fault, Zattie,” Luffa said.

“Let’s not dwell on assigning blame,” he said. “You’ve both been using telepathy this way for some time now. It’s completely natural. Many of the couples I counsel do the same, but they had to learn to separate and ignore intrusive thoughts. Luffa’s abilities are too broad and imprecise for that. With time and moderation, you may learn to adapt to this.”

“But we just dove right in,” Luffa said. “And we enjoyed it so much that we never stopped to consider it might have drawbacks. Then before we knew it, we were over-relying on it... and barely speaking to each other.”

“It created a vicious cycle,” he said patiently. “And you’ve been working together to break it. I know it hasn’t been easy for either of you. You’re used to using the mental link, and now you’re trying to repair your marriage without it. It’s not unexpected that you’d backslide now and then, but it’s important that you share those expediences with me, so we can talk them out, defuse them before they have a chance to fester into resentment.”

“You’re right,” Luffa said. “I didn’t think it was that big a deal, but I guess I just didn’t want to admit it.”

He turned to Zatte. “Zatte, did were there any stray thoughts you picked up from Luffa that have been troubling you?”

“No,” she said quickly. “I mean, it’s not... Well, it’s bedroom stuff. We don’t have to talk about it here.”

“Like hell,” Luffa said. Despite her insistence, her cheeks and ears were beet red. “We came here to talk, didn’t we?”

“Zatte, do you want to talk about it?” Dr. Shunga asked.

Zatte took a deep breath and nodded.

*******

[6 February 234 Before Age. Nat-Chezz II.]

Luffa’s star-yacht, the Emerald Eye, had been operating outside of Federation space for some time now, though no one knew why. The Federation itself had been quite secure since Luffa had defeated the Shockmaster, and so the popular assumption was that she was seeking action and adventure in a more dangerous part of the galaxy. In principle, this was correct, although the whole truth was that Luffa was trying to stay within a week’s travel from the Wrantool system, in order to keep appointments with her marriage counselor.

In between sessions, she kept an eye on subspace communications in the region, hoping to find something interesting to occupy her time, but the pickings would have been slim, even for a normal Saiyan. So when the Nat-Chez system ceased all contact with the outside universe, Luffa was cautiously optimistic. As the ship approached the planet, she waited in the cargo bay. The ship would then enter the upper atmosphere, and she would open the bay door and launch herself headlong into the situation.

“ETA is ten minutes,” Zatte’s voice said through the earpiece communicator Luffa wore. “You sure this is a good idea? You might be flying into a plague for all we know.”

“I can sense the planet’s ki from here,” Luffa said. “They don’t seem sick or anything like that. Anyway, I’ll steer clear of populated areas until I’ve had a chance to look around.”

“If it’s a hostile, you’ll be giving up the element of surprise,” Zatte said. “Right now, they don’t know you’re coming, but that’ll change in a hurry once you fire up.”

Luffa adjusted her boots and began doing some last minute stretches. “And that’ll flush them out, won’t it, Zattie? They’ve got the stealth game covered. Which suits me fine. I’m more of a shock and awe kind of lady anyway.”

“You’re not mad, are you?”

“About what?”

“Our last session with Dr. Shunga. When we he asked how long it had been since we...”

“I remember. I was there.”

“I thought you were gonna kill him on the spot.”

“I thought about it, yeah. I did a number on his chair, sure. But he’s trying to help us out. He’s a good guy. I just have to keep telling myself that.”

“I know it’s tough for you.”

“What’s ’tough’ is how you keep treating me like I’m made of glass,” Luffa muttered. “Like I’ll shatter if you aren’t there to protect me from a few personal questions about our sex life.”

“You there Luffa? I didn’t copy that.”

This was because Luffa had taken the earpiece out and muffled its receiver in her hand. Now that she had popped it back in, she replied: “Sorry, I was checking something out. Anything new on the ship’s sensors?”

“Nothing. No transmissions from the planet, and all air and spacecraft are grounded. Plenty of life signs, though.”

“It’s gotta be an alien takeover,” Luffa said. “I’ll have this wrapped up by dinnertime. You want rolls or biscuits tonight?”

Zatte didn’t reply.

“Zattie? You there?”

“Sorry. I thought I had a blip on the sensors, but it was nothing.”

“Yeah, right. I’ll just fix salad then.”

“Fine,” Zatte said.

“Okay,” Luffa said.

“Make whatever you want,” Zatte said.

“I will,” Luffa said.

“Are we fighting right now?” Zatte asked.

“I don’t know,” Luffa said. “Look, are we over the drop point yet? I’d like to get on with this.”

“Um, we passed it,” Zatte said after an awkward pause. “I’ll have to turn the ship around and make another flyby.”

With a groan, Luffa sat down on the deck and covered her face with her hands.

*******

Once Luffa finally arrived on the surface, she encountered a few of the locals on a dirt trail that wound along a forest. The Chezzi were humanoid in appearance, with various shades of orange and red skin, and horns atop their heads instead of hair. It didn’t take long for her to figure out who had taken control of their planet.

“Spare us, Madame Saiyan!” one of them pleaded. He dropped to his knees and clasped his hands together in supplication. “Your humble servants only broke curfew because we need medicine in the next town.”

“He speaks the truth!” said another. She was a Chezzi female, not much older than Luffa. “My son has contracted horn-rot, and our village doctor lacks the horn-root needed to prepare a cure! These two only came along because it was dangerous to travel alone on foot! If you must take one of us into bondage, then let it be me!”

“No way, take me!” said a small boy. “Choco’s my best pal, and I won’t go back an’ tell him I stood by an’ let his mom get nabbed by the Saiyans!”

“All right, everybody shut up,” Luffa said. “I’m not here to enforce some dumb curfew. I came here to liberate your planet.”

The old man was relieved. “Then... you aren’t working with the Saiyans who conquered us?”

Luffa turned and spat on the ground. “That’s what I think of your conquerors. Tell me how to find them, and I’ll be happy to... discuss it with them.”

She began cracking her knuckles while the three villagers exchanged confused looks. The old man opened his mouth to speak, but the woman quickly shushed him.

“Don’t!” she warned him. “What if they sent her to test our loyalty?”

Before Luffa could reassure her, the boy spoke up. “Aw, you worry too much, Tocco. Besides, everybody already knows the Saiyans all live in Fort Luffa.”

Luffa was dumbfounded. “Fort... what?”

*******

“Fort Luffa” was a Chezzi mansion originally owned by one of the richest men on the planet. It had been located in a picturesque valley, before the Saiyans uprooted the entire building and carried it to a wasteland thousands of miles away. The remoteness and inhospitable climate provided a natural defense against most would-be intruders, but Luffa was just at home in such a place as the mansion’s occupants. While she had the power to destroy the lot of them from the air, she decided to take a more personal approach. Landing just outside the mansion’s walls, she kicked in the front door and walked inside.

The first person she saw was a Saiyan man, tall and lean, with styling gel in his hair and on the fur of his tail.

“Well hello,” he cooed, raising an eyebrow as he looked Luffa over from head to toe. “Zaperc didn’t tell me about any new recruit. Maybe he afraid I’d sweep you off your feet, and leave you too distracted to listen to his— OOF!”

Luffa drove her fist into his abdomen, and when she pulled back her hand he collapsed into a whimpering heap. She considered questioning him, but decided he wasn’t worth the effort.

The second obstacle she encountered was a woman, easily a foot taller than Luffa and with very well-defined musculature. Luffa couldn’t help but admire the woman’s appearance--her biceps were almost as big around as Luffa’s calves--but this attraction was overshadowed by how sloppy her technique was. Luffa had seized her in a hammerlock before the woman realized she was an intruder. With a small fraction of her full power, Luffa drove the larger woman down to the floor, released the hold, and then sent a small charge of ki energy through her hand into the base of the woman’s skull, knocking her unconscious.

Minutes later, someone finally sounded an alarm, but Luffa had already forced one of them to take her to their leader. A couple of other Saiyans tried to stop her, but she swatted them aside like flies, even while she kept her escort trapped in a headlock.

“Z-zaperc’s right through that door!” the young man gasped as he struggled in vain against Luffa’s grip.

“Good,” she said. “After you.”

Before he could ask what she meant, she shifted her grip and tossed him through the door like a heap of trash. Inside, Zaperc was dictating notes to a young Chezzi woman with a pad and paper.

“Eh? Brockle? What’s gotten into you, boy? And who is this?”

Brockle tried to get to his feet, but Luffa kicked him before he could make it to his knees. “An intruder, father!” he cried. “I tried to stop her, but—“

“You’re the one in charge?” Luffa asked. “You run a sloppy outfit, Zaperc. Took them too long to sound an alarm, and you can’t even hear it from this room.” She pointed her thumb at the Chezzi woman. “Or was this girl your secret weapon to stop intruders?”

Unlike the man she met at the door, Zaperc looked Luffa over for purely tactical reasons. He quickly decided that he was outmatched, and held out his hands in a submissive gesture. “Er, welcome, sister!” he said. “I don’t know what business you have with us, but I can tell from your immense power that you must be a student of Luffa’s just as we are.”

“Student?” Luffa asked. “What are you babbling about?”

“Why, the Legendary Super Saiyan, of course. Everything we’ve done here is an effort to put his teachings into practice.”

“Is that so?” Luffa scoffed. “His teachings? He told you to take over this planet? You don’t know a damn thing about the Super Saiyan, old man.”

“And what do you know?” Zaperc demanded. “Have a care, young one. You may be strong, but I’ve studied Luffa’s career very carefully and—“

She threw her head back and transformed. Her short, black hair suddenly glowed bright yellow, and her eyes turned green. Around her body, her aura flashed and churned the air around her, causing the loose fabric of her yellow pants to ripple and flap.

Zaperc took all of this in, and after he looked her over one more time, he presented his reaction with a single word.

“Oh.”

[6 February 234 Before Age. Rumrumyunsun.]

Okartish was dead. Yarrow examined the corpse of his comrade to find out what had killed him, but there seemed to be no immediate answer. He reached out with his senses, seeking an enemy life force strong enough to slay a Saiyan warrior, but found none. Rumrumyunsun was a planet of weaklings, with nothing to offer the two Saiyans but a place to refuel their starship on their way to the brothels of Planet Be’er. A warrior strong enough to kill Okartish would have stuck out like a sore thumb.

Yarrow helped himself to the unfinished meal Okartish had ordered, and stroked his thick beard in contemplation. Perhaps this was for the best. Okartish had his uses, but apparently he was even weaker than Yarrow had suspected. He had come to his hotel room to renegotiate their splitting of the profits for their next raid. Okartish wanted to keep things fifty-fifty, but this implied that Okartish did at least fifty percent of the pillaging, which he did not.

“Real shame, buddy,” Yarrow said aloud as he bent over to pat Okartish on the cheek. “I was gonna be generous, offer to split things sixty-seven/thirty-three. But I guess one hundred/zero is a lot easier all around, hey? I never was much good at math.”

It bothered him to leave loose ends, but he saw no point in sticking around to find the killer. Okartish had died without a fight, suggesting some sort of trickery, and Yarrow had no interest in playing with tricksters. There was that so-called “Super Saiyan”, and rumor had it that he could have killed someone like Okartish with a flick of the wrist, but Yarrow didn’t put much stock in rumors. Besides, the Super Saiyan was supposed to be in a completely different sector these days. And if someone that strong really existed, Yarrow wanted no part of him.

So Yarrow took one last piece of meat from the room service tray, and headed for the door, turning his back on the closest thing he had ever had to a friend. He planned to check out of the hotel immediately, return to his ship, and leave Rumrumyunsun as soon as possible.

But then he saw a woman emerging from the lavatory. Yarrow wondered how she got in without him noticing. He had neglected to turn on the lights when he had entered the room, but only because the street lamps outside provided enough illumination through the window.

Then he realized that he couldn’t sense any ki from the woman.

“Who the hell are you?” he demanded. “And what did you do to him?”

She giggled and lolled her head to one side. “I killed him, silly,” she said in a mocking voice.

“Why?” Yarrow wasn’t sure why he was asking. His best guess was that Okartish had made a powerful enemy somewhere along the way, and this woman was here to take revenge. He wanted to know if that vendetta included Yarrow by association.

But the woman simply raised her arm and pointed at Yarrow accusingly. “He was a Saiyan,” she said. “That’s reason enough to kill him, isn’t it? And reason enough to kill you.”

As soon as she said it, Yarrow went on the offensive. With a single swipe of his hand, he tossed a ki blast at her chest, then grabbed her by the throat. As the destructive energy ripped through her vital organs, he crushed her windpipe, then snapped her cervical vertebrae. As he released her, the energy blast exited through her back and scorched the door to the hotel room.

And just like that, Okartish’s killer was dead before she hit the floor.

“Idiot,” Yarrow muttered. He waited a moment, concerned that she had somehow survived his assault, and this was all some elaborate ruse she used to kill her victims. But after fifteen minutes he decided that he was merely being paranoid. If this woman really had killed Okartish, then she had been incredibly lucky, or he had been an exceptional fool. They deserved one another.

And so Yarrow stepped over her corpse and left the room, never giving either of them another thought.

It would be his last mistake.

NEXT: The Luffa Way.

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jcllyhclly-blog · 5 years

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Thoughts on the Glock 48 and Glock 43X

The G26 is the “Danny Devito of Glock pistols,” says Michael Goerlich, however the Glock 48 is Goldilocks. It’s good.

For those who like what you learn, assist hold us in enterprise. We’ll make it value your whereas.

The arrival of the Slimline collection of Glock pistols (Glock 43X and Glock 48) stirred up a predictably big quantity of dialogue. There have been compliments, declamations, criticisms, and pontifications of each sort.

Just about the similar as any time an fascinating or uncommon new firearm makes an look.

“The new “Slimline” collection it the closest factor Glock has ever made to Legos – you possibly can swap frames and slides between your G43, G43X, and G48.” (Michael Goerlich)

A type of concerned in the discussions was Michael Goerlich, of Raven Concealment Techniques. Goerlich, the Nice Glock Colluder of Cleveland, has had his lengthy, blanched dickskinners on a Glock 43X and Glock 48 for some time now, possible with a purpose to develop holsters for them. This gave him some knowledgeable perspective on it, extra so than many, lower than some. This, coupled together with his encyclopedic, if eerily pale, information of concealing stuff underneath garments (learn a few of his posts about it, someday), lent his commentary slightly extra credence than others. Maybe extra importantly to some, the photographs (with rationalization) offered many individuals with their first clear look of how the totally different pistol frames in contrast.

As a result of I haven’t put palms on both of the Slimline Glocks but (prob’ly ‘cuz I look higher in cowboy boots than Josh Dorsey), I compiled a bunch of what MG needed to say and put it in a single place.

Right here’s an instance.

MG: “Let’s compare the @glockinc G48 to other pistols in order to highlight some of the advantages that the G48 brings to the CCW handgun market. While it’s easy to make the obvious “single-stack G19” analogy, maybe a greater pistol for comparability is the Danny Devito of the Glock pistol household: the G26.

Right here you see two 9x19mm semi-automatic handguns with 10+1round ammunition capability. The G26 is brief and…nicely, what’s the socially acceptable time period? THICC? Husky? Chunky? Stocky? We aren’t right here to body-shame any firearms, so no matter time period you favor to make use of, it’s a double-stack pistol. The G48 has the similar capability as the G26, however an extended sight-radius, an extended barrel (which will increase muzzle velocity, even when solely a small quantity), an extended slide, and an general noticeably slimmer slide, body, and grip…all of which make it simpler and extra snug for many individuals to hide and shoot, particularly if in case you have small arms.

We recruited @waypoint_shooting to assist illustrate the distinction the G48 grip measurement makes for average-size palms. These palms put on a measurement Medium in @mechanix_wear and @mechanixtactical gloves, and you’ll be able to see how the two grips match his arms. So is that this gun a alternative on your G19 and/or your G26? That relies upon on your hand measurement, the place you carry it, and the way you gown.”

Learn on for extra about the Glock 48 and Glock 43X Slimline Pistols.

Simply kidding, Josh. You look straight outta the Hat Creek Cattle Firm (& Livery Emporium).

Q: What’s the huge deal about the Glock 48?

A: “It’s the capacity of a G26, combined with all the advantages of the G19’s longer slide and barrel (longer sight radius, higher muzzle velocity, reduced muzzle flip, greater comfort and stability IWB), but with the benefit of the slimmer profile of the G43. That’s a pretty fuckin’ Goldilocks combination of attributes if you ask me, especially if you have smaller hands or wear more fitted attire. What’s so hard to understand about that? People have clamored for a single stack G19 for 20 years.”

Goerlich is a proponent of the G48 and G43X. You possibly can agree with him, or not, I’m simply passing alongside the info.

“The G48 requires a dedicated holster,” suggested MC in a single publish. “The 43X fits in our [Raven Concealment Systems] existing 43 holsters.”

“On the left [below] is the Glock 48. On the right is a Glock 19. I have seen some people hating on the G48 already because it’s “the same size as a G19, but with less capacity.” Properly, for these with smaller palms, the slimmer profile makes it considerably simpler to shoot. And there are situations the place a thinner grip is preferable to a shorter grip on the subject of concealability.”

“The G43X and G48 give you the 10+1 round payload of a G26, which is nothing to sneeze at — especially if those ten rounds are in a form factor that is easier for you to conceal and/or shoot. In my opinion, the G48 is the most exciting product Glock has released since RCS has been in business.”

Requested about the seemingly minor distinction in measurement, Goerlich responded,

“…I can tell you quite often [that] 1/4” distinction makes a large distinction [chanted from all-caps to italics because all caps are annoying] in how a pistol conceals, particularly if you’re speaking IWB. Nothing drives that time residence like the VanGuard 2, as a result of typically simply subtracting the .16″ of bulk that a Kydex holster physique provides to a pistol dramatically improves the concealability of that weapon. Concealment and consolation is sort of regularly a problem that’s gained or misplaced over a fraction of an inch. For instance, I’ve a number of fits that I might conceal the G48 in far more simply than I might a G26, merely due to the discount in thickness.”

He’s proper, in fact. 1 / 4 of an inch would make a very massive distinction for me. *sigh*

Q: Will the 43X put the G26 out of the combine?

A: The G26 continues to be higher for ankle carry. However for AIWB or strong-side IWB, the G48 beats the G26 in virtually each approach (besides magazine compatibility with service pistols).

Listed here are three totally different views of the Glock 48 and Glock 43X.; commentary under.

“Imagine shooting a G43 that wasn’t so snappy – that’s what the G48 feels like. The G48 shoots pretty much like a G19, but with the slim profile of the G43. It’s some of the best features of the G19, G26, and G43, all rolled into one. Pictured here for comparison is a standard G43 in the center, with a Vickers Tactical magazine extension. I love my G26, and it isn’t leaving my lineup. But the G48 solves problems that the G26 just can’t touch, and vice versa.” MG

Now, right here’s a bit about holsters. There’s clearly some self-service right here as a result of, nicely, RCS builds holsters, however there’s nonetheless some information to be gleaned.

See additionally: capitalism.

“We’ve got been getting fairly a number of questions on holster fitment for the new G43X and G48 pistols, so we took this image to assist reply them. The G43X will slot in all present RCS holsters for the normal G43, together with:

• the Morrigan (our IWB holster, pictured right here),

• the VanGuard 2 (our AIWB/IWB minimalist holster),

• and the Perun (our OWB holster).

The G48 will *additionally* match [I left the asterisks in, much better than all caps] in the VG2 for the G43 resulting from commonality of set off guard dimensions, however would require its personal devoted Morrigan (pictured) and Perun. Additionally value noting is that in the similar means you’ll be able to holster a G26 in a G19 or G17 holster, you possibly can likewise carry a G43 or G43X in a G48 holster. Any approach you slice it, RCS has holster choices for a number of carry strategies obtainable for pre-order RIGHT NOW proper now on our web site!”

Q: Is the grip on on a gun the hardest factor to hide?

A: Sure physique varieties and clothes types/matches can deal with a barely longer grip if the gun is slimmer. Some can deal with a wider gun offered the grip is brief. It isn’t as minimize and dried as your assertion makes it appear. As the man truly in possession of the G48, I can inform you there are outfits I might DEFINITELY undoubtedly choose the G48 for concealment, and others the place I would like the G26. However I’ve giant/extra-large palms and can shoot both pistol fairly nicely. Many individuals have small-to-mid-sized palms, and the G48 would find yourself being dressed round merely based mostly on the shootability.

MG: In a earlier publish, we confirmed you “medium” sized arms on the @glockinc G48. Properly, right here’s one other essential comparability shot: HUGE palms on the G48. On the left, you see @barroompaladin holding his regular carry gun (a Glock 34) in his monumental palms. On the proper, you see his big mitts on a G48. In contrast to most ‘little’ weapons, the G48 is extremely shootable by individuals that may palm a basketball. The truth is, it matches an incredible vary of hand sizes. I’m 6’four, 210lbs, and look petite standing subsequent to Jack. The truth that he had the similar “hell yeah” response to the G48 as @waypoint_shooting (who has considerably smaller arms) did is a testomony to how “Goldilocks-perfect” the measurement of the G48 is.

[Editor’s note: those are real hands. A professional strangler for some barbarian king in his early years, the owner of those hands is an experienced shooter who failed miserably as a proctologist but eventually became a champion pickle jar lid taker-offer.]

Q: Why are you so giddy about the Glock 48? That is simply shady advertising stuff. You’re a pallid shyster.

A: RCS was as silent as a church mouse about the G42, G43, G19M, G19X, G45, and so on. Hell, I’ve even brazenly said I’m “meh” about the G43X. So inform me what’s humorous about the incontrovertible fact that after virtually 20 years of ready, Glock lastly made the pistol that I all the time needed, and now I’m excited to inform everybody about it?

Extra on the measurement comparability:

MG: Massive paws don’t often combine with tiny gats. However the G48 is a Goldilocks measurement 9mm pistol. This can be a handgun that’s equally shootable by a 5′ three″ feminine with tiny arms or a 6’7″ berserker with arms the measurement of catcher’s mitts, A buyer requested a pic of “the other side” of this comparability photograph, so right here it’s.

Right here’s a take a look at the new Perun holster for the Glock 48, which can make their public debut subsequent week at SHOT Present.

GM: In my ebook, the G48 is actually a pistol to get enthusiastic about. Numerous ‘expert’ opinions are flying round on the market on IG, however these of us who’ve truly carried and shot these new pistols are fairly stoked about their upcoming launch.

As you possibly can see, he spent extra time on the G48 than the 43X however did reply numerous questions many individuals (myself included) have been asking.

Does this imply it is best to run out and purchase one in every of both? No, however hopefully it offered you with a few of the info you want to start making an knowledgeable determination. For myself, I might by no means purchase a gun I hadn’t had the alternative to shoot, and (if it’s one I may need to stake my life on) by no means earlier than speaking to people much more knowledgable than myself. I’m tending in the direction of wanting a G48 greater than a G43X, although the grip of the latter does seem like it might assist tame muzzle flip. Most probably I’ll wind up protecting the G43, however placing a V43 on prime, although (alas) neither will occur earlier than I end restoring my previous man’s truck.

I’ll submit some extra hyperlinks in the coming days. Wealthy Grassi of Tactical Wire has been doing a collection of articles (like this one with Chuck Haggard) about the Slimlines, and they’re nicely value the learn. In the meantime, go comply with Raven Concealment on Instagram (@ravenconcealment) to observe for extra of the Pale Man’s pontification.

Oh, and on the topic of IG accounts to comply with and concealing weapons, be sure you take a look at Sharp Dressed Shooter, too. You’re welcome.

That’s all for now. Go forth and conquer.

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#AIWB Holsters #Appendix Carry #Assorted Ramblings #Michael Goerlich #Movies #Op-Eds #SHOT Show 2019

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